by Guy McCrone
Yet what could Pepi be hiding? What was she up to? But she must stop indulging these maternal fears. The child was growing up, that was all—accepting the unexciting life they had chosen for her; persuading herself, at last, that thus she would find happiness.
“I see, from a bill, that Lisa Fischer has been given a part at the Karl Theatre,” Joseph said, taking his pipe out of his mouth and staring placidly at the ceiling. And, as no one replied to this, he added: “I didn’t know she had a voice for anything but the chorus. She must be getting on with her singing.”
“She must be getting on with somebody who has paid down the money for the part,” his wife said tartly.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Joseph stretched himself comfortably.
“Well I do know!” Frau Klem was not at all averse to talking scandal, especially such scandal as diligently and shamelessly generated by this black sheep of her husband’s family. Only yesterday she had caught a glimpse of Lisa skating on a flooded lawn of the Stadtpark, her hands crossed with those of an elegant, slim young man who wore fair, cascading side-whiskers, a light beige bowler hat and a modish, short overcoat of much the same colour. Lisa herself had been flaunting a wax-red cashmere skirt, the pleats of which flared becomingly as she skated. And how her sable bonnet and the sable muff she carried on her arm had been come by, the good, but gossipy Frau Klem did not dare to think! She would have been more than glad to discuss with her husband all that this implied; been glad, indeed, to invent further implications if necessary; but she was not prepared to do this in in front of their daughter. The seeming success of her cousin Lisa Fischer had in times past had its unsettling effect upon Pepi. The less Pepi knew about toilettes that must certainly have come from Maison Spitzer, Drecoll or Marsch, the better.
“Oh, but Lisa is singing much better. She’s gone to a new teacher.” For a sudden, eager instant Pepi looked up to say this, then she quickly dropped her eyes again, and went on with her sewing.
Her mother put her work down on the table, and turned to her daughter. Had Pepi been in secret contact with this, quite literally, scarlet woman? Anxiety made Frau Klem’s voice severe. “Will you please tell me who told you about Lisa Fischer’s voice?”
For the fraction of a second Pepi’s expression might have seemed to betray confusion. But it was only a fraction. And her face was so much in the shade that it was hard to tell if her colour had risen. “Really, Mama! Why are you looking at me like that? I’m not Lisa Fischer! It was the little Schani Fischer who told me. I met him in the Stubenring the other day. I see no reason to walk past him just because he’s her brother! The boy can’t help that, can he?”
If this was intended as a red herring, Pepi’s mother followed it obediently. “The Fischers would do much better not to talk about Lisa to their younger children,” she said, taking up her sewing and masking her relieved anxiety in righteous indignation. “The children will learn all the whys and the wherefores soon enough.”
Pepi did not reply to this. When, in a moment, her mother ventured to glance at her from the corner of an eye, she appeared to be sewing, as quietly diligent as ever.
On his sofa Joseph Klem had fallen asleep.
IV
Presently they were roused by a knocking at the door. Frau Klem went. There was the noise of welcome.
Pepi dropped her work and rushed to rouse her sleeping father. “Quick! Quick, Papa! Visitors.” She shook his shoulder in her agitation. “It’s Herr Hayburn’s voice!”
Joseph had only time to rise to his feet before Phœbe and Henry came into the cheerful little room. Martha Klem was genuinely pleased to see them. She had come to feel almost maternal towards Henry while he was with her in the autumn. And, even making allowance for his preoccupations, she had been a little hurt that he had not come back to see her. But now the warm-hearted Viennese woman had forgotten everything but the excitement of his arrival with his wife. She fluttered about, taking their coats, scolding her husband for looking untidy, bidding him change his jacket and brush his hair, smiling encouragingly at the young lady, asking her in dumb show where she would like to sit, calling to Pepi to clear up the table, and telling her to go at once and make coffee.
Pepi did as she was told. She was glad to be in the kitchen by herself. As she put the beans into the coffee-mill and turned the handle, she could feel the sullen beating of her heart. She had dreaded this. And it had come. So that was the other girl he had gone to fetch. Her eyes had told her that Frau Hayburn was beautiful. And they had told her that Herr Hayburn was conscious of his wife’s beauty. This was a marriage of love; it was no marriage of convenience.
