The Dangerous Years (28 page)

He puffed at his cigar, his bulbous eyes suffused with strong feeling.

Schnabel meanwhile had also risen, and the others stood up, eager to recover the boy, the subject of this solemn discussion.

“Now,” said Schnabel, “will you tell his parents what has happened to-day, and that I am willing to take him for two years when the time is ripe? He must lead a
healthy life; not too much of one thing, eh, Sturm? His music must be everyday, a part of the rest of his interests, not a cancer to destroy him. Let him climb hills, as I do!” He chuckled, and smiled broadly at John, to whom he obviously had taken a strong liking. Then he shook hands with the English couple, dismissing them graciously, with just a touch of greater reserve since he had discovered that they were not the boy's parents. “Now, Sturm, let us go and talk business together, since you go to-morrow.”

He led the impresario towards the lift, and the Boys retreated to the entrance hall where they found their small charge sitting behind the reception-desk looking at an Italian illustrated paper with the clerk, who had one arm round his shoulders.

“I think we ought to get him to bed,” said Joan, breaking the silence between herself and John, for they had not spoken because of the shyness that had beset them since the musician made his mistake about Adrian's parentage. Or it may have been due to something deeper; some wild remembrancer whispering to them from among the presences summoned by the recent performance.

“Yes,” said John, meditatively, “come along, old son, time for bed now.”

Quite unself-consciously, and without demur, Adrian slid off the high stool, said good-night to the adoring woman, and took Joan's hand. John elected to go upstairs with them, and all three entered Adrian's room.

“Shall we go down the Cresta again?” he asked, while being undressed. “Shall we, John?” he repeated, with added eagerness.

Boys looked at the naked figure, which Joan was trying to introduce to a pair of pyjamas. He saw the small bone structure, the graceful limbs, the well-poised shoulders and neck, with that large head slightly out of proportion surmounting all. It was Joan who answered, as she buttoned the pyjama coat.

“We must think about that, Adrian. It might be better to go skating again; more exercise for those legs of yours, eh?”

“But I loved it, Joan. It was wonderful; the speed, the bumps; oh, and when we turned over; great! great!” He re-acted the scene, turning himself and tumbling so that the pyjama coat, still in Joan's hands, slipped up over his head and muffled the peal of laughter with which he once again enjoyed the escapade.

When Joan had finally got the boy to bed and seen to his supper, she went to her own room to tidy herself for dinner. She found John waiting there, standing at the dressing-table and staring into the mirror. But it was patent that he could not see there what he was looking for. He turned, guiltily, as Joan came in. She shut the door, approached him, and waited.

“You heard what he said,” John spoke first. His voice was hoarse.

“Who, Adrian?”

“No, Schnabel.”

They eyed each other again, two strangers recognising something of great importance to both.

“You mean …?”

“I mean his taking us for the boy's parents, Joan. I wonder why that was? I've been thinking lately, ever since we brought him here, in fact. Something has been missing, you know. Have you felt that too, Joan? I don't know. I've not been awake, I suppose. Oh, damn it, I wish I could say what I want: but look here, old girl, you know my nature. I've been damned fond of you all along. I hadn't realised how much until we made that break. You were pretty desperate there, I must say. But can't we start again? Can't you forgive me for, for … I don't know quite what it was. I was afraid of something, I suppose. You know the old business about keeping going, the brain alert, the muscles fit! It's always been dinned
into me, from school days, that sex and all that destroys one's will. But look here, this boy has done something to us both, hasn't he? You can't cut life in two that way. I love you, Joan, after all; that was never in question.”

Joan, clumsy and still somewhat afraid in spite of her longing and her love, hesitated. But while she stood there, unable to say a word or to help him, John suddenly put his head in his hands and broke down. That woke her, released her. With a murmur of endearment, she took him in her arms, and they wept together.

That night, he came through from his room, and for the succeeding nights they slept together, man and wife.

