To Journey Together (12 page)

Kenneth was already waiting in the hall, and, coming up to him, she said a little breathlessly, "I'm not late, am I?"

"You are punctuality itself," he assured her. And, taking her lightly by the arm, he escorted her out of the hotel to the waiting car.

Elinor was very much aware of his hand on her arm—of the slight pressure of strong fingers through the thickness of her coat. And suddenly, for the first time in her life, she knew that a touch could be as exciting as any word or glance.

Long afterwards Elinor was to remember that early morning drive round Salzburg with Kenneth. And, even years later, she had only to close her eyes in order to see once more in recollection the wooded slopes of the Kapuzinerberg, the rushing waters of the Salzach, the rich, ornate lines of the buildings around the Residenzplatz, and, above all—from every part of the town and often with breathtaking suddenness—the fairylike glimpses of the incredibly romantic-looking fortress of Hohen-Salzburg, towering above the town.

Perhaps the fact of her having an attractive man to act as guide had something to do with the pleasure of the experience. Perhaps it was partly the magic of the clear, early spring morning. Or perhaps it was just quite simply true that Salzburg was the loveliest place in the world.

That, at any rate, was how it seemed to Elinor then, and every building and monument and vista which Kenneth showed her that morning took on a special charm which it ever afterwards retained in her memory.

"Rudi says it was no wonder that Mozart was born here," she said rather reverently, as they paused for a few minutes before the tall, narrow house where that rare spirit over whom all the Muses of the eighteenth century hovered first saw the light of day.

"A little fanciful and studied of our Rudi," Kenneth replied, in the specially matter-of-fact tone which he reserved for comment on the von Eibergs. "But I see what he means."

Elinor bit her lip.

"I don't know why you have to be so critical always of Rudi," she said severely. "He has been extraordinarily kind to me."

"I am sure he has," Kenneth agreed politely. But his tone left no doubt of the fact that a recital of Rudi's excellences would bore him profoundly.

So Elinor said no more as they drove slowly onwards. And presently they crossed one of the many bridges, back to their own side of the river, and a

few minutes later they stopped once more outside their hotel, and the magic hour was over.

"Thank you so very much for taking me," Elinor said, as she got out of the car. "It was a wonderful experience, and I shall never forget it. Not any of it."

He gave her a half puzzled, half amused look at that, and said curiously, "You funny child—I believe you mean just that."

"Of course."

"Do any memories last so long?" he asked—lightly, and yet as though he really wanted an answer.

"Not all of them, I suppose. But there are some things you remember always. You can take them out again and again, years afterwards, and look at them and find them as fresh as ever. I think," Elinor said slowly, "that perhaps they are the only things in life that nothing and no one can ever take away from you."

"I suppose they are," he agreed almost gently. Then he took her hand in his and smiled down at her in a way that suddenly caught at her heart. "Thank you, Elinor, for letting me give you one of those memories."

THE rest of the party were just coming down to breakfast as Elinor and Kenneth came in. And Lady Connelton, with a slight yawn, said she supposed that if only they had all had the same energy as Elinor and gone out early they would be looking as blooming and sparkling as she did now.

"Do I look like that?" Elinor smiled.

"Exactly like that," declared Rudi, coming up behind her. "When we get to Vienna, I am going to have my turn at devising early morning distractions. We'll go riding in the Prater. Or maybe we'll find one of the last of the open horse carriages and drive in the Ring and pretend the world hasn't changed from the days when the motor-car came in and romance went out."

"That will be lovely," Elinor admitted with a smile. But she was rather glad Kenneth had not heard this last speech. She had an idea he might have characterized it as another of Rudi's "fanciful and studied" sayings.

In addition, she supposed that perhaps she ought to explain that she had never ridden a horse in her life, and could not quite see herself cantering elegantly in the Prater, whatever that might be.

But, on reflection, she decided that the whole effect of Rudi's nice little speech would be wasted if she started going into such mundane detail. So she contented herself with the general—and enthusiastic —comment which she had already made.

From Salzburg they drove that morning to Linz, through lake and mountain scenery which held Elinor speechless with wonder and delight, and from time to time Rudi pointed out to her features which were obviously familiar to him but took on fresh beauty because someone was seeing them with fresh eyes.

It was hard to say where they first picked up one of the many tributaries hurrying along to swell the

mighty waters of the Danube, but by the time they reached the lovely old mediaeval town of Linz, Elinor realized that they were already in the far-famed Danube Valley.

For a while, as they drove on that afternoon, the valley remained unexpectedly narrow. But then it began to widen out and presently, as they crossed and recrossed the shining or turbulent or muddy waters of the river—varying according to the type of country through which it flowed—Elinor began to understand how, of all the waterways of Europe, the Danube had somehow taken on a particular character of its own, so that it was regarded more as a personal force than a geographical feature.

"No wonder there are so many legends about it," she exclaimed to Rudi. "It is almost human!"

"It is superhuman," retorted Rudi with a smile. "While it lives I think Austria cannot die."

She glanced at him quickly.

"Is there any fear that it might? Why do you say that, Rudi?"

But, characteristically, he made no attempt to continue the melancholy subject further. Instead, he pointed out something of interest to Elinor, and was so amusing and gay about it that she thought she would never understand him, or his extraordinary facility for turning from sadness to gaiety within the space of minutes.

They were all tired by the time they came at last, late in the evening, to Vienna.

In spite of this, Elinor roused herself and tried to follow the eager, rapid commentary which the von Eibergs kept up as they drove through the streets. But it was difficult to see much by lamplight, and what really interested her most at that moment was the fact that she would catch at any rate a glimpse of their house—or, rather, their stepmother's house—since the first stop was to be made there, before the Conneltons drove on to their hotel.

