That, dear friend, is my day. Is it not simple and a little sad? Yes, sad because I miss you, and your charming kameradschaft. I also need your advice, since a man from Basle—someone in chemicals—asks to buy the Seeburg. I do not wish to part with that beloved house which I know you also admire, but circumstances are now most difficult. So write me soon and let me know when you will be home. As there is nothing to take me back to Schwansee until you are there, I shall remain in Baden until I hear from you.
Forgive me for revealing my regard for you,
Sincerely, Frida von Altishofer.
He put down the letter slowly. A nice letter, he told himself, despite its rather stilted style, the letter of a well born and distinguished woman who was utterly devoted to him. Normally he would have been touched by it, but now, perhaps because of his mood, the aftermath of yesterday, it found him unresponsive. He was glad, naturally, to hear from her, flattered that she should miss him, yet at the moment he could not generate his usual interest in her activities. And was she not slightly exaggerating her solitude? She was a woman who invited and enjoyed society. That frugal lunch, too, struck an incongruous note. He well knew that she was not averse to the pleasures of the table, and on her last visit to Baden had brought back a marvellous recipe for chestnut soup. In any case, he was not in the mood to answer today. He would advise her about the Seeburg, but later; at present he had other things upon his mind.
It was almost noon when he got up and began idly to dress. After lunch the rain continued. He hung about the hotel trying to occupy himself with some ancient magazines, devoted mainly to Scottish sport and agriculture. Then an impulse took hold of him to get out the car and drive to Markinch, but he reflected that she would not be there. She had told him that she must go to Dalhaven. Still, he would have the satisfaction of passing her window. . . . At this absurdity he drew himself up with a sudden self-conscious flush. He would see her tomorrow and must wait. Gazing in bored fashion out of the blurred windows of the lounge he hoped the weather would turn fine.
But when the next day came it was still raining, the sky remained heavily overcast. Nevertheless he was in a mood of cheerful expectation as he backed the car out of the hotel garage and drove between the sodden hedgerows towards Markinch.
She had already finished the forenoon clinic when he arrived. She locked the dispensary door and, carrying her black bag, got in beside him.
“Good morning.” He greeted her, feeling how good it was to see her again. “Or rather, what a morning! I’m glad to be driving you today. Not having you cycle around in the rain.”
“I don’t mind cycling,” she said. “Or the rain either.”
The tone of the remark mildly surprised him but he made no comment except to say:
“Anyhow, I’m entirely at your disposal. Where do we go?”
“Towards Finden. I can’t promise you beautiful country. It’s all poor clay land. And Finden is a poor village, built round a brickworks that’s just been re-started after a long shut-down.”
“Well, it’s not a day for viewing the scenery,” he said amiably, and after asking and receiving directions he set off through the village.
As they proceeded, she remained unnaturally silent, and he began to fancy a certain reserve in her manner. Not exactly a coldness. But she had lost that uplifted and responsive spirit that marked their day in Edinburgh, when he had felt the beginnings of a sympathetic understanding throb between them. After glancing sideways towards her several times, he said: “You look tired.” And indeed she had not her usual air of well-being. “You’ve been working too hard.”
“I enjoy hard work.” She spoke in that same odd, rather constrained tone. “And I’ve quite a number of serious cases on hand.”
“That proves you’ve been doing too much. You’re quite pale.” He paused. “Surely it’s time you took the remainder of your vacation?”
“In this weather?”
“All the more reason for you to get away from it.”
She did not answer. And why did she not look at him? He waited a few moments then said:
“What is wrong, Kathy? Have I offended you in any way?”
She blushed deeply, vividly, all over her fresh young face.
“No, no,” she said hastily. “Please don’t think that. Nothing could be further from the truth. It’s just that . . . probably I am a little out of sorts.”
It was true enough, though very far from the full explanation. Yet how could she tell him of the mood which had followed their day in Edinburgh, or of the intensity of her reaction to it? On awakening yesterday morning she had experienced, in warm and sleepy recollection, an afterglow of happiness, but this had been succeeded, almost immediately, by a sharp pang of troubled conscience. The gay and spendthrift adventure of the day before, far exceeding all her previous experience, now took on the colours of an act of self-indulgence, almost of wrong-doing. With what silly vanity she had preened herself in her new clothes. They were beautiful, of course, but they were not for the likes of her. Be not solicitous what you put on—had she forgotten that? She felt guilty . . . guilty, untrue to herself and all that she had been brought up to believe. Remembrance of the smart saleswoman, seeing her undressed in her cheap rayon slip and darned navy blue woollen knickers, patting and patronising her in the fitting room, made her flush painfully. What would her dear mother have thought had she seen her then!
It was not Mr Moray, or rather—true to her promise she corrected herself—David, who was to blame. No one could have been kinder or more generous, he had meant well, acted from the most disinterested motives. He was so nice, too, so interesting and companionable, and had such a tactful and pleasing way with him that it would have seemed most ungracious to refuse his gifts. Yet an inner sense told her that she should have done so. Yes, the fault had been entirely hers, and she must see that it was not repeated.
She had risen quickly, washed in cold water and put on her uniform. But as she did so, trying to fix her mind on the work awaiting her at Dalhaven Hospital and the difficult interview with the M.O.H., when she must tell him of her intention to leave the Welfare Service, the prospect looked so flat and dull she could scarcely face it. Worst of all, longing came over her for a repetition of the previous unique day, not necessarily a return to the city, but something of a similar nature, under the same kindly guidance and patronage.