The Portuguese Escape (24 page)

‘I know you believe it,' Hetta said, returning the pressure of his hand with the small firm clasp of her own. ‘But I am not sure, dear Richard, that—that your belief is true. I mean, I think that perhaps you do not know yourself. You would soon begin to think me too young for you, and in social ways of course I am—though in more real ways I think I am much older, because of how I have lived. Your reality has been easy, mine has been hard; and so a lot of the things you think important are to me quite unimportant. Looks, dress,
savoir-faire
!' the girl exclaimed, with a ring of contempt in her voice—‘for you these are all-important; they fill your sky! But to me they are little, little,
little I
My mother has them all!' she ended, and sprang to her feet and walked away.

Richard, too, rose, and followed her slowly. He was rather disturbed—and startled by her perspicacity. She had sized him up with an accuracy which plenty of older women had
not
shown in regard to him, he thought ruefully. How clever she was! No, it was more than cleverness; she was wise. For a young man of his antecedents, living the life he did, Richard Atherley was rather unusually honest; he accepted Hetta's evaluation of himself as true, and did not resent it. But could one live beside such acuity? The remark about her mother—she would never have said that if she had not realised his own contempt for poor Dorothée, careful as he thought he had been to conceal it.

Hetta meanwhile was sauntering slowly along the lower of the two streets, her dark head sleek in the sun, that orange-patterned cotton frock of hers, that he liked so much, turning a deeper shade as she passed from sun to shadow—she walked beautifully, even in her silly white sandals and on that rough paving: she had that particular quality. He came up with her just as she had reached the spot where a church stood below the road; he laid a hand on her bare arm and said ‘Hetti!'—he could not find words for anything he wanted to say; he did not know, he was all at sea. She turned at once, with her wide gentle smile, and said with the blandest unconcern—' Should we not go into this church? I believe there are remarkable paintings in it, by a woman.'

It again struck Richard, rather forcibly, that many women of the world could hardly have bettered her self-possession, immediately after receiving what practically amounted to a proposal; it was so completely incongruous with her clear-sighted statement that he would feel her ‘too young' for him that he burst out laughing, with his great laughter that resounded up and down the little street. But her knowledge took him by surprise too.

‘What do
you
know about Josefa of Obidos?' he asked.

‘Oh, she had a school of painting here—such an extraordinary thing for a woman, in the 17th century! And she was an etcher as well, and a silversmith, and modelled in terra-cotta. Do let us go in—I should like to see her paintings.'

‘How on earth do you know all this?'

‘The Monsignor lent me that book about Portugal. I have read it twice, but, of course, I cannot easily go about to see all these buildings and pictures because the car is needed for other things.'

Richard's heart smote him. He doted on Hetta, for his own pleasure he saw her whenever he could; but until today it had never occurred to him to do that quite elementary thing, show her Portugal—nor indeed that she would want, and want rather intelligently, to see its artistic riches.

‘Look,' he said, as they stood outside the door of the church, ‘if you can keep your week-ends fairly free I'll
drive you out on Saturdays and Sundays, and show you anything that's within reach.'

‘That would be lovely,' the girl said.

The parish church of Sta Maria in Obidos is in fact too dark for the visitor to see much of the versatile Josefa's pictures, particularly since these are skyed right up under the painted ceiling, above the decorative
azulejos
which adorn the walls. Hetta was disappointed. ‘Since we cannot see them, her pictures tell us nothing of her,' she said. ‘How sad.' Out in the sun again, she swung round on Richard.

‘Our glasses! Did we not leave them in the square? We must take them back, those nice people will want them— poor people cannot afford to lose two glasses.'

‘Hetti, do you know that you are very kind and very good?' he exclaimed.

‘
Niet!
It is only that you know nothing about poverty, and I know a great deal,' the girl replied. ‘You are simply ignorant, not bad; I
know
, but I am not therefore good. Really, Richard, you are very ingenuous for a diplomat!'

