by Ann Bridge
‘This is true.’ She frowned a little, thinking. ‘But if she hears it from others at the wedding, she might be hurt.’
‘She’s not likely to hear it from the Ericeiras,’ Richard said bluntly. ‘Why don’t you leave it to the Monsignor? He’s made himself responsible for you to her.’
‘Yes, Yulia told me. He has been kind, in this. All the same, that someone else should tell a mother that her daughter is engaged: this is not very nice, do you think?’
He reflected. ‘I suggest that you write a note to your mother tonight—after all, we’ve only got engaged today— and let the Monsignor give it to her tomorrow. Then she will hear it from you, and at once.’
Again Hetta considered.
‘Yes, I will do that. It is—-just adequate.’
Julia and the Monsignor were down in the hall when they reached the palace; Subercaseaux at once asked Richard if he was staying to dinner? ‘If not, perhaps you could take me out to Estoril. The telephone has ceased to function, so there is some difficulty about a taxi; and the chauffeurs appear to be at supper.’
‘I shall be delighted,’ said Atherley unwillingly. He turned to Julia. ‘Hetti and I are engaged to be married.’
Julia gave Hetti a warm hug. Still with an arm round her— ‘I hope, Richard, that you realise exactly how lucky you are,’ she said.
‘Truly, Julia, I believe I do.’
‘Well don’t go forgetting it later on!’ Miss Probyn said crisply.
The Monsignor also made appropriate congratulations. ‘I think this match will be welcome to your mother,’ he added to Hetta.
‘My note!’ Hetta exclaimed. ‘I must write to Mama, so that you can give it to her the moment you see her, Monsignor, please. Yulia, where can I write?’
While Julia took Hetta away to write her note Richard explained the advice that he had given the girl about telling her mother; Subercaseaux nodded approval.
‘Yes, for the Countess to telephone tonight might create complications. For the moment the instrument is out of action, but that cannot last long.’ He looked shrewdly at Richard. ‘You will have many things to learn from this child,’ he added.
‘Monsignor, I’ve realised that.’ He liked and trusted Subercaseaux enough to expound his sudden enlightenment about moral sophistication.
‘Precisely—that is what I mean. She needs to acquire the lower forms of this necessary but uninspiring quality, sophistication; but you, my dear Richard, would do well to master the higher ones! Ah, there they are!’ he said, as Julia and Hetta cascaded down the great staircase; he took Hetta’s note, and they drove off.
Too many descriptions of royal weddings can be tedious. This particular marriage was both exclusive and brilliant; it was followed by a reception, in the course of which the British Ambassador found himself practically pushed into the rounded front portion of Mgr Subercaseaux. ‘Oh, how are you, Monsignor? Everything going well? Tell me, is that Miss Probyn here? If she is I should like to meet her.’
The Monsignor threw a practised eye over the throng. Not far off he saw Miss Probyn, whose height made her conspicuous; he and Sir Henry slowly made their way towards her between the jammed, richly-dressed bodies. Julia, in the green brocade dress, with a close-fitting toque of cock’s feathers which continued down one side of her white neck to curl over her left shoulder, was really a very splendid sight; the Ambassador’s blue eyes rested on her with pleasure.
‘At last,’ he said. ‘I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time.’
‘Oh. Why?’ Julia asked, in her near-drawl.
‘You seem to be a sort of key to all these doings in which my First Secretary has been involved. Tell me, is he going to marry the little Countess?’
‘Yes, they got engaged yesterday. Do you think it’s a good idea?’
‘It’s always a good idea to marry a woman who can cook,’ Sir Henry said. ‘Especially nowadays. He will be comfortable when he retires, which is more than I shall; my good wife can’t boil an egg.’
‘Oh how sad!—poor you!’ Sir Henry chuckled. Few people say ‘poor you’ to Ambassadors.
‘A marriage with a foreigner won’t help his career, of course,’ this one said, ‘but I expect he will surmount that. He’s very able, and she is such a charmer. Good, too; you know lots of diplomatic wives seem to lose practically all ethical sense—if they ever had any.’
Julia laughed. But she was thinking more of the present than of Richard’s retirement some thirty years hence.
