The Portuguese Escape (10 page)

‘And you snatched away the daughter, alone, so that we might meet her?'

‘
Je croyais vous procurer un plaisir, Monseigneur
.'

‘Oh, you have, you have!—a genuine pleasure. She is thoroughly intelligent, and yet so naïve; it is as if she had just been born, at the age of—what, twenty?'

‘Twenty-two.' (That was the sort of thing Mme de Fonte Negra always knew.) ‘But I did not wish to involve Monseigneur in any
embêtements.
'

‘Oh, I shall not let myself be
embête
!—but I should very much like my wife and my children to hear her talk. If she comes alone to you, will she not perhaps come alone to us?'

‘Monseigneur, you are a more serious proposition than I!' Mme de Fonte Negra said, laughing her stout jolly laugh. ‘And there is this complication, that Madame la Mère is dying to come to the wedding.'

‘Ah,
ça!
' His lively face became vague again, all of a sudden. ‘Too many wish to come to the wedding, which is after all an affair of the family! There is hardly place for a mouse.' He twinkled again. ‘Is this an indispensable condition? I did not get the impression that the young lady is likely to be tied to anyone's apron-strings.'

‘I also think she is not—but she may have her own
embêtements
, poor child, with her mother.'

‘Do
you
know her?—the mother, I mean?'

‘Oh yes, quite well. She is a kind woman, really, and
spends much in charity—through Monsignor Subercaseaux, therefore it is well dispensed. But she has a certain
folie de la grandeur
; she lives for social success.'

‘I shall talk to the Monsignor about it,' said the Pretender with decision.

‘Do. He is her confessor, and can make her do anything.'

The Comte de Bretagne did talk to Mgr Subercaseaux after lunch, while Hetta, summoned to sit on a larger sofa beside his wife, talked with her; again the girl had a small success, caused laughter. When the Bretagnes left, the Comtesse said warmly—‘I hope you will come and visit us. I shall write to you.'

Mgr Subercaseaux asked Hetta to give him a lift back to Estoril in the car, which had been sent to fetch her.

‘The Comte and Comtesse de Bretagne wish you to lunch with them next week,' he said when they were twisting down through steep narrow streets towards the speed-way along the Tagus.

‘They are nice—I should like to go,' said Hetta. ‘But does Mama know them?—visit there?'

The Monsignor was a little taken aback by this question —he hemmed. ‘In fact, no,' he said at length.

‘Then I shall not go.'

He was surprised by her decisiveness.

‘I think your mother might like it if you did,' he said.

‘I should not. Some other people gave me invitations today, but they seem not to know Mama; at least they did not come to her party. I will not go to such, just because they are curious to hear what I have to say.'

She is really quite astute, the priest thought. He did not quite know how to tackle this new attitude; while he was considering what to say Hetta spoke again.

‘Mama wishes very much to attend this wedding, does she not?'

‘Yes, that is the case.'

‘Very well. If they invite her, I will lunch with the Comte and Comtesse de Bretagne with the utmost pleasure—but if they do not, I will not go.'

At that he burst out laughing. This waif from the wilds of Hungary, issuing her ultimatum to a prince of the blood!

‘I thought you considered any desire to attend royal ceremonies—unimportant,' he said. He had seen Richard Atherley since that little luncheon, and been told of Hetta's outburst. But she was ready for him.

‘My
ideas
on this must be quite unimportant, since I am so ignorant. But I do not wish to be entertained by people who do not know Mama.' She paused. ‘I am sure Pappi would not have wished it,' she said, her face suddenly quivering.

Mgr Subercaseaux leant over and patted her hand.

‘My child, you are perfectly right,' he said, in an unwonted burst of sincerity. ‘Leave it to me—your mother shall attend the wedding.'

Julia Probyn's party at the Guincho took place on one of those soft warm spring evenings which can make April in Portugal a heavenly thing. The two girls drove through Cascais and on into open country, a broken shore of pale rocks and Atlantic rollers on their left, to the right the landscape swelling up towards the seaward end of the Serra da Cintra—ahead the blunt bulk of Cabo da Roca, the westernmost cape on the mainland of Europe, stood up with its lighthouse. They parked the car and strolled down through sand to the restaurant, past outcrops of rock studded with small bright flowers, and big silver clumps of sea-holly growing in the creamy sand. The restaurant was certainly shack-like, as Julia had said; it was built of wood, and approached by a wooden outside staircase—but passing in from the balcony, set with a few small tables, one entered a pleasant room gay with bright cotton tablecloths, and on each table an array of bottles, and bunches of the yellow flowers of the sea-holly. It was all simple, homely, and rather quaint—Hetta was delighted.

