The Project Gutenberg eBook of James Pethel, by Sir Max Beerbohm

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Produced by Judith Boss.

James Pethel

By

MAX BEERBOHM

I was shocked this morning when I saw in my newspaper a paragraphannouncing his sudden death. I do best rag dolls for 3 year oldsnot say that the shock was verydisagreeable. One reads a newspaper for the sake of news. Had I nevermet James Pethel, belike I should never have heard of him: and myknowledge of his death, coincident with my knowledge that he hadexisted, would have meant nothing at all to me. If you learn suddenlythat one of your friends is dead, you are wholly distressed. If thedeath is that of a mere acquaintance whom you have recently seen, youare disconcerted, pricked is your sense of mortality; but you do findgreat solace in telling other people that you met "the poor fellow"only the other day, and that he was "so full of life and spirits," andthat you remember he said—whatever you may remember of his sayings.If the death is that of a mere acquaintance whom you have not seen foryears, you are touched so lightly as to find solace enough in even suchfaded reminiscence as is yours to offer. Seven years have passed sincethe day when last I saw James Pethel, and that day was the morrow of myfirst meeting with him.

I had formed the habit of spending August in Dieppe. The place wasthen less overrun by trippers than it is now. Some pleasant Englishpeople shared it with some pleasant French people. We used rather toresent the race-week—the third week of the month—as an intrusion onour privacy. We sneered as we read in the Paris edition of "The NewYork Herald" the names of the intruders, though by some of these wewere secretly impressed. We disliked the nightly crush in thebaccarat-room of the casino, and the croupiers' obvious excitement atthe high play. I made a point of avoiding that room during that week,for the special reason that the sight of serious, habitual gamblers hasalways filled me with a depression bordering on disgust. Most of themen, by some subtle stress of their ruling passion, have grown somonstrously fat, and most of the women so harrowingly thin. The restof the women seem to be marked out for apoplexy, and the rest of themen to be wasting away. One feels that anything thrown at them wouldbe either embedded or shattered, and looks vainly among them for oneperson furnished with a normal amount of flesh. Monsters they are, allof them, to the eye, though I believe that many of them have excellentmoral qualities in private life; but just as in an American town onegoes sooner or later—goes against one's finer judgment, but somehowgoes—into the dime-museum, so year by year, in Dieppe's race-week,there would be always one evening when I drifted into thebaccarat-room. It was on such an evening that I first saw the manwhose memory I here celebrate. My gaze was held by him for the veryreason that he would have passed unnoticed elsewhere. He wasconspicuous not in virtue of the mere fact that he was taking the bankat the principal table, but because there was nothing at all odd abouthim.

He alone, among his fellow-players, looked as if he were not to diebefore the year was out. Of him alone I said to myself that he wasdestined to die normally at a ripe old age. Next day, certainly, Iwould not have made this prediction, would not have "given" him theseven years that were still in store for him, nor the comparativelynormal death that has been his. But now, as I stood opposite to him,behind the croupier, I was refreshed by my sense of his wholesomedurability. Everything about him, except the amount of money he hadbeen winning, seemed moderate. Just as he was neither fat nor thin, sohad his face neither that extreme pallor nor that extreme redness whichbelongs to the faces of seasoned gamblers: it was just a clear pink.And his eyes had neither the unnatural brightness nor the unnaturaldullness of the eyes about him: they were ordinarily clear eyes, of anordinary gray. His very age was moderate: a putative thirty-six, notmore. ("Not less," I would have said in those days.) He assumed no airof nonchalance. He did not deal out the cards as though they boredhim, but he had no look of grim concentration. I noticed that theremoval of his cigar from his mouth made never the least difference tohis face, for he kept his lips pursed out as steadily as ever when hewas not smoking. And this constant pursing of his lips seemed todenote just a pensive interest.

His bank was nearly done now; there were only a few cards left.Opposite to him was a welter of party-colored counters that thecroupier had not yet had time to sort out and add to the rouleauxalready made; there were also a fair accumulation of notes and severallittle stacks of gold—in all, not less than five-hundred pounds,certainly. Happy banker! How easily had he won in a few minutes morethan I, with utmost pains, could win in many months! I wished I werehe. His lucre seemed to insult me personally. I disliked him, and yetI hoped he would not take another bank. I hoped he would have the goodsense to pocket his winnings and go home. Deliberately to risk theloss of all those riches would intensify the insult to me.

"Messieurs, la banque est aux encheres." There was some brisk biddingwhile the croupier tore open and shuffled two new packs. But it was asI feared: the gentleman whom I resented kept his place.

