“Right on the heart, sir, right on the heart.”
ATALANTA
The sleeping-car attendant came to warn her, and to place her hand luggage in the corridor.
“Beaulieu, m’amselle.”
As if she did not know! She was standing, looking at a blue bay and a black headland and above it a sunset. Below her were the red tennis courts of the Hotel Bristol, and on one of these courts a woman and a man were just finishing a knock-up. The great white façade of the Hotel Bristol confronted the sunset like an iceberg. She was staying at the Hotel Bristol.
The train pulled up; the attendant passed her hand-luggage to a porter. It included three racquets in presses, for Miss Joan Fortescue was very much a rising star, and the courts of the Hotel Bristol had a particular significance for her. It was on these courts in the Beaulieu Tournament that she had first met that damned German woman Fräulein Fink. And Fräulein Fink had effaced her.
Well—this year she was out for the revanche. She was in pretty good form and completely fit. She left her keys and registered luggage ticket with the Bristol luggage-porter, and got into the hotel bus. The Bristol Hotel was only just round the corner, but tennis and cinema stars are expected to arrive in chariots.
She was received most urbanely by a reception clerk who remembered her.
“Ah—Miss For-tes-cue—delighted—to see you.”
Her manner was somewhat off-hand.
“You’re giving me a decent room.”
“Of course—Miss For-tes-cue—O—certainly.”
He would show her the room. And had she enjoyed a pleasant journey?—Yes, the courts were playing—beau-ti-fully. He bowed her into the lounge, for in the eyes of a Frenchman she was reflected as a somewhat ravishing creature, so English and fair and tall. On the court—psst—she blew about like a feather, a white and gold feather.
“So many—celebrities—here—Miss For-tes-cue.”
She saw one instantly, that damned German woman mounted on the arm of a chair in which was seated a butter-headed boy. Fräulein Fink was laughing, and when she laughed she showed all her teeth like a horse. She showed her teeth at Joan Fortescue; she extended a hand.
“Halloo—Miss England—— So glad.”
“Evening—Fräulein.”
The butter-headed boy, who was the Austrian champion, stood up and bowed.
“In form, Miss Fortescue?”
“No—rather rotten—this year.”
Fräulein Fink laughed. She had an unpleasant laugh.
“We are all rotten—so rotten—and so modest.”
Ironic beast! Joan passed on. She was carried up in the lift with the gentleman in the morning coat who had wonderful cotton eyelashes. He—too—did not like Fräulein Fink.
“You beat her this year, yes?”
Joan felt tired and peevish. She gave a little flick of the head.
“Oh—I don’t suppose so.”
She remembered last year, and how she had been put out of poise by Fräulein Fink’s purple bandeau and her eternal and complacent teeth.
There was a feud between them, and temperamentally the Fräulein had proved herself the more resilient of the two. She could play to a gallery, and especially so when her opponent was looking a trifle grim. She would indulge herself in airs and graces, little leaps and caracolles of laughter. She was so polite, so gracious to an opponent who was a little heated. Joan accepted the room. She ordered tea to be sent up. She unpacked some of her immediate necessities, and her mouth was tight, and compressed.
She was saying to herself—“Smile—smile. You simply mustn’t get ratty this year.” But the bother of it was that Fräulein Fink always made her feel that way.
Morning. The tournament did not begin until the following day, and Joan was out on the courts at ten. She had arranged for the “Bristol” pro. to play her a practice single. He was a somewhat famous person, flamboyantly frank, and full of élan. She was out of form; the light bothered her. She kept over-driving, and that wretched slice betrayed itself in her back-hand.
He was blunt about her back-hand.
“Follow—through. Right shoulder down.”
“I know.”
She was annoyed. She knew that when she was feeling a little temperamental and out of form—her wretched back-hand betrayed these failings. The clean shot would not come, and the smoothness was absent.
The pro. made her run up and volley.
“Upee—upee.”
