“She’ll be back for lunch, you said,” he reminded her. “Besides, my next mistake mightn’t be such a happy one, Grey Eyes. And now,” he added, “tell me about England. Is it the same dear place?”
“Yes,” said Fay reflectively. “On the whole, it is. Only there are heaps of cars now everywhere, and strikes have come in, and cocktails. I suppose London’s changed in a way, but it’s really rather difficult to remember what it was like seven years ago. It still rains a lot, you know.”
“I shan’t mind that,” said Fettering. “What about the country? Is that all right? Not spoiled, I mean.”
“The real country’s as priceless as ever. Of course, they’re building a bit, making villages into towns, and giving towns suburbs, but, when you get right into the country, it’s all right. Streams and woodland and deep meadows, and—”
“And the old, old elms, with their green jackets about their trunks. I know. It’ll be very good to see it all again.”
“It’s just as well you didn’t go straight home,” said Fay. “England was hardly looking her best when we left her, about a week ago.”
“Unlike yourself, Grey Eyes. At least, I take it you are. I think you must be.”
“I don’t think any girl can look her best lying in a chair with—”
“It’s largely a matter of limbs,” asserted Surrey Fettering. “A long chair, like yours, shows them off – all four of them. And if they’re perfect, my lady looks her best in a long chair with her small white feet up. Very well, then.”
Fay regarded him with a faint smile, something of scorn in it, then:
“And he’s known me about twenty minutes,” she said slowly. Mention of time made her glance at her wrist-watch. Before he could reply, “A quarter to one,” she announced, sitting upright. “I must go up. I’ll introduce you to your sister, if you like,” she added. “I suppose she’ll believe you.”
Fettering smiled.
“When I say I’m her brother? I think so. If the worst came to the worst, I could remind her of a certain summer Sunday morning about eight years ago, when she cantered straight into the Rectory crowd, who were coming home from church across our meadows. When I say that she was riding Blue Boy bareback at the time… I shall never forget the scene. The Rector said it was an outrage, Phyllis said it was pure bad luck, and everyone else said it was just like her – except the second gardener, that is.”
“What did he say?” said Fay, laughing.
“Oh, he said that Mrs Rector’s expression would have soured a bucket of cream at fifty yards. Several people thought her face would never go back.”
Fay got up, took two steps forward, uttered a cry of pain, and sat down suddenly on the stone seat.
“What on earth–” began Fettering.
“Sorry,” said Fay, whipping off a small buckskin slipper, “but there’s a nail, or something, hurting like anything. Funny, I never felt it before.” She slipped her fingers into the toe of the shoe. “I’ve got it,” she added. “I say, it is sharp! I don’t wonder—”
“Let me feel,” said Fettering.
In silence Fay handed him the slipper – Betty’s, as a matter of fact. Finding her own uncleaned, she had sent for Falcon and borrowed a pair of her cousin’s to wear till luncheon.
For a moment he felt gropingly, probing the pointed toe with a finger curiously. The next instant he withdrew it with a sharp exclamation of pain. Fay, who had been waiting for this, broke into a peal of merriment.
“Nail!” said Surrey, regarding his second digit in some dudgeon. “Nail? Barbed wire’s more like it! And don’t hurt yourself, Grey Eyes. Keep some laughter for the blood; it’s just coming.”
“I can’t help it,” sobbed Fay. “Your face when you—”
“I know – must have been a scream. But – By Jove!” he added suddenly, turning the shoe upside down. “Look at it. No wonder you couldn’t walk! I fancy a fakir’d think twice before he settled down to four miles an hour on that.”
“O-oh,” said Fay weakly.
Firmly embedded in the sole of the slipper was a brass-headed drawing-pin.
“But why did I only just feel it?” said Fay, big-eyed.
“Probably because you’ve only just collected it,” said her companion. “I expect some fool’s been drawing here and dropped it, and you stepped on it as you got out of the chair. Is the foot bleeding, Grey Eyes?”
“I don’t expect so.”
Fettering raised his eyebrows. Then:
“No?” he said.
With that, he stepped in front of her, stooped down, and put a hand for the white-stockinged foot. The next moment a warm heel was resting in his palm.
