“Away! Away! For I will stunt with thee,
Not toted by a highball nor a Bronx
But on the wings of old scout Poesy,
Though the dull brain keeps missing it and plonks.
Already with thee! Nifty is the night
And haply on her throne is H. M. Moon,
Clustered about by all her one-spot dubs
But here there is no light
Save what across the verdurous path is strewn
Amongst the dandy shade-trees and the shrubs.”
Keats in “Babbitt” Land
Monty plunged into his bath on the Saturday morning, and burst into song. He was happy because it was a fine August morning, because he was taking a holiday, and because he had secured the bathroom before Basil. For their two rooms were next one another and shared a common bathroom. So he sang with careless abandon.
“Fill every glass, for wine inspires us,
And fires us with courage, love and joy.”
Monty’s voice was robust, but it was apt to stray from the exact note. From a Frenchman who had once occupied the next bedroom to him at Critton he had received the finest of all French compliments upon his singing—“C’est formidable!” He had tried ever since to live up to the reputation which he had then acquired. A few moments, therefore, sufficed to bring Basil in protest from his room.
“Women and wine should life employ.
Is there aught else on earth desirous?
Fill every glass, for wine inspires us,
And fires us with courage, love and joy.”
“For God’s sake stop that infernal noise, and hurry up with the bath,” Basil implored.
“You have no music in your soul,” replied Monty, busily sponging himself. “Besides, I’m at my most melodious in the Beggar’s Opera. Listen to this.
“O Polly, you might have toy’d and kiss’d.
By keeping men off you keep them on.
But he so teaz’d me, and he so pleas’d me,
What I did, you must have done.”
His falsetto, however, proved unequal to the strain, and he turned a smiling and soapy face towards Basil.
“And how do we pass the day?” he inquired.
“Oh, you know the form here as well as I do,” Basil answered a little irritably. “Golf, tennis, loitering in the garden, the swimming-pool, if you feel Lido-minded. Personally, I’m condemned to waste the entire morning playing golf with that infernal Yankee woman.”
“Basil, Basil—the charming Mrs. Vanhaer! Why, you yourself told me that she was the best value in any mood; and now you complain because she has fallen for you. I’m surprised.”
“Oh, shut up, Monty,” said Basil, lighting a cigarette. “You know perfectly well that I wanted to play with Cynthia, and now I suppose she’ll spend the time playing a single with Robert Hedley.”
“She will not—for the simple reason that I insisted myself on playing with them. Consequently she will spend the morning as one quarter of a foursome.”
“That really is good of you; she can’t come to any harm with you there. I’m really grateful.”
Monty felt annoyed. Was the fellow really so much of an egotist that he imagined that Monty had arranged a foursome simply to keep Cynthia away from Robin on his behalf? In point of fact he had arranged it because he wanted to enjoy her company himself. And why would Basil smoke Russian cigarettes before breakfast? It gave him just the foreign and exotic touch which always irritated Monty. However, he disguised his annoyance, and asked for information about Robin’s book. It seemed the simplest way of discovering how the two men stood in relation to one another.
“Ladies’ Lure?” said Basil. “Yes, that’s what it’s called. Well, the fact is that I’m rather Worried about it. I suppose you know—or guess—well—dash it all, you must have guessed—that Robin and I are both interested in the same quarter.”
He flicked the ash off his cigarette with a nervous gesture. “Keep the ash out of my bath, please,” said Monty, who had no wish to provoke an emotional crisis. “Yes, I’m not quite a nitwit; you’re correct in your surmise that I am sufficiently alive to what is going on to realize that you and Robin are, to put it bluntly, in pursuit of the same young lady—or more gracefully, that your affections are directed towards the same most attractive person. I admire your taste, and regret your rivalry. Now, go on, and tell me how things stand. I suppose that collaboration over the book has come to an end, and that you only exchange glares when you meet.”
