The Dangerous Years (25 page)

“What can we do?” she whispered. “Tom, what can we do? I must go down. It may be from St. Moritz. Something has happened. They've had an accident. Joan has been hurt.”

“Look, my love; you're teasing yourself into hysteria. There's no purpose in that.” He would not be denied, and though she had turned away, and was lying beside him on her back, her head half-raised the better to listen, he drew her to him again, and fell asleep. So too did the telephone, and the early-hour silences that are more clamant than sound, resumed control over the night.

Once uneasiness was roused, however, sleep did not return to Mary. The warmth of her lover, whose close embrace she hesitated to unlock for fear of waking him again, and the increasing tension of her mind, made her over-hot. She lay imprisoned, instead of protected. She longed to move; but it was only her thoughts that moved, and they flew to and fro like birds in a trap, beating their wings against the walls. She saw Joan clearly, and pictured her in trouble. How could she be otherwise, with the insoluble problem of her unfulfilled marriage in
her life? Mary compared the situation with her present one, and a sense of shame at her own latter-day greediness flushed through her flesh. She put her hand down, as though to touch her thigh in reproof, but found Tom's hand already there; so peaceful and so possessive, that she was unconscious it had been there.

For a long while she lay, empty-minded. She was still listening for that bell to ring again. But nothing happened; nothing from outside. But within, the turmoil grew. She saw Joan clearly, the loved figure to whom she had devoted herself since her husband's death, making her the symbol of a faithfulness to the past, and of a dedication of herself to some form of passion that the desires and hopes of this world could not distort or destroy. Robbed of the joys of love, she had turned to the duties, and had fulfilled them. But was she now wasting all that credit? This question stung her, and she sighed, tried to shrink herself out of the grasp of the sleeping man beside her. But he held too firmly. Nor was she quite whole-hearted in her effort. What else had she left but his embrace?

This again told her that Joan must be aware of what was happening. Why, otherwise, did the girl suddenly want to leave her alone in Paris, and go off with the husband from whom she had recently separated for good? Mary writhed again upon the rack.

“I can't go on, Tom,” she said. But Tom did not wake, he merely sank his head between her breasts and snuggled there like a child. She tried to look down at him, but a beam of shadow from the blind cut across the top of his head, and the rest of it was hidden by the bedclothes. But she could feel him there, in the posture of innocence. He must surely love her, though time had not yet proved it.

The query reminded her of his embarrassment in having to borrow money from her. That had been the start. He had borrowed more, and nothing had been said about this difficult situation. How was he to repay, for his own sake?
She must help him out of that humiliation by taking part in the promotion of his nephew's musical career. That stupid, puritanical father must be persuaded to give way. To-morrow she would have a talk with Mr. Sturm, who had invited them both to lunch with him. It did not occur to her that this joint invitation was an acceptance of the relationship between her and Tom. The more important thing now was for Tom to be able to stand equally with her, and not to be dependent upon her. It was a dreadful handicap, and might poison their love.

As though to point this threat, the distant telephone began to ring again, its rhythm more sinister than before. She was convinced now that the sound came from her own room. Something must be done to answer it, for it was the very voice of conscience. But she was in love's grasp, and could not extricate herself without inflicting her burden on the dear person beside her. And very dear he had become, as she now realised, in the aftermath of passion. Had the attraction been nothing but desire, this satiety would have been dreadful. But it was not, in spite of the circumstances; the ties that bound him, the time of life that made the emotional indulgence somewhat ridiculous; the implied denial of the code on which she had brought up her daughter, and controlled her own life of widowhood.

She tried again to wriggle out of Tom's embrace, but before she could succeed, the telephone stopped. She looked round her, and the bars of light and shadow changed to steel, fastened down over the bed.

