Читать книгу This Publican - Cecil William Mercer - Страница 7

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Since the Easter vacation was short, Rowena decided that Biarritz should make it sweet. Myself, I think she was right. When Winter is hectoring Spring, ten clear days on the shore of the Bay of Biscay can minister to the soul.

David found her decision a brilliant idea and plumed himself on the wisdom his wife possessed. To visit the South of France would never have entered his head. He had seldom been out of England and never so far afield. And this was no ordinary trip. ‘The honeymoon will be spent at Biarritz.’

As the end of the term drew near, his excitement began to run high. The evidence, which Rowena produced, of tickets actually taken and rooms engaged stayed him through more than one party which ended at half past two.

Inspecting their luggage the night before they set out, he remarked Rowena’s golf-clubs in some surprise. Bohun did not play golf. Surely she was not proposing ... A cloud, like a man’s hand, hung for an instant in the heaven about to be his. Then he forgot the matter—till he saw the bag at the station the following day.

“You won’t want those, will you, my sweet?”

“You never know,” said Rowena. “Besides, I want you to learn. I must say you’ve got a good tailor. I only wish you could always wear country clothes.”

The cloud, which had reappeared, dissolved there and then. Ten minutes later the train slid over the river and into a squall of sleet.

David spoke private-school French. In other words, provided that time was no object, he could make himself understood. It had never occurred to him that the French which Rowena could speak was that which is spoken in France. The truth became apparent as soon as they disembarked. From that time on, a proud and marvelling Bohun took a back seat while the lady dealt with porters and customs, selected a restaurant and told a Parisian driver the way to go. Nor, when they came to Biarritz, was any difference made. After an effort or two, reception clerks, porters and waiters threw in their hand and spoke French. Bohun, standing by, picked up what he could.

The weather was more than kind, and Biarritz was at her best. What breeze there was was gentle, a summer sun was ruling a flawless sky, and a splendid suite was commanding such an ocean as Homer sang. A bath and a change and a breakfast before open windows handed Bohun into the heaven which he had known he would reach.

That morning they proved the town and strolled on the esplanade: after luncheon Rowena retired, and David went off in search of a private car. The quest took time; but after a little he hired a fine coupé de ville for the whole of their stay. The price demanded was high, but the car was fit for—a queen. And the chauffeur might have been in service ... (As a matter of fact he was. His mistress, whose car it was, had only left for Venice two days before. Rowena, who knew her France, suspected the truth the moment she saw the Delage: when she found the speedometer lifeless, there was no room for doubt. She took care to say nothing to David—the car was all right.)

Mrs. Bohun had not been idle whilst her husband was out of the way. Upon his triumphant return, he learned that they had been invited to join the Chiberta Club and begged to proceed there for tea that same afternoon. This information was untrue. Rowena had rung up the club and had said that they wished to be members during their stay. Then she had summoned a manager of the hotel, inquired about casinos and night-clubs and said that, if Biarritz was dull, they should go on to Nice. She had also desired to be furnished with a visitors’ list. Then she had changed and descended into the hall. By sitting where David could see her when he came back, she was seen by everyone else who entered or left the hotel.

“What is this club?” said David, returning the stare of a Frenchman who was sprawling three paces away.

“I’ve no idea,” lied Rowena. “But as they mean to be civil, we can’t very well refuse. What time is the car coming round?”

“Almost at once,” said David. “The chauffeur’s getting into his kit and filling her up.”

“Well, you get into yours—your gray suit. It’s lucky I changed. If she’s half as nice as you say, we shall have to live up to this car.”

Reflecting that they must have tea somewhere, David withdrew to their suite and did as Rowena had said. Half an hour later their car had joined twenty-two others, drawn up in rows, and Mr. and Mrs. Bohun were free of the country club.

The famous pleasance of Chiberta was fretted with black and gold. The sun, though low, was so brilliant; the shadows, though long, were so sharp; the emerald turf was so vivid; the myriad pines were so still that the scenery seemed to be that of some monstrous stage. A ridiculous sense of unreality would not retire. On every side perfection delighted the eye: yet colouring, lighting and setting were all theatrical. The flash of a striking villa, sunk in the woods: a lawn like a magic carpet, its sprinkler’s leisurely flourish jewelling the air: a bathing-pool like a mirror, framing with marble the elegance which it surveyed ... Such beauty took David by storm: Rowena was much more inspired by the sight of the twenty-two cars.