"Messieurs, la banque est faite. Quinze-mille francs a la banque.
Messieurs, les cartes passent. Messieurs, les cartes passent."

Turning to go, I encountered a friend, one of the race-weekers, but ina sense a friend.

"Going to play?" I asked.

"Not while Jimmy Pethel's taking the bank," he answered, with a laugh.

"Is that the man's name?"

"Yes. Don't you know him? I thought every one knew old Jimmy Pethel."

I asked what there was so wonderful about "old Jimmy Pethel" that everyone should be supposed to know him.

"Oh, he's a great character. Has extraordinary luck—always."

I do not think my friend was versed in the pretty theory that good luckis the subconscious wisdom of them who in previous incarnations havebeen consciously wise. He was a member of the stock exchange, and Ismiled as at a certain quaintness in his remark. I asked in what waysbesides luck the "great character" was manifested. Oh, well, Pethelhad made a huge "scoop" on the stock exchange when he was onlytwenty-three, and very soon had doubled that and doubled it again; thenretired. He wasn't more than thirty-five now, And then? Oh, well, hewas a regular all-round sportsman; had gone after big game all over theworld and had a good many narrow shaves. Great steeple-chaser, too.Rather settled down now. Lived in Leicestershire mostly. Had a bigplace there. Hunted five times a week. Still did an occasionalflutter, though. Cleared eighty-thousand in Mexicans last February.Wife had been a barmaid at Cambridge; married her when he was nineteen.Thing seemed to have turned out quite well. Altogether, a greatcharacter.

Possibly, thought I. But my cursory friend, accustomed to quicktransactions and to things accepted "on the nod," had not proved hiscase to my slower, more literary intelligence. It was to him, though,that I owed, some minutes later, a chance of testing his opinion. Atthe cry of "Messieurs, la banque est aux encheres," we looked round andsaw that the subject of our talk was preparing to rise from his place."Now one can punt," said Grierson (this was my friend's name), andturned to the bureau at which counters are for sale. "If old JimmyPethel punts," he added, "I shall just follow his luck." But thislode-star was not to be. While my friend was buying his counters, andI was wondering whether I, too, could buy some, Pethel himself came upto the bureau. With his lips no longer pursed, he had lost his air ofgravity, and looked younger. Behind him was an attendant bearing a bigwooden bowl—that plain, but romantic, bowl supplied by theestablishment to a banker whose gains are too great to be pocketed. Heand Grierson greeted each other. He said he had arrived in Dieppe thisafternoon, was here for a day or two. We were introduced. He spoke tome with empressement, saying he was a "very great admirer" of my work.I no longer disliked him. Grierson, armed with counters, had nowdarted away to secure a place that had just been vacated. Pethel, witha wave of his hand toward the tables, said:

"I suppose you never condescend to this sort of thing."

"Well—" I smiled indulgently.

"Awful waste of time," he admitted.

I glanced down at the splendid mess of counters and gold and notes thatwere now becoming, under the swift fingers of the little man at thebureau, an orderly array. I did not say aloud that it pleased me tobe, and to be seen, talking on terms of equality to a man who had wonso much. I did not say how wonderful it seemed to me that he, whom Ihad watched just now with awe and with aversion, had all the while beena great admirer of my work. I did but say, again indulgently, that Isupposed baccarat to be as good a way of wasting time as another.

"Ah, but you despise us all the same." He added that he always enviedmen who had resources within themselves. I laughed lightly, to implythat it WAS very pleasant to have such resources, but that I didn'twant to boast. And, indeed, I had never felt humbler, flimsier, thanwhen the little man at the bureau, naming a fabulous sum, asked itsowner whether he would take the main part in notes of mille francs,cinq-mille, dix-mille—quoi? Had it been mine, I should have asked tohave it all in five-franc pieces. Pethel took it in the mostcompendious form, and crumpled it into his pocket. I asked if he weregoing to play any more to-night.

"Oh, later on," he said. "I want to get a little sea air into my lungsnow." He asked, with a sort of breezy diffidence, if I would go withhim. I was glad to do so. It flashed across my mind that yonder onthe terrace he might suddenly blurt out: "I say, look here, don't thinkme awfully impertinent, but this money's no earthly use to me. I dowish you'd accept it as a very small return for all the pleasure yourwork has given me, and— There, PLEASE! Not another word!"—all withsuch candor, delicacy, and genuine zeal that I should be unable torefuse. But I must not raise false hopes in my reader. Nothing of thesort happened. Nothing of that sort ever does happen.

