The Dangerous Years (34 page)

Full of confidence in the morrow, they threw off all subterfuge at the hotel, and Mary went straight to Colonel Batten's room. They woke early, separating only to pack their bags. Tom came down to Mary before she had finished, and sat on the bed talking and smoking, while he drank an extra cup of coffee from the pot on her breakfast tray. Neither was embarrassed by the coming and going of the maid, who openly treated them as man and wife; but with a slight difference. They were even prepared to accept that difference, and enjoy it.

“I've got a curious feeling that things are over, as well as just beginning,” said Tom, addressing Mary's bent back, as she knelt before a trunk, folding garments neatly.

“We know where we are, at any rate,” she replied, warm with exertion, and a touch of self-satisfaction. She had reason to be pleased. A resolution taken and acted upon immediately gives confidence. So she felt, looking over her shoulder as Tom stooped and kissed the nape of her neck.

“Those hands look capable,” he said, taking the lid of the trunk and closing it, letting the clasps spring home with a nice finality. “It's a great business, my dear. But see now, I'd better jostle old Luke. He's not used to catching trains these days. Been settled here so long, in this routine of his. He hardly ever moves away from his daily work. I'll run round to the flat.”

Mary struggled up from her knees, and seized the lapel of his coat. “Oh no, Tom, no! Something might happen. You have to cross the road! Not at the last minute. I'm frightened. No, don't go now. Stay with me, Tom.”

“But look here, my dear, this is absurd. We don't want to rush for the train. As though anything could happen now. We're all set, aren't we? Everything packed, including our troubles!”

He laughed at her, touching her cheek with his fingers, twitching her jacket into place, and picking up her coat and holding it open for her.

At that moment they heard a car draw up outside.

“Ah, good! There he is, the fine fellow. Up to scratch for once. That was a great talk we had with them both last night, Mary. It put the finishing touch to our plans, don't you think? My God, I feel the years roll back, I can tell you!”

He hurried her into the coat, and strode to the window, propelling her before him, with his arms round her playfully. They saw Luke standing irresolutely beside the car, his hand to his lips. Tom tapped loudly at the window, and his brother looked up, saw them, and instantly dropped his eyes, hurrying into the hotel.

“What's biting him?” said Tom.

“You're as nervous as I am,” said Mary, taking him by the hand, and waiting for Luke to come up. They heard the lift gates clang, and the whine of its ascent, then the second clang of the gates. A moment later Luke knocked at the bedroom door. Tom opened it, and his brother entered.

The lovers at once knew that something was wrong. Luke stood silent, looking from one to the other, his face pale as usual, his eyes veiled. He moistened his lips, and spoke to Mary.

“A telephone call has just come through from St. Moritz, Mary.”

Mary felt herself being dragged back into the past. She looked at Tom, and saw him standing at attention, staring at the wall.

“Tell me,” she said, simply.

“There has been an accident. A climbing party caught by an avalanche. Your son-in-law is one of them. He and two other Cambridge men, and a Swiss guide.”

“Injured?” she whispered, her lips dry. “Is he badly hurt?”

Luke did not reply instantly, and Mary had time to picture Joan, alone there, perhaps sitting in a hospital waiting for news.

“Who rang?” she asked. “Was it Joan herself? But how serious is it?”

“Yes,” said Luke, unconsciously stepping between her and his brother, “yes, it is serious, Mary; final. The climbers have completely disappeared. So far no trace of them. A rescue party went out yesterday afternoon. It happened just before lunch, but nothing was suspected until the climbers did not return, and even then it was said that they had been prepared to spend a night in a hut on the first ledge. But the other guides were not satisfied. They had seen the fall of snow, for it was not far distant, and they knew that the four men had made for that ledge. It was Joan who rang up this morning. She had waited all night, hoping for better news. But there is no hope now.”

He stood, waiting.

“What else?” said the mother. “Is there anything else?”

“It is for you to decide,” said Luke, sadly.

She looked at Tom. He still did not move. She had to choose for herself.

“But, Joan! What did she say? Did she ask for me?”

“Yes. She wants you to go to her. I have to go to fetch Adrian.”

The two men waited for Mary to speak. She was
irresolute. This decision had to be made, and she knew what it would have to be: but the consequences filled her with despair. She saw Tom fading back, a stranger again. The old conscience, against which she had fought so fiercely at the beginning of the liaison, gripped her once more, denying her right to the new life she had claimed; the full life that should restore youth to her and her lover; youth and confidence.

Before she could master her feelings, and find words to help her to a decision, there was a knock at the door.

Nobody answered, and the knock was repeated.

“Come in,” said Tom, starting as though he had been asleep.

Aloysius Sturm entered, carrying a sheaf of flowers.

“Why, friends,” he said, “I was mighty afraid I should be late. I went round this morning, and collected the offering which I had ordered last night, when I learned from the doctor that you were setting off for London early. I guess I got hot round the collar, and had to …”

Then he saw the three figures standing before him.

“Say! … Anything wrong here?”

He put down the bouquet on a chair, and looked shrewdly from one to the other, finally turning to the doctor.

“So? May I have the privilege, Doctor? May I share this?”

He stepped back, and waited.

Dr. Batten studied him severely. Then the hostility in his eyes suddenly dissolved.

“Forgive me,” he said quietly, and held out his hand, which Mr. Sturm took, his face almost steaming with emotion.

“You got me wrong, there, Doctor. But see here now, I want to know what …”

“Tom!” cried Mary, interrupting the speaker. She and Tom Batten at that moment were alone in the empty
world. She had stepped back from him, in such a manner as suggested that she were being torn from his arms; reluctant, agonised.