Exactly how it had got there Fay was never quite sure.
“It is bleeding a little,” said Fettering. “I was afraid it must be.”
“Is it?” said Fay carelessly.
By way of answer, the other drew a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it gently against her toes. When he took it away, there was a faint red stain on the cambric.
“You see?” he said, holding it up.
“How awful!” said Fay. “D’you think I shall swoon?”
Surrey set down the small foot tenderly before replying.
“I hope not,” he said, smiling. “It’s not half as easy to carry a dead weight.”
“If you think I’m going to let you carry me up,” said Fay, “you’re wrong.”
Surrey Fettering stood upright and looked at her.
“Well, you can’t walk up barefoot,” he said. “The most zealous penitent would shy at these paths. Besides, with that wound in your foot—”
“It is an ugly gash, isn’t it?” said Fay cheerfully. “Think they’ll be able to stitch it up all right? I admit the situation’s pretty desperate,” she went on thoughtfully. “But, as a last resort, don’t you think we might take the pin out of the shoe?”
“How stupid of me!” said Fettering, sitting down and picking up the slipper. “I apologize. Will you shake it out, or shall I?”
“Idiot!” said Fay, laughing in spite of herself. “Haven’t you got a knife, or anything?”
Fettering shook his head.
“Not in these trousers.”
They wasted another five minutes endeavouring to press the drawing-pin out with a coin, but all their efforts to dislodge it proved unavailing.
When he had pricked himself for the third time Surrey Fettering raised his eyes to heaven, swore and rose to his feet.
“What are you going to do?” wailed Fay, weak with laughter.
“Take it to the nearest forge,” he said bitterly. “This is a blacksmith’s job. I don’t suppose they’ve got any anvils at the hotel.”
“Not in every room, anyway,” rejoined Fay, pulling herself together. “But if you ask at the office, they’ll probably give you a pair of scissors.”
Surrey stood reflectively drumming with his fingertips upon the slipper’s sole.
“And all this comes of having small pink feet the size of a baby’s,” he said dreamily. “If I’d been able to get more than one finger at a time into the toe, I could have got it out.” He paused to lick the blood off his forefinger. “Grey Eyes, I have bled for you. How will you ever repay me?”
“If you’re very quick,” said Fay darkly, “I will hold my tongue.”
While the girls in the office were searching for a pair of scissors, Fettering seized the opportunity of changing a five-pound note at the bureau on the other side of the entrance to the hotel. Just when he was in the throes of his first struggle to reduce pounds to reis, and trying literally to think in thousands, Bill Fairie and Betty entered the ball. Even if they had not stopped to inquire for letters, they could hardly have missed the shoe, which was reposing in solitary state on the mahogany before the office window. Betty looked at it curiously, remarking that it was of the same shape as her own. Then she looked at it closely, exclaimed, and picked it up.
“What are you doing?” said Bill. “Put it down, Bet – it’s not your shoe!”
“But it is,” said Betty, staring round the hall. “I know it by this scrape on the leather. Besides, no one else—”
“Where?” said her husband, taking it out of her hand, “Are you sure?” he added, examining the graze.
“Positive. But who on earth—”
“Ask them here, in the office,” replied her husband. “Perhaps Falcon—”
“Excuse me,” said a quiet voice behind them, “but that’s – er – my shoe.”
They swung round to find Surrey Fettering standing with outstretched hand.
Instinctively, Fairie made as though he would hand it over. Then he hesitated.
“I’m sure you’ll forgive me,” he said courteously. “But – er – are you quite sure? I mean—”
“Perfectly,” replied Fettering. “I’ve only just laid it down.”
“But it’s mine!” cried Betty.
“Yours?” said Fettering. “But that’s impossible. I’ve only just—”
“I’m sure you have, if you say so,” said Fairie. “But that doesn’t make it yours. And my wife has identified it as her own. If you would say how you came by it,” he added civilly, “I’m sure the misunderstanding—”
“I can only ask you to hand it to me at once,” said Fettering stiffly. “I have to return it to a lady.”
“But it isn’t hers,” said Betty indignantly, turning to her husband. “I tell you it’s mine.”