We were not long on the terrace. It was not a night on which you couldstroll and talk; there was a wind against which you had to stagger,holding your hat on tightly, and shouting such remarks as might occurto you. Against that wind acquaintance could make no headway. Yet Isee now that despite that wind, or, rather, because of it, I oughtalready to have known Pethel a little better than I did when wepresently sat down together inside the cafe of the casino. There hadbeen a point in our walk, or our stagger, when we paused to lean overthe parapet, looking down at the black and driven sea. And Pethel hadshouted that it would be great fun to be out in a sailing-boatto-night, and that at one time he had been very fond of sailing.

As we took our seats in the cafe, he looked about him with boyishinterest and pleasure; then squaring his arms on the little table, heasked me what I would drink. I protested that I was the host, aposition which he, with the quick courtesy of the very rich, yielded tome at once. I feared he would ask for champagne, and was gladdened byhis demand for water.

"Apollinaris, St. Galmier, or what?" I asked. He preferred plainwater. I ventured to warn him that such water was never "safe" inthese places. He said he had often heard that, but would risk it. Iremonstrated, but he was firm. "Alors," I told the waiter, "pourMonsieur un verre de l'eau fraiche, et pour moi un demi blonde."

Pethel asked me to tell him who every one was. I told him no one wasany one in particular, and suggested that we should talk aboutourselves.

"You mean," he laughed, "that you want to know who the devil I am?"

I assured him that I had often heard of him. At this he wasunaffectedly pleased.

"But," I added, "it's always more interesting to hear a man talkedabout by himself." And indeed, since he had NOT handed his winningsover to me, I did hope he would at any rate give me some glimpses intothat "great character" of his. Full though his life had been, heseemed but like a rather clever schoolboy out on a holiday. I wantedto know more.

"That beer looks good," he admitted when the waiter came back. I askedhim to change his mind, but he shook his head, raised to his lips thetumbler of water that had been placed before him, and meditativelydrank a deep draft. "I never," he then said, "touch alcohol of anysort." He looked solemn; but all men do look solemn when they speak oftheir own habits, whether positive or negative, and no matter howtrivial; and so, though I had really no warrant for not supposing him areclaimed drunkard, I dared ask him for what reason he abstained.

"When I say I NEVER touch alcohol," he said hastily, in a tone as ofself-defense, "I mean that I don't touch it often, or, at anyrate—well, I never touch it when I'm gambling, you know. It—it takesthe edge off."

His tone did make me suspicious. For a moment I wondered whether hehad married the barmaid rather for what she symbolized than for what inherself she was. But no, surely not; he had been only nineteen yearsold. Nor in any way had he now, this steady, brisk, clear-eyed fellow,the aspect of one who had since fallen.

"The edge off the excitement?" I asked.

"Rather. Of course that sort of excitement seems awfully stupid toYOU; but—no use denying it—I do like a bit of a flutter, justoccasionally, you know. And one has to be in trim for it. Suppose aman sat down dead-drunk to a game of chance, what fun would it be forhim? None. And it's only a question of degree. Soothe yourself everso little with alcohol, and you don't get QUITE the full sensation ofgambling. You do lose just a little something of the proper tremorsbefore a coup, the proper throes during a coup, the proper thrill ofjoy or anguish after a coup. You're bound to, you know," he added,purposely making this bathos when he saw me smiling at the heights towhich he had risen.

"And to-night," I asked, remembering his prosaically pensive demeanorin taking the bank, "were you feeling these throes and thrills to theutmost?"

He nodded.

"And you'll feel them again to-night?"

"I hope so."

"I wonder you can stay away."

"Oh, one gets a bit deadened after an hour or so. One needs to befreshened up. So long as I don't bore you—"

I laughed, and held out my cigarette-case.

"I rather wonder you smoke," I murmured, after giving him a light."Nicotine's a sort of drug. Doesn't it soothe you? Don't you losejust a little something of the tremors and things?"

He looked at me gravely.

"By Jove!" he ejaculated, "I never thought of that. Perhaps you'reright. 'Pon my word, I must think that over."

I wondered whether he were secretly laughing at me. Here was a man towhom—so I conceived, with an effort of the imagination—the loss orgain of a few hundred pounds could hardly matter. I told him I hadspoken in jest. "To give up tobacco might," I said, "intensify thepleasant agonies of a gambler staking his little all. But in yourcase—well, I don't see where the pleasant agonies come in."

"You mean because I'm beastly rich?"

"Rich," I amended.

