by Guy McCrone
But there was yet another reason for coming out this morning; one she had not yet defined to herself. There had been a feeling of emptiness in the house; a feeling that Phœbe was gone. Presently, when she got back for lunch, she would have to face this fact. But here, sitting drinking tea in her mother’s familiar room, the truth could be pushed away for a little longer.
Bel sat, willingly telling the old lady what she expected to hear. Yes, Phœbe had made a beautiful bride. Mrs. Barrowfield’s own grandchildren had been the best behaved. Mary McNairn was getting ridiculously fat. George McNairn must have something organically wrong with him. If Bel were Mary, she would have George thoroughly examined again. Sophia had actually brought that dreadful muff. And in other respects had looked quite inexcusably shabby. After all, William was not a pauper. Yes, Mrs. Dermott had come too, having shed mourning for the occasion. She had been majestic, but amiable, and had renewed her Christmas-dinner friendship with Margaret Ruanthorpe-Moorhouse, which had been all to the good, as they had mopped each other up. David had come with his mother-in-law, Grace being indisposed and disinclined to come. Stephen Hayburn, looking more settled and sensible than formerly, had been his brother’s best man.
“And Henry himself would be looking gey glaikit?”
Bel stiffened a little. Really, her mother used some very old-fashioned expressions sometimes. Why couldn’t she say “rather stupid”? Her daughter wished she wouldn’t. The children would be picking them up, and their little school friends in Kelvinside simply wouldn’t know what they meant. Broad Scotch was so unrefined. But she knew that remonstrance would merely rouse opposition, and contented herself by saying primly: “No. I don’t think Henry did look specially awkward. But his work has changed him, you know. He’s much more of a man than he used to be.”
The old woman sat ruminating for a moment. She was thinking of Henry’s visits on those frustrated, impatient evenings last summer. It was odd how this young man, a comparative stranger to her, had made for himself a place in her affections. Odd, when she considered how set she was in her ways. Yet Henry’s sudden need of her, coupled with his almost simple-minded honesty, had won her over. She looked at her daughter.
“Phœbe is very fond of Henry,” she said at length.
Bel looked at the clock. She stood up. “Yes, I realised that for the first time on the night Henry came home.” She drew on her gloves and took up her furs. “Still, Phœbe is so young, I dare say people will blame me. But I felt I was taking too much responsibility if I tried to stop it. Arthur felt the same. And Phœbe can be so self-willed. She might even have taken things into her own hands.”
Mrs. Barrowfield smiled. This side of Phœbe appealed to her.
She kissed Bel, patted her on the shoulder, and assured her that, knowing the young people as she did, there was nothing else to be done; that they were good bairns; and that everything would turn out for the best.
VI
Little Isabel and Thomas Moorhouse were standing on the doorstep as their mother arrived back at Grosvenor Terrace. Sarah had, in spite of upheavals, found time to take them for their morning walk in the Botanic Gardens, and they were just come back. The children jumped and waved at the sight of the carriage, and at once begged Bel to allow them to climb up beside McCrimmon into the driving-seat and drive round to the coach-house in the lane. Bel cautioned them that it must be nearly their dinner-time, told them to hurry and passed on into the house.
Everything was put back and in order. All the signs of Phœbe’s wedding had been removed. Yet the house was strange. Bel caught herself humming a tune to keep her spirits up, as she went from room to room inspecting. The dining-room, the back parlour. And on the first floor, the drawing-room. Everything had been set aright. On the top floor she hesitated. Out of cowardice, she went into the children’s rooms first. The nursery. Where, by the way, was her son Arthur? His school bag was lying in his room. She called his name but there was no reply.
At last she turned the handle of Phœbe’s room and went in. It, too, had been put into some kind of order. Cardboard boxes and tissue paper had been stacked on the bed. On a chair there was an old dress, that seemed almost part of Phœbe herself. Bel took it up to shake it out, then, surprised by a quick emotion, laid it hurriedly down again, telling herself not to be a fool.
