The Dangerous Years (29 page)

“It sounds rather odd, Tom. It's not in keeping, surely?”

“No. But the whole business is out of keeping. I ought never to have dabbled in it. I know nothing about the City. But my general put me up to it. We left the Service together, and he went on to the Board of the Guaranty Trust, and took me with him. I suppose our names looked respectable on the notepaper. But I never knew what they were talking about at the Board meetings. It was like higher mathematics to me. I'd had no experience in that sort of stuff. All that side of the regimental work I left to our adjutant, a sound enough fellow. Nothing ever went wrong there.” He looked as rueful as a schoolboy who has overwound his watch. They walked on in silence for a while, Mary casting about in her mind how to suggest helping him without wounding his pride. In spite of his upstanding figure and handsome bearing, he looked defenceless, almost beaten. At least, so he appeared to her, and she wanted to fight the world on his behalf. Pressing his arm closer to her side, she appealed to him.

“Of course not, darling. How could it? But what has
gone wrong here? That is the problem I'm not clear about. You haven't explained.”

“I don't quite grasp it, Mary, to tell you the truth. There is something about the balance sheets not being satisfactory. I had been away, to contact the agent in South Africa. D'you know, I'm inclined to suspect it was a bit of a ruse to get me out of the way? But that sounds like cheap melodrama. It can't be true. At any rate, the night I got back the secretary of the company rang me up and said the balance sheets had to go to press next morning in order to be ready for the general meeting a couple of days later. They were waiting for my signature, the last one. He asked me to sign them that night if he brought them round. That's all it amounts to. He came in late, had a drink and a chat, and we talked about my trip, and off he went. He, too, was a decent sort of chap: been in the Territorials during the war.”

This explanation did not mean much to Mary, but she accepted it as a satisfactory light on Tom's part in the business. She clung to him with an almost primitive possessiveness as they walked down to the Seine and along the Quai Voltaire, which they had joined at the bottom of the Rue du Bac. They had made no plan after all, for the matter in hand was too compelling. Both were wary of taking a false step as they discussed it. Tom was obviously ashamed of his stupidity over the whole business, and he was trying to hide this chagrin from Mary.

They walked past the first island and crossed the bridges to the He St. Louis, round which they promenaded, breaking off from their preoccupation from time to time to admire the ancient town houses. The sunlight grew no stronger, for the cold lingered in the narrow streets. Patches of frost began to encroach again, and outside a slummy courtyard in the Rue St. Louis that threaded from end to end of the island, the elderly couple, bemused
both by love and money, saw a puddle of dirty water flickering over with a tiny corrugation of new ice.

“Oh, Tom!” exclaimed Mary, suddenly, as they moved on, “let's forget everything unpleasant for to-day. I'm so happy, after all, that I don't care what happens. We've got each other now, haven't we; after what we have shared? It's not been done lightly, Tom? Tell me that?”

His reply was hardly coherent, so overcome was he by strong feeling. Walking down the middle of the dirty little street, they attracted attention because of the way they clung together, gazing into each other's eyes like Aucassin and Nicolette in the morning of romance. Parisians glanced at them, it might have been with envy; it might have been with derision.

“I feel so strong. We will face this together, Tom. And I don't believe that they can touch you. I wish I could find somebody to confirm my faith. And now our next objective is to persuade your brother to let that child accept these contracts. It is absurd to waste such an opportunity. I should think even musicians would agree about that. Now Joan is happy, I can feel free to come with you to America, if you go as his manager. Together, we surely could look after him properly, and even convince his parents that we would. It would mean a fortune for him, and it would solve all your problems too.”

This cheered Tom instantly. He was willing to be convinced, and while they walked back to the Carrefour de l'Odéon, to the restaurant where Mary and Joan had enjoyed a meal the day after they first came to Paris, and where she and Tom had since habituated, frequently bringing Aloysius Sturm with them, the infatuated lovers talked freely of the golden opportunities awaiting them in America, through the conjuration of little Adrian.

They continued in this daydream during the first part of the meal, their confidence growing as they warmed
under the caress of the carafe of Beaujolais. They had hardly finished their escalops, however, before Mr. Sturm entered, his venerable head appearing up the spiral staircase like that of a performing seal.

