“They will not still see you around,” she answered, almost casually. “For you must go away for a long holiday . . . with me.”
Again he started visibly, but she held him silent with a faint calm smile, went on in the same even, conversational tone.
“First we go to Montecatini, where there are wonderful baths for your back, and also, once you are better, a fine golf course where I will walk with you and admire your play. After, we take a cruise on that nice select little ship the Stella Polaris. Only then, in the Spring, do we return here, by which time all the silly business is finished and long forgotten.”
Immobilised by those hypnotic eyes he stared at her as though in a trance, yet perceiving, for the first time, that her hair had been freshly rinsed and set, that—as if she had expected him—she wore a new mauve silk dress, high in the waist, full and pleated in the skirt, a dress at once classic and correct, which enhanced her natural distinction. Certainly a fine figure of a woman and still beautiful—at a distance. Yet from close range his dilated pupils mirrored the commencing stigmata of middle-age; the faint reticulated network beneath the orbits, the slight sag of the muscular neckline, the speckled discoloration of the strong even teeth. How could this be compared with that other sweet face, that frail, fresh young body? An inward sigh shook him. And yet—in his present lamentable state—wasn’t she a haven, an anchorage, a lady too, cultured, distinguished, and, in the ultimate analysis, not unbedworthy? He drew a sharp breath, was about to speak when, with a gleam of ridicule, she forestalled him.
“Yes, I am a reasonable bargain. And I will be the proper wife for you—by day and by night. Have I not also had strong longings during the years I have lived alone? We shall fulfil together. And what an interest for us both to restore and redecorate the Seeburg, to fill it with your beautiful things! We shall have a salon more famous than was Coppée in the days of Mme. de Stael.”
He still mumbled a protest.
“I’m terribly fond of you, dear Frida. But . . .”.
“But, yes, my poor man, and I of you. For once and all, I will not let you go out there to destroy yourself.”
A silence. What more could he say, or do? He felt overpowered, dominated, possessed, yet filled with a slow, creeping tide of comfort. The plan she presented was so sane, so agreeable in all respects—vastly different from that dark future which, during these last few days, he had come to dread. Acceptance would be like sliding into a warm bath after a long exhausting journey. He closed his eyes and slid. The relief was indescribable. He lay back on the sofa.
“Oh, my God, Frida . . . I feel I want to tell you everything . . . from the very beginning.”
And he did, at length, with feeling.
“Ah, yes,” she murmured, sympathetically if ambiguously, when he concluded. “I see it all.”
“You’re the only woman who has ever understood me.”
As he spoke the dog stirred from sleep, looked up and, with a bark of recognition, jumped on to his knees.
“You see,” she nodded, “Peterkin accepts you also. Now you are tired. Rest while I bring something to restore you.” She was soon back, glass in hand. “This is from your own country, very old and special. I have kept it for you for a long time. Now, to please me, you must drink all.”
The one spirit he detested was whisky—it always disagreed with him, soured his stomach, upset his liver. But he did need a stimulant, and he wanted to please her; besides, he hadn’t the will to resist.
“Well done,” she commended him, resuming her place beside him. “Now we will sit quiet as two mice in church until you feel better.”
As he had expected, the whisky went straight to his head. His face became flushed and in no time at all he felt, not better, but stupid and inflamed. Presently, observing him, she said thoughtfully: “I have been considering the best, way to arrange our marriage. It must be done not only most quietly, but also quickly, if we are to get away before all the fuss, which you fear so much, becomes known. Yes?”
“The sooner we clear out the better.”
“Then it is best that we go to Basle, leaving early tomorrow. It will take altogether three days, for there are several formalities. But we can be back here on Wednesday evening.”
“And then, dear Frida?”
“Off on our long holiday next morning.”
Hazily he saw her smiling down at him. Damn it, she wasn’t a bad-looking gammer, with those wonderful eyes and that solid, Wagnerian body which gave promise of well sprung resilience. What was she saying?
“You were sweet a moment ago. You called me dear Frida.”
“You are rather a dear, you know.” Unexpectedly, he sniggered. “A regular Brunnhilde.”
“It is for you to know—in the future. You have never seen the upstairs of the Seeburg. My room, that will be our room, is nice. That we shall not look at this evening. But after? So? You will not find me cold. Some people do not need the love of the body, but with us it will be natural and frequent. Yes? And necessary also, for it puts one at ease. Now let us talk about our so pleasant future.”
An hour later, the Dauphine bore him triumphantly to the villa. In the close darkness of the little car she patted his cheek and gave a meaning little laugh.
“Now, like me, you will have happy dreams. Goodnight, mein lieber Mann, tomorrow I will come to you early. We must start for Basle before nine o’clock.”
Dead beat, but dulled and comforted, he stumbled into the house, thankful for the fact that he was so extinguished he must instantly fall asleep.
“I’m going straight to bed,” he told Arturo, in a voice he made an effort to keep normal. “See that you lock up before you turn in. And I’ll want breakfast at eight sharp.”
“Yes, sir,” said Arturo, somewhat blankly. “And tonight, will you have your hot milk and sandwiches upstairs?”
No, he thought, not after the whisky, he was still not quite sober.
“Nothing tonight.” He paused, confronted by the necessity of conveying the change in his plans: Well, with Arturo it would not be so difficult; he had been quite broken up at the prospect of his departure.
“By the way,” he sought for the words, “something quite unexpected has come up. I shall not after all be obliged to leave for good, but only for a matter of perhaps three months.”
Several shades of expression passed over the other’s face before radiance shone from it.
“Oh, sir, I am so happy, so filled with joy, so thankful to the good God and Santa Philomena to whom I pray for you to stay. Only wait till I tell Elena.”
Arturo’s extravagant delight was an added solace. Such loyalty, such affectionate devotion he thought, on his way up the stairs, and from Elena too, both so deeply attached to him. And now for bed.
Gazing upwards with a queer expression, Arturo watched him enter his bedroom, then he turned and went back to the pantry. Elena looked at him expectantly. He responded with an affirmative gesture and a significant grimace.
“You were right. The German has hooked him. Got him by the short hairs.”
“Madre d’ Dio.” She let out the exclamation and broke into broad Neapolitan. “Lu viecchio ’nzannaluto.”
“He’s that, all right.” Arturo shrugged in agreement. “And how he will suffer.”
“But so also will we,” said Elena despondently. “That squaldrina will watch the money like a Swiss tax collector. Goodbye to our little ribasso from the market when she gets her claws on the bills.”
“Still, it’s better than having him go. We can still milk him.”
“Llecca ’o culo a chillu viecchio ’nzannaluto?”