“Damn you, I wish you wouldn’t make a joke of it all,” said Basil—nevertheless, he seemed relieved that he need not explain his feelings. “But you’re dead wrong about the book. Somehow it’s become a habit of his to talk to me about it, and I’m—well—I’m not the one to stop it. He’s always talking to me about it, showing me short passages, mainly of description, asking my advice about style and so forth, inviting criticism. It’s an odd affair altogether. He keeps saying how indebted he is to me, and he tells the same thing to every one who will listen. I’m bound to say he’s very generous about that—this time. And yet I don’t mind telling you that I’m worried to death about it all. I simply haven’t the least idea what’s really in the book, or what it’s all about. Oh, yes, I know I said he was always showing me passages from it, and so he is, but they’re invariably just bits and snippets and even mere paragraphs. He’ll talk for half an hour sometimes about the phrasing of a few sentences. Yet somehow I never see enough together to get an idea of the book as a whole. He always puts me off when I suggest that I should read a chapter or two on end. Perhaps he’s really jealous still, and afraid that I shall get too much credit from it. (Basil allowed himself a cynical and rather bitter smile.) So there it is. I’m constantly consulted, constantly told that my help is invaluable, and yet in sober fact I know next to nothing about the book. Well, it will be out soon, and I suppose that will be all right. For Heaven’s sake don’t say a word of this to anyone. I’m always telling you much more than I mean to.”
“I shall be as silent as the grave. Meantime, my task to-day is to see that the hated rival does not cut you out. I warn you that if I were not a poor, miserably paid journalist I should probably snatch the lady from both of you. But, as things are, you may regard yourself as safe—till lunch-time at least. However far they slice their ball into the rough I shall pursue them; I shall follow into the deepest bunker—in short, no opportunity shall be given for a proposal on the links. You have my personal guarantee that Cynthia shall arrive at the luncheon-table without an engagement ring on her finger—unless, of course, she and Robin come down impossibly early to breakfast, and he proposes over the coffeepot. Perhaps I’d better abandon this bath to you, and get dressed to see that there’s no mischief.”
“You’re an ass, but a useful one,” commented Basil.
The morning fulfilled its early promise, and Monty thoroughly enjoyed an hilarious foursome. Robin, it is true, was his usual determined self, resolute and painstaking, but the other three laughed so much and engaged in so much back-chat that neither side was able to shake off the other. It was not until the last green, where Robin refused to give Sybil Montressor a very short putt (which she thereupon missed amidst a howl of laughter), that the match was over. Basil, playing behind them, was conceding a half to Mrs. Vanhaer, and had the mortification not only to be beaten, which surprised him very much, but also to discover that his opponent was dialectically his equal, which surprised him still more. At lunch, and after it, Monty watched with absorbed interest the manœuvres of Basil and Robin to secure a monopoly of Cynthia’s company.
“Round two, points about equal,” he noted to himself. “Sweet Basil gets the seat next to her at lunch, Pertinacity Robin has his deck chair beside her afterwards. She insists that both shall play tennis with her afterwards. Now which will be her partner?”
That question was settled half an hour later as they stepped on to the lawn. Cynthia’s clear voice floated across to him, where he was sitting in the shade with Mrs. Vanhaer.
“Spin a racket, Basil,” she said. “Rough I play with you, smooth with Robin. I never can make out which of you is better in a mixed.”
“Very tactful,” murmured Mrs. Vanhaer, “I was wondering how she’d get round that little difficulty.”
“I shall now change, and insist on playing in the next set,” said Monty maliciously, “which do you think she will make sit out?”
Mrs. Vanhaer chuckled, and Monty strolled off towards the house.
Tea was served under the famous mulberry tree, and, with the exception of the Sevenoakses and Sir John Bullerton, who were on the golf links, the whole party assembled for it.
It was Sybil Montressor who made the suggestion for the evening.
