Far, Far The Mountain Peak

by John Masters

  Chapter 3

  She was dancing at last, and with Gerry. This was what it had all been leading up to, putting up your hair and biting your lips. This---She swayed away from him, felt his hand firm at her waist, and looked at his face.

  ‘Is it what you expected?’ he asked her.

  She nodded. Yes, it was. She was not feeling quite what they had expected for her, perhaps, but she had known she would feel things differently when she was grown-up.

  She said: ‘Now tell me what Mr Walsh is really doing.’ Gerry shot her an astonished look, so that she laughed and said: ‘Don’t be an ass, Gerry. You’re the worst actor in the world.’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ he said in an agonized whisper. ‘Not now. Don’t ask me. It’s a secret, and I’ve promised not to tell till I’m allowed to.’

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Does Peter know?’

  Gerry shook his head. ‘No. I’m not allowed to tell anyone.’ She laughed gaily. Heaven knew what they were up to. It didn’t matter, but it made her cheerful to think that Harry Walsh had a greater hold on Gerry than Peter Savage did, at least in this case. Perhaps that was what had made Peter so angry; well, not exactly angry--determined, as though he were going to show Gerry whose opinion really mattered in the end, and why it really mattered--because he could win by sheer determination.

  Gerry said: ‘Peter’s jolly nice, isn’t he?’

  She said carefully: ‘I’m sure he is. I don’t really know him, do I?’ It didn’t always do to tell Gerry exactly what you thought. She didn’t want an argument.

  But now Gerry had made her think of Peter Savage again, and she’d promised herself she wouldn’t. In the lounge of the Appleby he had been a dim figure, Gerry’s friend, nothing more. In the dining-room he’d spoken a few sentences that showed he was a person in himself, and rather a disconcerting one. She had come out of the hotel quite liking him, and admiring the way he was allowing himself, rather gracefully in the circumstances, to be forced to change his plans and come and spend a couple of weeks at Llyn Gared. Then, during the race, everything had changed--his face, his manner, the circumstances, the whole situation. And he had changed them all. He wasn’t nice; he wasn’t allowing himself to be politely manoeuvred into anything. On the contrary, he had forced Gerry into a position Gerry hadn’t wanted to be in. Peter Savage wasn’t a gentleman.

  Gerry said: ‘Peggy wants him to come to Llyn Gared, rather badly. That’s why I thought up the race. I could hardly tell him Peggy has a mash on him, could I?’

  ‘He knows, I am sure,’ she said dryly. The music dipped and swung, and the old gentlemen on the walls peered benignly down on her from their heavy frames.

  She said: ‘What’s he going to do--Peter--when he leaves Cambridge?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gerry said earnestly. ‘He hasn’t made up his mind yet. The last time we talked he was thinking about taking the exam, for the Indian Civil, but I tried to persuade him it would be an awful waste. He could be prime minister if he set his mind to it.’

  ‘Can he afford to go into politics?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t suppose so,’ Gerry said. ‘I don’t think the family’s well off. In fact I’m sure they’re not. But dash it, it’s a shame. Anyway, he could go into law and make a fortune while they were giving him hopeless seats, and then he’d be ready when they could give him a good one. But I’m really afraid he’s almost made up his mind to go to India. Most of his people seem to have gone out there for donkey’s years. Well, whatever he does, he’ll know what he’s going to do. Wish I could say as much for myself. I say, what about a glass of champagne cup?’

  ‘If you like.’ They swung out of the dance, and at the edge of the floor she glanced at the programme now dangling from her gloved wrist. She had the next dance with Adam Khan. Very nice. But Gerry had said something odd. . . .

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked as they wended through the crowd, walked out across the lawn to the marquee. ‘You know what you’re going to do--much better than any of them, as a matter of fact.’

  Gerry said: ‘Of course, but--well, a chap’s life seems rather pointless when everything’s going to come to him. I mean, some day the old man’s going to pop off, and then I’ll be the Earl, and there’ll be the estates, and the House--not that I know anything, but I suppose I ought to go and say my piece when they’re talking about something that’s going to affect the tenants. Plenty of money that I haven’t earned. Whacking great mansion. Town house. Deer forest. . . . There.’

