“Idiot,” said Betty. “All the same—”
“It is my firm belief,” said Marlowe, “that there is a curse upon this unhappy land.”
“I agree, brother,” said Fairie. “This weather is, as it were, a foul plague. Presently we shall have frogs. Stacks of them.”
“Yes, and then blains,” said Marlowe.
“How many frogs go to the stack?” said Miss Lair. “A hundred and forty-four,” said Fairie. “Don’t you know your tables? One man one vote, four votes one gallon.”
Dolly broke into silvery laughter.
“Don’t encourage the fool, dear,” said Betty. “If you knew him as well as I do—”
“Let me put it like this,” said her husband. “To know me is to love me. How terse! But to the weather. Pip says we ought to clear out.”
“Leave England?”
“Certainly,” said Marlowe. “Give the ’orse-race a miss and leave England. England,” he added ecstatically, “this precious stone set in the silver sea (Bacon).” With a rapturous wave of the hand he indicated the scene outside – the dark, wet street crowded with scurrying traffic, uncertain gusts driving the fine snow hither and thither, what dull daylight there was, failing… Could he have seen it, old John of Gaunt would have turned his face to the wall.
For a moment they all sat silent. Then:
“Have another
éclaire
, Peter?” said Fairie.
“You haven’t been giving him
éclaires
?” cried Dolly, horrified.
“This,” said Fairie, “will make his fourth.”
“No, no! He mustn’t have it, Mr Fairie. He’ll be awfully ill as it is. Three
éclaires
. Oh, Peter!”
The latter seemed greatly moved by their attention. After sneezing twice, he sat quivering with expectation, looking from one to the other eloquently. His mistress gave him a piece of bread-and-butter. Nothing could have been more elegant than his acceptance of the morsel, unless it were his almost simultaneous expulsion of it as unworthy.
“You see,” said Dolly. “You’ve spoiled him. Ah! Naughty dog!”
“Don’t misjudge him,” said Fairie. “Perhaps he’s giving up butter in Lent.”
“Of course,” said Betty, who was still regarding the whirling snow, “of course, I know it’s rotten stopping here, but even if we decide to give up the Grand National, where are we to go?”
“Where indeed?” said her husband. “Ireland is priest-ridden, Heidelberg’s full of smells. There’s really only Bruges left.”
“What about Rome?” said Marlowe.
His sister shook her head pensively.
“No,” she said. “And Biarritz appears to be like this. The Ludlows are back already, and they only went there last week. Jean says they never went outside the hotel for three days.”
“Which, as is usual in these cases,” said Fairie, “reduces us to the Riviera.”
“Unless you go to Rih,” said Dolly suddenly. “It’s only four days, and you’d love it. Both of you.”
“Oh, Bill,” said Betty. “That’s an idea.”
“Yes,” said Dolly, waxing enthusiastic, “and it’ll be priceless just now. The flowers’ll be so lovely. What with the bougainvilleas and jackaranda trees—”
“I beg your pardon,” said Fairie.
“Jackaranda.”
“Hush,” said Fairie. “Not before the dog.”
“Fool,” said his wife. “Go on, Dolly.”
“Oh, and the great blue sky and the hot sun and the lizards and bullock-cars—”
“The fauna!” said Fairie excitedly.
“Will you be quiet?” said Betty.
“And the dear warm slopes and cobbled roads and everything…”
Dolly stopped suddenly and looked round. Then:
“I was very happy there,” she said simply.
The others looked at her.
“You darling,” said Betty with a swift smile.
“I agree,” said Fairie. “But about this sun – hot sun. Is there any question about that?”
“I don’t think so,” said Dolly, a little flushed. “Somehow, it’s just there – day after day.”
“Give me strength,” said Fairie brokenly. “Day after day?”
Dolly nodded amusedly.
“All day long,” she said.
With infinite care Bill Fairie pushed back his plate. Then he turned to his wife.
“My dear,” he said, “much as I would like to witness the hustle for the Blue Riband of the steeplechase world (
sic
), I feel that this phenomenon should not be missed.”
Thoughtfully Betty regarded him.
“I was wondering,” she said, “whether I’d take Falcon.”
Now Falcon was Mrs Fairie’s maid.
