He knew the house at which Cynthia was staying, and decided to take it on his way. It only meant an extra eight or ten miles, and they’d know there if she was actually on board the Gargantua. Not that he had any doubt that she would be. His intuition was not likely to deceive him. The scene was as clear to him as though he had actually seen it. He pictured the planning and the packing, the excitement of the departure. Yes—he pictured it all, and with each mile that he drove, his anger against Robin Hedley surged higher. Somehow, anyhow, he would stop this madness. It was only about half past twelve when he reached the house. He jumped out of the car, and was just about to ring the bell, when he looked across the lawn—and there—well there, throwing a stick for a couple of spaniels—was Cynthia. The wind was in her hair, and her cheeks sparkled. Never, in the eyes of one man at least, had she looked lovelier.
“But, Monty dear, whatever are you doing here?” she asked. A fixed idea takes a great deal of uprooting from a man’s mind. Monty looked at her with amazement, and stammered like a schoolboy:
“Doesn’t the Gargantua sail at two to-day?”
“I believe she does, but whatever’s that got to do with you and me?”
Monty’s mind refused to adapt itself to the new situation.
“Have you seen Robin Hedley’s book?” he asked with apparent irrelevance.
“That odious book; yes, I have. He brought me a copy the day before it came out. Oh, Monty, it’s hateful! He stabs all his friends, and my friends, one after another. And to think I talked about it with him whilst he was writing it, and encouraged him to make it a success! Oh, I can never forgive him! And—and he had the impertinence to think that I should like it—that I should enjoy seeing my friends laughed at.”
She stamped her foot on the ground.
“But you haven’t come here to ask me about a book. What in the world has brought you here?”
Monty felt as though the sun had suddenly burst through the clouds. He laughed out loud, and then for a moment he felt almost light-headed.
“Do you remember about Dizzy’s first election,” he said, “at least I think it was the first, and I think it was Dizzy, but I’m not a bit sure. He made the cleverest speech from the hustings that ever was, and it lasted a long time. His opponent couldn’t make head or tail of it, but he got up at the end, wiped his face with a bandana handkerchief, and said ‘Damme, I am an honest man.’ He got nearly all the votes after that. Cynthia dear, I’m not awfully clever like Basil, and I can’t turn out high-class stuff like Robin, but I’m terribly in love with you, and always have been. And you know I’ve enough money now to make us pretty comfortable and we always have got on so awfully well together. Cynthia, I’m doing this all wrong, but will you marry me, dear?”
It was her turn to laugh now.
“You silly boy, Monty, of course I will. Why didn’t you ask me months ago? Never mind, I’ll forgive you now you’ve done it. Do you know, Mrs. Vanhaer always told me you would. Oh, I can’t help laughing! The last man that proposed to me did it in a swing-boat! And you tell me some extraordinary story about an election. And I suppose you’ve forgotten all the important things, I mean rings and everything like that. But I don’t care a bit, if you’re quite sure you want to marry me.”
Desperately I tried to control myself. The air in the dining-room of the Trufflers weighed on me like lead; Monty’s voice seemed to come from a vast distance. So this was the end of my romance, the grave of all my hopes! Why had I not dared to challenge my fate that summer day at Critton? Why had I obeyed Lady Dennison? Fool, dolt that I had been, to listen to the voice of caution and restraint! And now Monty, my best friend, had seized the prize. He was speaking again.
“We were married six weeks ago—there seemed no object in waiting. As a matter of fact, we’re just back from the honeymoon. Cynthia’s had to go away to a sick cousin in Yorkshire, but she’ll be back this week. You must come to see us. Anthony, old boy, I’m a very, very happy man.”
I tried not to let him know; I swear that I tried to speak my congratulations as though they came from the heart of a friend. I lifted my glass to him and drained it. But my whole world had been shattered, and I think my face betrayed me, or maybe my voice.
“Christ, man, you’re pale! What is it? Not enough air here?” He jumped up to open a window, but I knew that as he did so he guessed, for I saw his face change. Thank God he didn’t try to say anything. He didn’t ask questions, he didn’t try to explain or excuse or commiserate with me. He did not even try to keep me … I remember being helped into my coat, I remember the grip of his hand, I remember stepping into the street.
Again I was walking down Piccadilly. Could it be only a few hours since I had started, full of bright and eager hopes? A prostitute sidled towards me; I saw her lips shaping themselves into a smile, then, as she caught sight of my face, she turned aside and hurried away.
“My God, poor devil,” I heard her mutter.
So I looked like that, did I! I quickened my pace, for I wanted no useless pity. And to my mind there came a vision of the frozen south, and I saw again Christiansen with his deft fingers meticulously opening those interminable tins.
THE END
Footnotes
1 For the history of this man, and others in St. Thomas’s, see An Oxford Tragedy.
2 See An Oxford Tragedy.
3 Of whom more later in this book.
4 See An Oxford Tragedy.
A Note on the Author
Sir John Cecil Masterman, (1891–1977), was a son of Captain John Masterman and he was originally destined to follow his father’s footsteps. Masterman spent five years as a naval cadet but dropped out as he felt unsuited for a military career. Instead he pursued academic interests and in 1909 was elected for a scholarship in modern history at Worcester College, Oxford; academic life became his lifelong devotion.
Masterman was a dedicated sportsman and played cricket, lawn tennis and hockey for England in international matches.
His literary works were often inspired by his Oxford life and historical pursuits.
Discover books by J. C. Masterman published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/JCMasterman
An Oxford Tragedy
Fate Cannot Harm Me
The Case of the Four Friends
For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain references to missing images.
This electronic edition published in 2014 by Bloomsbury Reader
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First published in Great Britain in 1940 by Penguin
Copyright © 1940 J. C. Masterman
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eISBN: 9781448214273
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