Returning to her room one morning, rather late and therefore anxious lest she should be observed, Mary Winterbourne had hardly settled herself into the cold bed before the maid knocked at the door.

Mary suspected that the woman was not quite as respectful as she had formerly been. She could not point to an actual rudeness, or familiarity. She told herself that maybe it was only her uneasiness that made her see a change in the woman's attitude. She watched her now, and observed the rapid glance round the room, and at the hastily-rumpled bed. Was there a gleam of amusement in that Latin eye, or was it censure? Mary forced herself to dismiss such conjecture, and to attend to the practical matter of receiving the tray with coffee and
brioches
—and a letter.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, involuntarily. “A letter!”

“Yes, madam. It will cheer your solitude,” said the maid, demurely smoothing the quilt to put down the tray on Mary's knees.

“My solitude? Oh yes,” replied Mary, after a second's pause, that might have been anger, or shame. But she quickly filled the gap with self-assurance, endorsed by the years of maturity behind her. This was so authoritative that the maid looked up, her eyes bright not with criticism, but admiration. The two women were friends
henceforth; a turn which gave Mary added confidence in her own conduct.

This confidence had been growing as day succeeded day without anything disturbing the love affair. The sense of payment deferred, with which she had first entered upon the adventure, grew fainter and fainter. She had begun to look upon this fullness of life and love as something to which she had a right. She was prepared to pay for it, but in her own way, and that a completely unselfish and unindulgent way. Tom,
her
Tom, was to be renewed, given just that self-determination which he had hitherto lacked. And she could do it. Already he was more authoritative, more prepared to grasp facts and deal with them.

She pondered on this as she reached for the letter. It was addressed by Joan's hand. Mary stared at it, frightened, hopeful. This was the first communication since the girl had gone away; frightened away by disgust. That fact had to be faced now, for this letter might confirm it, and confirm it dreadfully. All the new pleasure in life, the rejuvenation, might be dashed by one word from Joan. Mary knew that, and her heart quailed. She held the letter unopened, summoning courage.

After the maid had left the room, making some remark that Mary had responded to automatically, without hearing, the letter still lay impassively where Mary had replaced it on the tray. But now she took it up again and at last opened it.

As though to reassure herself, she paused to hear Tom moving about overhead. The distant stropping of his razor, that marital sound, brought an everyday quality to the relationship, so healthy, so sane and workable.

“Dear Mother,” said Joan, in a non-committal opening. The stropping ceased, and Tom must now be leaning forward, his ruddy cheeks emerging like those of a youth from the lather. Mary pictured this, with a wilful artfulness, seeking aid against what might be coming from Joan.

“For give me for not writing before. Life has been very full here, with two males to look after. The small one is not the least of the two, I can assure you. But I have reason to be grateful to him, though I may be fanciful in saying so. I'll tell you about that sometime, if I can. Mother dear, something has happened between John and me. The old misunderstanding has vanished. That is all I can say, and I really believe little Adrian, all unwittingly, has had much to do with it. I shall never forget that, though he's a dangerous little Turk, and I am sorry for the women with whom he comes in contact later in life. They will find themselves powerless. Oh, Mother, I too am powerless. I wish I could say more, but I have yet to learn how to. You did not teach me that. Perhaps to-day you would be willing to, for I have thought, since we came to Paris, that something momentous has happened to you. I was frightened; but now I understand, and I can only love you all the more for being yourself, and true to yourself, if it is that way. I don't know. I am still rather a novice. Do you see what I mean, and what has also happened here, between John and me? We are man and wife at last, darling, and I am so happy that I am afraid. I don't know of what, but sometimes life is too good to be true. They are collecting the post now, so I can say no more. But things are happening, that is all. John and I both long for a family. We have discussed it—more than discussed. You know what I mean. Bless you, and please write to us and say something. Ever, Joan.”

