Fate Cannot Harm Me (18 page)

“I think we'll bat again, Appleby,” he remarked in a voice from which the tone of almost patronizing triumph was not entirely banished, “my lads have bowled splendidly and deserve a rest. You'll find it very pleasant fielding in the cool of the evening.”

“Cool of the evening; it's still hot as hell,” groaned Bobby Hawes, as he and his disconsolate colleagues took the field, and prepared to give the Besterton champions some batting practice. There till seven they remained. Some unexpected relief there was. The Admiral had insisted on fielding, but his journey from mid-on at one end to mid-on at the other was so laborious that the rest of the fieldsmen were able to rest a little between each over; the Colonel, partially tamed by annoyance and weariness, was almost entirely silent, and Basil, sulking furiously, had been banished to the deep-field at the far end of the ground. Only George Appleby's enthusiasm and Monty's invincible optimism remained unimpaired. The latter indeed, having been allowed to bowl unchanged for almost half an hour—an exploit which had gained his side one wicket, and cost it an indecently large
number of runs and a ball lost in the pond—was frankly happy. But as the players crowded round the drinking-tent when at length seven o'clock came, the disaster of the day began to appear less formidable. Forgetting the troubles of the later time Bobby Hawes was explaining to Railton exactly how the ball which had dismissed him had swung away at the last moment, and Colquhoun and Johnny Rashwood were discussing the 'Varsity match as viewed from one side of the pavilion and the other. Above the din Sir Anstruther's voice, booming and resonant, was heard telling George Appleby of his own family affairs.

“I'm sending both my young nephews into the Air Force,” he declared. “That's the service nowadays for young men of spirit and initiative. A grand service. They teach them manners there, too.”

An instinctive impulse caused the Admiral and the Colonel to turn towards one another, as though they had been challenged by a common foe. Characteristically it was the Admiral who took the initiative.

“Let me pour you out another whisky and soda, Colonel,” he said. “By Gad, we've deserved a second drink after that spell of fielding; we older men, especially.”

For a moment the Colonel hesitated—then he accepted the proffered olive-branch.

“Quite right, quite right, Admiral,” he grunted. “Deserved it more than some of those youngsters, what? I flatter myself we can still teach them something about cricket. When I was a subaltern we thought very little of fielding out all day in the sun—in India, too.”

He glared round pugnaciously as though expecting contradiction. “Yes, the modern generation isn't as tough as we were,” agreed the Admiral, as he emptied a lump of ice into each glass.

“Here's fortune, Colonel. I hope to see you making many a big score on this ground.” The two long glasses were raised, and emptied.

“What about the other half of that drink?” said the Colonel, ignoring the fact that his third drink was already finished.

“I shan't say No,” replied the Admiral, “this running about in the field does take it out of one nowadays.”

“Well, he
did
manage to cross after each over,” murmured Monty to himself, “but running about is pitching it rather strong. Somehow I don't fancy that he gets his place next year.”

Afterwards Monty always said that it was Merton who saved the situation at dinner, but Merton, for his part, gave the credit to Monty. The party had hardly sat down when George Appleby noticed the champagne glasses on the tables.

“Merton,” he called out.

“Yes, sir?”

“Why are there champagne glasses on the table? You know the ‘rules; we lost to-day—miserably—no one made fifty or took five wickets—or—or did anything respectable at all.”

Merton was an old and trusted servant; he knew his place, and he knew just how far he could go.

“Yes, Sir. I am aware that we were defeated to-day. But you remarked at tea-time, if you will allow me to remind you, Sir, that you would never have Colonel Murcher-Pringle on your side again, and Mr. Renshaw instructed me that that was worth a great many wins in the future—and that I was to serve champagne in consequence. I hope I have done right, Sir.”

For a moment George Appleby hesitated, then he made up his mind.

“Perfectly right, Merton.”

Then he turned towards Monty.

“And I damned well
won't
ask him again, Monty. Though he
was
a good bat once, you know.”

“With such a friend the social hour

In sweetest pleasure glides.

There is, in female charms, a power,

Which lastingly abides;

The fragrance of the blushing rose,

Its tints and splendid hue,

Will, with the seasons, decompose

And pass as flitting dew;

On firmer ties his joys depend

Who has a faithful female friend!”

REV. CORNELIUS WHUR

Monty travelled down to Critton on the following Friday; the other members of the party, who were not accustomed to work in August, had assembled on the two preceding days. He arrived just in time to dress rather hurriedly for dinner and to greet his hostess as the party assembled in the drawing-room.

“How nice to see you, Monty dear,” said Lady Dormansland. “Now I want you to take in Angela Greyne to-night. You're sure to have met her before, or at any rate you know all about her. She was perfectly divine as Hilda in
Heaven's Orchestra—much
the best of all the younger actresses, and simply charming. Oh, and you'll have that darling Mary Vanhaer on your other side—the American, you know. Now give yourself a drink quickly before dinner.”

She hurried on to speak to another guest. It was characteristic of Critton that the hostess should control every one and everything; for twenty years no one had thought of Lord Dormansland except as his wife's husband.

Monty helped himself to a cocktail, and found Basil beside him. “Evening, Basil; tell me something about the form. I'm the new boy to-night, and I sit between
some one who, I'm led to suppose, is England's greatest actress, and some one else whose name I couldn't catch, but who is apparently ‘
the
American.' What gay tap of anecdote or persiflage do I turn on for them? Or is it serious stuff and the world's woes?”

