“Something to do with termites that I won’t repeat; it might make you ill.”
“Only a channel steamer does that, sonny. You got away, though?”
“Eventually; half blind and deadly sick. By the way, you’ve not told me why you made up your mind to burn that letter at this precise time?”
“To draw you, of course. And now you’ll be pleased to go and see that my room’s ready; I can hear Bernard Fane hammering at the door, so you can play billiards with him while I go to bye-low.”
VII
COURAGE QUAND MÊME
January came with the snow-drop, February brought the crocus, and March violets were empurpling the woods before the next scene came on the stage and introduced a new actor. In the meanwhile, Lucian continued to live on Noel Farquhar’s bounty. It should have been an intolerable position, but Lucian’s luckless head had received such severe bludgeonings at the hands of Fate that he was glad to hide it anywhere, and give his pride the congé. His choice lay between remaining with Farquhar, retiring to the workhouse, and expiring in a haystack without benefit of clergy; he chose the least heroic course, and, sad to say, he found it very pleasant.
One night alarm he gave Farquhar. Punctual to its time, the cold snap of mid-January arrived on the eleventh of the month, and Lucian went skating at Fanes. His tutelary divinity Dolly being absent, he was beguiled into staying late, got chilled, and awoke Farquhar at three in the morning by one of his usual attacks. It was very slight and soon checked, but the incident strengthened the bond between them; for Lucian did not forget Farquhar’s face when he found him fighting for breath, nor the lavish tenderness of his subsequent nursing, which seemed to be extorted from him by a force stronger than his would-be carelessness. That constraining force Lucian declined to christen: friendship seemed too mild a term for Farquhar’s crude emotions.
No one could have felt more horribly ashamed than Lucian, on finding that his host gave up all engagements to wait upon him. He was soon about again, but he now guarded his health as though he had it on a repairing lease. When Dolly consulted him on points of etiquette, as she soon learned to do, he retaliated with questions concerning the proper conduct of an invalid; it is only fair to say that Dolly was the more correct informant. He was welcome at Fanes. Dolly liked him; so also did Bernard, whose affections were pure in quality, but exclusive; and fate gave him a third admirer in the person of Eumenes Fane, though the esteem in this case was but a bruised reed, liable to fail in time of stress. Farquhar, who was also a frequent visitor at Fanes, was not so popular.
On a fine morning in March, when the air felt like velvet and the linnets were beginning to nest, Bernard drove over to Swanborough market, as his habit was, to buy Dolly her week’s stores. On his way home he met with an adventure. The distance from Swanborough to Monkswell by the London road was only fourteen miles; but Bernard’s horse was young and fresh, and he chose a longer route through by-ways where there was less chance of meeting motors and traction-engines, Vronsky’s special bugbears. Lonely, wild, and hilly was the country-side; the gold sun had just sunk behind the leafless woods, and a rosy twilight was invading the sky, when Bernard turned into a certain steep and narrow lane between high banks of violet-haunted grass, locally known as Hungrygut Bottom. As they spun down the slope, from behind them sounded the nasal Hoot! toot! which Vronsky hated. Bernard looked back over his shoulder. A small car with a single rider had topped the crest of the hill and was swiftly descending: too swiftly to be stopped at such short notice. Vronsky could be brought to tolerate a motor that he met; but to be overtaken and passed by one was more than his nerves could bear. Good whip though Bernard was, in this narrow lane he feared disaster. Midway down, where the banks were lower, a gate stood open, leading into a meadow. Bernard touched up the horse, and made for this haven as fast as he could. But, as the dog-cart turned to enter, Vronsky caught sight of the appalling monster behind. He kicked, he danced, he stood on his hind-legs, he backed the dog-cart right across the road, and there he stayed, broadside on to the advancing motor, while Bernard set his teeth and awaited the crash. The car was almost upon them: suddenly it swerved violently to the left and flew up the bank. Right up to the top it ran, and upset. For a moment Bernard’s heart was in his mouth as he thought to see it fall over sideways on the driver and burst into flames; but it rocked, and steadied, and stood in equilibrium, while the electric batteries came hurtling through the air into the road like so many fourteen-pound jampots.
Vronsky turned and bolted down the hill, and was some way up the opposite slope before Bernard could bring him to his senses. He came back as fast as he could, and found the driver sitting up beside his car, hatless, with a somewhat bewildered air. He had been pitched heels over head among the brambles close to a heap of flints, and there he had stayed.