‘Look, dear Sir Henry,’ she said coaxingly, ‘can’t you push him off now somewhere else, out of reach of Mama?’
Sir Henry threw her a glance of half-comic outrage.
‘So you want to rob me of the best Head of Chancery I’ve ever had, in any post?’
‘Certainly I do. What do Chanceries matter compared with love and marriage? And for two such unusually nice people, in this case. I think they come even before the convenience of Ambassadors.’
He laughed, and picked at his thumb.
‘Miss Probyn, you fully come up to my expectations! No wonder everything hangs on you.’ He considered. ‘In fact I know that the Office wants someone of about his seniority for Rome.’
‘Then do get them to send him there, for goodness’ sake! Rome would be perfect for Hetta—it’s full of expatriate Hunks, isn’t it? And, of course, the Holy Father as well.’
The Ambassador laughed again.
‘I promise you that I will try—against my own interests.’ He gave her a shrewd glance. ‘Wasn’t that exceedingly nice American, Waller, one of her admirers too?’
‘Oh yes, but that didn’t work. Hetta likes him, he was kind to her when she came; but—well, these things happen in one way and not in another.’
He mused.
‘Yes; yes, of course.’ He went on picking at his thumb. ‘Thirty-five years ago, no, more, when I was a Second Secretary in Washington I often met Emily Waller; his mother, you know. She was a very forceful woman. And their toffee doesn’t always set.’
Julia laughed so loudly that heads turned in their direction.
‘Ah, but that isn’t confined to America,’ the Ambassador said. ‘My dear Miss Probyn, London is full of such men.’
At this point the Duke of Ericeira appeared beside them.
‘Duke, you are the other person I wanted to see,’ Sir Henry said. ‘Miss Probyn I have, at last, met.’ Julia took this rather broad hint, and drifted off. ‘You have been unspeakably good to our people over all this,’ he went on. ‘I do thank you.’
‘Your Excellency, I cannot tell you the pleasure it has been to have them all in my house. I have long been a student of Dr. Horvath’s writings, but I never hoped for the privilege of meeting him, let alone to have him as my guest. And the good Torrens: an admirable person, especially when galvanised into life by our dear Miss Probyn; and Atherley and the nice American, to say nothing of the enchanting little Countess. I assure you, my friend, it is long since Gralheira was so full of life.’
‘You like the little Countess? Good. I hear she and Master Atherley are going to make a match of it.’
‘Yes, so Miss Probyn tells me. From the little I have seen of her I should count him fortunate, for she seems to have real fonds de caractère. Would you agree?’
‘Well, yes and no,’ Sir Henry said. ‘I think the girl is a good girl, with plenty of individuality; but the Service still takes a curiously static view about our diplomats not marrying Englishwomen, you know, and this girl comes from a Curtain country. Her father had a great reputation, of course, as an anti-Communist, back in 1919. But the poor boy will be saddled with a rather dreadful mother-in-law.’
The Duke agreed. ‘Look out, mon cher!’ Sir Henry suddenly exclaimed—‘We are going to be coincés par la mère I Can we get away?’
They couldn’t; the crowd was now too thick. Only someone of Dorothy Páloczy’s ruthless determination could have forced a way through it just then; she succeeded, and appeared beside the two m
en, a formidable apparition in all her war-paint—the clothes, the hair, the make-up. Mme de Vermeil was at her elbow. After greeting the Ambassador, ‘I don’t know the Duke of Ericeira except by sight!’ the Countess said gaily.
Sir Henry was both firm and adroit.
‘My dear lady, I am in precisely the same situation in regard to Madame de Vermeil,’ he said promptly. ‘Do please present me.’ This introduction was followed up by a flow of questions from Sir Henry about people in Paris, during which the Duke, thankfully, contrived to edge away.
‘Oh, he’s gone!’ the Ambassador exclaimed, after a final earnest enquiry concerning ‘cette chère Violette’, ‘What a pity! Well, some other time. Now tell me—are you happy about your little daughter’s engagement to my admirable Head of Chancery? I do hope so, because I am very fond of him. Moreover, he’s extremely able; he has a great future before him.’
‘I’m very glad to hear that. Yes; I haven’t seen a great deal of Richard, but I like what I have seen,’ Dorothée said. A certain sharpness came into her voice. ‘Did Monsignor Subercaseaux fix this up?’