“Aunt Daisy. That divine fair is on at Beachington. You must remember what fun we had there last year. It’s simply thrilling. Do let’s all go over again after dinner.”
Beachington was on the coast, twenty miles away; it held its regatta in the third week of August, and the fair was a great local attraction.
“My dear, of course if you want to go—but then we shan’t get any bridge, and that would be too sad.”
A chorus of support for Sybil’s proposal arose from the younger members of the party, and Lady Dormansland gave way. Inwardly she had decided without hesitation that the plan was an excellent one, and that it should be carried out.
“Well, if you all wish, I’ll give up my bridge for to-night and we’ll go to your horrid fair. Now, let me see, we must dine early, and we mustn’t dress. And I must go and see the chauffeurs, and give them orders for the cars; how many do you think we shall want?”
“I speak as a fool,” said Bursar Browne a little ponderously, “but why shouldn’t those of us who drove down here provide the cars? If we drove our own cars we shouldn’t need the chauffeurs.”
“It is not always necessary to state the obvious,” muttered Sir Smedley Patteringham. Whether he referred to the first or the second part of Browne’s remark seemed from his manner to be uncertain. The arrangements were soon made; dinner was to be at half-past seven, the party was to start as soon after eight-thirty as possible.
When the time came Monty was surprised to see how many volunteered to start. Patteringham, of course, settled down to punish the port, as a preliminary to enjoying an excellent cigar; the expedition held out no attractions for him whatever. No one even suggested that Lord Dormansland should be included, and Lady Bullerton pleaded a headache. Sir William Pindle was another defaulter. As a democratic statesman he was accustomed in his speeches to refer in moving tones to the “great heart of the people,” but he did not enjoy hearing it beat at close quarters. He discovered, therefore, that his red box contained papers which demanded immediate attention. But, out of a desire for excitement, or from pure curiosity, or merely as a result of the herd instinct, all the rest insisted on seeing the fair.
There was the usual manoeuvring for position when the cars came round. Bertie Blenkinsop, who prided himself on owning the fastest car in England, and who drove it extremely badly, was astonished to find that no one seemed especially anxious to be his companion. To Monty, however, the chief interest was to see which of her admirers would secure Cynthia. To his delight he found that both of them were unsuccessful—defeated by the machinations of a more experienced person than themselves; but he never quite understood how it was that he was able to watch Basil gloomily handing the Sevenoakses into his car, whilst he himself sat comfortably beside Cynthia in Mrs. Vanhaer’s Rolls.
“I’m a very good driver,” remarked that astonishing person, as she gave him the wink to which by now he was accustomed, “that’s why I’m taking the folk here I like best. Of course I don’t always remember that you drive on the wrong side of the road in this country. Still,” she added as they swerved past the lodge gates, “I’m calculating to make Beachington as soon as that rabbit Bertie.”
If she had not taken the wrong road and lost two or three miles she would no doubt have been as good as her word; as it was she landed her passengers, shaken but unharmed, at about the same time that the other cars arrived.
Is there anything which can compare with a fair for rousing even the most sluggish to excitement? Monty felt as though he had been transplanted a thousand miles from the quiet lawns of Critton, or a hundred years back from the twentieth century. A sort of gipsy madness seemed to invade his blood—here, in this wild turmoil of noise and colour, anything was possible and everything permissible. Restraint was gone; every woman seemed to invite a kiss; every shrill laugh was an invitation; the night was filled with riotous, intoxicating appeal. The shouts of the showmen rose above the din; the switchbacks roared and clattered to the accompaniment of their blaring music; the swing-boats soared to heaven and plunged again to earth, coconuts rattled from their pedestals, the lights blazed round the tents yet left a dozen corners shrouded in a challenging obscurity. Here was life! Life as one saw it only where people crowded upon one another—in the bazaars at Cairo, in the teeming streets of Naples, or at midnight in Montmartre. Monty plunged into the throng.