It was his quaint and characteristic cry. But she was off her volleying—also. Thank the Lord she had drawn a rabbit in the first round.
Perfect weather, with the wind in the north, but gently so, and the sea marvellous. She went on to the court at eleven to play her rabbit, a Frenchwoman, a Madame Boulanger. On this first day the attendance was somewhat thin, but Joan made a point of never looking at spectators. They were just so many rather silly faces and rows and rows of chairs.
She and Madame Boulanger knocked up. The umpire was ready on his stand, the ball boys waiting. The service was with Joan and an inattentive ball boy was staring into space. She liked three balls for serving.
“Bal.”
Her voice was sharp. Her glance happened to go beyond the boy and rest upon a man who was sitting in the second row, a youngish and rather intense looking person. He was staring at her with quite unnecessary interest. It was the kind of scrutiny that penetrated a player’s concentration and became like a piece of grit in her consciousness. She was vaguely annoyed.
The game began. Madame Boulanger might be classed as a rabbit, but she was one of those persistent and steady players who are capable of putting out a tigress when the tigress is out of form and unused to the southern light. Joan lost the first two games. Her service wouldn’t function; she was over-driving, and Madame Boulanger ran about and scooped everything back.
Joan felt hot. What an exhibition! She ran for and played a back-hand shot in the corner, and the ball nearly hit the stop netting. Idiot! She happened to glance aside—something seemed to draw her glance. She met those particular eyes. They were as bad as a camera.
Actually, she gave him a look that said, “O, damn you, don’t stare like that. It puts me off.”
She felt more hot. What a lapse! To allow herself to flash a message at one of those anonymous faces. She was doing just what she had schooled herself not to do, losing her poise. She steadied herself, but her game would not arrive. She lost the first set to the French woman.
In the cross-over she found herself looking in the direction of the dark young man. He was leaning forward—he seemed to smile faintly, and significantly. Did he find her lack of form amusing? Was she indeed affording him an exhibition? Silly ass! But was not she the silly ass? She was conscious of a moment of self-revealment. She was behaving like a spoilt child who was angry because she was not getting the self-applause that pleased her.
And suddenly she found her form. Her feet were just where they should be, her sighting and timing perfect. She moved about the court like a blown feather.
The man was watching her. She was quite delightful to watch, long-limbed, supple, graceful, with her sunny head and grave young face. She tantalized him—because—he was lame, and could not play the games he had loved to play. He had to sit and stare and write books. He was writing rather successful books, but scribbling is not living.
He wanted her to win; he willed her to win. He wanted, yes—just what did he want? Casually to come and watch a game and be suddenly and absurdly smitten by one of the players! Ridiculous. But how she moved! And suddenly he thought of her as Atalanta—but an Atalanta with whom a man with a groggy leg could not run races. She was like so much of life—beyond him.
She won the next two sets easily. She was smiling. Said someone in a chair—“Bad temperament. She can only smile when she’s winning.”
Julian Peters glanced sharply at the speaker. It wasn’t true. She had been annoyed with herself for being off her game. Women said such feline things.
&nbs
p; He watched her go off the court with her opponent. She had slipped on a light blue knitted coat, and her colour was the colour of a shell.
To someone in the hotel lounge she said, “I played most utter tripe. Something put me off. I wish people wouldn’t stare and fidget.”
The second day was much as the first. The man was there in the same chair. She saw him at once and wished him away. She had to play a Spanish girl, an opponent of different quality, a creature as swift and as light as herself. She began badly. In running to retrieve an angle drive, she slipped and fell against the knees of an elderly and eminent gentleman in the first row. She saw a face, two sympathetic eyes—sudden solicitude. Confound him!
The eminent gentleman raised her.
“I hope you are not hurt?”
She was abrupt, rude. Making an ass of herself!
“No, not a bit.”