As she turned to go she was startled by a sound. She cast her eyes about her. There was nothing to be seen. She looked behind the window curtains. Then at last beneath the bed, where she found her eight-year-old son Arthur lying on his stomach.
“Arthur, what are you doing there, frightening the life out of me? Why didn’t you answer when I called?”
The boy crawled out reluctantly. His face was swollen, grubby and tear-stained.
“Arthur, what’s wrong?”
He did not answer.
“Did you get a whipping at school this morning?”
He shook his head.
“Are you ill with eating too much yesterday?”
Again he shook his head.
“Well, it must be something. What is it?”
Arthur did not reply. He stood looking red and sheepish. His mother examined him, puzzled. Arthur was getting a big boy now. He didn’t often cry.
“Is it because your Aunt Phœbe’s gone away?”
A fresh welling of tears gave Bel her answer. Really, this was ridiculous! She felt herself going, too, now! She held her son to her, and indulged herself for one long, luxurious minute. Suddenly she had an inward picture of Phœbe looking at them, glum and scornful, as only Phœbe could look. In the middle of her weeping, she began to laugh.
“Arthur,” she said, “do you know what your Aunt Phœbe would say if she were here?”
“What, Mamma?”
“She would tell us both to stop being silly and go and wash our faces!”
Chapter Seven
THEY had arrived last night, and had come to this inexpensive little hotel in the Domgasse. It was after nine on their first morning in Vienna. Now, as they stood in their bedroom, they could hear the outside wings of the double doors open, and then a knock. Henry Hayburn, engineer, of Glasgow, Scotland, not quite loath to show off his accomplishments before this, his newly acquired wife, shouted in German: “Come in!”
A homely young porter in a striped waistcoat and a green baize apron, with thick blond hair tumbling over his sweating, over-worked brow, begged pardon a thousand times, but might he inform the gracious gentleman that there was yet another gracious gentleman awaiting his pleasure in the hall downstairs.
All this fine speech, rendered less formal by the slovenly, endearing dialect of Vienna, conveyed nothing to Mrs. Henry Hayburn, but her husband took care to show her that it conveyed something to himself. He took the card the boy held out and read the name: “Maximilian Hirsch”. The gentleman downstairs had said it would give him great pleasure to be presented likewise to the gracious lady, the porter added, quite unbashfully casting approving, friendly eyes over Phœbe.
“That’s the boss. You had better come down and see him,” Henry said, turning to his wife. “Immediately,” he added, addressing the porter, who thereupon bowed himself out.
As Henry and Phœbe made their way downstairs, Maximilian Hirsch came forward, to greet them. He had not seen Phœbe on the day of his visit to Duntrafford. The sight of this beautiful child Henry had brought back filled him with interest.
“Mrs. Hayburn!” He bent over Phœbe’s hand and raised it to his lips.
Phœbe blushed scarlet. This behaviour was so very foreign. Her look sought help from Henry. Henry shut one eye.
Like many of her race, Phœbe was suspicious of extreme politeness. But this dark-skinned man of fifty, with his shock of black hair, his coat with its astrakhan collar, and his carefully pronounced, foreign English, seemed friendly enough. Besides, Henry’s employer must be shown respect. Awakening to her responsibilities as a married woman, Phœbe did her best.
Yes, they had arrived late last night at t
he Nordwest Bahnhof, she told him. It had been a somewhat cold journey, but interesting. They had sailed from Leith. They had spent a night in Hamburg and a night in Berlin. Yes, it was all very new to her indeed. No, Phœbe had never been out of Scotland before.
She seemed a very direct sort of young woman, this, Herr Hirsch decided. Her first embarrassment had passed at once. It had, obviously, been superficial. There was no need to set her at her ease. She was at her ease already. Her figure was girlish and appealing in the close-shaped dress of dark green stuff with its prim little cuffs and collars. Her beauty was unusual. She seemed neither forward nor reserved. And she had charm. Not the warm, sophisticated charm of Vienna, but rather the cool, inconsequent charm of a half-wild thing.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Hayburn, I must take your husband away with me now. But it will give me great pleasure if you and he will have supper with me some evening soon.”
Phœbe smiled assent.