  ‘Thank you. . . . It’s not a crime to be heir to an earldom, Gerry--even to have a lot of money. We’ve got enough, I suppose, but Daddy’s never felt that he ought to be anything except what he was born to be.’

  ‘No. Wish I could be like Uncle G. But--well, here’s Peter probably sailing off to India when we go down next year, and he’ll have something to do. I mean, things won’t be the same after he’s lived as they were before, will they? And whatever he does, whatever he becomes, it’ll be his. But a hundred years from now no one except some oldest inhabitant’s youngest grandson is going to know or care whether I was the fifth Earl or the sixth. Dash it, there won’t be any difference between me and the old man, except that his name will be mentioned with thanks in the preface to some enormous dictionary as the chap who gave the proper derivation of “postliminical”--and then half the readers are going to think it’s me. I tried to persuade Peter to go into politics here. No go. . . . I’ve a dashed good mind to go to India.’

  ‘What?’ she said sharply.

  They had wandered out on the lawn, where she could listen to the music of the orchestra and look at the Chapel. Horses’ hoofs clopped past down King’s Parade.

  ‘Oh, not seriously,’ he said quickly. ‘It was just something Peter’s grandfather, the old general, said that made me think of it.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He asked me, when we were first introduced, whether it hadn’t been a relative of mine who was Governor of Madras or Bombay or somewhere, I can’t remember where, in eighteen- seventy-three. It was, as a matter of fact, though we’d all forgotten about him. It made me realize I could be something that I made myself, if I wanted to be, instead of just being what came to me.’

  She hesitated, for it was impossible not to feel that perhaps this, in Gerry, was the same need for a purpose that had come to herself so short a time ago. But this was all wrong; she felt it in her bones and knew it in her head. This wasn’t Gerry’s purpose, but something he had caught from Peter Savage, like a disease, and now was trying to persuade himself that he needed.

  She said slowly: ‘I don’t think that would be right, Gerry. The relative you’re talking about wasn’t the Earl, was he? Well, you will be. Is it any better to look after some Indians whom you don’t know, than your land and your tenants, whom you do? I wouldn’t want to go to India--if I were you,’ she added hastily.

  Gerry said: ‘You’re right, Em. And I wouldn’t be making my own way even there. It would be just that some governors practically have to be peers, according to Peter. It would be an awful sweat, and a long, long time, before I could hope to become Viceroy.’

  ‘Who said you could?’

  ‘Peter. He was only joking.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. But privately, she added: Was he? She didn’t think that Peter Savage made jokes of quite that kind.

  They returned in silence to the ballroom and stood together under the balcony, waiting for Adam Khan to claim his dance with her. She saw Mally and Daddy up there on the dais, among ranks of chaperones and fathers. Goodness, how those old people did talk, fans waving, heads nodding, eyes darting here and there. And there was Peter Savage, sitting with Joan Gordon. And here was the Indian, with the delicate bones and the understanding eyes. He was in front of her, his white gloves touching at the tips as he bowed rather lower than was usual. The music had begun.

  ‘Miss Fenton, I think I have the honour . . .?’

  She held out her hand. What was it th
is time? Another waltz. It was time someone invented a new dance.

  ‘Do you know anything about the mystery of Mr Walsh?’ Adam asked her at once, as soon as they were fairly launched on the floor.

  ‘Hasn’t he come back yet?’

  ‘No. Your mother is quite annoyed, I fear.’

  She said: ‘Gerry knows, but he’s promised not to tell. I suppose we’ll find out some time.’

  They danced without speaking for a time. He was good. She half closed her eyes and tried to judge whether, if she had not known whom she was dancing with, she would say he was better than Gerry. But it was impossible because his hand felt different, and the rhythm of his movement felt different. Dancing wasn’t something that you could really take by itself; you and your partner and what you thought of him were a part of it. But he was a beautiful dancer.