“I must insist on your giving it to me at once,” said Fettering firmly. “The lady to whom it belongs—”
“Why, Surrey!” said a gentle voice at his elbow.
Fettering started and swung round.
“Phyllis!”
Brother and sister embraced there and then in the sunlit hall. Robin Broke and the Fairies looked on open-mouthed. At length:
“Support me, somebody,” said Fairie. “Support me at once. My breath is bated.”
“Be quiet,” said Betty. “This—”
“Be quiet? Beware, you mean. This is a ruse. While the two are embracing, a third steals the shoe. I’ve read about it in
Chunks
.”
“Er – this is my brother, Mr Fairie,” said Miss Fettering, flushing furiously. “I haven’t seen him for seven years, and—”
“What did I say?” said Bill excitedly. “He’s only just out. Clearly a hardened criminal. Very glad to meet you,” he added, shaking Fettering’s hand. “And now, if we promise not to prosecute, you must tell us how in the world you got hold of my wife’s shoe.”
“Well, to begin with, a girl gave it me,” said Surrey, laughing. “In the garden.”
“But this is a shoe,” said Fairie, holding up the slipper. “Not an apple.”
Fay, mounting the cobbled paths delicately, limped round a corner to see The White Hope standing regarding critically the great pink blooms of a magnificent tassel tree. At the sight of her the look of appraisement faded from his face into a vast smile of greeting, which was in turn succeeded by a whimsical expression of surprise, as he observed her shoeless foot.
“Another harsh dictate of Fashion?” he exclaimed. “Not content with the restriction of the kilt, does she demand—”
Fay interrupted him to explain. At length:
“So you see,” she concluded, “when he does come back, I shall be gone. It’s his own fault for being so long.”
The eminent lawyer smiled.
“Clearly an affair,” he said. “Three centuries ago it would have been a glove. Today it is a slipper. Your gallant has doubtless fastened it in his hat, and is probably at this moment engaged in murdering such well-intentioned pages and other members of the staff as have innocently presumed to draw his attention to the peculiarity of his headgear. When he has dispatched them, he will rejoin you.”
“Well, he’ll be too late, anyway,” said Fay, laughing. “And now—”
She stopped suddenly, and a light of excitement sprang into her grey eyes.
“What mischief–” began the KC intelligently. Fay laid her hand on his arm and gurgled with delight.
“Oh, do,” she said rapturously. “Do. It would he priceless. Just go and take my place where I was sitting. There’s a chair by a seat in the wall, right on the edge of the cliff. And when he comes, he’ll find you, and you can have him on beautifully.”
She laughed softly in anticipation.
The lawyer’s eyes twinkled.
“Show me the way,” he said.
So she showed him the way, and then, smiling in anticipation of her swain’s discomfiture, proceeded haltingly, by a circuitous route, through the fair garden up to the hotel.
Later that afternoon, amongst other sets, the Brokes took on the Fetterings, and were handsomely beaten. By the side of the court, shock-absorbing cushions received the weight of the KC gracefully. Through the drifting smoke of his cigar the lawyer followed the ebb and flow of the play with lazy eyes. In the course of one of the games, Fay Broke and Surrey Fettering met for a moment, each in quest of a ball, on opposite sides of the net.
“I shall never forgive you, Grey Eyes,” said Surrey.
“You shouldn’t have been so long,” retorted Fay, with a dainty lift of her eyebrows. “And, as you feel like that, it’s a very good thing I didn’t happen to be your sister, isn’t it?”
Steadily Surrey regarded her. Then:
“I’m beginning to think it is, Grey Eyes,” he said slowly.
“Come on, you two,” called Robin, waiting to serve. “Love Thirty, isn’t it?”
“I wonder,” said The White Hope to himself, watching Fay’s face curiously, as she backed towards her place in the court. “I wonder.” Then he thought of her age, glanced at Fettering, and smiled. “But it’s pretty evident that it’s Love Twenty-three.”
Bill Fairie leaned wearily against the doorway of the bathroom belonging to the suite.
“Any woman,” he said, “who occupies the bath for more than thirty-five minutes, in her husband’s teeth, is a desolation.”
His wife, who had been invisible, made a sudden effort to sit upright. Eighteen inches of water reduced the endeavour to absurdity.