Before they left Chiberta that evening, the Bohuns had met twelve people, three of whom were patently women, all of whom seemed to be French. Two of the men could camouflage a few words of English, but, though David and they both tried, the communion achieved was so worthless that further attempts were abandoned by mutual, if tacit, consent. Much was made of Rowena by men and women alike. Her clothes were commended, her style was pronounced charming, her speech superb. She talked very naturally, continually turning to David and translating what had been said, much as a pious daughter trumpets to a deaf parent such tit-bits of conversation as the latter must else have missed. David played the deaf parent and felt the fool of his life: but Rowena’s devotion was unmistakable. An invitation to the Casino was presently served in this way, and David, of course, accepted because he could not refuse. Then the talk turned to golf ... After ten minutes’ discussion, husband and wife were invited to view a reach of the links. The offer was submitted to David, who did his best to express surprise and delight. The move was made. Thankful for any release, David followed the others much as a royal detective shadows a prince of the blood engaged with his friends. Now and again, Rowena would glance behind her and throw him a smile—just as she did at night-clubs, when she was dancing and he was sitting alone.

When the inspection was over, Rowena declared they must go, but cocktails were immediately suggested and David’s consent was sought.

“I think, perhaps,” said Bohun, “we ought to be getting back.”

“My husband says ‘no’,” said Rowena, taking his arm. “I’m afraid he’s rather bored and wants to go home.”

As they were approaching the cars, one of his wife’s cavaliers made Bohun some formal request which the latter could not understand. After a desperate flurry, the interpreter intervened.

“He’s asking if he has your permission to request me to make up a foursome to-morrow at eleven o’clock.”

“Oh, er, of course,” mouthed David, and wiped his face.

Rowena turned to the other.

“My husband gives his consent.”

The petitioner bowed to Bohun, who made himself smile ...

That was the last of his efforts. He simply had not the heart to make any more. His pretty dream was broken. For an hour he had watched it cracking, and now it was smashed. Even he could see what was coming—what was to be the burden of the next ten days. ‘The honeymoon will be spent at Biarritz.’ He had thought that he was building a castle, and all the time he had really been digging a pit. And now he had fallen in.

As a man in a trance, he saw the car leave its station and steal to their side. He saw the chauffeur descend and open a door. He heard badinage and laughter—one of Rowena’s escort was pretending to weep. A great many bows were made—he made some himself. And he shook hands several times, and Rowena’s fingers were kissed.

And then they were alone in the car, and were whipping past the wonderful backcloth of forest and lawns and villas and bathing-pools of marble, sunk in the sward. The scene was not quite so striking—the sun was down.

Rowena went straight to the point.

“Well, now that you’ve got your way, what the hell do we do?”

As a man who is dazed, her husband put a hand to his head.

“I don’t understand,” he said slowly.

“That’s right. Play the village idiot,” was the reply.

David made a gesture of hopelessness.

“I can only assure you,” he said, “that I’ve no idea what you mean.”

As one whose patience is threadbare, Rowena expired.

“We were given an invitation which you refused. It was very civilly made. To refuse it was grossly offensive—unless you had a golden excuse. But you didn’t want to accept it, and that was enough—for you. You refused to drink with those people, alleging that we ‘ought to get back’. And it’s now a quarter past six ... God knows where they think you were bred, but that is beside the point—which is that you’ve got your way. We are at liberty—for more than two hours and a half. I repeat—What the hell do we do?”

“I don’t know or care,” said David. “Whatever you please.”

“That’s very easy—now that you’ve got your way.”

“I’m sorry if you wanted to stay. You asked me my opinion, and I said that I thought we might go.”

“You needn’t have bothered,” said Rowena, “to clothe your desires in words. Your boredom was painfully obvious to everyone there. You’ve always been the finest wet-blanket that I ever knew, but to-day you excelled yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” said David, again. “When you can’t talk the language——”

“Two of the men spoke English: you could have talked to them.”

“I tried to,” said David, “but I couldn’t understand what they said.”