  He said: ‘It was very kind of you to invite Peter and me to your home. I am----’

  ‘I didn’t,’ she said. ‘Gerry did.’

  Then she really blushed, scarlet with mortification and shame. ‘Oh! I’m sorry.’ She gasped. ‘Of course I didn’t mean . . . We ... I would be--have been--delighted, only----’

  ‘There’s no reason why you should pretend to be overjoyed,’ he said with a smile. ‘We would have deprived you of Gerry’s company for many days if we had come. I was going to say that I will try to persuade Peter to release Gerry from his wager.’

  ‘It won’t help,’ she said. ‘Gerry’s promised. He’d be miserable if he thought he was being let off something.’

  The young Indian looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You are quite right. Well, now we are all in Peter’s hands. He will decide.’

  She said: ‘And you’ll--let him?’

  She thought: That’s not quite polite, implying that he has no will of his own. But she might as well speak as frankly as he did. It was exciting to say what one thought.

  Adam nodded. ‘Yes, I shall let him. Partly because I have already agreed to be his guest at that time, so I am in his hands, but really because he knows where he is going. It is always exciting to go with Peter, even on a walk through the streets.’

  She said: ‘Gerry just told me he didn’t know. He thought he hadn’t made up his mind... I mean, about what he would do when he left Cambridge.’

  ‘He has now,’ Adam said, ‘this evening. We were out on the lawn for a few moments while you ladies were in the cloakroom. Gerry had disappeared--on his secret service, I suppose. We were looking at the Chapel, then at the ladies and gentlemen walking up and down. There are four sons of cabinet ministers here, you know, and a score of earls and dukes and heirs to peerages. There is a wealth here such as there was at our Mogul courts, though not so obvious. Peter said, “I’m not going to hang around begging these people for favours. I’ll come back able to demand what I want. I’ll take the Indian Civil.” That was all. I hope he will stay with us in India and forget about coming back here. But I suppose, when you feel that there is nothing you cannot do, it must seem much greater to be prime minister of England than lieutenant-governor of an Indian province--for Peter, I mean, not for me. I am an Indian.’

  Emily said: ‘He didn’t mention Gerry, did he? Any idea that Gerry might go to India too?’

  Again Adam looked at her thoughtfully, and again the music and the moving faces blurred behind him, because this was important and he understood. He said: ‘Gerry? No, Miss Fenton. Peter didn’t mention Gerry at all. I hope Gerry never thinks of India. He could be a Presidency governor, and quite soon, if he decided he wanted to be--but I don’t think he is suited to the life.’

  She felt better. Adam Khan was an ally. She said: ‘You’re going back, I suppose. Oh, of course, you’re going to put new drains in Rood--Roodbar.’

  ‘Rudwal,’ he said with a quick smile. ‘Yes, and plenty more besides, I hope. If Peter has really made up his mind to go to the I.C.S.--it will be wonderful! My family is very old and respected, Miss Fenton. If I can persuade Peter to come to Rudwal as D.C.--why, between us there is almost nothing we could not achieve, because he has the power and I know the people.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful,’ she said untruthfully. She didn’t know what a D.C. was, and the only wonderful thing was that Peter Savage was going to sail away and leave Gerry alone.

  The music stopped.

  ‘That is the end of our dance,’ Adam said, bowing slightly. She saw Gerry and Peggy standing together at the side of the floor, close beside one of the doors that led out under the gallery into the cool, summer-scented ante-passage. Gerry was beckoning her with a surreptitious motion. Adam saw too, and they walked over together.

  As they reached Gerry’s side from one direction, Peter Savage and Joan Gordon came up from the other. Gerry said: ‘Listen --which of you girls wants to practice her skill as a houri?’

  ‘What’s this?’

  Emily swung round with a start and found her mother at her elbow, and, behind, her father.

  Gerry muttered: ‘Shh, Mally, it’s important. Quick, which of you wants to be a temptress for fifteen minutes?’