Sir Henry looked shocked.
‘Oh my dear lady, NO. What an idea! Richard has been head over ears about your daughter ever since they first met; and when she—well, disappeared—’ the Ambassador said carefully, ‘he was quite distracted. My good young man, my right hand, you might say, deserts both his chief and his job, and rushes off in the middle of the night to look for his lost love! Personally I regard this as practically a crime passionnel,’ the Ambassador observed, chuckling. While he spoke he had kept one shrewd blue eye on Mme de Vermeil; she took it as he had expected she would, un-blenchingly, but he decided to rub the thing in thoroughly.
‘This really is Love’s Young Dream,’ he went on; ‘I can assure you of that. The Monsignor I know is delighted—as well he may be, since he is extremely fond of Richard too. All this young man’s friends can only rejoice at his great good fortune.’
Dorothée was rather swamped by these complimentary phrases. Thrown off her balance—‘I still don’t know where she is,’ she said. ‘Do you know, Sir Henry?’
‘No notion! Mustn’t we both leave all that to the Monsignor? I gather he’s in charge. Au revoir, chère Comtesse; au revoir, Madame de Vermeil. I see the Cardinal Patriarch over there; I must have a word with him.’ The crowd was beginning to thin a little; skilfully, the Ambassador, too, escaped.
At that very moment Hetta Páloczy was standing out on the apron of Montijo airport, seeing Father Antal off. Thanks to the kindly planning of Julia and the Duke she had had a long quiet evening with the old priest the night before, and another blessed two hours with him this morning. She had told him of her happiness, he had given her his final blessing as she knelt devoutly in front of him, pressing his hands strongly on her little black head. Afterwards, ‘But do not forget what I told you at Gralheira,’ Father Antal said. ‘Now you enter upon a life in which your husband will be among those who wield power and influence. See to it that you do not diminish his influence by any mistakes of yours, any roughness or clumsiness. Be humble; be gentle. Do you remember what Ruysbroek said? “Be kind, be kind, and you will be saints.” I think, my Hetti, that you are not always kind in your judgements, as for instance concerning the Monsignor! And you must be good to your mother, too. She is very much alone, now.’ With tears, Hetta had promised to obey these injunctions.
That was her real farewell, but all the same she could have hugged Major Torrens for saying, off-handedly, that she might as well come along to the airport. Now, in the blinding sunshine, she stood in a little group which included Colonel Marques, the Major, and the Military Attaché, forcing herself to talk politely to the agent from America, a quiet, soft-voiced Southerner; at any other time he might well have charmed her, but now all her eyes and half her ears were concentrated on the stocky little figure of the priest. Once more he was wearing his European disguise of the grey overcoat and sun-glasses; the silver stubble on his head was half-concealed under the incongruous Trilby hat. The mouth and that cropped hair were really all she could see—she looked and looked, trying to force into her mind a picture that might have to last her for the rest of her life.
‘And you cooked for him?’ the Southerner said. He had heard enough of Hetta’s story to be interested in her.
‘Yes. I like cooking. Oh, but where does he go now?’ Hetta exclaimed, as Marques, Torrens and Father Antal moved away. The man from Louisiana glanced at her with compassionate understanding.
‘You go after him; you don’t have to worry about me.’ Hetta followed the others.
‘She loves that old man, the poor child,’ the American muttered to himself, as he moved after her.
On military airports like Montijo there is none of the civilian vulgarity of loud-speakers braying commands, only a brief discreet summons to the official passengers by word of mouth. This had just been given: the American followed Hetta slowly towards the great silvery bird-like shape poised for flight on the tarmac. He saw his special cargo, the freight he had to deliver safely to his employers in America, pause and look round; saw the pretty girl with whom he had just been talking break into a run, seize the old man’s hand and cover it with kisses; when she turned back towards him Captain Glenny averted his eyes from the pain in her face. But he took her hand, saying, ‘Countess, I’ll look after him; please don’t worry.’
Hetta made no reply. She stood stock-still, watching, while Father Antal and the American climbed into the plane; watched while it rose, circled, and hummed away in flight over the red earth and the silver olive-groves, till it disappeared, seawards, behind the Serra da Arrabida.
