Random Harvest (38 page)

“No, I’ve finished that and several more since.  I’m just a guest.”

“Well, that’s very nice.”

“There’s going to be a big party this week-end.”

There was, and that was what I had come about.  “Where’s Mrs.

Rainier?”

“On the terrace—dispensing cocktails and small talk with her usual glassy proficiency.  Just a local crowd—they’ll go soon.”

“Let’s join them.”

I realized then, as soon as I saw her in the distance, how keenly my sympathies had been enlisted for a woman whose glassiest proficiency could hardly help her much in the situation that was now so rapidly developing.  As we shook hands she seemed to me rather like a pathetic tight-rope walker doing her tricks in confident unawareness that the rope was about to be cut.

The crowd were mostly neighbours whom I had met before, but there was one fresh face—Sir William Somebody, whom I knew to be a retired diplomat who lived on his pension in a farmhouse rented from the Rainiers.  Mrs. Rainier introduced me with the remark that perhaps, having just driven from London, I could give him the latest news.  “Sir William thinks the situation’s far worse than people realize.”

I passed on what news there was; then a girl called Cynthia exclaimed:  “We mustn’t miss the wireless bulletin.  Hasn’t he been making another speech today?”  (It had come to the point where an unrelated “he” could only refer to Hitler.)

“Just words, nothing but words,” someone else muttered.

“Better than actions, anyhow.”

Mrs. Rainier intervened lazily:  “Oh, I’m not so sure of that as I used to be.  I mean, when you’re waiting for something to happen, and rather dreading it . . .”  She went on:  “Have you ever been going somewhere with a crowd and you’re certain it’s the wrong road and you tell them, but they won’t listen, so you just have to plod along in what you know is the wrong direction till somebody more important gets the same idea?”

“A parable, darling.  Please interpret.”

She seemed embarrassed by being the focus of attention—which was unusual of her.  “No, thanks, Cynthia.  That’s been enough words for ME.”  She laughed and came round with the cocktail-shaker, refilling the glasses, including her own.

Sir William resumed:  “Well, if he DOES march into Poland, we shall fight.”  Then suddenly he pointed to the great avenue of elms for which Stourton was famous.  “Look at those trees—planted two centuries ago, deliberately, by someone who thought of a time when someone else would see them like this.  Who could do such a thing today?”  Nobody informed him, and after a pause to deposit an olive stone in an ash-tray he went on:  “The most we do is to bury things under foundation-stones so that future civilizations can dig into our ruins and wonder.”

We all laughed, because after a few drinks what can one do but laugh; then in ones and twos the party dispersed and drove away in its cars.  I went to the library and turned on the radio for the news bulletin; Hitler’s speech had been just another threat to march.  Somehow one didn’t believe he would; there had been crises before, ending up in a deal; so that one had the half-cynical suspicion that both sides were secretly arranging another deal and that the wordy warfare was just shadow-boxing, face-saving, anything but a prelude to the guns.  While I was listening Sheldon entered to announce that dinner would be almost immediately, and that Mrs. Rainier had said “not dress.”

“Good—since I haven’t brought anything.”

“I think Mrs. Rainier anticipated that.”

“Very thoughtful of her.”

“You left Mr. Rainier in the City?”

“Er . . . yes.”

“Then you’ll be going back in the morning?”

“I expect so.”

He nodded and went to the door, then turned and asked:  “What’s going to happen, do you think?”

“Can’t tell yet, but it looks pretty serious.”

He said, still standing in the doorway:  “I mean what’s going to happen to Mr. Rainier?”

He went on, facing my stare:  “You said he’s in the City.”

“I didn’t say that.  I said I left him there.”

“Don’t you know where he is now?”

“No.”

“Isn’t that rather peculiar?”

“Many things are peculiar, Sheldon.”

“Are you worried about him? . . .  You must excuse me, I have a special reason for asking.”

“I’m sure you have.  It might even be the same reason I have for not answering.”

He came back into the room.  “Mr. Harrison . . . has he gone away to look for somebody?”

“I really don’t think I can discuss—“  Then something in his glance made me add:  “But supposing he had—then what?”

He smiled his slow slanting smile.  “Then you don’t need to worry.”