“I have noticed before,” said Rowena, “a convenient inability on your part to do what you do not like.”

David said nothing at all, until they approached the hotel.

Then—

“When shall I say,” he said, “that you want the car back?”

Rowena shrugged her shoulders.

“I heard you accept an invitation for half past ten to-night. Of course, if you don’t mean to go ...”

David ordered the car for a quarter past ten.

As the two gained their splendid suite—

“I wish to God,” said Rowena, “that in public you’d try and play up. I always do my best, because I was always taught that to advertise domestic dissension was shocking bad form. Coming through the hall just now, you looked like a sulky dog. I suppose the idea is to excite sympathy.”

“I’m very sorry,” said David. “I suppose I’m—disappointed. That’s all.”

“Disappointed in me?”

“Of course not, Rowena. But I’d looked forward so much to our ten days here. I’d hoped that we’d spend them together.”

“I assume that we shall,” said the girl.

She pitched her hat on to a table, flung herself on to a sofa and took out a cigarette.

“Alone together,” said David. “You know. Going out in the car for the day, and that sort of thing.”

“What a gorgeous prospect,” said Rowena, closing her eyes. “In other words, you were proposing, as usual, to please yourself. What I might want didn’t count—never entered your head.”

“To tell you the truth,” said her husband, “I hoped that you’d like it, too.”

“Why lie?” said Rowena, shortly. “You never gave my wishes one single thought. You even tried to prevent me bringing my clubs.”

“I didn’t try to prevent you. I only asked if you’d need them.”

“Exactly,” said Mrs. Bohun. “It’s called moral pressure, my friend. You were trying your best to squeeze me into leaving my clubs behind. They didn’t fit in with your scheme ... I’m mad about golf. For your sake—because you can’t play, from the day we were married I’ve never lifted a club. Yet you grudge me a chance I might get of playing a round or two of my favourite game.”

“You know I don’t, Rowena. But I—I like to be with you, you know.”

“No one would guess it who’d seen you this afternoon.”

David put a hand to his head.

“I can’t run with that crowd,” he said. “I never could. Quite apart from not speaking French——”

“You mean you’re not going to try. They may amuse me: they may amuse everyone else: but that is beside the point—which is that they don’t amuse you. You see? Wherever we dig, we always get down to the same old stratum of rock. It underlies all we do: and I’m beginning to think that it always will.”

There was a little silence. The man had nothing to say. Rowena was a masterly exponent of the best of all methods of defence. Not that David was an opponent: he was a prey. Her right hand was to teach him terrible things.

Presently he glanced at his watch.

“I think perhaps,” he said slowly, “I’ll go for a walk.”

Rowena looked down and away.

“I suppose it’s no good asking if you’d like me to come with you,” she said.

The dog was at her side in a flash.

“My darling, you know I’d love it.” He laid his cheek against hers and held her close to his heart. “It’s just because I love you so much that I seem so selfish,” he said. “You see, I want you all to myself. I——”

“I know. But you must go gently. I gave my freedom up when I married you. I knew what it meant, and I thought it was good enough. Don’t make me think it wasn’t.”

“My sweet, my sweet.”

“You’ve no idea what a change it is for a girl. I, who was free as you are, have given up my freedom and put myself in your power. If you want us both to be happy, don’t ride me upon the curb. Let me sometimes taste the freedom I willingly threw away.”

“I will, I will. I promise. I only want you to be happy. I love you so.”

Rowena gave him her lips.

Satan rebuking Sin should be matter for mirth: but Satan forgiving Sin is a pitiful sight.

Rowena took David’s arm as they strolled through the shadowy streets. Subtlest of navigators, she steered him towards the Bar Basque. He was not aware of its existence; but Rowena knew where it was. Together, they regarded its portal. Then—

“That’s the best of a husband,” said Rowena, pressing his arm. “Would you like to take me inside and give me a drink?”

A glowing David obeyed his heart’s desire.

Within, they found two of the people whom they had met at the club. Since each was with a fresh party, more introductions took place and History repeated herself. Broken English and French were toyed with and laid aside. Further and better compliments were paid Rowena, and David munched olives and chips and radiated good humour until his face was stiff.

An hour and a quarter later they made their way back to their rooms.