“I can't Tom, I can't!” she murmured, but too feebly to rouse him. She was losing control of herself, for she had not intended to speak. This frightened her. The responsibility was growing too heavy. I must wake him, she thought; he must share it with me. But something maternal forbade this selfish action. He slept so innocently and she knew that it was innocence, all the equivocal
element in his nature that had, perhaps, prevented him from making a success of his life, as his brother had done. Perhaps they were both alike, unworldly men, only in Tom this spiritual streak had not been given full assurance, or related to his professional affairs. The doctor was fortunate in his work. Tom was not. She must alter that. They would discuss it to-morrow.

But what would his wife do? Mary's scruples were not religious. She had regulated her life by an ethical rather than a religious code since the shock of her husband's death. She had not dared to let herself plunge again into the depths. It was safer to be merely reasonable, cool. The violence of religion was too much like the ecstasies which she had known in her marriage, when she had given herself too lavishly and blindly. Ever since, she had been paying for that. And now she had broken down again, let herself be plunged into the mid-ocean of passion. It was unaccountable, she told herself. What was she sacrificing? First of all, Joan's respect. That she was convinced of. The look Joan had given her that day, that first day, outside Tom's room! And another piece of evidence suddenly dawned upon her. The overcoat. Joan had refused to wear that coat again. Mary remembered the recoil as John had tried to put it round his wife's shoulders. Unclean! That was what the gesture meant.

Mary turned again in torment. Oh, Joan, you don't understand, she cried to the image of her daughter in her heart. You ought to understand; you are seeking the same thing yourself. Your own unhappiness is for lack of it.

Her misery increased the confusion of thoughts and emotions. Here, so deep below the surface of life where she had moved in comparative ease and dignity for twelve years, everything was obscured, tangled. An awareness of some living force returned, whom she must call God, and appeal to as God, with supersition or faith, call it what she would. There it was, a comeback out of the
past, the dual aspect of love, with instinctive torment of the flesh and release of the spirit; bondage and freedom together; the perpetual conflict of desire and conscience, unknown to the reasonable life, from which all extremes had been banished as being survivals of savagery, the immolations, the rites of spring, the symbols of fecundity, the crucifixions. She had believed such disturbances were put away for ever, out of her nicely ordered social scheme of things; her good works, her parenthood alone; her sublimation of mourning.

But now she knew that she was no longer mourning; that the past was burned out, consumed, in this fire that had broken out in her bones, her flesh, her brain. Her brain! She put up her hand to her forehead, and found herself sweating. Again she groped for her handkerchief, and Tom half-woke, murmuring an endearment and drawing her closer, crushing her breasts against his head.

This tiny climax subsided, and both relaxed into comfort. But not for long. Mary began afresh, counting the accusations piling up against her. She saw the austere woman clerk in the desk below, prepared to ask why the telephone had not been answered during the night, to avoid disturbing the other guests: prepared to ask, while the answer flashed from those cynical French eyes. And if that attitude was typical, what must the doctor and his wife be thinking? They no doubt were more charitable, but even so, they would regard it as a foolish escapade at the best, unworthy of a matron of fifty who ought, all passion spent, to be mistress of her environment and any emergency that the evening of life might bring.

Why could not Tom wake and share with her? Was he totally incapable of taking any responsibility? Did this account for his failure hitherto?

Dawn began to weaken the strength of the bars of light that held her down, the artifices of the night. Sounds invaded the boulevard; first a lorry or two, then the commotion
of a municipal machine flushing out the gutters. The light broadened in the room, and Tom stirred, moved round, and at last released her from his jealous embrace.

“Why, Mary, we've slept soundly,” he said, “what a happy night, after all. I wonder who that telephone was ringing for?” He looked at his watch. “Time we roused ourselves, my darling, before the folk here start moving. But I hate losing you. We must put that right, eh? As soon as possible.”

“Oh, Tom!” she said; and she sighed with misery. There was nothing more to add. Quietly she slipped out of bed, put on her nightdress and dressing-gown, opened the door, peered along the corridor, and fled.