Bertie Blenkinsop, blinking through his horn-rimmed glasses, found himself separated from the rest of his party. It was curious, he reflected, how often he seemed to be alone on occasions of this kind. Peering round at the tents and booths he observed one which, in letters a foot high, announced that a bearded woman could be viewed for threepence. After consideration he decided that the expenditure would be justified. As a prospective member of Parliament it behoved him to study all manner of people; besides, happy thought, this was no doubt a wandering show, and the bearded woman might have a vote in his own constituency. Congratulating himself on his public spirit, Bertie lifted the flap of the tent and went in. Apparently the bearded woman was not the most popular feature of the Beachington fair. Part of the tent was screened off, but in the remaining space there was only one person, a middle-aged man sitting upon a bench. The light was bad, Bertie was short-sighted, and as he advanced, he stumbled heavily over the unknown individual’s outstretched foot. How it was that that foot protruded so far he did not pause to inquire, nor indeed did he have time, for a storm of indignant protest immediately assailed him.
“’Ere, gov’nor, wot the ’ell are you trampling on a pore man’s foot for? My bad foot too, wot I’ve spent pounds and pounds on doctors to get ’ealed. Yer did it apurpose, but yer ain’t a-going to treat a pore man like that. Lame I may be, but I’ll show yer how ter larf on t’other side of yer face.”
The unknown, whose face appeared to Bertie in the dim light to resemble the battered and sinister visage of an old-time prize-fighter, advanced in a menacing manner towards his victim.
“I’m extremely sorry,” Bertie stammered, “really extremely sorry. I hadn’t the least intention of stepping on your foot, and as for laughing at you …”
“It ain’t no manner of good apologizing now—not when the mischief’s done, and my pore foot ’alf crushed. Yer best get ready to take wot’s coming to yer.”
What was coming to him seemed to Bertie likely to be extremely unpleasant. He made another desperate effort to parley.
“My good man …” he began.
“I ain’t yer good man. Yer get ready to take wot’s a-coming to yer—good and proper. But first yer best take off them there gig-lamps, or yer might lose the sight of both yer eyes when I ’its yer.” And the enraged representative of the proletariat made several rapid and menacing movements with his fists.
Bertie was now in a dilemma. Without his glasses he was as good as blind, but the thought of having them smashed upon his face was repugnant to him. He hesitated, and found the question settled for him; a huge fist was advanced and his glasses were torn from his face without ceremony. Meantime, his opponent circled round him uttering threats and menaces.
Among Bertie’s most cherished possessions was a fine collection of sporting prints; he bethought himself now of these and flung himself into an attitude which seemed to him to resemble in all essentials that adopted by Dutch Sam in his more famous contests. Conscious however that this attitude was adapted rather to attack than defence, he rapidly changed it to one connected in his mind with the Game Chicken, which seemed to him to offer better chances of warding off his enemy’s blows.
“And now as sure as my name’s Bill ’Umphries yer’ll get what’s coming to yer,” announced that individual. Bertie now realized with a feeling of despair that, though he had studied the attitudes of both Dutch Sam and the Game Chicken with the greatest care, he was unaware how those two worthies modified or altered their statuesque poses when necessity arose. An enormous fist was advanced and stopped an inch short of his nose.
“ ’Ave yer got a nankerchief to wipe up the blood when yer’ve ’ad wot’s coming to yer?”
The repetition of this ominous phrase was reducing Bertie to a state bordering on collapse. He hastily lifted his right hand (which up to then, following the custom of the Game Chicken, he had kept low to protect his body) in front of his face, in the faint hope that it might be more serviceable than his shaking left. But the battle was even yet not joined.
“When I think of all the money as ’as been lavished on that pore foot,” announced Mr. Humphries.
At these words a wild hope surged up in Bertie’s heart.
“If half a crown,” he began, still maintaining his attitude of defence.
Mr. Humphries’ fists sank to his sides as though by magic.