Mary read the letter without response. It could not be true. Mary was still half-engaged in the sweet aftermath of love, listening to the movements of the man from whose arms she had so recently crept. Then the full purport of Joan's news came home to her. She re-read the letter, and a flush of tearful delight suffused her whole person. Her lips trembled, she groped for her handkerchief, but she had left it under Tom's pillow. No matter, she must go and tell him. This made all the difference. Here was a full and final justification for everything. She carefully
put the tray on the side-table, and got out of bed. Groping for her slippers, she blindly made her way to the door, fastening the cord of her dressing-gown.

Careless of being observed, she fled upstairs and knocked at Tom's door, immediately opening it. He was towelling his head, and now stood, hair ruffled, his face ruddy with friction, and surprise.

“My dear,” he said, “what on earth? But do be careful, Mary. There are people about by this time.”

She ignored this caution. Shutting the door, she approached him, with the letter in her hand.

“Tom, from Joan. A letter, and it accepts everything. Oh, I can't tell you what I feel. It confirms all that has been happening. I knew it. I knew that we were justified. You will see. Joan only further convinces me that we are right, Tom. Why should we frustrate our lives, so late too, when we have only ourselves to consider? Nobody is suffering on our account. And now that even Joan has realised, and learned to approve, the way is clear. Tom, I love you more than ever now. I need not disguise it. Whatever happens, I will be with you. I will come to the …”

But Tom interrupted her by his embarrassment. He was still concerned about her being seen by the hotel staff, or other guests.

“Take care, my dear,” he said, “don't overdo things. It's better to go slow for the moment. God knows we've been reckless enough. I never thought that at this time of life I should …”

“Oh, stop harping on our age, Tom. You make me feel cold. Listen, Joan says that something has happened to them. They are happy at last, and she even dares to hope for a family. She says it is due to the boy. I don't quite understand that. But that doesn't matter. What does matter is that she now understands us and is willing to accept our relationship. It is all-important. You know
what she means to me. For all those years she was all I had. It's different now, but she is no less precious, though I was risking losing her. Don't you understand?”

She did not realise that her appeals to him to understand this or that aspect of things, in their love, in the situation, in its potentialities, were becoming increasingly frequent. He stared at her now, his face still ruddy, his eyes hungry.

“Jolly good show, my dear. But look here, cut back to your room now, before we're caught. I don't like the idea of people talking about you. It's the woman to whom the mud sticks in these affairs. I'm a bit old-fashioned, Mary. I'll be down after we've had our coffee. The maid will be along here with mine now, so cut off before she comes, for heaven's sake. Here, kiss me and run!”

He put his arm round her shoulders, the towel enveloping her, and they kissed, still with a touch of desperation, even after the night's fullness. He stood behind the door and shut it after her.

An hour later they met again in the lounge and went out together. The storm had dropped, and frost covered the city. Sunlight was already etching patterns of light on it, reversing the process of ‘gold falling sick, being touched by mercury'.

“There's more correspondence from London, about this wretched business,” said Tom, in reply to Mary's query as to what they should do that day. “I ought to call in and see those damn lawyers. Luke said I must consult them at every turn: but he's footing the bill, and it must be piling up.”

Mary studied him while he was telling her this. She was nervous whenever he mentioned the matter, for his manner became equivocal; not quite dishonest, but vaguely disconcerting. She had determined to construe it as another aspect of the embarrassment which gripped him whenever money was mentioned. Money, she
decided, was for him a symbol of failure, and he had a sense of inferiority about it.

“Dearest,” she said, hesitantly, tucking her hand under his arm and trying to be as feminine as possible, “why can't I help over this affair? I know nothing about it really. You have never fully explained. Only a hint here and there. I'm certain that something definite can be done, without all this waiting about. Are you satisfied, yourself, with the lawyers?”

“There are two lots of them, my dear girl,” he said. “Our own family firm in London, and these people here who are working for them. I don't know. I give it up. It was Luke's suggestion that I should come over to Paris for a while, and keep out of the way.”