"All depends on what you call rich. Besides, I'm not the sort offellow who's content with three per cent. A couple of months ago—Itell you this in confidence—I risked virtually all I had in anArgentine deal."

"And lost it?"

"No; as a matter of fact, I made rather a good thing out of it. I didrather well last February, too. But there's no knowing the future. Afew errors of judgment, a war here, a revolution there, a big strikesomewhere else, and—" He blew a jet of smoke from his lips, and thenlooked at me as at one whom he could trust to feel for him in a crashalready come.

My sympathy lagged, and I stuck to the point of my inquiry.

"Meanwhile," I suggested, "and all the more because you aren't merely arich man, but also an active taker of big risks, how can these tinylittle baccarat risks give you so much emotion?"

"There you rather have me," he laughed. "I've often wondered at thatmyself. I suppose," he puzzled it out, "I do a good lot ofmake-believe. While I'm playing a game like this game to-night, IIMAGINE the stakes are huge. And I IMAGINE I haven't another penny inthe world."

"Ah, so that with you it's always a life-and-death affair?"

He looked away.

"Oh, no, I don't say that."

"Stupid phrase," I admitted. "But"—there was yet one point I wouldput to him—"if you have extraordinary luck always—"

"There's no such thing as luck."

"No, strictly, I suppose, there isn't. But if in point of fact youalways do win, then—well, surely, perfect luck driveth out fear."

"Who ever said I always won?" he asked sharply.

I waved my hands and said, "Oh, you have the reputation, you know, forextraordinary luck."

"That isn't the same thing as always winning. Besides, I HAVEN'Textraordinary luck, never HAVE had. Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "if Ithought I had any more chance of winning than of losing, I'd—I'd—"

"Never again set foot in that baccarat-room to-night," I soothinglysuggested.

"Oh, baccarat be blowed! I wasn't thinking of baccarat. I wasthinking of—oh, lots of things; baccarat included, yes."

"What things?" I ventured to ask.

"What things?" He pushed back his chair. "Look here," he said with alaugh, "don't pretend I haven't been boring your head off with all thistalk about myself. You've been too patient. I'm off. Shall I see youto-morrow? Perhaps you'd lunch with us to-morrow? It would be a greatpleasure for my wife. We're at the Grand Hotel."

I said I should be most happy, and called the waiter; at sight of whommy friend said he had talked himself thirsty, and asked for anotherglass of water. He mentioned that he had brought his car over withhim: his little daughter (by the news of whose existence I feltidiotically surprised) was very keen on motoring, and they were allthree starting the day after to-morrow on a little tour through France.Afterward they were going on to Switzerland "for some climbing." Did Icare about motoring? If so, we might go for a spin after luncheon, toRouen or somewhere. He drank his glass of water, and, linking afriendly arm in mine, passed out with me into the corridor. He askedwhat I was writing now, and said that he looked to me to "do somethingbig one of these days," and that he was sure I had it in me. Thisremark, though of course I pretended to be pleased by it, irritated mevery much. It was destined, as you shall see, to irritate me very muchmore in recollection.

Yet I was glad he had asked me to luncheon—glad because I liked himand glad because I dislike mysteries. Though you may think me verydense for not having thoroughly understood Pethel in the course of myfirst meeting with him, the fact is that I was only aware, and thatdimly, of something more in him than he had cared to reveal—some veilbehind which perhaps lurked his right to the title so airily bestowedon him by Grierson. I assured myself, as I walked home, that if veilthere was, I should to-morrow find an eyelet. But one's intuition whenit is off duty seems always a much more powerful engine than it does onactive service; and next day, at sight of Pethel awaiting me outsidehis hotel, I became less confident. His, thought I, was a face which,for all its animation, would tell nothing—nothing, at any rate, thatmattered. It expressed well enough that he was pleased to see me; butfor the rest I was reminded that it had a sort of frank inscrutability.Besides, it was at all points so very usual a face—a face thatcouldn't (so I then thought), even if it had leave to, betrayconnection with a "great character." It was a strong face, certainly;but so are yours and mine.

And very fresh it looked, though, as he confessed, Pethel had sat up in"that beastly baccarat-room" till five A.M. I asked, had he lost?Yes, he had lost steadily for four hours (proudly he laid stress onthis), but in the end—well, he had won it all back "and a bit more.""By the way," he murmured as we were about to enter the hall, "don'tever happen to mention to my wife what I told you about that Argentinedeal. She's always rather nervous about—investments. I don't tellher about them. She's rather a nervous woman altogether, I'm sorry tosay."