“Now that’s spoken like a gentleman,” he remarked approvingly. “I allus did think that yer was a gentleman, and that there stepping on my pore foot was wot I calls a misunderstanding. Not but wot it didn’t ’urt me crool. And when yer mentioned that there ’arf sovereign I know’d as I was right.”
“Half a crown, I think, was what I …”
“’Arf a sovereign,” interrupted Mr. Humphries with decision. “When I thinks of wot was a-coming to yer …”
The threat was sufficient. Bertie had a mental picture of himself transported, a mass of blood and bruises, from the fair to Critton. He thought of the horror of his hostess, he thought of his constituents. Hastily he fumbled in his pocket and produced a note.
“And ’ere’s yer gig-lamps, as good as ever they was,” announced Mr. Humphries, with the air of one conferring a favour.
At that moment the flap of the tent was lifted again, and Monty entered.
“Hullo, Bertie, having a look at the bearded woman?” he inquired.
“Well, er—not exactly. I’ve been having a talk with this gentleman—about boxing and so on. But I think I’ll push on now and have a shy at the coconuts.” And Bertie slipped from the tent.
Mr. Humphries’ foot was slowly advancing towards Monty when something seemed to strike him.
“Why,” he exclaimed, “if it isn’t Mr. Renshaw. You’ll remember me, Sir, surely—Bill ’Umphries as used to spar with yer often when yer was first in London.”
“Bill Humphries, why so it is!” said Monty, who seldom forgot a face. “And what are you doing now? Still fighting, or teaching the noble art, or valeting the bearded woman, or what?”
Bill Humphries shook his head.
“You will ’ave your joke, Sir, same as you always did. No, I ain’t exactly doing any of them things. To tell the truth I’m wot they calls a quarreller or a disturber of the peace.”
“What the dickens is that?”
“Well, between you and me and the gate-post, Sir, this ’ere bearded woman’s a proper frost. It’s my belief she ain’t a woman at all, and it’s a mangy little beard any’ow. So there ain’t many as comes in to see ’er. But some does, naturally. Well, I sits ’ere and when a likely one comes along I puts out my foot—so—and they trips over it. And then—well, I ups and ’as at ’em for a-trampling on my pore foot. And they fights me, or they pays, but mostly they pays. Then at the end of the day me and the bearded woman divides what’s there.”
Monty laughed.
“An easy job, what?”
“It is and again it isn’t. There comes along one now and then as can fight more than a little. Why, there was one a month back—a nasty, pale-faced un’ealthy looking man ’e was too, and meek as meek when I got after ’im. But, Lor’, ’e give me a proper basting, and didn’t even take orf his coat to do it neither. I’ve been sore ever since. I ses a perfessional fighter ort ter be marked somehow, and not come along smashing up peaceful folk.” And Mr. Humphries spat savagely on the ground. “Still, mostly they pays up nice and friendly.”
“And Mr. Blenkinsop belonged to the majority?”
“If that there rabbity gig-lamps was Mr. Blenkinsop ’e paid up ’andsome. There ain’t many as easy as ’im. Why I had ’im fixed for ten bob in no time, and then ’e being pretty well blind without his glasses gives me a quid in mistake for ten bob, and never knows it.” Mr. Humphries guffawed loudly.
“Well, he can afford it,” said Monty. “I must push along now. I don’t think somehow I’ll pay threepence to see the bearded woman after what you’ve told me. Here’s something for the sake of old times.”
He fished in his pocket and produced a coin, but Bill Humphries waved it aside with an air of sturdy independence.
“No, thanking you, Sir, all the same. I’m not taking any charity, as you might say. What I earns, I takes—and thankful for it. Bill ’Umphries makes ’is own living.”
Whether Bertie Blenkinsop would have agreed with this subtle distinction between earned and unearned income is questionable; but then, as he had discovered at political meetings, political economy was not really his strong point.