‘Oh, what a nice place! Our country
csardas
at home are like this.' She fingered one of the check table-cloths almost lovingly. ‘I did not know that there were such places here.'

‘Oh yes, lots of them, in almost all countries,' said Julia. ‘Look, the men haven't come yet, I can't think why they're so late—but you and I might start on our drinks. Inside or outside?'

‘Oh, can we be outside? There, please.'

Julia had learned from Richard Atherley that Hetta had an aversion to cocktails, and it was a fine, dry Portuguese champagne that she caused to be brought out to the small table on the balcony. ‘I think cocktails before sea-food are a mistake,' she said—‘and here one eats nothing else.'

‘Sea-food? What is this?'

‘Oh, it's an American expression, but rather a good one
—whatever comes out of the sea. Tonight we're having bisque of langouste—well that doesn't come out of the sea, it's a sort of fresh-water lobster—and then crab, cold, and sole, hot, and cheese and salad to finish off with. But the cooking is rather good in this funny little place; I shall be interested to know what you think of it, as a professional.'

Hetta laughed.

‘Do not make fun! Me a professional! And as we have no “sea-food” in Hungary, I shall not be able to judge of it very well.'

‘I'm sure you
will
, Hetti. By the way, Townsend Waller is coming; he heard somehow that we were dining here, and he's dying to meet you again, so I asked him.'

‘I am glad. He is so
nice.
' But Hetta's gaze was constantly straying seawards, where big breakers surged in to fall on a narrow stretch of sand between two points of rock. ‘Yulia, I wish so much to swim!' she exclaimed. ‘Can I not? This water is so much more
alive
than at Estoril—I would love to swim in it.'

‘Have you brought bathing-things?'

‘No—but I can swim in my petticoat! I often swam in my nightdress in the Tisza.'

‘It's frightfully cold, and pretty rough,' said Julia doubtfully.

‘I swim strongly!' Hetta pronounced firmly; ‘and at Estoril I swim every day—for the first time, here, I swim in the sea. Oh, I do wish to! Where can I undress?'

Rather unwillingly, Julia arranged for Hetta to undress in the bedroom of the proprietor's wife; the girl emerged in a crêpe de chine slip under her pale tweed overcoat and ran gleefully down to the little sandy bay. But instead of plunging thence into the breaking waves she nipped up onto one of the rocky points, threw off her long coat, and entered the Atlantic in a clean dive just as Atherley, Townsend Waller, and Major Torrens arrived on the balcony.

‘Good God, who on earth is that diving in?' Torrens exclaimed.

‘Hetta Páloczy.'

Atherley swung sharply round, and like the others
stared towards the sea, where Hetta's black head promptly reappeared.

‘What on earth did you let her do that for, Julia?' he said brusquely. ‘It's not a bit safe bathing here, in water as rough as this, except for very strong swimmers. Surely you know that?'

‘She says she
is
a strong swimmer,' said Julia coolly— with a second's wonder as to why Richard should be so cross. Anyhow, she was not going to excuse herself to him.

‘And
how
!—just look at her!' Townsend exclaimed enthusiastically, watching that black head smoothly surmounting the great crests of the incoming waves. Indeed she seemed to be an eel, a fish, and the water her natural element—as she got farther out the watchers noticed that she took to turning onto her back to slide down feet foremost into the trough behind a wave, swinging over as the next approached to cross it with her powerful breast-stroke.

‘She seems thoroughly in control,' said Torrens.

‘Yes. Have a drink,' said Julia turning to the table, and filling their glasses with the delicate wine.

‘Just the same, I think we ought to yell to her to come back now,' Townsend said after a few moments; ‘she may get into a current—she's going pretty far out.'

‘Well, yell,' Julia said. ‘She may pay attention to you— she wouldn't to me.'

Townsend cupped his hands round his mouth and bellowed ‘Hetta!'