Mrs. Hayburn was not overtired after her long journey?
Mrs. Hayburn laughed. Of course not. Everything was far too interesting for her to be tired.
Well, very soon, then. Herr Hirsch bent down and raised her hand once more to his lips.
Henry kissed her. “You’re sure you’ll be all right, dear?” he said possessively.
Again Phœbe laughed. “Of course! What would you do if I said I wouldn’t be all right? Take me back home?”
Maximilian Hirsch had already swung himself through the outer glass door into the street. Henry hurried after him. As they went, Phœbe, much to the surprise of the head porter, turned, and, forgetting she was a married lady with a dignity to maintain, caught her skirts and bounded upstairs with the agility of a cat.
Back in her room in a matter of seconds, she stood in the centre of it humming to herself. Then she turned to the double windows, flung them open, and stepped out on the crisp, dry snow which lay on the little balcony outside. She was in time to see Henry striding round the corner, out of the Domgasse.
Standing there in the glittering snow and sunshine, Phœbe was suddenly, astonishingly, caught up in a flame of tenderness—tenderness for the young man she had just seen disappearing. She had never felt so light, so uplifted. With surprise it came to her that, for this instant in time, she was completely happy. That a joy, new, yearning and radiant, had taken possession of her.
She loved Henry, then. She had never before been quite sure. She had been sorry for Henry; had faith in Henry; fought for Henry. But now all these feelings were as nothing to this shining, consecrated joy, that was to stamp itself upon her memory and remain with her for ever.
For a time she stood in the blinding, winter sunshine, taking in nothing of what she saw about her, wrapped in this unexpected ecstasy. But at last the sting of the cold air brought her back to the world. She returned to her room, flung her long travelling coat round her, and came out again to see what was to be seen.
She leant on the balustrade looking up and down the street. It seemed strangely quiet here, to be in the heart of a great city. One or two children hurried along chattering; as little understandable as monkeys. Strange little children, in unfamiliar clothes. She could see a fat woman in the house opposite, with her hair in curl-papers, plumping just such another feather-balloon as they had on their own bed here. From a passage-way at the top of the street a man appeared. He must certainly be an officer. He came down towards her. What a magnificent creature he looked in his long black cloak, swinging open to reveal his green uniform, his slim-drawn waist, and his trousers cut so tight that they revealed his leg muscles! He might have been a figure in an operetta. But he had too much of an air; too much insolent distinction. As he passed beneath her he cast up black, questing eyes.
Bells that seemed to come from the sky joined themselves to the jangle from other churches, then struck ten. Phœbe twisted herself about, and just managed to see a tall spire almost above her. Filled with curiosity, she withdrew from the balcony to find out her whereabouts in a guide-book Henry had left with her. That must be the spire of the Church of Saint Stephen. Now the cobweb-patterned map of this new city had become a challenge in her hands. She must go out! Out into Vienna!
II
She must go out into this snow-clad, glittering city, into the sunshine to meet the new life that was to give her so much happiness!
But first she must set their luggage to rights. They had come late last night, and gone to bed very tired. She must tidy up this queer room, with its red plush sofa, its worn carpet, its shabby gilt chairs, its stove instead of a fireplace, which was to be their home until they could make better arrangements. An odd room, but not unfriendly; and the centre now of her universe.
She picked up the clothes that Henry had thrown off after his journey. They were new—hastily bought while he was at home. But already they were redolent of Henry’s soap, Henry’s tobacco, Henry’s person. Already they had taken on creases from Henry’s body. It pleased her to touch them, to fold them away. Life must go on like this. Things must never change. But with the thought of change, a breath of doubt blew through her mind. No, that was ridiculous. Of course things must change. Yet they need not change for the worse. Besides, no one expected to live on pinnacles for ever.
But she must hurry into her outdoor clothes, and have a first glance at this city she had come to live in. As she descended, the porter came round from behind his desk in the entrance, and asked in halting English if he might call a Komfortable for Madame. A Komfortable, he condescended to inform Madame’s ignorance, was a one-horse cab. Madame thanked him—no. She was just going out for a walk. He bowed, held the door open for her, then returned to his desk.