Meantime what of the rest of the Critton party? Its members had scattered and lost themselves among the amusements of the fair. Lady Dormansland, after one majestic journey on the switchback railway, which had given her a vague feeling of incipient malaise, and an almost regal, though unsuccessful effort to throw pennies into certain marked squares on a board, had decided that she had adequately patronized what she privately considered to be a most vulgar institution, and had retired to the safety of her car. Here she was soon joined by Lady Sevenoaks, clutching in one arm a highly coloured china vase and in the other two coconuts—the rewards of skill, as she averred, though they had in fact cost her something more than half a crown in small change.
“I shall give these to you, Daisy dear, as a present,” she exclaimed with unwonted animation as she deposited her burden on Lady Dormansland’s unwilling lap. “Now I must run away and try to win something else. I think I shall try for an alarum clock—or perhaps for that lovely coal-scuttle painted with pink roses.”
Lady Dormansland reflected with alarm that if all her guests proved equally generous she would have an uncomfortable return journey. Had her escape from bridge been purchased at too great a cost? She was, however, a woman of resource. Getting out of the car, which had been left on a slight incline, she placed the china vase under one of the back wheels; then she took off the brake and heard a satisfactory crunch as the car ran backwards.
“That woman will never think of looking there for it,” she commented to herself. Then she took the coconuts and bowled them one after another down the hill into the surrounding obscurity.
“After all,” she thought, as she settled herself contentedly into her seat again, “in a place like this I can always say that some one must have stolen them.”
Try as they would neither Basil nor Robin had been able to shake the other off; like two private detectives, commissioned by rival firms, they remained always at Cynthia’s side. Nor could either gain any advantage. When Cynthia had fired at the running deer at the expense of Basil, it was impossible for her to refuse to try again under Robin’s direction; when she had discharged six pennyworth of wooden balls at the coconuts at the instigation of Robin, how could she refuse to make a second attempt when Basil showed her exactly how to throw? When one lured her on to the switchback, it was natural that the other should be clinging perilously to the seat behind, and even holding on to her shoulder; when one almost miraculously produced a shillingsworth of pennies for some game of skill, it seemed almost in the natural course of events that the other should have an inexhaustible supply of change for the continuation of her efforts. But suddenly, wonderfully, like a gift from heaven, came Robin’s chance, and he seized it with both hands.
“I must go up in one of those swing-boats,” Cynthia cried out. Basil had paused to light a cigarette, and his chance had gone. Helplessly he had to watch the other two step into their boat, and seize the hanging ropes.
“Cross the ropes,” said Robin, “that’s right. Now pull on your rope just when I tell you, and we’ll soon get her going properly.”
The boat swung each time further into the black sky; with each successive swing they rose higher; each moment seemed to take them further from earth; Basil was left below, worm of another world.
A wild exhilaration seized them.
“Higher,” screamed Cynthia. “Robin, we must get higher than all the other boats,” and Robin pulled at his rope as though his life depended on his efforts.
But now the next boat to them was swinging as madly as theirs, as though its occupants too would fain reach the heavens. It, also, contained a young man of resolute appearance and a young woman, her face alight with excitement. Millicent Day was employed in the office of the largest general store in Beachington; every day from nine-thirty to six, with an interval for lunch, she typed letters and added up figures. Then she went home, cooked the supper for the aunt with whom she lived, read a novel and went to bed. A monotonous existence? Not a bit of it! If Millie had read the classical economists, which she had not, she would have explained that it is not monotony of work, but monotony of life which is to be avoided. Once a week, when she had her afternoon off, she walked out with Albert Hinshby, whose clerkly habits were similar to her own. To the ecstatic moment when he came to fetch her she looked forward all through the week. Sometimes they went for a walk, more often they visited the pictures—to wallow in vicarious emotion; occasionally—to Millie’s secret annoyance—they patronized the matches of the local football club. Wednesday, early closing day in Beachington, was the day sacred to their common recreation, but regatta week came but once a year, and they had therefore decided to spend Saturday night at the fair.