They dined alone. They left the Casino at one and the night-club that followed at three. They were called at nine—which gave Rowena nice time to breakfast and bathe and dress and be beside the first tee at eleven o’clock.

Three days and three nights went by.

Rowena played golf every day and danced every night. Her acquaintance grew very fast and she was in great demand. Almost all of her waking hours were spent with ‘a crowd’. David was also present, except on the links.

On the fourth day husband and wife drove into the countryside. The venture was not a success. After they had been moving for nearly an hour, Rowena asked what they were doing and why they were there. David, who made a bad witness, submitted that they ought to see something of the country about.

“I don’t think I ought,” said Rowena. “It gives me a pain.”

“You must admit, my darling——”

“I admit,” said Rowena, “that I was a fool to come. If I’m to be comfortable, I can’t see out of the car. If I sit on the edge of the seat, I can have a series of close-ups of some of the filthiest farms that I’ve ever seen. Unless you’ve a weakness for eyesores, I suppose you proposed to sit still and maul me about. Of course, you’re within your rights, but ...”

White to the lips, her husband picked up the mouthpiece and gave it into her hand.

“Tell him to turn,” he said thickly, “and go straight home.”

Eight hours later big trouble broke out again. They had left the Casino at midnight and had not ‘gone on’—a sin of omission which David had dared to propose. The proposal had been instantly honoured by Mrs. Bohun. As always—in public, his slightest wish was her law. People said right and left that she hung on his lips. In the depths of the coupé de ville she had told him what he was fit for in measured terms ...

“I’m tired,” said David, and flung himself down on his bed.

“ ‘Because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?’ ”

“I don’t think that’s fair,” said David. “I——”

“What’s your idea of fairness? That I should do as you please? I’m not your mistress, you know. I bear your name.”

David sat up.

“Why talk like that, Rowena. You know——”

“Because you behave as if I was a woman you’d hired. I’m to lead your life—not my own, day in and day out. When you make a suggestion, it’s always to do something you want. You never suggest doing something you know I should like. I have to suggest that myself—and go in fear and trembling lest you should decide, as to-night, that it isn’t what you want to do. Then, again, if you can help it, you never let me out of your sight. I get away for my golf, but that’s only because you can’t play. If you dared, you’d walk round behind me the whole of the way.”

The man started up to his feet.

“If it wouldn’t seem funny, I’d do it—you’re perfectly right. And why? Because I love you. That’s why I like to be with you as much as I can.”

His wife expelled breath of contempt.

“That’s lust,” she said, coolly. “Not love.”

“Rowena!”

The lady shrugged her shoulders.

“If you can’t see it yourself, it’s obvious to everyone else. Good God, it’s the jest of the place. ‘Hands off my woman’ is written all over your face. It isn’t very pleasant for me: but——”

“Just because last night I said that that scented bounder should keep his hands to himself.”

“Yes, and why did he treat me like that? Because you gave him his cue. Because he could see how the husband regarded his wife. He saw that I was your woman—and nothing more.”

“You know it’s untrue,” cried David. “You know that I love and respect you——”

“I don’t. Nor does anyone else. For my own pride’s sake, I play up. I try to counteract the impression you always give. I try to make out that we have an understanding that nobody else can share: and I see them pretend to believe me—and laugh in their sleeves. Why d’you think they’re so nice to me, one and all? Because they’re sorry for me. Because they can see that I haven’t got a square deal.”

The man was trembling all over. Because he had vexed her, because he had made mistakes, his wedded wife—his darling was adopting and using against him the vile conclusions a bunch of wasters drew. She knew they were false—knew it. But that did not matter to her. She had need of a scourge.

With a shaking voice, he broke out.

“Rowena, how can you? How can you say such things? Let others think and say them—what do I care? But you know as well as I do how mad about you I am. You know——”

“Oh, go to Hell,” said Rowena. “When you married me, you installed indoor sanitation; but that’s not love.”

With that, she turned to her table, took off and bestowed a brooch, a ring and a wrist-watch, together insured for one thousand two hundred pounds, and then proceeded to fight her way out of her dress.

The man who had paid for all four considered her dazedly.

For sickness at heart there are few remedies: but at eight o’clock that morning Bohun received the treatment he most required.

