Fate Cannot Harm Me Read online

  Sir William cast a challenging look round the room as though to suggest that he would know very well how to deal with any male present who dared to make any advances to Lady Pindle, but, since it was almost beyond the limits of credulity that any sane man could be attracted by that bleak lady, his implied challenge remained unanswered. He paused to clear his throat.

  “I remember the advice of an old friend about marriage and wives. ‘Catch ’em young, treat ’em rough, tell ’em nothing,’” interpolated Bursar Browne, who was a bachelor.

  “What a filthy idea,” expostulated one of Lady Dormansland’s “nieces.” She was barely eighteen, but supposed to be on the verge of an engagement with Bertie Blenkinsop.

  “To take a strong line,” continued Sir William, “was beyond poor little Harvey’s competence. He was a most gifted doctor, but a poor specimen of a man. And so the miserable business dragged on. George Jenner, for his part, flaunted his success. It gave him pleasure to go to Harvey’s house, and to watch him writhe in impotent misery; he would call and carry off Gertrude to dances and parties, and contemptuously challenge Harvey to prevent him from doing so. Quite openly he treated the doctor’s wife as his mistress—as indeed she was—and Harvey dared do nothing. The wretched man had to watch his wife wearing jewels for which her lover had paid, had to watch the blatant happiness of his rival, had to listen to the derisive and scandalous whispers of his friends.

  “Then one day George Jenner became faintly anxious about his heart. He had been troubled off and on for some time with a slight pain, and being, like most rich men, something of a valetudinarian, he decided that he would have himself ‘vetted.’ It was characteristic of him that he decided to go to Harvey and that he told Gertrude of his intention. To him it would give a sort of ghoulish pleasure to compel Harvey to examine him. How the poor nincompoop would loathe the necessity of being alone with him in the room, of examining him, of testing him! And what a refinement of torture to be able to pay him his fee with insolent contempt! Besides, when all was said and done Harvey was the best heart doctor in London—it was impossible to have a better opinion. Jenner had not overrated the extent of Harvey’s distaste and humiliation; when the appointment was made it seemed for a moment as though he would summon up courage to refuse. But at length, sullenly, he acquiesced.

  “George Jenner entered the consulting-room with a nonchalant air. Really he had hardly felt the pain for the last few days—still it could do no harm to let a doctor run over him. ‘This is only a precaution, Harvey,’ he announced, as he pulled off his shirt. ‘I’m fitter than most men, I fancy, still, I’ll just let you take a glance at the old heart.’

  “And yet, as the examination proceeded, he was conscious of a feeling of intense disquietude. Harvey hardly spoke, but he grew graver and graver as he made his examination. And what did that curious look mean which he gave Jenner when he had finished? Was there something in it of triumph as well as hatred, or was that a mere fancy? Suddenly Jenner realized that he was horribly, intensely frightened. It was with an immense effort that he contrived to make his voice sound normal as he asked:

  “‘Well, what is the verdict?’

  “Harvey’s voice was flat and toneless as he replied. It seemed as though he had suppressed his own personality completely; he was the cold passionless man of science giving judgement with the inevitability of truth on a case in which he had no personal or human interest.

  “‘I regret to have to say,’ he replied, ‘that the case is a serious one. You may drop down dead at any moment; I think you will probably live for about six months, but that is guesswork.’ He plunged into a mass of medical technicalities. ‘Of course,’ he concluded, ‘you may take another opinion. I hope that you will. But I cannot believe that the answer will be other than that which I have given you.’

  “George Jenner stumbled from the room, cold and sweating with fear.

  “In his rooms he pulled himself together. He did not take a second opinion, for he knew too well that Harvey was at the top of his profession, and he had no wish to hear his fate pronounced once more. Instead he tried to drive the thought of death from his mind. If he had only six months to live he would at least enjoy them. So he plunged into a round of gaiety—and found that all his amusements turned to ashes in his mouth. Gertrude he could hardly face; the sight of her brought always back to his mind that moment in the consulting-room when her husband had condemned him. Yet other women brought him no solace. In vain he tried to forget! Something always and inevitably reminded him of the fate which awaited him. At every turn, in the most unlikely places and the most unexpected way, the spectre of death forced itself upon his notice. One day he was having a golf lesson from the professional, and hitting the ball magnificently.