When they arrived, however, she could see little more than a stone gateway, leading into a flagged court. Over the gateway hung a lantern of ancient

and beautiful design, and when Rudi pulled a long brass bell-pull at the side of the gate, a door on the far side of the courtyard opened, sending a further beam of light into the darkness.

By this light they saw an old man, wearing a green baize apron over a neat suit, come across the yard to take the luggage. At the sight of Rudi and Ilsa, his rather worn old face broke into a smile, and he welcomed them with a mixture of respectful affection and familiar severity which greatly intrigued Elinor, who was quite unused to the attitude of the old continental servant towards "the family" he served.

Goodbyes now had to be said, and, although the von Eibergs promised to call at the hotel the very next day, Elinor felt regretfully that a link was being broken. Ilsa kissed her goodbye, and then, rather unexpectedly, Rudi did too under the somewhat quizzical regard of Kenneth.

Then the brother and sister followed the old manservant into the shadows, and the car drove on.

"A very agreeable couple," commented Sir Daniel presently, breaking a few minutes' silence. "They both made admirable travelling companions."

"Very," agreed Kenneth non-committally.

"I wonder what their background is, exactly ?" Lady Connelton said. "One couldn't tell much from the outside of that place. It could have led almost anywhere."

"Probably that was the courtyard of some old palace," Sir Daniel said.

"Palace.;'" Elinor was both impressed and startled.

"Yes, yes. They have most of them been turned into flats long ago," her employer explained.

"Is that their own home?" Kenneth enquired, more perhaps to make conversation than because he had any special interest in the von Eiberg background.

"No. It's their stepmother's home," Elinor said.

"So they have a stepmother?" For some reason

or other, he laughed. "What sort of a stepmother?"

"They both describe her as 'fabulous'," Elinor told him soberly. "She was an actress, I think. Her name was Leni Mardenburg."

"Leni Mardenburg!" exclaimed both Sir Daniel and Kenneth simultaneously. And then Kenneth added, rather unreasonably, "They would!"

"What do you mean by that?" Elinor was immediately up in arms on behalf of Rudi and Ilsa.

"Only that they have a genius for raking up dramatic detail about themselves," Kenneth said, somewhat unfairly. "Leni Mardenburg was indeed fabulous. She was one of the stage darlings of Imperial Vienna, years before the First World War."

"Must be about a hundred," remarked Sir Daniel reflectively.

"Oh, no. Somewhere in her eighties, surely," corrected Kenneth. "But no one ever knew her age, did they? I understand she looked round about thirty for something like twenty-five years. My father said he saw her play Portia when she couldn't have been a day under sixty. I suppose that was about the period she married the father of this pair."

"And collected all the family money," suggested Lady Connelton shrewdly.

"Could be," Kenneth said thoughtfully. "Though she must have salted down a good deal of her own, one way and another."

"There have been two wars and several depressions during her lifetime, don't forget," Sir Daniel said.

"That's true," Kenneth agreed.

And then they arrived at their hotel and, to Elinor's regret, this fascinating conversation came to an end. But she secretly determined that, if it were humanly possible, she would know more of the extraordinary personality who, a generation or more after her heyday, still had the power to make even Kenneth sit up and take notice.

The hotel where they had elected to stay had that air of faintly passee grandeur which clings to so many places in Vienna. But it was very comfortable —Lady Connelton had seen to that when the choice

was made. And, although they had arrived very late in the evening, it seemed to be the concern of everyone to see that they should be made to fee I welcome.

In her big quiet room, with what seemed to her to be slightly over-sized furniture, Elinor took stock of her surroundings and thought, "It is like stepping into a novel. Almost an historical novel." And already she began to sense why it was that Sir Daniel found the place perennially fascinating.

It was the first time Elinor had ever stayed in a really big hotel—the "guest-house" at Ehrwald and the hotel in Salzburg being very much less intimidating places—and she was a good deal over-awed by the unfamiliar surroundings.

Lady Connelton had said something about meeting downstairs for a meal, and Elinor supposed there would be no real difficulty in finding her way. But she found herself wishing that she had someone-Ilsa, for preference—who would accompany her this first time, and make her feel less alone as she started off down the immense, thickly carpeted corridor towards the lift.

She pressed the bell timidly, and a lift about the size of the drawing-room at home rose majestically to her floor. The lift-man drew back the wrought-iron gate and invited her in, with all the honours due to a visiting royalty—though perhaps a minor one.

Feeling very small, Elinor stepped in and, with a certain amount of creaking, the lift sank once more to ground-floor level. Here she was bowed out into a desert of rich, though rather worn red carpet and—now feeling almost exactly like Alice after she had nibbled the wrong side of the mushroom—Elinor left the comparative shelter of the lift and started out across the red carpet, hoping that she would find her way to the dining-room without too much difficulty.

For a moment she could see no one in sight of whom she could enquire, and wished now that she had ventured to ask the lift-man in English. Then, suddenly—with a degree of relief she had not

previously associated with him—she saw that Kenneth was standing beside a table, reading a newspaper stretched on a curious wicker frame.

She made for him at once, with all the instinct of a homing pigeon. But, before she could reach him, someone else came running out of a side passage, with a delighted cry of, "Kenneth! I guessed you'd stay here if you did come on to Vienna. What luck that you came so soon!"

And the next moment Elinor had the surprising, and somehow most unwelcome, experience of seeing a pretty girl fling herself upon Kenneth and embrace him very heartily.