Standing there, with a hollow stomach and a fast-beating heart, the past re-created itself before him. The arrival on the bike, the picnic in the warm sunshine, the laughter and tender glances, the hum of the honey bees, and then under the blue sky, while the curlews circled and called unheeded, the joy and fear of those ecstatic moments when, irresistibly drawn, they clung together. He saw it all, felt it all, lingered over it, in a bath of sentimental recollection, until with a start of panic, an actual physical shock, he pressed his hand across his eyes.
The girl in his arms was not his long-lost love. Every sensation, every burning detail of that passionate scene, he had relived not with the mother but with the daughter. It was Kathy he had held so closely in his arms, whose soft warm lips had pressed on his, who had yielded in sweet abandon. He cried out to the deserted heath. Utterly unnerved, struck by a sudden shame, he broke away, stumbled uncertainly up the slope and through the tufted heather, back to the car. Like a man possessed he drove away. Why had he not realised it before? He was in love—not with the old, but with the new. His thought of Kathy as his daughter, a ward whom he might protect, had been no more than self-deception, a protective camouflage, of his subconscious desire. From the first moment of their meeting, his original love, long cherished as the one love of his life, had been re-created, reinforced and transposed to her. Not only was the image there, fresh, young, even more beautiful, but a living, flesh-and-blood reality as well. Staring fixedly ahead, steering automatically, he tried to stem this tide of sensation. The situation was a delicate one, quite proper of course, nothing dishonourable about it, yet somehow arousing scruples, calling for second thoughts or at least restraint, otherwise the evil-minded might discover a bad odour where none existed. But how could they? His motives were of the highest, his feelings, natural, honest, and normal, could never be construed as incestuous, he had no cause for compunction, no reason to recoil. Who could blame him? How could it have been otherwise? The thought gave him release, filled him with a sudden pulsing joy, and the future, which hitherto had never exactly taken shape, now fell into place precisely, took on colours that were enchantingly sensuous and vivid. And, God, how young he felt, rejuvenated in fact, by this exciting double passion so enticingly made one.
Now, more than ever, must there be no hesitation, no more delay. Discretion always, of course—no ill-advised or premature revelation of his feelings. But he would telephone her at Dalhaven immediately he got back. Down went the accelerator, the car flew, as on wings. Arrived at the hotel he leaped out, made directly for the telephone booth in the hall, was about to enter when the porter signalled to him from the desk.
“There’s a message for you, sir. Mrs Fotheringay called when you were out. She brought you this note with her best regards.”
The man handed him a plain sealed envelope with his name written on it. He dared not open it here. Hurrying upstairs to his room he tore it open and with unsteady fingers drew out the cheap sheet of notepaper within. A glance told him it was from Kathy.
Dear David,
We have been so busy at the hospital I have scarcely had any time to myself, but yesterday afternoon I was off duty and had a long talk with Mrs Fotheringay. Afterwards I spoke to Matron who has agreed to release me and let me have my remaining two weeks’ holiday beginning Monday next. So I shall be free then to accept your kind offer to take me to Switzerland, and I have written to Uncle Willie telling him of your invitation to join us there.
Sincerely yours, Kathy.
I am very happy to be going with you.
No need to telephone, of her own free will she would come with him. He sat down in a convenient soft armchair, suffused by a glow of triumph. And on the way to Schwansee, mindful of his original intention, why shouldn’t they stop off at his favourite city, at Vienna, just for a few days, to give her a taste of Continental life? He re-read the letter: so she had written to Willie. A cable would be quicker, better too. Tomorrow he would send one, a long, frank, personal message that would explain things to Willie and so ease their eventual meeting. Once again he read the postscript: I am very happy to be going with you. There was only one thing possible for a man of such taste and feeling, a man of his particular refinement, untouched by the crudity and vulgarities of this barbarous age. He raised the shabby little scrap of paper and pressed it to his lips.
Chapter Nine
From an altitude of twenty thousand feet the Caravelle began gradually to edge down from the starry night sky into the darker plateau of cloud below. Moray glanced at his watch: half past nine. He turned to his companion.
“Not long now. You must be tired.”
Their journey had been protracted, with delays at London and Paris, but he, at least, would not have missed a minute of it. To sit beside her, so closely, in the intimacy of the de luxe class cabin, observing with amused yet tender solicitude her reactions to her first flight, anticipating what he judged to be her wishes, though she expressed none—this, and her companionship, had afforded him a rare and precious pleasure. Since it was all so strange to her, she had not said much, and because of these silences which seemed to indicate some slight degree of tension, he now struck a note of encouragement.
“I do hope you’re going to enjoy yourself, dear Kathy. Forget about slogging through the mud at Markinch and have a real holiday. Let yourself go a bit.” He laughed. “Let’s both relax and be—well—human.”
“Oh, I’m only too human,” she smiled responsively. “You’ll maybe think I’m a regular nuisance before long.”
The voice of the stewardess on the inter-communication system broke in upon them.
“We are now arriving at Vienna Airport. Please fasten your safety belts and extinguish all cigarettes.”
She was still inexpert, and helpfully he guided her fingers to make the adjustment of her belt. As he touched her small trim waist and felt the warmth of her body, a sudden joy took possession of him.
The lights of the airport, now visible below, tilted sharply as the plane banked, then with a final turn and a perfect approach they were on the runway, manoeuvring towards the wooden customs shed.
“It’s a poor little airport,” he told her as they descended, “not built up since the war. But we’ll soon get you through.”
With practised efficiency, he was as good as his word. In less than seven minutes they came out to the main driveway and there, as his cable had commanded, was the Rolls, gleaming under the neon lights, with Arturo, in his best uniform, all bows and smiles, in attendance. Of this he had said nothing, meaning to surprise her, and he succeeded. When greetings had been exchanged with Arturo and they purred off into the night, enclosed by a fur rug and the soft grey upholstery, she murmured, in a small voice, “What a lovely car.”
“I’ve never appreciated it more than now.” He patted her hand reassuringly under the rug. “It’ll help in showing you around.”
The road to Vienna from the Flughaven was, he knew, a bad introduction to gaiety, being flanked by a long succession of cemeteries and, as though this were not enough, by mournful establishments for the manufacture and display of tombstones. But now the kindly darkness masked these grim intimations of mortality. Within half an hour the cheerful illuminated city welcomed them. They drew up at the Prinz Ambassador. It was not a large hotel but it was luxurious and he preferred it to the others as the most Viennese in character, with a delightful old-world situation overlooking the Donner fountain and the Kapuziner Kirche. Here, too, he was known and appreciated, quickly shown to a double suite on the upper floor, the sitting-room a period piece in brocade and red velvet with a dazzling central chandelier, crystal wall lights and a baroque gesso table where already the direction had set out a great vase of bronze chrysanthemums and a basket of choice fruits.