As she bent over the cooking-stove a tear fell, and was turned by the heat into a puff of sizzling steam. There was little of reason in Pepi’s make-up. She was a thing of instinct and emotion. She could not have defined what Henry had brought her in the last few months. A strange, gauche friendliness. A vivid interest in his troubles at the works. An absurd masculine helplessness that was, somehow, engaging. And, above all, his foreignness; the novelty of him. He came from a golden, outside world, far beyond the confines of the Favoriten. He was young. He was clever. One day he would be rich. He had made no love to her. But that, perhaps, only added to his interest, in this city where love was almost a matter of politeness; where pretty girls like Pepi could find amorous young men two for a Kreutzer, and reject or accept their advances as the mood took them.
And so, with a young girl’s light-headedness, Pepi had woven her fantasies and dreamt her dreams. She had always known that Henry was betrothed, but that might be a mere loveless arrangement. Such betrothals were the rule in Vienna. Here, in this gay city, it was the custom for love rather to overflow its banks than to remain within them. It was dull and stupid to go without adventure, if adventure was yours for the taking.
Why she had accepted her own betrothal to Willi Pommer, Pepi could not have said. It had been pressed upon her, and for the sake of peace, perhaps, she had allowed it. Perhaps she had been waiting to find out if Henry loved his wife; to see if there was still hope of intrigue. By the illogical, frivolous standards of this, the most seductive of cities, it did not strike this light-hearted little moth, dazzled by the brightness of her native candles, that the feelings she allowed herself were wrong. But, right or wrong, the sight of Henry together with his wife had given her her answer. And it was an answer she did not like.
Pepi wiped her eyes, examined her face in the kitchen mirror, and picked up the coffee-tray. Life was a thing to be lived. If you could not live it in one way, then you must live it in another. She had nearly given herself away tonight about Lisa Fischer. What a fool she had been!
She kicked the sitting-room door open with one foot and went in with the coffee-tray. Frau Hayburn, first to see that she was heavily laden, jumped up to help her.
Phœbe, still in her mood of honeymoon pliability, felt herself forced to admit that this was a pleasant place. Mr. and Mrs. Klem seemed so pleased to see her husband and herself. Their kind faces were overflowing with interest and pleasure. Henry was interpreter, and, with his three-months-old German, things went slowly. But they had turned this slowness into a good-natured game, and there was friendly laughter, and much dumb show. As, this afternoon, she had been uplifted by the distinction of the Misses Hirsch, now she was uplifted by the warm simplicity of the Klems.
She began to wonder why she had been so silly as to quarrel with Henry about their coming to live here. Henry, of course, had been much wiser than she. She must, she told herself, remember this in future when she felt like opposing him. Her friend Stephanie Hirsch would understand when she explained to her more thoroughly just what their circumstances were. (Phœbe had a very hazy idea of them herself, but this did not now occur to her.) And their stay here would not last for ever. She would have time to learn to speak a little, and Mrs. Klem would teach her to keep house in the Austrian way. And perhaps in some months Henry and she would have an apartment of their own.
T
hus, before they left, their stay was arranged. In a week’s time they were to come out here from the Domgasse. The spring would be coming, Frau Klem said, smiling, and out here the gracious lady would find herself almost in the country, which would be very healthy for her. The room that Herr Hayburn had occupied this autumn was a little small for two, she was afraid, but the gracious lady did not, perhaps, mind. Besides, they could have Pepi’s room before so very long, she added, giving her daughter’s arm a brisk little pat. In the springtime? Was that not so, Pepi?
But when Phœbe and Henry, together with their belongings, arrived in the Quellengasse at the end of eight days, Pepi’s room was already empty.
Chapter Ten
A RELENTLESS day in mid-March. The east wind, crossing Scotland from Edinburgh to Glasgow, blew steadily as though it blew from a fan. Smoke trailed from the chimneys horizontally. In the streets, dust and torn paper played games. Warmth and comfort were difficult to find.