She ran back to the fray, and played with temper in her eyes. Had that fellow with the stare looked shocked? Well—what business had he to be shocked because she had been a little abrupt? She fought Spain at speed, the blonde against the black. She won in two straight sets. But she was not pleased. She thought, “If that fellow sits there and stares when I am playing the Fink—I shall get—temperamental.”
That evening Lady Glendower gave a dinner party at the Hotel Bristol, and Julian Peters was one of her guests. Joan’s table was not three yards away from the Glendower table, but Miss Fortescue was so placed that she could not see Peters, though Mr. Peters saw her. He was sitting on Lady Glendower’s left; she liked him; he both amused and interested her.
“I see—Miss Fortescue is staying here.”
“Do you want to be introduced?”
“Would you recommend it?”
“These tennis people get terribly spoilt.”
Julian smiled at her.
“I’ll take the risk.”
Afterwards, the hotel danced—but Julian could not dance. He sat in a little crowd of chairs with his rubber-tipped stick hidden away. Lady Glendower and her party were dancing, and when at the end of the dance the crowd streamed back to its seats, Lady Glendower brought Miss Fortescue with her.
“Mr. Peters—Miss Fortescue.”
Julian made an attempt to rise, but the movement appeared so casual that Joan treated it as such. The man with the eyes! Just a coincidence. She nodded at him.
“Delighted.”
She had not seen his stick and lame leg. If a lad could be so slow in getting up, she could be still more brisk in effacing him. She turned to Lady Glendower. She did not see the little badge of pain that she had pinned upon Julian Peters’ coat. She joined Lady Glendower’s party, and so large was it that it spread itself considerably. Miss Fortescue and Lady Glendower were five chairs distant from Mr. Peters.
Lady Glendower lit a cigarette.
“Not quite in form yet, Joan.”
Miss Fortescue looked annoyed. Why stress the obvious? And Lady Glendower smiled like Mona Lisa. This young woman——
Said Miss Fortescue, “It takes me two days to get used to the light. Besides—things put one off.”
“I suppose so.”
“I’d be most awfully bucked if you would do me a favour. It is rather a curious coincidence—but—that lad you just introduced—happens to be my pet snag.”
“What—poor Julian?”
Her tone was challenging, and Miss Fortescue laughed.
“Only—joking—you know. But he sits and stares.”
“At you?”
“Rather so. Regular jettatura.”
“You’d like me to tell him——?”
“Only joking, you know. But he does put me off.”
“How—reprehensible!”
The Austrian champion came to carry off Miss Fortescue for a waltz, and Lady Glendower moved to an empty chair next to Julian. She could not help noticing that his glances followed Miss Fortescue. Poor lamb! How unsubtle of him to be attracted by a little tin goddess.
“I have a message for you, my dear.”
Julian’s eyelids flickered. He had allowed himself to forget that other people could be socially proximate.
“I beg your pardon——”
“You have been doing a dreadful thing, Julian.”
“I?”
“Yes—disturbing the concentration of a celebrity.”
“Who? How?”
“Miss Fortescue confided to me—that you sit and stare and put her off her game.”
He flinched.
“But—really—she moves—rather beautifully—I didn’t know—How very bête.”
“Very,” said Lady Glendower. “One wouldn’t expect a hard young person like Miss Fortescue to be so sensitive—but then—the self-consciousness of these picture paper people—is rather—ghastly.”
“You mean—it annoyed—Miss Fortescue?”
“Apparently.”
“She told you?”
Lady Glendower nodded.
“I’m terribly sorry——”
She patted his sleeve.
“Quite—unnecessary. The complete egotist. Quite insufferable—some of these—stars. I heard one of them ask to have the orchestra stopped—when she was playing. It performs in the gardens, you know.”
Mr. Peters smiled wistfully.
“I did not mean to stare like that. I’ll refrain—in the future.”
“No, go and stare, my dear. I’d like to see the Fink woman beat her, even though she is a German.”
Julian changed the position of his lame leg.
“Being a crock cuts one off—rather. But does she think of nothing but——?”