  Mally said: ‘Gerry, I am chaperoning these young ladies. I forbid it--whatever it is. You have been behaving like a very inferior Doctor Watson ever since dinner. Now tell us what your stupid secret is.’ She spoke sternly, but it didn’t work. Emily, watching her, knew that she loved Gerry too much, and had spent too many years entering with them into the spirit of just such childish games as this.

  Gerry said: ‘Mally, I can’t tell you, exactly. I can’t tell anyone.’ He glanced pleadingly at Peter. ‘Not just yet. But we must have Bennett, the lay dean, kept in Hall for the next fifteen minutes. Everyone else is being looked after. Bennett’s the man over there with the thick black hair. Got his Blue in ‘eighty-eight. He’s handsome, isn’t he? Isn’t he, Peg?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Peggy said dubiously, ‘but---‘

  Peter Savage said: ‘Mrs Fenton can do it best.’

  Gerry started and said: ‘Mally? But she’s---‘

  Mally said: ‘Mr Savage! I shall do no such thing!’ But her eyes sparkled with pleasure.

  Gerry gabbled: ‘Oh heavens, time---It’s urgent. I promise I’ll tell you all as soon as I can--five, ten minutes. Peggy, you do it. Dance with him--talk, flirt, sit out. I’m going to get him now, introduce him.’

  ‘Gerry!’ Mally called, but Gerry had gone.

  The music began, and Emily found Peter Savage standing in front of her, his pale face cold and reserved. ‘This is my dance,’ he said.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ She fumbled for her programme and read it through carefully three times. Then she looked up with a dazzling smile. ‘So it is--I had made sure it was somebody else.’

  ‘I will be happy to give it up, if you wish,’ he said.

  Gerry led Mr Bennett into the group. Emily had been hoping to play the role of seductress herself, since it was for Gerry’s sake; but she could hardly get rid of Peter Savage that way, now that Peggy had been named.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, and took Peter’s arm; and then, when they were dancing, she said: ‘What is the secret? I’m sure you know,’ because she knew he did not know.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Isn’t it thrilling?’ she said.

  The pale eyes suddenly focused on her. They were the colour of the sea on a cold, clear day--blue-green and strangely lighted, brilliant. She felt that he had never seen her before, that she had been a mere speaking doll, an obstruction in organdie, but that now he weighed her as a person.

  He said: ‘Men don’t usually have that kind of a secret between themselves when they are grown up, Miss Fenton.’ She could afford to ignore the barb about being grown up. Mr Savage made you angry, but he didn’t make you blush. She said calmly: ‘You have secrets from Gerry, I’m sure.’

  He thought a moment and then said: ‘No.’

  Well, damn Mr Savage! She had spoken to annoy him, expecting him to answer with a mocking evasion. But he’d answered the question exac
tly and, she was sure, honestly. That put her in a bad position; now she would have to explain herself further or be thought of as a coy little girl. She said: ‘What about your decision to join the I.C.S., or the Indian Civil?’

  ‘Same thing,’ he said. ‘The Indian Civil Service. That’s not a secret. I haven’t had the opportunity to tell Gerry yet. I only made up my mind tonight, and he’s been disappearing like a jack-in-the-box ever since.’

  He ought at least to have wondered how she knew and then after a few minutes of fencing she would have told him, and then it would have been the end of the dance and she would have been the winner. Now she was left holding the dead body of a secret that wasn’t a secret.

  There was Peggy, smiling nervously at Mr Bennett. She was almost as bad an actor as Gerry, but in a way it made her performance more realistic--with her face flushed and her big blue eyes blinking in obvious confusion. Emily smiled to herself, while keeping her face impassive in case Peter Savage should think she was smiling at him. Peggy was her best friend, but it was no good pretending that being a houri was in her line, or ever would be. She was big, for one thing--not heavy in an ugly sense, but strong--and her skin was fair but marked by small freckles and healthily brown with the veneer of wind and sun and rain. It was easy to see that she spent more time in the saddle of a Welsh hill pony than in a ballroom. Her hair was her best physical feature--strong, of a brown like oak leaves in October. Mr Bennett was preening himself and looking terribly important and talking all the time. Men!