“I haven’t been here a quarter of an hour yet,” said Betty indignantly. “Have you shaved?”
“More,” said Fairie bitterly. “I have removed all traces of the crime, perused the
Sportsman
we brought from England, and smoked a cigarette. Have I shaved!”
“Well, I shan’t be long,” said his wife. “I must wash, you know.”
With a groan Fairie returned to the balcony and, leaning his arms upon the warm rail, prepared to abandon himself to a luxurious contemplation of his surroundings.
Half-past seven o’clock of an April morning may be a fair hour anywhere. In the Island of Rih it may be exquisite. There is a time for every place. The greenwood will look its best of a morning, so soon as the sun is up; this shadowed stream dreams on its way never so lazily as in the hot afternoon; your rolling moorland stretches into the purple distance, peerless at cock-crow, whilst at noontide deep meadows will blow most of all sweetly, the steady drone of insects hanging above them. Sundown, too, has a great following, Harlequin night and the moon’s witchery, maybe, the greatest of all. But, then, show me the alley, never so mean, that will not take on a look of elegance, clothed in that famous livery of black and silver. There is a time for every place. Seven-thirty o’clock in the morning is Rih’s time. At least, so you will maintain at half-past seven. At any other hour of the day you will be less certain, so often is Rih all glorious.
Bill Fairie leaned there comfortably, awaiting his bath. Below him stretched the deep garden, heavy with the massed perfume of a thousand blossoms, which the first breeze of the day was beginning to dissipate. Beyond, the laughing bay and the ragged white of Starra glistened in the hot sun. Prospect and day alike were big with promise.
The sudden sight of Broke in breeches and leggings, strolling gingerly along one of the polished paths, set Fairie thinking. By the time his cousin was within range he was ready.
“Good morning, brother,” he said pleasantly. Robin started, slipped on the even cobbles, recovered himself with an effort, and looked up. “Where’s the meet?”
“On the pier,” said Robin. “At half-past ten. Got your bicycle ready?”
Fairie looked at him for a moment before replying.
Then:
“Seriously,” he said, “what is it? Had some bad news this morning?”
Broke spread out his hands.
“To be frank,” he said, “I propose to ride. To your blear eyes, I suppose, all horses look the same. As a matter of fact, the half-bred Arabs here are—”
“If you’re going to be rude,” said Bill, “I shan’t lend you my pillion.”
A quick rustle of silk, and there was Betty beside him on the balcony, all fresh and pink and white in a dainty kimono.
“O-oh!” she cried delightedly, clapping her hands. “Look at our horseman.”
“Hush!” said her husband. “They’re making a new film thing – ‘The Jockey’s Sweetheart, or A Tale of the Turf.’ That out there is the comic stableboy.” Here the soft sound of steps upon the path sent Betty flying into her bedroom. Making ready to follow her, Fairie nodded carelessly to his indignant cousin below. “Very well, Tom,” he added, raising his voice, “have the mare round at ten o’clock, and see that that martingale’s properly clean this morning.”
As he disappeared, a ripple of laughter floated out of the room, and in its wake Betty’s voice, crying:
“Never mind, Robin. You look very nice, and I envy you. Why didn’t I bring my habit?”
“Probably for the same reason that induced your husband to leave his manners in England,” said Broke acidly.
The next moment The White Hope was tapping him upon the shoulder.
“Perhaps he knew they wouldn’t survive the Customs,” he said.
It was the eminent lawyer’s footsteps that they had heard approaching.
Half an hour later Fay Broke and her brother and Betty sat down to breakfast. Two tables away The White Hope was already dissecting passion fruit with all the precision of the law. Beyond him again the Fetterings – brother and sister – were engaged in deep converse; and Phyllis Fettering was wearing a fawn-coloured riding habit.
“Where’s Bill?” said Robin, as they took their places.
“Gone to buy the
Gazette
,” said Betty, glancing out of one of the tall windows, which opened on to the cool courtyard and the sunlit road beyond. “There he is, talking to Get Out and Get Under. Aren’t they dears?”
Two bullocks, these if you please, that were used to draw a swaying sledge over the cobbles. In this one
carro
always the four drove after dinner to the Casino and home again. Fairie had marked down driver and animals at the first, and straightway retained them.