Basil smiled.

“The actress woman is easy money,” he replied. “Flattery with a trowel, and an expression of your unalterable conviction that
Heaven's Orchestra
has got all Shakespeare and Shaw beaten to a frazzle. You can do that sort of stuff in your sleep. And ask her about her next part, and whether she prefers the films to the legitimate. Believe me, she'll tell you. Very soporific, but no trouble, and you needn't listen. The American's another bag of tricks; you'll have fun there, whichever way you take her.”

“What exactly do you mean?”

“Well, according to paper form she's an intellectual of the worst kind. If you listen to Daisy Dormansland you'll probably gather that no lady of loftier brow or bluer stocking ever made the pilgrimage from Boston to Boar's Hill and Boar's Hill to Boston than Mary Vanhaer. So if you want to talk modern poetry or the philosophy of Croce, now's your chance.”

“God forbid,” said Monty. “What's the other way to take her?”

Basil chuckled.

“If you get her going on normal subjects she's a damned amusing woman. As shrewd as you make them, quite agreeably vulgar, and decently malicious. In fact, as a companion at dinner she has every social virtue. You won't shock her, and you'll find that she sees a great deal more of what's going on than most. But—excuse me a moment.”

Cynthia Hetherington had entered the room, and Basil, without any appearance of haste, had contrived to be at her side to offer her a cocktail before any one
else could forestall him. Monty smiled a little acidly as he watched them, but managed to wave a greeting to her across the room. Then he turned to look for his actress as the butler announced dinner.

Ten minutes' conversation with Angela Greyne, which lasted till the fish, convinced him that Basil's diagnosis had been accurate.

“How
clever
of you to say that about
Heaven's Orchestra
, Mr. Renshaw. You know they all said that there was
no
one else on the stage who could carry off a part just like Hilda's. It's the mixture of
real
innocence with a sort of pretended knowledge of the world that's so difficult. The older actresses couldn't
quite
get it across, any of them. Poor things! It's the
freshness
, you know. That's what you
must
have. Yes, my new part's been written especially for me; the whole play's written round little me. I come in first in the middle of the first act in a frock …” Her voice trailed on.

Monty turned with relief to his other neighbour. She was plump and comfortable in appearance, yet still good-looking and beautifully dressed. Her eyes were sparkling—almost beady.

“Isn't the peace and quiet of the country just too lovely after London, Mr. Renshaw?” she began, “I just dote on it.” In the babel of conversation her remark was almost inaudible, but Monty caught its general purport.

“Well, I'm not too sure of that. Noise—smooth, mechanical noise—is the background of modern life. It's the sudden cessation of noise that spells disaster and catastrophe—the engine that breaks down, the machine that suddenly stops and all that.”

There was a momentary pause, and Mrs. Vanhaer seemed to be considering a new gambit. Instinctively Monty realized that the culture of Boston was struggling for expression; perhaps, a question about the name of
his favourite poet was trembling on her lips. But he was too quick for her.

“When I sit next to a stranger at dinner,” he hastily began with seeming irrelevance, “I always think of the old story of the eminent man who had risen from the ranks, and who asked advice of a friend about topics of conversation for his first big dinner-party. Talk to them about husbands and children,' said the friend, they're all interested in one or both of those subjects.'”

“Yeah?” said Mrs. Vanhaer, encouragingly.

“‘How did you get on?' his friend asked when he got back. ‘Bloody, said he.”

Mrs. Vanhaer coughed discreetly, and displayed increased interest in the tale.

“‘I started off on the woman on my right. “Got any children?” I said. “Oh, three little darlings,” she said, and talked about them ten to the dozen. When she eased off a bit I turned on my second subject. “Are you married?” I asked her. And she turned her back on me, as though I was a common sort of tick she hadn't got any use for.'”

“You don't say?” interpolated Mrs. Vanhaer, almost enthusiastically.

“‘So I turned to the dolled up young woman on my other side,' the eminent man went on, ‘and, just to be safe, I asked her first if she was married. “Oh, no,” she said, sort of looking coy and inviting at the same time. So we talked about husbands a bit and got on like a house on fire. But when I tried the other subject and said “Got any children?” to her, she jumped half out of her seat as though something had stung her. All I had to speak to for the rest of that dinner was the backs of two shoulders.'”

Mrs. Vanhaer's beady eyes twinkled, as she shook her head at Monty. “Now, Mr. Renshaw,” she said, “you've got me all wrong. I'm not a little bit that kind of woman. Why, I'm just expiring right here with wanting to talk to
you about Eliot and Robert Bridges and all the real poets and you tell me those dreadful common stories. But still,” she added hastily, fearful lest Monty should take her at her word, “I fancy I'd better come right down to your level if we're going to have a talk.”

One beady eye seemed to Monty to wink ever so slightly.

“Well, I'll begin anyhow by answering your question, for I guess you're trying to find out something about Mary Vanhaer. I'm a widow and I'm forty-five and I've had three husbands—two alive and one dead—and I've got three children, though none of them is a Vanhaer. I've got a whole heap of money and not one of those husbands has gotten it away from me, though they've tried hard enough. And if you ask Daisy Dormansland she'll tell you that I know a whole deal about poetry and art and philosophy and all that bunk.”