It was just about then that Richard Atherley and Townsend Waller were sitting down to cocktails on the terrace of that restaurant above the Tagus. Richard had asked Townsend to lunch; one way and another he had rather a bad conscience about his friend, and he particularly did not want the Bostonian to hear of his engagement from any outside source.
‘We’ve not been here since the day before Hetta arrived,’ Townsend said, tilting the Martini round in his glass thoughtfully.
‘No. It’s warmer now,’ Richard said, idiotically; he felt nervous. He pulled himself together. ‘Townsend, Hetta and I are engaged. I proposed to her yesterday on the way home, and she has accepted me.’
‘I was really expecting that, I think,’ Townsend said, after a moment’s pause. He drank half his cocktail at a gulp, and set down his glass. Then he lifted it again.
‘I don’t have to wish you good fortune, Richard, because you have it! But I do wish you every conceivable happiness; you and her’—and he drained the glass.
Richard was touched by this. But there was nothing more to be said, really, and all through their meal they rather carefully talked diplomatic shop. Presently cars returning from the wedding reception began to stream along the broad road immediately below the terrace, and they amused themselves by noting the occupants. The Duke and his sister in one of the Ericeira Daimlers were among the first, shortly followed by the Loseleys in the Embassy Humber: on this highly official occasion the tiny Union Jack, usually discreetly furled in its black case, fluttered from the right wing.
‘Oh good, H.E. will be back early. I shall have to go and see him,’ Richard said. A little later—‘Goodness! There’s the Monsignor, in Dorothée’s car,’ he exclaimed. ‘What on earth is he hiving into Lisbon for, do you suppose? Father Antal must be gone by now; one would have expected Subercaseaux to be sleeping it off.’
Mr. Waller laughed. But the sight of Mgr Subercaseaux had aroused another train of thought in his mind; he looked earnestly at his companion.
‘Richard, please forgive my asking this, but are you going to become a Catholic when you marry?’
This time Richard did not laugh at the question, as he had done on an earlier occasion.
‘Townsend, I don’t think so; not at once, anyhow. I don’t suppose they’d have me, come to that—I’m not at all religious.’
‘Oh, they’ll have anyone! And they’ll condition you so that you get religious!’ the Unitarian said bitterly. ‘Almost everyone that marries a Catholic ends up by becoming a Catholic themselves! Don’t, please, do that, Richard.’
‘Townsend, it’s too soon to promise anything,’ the Englishman said. ‘Every marriage calls for endless adjustments, and I suppose one makes them as they come along.’ Suddenly he felt irritated by this pressure; he spoke almost harshly. ‘If you were to marry her what would you do, if she wanted you to become a Catholic? You’d be wax in her hands, and you know it!’
‘Not wax to that extent, Richard—no. But let’s not quarrel about it. I’m sorry.’
The Monsignor, half-asleep in Countess Páloczy’s Rolls-Royce, was going to Lisbon, most reluctantly, to bring back Countess Páloczy’s daughter. He had warned Miss Probyn at the reception that Dorothée was insisting on this, and that resourceful young woman had contrived to put through a call from back regions overflowing with caterers’ men to poor Hetta, warning her to pack and be ready; the palace telephone was working again. ‘Oh yes, I shall not make him wait; he will be tired,’ Hetta said. ‘Is it a nice wedding?’
‘Yes, lovely—the greatest fun; Princess Maxine looks entrancing. The Comte de Bretagne has been asking after you, and the Archduke too; he’s frightfully disappointed that you aren’t here! If I don’t see you before you leave I’ll come out tomorrow,’ Julia added. ‘Did Father A. get off all right? Good.’
Hence there was no delay for the Monsignor when he called for Hetta; she was waiting in the hall, Elidio carried out her single suit-case, and they were off. The Monsignor asked if Father Antal were safely gone?
‘Yes. I went with him to the plane; Major Torrens was so kind. But you must be quite exhausted, Monsignor; do not trouble to talk with me. Could you not sleep a little, even in the car?’
Subercaseaux glanced at her in surprise.
‘Yes, my child, I will. I am in fact very tired.’ He studied her face. ‘You are a good girl; you will do your Richard credit.’ He leaned back and closed his eyes.