Fay nodded.
“I love their great patient eyes,” she said.
“Give me their horns,” said her brother. “So sympathetic.”
“Dear idiot,” said his sister, “where are you going to ride?”
“Oh, just round about, I suppose, over the hills. And you? What are you going to do?”
“I don’t see why we shouldn’t go up the mountain,” said Betty. “I dare say Surrey Fettering’ll come,” she added carelessly.
“Of course,” said Robin. “Hullo, Bill, old pal. Had a good bath?”
The gentleman so addressed laid a bunch of violets beside his wife’s plate before replying. Then:
“Hush!” he said. “That hideous incident is now closed. Let me share with you the two compelling, if solitary, items of news with which the English column of the
Rih Gazette
is this morning bursting.” He took his seat and spread the flimsy sheet carefully in front of him. “In the first place, you will be petrified to learn that, ‘Bearing the Ramsgate postmark, and dated September 9th, 1901, a postcard from her mother has just been delivered to a domestic servant at Wapping.’ The second and last sensation comes from New York. If we may believe our eyes, ‘The Newburn and Hatfield Railway Company is shortly to be dissolved under the Anti-Trust Law.’ Now you know. I may add that I paid fifty reis for this issue on the off-chance that some distorted racing news might have wormed its way into print.”
“My dear,” said Betty, “you don’t seem to realize that we are out of the world for a little, and it’s no use trying to keep in touch. Personally, I just don’t want to.”
“Nor I,” said Fay. “But I’m all for going up the mountain today.”
Fairie laid down his knife and looked at her.
“What new blasphemy is here?” he said. “Go up the mountain? This isn’t the Pentateuch.”
“Just the day for it,” said Broke, with a grin. “If I wasn’t riding—”
“Yes,” said his cousin grimly. “Yes. I can just see you climbing on a day like this. Always did make a playground of the Alps, didn’t you?” He turned to his wife. “My dear, you know that I can never stand heights. That’s why I never sit in the dress circle.”
“Nonsense,” said Betty. “You go up in a train thing all the way and then toboggan down. They say the view’s lovely.”
Her husband wiped his forehead before replying. “At least,” he said, “the
Gazette
will profit. The proceedings at the inquest should make absorbing reading.” He turned to Robin. “You’ll know this shirt again, won’t you? I mean to say, you’ll have to identify the bodies, and if my face isn’t recognizable, or they can’t find my head or anything—”
The White Hope stopped, on his way out, to pay his respects to Betty and Fay. With one consent they appealed for his support of their case. He heard them out gravely. Then:
“I am with you,” he said simply. “Mr Fairie’s apprehension is baseless.”
“But this tobogganing stunt?” said Bill.
“A mild affair, believe me, and rather delectable.”
“See what you’re going to miss,” said Betty, turning to Broke.
The latter raised his eyebrows. Before he could reply:
“And yet,” said the man of law, “were I twenty years younger, and some haughty barb fretting for me at the gates—”
“You’d give the mountain a miss,” said Broke. The White Hope glanced in the direction of Phyllis Fettering.
“Speaking impersonally,” he said, “much would depend on whether anyone, and, if so, who, had brought a habit with them.”
“That,” said Bill, “is fair comment. Incidentally, we hope that you will dine with us tonight. Without prejudice, I mean.”
The eminent KC beamed.
“It will be a privileged occasion,” he said.
It was nine o’clock when Phyllis Fettering and Broke rode out of the courtyard. Into Starra and up through the little town they passed, till there was more space between the dwellings, and the gardens spread wider and deeper behind their random walls.
Starra’s ways are cobbled, every one of them. Not a back street, not an alley that is not paved with old black cobble-stones, small and close-set, worn smooth and polished by the traffic of many rolling years. There is no sound because of them, for of wheeled traffic there is none at all in the island, save only the panting cars, and they, on rubber tires, run quietly enough. For the rest, carts, wagons, and chaises alike sway to and fro on well-greased runners, sure-footed oxen drawing them. The pace is not of the hottest, but in Rih there is no hastening.
“Some of them would eat out of my hand,” said Miss Fettering. “They would really.”