But Bel had found them. The fire in the back-parlour of Grosvenor Terrace was stacked high. She sat with her feet on the fender, busying herself over family mending, and watching her six-year-old daughter Isabel, who was occupied in cutting out scraps. Every now and then Bel took her eyes from her work to look down upon the little girl’s industry.
Isabel was crouched on a stool set on the hearthrug, her fair ringlets dangling in front of her, her protruding tongue following the twisting scissors this way and that, cutting and snipping in an ecstasy of concentration. In addition to her little serge dress, she was wound in an old nursery shawl, the ends of which had been secured behind her small shoulders by one of Sarah’s, the nurse-housemaid’s, hairpins.
For a moment the child stopped, straightened her back, sighed, pushed away those troublesome ringlets that Sarah was forever re-shaping with a hairbrush round her large, red fingers, then she bent down again and went on with her snipping. But she had given her mother a glimpse of a flushed face.
“Don’t you think you should stop and have a rest now, dear?” Bel said, a little anxiously.
Isabel had been allowed to get up only this afternoon. For a week she had been in bed with fever and cold. Perhaps it was not good for her to occupy herself so intensely.
“But I want to finish this,” came non-committally from the tangle of fair hair.
This highly-coloured sheet of the members of the Royal Family had been a stealthy gift from Cook, who had her own ways of worming herself into the children’s affection behind Sarah’s somewhat jealous back. She had waited until Sarah had wrapped up little Thomas and marched him off for a bleak afternoon walk in the chill, unblossoming Botanic Gardens, then she had appeared above-stairs, plump, affectionate and triumphant, and handed over this present she had secured to celebrate Isabel’s convalescence.
Isabel had received it with a child’s solemn radiance, thanked Bessie demurely, promised rather pompously to kiss her later on, when there was no chance of giving her infection, then gone off to cut out the scraps before the parlour fire. Cook had returned to her kitchen, glowing with the sense of her own generosity, her importance, and her ability to demonstrate her attachment to the children, Sarah or no Sarah.
“Well, after you’ve finished that one, I think you should go on the couch for a little and play with the Austrian doll your Aunt Phœbe sent you. I’ll get it for you,” Bel continued, in answer to her daughter’s last remark.
Isabel did not see any point in replying to this. She wished, indeed, that her mother would stop trying to carry on a conversation. It hindered concentration. As a result of this last interruption her somewhat inexpert scissors had cut off the late Prince Consort’s nose. That meant cutting out the nose and pasting it separately, which would be a great nuisance, and very difficult to do properly so that it did not show.
Isabel was not pursuing art quite for art’s sake. She was hoping to have something really remarkable to show her brother Arthur when he got back from school this afternoon. Her six years were ever anxious to measure themselves against Arthur’s nine, her femininity against his masculinity. Isabel adored Arthur. Now this misfortune with the nose. It was most provoking. If only her mother—
The front door banged. Could that be Arthur home from school already? Should she hide her unfortunate slip away, or should she ask him to help her to patch the poor Prince Consort?
II
But before she had time to decide, her Aunt Sophia came into the room.
“Bel, dear! And wee Isabel! How are you, lovey? Your Auntie Sophia has just come in to see how you are. Wil told me just this morning at breakfast that Isabel had been ill, Bel. And he said he had known for days! Aren’t boys awful? Someone had told him. I forget who it was. Now, had he met Arthur? Or did he tell me he had run into Sarah buying a newspaper? No. No, I’m sure it was Arthur. But, then, why should I think of Sarah? Or am I thinking of her in connection with something else? Well, anyway, I’m glad to see you up again, dearie. And what are you busy with?”
Isabel, having bestowed just as hurried a greeting upon her aunt as her mother’s ideas of a little girl’s politeness would permit, continued with her scissors contemptuously. If her Aunt Sophia had any sort of eyes in her head, it must be perfectly obvious to her that she, Isabel, was cutting out scraps. There were times when grown-up people asked the most nonsensical questions.