The man had not slept. His mind had defied his body for hour after hour, declining, like some morbid spectator, to move from the scene of his catastrophe. The spectacle was certainly rare. The bottom appeared to have fallen out of his world.

Had his nature been other than it was, had he been less loyal or less simple, less trusting or less sincere, his case would have been less bad. But Rowena had made no mistake. Unkindness might bruise his heart, but this was still hers. At a nod from her, the gulf between them would close. David Bohun was still in love with his wife.

When Sleep had rejected his addresses for nearly five hours, the man left his bed. He shaved and bathed and dressed, while Rowena slept. Then he put a note on her table, to say he had gone for a walk and might not be back before lunch. By seven o’clock he was well on his way to Bayonne.

Knowing no other way, he went by the woods.

Because the dawn is so natural, Chiberta seemed less unreal: but, though the rising sun was arraying the paradise with splendour, lacing the lawns with silver and gilding the gray-green plumes of a thousand pines, Bohun’s eyes were too dull to mark the loveliness. He never smelled the fragrance which Night had left: the organ voice of the Atlantic fell on deaf ears. Still, when he had passed the club, he became aware of the virtue of having the world to himself, and when a lorry-load of workmen had rammed this home, he left the smooth highway and took a road that went curling out of his sight.

At the first of its bends, the surface of this became rude, and Bohun began to perceive that here was a slice of the pleasance, ready to be developed, but not yet touched. In this he was right. The roads had been roughly drafted, the mains were laid, but, though notice-boards were commending the purchase of lots, their counsel had not been taken and the lily was innocent of paint.

For half an hour the man wandered, careless of his direction and meeting no one at all to trouble the flow of the waters which were going over his soul. From time to time the drone of an early car would drown for a moment the murmurous thunder of the surf: now and again a cuckoo would make his exquisite boast: but for the most part the sounds which he heard were too distant to distract him from his distress. And then, at eight o’clock, he encountered another being whose acquaintance with grief was plainly closer than his.

Seated alone upon a patch of loose sand was a very, very small dog, that once had been white—a wire-haired terrier-puppy, some two to three months old. Gigantic pines stood over him, a malevolence of briers beset him round, the hollow stump of a tree gaped upon him with its mouth. Burrs were fast in his coat, blood was oozing from one of his tiny pads, the whole of his forehand was caked and plastered with dirt and, what was worse, with the needles the pines had shed. His forelegs propped him, like sheers; his tongue was out; and desperation peered from his frantic eyes. Come to the end of his tether, the scrap could go no further and do no more. When David addressed him, he took no notice at all, and when the man stepped to his side, he only bowed his small head, as though in resignation to inhumanity.

“Poor little boy,” said David, picking him up.

Some part of the trouble became immediately clear. The pines had been slashed for resin, one and all; and the puppy had had to do with their glutinous yield. His muzzle and paws had passed their fatal plunder to ears and head, and when he had sought relief by wiping them on the ground, he had gathered unto himself whatever he touched. Then he had turned to flight, and, doubtless already lost, had driven along in frenzy, wild to outrun an unkindness of which he had never dreamed. And now the last state of that dog was worse than the first.

“Poor old fellow,” said David, wiping the crust of filth away from the hopeless eyes.

As though unable to credit that he was not to receive the coup de grâce, the puppy looked fearfully up into Bohun’s face. Then, as though asking for mercy, he touched the strong hand with his tongue.

“There’s a good boy,” said Bohun, removing some more of the filth. “You want some water, don’t you? First and foremost, a drink. Nice, cold water, old fellow. And then a good wash and brush-up. My God, you are in a mess ...”

By now his handkerchief was corrupted. The resin had rendered it viscous. It stuck to his sleeve and his fingers—whatever it touched.

“It’s hopeless, old chap,” said Bohun. “Water’s the only wear. God knows where on earth we’ll find some. I know—we’ll make for the club.”

Assured by the comfortable accents that here at least was a being that meant him no ill, the puppy licked a button of Bohun’s coat and settled himself in the crook of his saviour’s arm ...

Together they set out for the highway, Bohun taking his direction from the sound of the passing cars. After a quarter of an hour he saw the tarmac ahead.