‘How censorious you are!' But he laughed and took her elbow as they went back to the
largo
below the castle. Their tumblers had gone; some of the youthful
futebol-
players, seeing them abandoned on the steps, had taken them back to the ‘small wine-room', as they at once explained to Richard when he began to peer about.

‘What are you doing for dinner tonight?' the young man asked, as they drove back towards Lisbon.

It appeared that Hetta was doing nothing for dinner; her mother was dining out.

‘Then come and dine with me,' Richard said. He was in a divided mood. On the one hand he acknowledged the truth of her diagnosis of his own attitude towards her; on the other, the mere fact that she was shrewd enough to make it, and her subsequent lively uppishness about diplomats drew him to her more strongly than ever—and he had a sudden desire to push the thing farther, if only to find out more about his own feelings, and hers.

She made no answer to his invitation.

‘Well? Yes—no?' he asked.

‘No,' the girl said, turning to him—‘It is No, please, Richard.'

‘Why on earth not?'

‘Because we are not ready—I am not, you are not. You want me to come tonight so that you may make a little love to me, and see if that is nice. Oh, of course it would be nice!' she exclaimed—' lovely, delicious,
fun
! But you and I are not people to live just by fun; you have perhaps been a little spoilt, but you need
truth
in your love, and you do not know yet where the truth is, I think. I told you that on those steps. We have done enough for today about what is between you and me. Let us leave it—take me home.'

Again her honesty and clear-sightedness took him by surprise; he felt something like reverence for her just then, mixed with admiration for the cool fearlessness with which she had spoken of love between them. Oh yes, she was right about him: he
had
wanted to try it out on the physical plane, leaving everything else in a warm happy fuzz; and Hetta, uncompromising as ever, wouldn't have that.

‘Whatever
has
been done about us today, it's you that have done it,' he said, putting his hand over hers.

‘Because I am so old!' she said lightly.

As they approached Estoril—‘Richard, will you let me know when I am to see Father Antal quite
soon?
' she asked. ‘I would excuse myself from almost any engagement, except just this one with the Bretagnes, for that. Where is this place in the country to which he has gone? Is it far away?'

‘Yes—the better part of a day's drive. He's at Gralheira, the Duke of Ericeira's house near São Pedro do Sul, right up in the North.' Richard had no scruples about telling Hetta this; she was in the whole affair up to her neck. ‘It would mean staying a night,' he went on, ‘but I don't suppose your mother would object to your going to the Ericeiras. What about next week-end? I have something on, but I would cut it for that—for
you
, Hetti.'

Hetta ignored his final words.

‘So long?' she said dismally. ‘Could we not go sooner? You see, he may be going on to America. Do
you
know when?'

‘No, I don't. But I'll find out. Don't worry, Hetti—I've promised, and I will keep my promise. Goodbye, my dear one. You will come and dine with me some time, won't you?'

‘Yes—at the
right
time!' she said, as they drew up at the hotel. ‘Thank you, dear Richard, for the lovely expedition. I have been so happy.'

Hetta enjoyed her luncheon at the Bretagnes the following day. It was a homely, family affair. Innumerable Bretagne children, of all ages down to a seven-year-old, sat round the long table gazing at her, and occasionally firing off questions in her direction; the only guests besides herself were the young Archduke, a lively fair-haired youth whose questions about Hungary poured out like machine-gun fire, and a big, tall, lusciously beautiful woman who had, it seemed, only arrived by plane that morning, and having telephoned was bidden to this very unsocial meal—her name Hetta, too often absentminded, failed to catch, though she realised clearly enough that this was a last-minute addition to the party. In this pleasant atmosphere the girl expanded, answered the Archduke briskly, and laughed heartily at the innocent question of one very youthful princeling—' Did you give the priest you cooked for soup? I
hate
soup!'

‘You would not hate my soups; they are delicious,' she told the child.

‘Then I wish you would come and speak with our cook. He gives us
bouillon de légumes
, which is altogether horrible,' the little boy pronounced.

‘Countess, it looks as though I shall have to employ you to nourish my family!' the Pretender said, laughing—' or are you tired of cooking?'

‘I shall never be tired of cooking, Monseigneur—I love it.'