She was charming, this girl, with her good but not quite fashionable clothes, and her fearless eyes, he said to himself, conducting one of his many little one-sided conversations, as was his habit to alleviate boredom. Now, if she were Viennese, what couldn’t she look like? But, then, British women seemed to take a delight in throwing away their assets.
In a few moments Phœbe had found herself in the square surrounding the Cathedral of Saint Stephen. People were hurrying across it. Some two or three were going into the great church itself. Was a service beginning, or did the churches here, quite unlike the churches at home, remain open all the time? She must ask, because she wanted to have a look inside. What beautiful flowers in that window, still half-clouded with morning frost! Hothouse flowers they must be. Presently she was examining with rapture the shops, some of them world famous for their elegance, first in the Graben and then in the Kärntnerstrasse. She went from one window to the other, her face glowing with cold, her heart singing within her. She was young, she was feminine, she was having her first sight of Vienna. And in an hour or two she was going back to have lunch with her husband.
Now what was this great building on her right? She crossed and walked round to the front of it. She looked at her plan. It was the Opera House. Sometime she and Henry must go to a performance, just to see the inside of the building. She looked at a playbill and was able to deduce the words “Lohengrin” and “Wagner” from the angular Gothic scrip. “The new music,” she said to herself, feeling gaily erudite.
And this must be the Ringstrasse, if she were following her book aright. What a great, beautiful street! How wide and imposing, with its fine buildings and its young trees sparkling in the snow!
What a strange little tram-trolley, with the bells of the horses jingling all the time! It was stopping near her. Should she get in and let it take her where it chose? No. Her husband had warned her not to lose herself. She must, she told herself demurely, do what her husband told her. And there was more than enough to see if she merely walked about.
Tingling with adventure, Phœbe went along the Opernring. The air was cold but exhilarating. The snow flew up in a dry powder at the touch of her foot. Presently she came to the Hofgarten. The wintry branches of its trees stood up like white coral.
The new palace was still only on paper, and thus Phœbe, l
ooking across the immense open space made by Palace Gardens, parks and squares, to the distant heights of Kahlenberg, wondered if she had suddenly come to the edge of the city. But glimpses of other, distant buildings through the snowy trees prompted her to continue along the Burgring through that quarter of the city which, more than any other, had but lately come to be the final expression of Habsburg magnificence.
Even now, as she passed along, Phœbe could see that some of the public buildings were not yet completed. There was scaffolding, but little work appeared to be going on. Winter must have brought it to a standstill. But what grandeur! There was so much to see! To explore!
It was strange Henry had said so little of all this. But then, of course, Henry had been preoccupied. And who, better than herself, knew just how preoccupied Henry could be? That was a part of his make-up. And on this shining morning she would not have changed a hair of her husband’s head.
At the corner of the Volksgarten she halted for a moment to look about her. Inside the garden itself old women were sweeping the paths clear of their latest powdering of snow. In the stillness she could hear the voices of children playing. She would go in, cut across it, and get back to her hotel through the Inner City.
The air was so still that the slenderest twigs stood motionless, each one bearing upon it its feathery burden of snow. Their pale tracery glittered against the blue of the sky. Brought to life by the burst of sunshine, starlings chattered in the evergreens, and among the fir-trees whose dark branches sagged beneath their white burden. Now and then a bird would fly into the open, making a little cloud of silver dust, as the powdered, displaced snow hung for an instant in the sunlight.
Here in this magic garden it was almost hot. Would she be crazy if she brushed away the snow from one of these seats and sat down for a moment? Three pale, over-disciplined little boys, in dark green coats with sable collars, passed her walking hand-in-hand beside a fashionable governess. A young man, who might be a student, arm-in-arm with a young girl, both of them smiling as they went. A soldier of some cavalry regiment, in long coat and spurred boots. He turned to look at the young woman, sitting here unattended in the winter sunshine, and permitted himself the homage of a smile. The strange, blue eyes remained cool and impersonal as he passed on. Then two women, very elegantly dressed, deep in gossip.