"Hallo!" he said. "Feeling fitter?"
"I am quite well this morning, thank you, George," I answered.
"In that case," said he kindly, "you may cook breakfast."
I unearthed some bacon, and, while engaged in chasing two rather
elusive slices round the frying-pan, I debated with myself as to
whether I should mention the invitation to tea. I had no intention
of going myself--that would be altogether too great a strain upon my
philosophy--but as my adventure of the previous day was bound to come
out sooner or later, it seemed rather unfair to rob George of an
afternoon's entertainment. Still, in my present state of mind, I
shied violently at the thought of the explanations which would be
involved by my telling him. I felt that anything in the nature of
chaff, even from George, would be quite unbearable. So, like Mrs.
Grimmage, "I just went on cookin', and said nuffin'."
It was the boy from Dunton's Boathouse who eventually supplied the
solution to the problem, in the shape of the morning post. There was
a letter for George, and as soon as he opened it he gave an
exclamation of disgust.
"What's the matter?" I inquired.
"My futile partner," said George, "is sick of a cold, and desires me
to come up to town for the day. Fancy catching cold this weather!"
"It suggests considerable skill," I admitted. "Are you going?"
"Must," answered George sadly. "He says that a man is coming to see
us about designing some pigsties. In the present state of
architecture we cannot afford to miss such an opportunity."
"From your ideas of keeping the tent tidy," I observed, "you ought to
be an authority on the subject."
"I shall be down by the six-thirty," said George. "What will you do
with yourself?"
"I shall spend the day," I replied, "in trying to forget certain
incidents which ought never to have happened."
"If you forget them all," said George cynically, "you will have a
busy time."
My self-imposed programme, though excellent in theory, did not prove
very successful in practice. George went off, grumbling, at about
half-past eight, and, having washed up the breakfast-things, and
tidied up the tent, I made an attempt to settle down to some
black-and-white work, which an impatient editor had just reminded me
was several days overdue.
At the end of an hour all I had completed was a very passable
likeness of Mrs. Congreve punting. I sat and stared at it in a kind
of stupid trance. It seemed impossible to believe that my beautiful
romance of yesterday was dead and buried in some obscure vestry. My
whole nature rose up in passionate revolt against such an incredible
idea. All the pseudo-resignation on which I had prided myself in the
early morning deserted me in the hour of need. I began to recall the
way she spoke, the charming manner in which the corners of her mouth
turned up before she laughed, and the gracious atmosphere of
tenderness and humour in which she seemed to live.
At last, with a groan, I threw down the pencil, and got up from my
chair.
"Hang it," I said, "I can't stand this any longer!"
I walked to the door of the tent, and looked out. Except for a
couple of barges, emerging from the lock, the river was deserted. On
the further bank, however, alongside of Dunton's Boathouse, a
motor-car was just discharging a giggling cargo of flimsily dressed
damsels and beflannelled youths.
I glanced at them inhospitably, and then a sudden idea struck me.
Why not walk over to Brooklands and watch the motor-racing? A savage
four-mile-an-hour tramp across country was exactly the medicine I
needed; and then there was always the chance of seeing somebody
killed. I felt that a real, good sanguinary smash-up would appeal to
me immensely in my present state of mind.
Without wasting any further time I picked up my hat and stick, and
then, after looking in at Williamson's bungalow, and asking him to
keep an eye on our tent, I set off across the fields in the direction
of Weybridge.
It was not until I had reached and was walking up the main street
that I remembered I had sent no message to Otter's Holt. After all,
I had accepted the invitation to tea, and some sort of an excuse,
however futile, was obviously needed. I turned in at the post
office, and, after a moment's hesitation, wrote out the following
telegram:
"Am very sorry we shall not be able to come to tea this afternoon.
Called away on urgent business."
Then, having put my name to this lie, I addressed it to Mrs.
Congreve, Otter's Holt, Shepperton, and handed it in.
If Brooklands failed to provide me with a catastrophe, it at least
helped me to take my mind off my own affairs. Amongst the
competitors was a man called Carfax, whom I knew fairly well as a
fellow-member of the Barbarians. He was driving a monstrous 90 h.p.
abortion; and, after the racing was over, he took me for a spin round
the track, at the bracing speed of about eighty miles an hour.
Subsequently we dropped in for tea with some friend of his, who had
built himself a turreted atrocity in red brick, looking out over
Brooklands grounds. Here I met three or four other motor
enthusiasts, and listened in dazed humility while they discussed with
some warmth the relative merits of various magnetos and carburettors.
It must have been well after six when I started to walk back to
Shepperton. The evening was delightfully warm and still, and,
soothed by a mild Cabana, which my host had insisted on my accepting
before I left, I strolled leisurely on, wrapped once more in a kind
of melancholy submission to destiny. I was even able to let my
thoughts wander over the events of the previous afternoon without
awakening any other emotion but a vague, luxurious sadness. For the
moment I seemed to have escaped from my own personality, and to be
looking down like one of the gods with infinite pity upon the tragedy
of human desire.
Turning off half-way along the canal, I struck into a short cut which
led across the fields to the spot where our tent was pitched. About
half a mile from the river this path ran through the yard of the farm
from which we purchased our eggs and milk. At this point it was
really a private thoroughfare, but the farmer, in view of George's
profitable appetite, made no objection to our using it as often as
we pleased.
I was just opening the gate which led into the yard, when a sharp
"woof" brought me to an abrupt halt. The wild suspicion that held me
momentarily paralyzed was confirmed a moment later. There was a
pattering of feet, and Winston Churchill sidled out from the porch of
the house. The moment he saw who it was, he sat down in the mud, and
threw up his accursed head in a howl of welcome. With a supreme
effort I turned to flee, but it was too late. The door of the farm
opened, and--and----
God in heaven! How good it was to see her again!
She was carrying a jug of milk in her dear hands, and she stood still
and looked at me with a grave smile.