“Then that’s settled; thanks very much.”
Thus it came to pass that Lucian and Lal crossed the Channel in one cabin, and very ill were they both, especially Lal, who suffered like a martyr, without one groan. He could hardly have done a thing more unselfish than this, but, unluckily, his conscience was too lofty-minded to applaud him for a sacrifice merely of personal dignity. Virtue failed to reward itself here. Moreover, he was partly of opinion that he had made a fool of himself in making friends with a stranger. The hollow sound of Lucian’s cough and the mournful display of dripping passengers at Dover were consolatory, inasmuch as they permitted him to father his impulsive behaviour on common humanity.
Of those, dripping passengers Farquhar was the wettest and least pitiable. For the past four hours he had been leaning over the bows, watching the speed of the steamer, and formulating arguments that should be urgent enough to procure him a special at Dover. Those arguments only failed because the thing was impossible. Cursing high and cursing low, Farquhar went to look at a time-table, and found that the quickest way to reach Monkswell was by going straight past it in the express up to London, and coming down again by the slow. He went off to take his ticket, confident that though he and his rival might arrive at Monkswell together he would yet be the first to see Dolly at Fanes. How that could be was his secret.
But they did not arrive at Monkswell together. Lucian’s unrecognised friend had a mind to follow Farquhar’s plan, and he went up by the express; Lucian bade him good-bye and remained at Dover. When crossing in the spring he had made the acquaintance of a porter; between the station and the pier they had become intimate friends. Lucian sought out this man now, and by dint of much persuasive eloquence seduced him into an alliance. There was no slow train up for some hours; but a goods train started immediately after the express. The porter and Lucian both talked to the driver of that engine from the time the boat came in till the goods train went off, and after its departure Lucian was no more to be seen at Dover Priory. It was strictly against the rules, no doubt, but rules are not unbreakable. The consequence was that Lucian was turned out at Faversham Junction at three in the morning, and there waited until a slow train up from the Kent coast-line carried him on to Monkswell.
First of the three, Lucian reached the station at ten minutes to seven, and set off to walk to Fanes, at two miles’ distance. He was utterly tired; the exhaustion of the previous day’s adventures, capped by a long journey, bad sea-sickness, a sleepless night, and exciting anxiety, weighed down each step he made. He had had nothing to eat, feeling disinclined at Dover and lacking the chance at Monkswell. The familiar morning-scented country lanes spun round him as he went.
Nine minutes after the up, the down train from town came in, bringing Noel Farquhar and Lal Laurenson. Seeing each other for the first time on the platform, they saluted distantly. Lal passed straight out of the station from the down platform, whence a field path led past the station-master’s pigsties and clothes-line to the road. Farquhar crossed over to the main buildings of the station, on the up platform, and there in the yard found his dog-cart waiting with an extremely sleepy groom. This was his trump card; he had telegraphed to Simpson from Gedinne before ever they started; by this he hoped to forestall Lucian at Fanes. And now all three had entered on the final stage of their journey.
Farquhar’s dog-cart flew down the hill and under the railway arch, noiselessly running on its rubber tyres: past the surgery and through the village and on into the country lanes, long tunnels of green sprinkled with sunlight. The irreproachable Simpson still sat behind. They turned a sharp corner, and the horse shied across the road: Farquhar checked him mercilessly, glanced back to see the cause of offence, and pulled him up short. Lucian sat clasping his knees by the way-side.
He looked up; consciousness of defeat blent with laughing and charitable defiance was writ on his face; impotent anger and deadly impatience on Farquhar’s. He tossed the reins to his groom with a curt, “Hold that,” sprang down, and went to Lucian.
“Come, will you? Confound you!”
Lucian’s face changed. “Going to give me a lift, sonny?”