“I didn’t say I was worrying at all.  But why don’t I need to?”

“Because he won’t succeed in finding the person he’s looking for.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he never has succeeded.”

He left me then, and a few minutes later the dinner-gong sounded.  When I joined Mrs. Rainier in the dining-room, with Sheldon standing at the sideboard, I had a feeling they had been exchanging glances if not words about me, but I could not say much during dinner, on account of Woburn’s presence.  As if by tacit agreement we left him most of the talking, which he kept up very agreeably throughout the meal—he was really a very adaptable young man, you would have thought him born and bred at Stourton, except that most of those who had been were so much less smoothly articulate.  I was wondering how I could shake him off afterwards, but Mrs. Rainier did it for me, saying outright that she expected I had some business to talk over, so if Woburn would excuse us . . .

“Do you mind if we have a fire?” she asked, as soon as we were alone in the drawing-room.  I helped her to remove the heavy screen, saying something about the night being cold for the eve of September.

“It isn’t that,” she answered, kneeling on the hearth-rug.  “But it makes a more cheerful background when so many uncheerful things are happening.”

Looking at her then, I realized for the first time how much more she was than merely vivacious and attractive; her face had a beauty that poured into it from within—a secret, serene radiance.  She went on, stooping to the fire:  “You’ve saved me the trouble of calling at the office tomorrow—I wanted to ask about something.”

“Good job you didn’t, because I’m not sure Mr. Rainier will be there.”

“Oh?  He’s gone away somewhere?”

“Yes.”  I remembered him saying she was never surprised at any of his movements.  “And as I don’t know when exactly he’ll be coming back, I was wondering about the week-end plans.”

“The political situation’s so serious I doubt if we’d have had the party anyway.  Yes, let’s cancel it.”

“That’s what I was going to suggest.”

“Nice of you, but why didn’t you telephone?”  She added hastily:

“Not that I’m not pleased to see you—I always am—but it gave you the journey.”

“Oh, I didn’t mind.  I’m equally pleased to see YOU.”

She laughed.  “Now we’ve had the exchange of compliments—“

She didn’t know what else to say, I could see that; and after a pause I resumed:  “What was it you wanted to ask about if you had called at the office?”

“Oh yes, maybe you can tell me just as well.  Why did you and Charles drive out to Melbury the other night?”

The sheer unexpectedness of the question nonplussed me for a moment.  In the meantime she went on:  “And don’t blame Hanson—he wasn’t to know he’d overheard such a tremendous secret!”  She was laughing.

“Oh, not—er—exactly a secret.”

“Well, a mystery.”

I said to gain time:  “And you were going to pay a special visit just to ask that?”

“Yes, indeed—I’ve been terribly curious ever since I heard about it.”

“Then it’s my turn to say why didn’t you telephone?”

“Perhaps because I wanted to see your faces when I asked you—it’s so much harder to hide something that way!”  She laughed again.  “Won’t you let me in on the puzzle?  Melbury’s such an odd place for anyone to make a trip to.”

It suddenly occurred to me that she had to know, and now was the chance to tell her.  I said:  “Mr. Rainier was once in a hospital at Melbury.”

In the blaze of fresh firelight I could see the laughter drain away from her face and a sudden pallor enter it; but in another second she was smiling again.

“Well, it seems a queer reason for driving somewhere in pouring rain in the middle of the night.  For that matter Charles was at other hospitals too—he was pretty badly hurt in the war, you know.  It even affected his memory for a time.  I never knew quite how much you had gathered about all that—“  She was striving to seem very casual.

“Just the main facts, that’s all.”

“He told you them himself?”

“Yes.”

The smile remained as if fixed to her face.  “Oh, I’m so glad, because it shows how close you must have been to him as a friend.  He doesn’t often talk about it to anybody.  And to me he NEVER talks about it.”

“Never?”

“No, never.  Isn’t that strange?  But then he’s so little with me— and mostly we have business or politics to talk about.  Our marriage is a very happy one, but it’s never been—well, CLOSE is perhaps the word.  We’ve never even had a close quarrel.”

“But you love him?”

“Well, what do you think?  I adore him—most women do.  Haven’t you noticed that?  All his life he could always have had any pretty woman he wanted.”