As he stepped on to the roadway—

“Now we’re all right, old fellow. Another ten minutes, and you’ll be out of the wood.”

This time there was no response. Now that the danger was past, reaction had set in amain. The poor little scrap was drowsy, if not asleep.

David had sighted the club, when a coupé moving towards him, swept to his side and stopped. A door was flung open and slim bare legs were swung out. Then a girl was standing before him—a girl with rumpled hair and immense blue eyes.

“Oh, Tumble,” she cried, “my precious, where have you been?”

At the sound of his mistress’s voice, the puppy-dog opened his eyes. Then he gave a delighted wriggle and let out a miniature bark.

As the lady made to caress him, a smiling Bohun put out a warning hand.

“I shouldn’t touch him,” he said, “until he’s been washed. He’s quite all right, but he’s mucked about with some resin ...” The girl recoiled. “Exactly. I tried to get some of it off, but you know what it is.”

“What a shame. It’s all over your coat.”

“That’s all right,” said the man. “We were on our way to the club. They’ll give us some water there, and he’ll be glad of a drink.”

A charming smile swept into the great, blue eyes.

“Tumble and I,” said the girl, “can do better than that. Our home is five minutes from here. Besides, we want to thank you. You know what you’ve done for him, but you’ve no idea at all what you’ve done for me.”

A moment later the three were within the car.

As this was being turned round—

“Where did you find him?” said the girl. “They woke me at half past seven to say he’d got out, and when I questioned them they said he’d been gone half an hour. Half an hour’s start ... in these woods ... Of course I just fell out of bed and into the car. I’ve been all over the place ... But I’d next to no hope—he’s only a baby dog, and he hardly knows his name.”

Bohun told what there was to tell.

When he had done—

“What’s the good of trying to thank you? I only hope that one day I’ll be able to pay you back. I’ve only had him three weeks, but he’s got me down. He’s always so pleased to see me, and—and all his ways are so sweet.”

“I’m only thankful,” said Bohun, “that I was there. The merest chance, you know. I haven’t been out before breakfast for months and months.”

“Have you got to get back?”

The eager question flicked David upon the raw.

I will not say that he winced, but the light went out of his eyes.

“Er, no,” he said slowly: “I haven’t. I’d meant to go on to Bayonne.”

“Then do breakfast with us,” said the girl; “with my mother and me. I know. If you’ll wash Tumble, as you were going to do, I’ll have my bath and get up as quick as ever I can. By the time you’re through, I’ll be ready. We always breakfast at nine.”

“All right,” said David. “I’d love to. My name’s Bohun.”

“Mine’s Helen Adair, and my mother is Lady Persimmon. She’s rather a dear.”

With that, she swung off the roadway and into the speckless drive of one of those sparkling villas which Bohun had so much admired.

The ‘close up’ revealed no fault. The garden was swept and garnished; the hedges were trimmed to a hair; the smooth, close pile of the lawns was perfectly cut; a sash of magnificent tulips girdled the marble basin from which a fountain sprang. As for the villa itself, this might well have been painted the day before. White walls, green shutters, red roof were all without spot or stain. La Belle Issue was almost too good to be true.

As the car came to rest on the apron, a bright-eyed femme de chambre came pelting out of the house.

“He is found,” said her mistress, in French. “We have him here.” The other praised God. “This English gentleman found him. But he has played with resin and must not touch or be touched.”

“The poor little one.”

The maid fussed over Tumble, wriggling in David’s arms.

“Monsieur is going to finish the work which he has begun: so take him to the spare bathroom and give him all that he needs. And clean his coat. Are the others all out?”

“But all, madame. They have all gone different ways. The chef has gone off in tears towards Chambre d’Amour.”

“The first to return must go and find the others and tell them he’s found. And now take Monsieur to the bathroom. He stays to breakfast, of course.”

Five minutes later, the bright-eyed maid and Bohun were giving Tumble a bath, Tumble’s mistress was staring out of a window, and Lady Persimmon was brushing her soft, white hair.

Her daughter spoke over her shoulder.

“You’ll like him, Mo. He’s white. But there’s something wrong. Some woman, of course. I think he’s been hit pretty hard. Between us, we may do something. He saved Tumble—himself he cannot save.”