Bel was not displeased at seeing Sophia. The searing winds had kept her in this afternoon. Sophia was, at least, an excuse for early tea. Sarah’s second-in-command could bring it, or Cook, indeed, if it came to that. There was no need to split ceremonious hairs over Sophia. She pulled the bell-cord, invited her to lay aside her bonnet, the singed muff, and her outer wrappings and bade her pull the arm-chair opposite close to the fire.
“And what’s the news, Bel dear?” Sophia, now in full certainty of the cup of tea, which had been one of the stronger strands among the tangle of motives for her coming, bent forward and warmed her hands at the fire.
“Nothing very much,” Bel answered, intent once again upon her mending. Then, as though she had found a crumb to throw to her guest, she added: “We had David here last night. He begged a bed. He had to attend some meeting that kept him too late to get home to Aucheneame.”
Bel was little surprised that Sophia received this information with no great show of interest. The smallest piece of family news usually set her tongue wagging. But now, she was merely leaning forward, holding out her hands and gazing expressionlessly into the fire. “How are Grace and the baby?” she asked presently.
“Oh, very well. Grace is up and about again.” Bel’s surprise increased. The mention of a new baby, especially a new Moorhouse baby, was the topic of all topics to open the floodgates of Sophia’s chatter. But Sophia still sat silent, her face, middle-aged and moody, glowing red in the firelight. “He seems very proud of his son,” Bel added, throwing the bait yet again.
“That’s good.” Sophia sat back in her chair, her eyebrows raised defensively.
Bel was mystified. Had Sophia something to tell her? She gave her another chance. “Have you seen anything of David lately?” she said, looking up from her sewing.
A motion from Sophia gave Bel to understand that she had no wish to say what was to be said while sharp little ears concealed by tangled ringlets sat between them.
But at this moment the door was thrown open, and Cook, who, having admitted Sophia to the house, had gone to make tea unbidden, brought in the tray and set it down on the parlour table with a self-satisfied smile—a smile that demanded of the ladies where they could find a better anticipator of their wishes than herself? And, following on this, Sarah arrived back with little Tom. And on their heels came Arthur home from school. There were handshakes and boyish, March-cold kisses on Aunt Sophia’s hot, fire-baked face, then Sarah, having added Isabel and her scraps to the cavalcade, swept all the children upstairs to their nursery tea.
In the wake of the storm Bel rose to pour out for Sophia. She was still wondering about David and the B
utter family. “Two lumps, isn’t it? Did you say you had seen David, Sophia?”
Sophia stirred her tea reflectively. “No. But William went to see him. Oh, I shouldn’t be telling you this, Bel dear; it’s really nothing, but I know you won’t repeat it. You see, dear, William and I are just a little disappointed with David. Now, I wouldn’t dare to say anything about this if David wasn’t my own brother. But you know you can say things about your own people, without anything—anything very—well, serious, dear, being meant. You see what I mean, don’t you?”
There was really nothing yet for Bel to see. But, as curiosity was now thoroughly aroused, she hastened to encourage Sophia by assuring her that, of course, she saw everything.
“Well, it was this, dear. You see, Wil is more than sixteen-and-a-half, and we’ve been thinking about his business training. He’s been getting splendid reports from the Glasgow Academy. Oh, I know it’s not as—well—fashionable, dear, as the new Kelvinside Academy, where you’re sending Arthur, dear—but some quite important people send their sons there.”
As there was a momentary pause here, Bel, all ears now, further encouraged her by saying: “Of course, Sophia, very important people.”
“Well, you see, dear, William wrote to David and told him all this, and asked him if he couldn’t possibly make a place for Wil in Dermott Ships. He explained our own business wasn’t suitable for a boy to have a training in, and a shipping office like David’s would be so wonderful and everything. And that it wasn’t a case of a large salary, or a permanent appointment. And that times were so bad, it was difficult to get a young man into anything nice. It was a beautiful letter. William showed it to me before he posted it. And you know, dear, William is the least well-off of all the brothers-in-law. Not that I am complaining about that, of course.” Sophia stopped. Her face was flushed with vexation.