Them, too, the wild spirit of the fair had seized. The lights, the music, the discordant din, the revelling crowd had intoxicated Millie; the staid typist was gone, in her place a wild young woman, screaming aloud in her excitement.
“We’re going higher than you,” she shouted triumphantly to Cynthia as the two boats passed in their course.
The challenge was accepted as soon as uttered.
“Pull, Robin, like mad—we must go higher,” Cynthia implored, and then as the boats crossed again she called out breathlessly.
“We’re higher than you, we’re higher than you.”
Up to the heavens they soared, far, far above the horizontal, into the black night, and then down again in a sweeping circle towards the earth, and up again on the other side. Impossible to go higher—had any one in a swing-boat ever swung so high before? And yet still from the rival pair came cries of triumph and defiance. If Millie had read the classical economists (which, once more, she had not) she would no doubt have animadverted upon the potency of the competitive spirit—as things were, she urged on her swain to doughtier efforts with simpler words.
“Pull, Albert,” she screamed, “pull, pull! We must go above them.” What else on earth mattered except that? Let empires perish and cities burn, if only her boat could soar above the rest unquestionably supreme.
And in the other boat Cynthia and Robin pulled too, as though their lives depended on their exertions.
It was Cynthia who, at that instant, saw their imminent peril. The owner of the swing-boats, deciding that his clients had had their money’s worth, advanced to put a stop to their career. Already his hand was on the great piece of wood, half log, half plank, with which the boats were stopped. Once it was applied to the wooden underpart of their boat they must in a few short moments come inevitably to rest. But Cynthia spied in time his purpose.
“Quickly, Robin, throw him down some money before he stops us.” Robin released his rope with one hand, while with the other he still hauled fiercely; he fumbled in his pocket, and discovered a half-crown; as they swept past the ground he dropped it; the owner acknowledged it with a wave of his hand, and dropped his plank. They were safe now, safe to swing for as long as they would.
But the owner had moved on, and now he seized the plank under Millie’s boat. She, too, realized his intention; she, too, cried to her cavalier to act.
“Albert, quick, pay him some more, or he’ll stop us!’ she shouted, and Albert, in his turn, fired by the zest of conflict, fumbled in his pocket and found a sixpence. He, too, dropped it, as the boat swung downwards. Alas, his aim was not so accurate as Robin’s! The coin fell on the grass too soon, and a small boy, who had marked with greedy eye the shower of silver from a generous heaven, pounced upon it, and fled, swift as light, away from the swinging boats.
“Again, oh, try again, find another sixpence,” implored Millie, reckless with excitement, but Albert shook his head in stubborn refusal.
The plank jarred against the boat, it jarred a second time, and yet again. Gradually, jerkily, wretchedly the boat was brought to rest. In silence Albert offered Millie his hand to help her out; fiercely she refused his help. Her eyes were fixed in desperate envy on the other boat still swinging through the sky. They stepped on to the grass.
“I hate a mean man,” she said.
“I’ve not much use for an extravagant girl,” said Albert Hinshby, who was not disposed to take a reproof meekly.
“You needn’t expect me to come out on Wednesday,” she flashed out at him, and then suddenly realized that she was crying. She turned away so that Albert shouldn’t see those ridiculous tears, and then, with her head in the air, she marched towards the gate.
Now Cynthia and Robin were swinging in long, slow, restful movement, for the fury of the contest was over. Up and down they went, almost without effort. And she smiled at him, as though praising him for their common triumph. For the first time since he had come to Critton Robin felt content; at last he had Cynthia to himself—raised above the throng of people they were in the truest sense alone. Alone for the first time. Ever since they had arrived at Critton Robin had hoped and worked for this moment, but always he had been foiled. Basil had been at his elbow or Lady Dormansland had summoned him and Cynthia to her side. Yes, every effort on his part to be alone with Cynthia had been frustrated, and now, by a stroke of fortune, in the midst of the crowd and turmoil they were at last alone. The wild spirit of the fair was in his blood too—diffidence gave way to recklessness, all his inhibitions and repressions were swept away, he felt the sense of power.
