Fate Cannot Harm Me Read online

  “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 though
t 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 Cynth
ia 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.