This did not square with my preconception of her. Slave that I am totraditional imagery, I had figured her as "flaunting," asgolden-haired, as haughty to most men, but with a provocative smileacross the shoulder for some. Nor, indeed, did her husband's wordssave me the suspicion that my eyes deceived me when anon I waspresented to a very pale, small lady whose hair was rather white thangray. And the "little daughter!" This prodigy's hair was as yet"down," but looked as if it might be up at any moment: she was nearlyas tall as her father, whom she very much resembled in face and figureand heartiness of hand-shake. Only after a rapid mental calculationcould I account for her.

"I must warn you, she's in a great rage this morning," said her father."Do try to soothe her." She blushed, laughed, and bade her father notbe so silly. I asked her the cause of her great rage. She said:

"He only means I was disappointed. And he was just as disappointed as
I was. WEREN'T you, now, Father?"

"I suppose they meant well, Peggy," he laughed.

"They were QUITE right," said Mrs. Pethel, evidently not for the firsttime.

"They," as I presently learned, were the authorities of thebathing-establishment. Pethel had promised his daughter he would takeher for a swim; but on their arrival at the bathing-cabins they wereruthlessly told that bathing was defendu a cause du mauvais temps.This embargo was our theme as we sat down to luncheon. Miss Peggy wasof opinion that the French were cowards. I pleaded for them that evenin English watering-places bathing was forbidden when the sea was VERYrough. She did not admit that the sea was very rough to-day. Besides,she appealed to me, where was the fun of swimming in absolutely calmwater? I dared not say that this was the only sort of water I liked toswim in.

"They were QUITE right," said Mrs. Pethel again.

"Yes, but, darling Mother, you can't swim. Father and I are bothsplendid swimmers."

To gloss over the mother's disability, I looked brightly at Pethel, asthough in ardent recognition of his prowess among waves. With amovement of his head he indicated his daughter—indicated that therewas no one like her in the whole world. I beamed agreement. Indeed, Idid think her rather nice. If one liked the father (and I liked Pethelall the more in that capacity), one couldn't help liking the daughter,the two were so absurdly alike. Whenever he was looking at her (and itwas seldom that he looked away from her), the effect, if you cared tobe fantastic, was that of a very vain man before a mirror. It mighthave occurred to me that, if there was any mystery in him, I couldsolve it through her. But, in point of fact, I had forgotten all aboutthat possible mystery. The amateur detective was lost in thesympathetic observer of a father's love. That Pethel did love hisdaughter I have never doubted. One passion is not less true becauseanother predominates. No one who ever saw that father with thatdaughter could doubt that he loved her intensely. And this intensitygages for me the strength of what else was in him.

Mrs. Pethel's love, though less explicit, was not less evidentlyprofound. But the maternal instinct is less attractive to an onlooker,because he takes it more for granted than the paternal. What endearedpoor Mrs. Pethel to me was—well, the inevitability of the epithet Igive her. She seemed, poor thing, so essentially out of it; and by"it" is meant the glowing mutual affinity of husband and child. Notthat she didn't, in her little way, assert herself during the meal.But she did so, I thought, with the knowledge that she didn't count,and never would count. I wondered how it was that she had, in thatCambridge bar-room long ago, counted for Pethel to the extent ofmatrimony. But from any such room she seemed so utterly remote thatshe might well be in all respects now an utterly changed woman. Shedid preeminently look as if much had by some means been taken out ofher, with no compensatory process of putting in. Pethel looked so veryyoung for his age, whereas she would have had to be really old to lookyoung for hers. I pitied her as one might a governess with two chargeswho were hopelessly out of hand. But a governess, I reflected, canalways give notice. Love tied poor Mrs. Pethel fast to her presentsituation.

As the three of them were to start next day on their tour throughFrance, and as the four of us were to make a tour to Rouen thisafternoon, the talk was much about motoring, a theme which Miss Peggy'senthusiasm made almost tolerable. I said to Mrs. Pethel, with moregood-will than truth, that I supposed she was "very keen on it." Shereplied that she was.

"But, darling Mother, you aren't. I believe you hate it. You'reALWAYS asking father to go slower. And what IS the fun of justcrawling along?"

"Oh, come, Peggy, we never crawl!" said her father.

"No, indeed," said her mother in a tone of which Pethel laughingly saidit would put me off coming out with them this afternoon. I said, withan expert air to reassure Mrs. Pethel, that it wasn't fast driving, butonly bad driving, that was a danger.

"There, Mother!" cried Peggy. "Isn't that what we're always tellingyou?"