The alpine weather broke again, and gales swept up the valley, bringing first snow, then sleet and rain, and ruin to outdoor sport. Joan was relieved, for it meant that the recent toboggan escapade could not be repeated. John failed to appreciate how distressed she had been. He talked of it with gusto, as a schoolboy would recall the pleasures of a strawberry ice. Nor did she have support from Adrian, whose hands had, after all, survived unharmed, though he had lost a pair of gloves that afternoon. The escape had been too narrow, however, for Joan to feel safe, especially as John appeared to be incapable of sharing her anxiety about the child.

Thinking over the incident, she realised that John's agreement about keeping Adrian away from the dangers of the concert platform was due simply to his disapproval of allowing any youngster to ‘show off' or to be treated in any way that savoured of favouritism. He had, apparently, interpreted Dr. Batten's wishes in that way, for he said nothing about the music, the child's gifts, the possibilities that lay therein.

Life in the hotel was not dull, in spite of the disappointments felt by the hearty folk and the fanatical sporters. Charades, games, card parties, billiards, snooker and table tennis made a full programme, bringing the guests
together and decorating the semi-daylight hours with goodwill and enjoyment.

This went on for two days, during which the Boys and their small charge shared in what was going on. In spite of her somewhat bitter conclusion about John's motives in helping her over the responsibility for Adrian, Joan saw her husband at his best. He found several people congenial to him, among them a couple of unmarried dons from Cambridge who, with an American of the same profession, made up a foursome for snooker. This, and a bit of homework brought from the laboratory, kept him from being bored by indoor life while the gales raged round the hotel and flung dour blankets of cloud round the mountains. From time to time John would leave what he was doing, to peer craftily and hopefully out of the double windows, up at the racing skies. “God!” he would murmur, then grin at his wife, or his fellow-guests, and return with renewed enthusiasm to the billiard table, or his papers.

Joan found it impossible not to respond to his placid contentment. He was affectionate with her, more than he had ever been at home. The recent estrangement had wakened him up to that extent. He tried his best, and the very earnestness of the effect was endearing. Something else, perhaps, made it easier for her to be reconciled. She allowed herself to suspect that the presence of Adrian had made John conscious of an element missing from his own life, and from the marriage. His interest in the boy may have been conventional, rather like that of a preparatory schoolmaster, but it brought a mature light into his eyes, and a softness into his voice, as well as a certain difference into his attitude toward her.

She dared not speculate further, but made herself rest content with what she had observed. One thing she did recognise; it was that she was less lonely. And this was due not solely to the adoration from Adrian. Indeed, she
had not dared to allow herself to accept that, for the child's sake, and for her own, because she could not believe herself capable of inspiring so masculine a passion. And anyhow, it was absurd, coming from a child of nine!

Adrian, meanwhile, demanded as much as he gave. He would not allow Joan out of his sight, and even lingered about in the corridor when she went to the bathroom or the w.c., waiting for her to reappear. His faculty for intense concentration on one object, one purpose or motive, was frightening.

On the third afternoon, when she was changing for dinner, John came into her room through the communicating door. He came with no particular request, and appeared merely to want her company, to chat and smoke a cigarette. She had only just persuaded Adrian to leave her, for he had been with her since lunch-time, and was something of a burden, with his intensity, his unflagging worship, through those burning grey eyes and those expressive hands. He had demanded to help her to dress, and she had caught him picking up her silk scarf, still warm from her body, and burying his face in it. Making the excuse that he must go and wash, and change his shirt, she had bundled him into his own room. But returning to her own, she found her cheeks flaming, and a curious sensation of animal pleasure pervading her, as though she were standing in hot sunshine, or were plunged into a warm sea beyond the shadow of palm trees.

“Is that child quite safe?” she asked John, sorting out a pair of stockings from the débris in the chest-of-drawers. She was as unlike her mother in domestic habits as in her clothes.

“Safe? What are you always worrying about safety for? He's a perfectly healthy kid, and needs a bit of risk in his life. Too much pampering already, I should say, in that hot-house atmosphere.”