“Ha! I expected to find you here. I went to your hotel, Colonel, and heard that you had gone out together. Now tell me, if I may intrude, tell me what does this signify? If ever I saw a couple of people really happy, and
really
happy, I see them now; and indeed I have been watching that happiness growing ever since I first had the pleasure of meeting this lovely little lady, Colonel; and I am presuming that you will not object to my calling her that, in your presence of course. I am an American, and used to being outspoken. A spade is a spade, and a most beautiful woman is a most beautiful woman, and that goes for me, I may say. Do I have to begin to congratulate anybody?”

The English couple, who had undergone almost a change of character in the waters of love, were far from objecting to Mr. Sturm's observations. They purred together. They were on top of the world, and could afford to accept tributes. The donor was welcomed, and he sat down with them and rearranged the meal, calling for a special bottle of Chambertin to celebrate his return from St. Moritz, and the joy of the couple at whom he gazed with the utmost benevolence. Mary began to see him through a haze of approval.

“We have been talking about plans for the future,” she said later, over the coffee and cognac. “I propose to go to America with Tom when he takes his nephew.”

Mr. Sturm was in process of cutting his cigar when she said this. He paused, looked up shrewdly, studying her features with something other than the sentimental benevolence which he had shown throughout the luncheon.

“You mean precisely that?” he said, continuing with his small task. “And I take it, then, that there will be
an interesting event before you go; is that so, Mrs. Winterbourne?”

Mary, her mind subconsciously occupied with the hints in Joan's letter, misconstrued his words.

“But Joan is not sure. She cannot be.” She was inclined to be hurt that Joan could, so indiscriminately, have confided her hopes to this stranger during his twenty-four-hour visit to St. Moritz. But Mr. Sturm quickly corrected her.

“I was referring, dear lady, to you and the colonel. I take it that if you are thinking of going to my country together, you will also be thinking of going as man and wife. There might otherwise be some slight difficulty, formalities maybe, but vexing ones.”

Tom, at this, began to lose some of his easiness of manner. He looked almost in panic at Mary, but she appeared to be unshaken.

“Of course, that will be arranged, Mr. Sturm. Colonel Batten's wife, whom he has not seen for ten years, will have to be persuaded to relinquish her grip. She has nothing to gain, so far as I can see, by persisting in her present attitude.”

“I gather that she is a Catholic,” said the American, studying the glass of brandy in his podgy hand. “That implies more than an attitude, perhaps. It might present difficulties, a matter of principle. I am a Catholic myself, Mrs. Winterbourne. I can appreciate the problem involved, you see.”

His benevolence had by now cooled. It was in process of being replaced by that implacable business instinct which had made him so successful an impresario.

“But it is irrational!” exclaimed Mary with a touch of asperity. “She cannot thrust her opinions into our lives. She has no hold upon Tom. She left him because she did not approve of his giving up his career in the Army. That was worldly enough. She cannot appeal to Heaven to
support her in that. It is not only irrational; it is dishonest.”

“Quite so,” said Mr. Sturm, his voice quieter and slower than usual, “quite so, Mrs. Winterbourne. But you, Colonel, will recognise, since you have been in so close a contact with a Catholic mind, that your wife may regard the matter as being outside her control.”

There was a deadlock for some time after this. Mary was indignant. She was also momentarily frightened. She looked at Tom again and again, but he sat there, evasive, sinking again into that passivity from which she had believed him to be already rescued under the assurance of their passion, and the pride it had brought him, and of which he had told her again and again.

“Oh well,” she said finally, drawing on her gloves, rather as a snub to the American than as a signal for departure, “all that is a matter to be arranged. Surely you would agree, Mr. Sturm, that it would be advantageous if Colonel Batten and I went over in charge of the boy? It would certainly induce his parents to agree to the tour that you want to arrange.”

This was a direct attack, and Mr. Sturm was prepared to admire her for it. But he looked at her again, carefully estimating her purpose and her character before he spoke, sadly shaking his head.