The black head turned on the summit of a green crest.

‘Come on in!' Townsend roared. ‘We're hungry!'

They could see her laughing face as she turned round and started to swim towards the shore. But it is much easier to swim out through big waves than to swim back with them; each one bears you forward, but after it has passed there is a strong suck-back in the trough until the next carries you on again. Atherley could see Hetta frowning as she encountered this phenomenon—glass in hand, they all stood at the rickety rail of the balcony, watching her progress with some anxiety. But she soon learned the trick of it, swimming vigorously with each overtaking wave, then relaxing till the next came along.

‘God, she is a good swimmer!' Townsend said, watching appreciatively. ‘Half the people who get drowned in swimming do it coming back in water like this. She must have had a lot of practice.'

‘No, she says she never swam in the sea in her life till she came to Estoril,' said Julia.

‘Well, really, Julia, I must say—' Atherley was beginning angrily when Townsend exclaimed—‘Oh, watch out!'

The one thing that Hetta was not prepared for, strong and resourceful as she was in the water, was the merciless force of a breaking wave. The tumbling crest picks the swimmer up and flings him forward like a piece of wreckage, rolling him over and over till sand and water fill eyes, ears, and mouth; the only way to prevent this is to turn and dive backwards through each following wave till the water is so shallow that one can stand, and even then it is not easy to keep one's feet. But all this the girl from the heart of Central Europe could not know. Even as the American shouted the watchers on the balcony saw Hetta picked up, thrown onto the sand, and tumbled over and over, helplessly, in the creamy surf—when the water dragged back again she did not rise, but was sucked back with it.

‘She's stunned!' Atherley exclaimed. He was down the wooden steps in a flash, and raced across the beach, flinging off his jacket as he went; by the time the next wave threw Hetta forward again he had waded in waist deep, to snatch her up and carry her to the land. On the sand he set her down, for she was wriggling in his arms like a captive fish.

‘Ow!' the girl said, spitting out sand and sea-water, and rubbing at her eyes with her fingers. ‘This is horrible!'

‘Are you all right?' the young man asked.

‘Yes, except for this sand!' But she was in fact shaking slightly all over, with cold and shock. ‘I must wash my face,' she said, starting back towards the sea.

‘No, do that at the pub,' he said, catching her by the arm—as they passed up the beach he picked up his jacket and threw it round her shoulders.

‘Thank you—oh, now you are all wet!' Hetta said,
glancing at his soaked trousers. ‘I am so sorry. I do not know what happened; I—I was taken by surprise. These waves are so strong, when they come to the shore.'

‘They are. There's a trick about getting back through them—I'll teach it you some day.'

‘Will you? That I should like. But could you fetch my coat? It is up on those rocks.' She waited while he brought it and then, modestly muffled, went up with him to the little inn.

Julia's dinner was rather late that evening. Hetta had to be sponged down, her hair dried, and dressed—minus her petticoat; a pair of the proprietor's trousers had to be borrowed for Atherley while his own were hung up to dry in the kitchen. Torrens and Townsend Waller, left to themselves on the balcony while Julia ministered to Hetta, became hungry, and in Torrens' case rather impatient.

‘She's a beautiful swimmer, our little Countess, but not very considerate,' he said, glancing at his watch. ‘It's nearly a quarter to nine.'

‘We started late ourselves, anyway,' said Townsend, still rather resentfully conscious of having waited in Atherley's room at the Chancery for nearly half an hour for Torrens to appear; he had asked Richard why he didn't call his friend up and tell him to come along, but Richard had been evasive, merely saying—‘No; he'll be here presently.' Anyhow he, Townsend, disliked any criticism of Hetta.

‘Yes, I was late—I couldn't help it,' the Englishman said readily. ‘Sorry. Do you feel like a whisky?—I do. I wonder if they have it here?'

But just as Townsend was explaining that rum or Pheysey gin were all that could be hoped for in the way of spirits at the Guincho, first Atherley, and a moment later the two girls, reappeared, followed by the proprietor's wife with a second bottle of the local version of champagne. They had another glass, Hetta was dosed with hot rum-and-water, and then Julia hustled them indoors to dine. ‘Goodness, I do hope the soles aren't ruined,' she said.