An hour later the two passages had been booked. Also, a cable had been sent engaging rooms at an hotel – the hotel, according to Cockspur Street: they should know there. Bill and his wife were to sail in four days’ time. So easily, sometimes, may strange steps be taken. Creatures of Impulse, the Fairies.
Impulse is a queer counsellor, too little honoured. There are those who will ever rank him close after Gluttony and Sloth, counting him one of the Vices. Such are the regular-lived. And very nice, too; only… Habit digs deep grooves sometimes, almost graves, for his creatures. Others soberly suspect his advice, as a matter of course assuming it to be evil, until deep reflection suggests the contrary. And even then they are not quite comfortable. “Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth?” But it is too late then, for the counsel of Impulse must be followed amain, or the charm of it is withered. So that only the reckless and irresponsible – undeserving heretics who make few plans, neither abide by those they make – may know the fresh air of excitement short notice lends to an affair; the spice, very tasty, with which sudden resolve garnishes a holiday.
The Fairies leaving together, it was for Marlowe to see Dolly home – naturally. And before home, to Bond Street to choose some gloves. Whilst they were in the taxi:
“What I want to know,” said Marlowe, “is how you and that serpent got into touch.”
“Ah,” said Dolly.
Her companion sighed.
“You know,” he said, “I believe your life is one long series of indiscretions.”
“Doubtless,” coolly replied Miss Lair. “But what were you doing at the Water-Colours?”
“I went to look for a picture which wasn’t there.”
“How tiresome for him!” she murmured.
“Yes, wasn’t it? Such a sweet picture, too. The softest colouring. However, I found it in the end.”
“But I thought you said—”
“It wasn’t there? Nor it was, Dolly. When I struck it, it was having tea with the serpent.”
“O-o-h,” said Dolly. “Then that was how—”
“Precisely. You see,” and Marlowe explained.
“The one redeeming feature about the whole affair,” he concluded, “is that you have persuaded Bill to leave the country.”
Dolly gave a little laugh. Then:
“I think Betty’s very fortunate,” she said.
For a moment Marlowe sat silent. Then:
“You’re right,” he said quietly, staring out of the window. “She is. Bill’s one of the best, straightest, kindest—”
“Dear old Pip,” said Dolly, slipping a warm arm through his. “But I wasn’t thinking of her husband.”
At eleven o’clock the next morning Bill Fairie entered the library, an open letter in his hand.
“I have here–” he began.
“Hush,” said Betty. “If you talk, I can’t hear. Will you say that again, please?”
She was at the telephone, very intense, very adorable. Kneeling sideways upon a chair, she leaned far over the writing-table, propping herself upon her elbows, one white hand holding the receiver, the other’s fingers about the mouthpiece. One little slipper had fallen off while she was talking, and now and again a pale pride of silk stocking would thrust out and down over the edge of the chair, till the toes of a shapely foot touched the ground there to grope vainly for the elusive foot-gear.
The conversation proceeded.
“Yes, will you send… No, no. As well as the other pairs. Then I can see if I like them… That’s right. Five o’clock will do. Yes. Goodbye.” As she hung up the receiver:
“What assignation is this?” said Fairie.
“Shoes for Rih, old chap. What were you going to say?”
Her husband displayed the letter.
“From Robin,” he said laconically. “Listen.
Dear Brother
Thank you for your letter. I pass over the fact that so much of it as is legible appears to be couched in studiedly offensive terms. Were your intellect less stunted, I would give you a short but telling word-picture of the malignant weather which has prevailed here for the last six days. But it is, as you know, one of my rules never to cast pearls before swine. The fact that my sister, but for whose importunity I should not have made one of this ill-starred house-party, has contracted an appalling and, if I may believe her, most painful cold, affords me some little consolation. At the same time, the mental and physical discomfort which I myself have suffered, owing to continuous rain and an incredibly low temperature, has, I feel, done much to undermine a constitution more or less sound, perhaps, but never robust. Under these circumstances it will not surprise you to learn that we are curtailing a visit which we should never have paid. In short, the snow-ploughs have been ordered, the coroner has been informed, and I have already decided what is the least I can give the second footman. We shall make King’s Cross tomorrow at six-fifteen. You had better be there with the car, as William is stupid about luggage and it is well-known that two fools are better than one.
Robin.
