“I’m so glad you did that. I’d have felt ashamed after that delicious, expensive meal if you hadn’t. But then that’s just you, David, to be so unsparingly kind and generous. And what a day you’ve given me. Everything so new and exciting. I can scarcely believe it all. When I think that only a few days ago I was washing dishes in Jeannie Lang’s back kitchen, it’s . . . it’s like a dream.”
It was so good to see her relaxed, free of her inhibitions, actually gay. Listening in indulgent silence, he let her run on, aware that her one glass of honey-tasting Durnsteiner could not alone have induced this mood but that he was in the main responsible for it. And in a sudden flashback he remembered that with Mary he had shown the same talent, one might even say the power, of lifting her from her serious preoccupation to a new lightheartedness. It was an auspicious omen.
Only too soon they were at the hotel. Outside her room she turned to him to day goodnight.
“Thank you for a most wonderful time, David. If you won’t forget our day in Edinburgh, I can tell you I’ll never forget this one here.”
He lingered a moment, unwilling to let her go.
“Did you really enjoy it, Kathy?”
“Terribly.”
“Sure?”
“Cross my heart.”
“Then tell me, what did you like most of all?”
She paused in the act of closing her door, became suddenly serious, seemed to examine her thoughts. With averted head, not looking at him, she said very simply:
“Being with you.” Then she was gone.
Chapter Ten
During the next three days the weather, though colder, remained brilliantly fine. Conditions could not have been more perfect for the pleasures and excitements of continued sightseeing. Varying his programme with commendable skill, Moray escorted her to the Hofburg and Hofgarten, to the Imperial Museum of Fine Arts, the Rathaus, the Belvedere, the Parliament. They took tea in Demel’s, made the tour of the fashionable shops in the Graben, attended a performance at the Spanish Riding School—which, however, proved rather a disappointment since, although reserving comment, she had obviously disliked seeing the lovely white horses strained into unnatural circus attitudes. He had also accompanied her on a visit to Anna the chambermaid’s four children, all lined up in a row and dressed in new warm clothes with strong winter boots, and this had been perhaps the most successful expedition of all. These were, Moray told himself, the happiest days he had ever known. She had brought joy and sweetness into his life, renewed his buoyant youth. The more he saw of her, the more he realised he could not do without her.
And yet at times she puzzled him, even caused him an odd concern. Was she truly entertained by all that he so engagingly displayed? Impossible to doubt; he had seen her eyes light up a score of times, fill with interest and animation. Nevertheless there had been occasions when, while willingly attentive, she seemed troubled, nervously disturbed. At one moment she drew near, very near to him, and the next suddenly drew back. She had a strange capacity for receding into herself and could surprise him by her constancy to her own point of view.
When in the Graben he had vainly used all the subtlety he possessed to induce her to accept a gift—a necklace, simple in design but set with emeralds—which, unthinkingly and with slight knowledge of the price, she had admired.
“It’s beautiful,” she had answered, with a shake of her head, “but it is not for me.”
And nothing would move her. Nevertheless, though as yet she remained unaware, he meant to have his way.
His greatest surprise lay in the realisation that his money counted for so little with her. She had not responded to the luxury of the hotel, rich and elaborate meals were becoming merely an embarrassment to her, and he sensed that she had preferred the little hired car to the silent comfort of his Rolls. Once, indeed, when he dropped a hint on the subject she had unexpectedly replied:
“But, David, money can’t buy any of the things that really matter.”
Disappointed and somewhat chagrined by this lack of appreciation, he was nevertheless comforted by the thought that he would be loved or, as he now dared to hope, was being loved for himself alone. And since the simplicities of life so obviously pleased her, he decided to divert her attention towards Switzerland and the restful quiet she would find there. Vienna had not been a mistake; not only had he got to know her better, he had made progress, great progress, in these last few days. Intimacy had been positively established, a current of vibrations now passed between them. Though she herself might still be unaware, he knew from her sudden changes of colour, the touch of her hand, the brightening of her eye when he appeared, that she was passing the point of no return. Every instinct told him so. And to see and feel this shy, intense young girl gradually expanding under the novel compulsions of love was the most delicious experience of his life.
On Saturday morning, when they had finished breakfast, he remarked lightly, but with an undertone of consideration:
“It begins to look as though we’ve had enough of the city for the time being. Would you like to leave tomorrow for Schwansee? If this cold continues we’ll undoubtedly have snow in the Oberland and that’s something you shouldn’t miss.”
The warmth of her response gave immediate confirmation of his intuition.
“I’d like it better than anything—that is, if it suits you to go. I do so love the country. Not,” she added quickly, “that I am not happy to be here.”
“Then that’s settled! We’ll take the Sunday afternoon plane. I’ll send Arturo on ahead today—the journey by road across the Arlberg would be much too trying for you at this time of year. But before we leave,” he paused and smiled, “there is just one more hurdle for you to clear, I think you’ll find it a pleasure and not a penance.”
“Yes?” she queried rather uncertainly.
“There is a gala at the Opera House tonight—Madame Butterfly . . . but a quite exceptional performance, since Tebaldi is singing. And the décor is by Benois. It’s been practically impossible to get tickets but I’ve succeeded by a stroke of luck. As I’m sure you’ll enjoy this particular opera, will you come?”
“Yes, David,” she answered with only a scarcely perceptible hesitation. “But I’m worried at the way you keep putting yourself about for me.”
“Don’t give it a thought.” He did not tell her that only by the payment of an enormous premium, effected through the concierge, had he been able at this late date to secure a loge. “By the way, we’ll take it easy today so that you’ll be fresh for tonight.”
Both were glad of the rest, especially since the sky had become overcast and a keen wind blowing down from Semmering made passage through the streets a chilly business. However, after giving Arturo his instructions to leave for home he was out and about in the afternoon, on some affair of his own. At his suggestion they had an early dinner in the sitting-room: no more than a cup of strong turtle soup, omelette fines herbes with pommes pont neuf, pêche melba and coffee: by design a light meal, but good.
When they had finished he stood up.
“It’s a nuisance, my dear little Puritan, but we have to dress up a bit for this affair. Luckily I knew your size, so you’ll find something in your room. I had your nice Anna lay it out for you.” He put a comradely arm about her shoulder, bent forward close to her in his most winning manner. “Please wear it—for my sake.”