“That won't be for some time yet, dear lady. Not for another ten years, in fact. You see, it is like this. I am interested in other artists too. My journey to St. Moritz was not, as you presumed,” and he gave an admonitory accent in that reference to her presumption, “in chase of the infant prodigy, wonderful as he may be. I went to contact an already world-famed artist. And it is he who has refused to allow me to promote young Adrian Batten at present. He says that the boy needs ten years' quiet work, with no outside interference or glamour-stuff. It's a counsel of perfection, but he persists in it, and has
threatened to break with me as his own promoter, if I persist. I can't afford to do that, Mrs. Winterbourne, for the artist is none other than Artur Schnabel.”

He delivered the name as though expecting Mrs. Winterbourne to be annihilated by it. She was not, for her interest in the world of music was quite conventional and perfunctory. She had heard the name, of course, but merely as one of many professional pianists. She may even have heard Schnabel play; but would not be sure of that. Her concern was with the welfare and future of her lover. She was prepared to fight. For the moment, she said nothing. Her anger was gathering, and she sat looking at Mr. Sturm, now no longer an ally.

Mr. Sturm saw the antagonism in her eyes. He was professionally expert at reading such scriptures. His world-wide business depended upon that skill.

“I'll tell you, dear lady,” he said, speaking softly, ingratiatingly, “that the master has offered to take the boy for the last two of those ten years. You will appreciate what that means, I am certain. You understand, Colonel? It is a big thing, a mighty big thing. And believe me, it is worth waiting for. It will make that boy as safe as Solomon!”

For a moment, Mary was puzzled by this reference. She thought of the Bible hero, and of the Queen of Sheba. She even wondered if Mr. Sturm was making a point at her and the comparable relation between herself and Tom Batten. But Mr. Sturm added:

“And Solomon was a child prodigy; open to all the dangers too.”

Before Schnabel left, two days after Mr. Sturm's departure, he had another conversation with John and Joan Boys, instructing them what to say to Adrian's parents when they took the child back to Paris. On the last afternoon, he invited the boy to his private sitting-room, but no strains of music emerged during that interview. The veteran and the infant sat talking, and looking at music scores. Interrupting the absorbing
tête-à-tête
, Adrian ran upstairs and returned with his skates, which he had to demonstrate to this new friend. The enthusiasts were very sagacious together, and an observer would have had to be shrewd to ascertain who was the more grave of the two.

The old musician took Adrian back to his guardians, and had tea with them in an obscure corner of the great lounge. When he said good-bye, he stood contemplating the child, with a hand on the nape of the small neck.

“Ah!” he said, “young man! You must not let your skates rust; not a speck! Not a pin-point!” He shook hands, surprisingly gently, with the adults, touched the boy again on the shoulder, turned with an almost military precision, and stumped away. Little Adrian sat down beside John, opposite Joan. His face had gone pale, and his eyes shone so brilliantly that Joan feared he had taken a chill.

“I think we'll go up, Adrian,” she said. For once he did not object. He stood up, without a word, and waited for her to lead the way. When she did not move, he put his hand in hers so confidingly that she felt a spasm of maternal agony. It was absurd, she told herself. To shake off the untoward mood, she took the boy away, leaving John to seek the billiard-room.

“What is it, Joan?” said the infant, while she was undressing him. He was still deceptively distrait, after his session with Schnabel.

“What is what?” she demanded, sharply, for she felt that one of his almost supernatural remarks was coming. Her abruptness of tone made him glance up at her mischievously.

“What has made you so different since we came?” he added.

“But I am not different,” she lied. It was impossible to let this go on.

“Oh yes,” he said, shaking his head solemnly. “I can't tell you what it is. But I could play it. Yes, I could play it.” He shut his eyes, and made pianistic gestures with his fingers and outspread hands. “It would be in an open key, and a long phrase, oh, so lovely, Joan, just as I love you too. It would be wonderful, like smelling flowers, oh … oh …” Suddenly he seized her and clung with his arms round her neck, burying his face in her hair just above the ear. She felt him panting, his breath hot, sweet. “I wish you were my mother too, Joan. You ought to be my mother. I want you, I want you!” He began to weep, still clinging to her with animal intensity.