I felt that they were always either telling Mrs. Pethel something or,as in the matter of that intended bath, not telling her something. Itseemed to me possible that Peggy advised her father about his"investments." I wondered whether they had yet told Mrs. Pethel oftheir intention to go on to Switzerland for some climbing.

Of his secretiveness for his wife's sake I had a touching littleinstance after luncheon. We had adjourned to have coffee in front ofthe hotel. The car was already in attendance, and Peggy had darted offto make her daily inspection of it. Pethel had given me a cigar, andhis wife presently noticed that he himself was not smoking. Heexplained to her that he thought he had smoked too much lately, andthat he was going to "knock it off" for a while. I would not havesmiled if he had met my eye, but his avoidance of it made me quite surethat he really had been "thinking over" what I had said last nightabout nicotine and its possibly deleterious action on the gamblingthrill.

Mrs. Pethel saw the smile that I could not repress. I explained that Iwas wishing Icould knock off tobacco, and envying her husband'sstrength of character. She smiled, too, but wanly, with her eyes onhim.

"Nobody has so much strength of character as he has," she said.

"Nonsense!" he laughed. "I'm the weakest of men."

"Yes," she said quietly; "that's true, too, James."

Again he laughed, but he flushed. I saw that Mrs. Pethel also hadfaintly flushed, and I became horribly aware of following suit. In thesudden glow and silence created by Mrs. Pethel's paradox, I wasgrateful to the daughter for bouncing back among us, and asking howsoon we should be ready to start.

Pethel looked at his wife, who looked at me and rather strangely askedif I was sure I wanted to go with them. I protested that of course Idid. Pethel asked her if SHE really wanted to come.

"You see, dear, there was the run yesterday from Calais. And to-morrowyou'll be on the road again, and all the days after."

"Yes," said Peggy; "I'm SURE you'd much rather stay at home, darling
Mother, and have a good rest."

"Shall we go and put on our things, Peggy?" replied Mrs. Pethel, risingfrom her chair. She asked her husband whether he was taking thechauffeur with him. He said he thought not.

"Oh, hurrah!" cried Peggy. "Then I can be on the front seat!"

"No, dear," said her mother. "I am sure Mr. Beerbohms would like to beon the front seat."

"You'd like to be with mother, wouldn't you?" the girl appealed. Ireplied with all possible emphasis that I should like to be with Mrs.Pethel. But presently, when the mother and daughter reappeared in theguise of motorists, it became clear that my aspiration had been setaside. "I am to be with mother," said Peggy.

I was inwardly glad that Mrs. Pethel could, after all, assert herselfto some purpose. Had I thought she disliked me, I should have beenhurt; but I was sure her desire that I should not sit with her was duemerely to a belief that, in case of accident, a person on the frontseat was less safe than a person behind. And of course I did notexpect her to prefer my life to her daughter's. Poor lady! My heartwas with her. As the car glided along the sea-front and then under theNorman archway, through the town, and past the environs, I wished thather husband inspired in her as much confidence as he did in me. For methe sight of his clear, firm profile (he did not wear motor-goggles)was an assurance in itself. From time to time (for I, too, wasungoggled) I looked round to nod and smile cheerfully at his wife. Shealways returned the nod, but left the smile to be returned by thedaughter.

Pethel, like the good driver he was, did not talk; just drove. But aswe came out on to the Rouen road he did say that in France he alwaysrather missed the British police-traps. "Not," he added, "that I'veever fallen into one. But the chance that a policeman MAY at anymoment dart out, and land you in a bit of a scrape does rather add tothe excitement, don't you think?" Though I answered in the tone of oneto whom the chance of a police-trap is the very salt of life, I did notinwardly like the spirit of his remark. However, I dismissed it frommy mind. The sun was shining, and the wind had dropped: it was anideal day for motoring, and the Norman landscape had never lookedlovelier to me in its width of sober and silvery grace.

*The other names in this memoir are, for good reason, pseudonyms.