Betty threw back her head and laughed.
“They seem to have had rather a doing,” she said. “Back tonight, too. Well, they’ll hate it here, won’t they?”
With a shudder, she glanced out at the driving rain.
“They won’t stick it for half a week,” said Bill. “Robin’s evidently fed right up, and, according to him, Fay’s got one of the colds. I bet you they come with us.”
“To Rih?” said Betty, coming across to the fire.
“Every time,” said her husband. “You see.”
Here a servant entered with a telegram. Fairie opened it unconcernedly. Then:
“No answer,” he said. “At least not now. How very untoward,” he added musingly.
“What’s the matter?” said Betty from the club-kerb, where she was sitting with her feet in the grate.
Her husband handed her the flimsy sheet.
“Peter ill all night long,” she murmured.
“Yes,” said Bill. “Poor old Peter! Must have picked up something, I suppose. That’s the worst of these well-bred—”
“Nonsense,” said his wife. “It’s the
éclaires
you gave him, of course. And poor Dolly’s been up with him all night. She must be wild with you to trouble to send a wire.”
“I don’t see why she should be wild with me. The dog shouldn’t have eaten them. Supposing you went to the Billows’ and ate a lot of boiled mutton and—”
“That’s enough,” said Betty. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Do?” said Bill, lighting a cigarette. “What d’you expect me to do? Take the animal some grapes?”
“You’d better ring her up.”
“And get told off properly? Not much. No,” he added airily. “I shall compose a discreet wire, indicative at once of my esteem, anxiety, and remorse. Tears will start to the eyes of all who see it.”
“Dear fool,” said his wife, putting up her face to be kissed. “I do love you so. And now I must go and get ready. I ordered the car for half-past.”
“Wearing apparel?” said Bill.
Betty nodded.
“Just a few things, you know. Summer things. Don’t forget you’ve got to get—”
“Chorus,” said her husband. “He forgot to get what he’d got to get together to get to Rih. Pom.”
“Idiot,” said Betty. “Some tennis-balls, I was going to say. And, if you’re going to get any clothes, do see about them today. You know what it is if you leave everything till the last minute.” And she moved towards the door.
“All right, m’dear. Let’s see. What do I want? Gent’s half hose, fancy neck-wear, flannel trouserings – which reminds me…”
But Betty had gone.
For the next two hours Fairie busied himself with correspondence. A large estate in the country took some managing and a lot of time. Also he was a vigilant and conscientious trustee. For a man of leisure, he worked unusually hard. Indeed, his labour was worth a good six hundred a year. More than that, really, for no one else would have done the work so well.
It was past one o’clock before he laid down his pen. Suddenly he remembered the telegram. Quickly he reached for a form and wrote a reply. Then he crossed to the fireplace and rang the bell. To the footman who answered it:
“I shall be in to lunch,” he said. “And let that wire go at once. Perhaps it had better be telephoned.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And tell William to come upstairs. I want to see him about my clothes.”
The telegram was very short. It ran:
“Bowed with grief.”
By the time he had been to his tailor’s, purchased two dozen tennis-balls, and bought twice as much hosiery as he had intended, Fairie was getting cold. After a moment’s hesitation, he decided to go to the Club. There would be vast fires there, at any rate: once warm, gentle exercise about the billiard-table for, say, half an hour… Clearly the idea was a good one. He quickened his steps.
As he passed into the Club, the clock of St James’s Palace proclaimed the hour. Four o’clock. Five minutes later he was in an easy chair before the smoking-room fire.
Suddenly the door opened, and Marlowe came in – excitedly rather. For a moment he looked round; then he saw Fairie and came to his side.
“Well?” said the latter expectantly. “Let’s have it.”
“You shall,” said Marlowe, drawing up a chair. “What about a hundred and thirty-five pounds in one afternoon, my son?”
“Rot,” said Fairie.
But he sat up. There was that in the other’s face which there was no mistaking.
“Fact,” said Marlowe, leaning forward to ring the bell. “Of course, I know it’s only dross, still… Have a ninepenny drink?”
His brother-in-law regarded him.
“Is this the confidence trick?” he said.
“Two winners,” said Marlowe. “One at seven, the other at twenty. Thanks very much. Twenty. Think of it.”
Fairie groaned.