“So it isn’t surprising that he GOT the pretty woman he wanted.”

“More compliments? . . .  Oh, but you should have seen the girl he was engaged to when I first became his secretary.  I WAS his secretary—you knew that too, I suppose?  She was much prettier than me, AND younger.  Kitty, her name was.  She married somebody else and died—I can’t think why—I mean why she married somebody else, not why she died—she died of malaria—I suppose there’s no reason at all for that, except mosquitoes.  I think they’d have been very happy—she and Charles, I mean, not the mosquitoes—but she’d have tried to make him give up the business.  I know that, because she told me.”

I could catch a note of hysteria subdued behind her forced facetiousness; I said, as calmly as I could:  “You knew her well, then?”

“Only by talking to her while she used to wait in the office for Charles.”

“Tell me—if it isn’t impertinent to ask—were you also in love with him then?”

She laughed.  “Of course.  Right from the first moment I set eyes on him. . . .  But that didn’t make me jealous of Kitty—only a bit envious, perhaps.  I wonder how it would have worked out—Charles without all the business and politics.  Of course he found out later I was the one to help him in that, and so I have—I’ve done my best to give him everything he wants—success—his ambitions . . .  and yet sometimes lately I’ve thought . . . well, like my parable.”

“Parable?”

“Cynthia called it that during cocktails, don’t you remember?  About going somewhere with someone and having doubts about it being the right road, but there’s nothing you can do but plod along until the other person begins to doubt.  And then, of course, if you admit that you had doubts all the time, as likely as not he turns on you and says—well, why didn’t you warn me?”

“Well, why didn’t you?”

“Because he wouldn’t have taken any notice if I had.  In fact he might not even have married me—and I WANTED him to marry me.  After Kitty died he threw himself into business more than ever— which gave me my chance—oh, I admit I was quite designing about it.  So was he.  He found how good I was—what a valuable merger it would be.  He was always clever about mergers. . . .”

“Did that entirely satisfy you?”

“No, but I thought it might lead to something that would—to the REAL closeness.  But it’s hard to get close when so many things are in the way. . . .  May I have a light?”  She was reaching for a cigarette on the side table and I could see that her hand was trembling.  She added, as I held the match:  “Do you want a drink in exchange?”

“I think I’d rather wait till later.”

“Later?  Well, how long do you expect to sit up and talk parables?”

I said then:  “Mrs. Rainier, I think I’d better tell you more about the visit to Melbury.”

“Oh yes, the mystery—do PLEASE tell me everything!  What did you find there?”

She was smiling as I began to tell her, and the smile grew faint as I proceeded, then appeared again in time for the end.  I told her all that was important for her to know—the fact of his earlier marriage, his life during those brief months immediately afterwards, and how that life had come to an abrupt finish.  I did not try to make it easier for her by a gingerly approach to the problem, or by minimizing its complexities.  And I told her how he had reacted to the recent return of memory—his first excitement, then his calmer determination and bitter regret for the years between.  Finally I told her that though it seemed to me highly unlikely that after two decades he would succeed in tracing someone who hadn’t apparently succeeded in the much easier task of tracing him during the same interval, and though the gap of years gave legal as well as every other kind of sanction to what had happened since, she must be prepared for the faint possibility; and that if it happened the publicity would be neither pleasant for her nor helpful to his position.

“He must know that too.”

“Yes, but in his present mood he doesn’t care.”

“Oh, HE DOESN’T CARE?”  She said that so softly, so gently, still smiling.  I tried to think of something to express the wave of sympathy that overcame me; in the end I could only give her my silence.  Presently she touched my hand and said:  “Thank you for telling me all this.”

“I must say you take it very well.”

“Did you expect me to make a scene?”

“No, but . . . when I try to imagine your feelings . . .”

“I don’t feel anything yet, at least not much, but I keep on thinking of what you said—that HE DOESN’T CARE!”

“I know it’s terrible, but—“

“Oh, no, it’s WONDERFUL!  He’d throw over everything—his future— his ambitions—EVERYTHING—if he could find her!”

“In his present mood he thinks so.”

“Don’t keep saying ‘in his present mood.’  Maybe his present mood is himself, and all the other moods were false. . . .  How do we know?”