They were talking about deer.
“Naturally,” said Robin. “I myself would eat large quantities of food out of your hand. Afterwards I should lick—”
“Only dry bread, you know.”
“Husks,” said Robin laconically. “Out of your hand.”
“He is tame, isn’t he?” said Phyllis, with a maddening lift of her straight eyebrows. “And now–” She hesitated and reined up her horse. Clearly she was uncertain of the way. For a moment she glanced up a steep path rising between soft-coloured walls. “No,” she murmured, “it wasn’t that one. And yet—”
Broke’s eyes never left her face. This was very thoughtful and grave for the moment, steady-eyed. The straight nose, the curve of her soft lips, her faultless chin, made up a profile to wonder at. Kissed of the sun, her delicate skin had taken on the look of health which that great lover alone can give his darlings – a favour precious indeed, though some will have none of it. Yet such kisses may be taken in all honour by royalty and ragamuffin alike, neither can they breed regrets nor any heartache, nor even an odd memory, which might not be there to smart, could we but call back Time.
“We’ll try it, anyway,” said Phyllis suddenly, turning her horse’s head to the path. “You’ll have to forgive me if I’m wrong. By the way, you don’t know where I’m taking you to yet, do you?”
“I am in your hands,” said Broke.
“I thought you were going to eat out of them.”
“Ah,” said Robin, “but I propose to rise to that occasion. Excuse me,” he added, “but just look at the sunlight on that wall there, and then think of any English seaside resort at this moment. Of course, the grey light effects at Blackpool will be – er – effective. Lunch under the pier there on Easter Monday will be a festive meal. Wind E to NE. Some showers, some—”
“‘Oh, to be in England now that April’s there,’” said Miss Fettering.
Broke frowned.
“A charming sentiment,” he said. “But old Browning wasn’t taking any himself. When he wrote that, he was in Italy. Enthusiasts would style that an accident: I should call it a precaution.”
Phyllis Fettering laughed. Then:
“Has he had much to make him cynical?” she said.
“I protest,” said Robin aggrievedly. “I do hereby protest. Mine is an approving nature. I’m always getting lost in Admiration.”
“Where’s that?” said Phyllis.
“Where? Why, in Thought. You must know the great city of Thought, with all her parishes, Memory, Wonderment, Melancholy, Awe, and the rest. Don’t you ever go there?”
“I think so. Tell me about it.”
Broke shook his head.
“If you know it, there’s nothing to tell. Only I’m rather fond of going there and wandering about its broad, silent streets. It has three great quarters, you know – Past, Present, Future and – and lots of parishes. Past I know well. Sometimes I lose my way though,” he added reflectively. “It grows so quickly, you see, and if I’m looking for some special—”
“Lost again? You said just now you were always getting lost—”
“In Admiration, my dear. Same thing. Still, most of that parish lies in Present. For instance, I’m lost in present admiration of your throat. I love throats.”
“From the way you speak anyone would think you collected them.”
“So I do,” said Robin. “Keep them in the south wing of a little gallery I have in Bond Street, Past, W. Yours will have a room to itself.”
“Thanks awfully. I suppose you saw ‘The Blue Bird’?”
“If you accuse me of plagiarism—”
“I am congratulating you upon your memory.”
Broke glanced at her. She was looking straight between her horse’s ears, her chin ever so slightly tilted and a faint smile on her lips. After a pause:
“Your name,” he said, “is Mockery. Upon the hills of Rih you flout—”
“The dreamer who was kind and shared his dreams with a friend.” She turned a glowing face to him, and for a second a little hand rested on his arm. “You mustn’t take me too seriously.”
“You darling,” said Robin. As he spoke, her horse broke into a trot.
Five minutes later they halted before the high painted gates of a garden whose villa seemed to stand far back from the road.
Miss Fettering turned to Broke.
“This,” she said, “is the Quinta Viola. No one lives here but an old gardener, who is given a trifle to keep the garden from becoming a wilderness. Would you like to see it?”
“Please.”
Then put your hand up under that wisteria and ring the bell. The old man will know it’s me, because no one else rings. You can’t reach the bell unless you’re mounted, because there’s only an inch or two of the chain left.”