I presently felt that this landscape was not, after all, doing itselffull justice. Was it not rushing rather too quickly past? "James!"said a shrill, faint voice from behind, and gradually—"Oh, darlingMother, really!" protested another voice—the landscape slackened pace.But after a while, little by little, the landscape lost patience,forgot its good manners, and flew faster and faster than before. Theroad rushed furiously beneath us, like a river in spate. Avenues ofpoplars flashed past us, every tree of them on each side hissing andswishing angrily in the draft we made. Motors going Rouen-ward seemedto be past as quickly as motors that bore down on us. Hardly had Iespied in the landscape ahead a chateau or other object of interestbefore I was craning my neck round for a final glimpse of it as itfaded on the backward horizon. An endless uphill road was breasted andcrested in a twinkling and transformed into a decline near the end ofwhich our car leaped straight across to the opposite ascent,and—"James!" again, and again by degrees the laws of nature werereestablished, but again by degrees revoked. I did not doubt thatspeed in itself was no danger; but, when the road was about to make asharp curve, why shouldn't Pethel, just as a matter of form, slow downslightly, and sound a note or two of the hooter? Suppose another carwere—well, that was all right: the road was clear; but at the nextturning, when our car neither slackened nor hooted and WAS for aninstant full on the wrong side of the road, I had within me acontraction which (at thought of what must have been if—) lastedthough all was well. Loath to betray fear, I hadn't turned my face toPethel. Eyes front! And how about that wagon ahead, huge hay-wagonplodding with its back to us, seeming to occupy whole road? SurelyPethel would slacken, hoot. No. Imagine a needle threaded with oneswift gesture from afar. Even so was it that we shot, between wagonand road's-edge, through; whereon, confronting us within a fewyards—inches now, but we swerved—was a cart that incredibly we grazednot as we rushed on, on. Now indeed I had turned my eyes on Pethel'sprofile; and my eyes saw there that which stilled, with a greateremotion, all fear and wonder in me.

I think that for the first instant, oddly, what I felt was merelysatisfaction, not hatred; for I all but asked him whether, by notsmoking to-day, he had got a keener edge to his thrills. I understoodhim, and for an instant this sufficed me. Those pursed-out lips, soqueerly different from the compressed lips of the normal motorist, andseeming, as elsewhere last night, to denote no more than pensiveinterest, had told me suddenly all that I needed to know about Pethel.Here, as there,—and, oh, ever so much better here than there!—hecould gratify the passion that was in him. No need of any"make-believe" here. I remembered the queer look he had given when Iasked if his gambling were always "a life-and-death affair." Here wasthe real thing, the authentic game, for the highest stakes. And herewas I, a little extra stake tossed on to the board. He had vowed I hadit in me to do "something big." Perhaps, though, there had been atouch of make-believe about that. I am afraid it was not before mythought about myself that my moral sense began to operate and my hatredof Pethel set in. Put it to my credit that I did see myself as a meredetail in his villainy. You deprecate the word "villainy"? Understandall, forgive all? No doubt. But between the acts of understanding andforgiving an interval may sometimes be condoned. Condone it in thisinstance. Even at the time I gave Pethel due credit for risking hisown life, for having doubtless risked it—it and none other—again andagain in the course of his adventurous (and abstemious) life by fieldand flood. I was even rather touched by memory of his insistence lastnight on another glass of that water which just MIGHT give him typhoid;rather touched by memory of his unsaying that he "never" touchedalcohol—he who, in point of fact, had to be ALWAYS gambling onsomething or other. I gave him due credit, too, for his devotion tohis daughter. But his use of that devotion, his cold use of it tosecure for himself the utmost thrill of hazard, did seem utterlyabominable to me.

And it was even more for the mother than for the daughter that I wasincensed. That daughter did not know him, did but innocently share hisdamnable love of chances; but that wife had for years known him atleast as well as I knew him now. Here again I gave him credit forwishing, though he didn't love her, to spare her what he could. Thathe didn't love her I presumed from his indubitable willingness not tostake her in this afternoon's game. That he never had loved her—hadtaken her in his precocious youth simply as a gigantic chance againsthim, was likely enough. So much the more credit to him for suchconsideration as he showed her, though this was little enough. Hecould wish to save her from being a looker-on at his game, but hecould—he couldn't not—go on playing. Assuredly she was right indeeming him at once the strongest and the weakest of men. "Rather anervous woman!" I remembered an engraving that had hung in my room atOxford, and in scores of other rooms there: a presentment by Sir Marcus(then Mr.) Stone of a very pretty young person in a Gainsborough hat,seated beneath an ancestral elm, looking as though she were about tocry, and entitled "A Gambler's Wife." Mrs. Pethel was not like that.Of her there were no engravings for undergraduate hearts to melt at.But there was one man, certainly, whose compassion was very much at herservice. How was he going to help her?