“Tom! I
must
go, I
must
! I can't leave Joan to face this without me. Don't you realise? It is so cruel, just as they had started life afresh. Whatever will she do? And I had hoped …” She turned aside, and her shoulders shook, while she fumbled to find a handkerchief. She struggled with herself for some moments, while the men stood irresolute. Then she turned again to Tom.

“Look, I can't come to London. I am sorry, my dearest. Do you understand? Events are too big for us. That's all. I might have known we should have to pay for our happiness. Joan must come first, Tom. I owe that to her. And now she is alone, and probably going to have a child. She hinted at that in her letter. She will need me more than ever. You must let me go, and forgive me …”

Dr. Batten was watching his brother, expecting some sign of distress, or even collapse, at least into the familiar state of irresolution. He stepped closer to him, prepared to try to counteract the cruelty of this sudden disappointment.

To his surprise, he saw Tom make a small gesture of impatience, almost brushing him aside. The colonel was not concerned for himself. His face shone with eagerness and compassion; but for Mary. He approached her gently, shyly. Then his feelings overcame him, and he openly put his arm round her and drew her to him, ignoring the presence of the two men.

“My darling,” he whispered. “Mary! Of course you must go. I would come too: but you will want to be on your own over this. And I see too what I must do now; what I ought to have done long ago. I've been feeble. You have made the difference. I can see it all clearly. This is a grim business for you and your daughter, my dear. But Luke will help you out. He'll be with you.
Bring her back to Paris with Luke and the boy. Wait here for a bit, until she gets over the shock. See how she shapes. But for God's sake don't talk about retribution and all that nonsense. You've got no cause for remorse. You've given me new life. You've started me again, and I won't be beaten down this time. Whatever happens, I'll come back to you. It's like that, Luke. Do you see? And you, Sturm? Mary and I have gone too far, at our time of life, to feel guilty. We've learned to stand on our own feet. I've got something to fight for now, and that's enough. I'm off to London; she must go to her daughter. I agree; whoever imagined that I would object? No, nobody. But look here, Luke, Mary and I cannot …”

“No, Tom, you cannot.” Luke spoke almost fiercely, directing himself to Mary rather than to his brother, who now needed no counsel. “You hear, Mary? This self-accusation is quite unreal. The accident has nothing whatever to do with your life and Tom's life, except to make you value what you have built together. That is a solid enough thing, surely? Something to be thankful for, earthy, wholesome and sane. It can nourish your courage now that you need the help and the confidence. But we ought to be setting off. I propose that you and I drive straight away to St. Moritz. We can be there by tomorrow night.”

Aloysius Sturm interposed.

“And see here, friends. I've business enough to do in London. I guess I'll accompany the colonel, but it'll have to be by a later train. He'll want a stand-by in this affair of his. I know the ropes, I'll say that without boasting. All my working life I've had to deal with contracts, and legal tie-ups. If we cannot get you out of this tangle, Colonel, my name is mud.”

Mary listened to the two voices, and stood still with Tom's arm round her. She listened without listening. She was concerned with the problem quite removed from all
this. It was the discovery that her passion was dying down like a straw fire. She could feel her mind and emotions withdrawing themselves. A moment ago the sensation had frightened her, filled her with agony. Now she saw Tom and was already wondering who he might be. But her vows, her intimacy, remained as remembrancers. She could not gainsay that gift, or ignore the value which Tom put upon it. The evidence was so startling. And it was her responsibility too. He expected to come back to her. She was almost terrified to find herself indifferent. She wanted to escape before he discovered it, before he saw that now Joan was her first concern, her daughter who had already used so much of her life. Now the rest must be given, if needed, as it would be. She was certain of that.

“I must go, Tom,” she said quietly. She no longer wept. Withdrawing herself gently from Tom's arms, she kissed him on the cheek. “You too, my dear. You must go. Good-bye now.…”

He stood, empty-handed and alone, a bewilderment in his eyes at the calmness and the sudden removal of herself.

“But, Mary? Not … not …?”

Her heart ached for him, though she was now impatient to be gone.

“Of course not, dearest. If you want me … when it is all over. I don't know what lies before us. But I shall be there … if you want me.”

He looked at her sadly, then at his brother.

“Take care of her, Luke,” he said, his voice trembling. Then he drew himself up, and turned to Aloysius Sturm. “Well, we'd better see about it. I think this is good of you, Sturm, good of you.” He shook the American by the hand. A moment passed, while all three stood irresolute.

“Cut along now, Mary,” said Tom. “You'd better lose no more time. But be sure that this is only a beginning. I've a claim on you now, eh? That's reasonable enough—if
you want us to be reasonable. But I've learned more than that, in your hands, Mary. I owe you my life, my new life.”

He picked up her suitcase, and indicated that she should precede him to the door. His broad shoulders, squared with new vigour, seemed to fill the exit. She could not escape from him altogether. With a sigh of relief, she realised again that she did not want to. They went out together, leaving the others to follow with the rest of her luggage.

Aloysius Sturm looked at Dr. Batten, and they smiled at each other.

“Well, Doctor,” said the American, “I guess that was no easy choice.”

“I hope, for my brother's sake, that it was no choice at all,” said Dr. Batten slowly, his features expressive of profound thought.

Richard Church was born in London in 1893. At the age of sixteen, persuaded by his father, he took a position as a clerk in the Civil Service where he worked for the next twenty-four years. During that time he worked tirelessly on his love of all things literary, devoting early mornings, between 5 and 7, and most of his evenings to writing and reading. In 1917 this hard regime was rewarded and his first volume of poetry,
The Flood of Life, and Other Poems
, was published. But real success and acclaim came only in 1926 with the publication of
Portrait of the Abbot
.

In 1930 Richard gave up his position with the Civil Service and began a full-time writing career. He died in 1972, with over sixty books of poetry and prose to his name, having firmly established his position in English literary heritage.