“Cynthia,” he said, letting go his rope with one hand, and trying to take hold of hers.
“Donkey, don’t let go of your rope, we shall lose all our height,” she said, but her eyes sparkled, for she knew what was in his mind.
Obediently he went on pulling with both hands at his rope, but he stared into her eyes, and the words came in a rush.
“Cynthia, I love you, you must know that I do. For weeks, for months, I’ve thought of nothing but you. Say that you’ll marry me.”
“Robin dear, I shall have to stop the boat,” she said—but she went on pulling all the same.
It would have been hard just then to describe her emotions. Something of the wild abandon of the fair was in her blood, she liked Robin, and she knew that he loved her; perhaps too she felt a sort of pity for him as well as liking. But love and marriage? That was something different. Feverishly she tried to bring the conversation back to the easy level of joke and badinage.
“Poor boy,” she said, “it must be dreadfully hard to propose when you’re pulling on a rope all the time. I wonder if anyone has ever proposed before without the use of either of his hands.”
“For God’s sake don’t joke about it, Cynthia. It’s life and death to me. Say you love me. I’ll do anything for you, Cynthia. I’m not the sort of waster that half your friends are. Can’t you see that I hate all this Society nonsense; I’ve always felt—I know—that you hate and despise it as much as I do; you care as little as I do for the people you meet and the life you live. Marry me and come away and see what life can really be. We’ll go round the world together, and see a thousand things, and then I’ll write far, far better than I ever have before. And we’ll leave all the pettiness and jealousies and clever things behind. If you’re with me I can do work that will live—I know I can. I’ve never failed yet at anything that I really tried to do. Marry me, Cynthia—you must marry me.”
All the smile had gone from her face, and she answered him very gently.
“Robin dear, thank you for—for saying all that. You know I like you, but I don’t think I love you—not like that. I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t say what isn’t true. I … Oh! I don’t know what I feel …”
He seized on the half confession ruthlessly.
“Then you don’t mean that it’s hopeless. That’s enough for me; if there’s a chance I shall win. Wait, Cynthia, and I’ll make you love me. Say anyhow that I may try again. I shall ask you and ask you till you say, ‘Yes.’”
For the first time she felt his compelling force, his strength, his determination. It wasn’t pity now which moved her—but something more akin to fear. It was vain to try to tell him that his ideas were not hers; that she loved her life and her friends, whatever he might think of both. Words of acquiescence seemed to be forced from her lips; she felt dominated, overawed by him. With a feeling of helplessness she sought desperately for a respite.
“Wait till your book is finished,” she said, “then ask me again.”
A smile of triumph lit up his face.
“Yes. I will wait till then,” he said, and pulled at his rope as though he would heave them up to heaven.
“I feel as though I were ringing a wedding bell,” he cried. She dropped her rope from her hands.
“Stop, we’ve been here long enough. We must go back to the others. And, please, please, Robin, remember that you have promised to say nothing till the book is finished—nothing to me, nothing to any one else.”
He nodded, and slowly, gradually, he checked the swinging-boat. To her as she stepped on to the ground it seemed as though she stepped out of a world of madness and back into safety and common happy things. Gently but firmly she disengaged her arm from Robin’s as they approached the cars.
Lady Sevenoaks was speaking. “Then some wretched man must have stolen my beautiful vase; never mind, Daisy, I shall give you the coal-scuttle; Bertie’s just carrying it along for me.”
Lady Dormansland placed her bag and a bottle of scent protectively on her lap.
“He must bring it back in his own car,” she said firmly, “there isn’t room here; how kind of you to give it to me after I’d been so stupid in not watching the vase and the coconuts.”