a week of silence, and then—— it was eight in the evening. he was at the top of the house in his bedroom-study—the room in which he had woven so many gold optimisms. down the blue oblong of sky, framed by his window, the red billiard-ball of the sun rolled smoothly, bound for the pocket of night.
a sharp rat-a-tat. its meaning was unmistakable. he went leaping down the stairs, three at a time. he reached the hall just as jane was appearing from the basement forestalling her at the front-door, he grabbed the pinkish-brown envelope from the telegraph-boy. ripping it open, he read:
“sorry delay. been lucerne. just returned paris. received all yours. meet me to-morrow cherbourg on board ‘wilhelm der grosse.’ please start immediately.”
she had forgotten to put her address. he pulled out his watch. five minutes past eight! he had no time to consult railway-guides—no time even to pack. all he knew was that the boat-train left charing-cross for dover in less than an hour; he could just catch it returning to his bedroom, he gathered together what cash he could find in three minutes he was in the hall again.
“tell mother when she comes back that i’m off to paris. tell her i’ll write.”
jane gaped at him. as he hurried down the steps, she began to ask questions. he shook his head, “no time.”
throwing dignity to the winds, he set off at a run. as he passed orchid lodge, mr. sheerug was coming out. he cannoned into him and left him gasping. at the top of eden row he saw a taxi and hailed it. he knew now that he was safe to catch his train.
on the drive to the station he unfolded her telegram and re-read it irresponsible as ever, yet lovable! what risks she took! he might have been out; as it was he could barely make the connections that would get him to cherbourg in time. no address to which he could reply! he couldn’t let her know that he was coming. doubtless she took that for granted. no information concerning her plans! she had always told him that wise women kept men guessing. no hint as to why she had sent for him! twenty-four hours of conjecturing would keep him humble and increase his ardor. then the motive of all this vagueness dawned on him. she was putting him to the test if he came in spite of the irresponsibility of her message, it would be proof to her that he loved her. if ever a girl needed a man’s love, desire was that girl.
during the tedious night journey fears began to arise. why was she going to cherbourg? he read her words again, “meet me to-morrow cherbourg on board wilhelm der grosse” what would she be doing on board an atlantic liner if she wasn’t sailing? she shouldn’t sail if he could prevent her. if she reached new york, she would go on the stage and commit herself irrevocably to fluffyism.
he steamed into the gare du nord at a quarter to seven and learnt, on making inquiries, that the trains for cherbourg left from the st lazare. he jumped into an autotaxi—no leisurely fiacre this time—and raced through the gleaming early morning. he found at the st lazare that the first express that he could catch, departed in three-quarters of an hour. there was another which left later, but it ran to meet the steamer and was reserved exclusively for transatlantic voyagers. the second train would be the one by which she would travel. he debated whether he should try to intercept her on the platform. too risky.
he might miss her. he preferred to take the chance which she herself had chosen. there would be less than an hour between his arrival in cherbourg and the time when the steamship sailed.
having snatched some breakfast, he found a florist’s and purchased an extravagant sheaf of roses.
as soon as paris was left behind, he was consumed with impotent impatience. it seemed to him that the engine pulled up at every poky little town in normandy. he got it on his mind that every railroad official was conspiring to make him late. he had one moment of exquisite torture. they had been at a standstill in a station for an interminable time. he got out and, in his scarcely intelligible french, asked the meaning of the delay. the man whom he had questioned pointed; at that moment the non-stop boat-express from paris overtook them and thundered by. at it passed, he glanced anxiously at the carriage-windows, hoping against hope that he might catch sight of her.
the last exasperation came when they broke down at rayeux and wasted nearly an hour. he arrived at his destination at the exact moment at which the wilhelm der grosse was scheduled to sail.
picking up the flowers he had purchased for her, he dashed out of the station and shouldered his way to where some fiacres were standing. thrusting a twenty-franc note into the nearest cocker’s hand, he startled the man into energy.
what a drive! of the streets through which they galloped he saw nothing. he was only conscious of people escaping to the pavement and of threats shouted through the sunshine.
when they arrived at the quay, the horse was in a lather. far off, at the mouth of the harbor in a blue-gold haze, the liner lay black, her smoke-stacks smudging the sky. snuggled against her were the two tugs which had taken out the passengers. an official-looking person in a peaked cap was standing near to where they had halted.
did he understand english? certainly. to the question that followed he answered imperturbably: “too late, monsieur. it is impossible.”
he gazed round wildly. he must get to her. he must at least let desire know that he had made the journey.
above the wall of the quay a head in a yachting-cap appeared. he ran towards it. stone steps led down to the water’s edge. against the lowest step a power-boat lay rocking gently with the engine still running. no time to ask permission or to make explanations! he sprang down the steps, flung his roses into the boat, turned on the power and was away.
shouting behind him grew fainter. now he heard only the panting of the engine and the swirl of waves. the liner stood up taller. he steered for it straight as an arrow. if he could only get there! the tugs were casting loose. now they were returning. he wasn’t a quarter of a mile away. he cleared the harbor. the steamer was swinging her nose round. he could see her screws churning. his only chance of stopping her was to cut across her bows.
from crowded decks faces were staring down. some were laughing; some were pale at his foolhardiness. an officer with a thick german accent was cursing him. he could only hear the accent; he couldn’t make out what the man was saying. what did he care? he had forced them to wait for him. from all that blur of faces he was trying to pick out one face.
making a megaphone of his hands, he shouted. his words were lost in the pounding of the engines and the lapping of the waves. then he saw a face which he recognized—fluffy’s. she was saying something to the officer; she was explaining the situation. leaning across the rail, laughing, she shook her head. the news of the reason for his extraordinary behavior was passing from mouth to mouth along the decks. the laugh was taken up. the whole ship seemed to hold its sides and jeer at him.
the liner gathered way. the last thing he saw distinctly was fluffy, still laughing and shaking her golden head. she was keeping desire from him; he knew that she had lied.
the boat rose and fell in the churned-up wake. like a man whose soul has suddenly died, he sat very silent.
slowly he came to himself. evening was falling. he felt old. it was all true, then—the lesson that her mother had taught him in his childhood! there were women in the world whom love could not conquer.
he flung the roses he had bought for her into the sea. turning the head of the boat, he reentered the harbor.