“Nothing but—cups—Julian,” and her ladyship lit another cigarette.
The third day.
Joan had gone to the courts with her three racquets, and had forgotten her eye-shade. Very fatuous of her. She ran back through the gardens, and coming up the path she met a man. He was lame; he helped himself with a stick; he raised his hat, looked at her and then looked away.
She nodded and smiled. She thought, “Why, he’s a poor cripple.” Something in those very sensitive eyes of his had surprised her. He had seemed self-conscious and guilty, as though the Glendower woman had told him that she—Miss Fortescue—resented being stared at.
She had left her eye-shade in a chair in the lounge. She recovered it and hurried back, for she was due to play the lady champion of Greece. In fact they were calling her name—“Miss Fortescue—Miss Fortescue.” As she went on to the court she could not help glancing in the direction of that particular chair. It was empty.
So—the Glendower woman had told him. Well—really, hadn’t the woman any sense of humour?
She found herself bothered by that empty chair—which was preposterous. The man was lame—and she had hurt him. People shouldn’t be so absurdly sensitive. But she was playing Mademoiselle Xanthos and she was two games down to her in the first set. O, hang empty chairs! She gripped her concentration, and bent it to the crisis. This was the semi-final; unless she survived it she would not meet the Fink woman. She did survive, but very narrowly so. The Greek girl took her to five all in the third set.
Afterwards, she strolled across to watch Fräulein Fink who was playing in a mixed double on No. 3 Court. She saw Julian Peters there in somebody’s vacant chair. She saw him applaud one of the Fink volleys.
“Oh, great shot!”
She was piqued. Had she driven him into the Fink family?
The fourth day was a blank day so far as she was concerned, for the finals of the singles were being reserved for the last day. She was not playing in any of the doubles; she was supposed to be less potent in doubles. She did not combine well. Did she meditate upon her particular sin, as she walked along the sea path in the direction of St. Jean and the Cape? People said of her that she was a hard young woman, which was not quite true. She was immature, full of the urge of her youth and its forcefulness, a striding girl, head up, eyes to the front, lips and breasts firm and full. The mystery
of things was yet to be, but on this perfect February morning she was moved to feel the beauty of sea and sky and headland. These midnight pines, this water of varying shades of blueness. She passed through St. Jean, and took the sandy track along the headland where the sea and the pines sang to each other. It was very solitary. She saw nothing but a roving yellow dog who looked askance at her when she spoke to him.
Funny creatures—French dogs.
But there were other funny creatures in the world.
She heard someone calling:
“Hallo—hallo——”
The voice was a man’s and English. It came from among the pines on the hill-side. She paused to look, but it was some seconds before she picked out the figure among the trees. It seemed to be half lying—half sitting, in the heather.
She turned up the hill.
“Did you call?”
“Yes—I’m awfully sorry, but could you——”
The recognition was sudden and simultaneous. She was conscious of a curious pang. The lame man!
He was shy—apologetic.
“Awfully sorry to bother you. It’s my wretched leg. It drags a bit, and I caught my toe on a root scrambling around here.”
Almost, his face suggested shame—that he should have to appeal to a woman who was so strong and lithe and swift. He had been that once.
Miss Fortescue was other than Miss Fortescue. Why, she did not know or care. Something stirred in her, a strong, strange and instinctive thing.
“You’ve hurt yourself.”
“Just a twist. I shall have to get a lift back. So rotten—being a crock. And I used to be a wing three-quarter.”
His protest hurt her. Really, how beastly self-centred one could be; think of nothing but hitting a ball. She knelt down, and looked at his leg.
“I’m so sorry. Ought you to have a doctor?”
“O, no—sometimes the beastly thing behaves like this and I have to humour it for a day or two. If I could get a taxi—as far as the road.”
She looked at him.
“How did it happen?”
His eyes opened wide to hers. She was so different. She——
“I just caught my toe.”
“No—I mean, the leg?”
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