  “‘Splendid, Sir,’ said the professional. ‘In six months you’ll be down to scratch, if you go on improving at this rate.’

  “In six months! Why, in that time he would be dead! To the amazement of his instructor, he flung his clubs on the ground and walked back to the club-house. What in Heaven’s name did it matter, if he was to die so soon, whether he was to be plunged into eternity with a handicap of two or scratch? He tried gambling, and because he was wealthy and reckless he won night after night.

  “‘In three months you’ll ruin us all, and be a millionaire,’ said one of his fellow gamblers towards the end of an evening’s play. He threw his cards on the table and strode from the room. What did it matter in three months if he were worth a million or were a pauper? For the time was closing in. He drank, and that brought temporary forgetfulness; he drank more and more but still he must often remember, and the pain seemed to him more frequent and more acute.

  “The crisis came quite suddenly. He was sitting in his rooms, drinking, when the telephone rang. Angrily he picked up the receiver and listened. It was Gertrude’s voice speaking.

  “‘It’s me, Gertie,’ she said. ‘Oh, George, I’ve hardly seen you for weeks, but you must listen to me now, for I’m in dreadful trouble.’

  “‘What’s the matter?’

  “His voice betrayed his irritation and resentment.

  “‘George, George, don’t speak like that. You must come and help me. I need you. It’s William … he’s—he’s dead.’

  “‘What?’

  “‘He was knocked over by a motor lorry in the street this morning, and he died an hour ago. It’s been too awful. He seemed delirious, and yet when I sat by him it seemed as though he recognized me, and as though he was thinking of you and me. He kept raving about some one who had consulted him, and saying the most terrible things.’

  “‘What did he say?’

  “‘Oh, he kept laughing horribly—like a devil—and saying “A touch of indigestion, a touch of indigestion,” and nonsense of that kind. And then, “The fool, the triple fool. I thought to give him a day’s misery till he went to another doctor,” and then again, “Just a touch of indigestion,” and that hideous, devilish laughter. Oh, George, you must come and help me now—I’m all alone, and I want you. Come now.’

  “‘Never, never, never,’ he screamed. Then he flung the receiver aside and burst into a paroxysm of hysteria.”

  “What a wonderful story, Sir William,” cried Lady Dormansland. “Really you ought to be a writer; you would be a best-seller at once.”

  “My dear lady, you mustn’t exaggerate. Of course, in my position one has to learn the use of words, but I have no claims to be an author.”

  Sir William’s smile, however, gave it clearly to be understood that he did not doubt his ability to take the first place among living authors, or, indeed, among any other class of persons, if he cared to compete with them.

  “Now,” said Lady Dormansland briskly, “we really must begin our bridge; I positively can’t wait any longer for my rubber.” Her experienced eye had judged that it was impossible to postpone the game any longer.

  “Let me see. Lord Sevenoaks, will you and Lady Bullerton play at my table—yes, and you, of cours
e, Smedley, I can’t let you get despondent after losing last night. Basil, you must arrange the other two tables.”

  With the air of a very un-Christian martyr Sir Smedley Patteringham advanced to the table and cut a card; his partner was Lady Dormansland.

  “Can you believe it, I lost over twenty pounds last week,” said Lady Dormansland to Lord Sevenoaks.

  “What good cards you must have had,” said Sir Smedley brutally.

  Lady Dormansland stiffened in her chair.

  “I said that I lost over twenty pounds last week,” she repeated in an almost threatening tone.

  Sir Smedley Patteringham was impertinent, but not really courageous.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said mendaciously, “I thought you said that you had won.”

  Lady Dormansland dealt and surveyed her hand.

  “Two no trumps,” she announced firmly.

  Monty glancing over her shoulder, observed that she held two aces, a king-knave, and an imperfectly protected queen. He thought it tactful to make his way to the billiard-room before there occurred the inevitable catastrophe and its consequent recriminations.

  Chapter XI

  “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.

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nbsp; 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.