In two more days he went down the stairs for the first time. He was helped by the balusters and a stick, impeded by the hoverings of Clare and Lena and John the ‘outside man’ and even Waldemar Ingolls himself. But he was sure and careful, and in two more days was making the slow journey, both up and down, with none worrying about his safety.
The constraint between himself and Clare grew worse now that he was a freer agent. Perhaps, although they were both wary, it was noted by others; perhaps not. There was no way to tell—and with the conviction growing daily stronger that he would soon be in a condition to face himself with the problem and determine the answer to it, he took no trouble to find out. He was coming, gradually, out of the shell He knew that—and waited. The signs were various, but first among them was the reaction which he felt to mention of the Texas oil disaster. He had made himself numb at first, and successfully, but now, as he hobbled on walking-splints and stick about the house and listened three times at least a day to the vehemence of Waldemar Ingolls, his torment grew and he began, however sternly he ordered his mind not to dwell upon it, to think about Altinger’s Plan Six, due now in less than eight short weeks; the Sixth ‘Attack’ beside which all others would pale into third-rate insignificance. When he thought of this he sweated, and even, once or twice, was persuaded by emotion to wrestle with the problem, while knowing that yet he was not ready. . . .
Then there arrived, utterly without warning, the night which was to mark the end of waiting and indecision and retreat within armour. A fantastic, undreamt-of, incredible night.
Clare was out with friends, and Otto and Waldemar Ingolls dined alone. They enjoyed the food and drank more wine with it than usual and Ingolls did most of the talking. But it was good talk—and Otto found, with a sudden amazement, that he was actively and pleasantly aware of immediate existence: the shell had broken and been pulled away.
Ingolls did a strange thing. He looked suddenly at Otto across the table, and he suddenly smiled, and he said:
“So the chrysalis has cracked! We will now proceed to get very slightly drunk.”
Otto stared but said nothing. He only half-understood the words and was not sure enough of their astonishing implication. He studied the other man covertly, and saw him, despite his age, erect and strong and happy; vigorous and with a life as full as he made it, commanding and vital and intelligent, with a quality about him at the same time unfathomable and familiar.
“Yes,” said Ingolls firmly. “Very slightly, and very decorously, drunk.”
He gave an order to Lena and led the way into the room which he called library and everyone else in the house his study. It was a very pleasant place: all the southern wall was windows through which the garden and the oaks beyond it seemed impossibly to give ever-changing vistas; there were books from floor to ceiling; there were water-colours of ships and a lovely head in oils of Clare as a child; there were deep chairs of leather and the biggest writing-table Otto had ever seen; there were pipe-racks and cigars and a sheep-dog which lay before the hearth and ashtrays everywhere within reach and a single silver bowl of roses and two inkwells made of gold-mounted horses’ hoofs. And now there was Lena with a tray which bore bubble-goblets and a strangely shaped bottle: she set it down upon a table near Ingolls’ chair and then turned quickly to hover solicitous about Otto as he set down his stick and lowered himself into another great chair and carefully arranged his legs before him, the jointed splints clanking weirdly beneath his trousers.
And then Lena was gone and Ingolls was pouring great golden splashes into the goblets. He smiled at Otto and they drank after warming the smooth glass in their palms, and Ingolls began to talk again and Otto listened carefully, but was conscious all the while that the time of healing was over and that he could now, so soon as he was alone, begin work upon the finding of the answer.
Ingolls was talking about his work, and the talk was of interest and Otto was conscious that he was glad of the respite which was being forced upon him; glad to enjoy this hour when he must not think of his problem; glad that he was here in this place with this man; glad of the brandy; glad to glance every once in a while at the picture of the child Clare; glad to pretend for this little time that he was what Ingolls thought him to be. He said:
“I know that your work is . . . is in connection with the farmers, but I do not know exactly what it is.”
Ingolls laughed. He stood up and lifted the bottle and poured more into the glasses. On the hearth, the dog lifted its head and followed him with its eyes and then, satisfied, put the head down again.
“I’ll tell you what we call it,” Ingolls said. “It’s resounding. We call it Advisory Agricultural Expert—or rather, I do.”
Otto sipped at his brandy. He said, slowly:
“Advisory Agricultural Expert.” He savoured the last word: all of his training made it impressive. “You must have studied for a long time the . . . the scientific aspects of the business of farming.”
Again Ingolls laughed. He said:
“You make it sound very important. And very difficult. It isn’t. It’s a technical profession, and quite a lot of fun because there aren’t many people in it yet and I manage, with a lot of clients and a couple of patents and some Government work, to make quite a bit of money at it. Have some brandy?”
He poured more into Otto’s glass and then his own. He was feeling, very evidently, well pleased with life and Otto and himself.
Otto said: “You have done this . . . this agricultural work since you were a young man?” He was very careful with his words. He was feeling the liquor and was glad of the sensation. He was also genuinely interested, the way he always had been in other men’s lives if these were active.
Ingolls was tilting his goblet. He said, when he set it down:
“I was born in a farming country. Then I left it for a while. Then I came back to it. Drink up, man; you’re very slow.” He stood suddenly and crossed to a far corner of the room. The dog lifted its head again and watched him. He opened a cupboard below the book-shelves and found an album of recordings and busied himself with the radio cabinet and in a moment there was music filling the quietness of the room; the gay, romantically martial music of Offenbach as welded and blended for the ballet called Gaité Parisienne.
Otto forgot about farming. He swayed his glass in time to the vivid opening and then drank and then kept the beat with head and hand as the carefree, toy-soldier chorus slid into the sabre-swinging sweetness of the next melody, irresistibly calling to a man’s mind a wish-picture of himself, having conquered worlds, laying them at the feet of a maiden who could safely be depended upon to return them accompanied by her own delightful person.
The dog lowered its head and slept again as Ingolls came back. He lifted the bottle again and looked across at Otto with raised eyebrows and a smile and then did not wait for any yes or no but poured a bigger libation than any. The music went on, alternately militant and romantic, bacchanal and nostalgic, but always and inevitably gay and courageous and inspiriting.
Ingolls said: “That’s music. It does things to you! They say it’s just operetta stuff—but it fills you with all the sort of ridiculous, lovely thoughts you haven’t had since you were a boy and the world was a damned sight better place to live in. By God, it makes you want to go back, not so much to your own boyhood as your grandfather’s!” His dark eyes were glittering and there was a half-smile at the corners of his strong mouth and his body was as straight as that of the boy he was dreaming of. He said: