To Journey Together (24 page)

and she drifted immediately into the most profound and contented slumber.

From this she awoke more than two hours later, with the sweet, varied, syncopated sound of all the church clocks of Rome chiming eight o'clock.

Hardly able to believe that she had slept so long, but greatly refreshed, and feeling able to deal with even the recalcitrant Kenneth, she hastily changed and made ready to go downstairs.

"I'm so sorry," Elinor said. "I slept much longer than I meant to. I think it was the typing and the hot afternoon."

Lady Connelton smiled indulgently from the doorway.

"Then perhaps we were right not to wake you to say goodbye," she observed kindly. "Kenneth declared you had already said everything that was necessary."

"Kenneth said ?" In astonishment which

slowly began to change to dismay Elinor regarded her employer. "But—why should Kenneth—say goodbye?"

"He had to go back to England this evening. Quite a sudden crisis at the office, I understand. But he said you knew about it." Lady Connelton looked a little puzzled. "He left about an hour ago to go to the airport."

"IT'S NOT possible!" Elinor actually felt herself go pale. "Lady Connelton, you don't really mean that Kenneth has gone? Back to London?"

"Why, yes. More than an hour ago, as I said. But he declared you knew about it."

"I didn't! I completely misunderstood him. Oh, I wish I could remember exactly what I did say." Elinor pushed back her hair distractedly. "I thought he was being tiresome and—and gloomy about Rudi and Ilsa coming. I—I told him that he couldn't expect me to be sorry about it. Oh, what must he have thought? I must speak to him somehow—explain."

Lady Connelton glanced at her watch and shook her head slightly.

"I'm afraid you wouldn't get him now, dear, even if you telephoned to the airport."

"But he'll think I was glad to get rid of him because—because—" Elinor broke off, and then, snatching at least at a straw of comfort, she asked, "Did he know that the von Eibergs had come? Perhaps at any rate he didn't know about that further aggravation of the position?"

"I don't know." Lady Connelton wrinkled her forehead. "We didn't have time to talk about anything much except his departure. And of course my husband talked to him a good deal about business affairs."

"But no one mentioned Rudi and Ilsa?" Elinor pressed.

"I don't think— Oh, yes, I remember now. Just as he was going we met them in the hotel entrance. He stopped only for a word or two with them as he was already late."

"But he realized that they had come much earlier in the day?"

"I suppose so."

"That was all that was needed!" Elinor declared despairingly.

Lady Connelton glanced at her with kindly curiosity.

"Is it so very important, my dear?"

"Oh, of course it is, Lady Connelton! He will be so hurt and angry. And quite rightly so. He will think I was telling him that I didn't mind about his going back to London because now I had Rudi to take me around. I wouldn't have given him that impression for the world."

Lady Connelton rubbed the bridge of her nose in that reflective, characteristic gesture.

"Then you had better write and tell him so." "Write?"

"Of course. Wrong impressions can always be removed if one likes to take the trouble."

"It's not—a question—of trouble," Elinor said doubtfully.

"Of what then?"

Elinor considered that. She supposed, confusedly, that her pride had something to do with it. It was difficult to write post haste after Kenneth without giving him the impression that his opinion of her was worth a great deal. If that were not so—

But it was, of course! She might lose patience with him over his attitude to Rudi and Ilsa, she might argue with him sharply about minor matters, but to be misunderstood by him over anything so basic as this shook her whole world in a way that almost frightened her.

Lady Connelton was silent. She knew exactly when not to hurry one.

"I don't want to seem over—over anxious," Elinor explained uncertainly "I should hate him to think that I was attaching too much importance to—to—"

"The fact that he was hurt?" suggested Lady Connelton.

"Oh, no! I couldn't attach too much importance to that. I meant—the whole incident, I suppose. It might embarrass him if I—"

"Ken is very difficult to embarrass," stated Kenneth's aunt positively.

"Or to hurt?" suggested Elinor.

"No. That's different. If you want my opinion—which you probably don't, because someone else's opinion about one's most intimate feelings is always tiresome—I think he was probably feeling very sore and wretched when he went away. I didn't know at the time why he should do so, but I thought he was extraordinarily depressed and wordless."

"Oh, Lady Connelton!" Elinor's kind heart—no proof against this—was wrung by the thought of an unhappy, bruised Kenneth going off alone into the night. "I will write to him and try to explain. I don't mind if he does think me rather—rather "

"He won't, dear," Lady Connelton said, not putting her to the embarrassment of finding the right word. "No explanation based on a kindly desire to undo a hurt has ever come amiss. Now we had better go down to dinner, because, really, one must eat, even if one's private affairs have got into something of a tangle."

Would you—would you mind very much if I wrote the letter first and joined you later?" Elinor asked pleadingly.

"Not at all," said Lady Connelton, nobly refraining from pointing out that this would in no way hasten the departure of the letter since the last post had already gone. "I had better leave you his private address."

Whereupon she extracted from her handsome bag a pencil and one of those odd scraps of paper which are all that any of us ever seem to have in an emergency, and, with a comfortingly matter-of-fact air, wrote down an address. This she put on the dressing-table and, with a friendly nod to Elinor went out of the room.

With fingers that trembled slightly because of a remorseful emotion, Elinor took out her writing case, and, without even waiting to think about restrained and dignified wording, she wrote:

Dear Ken,

I can't tell you how unhappy I am to find that I gave you a completely wrong impression a few hours ago. I had no idea that you were going back to London when you came in and spoke to me. I thought you were just being rather cross and tiresome oh, I'm sorry! but you are sometimes, you know—about Rudi and Ilsa turning up again.

I must have seemed perfectly horrid to you, and I can't imagine what you must have thought when I said you couldn't expect me to be sorry about what had happened. I am sorry, Ken! I'm dreadfully sorry about your going away so quickly and suddenly, so that I didn't even have time to thank you for the lovely times we had here together. Rome isn't the same place at all without you.

She paused and considered that, wondering i f she had gone a little too far. But it was true—Rome was not the same place without him. And, in her desire to abase herself and remove all misunderstanding, she saw no reason why Kenneth should not have full credit for all the pleasure he had given her.

I do hope I didn't hurt and anger you too much by my seeming ingratitude. It's so difficult to apologize by letter, but it is the best I can do. I just could not let you go on for days and days supposing I didn't care at all about your sudden departure. I shall miss you very much indeed

Suddenly the paper and her own writing became all blurred, because the complete realization of how much she would miss him came home to her all at once as she wrote down those words, and she felt tears rush into her eyes.

He was gone. Kenneth was really gone. And, however nicely she might write to him and explain and perhaps quite successfully put things right between them, the lovely, carefree, intimate days were over. When she saw him again she would be one of the girls in the office and he would be the

nephew of the Managing Director, and himself one of the heads of the firm.

That was how she had always known it would have to be, of course. She had never expected to prolong their happy times indefinitely. But it had all been snatched from her so suddenly that she had to wipe away a tear or two at the thought.

She finished her letter, and carefully addressed it as Lady Connelton had indicated. Then she went downstairs and joined her kind employers, and because she knew that it was part of her duty to be pleasant and cheerful, she did her best not to let either of them see that her heart was heavy and anxious.

Presently Rudi came in and joined them, with the news that Ilsa had gone out to see friends of theirs. He was in his most charming and amusing mood and, in spite of herself, Elinor felt her spirits rising, while it was obvious that both the Conneltons found him as entertaining and welcoming as ever.

In that quick, sensitive way which was characteristic of him, he evidently realized that Elinor was in some way depressed. At any rate, he was specially kind and attentive to her, and, when the Conneltons said good night and prepared to go upstairs, which they did rather early, he took Elinor lightly by the arm and said, "Come and talk to me for a little while. We haven't had any time together."

She was not completely in the mood for this, to tell the truth. But the alternative going upstairs to her own room and brooding over her misunderstanding with Kenneth—was not to be borne. So she let herself be persuaded, and came with him into the little flagged garden, where a few lights shone on the dark glossy leaves of the trees and shrubs, and here and there a seat or two could be found in a convenient patch of warm shadow.

He was so kind and considerate with her that she nearly started to tell him about the misunderstanding with Kenneth. But she remembered in time that this would be altogether too stern a test of his sympathetic interest. So she smiled at him in the rather

dim light to show her appreciation of his attitude, and she let him do the talking.

Presently they sat down on one of the benches, from which they could see the nymph in the fountain, trickling water out of the shell in her hand. And after a short pause, in which there was nothing but the sound of the running water, Rudi said quietly, "Things have changed very much for me, Elinor, since last I saw you in Vienna."

"Have they, Rudi? For the better, you mean?" He nodded.

"I'm so glad. It will make up for—so many things you have lost, won't it?"

"Yes." He was silent again for a moment. Then he said, "Leni left everything she had to be divided between Ilsa and me. There was a great deal more than any of us had expected."

"I'm very happy for you." Elinor spoke from her heart, and, putting out her hand, she touched Rudi's lightly and sympathetically. Then, suddenly remembering something, she asked, "But what about Anton?"

"What about him?" Rudi enquired idly.

"He was actually a blood relation. He rather expected to be remembered too, didn't he?"

"Oh, yes. But his luck was out," Rudi explained carelessly. "Although, I suppose, he was Leni's favourite in a way, he did something which annoyed her very much a few months ago. She changed her will."

"And left him nothing?" Elinor was a good deal shocked.

"Left him nothing," Rudi agreed.

"But—Rudi—it wasn't about anything vital, was it? I mean, if she had lived, she would probably have forgiven him and changed round again, wouldn't she? She seemed genuinely fond of him."

"Oh, yes, I expect so," Rudi agreed. "That's just the luck of the thing. Like staking on the wrong card."

"It's nothing of the sort!" Elinor sat up and

spoke with energy. "I thought you—you liked Anton."

"Why, of course we do."

"Then aren't you going to put things right?" "In what way, Elinor?"

"By re-dividing the money, of course. Except for a temporary annoyance, which might come to any old lady, Leni loved him equally with you and Ilsa. Surely that has something to do with it?"

"I don't quite follow. She left the money to us, Elinor."

"I know she did! But if she'd had time to think a little longer, she wouldn't have cut out Anton. You as good as admitted the fact yourself. Do you mean to say you are satisfied for him to have nothing?"

"She left him nothing."

"But there is even more than you expected. You could well afford to be just—to be generous—over this."

"Darling, there is never enough to be as quixotic as that." Rudi laughed. "It's been a gamble all along. We won, Ilsa and I. That's all. I didn't know you were so much attached to Anton and his fortunes."

"I'm not! I mean, there is nothing personal about it. He's a nice fellow, I believe, but I hardly know him more than that. Only—that isn't the point, Rudi. You know it isn't."

"The point, my darling," said Rudi quietly, in a tone that suddenly silenced her, "is that I now find myself a comparatively wealthy man—with the power to do all the things I have always wanted to do, without having to study every minor, frustrating consideration."