I know not how many hair's-breadth escapes we may have had while thesethoughts passed through my brain. I had closed my eyes. Sopreoccupied was I that but for the constant rush of air against my faceI might, for aught I knew, have been sitting ensconced in an armchairat home. After a while I was aware that this rush had abated; I openedmy eyes to the old familiar streets of Rouen. We were to have tea atthe Hotel d'Angleterre. What was to be my line of action? Should Itake Pethel aside and say: "Swear to me, on your word of honor as agentleman, that you will never again touch the driving-gear, orwhatever you call it, of a motor-car. Otherwise, I shall expose you tothe world. Meanwhile, we shall return to Dieppe by train"? He mightflush (for I knew him capable of flushing) as he asked me to explain.And after? He would laugh in my face. He would advise me not to gomotoring any more. He might even warn me not to go back to Dieppe inone of those dangerous railway-trains. He might even urge me to waituntil a nice Bath chair had been sent out for me from England.

I heard a voice (mine, alas!) saying brightly, "Well, here we are!" Ihelped the ladies to descend. Tea was ordered. Pethel refused thatstimulant and had a glass of water. I had a liqueur brandy. It wasevident to me that tea meant much to Mrs. Pethel. She looked strongerafter her second cup, and younger after her third. Still, it was myduty to help her if I could. While I talked and laughed, I did notforget that. But what on earth was I to do? I am no hero. I hate tobe ridiculous. I am inveterately averse to any sort of fuss. Besides,how was I to be sure that my own personal dread of the return journeyhadn't something to do with my intention of tackling Pethel? I ratherthought it had. What this woman would dare daily because she was amother could not I dare once? I reminded myself of this man'sreputation for invariable luck. I reminded myself that he was anextraordinarily skilful driver. To that skill and luck I would pin myfaith.

What I seem to myself, do you ask of me?

But I answered your question a few lines back. Enough that my faithwas rewarded: we did arrive safely in Dieppe. I still marvel that wedid.

That evening, in the vestibule of the casino, Grierson came up to me.

"Seen Jimmy Pethel?" he asked. "He was asking for you. Wants to seeyou particularly. He's in the baccarat-room, punting, winning handover fist, OF course. Said he'd seldom met a man he liked more thanyou. Great character, what?"

One is always glad to be liked, and I pleaded guilty to a moment'sgratification at the announcement that Pethel liked me. But I did notgo and seek him in the baccarat-room. A great character assuredly hewas, but of a kind with which (I say it at the risk of seemingpriggish) I prefer not to associate.

Why he had particularly wanted to see me was made clear in a note sentby him to my room early next morning. He wondered if I could beinduced to join them in their little tour. He hoped I wouldn't thinkit great cheek, his asking me. He thought it might rather amuse me tocome. It would be a very great pleasure to his wife. He hoped Iwouldn't say no. Would I send a line by bearer? They would bestarting at three o'clock. He was mine sincerely.

It was not too late to tackle him even now. Should I go round to hishotel? I hesitated and—well, I told you at the outset that my lastmeeting with him was on the morrow of my first. I forget what I wroteto him, but am sure that the excuse I made for myself was a good andgraceful one, and that I sent my kindest regards to Mrs. Pethel. Shehad not (I am sure of that, too) authorized her husband to say shewould like me to come with them. Else would not the thought of her,the pity of her, have haunted me, as it did for a very long time. I donot know whether she is still alive. No mention is made of her in theobituary notice which awoke these memories in me. This notice I will,however, transcribe, because it is, for all its crudeness ofphraseology, rather interesting both as an echo and as anamplification. Its title is "Death of Wealthy Aviator," and its textis:

Wide-spread regret will be felt in Leicestershire at the tragic deathof Mr. James Pethel, who had long resided there and was very popular asan all-round sportsman. In recent years he had been much interested inaviation, and had had a private aerodrome erected on his property.Yesterday afternoon he fell down dead quite suddenly as he wasreturning to his house, apparently in his usual health and spirits,after descending from a short flight which despite a strong wind he hadmade on a new type of aeroplane, and on which he was accompanied by hismarried daughter and her infant son. It is not expected that aninquest will be necessary, as his physician, Dr. Saunders, hascertified death to be due to heart-disease, from which, it appears, thedeceased gentleman had been suffering for many years. Dr. Saundersadds that he had repeatedly warned deceased that any strain on thenervous system might prove fatal.

Thus—for I presume that his ailment had its origin in hishabits—James Pethel did not, despite that merely pensive look of his,live his life with impunity. And by reason of that life he died. Asfor the manner of his death, enough that he did die. Let not ourhearts be vexed that his great luck was with him to the end.

[Transcriber's Note: I have closed contractions in the text; e.g.,"does n't" has become "doesn't" etc.]

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