‘What a lucky man your husband will be! Well, children, until she marries, shall we engage Countess Hetta to make your soups?'

‘Yes!' the younger ones chorused.

‘Monseigneur, I am not sure that I shall be able to enter your employment at once,' Hetta said, with a mock-grave face; ‘The English Ambassador has already engaged me to go and teach his chef how to make
Hasenpastete
'

‘
Jesus Gott!
Can you really make
Hasen-pastete?
I haven't eaten it for years!' the Archduke exclaimed. ‘Would you make one for me?'

‘If Your Highness can bring himself to shoot three hares and two partridges out of season, I can make one for you at any time,' she replied.

This was rather Hetta's hour, though a small hour. The talk soon turned back from food to Hungary, but presently the girl registered the fact that the beautiful golden-haired lady—a Frenchwoman, it seemed—looked on and listened with a detachment which seemed to contain an element of contempt; whether for Hungary and its affairs, or for a person who cooked, she could not be sure.

Towards the end of the meal the Pretender asked Hetta, who sat on his left, if she had seen much of Portugal?

‘Very little so far, Monseigneur—but yesterday someone from the English Embassy took me to Obidos.'

‘Oh, this exquisite place! I am sure you liked it.'

‘I loved it. In fact I almost decided to live there!'

‘You might do much worse.' He turned to the Frenchwoman, who sat on his right. ‘Obidos is a most perfect little gem of a mediaeval city; you should visit it,' he said, courteously drawing her into the conversation. Then he turned back to Hetta. ‘And did your English escort wish to settle there too?' he enquired teasingly.

‘He played with the idea, but I did not think it would suit him!' Hetta replied—her small success had made her a little reckless.

‘And may we know who this English diplomat is, who would like to live in Obidos?' the Pretender asked.

‘It was Monsieur Atherley,' Hetta said, still reckless. ‘But the life of a
petite ville de campagne
would not really do for him.'

‘No, I agree; he is a charming person, but
plutôt mondain
' He looked rather keenly at Hetta, as if he found something amusing—but the girl was much more sharply aware that the big Frenchwoman had somehow stiffened at the mention of Atherley's name, and was staring at her in cold surprise. ‘Do you know Monsieur Atherley, Madame de Vermeil?' the Comte de Bretagne asked, once again courteously bringing his other guest into the conversation.

‘
Very
well—and for many years,' the lady said, with emphasis. ‘Certainly I imagine that
petites villes de campagne
and love in a cottage are not at all what would suit him—Mademoiselle is quite right.'

‘Yes—the
Countess
Hetta Páloczy has excellent judgement,' the Pretender replied, in an urbane but rather unusually direct royal reproof.

The Comtesse de Bretagne, slightly preoccupied with making her younger family eat tidily, had missed this interchange, and when the three guests were about to leave she asked Hetta if she could drop the Archduke in Monte Estoril, and the Comtesse de Vermeil at the Castelo-Imperial—' where you are staying yourself.' Hetta, making her semi-curtsey, of course agreed, and Oliveira bore them all away in the Rolls. The Archduke continued his flow of enquiries about Hungary till the very moment when he was set down before the small villa where he was staying— Archdukes, in the modern world, never put up in places like the Castelo-Imperial, they can't afford to; they leave them to the occupation of ship-owners and international financiers from the Middle East. He kissed the hands of both ladies, but it was to Hetta that he said—‘Do please let us meet again. There is so much to talk about! Do you come to the wedding?'

‘No, but my mother does,' Hetta said, wishing that he were not getting out—she had no desire for a tête-à-tête with this big beautiful woman who professed to know Richard so well.
How
well, she wondered, as the car purred smoothly on again—every part of her went onto the defensive.

‘You know Monsieur Atherley for long?' Mme de Vermeil asked at once, in an almost caressing tone.

‘But naturally not, Madame la Comtesse, since I have been in Hungary until a few weeks ago,' Hetta said casually. ‘He is quite a recent acquaintance—
du reste
, like everyone else in Western Europe, as far as I am concerned.