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II
That evening, Harold joined mother and daughter after dinner. Elsie Clayton was wearing a soft
dull pink dress. Her eyelids, he noticed, were red. She had been crying.
Mrs. Rice said briskly:
“I’ve found out who your two harpies are, Mr. Waring. Polish ladies—of very good family,
so the concierge says.”
Harold looked across the room to where the Polish ladies were sitting. Elsie said with
interest:
“Those two women over there? With the henna-dyed hair? They look rather horrible
somehow—I don’t know why.”
Harold said triumphantly:
“That’s just what I thought.”
Mrs. Rice said with a laugh:
“I think you are both being absurd. You can’t possibly tell what people are like just by
looking at them.”
Elsie laughed.
She said:
“I suppose one can’t. All the same I think they’re vultures!”
“Picking out dead men’s eyes!” said Harold.
“Oh, don’t,” cried Elsie.
Harold said quickly:
“Sorry.”
Mrs. Rice said with a smile:
“Anyway they’re not likely to cross our path.”
Elsie said:
“We haven’t got any guilty secrets!”
“Perhaps Mr. Waring has,” said Mrs. Rice with a twinkle.
Harold laughed, throwing his head back.
He said:
“Not a secret in the world. My life’s an open book.”
And it flashed across his mind:
“What fools people are who leave the straight path. A clear conscience—that’s all one needs
in life. With that you can face the world and tell everyone who interferes with you to go to the
devil!”
He felt suddenly very much alive—very strong—very much master of his fate!
III
Harold Waring, like many other Englishmen, was a bad linguist. His French was halting and
decidedly British in intonation. Of German and Italian he knew nothing.
Up to now, these linguistic disabilities had not worried him. In most hotels on the Continent,
he had always found, everyone spoke English, so why worry?
But in this out-of-the-way spot, where the native language was a form of Slovak and even the
concierge only spoke German it was sometimes galling to Harold when one of his two women
friends acted as interpreter for him. Mrs. Rice, who was fond of languages, could even speak a
little Slovak.
Harold determined that he would set about learning German. He decided to buy some
textbooks and spend a couple of hours each morning in mastering the language.
The morning was fine and after writing some letters, Harold looked at his watch and saw that
there was still time for an hour’s stroll before lunch. He went down towards the lake and then
turned aside into the pine woods. He had walked there for perhaps five minutes when he heard an
unmistakable sound. Somewhere not far away a woman was sobbing her heart out.
Harold paused a minute, then he went in the direction of the sound. The woman was Elsie
Clayton and she was sitting on a fallen tree with her face buried in her hands and her shoulders
quivering with the violence of her grief.
Harold hesitated a minute, then he came up to her. He said gently:
“Mrs. Clayton—Elsie?”
She started violently and looked up at him. Harold sat down beside her.
He said with real sympathy:
“Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?”
She shook her head.
“No—no—you’re very kind. But there’s nothing that anyone can do for me.”
Harold said rather diffidently:
“Is it to do with—your husband?”
She nodded. Then she wiped her eyes and took out her powder compact, struggling to regain
command of herself. She said in a quavering voice:
“I didn’t want Mother to worry. She’s so upset when she sees me unhappy. So I came out
here to have a good cry. It’s silly, I know. Crying doesn’t help. But—sometimes—one just feels
that life is quite unbearable.”
Harold said:
“I’m terribly sorry.”
She threw him a grateful glance. Then she said hurriedly:
“It’s my own fault, of course. I married Philip of my own free will. It—it’s turned out badly,
I’ve only myself to blame.”
Harold said:
“It’s very plucky of you to put it like that.”
Elsie shook her head.
“No, I’m not plucky. I’m not brave at all. I’m an awful coward. That’s partly the trouble with
Philip. I’m terrified of him—absolutely terrified—when he gets in one of his rages.”
Harold said with feeling:
“You ought to leave him!”
“I daren’t. He—he wouldn’t let me.”
“Nonsense! What about a divorce?”
She shook her head slowly.
“I’ve no grounds.” She straightened her shoulders. “No, I’ve got to carry on. I spend a fair
amount of time with Mother, you know. Philip doesn’t mind that. Especially when we go
somewhere off the beaten track like this.” She added, the colour rising in her cheeks, “You see,
part of the trouble is that he’s insanely jealous. If—if I so much as speak to another man he makes
the most frightful scenes.”
Harold’s indignation rose. He had heard many women complain of the jealousy of a husband,
and whilst professing sympathy, had been secretly of the opinion that the husband was amply
justified. But Elsie Clayton was not one of those women. She had never thrown him so much as a
flirtatious glance.
Elsie drew away from him with a slight shiver. She glanced up at the sky.
“The sun’s gone in. It’s quite cold. We’d better get back to the hotel. It must be nearly lunch
time.”
They got up and turned in the direction of the hotel. They had walked for perhaps a minute
when they overtook a figure going in the same direction. They recognized her by the flapping
cloak she wore. It was one of the Polish sisters.
They passed her, Harold bowing slightly. She made no response but her eyes rested on them
both for a minute and there was a certain appraising quality in the glance which made Harold feel
suddenly hot. He wondered if the woman had seen him sitting by Elsie on the tree trunk. If so, she
probably thought. . . .
Well, she looked as though she thought . . . A wave of indignation overwhelmed him! What
foul minds some women had!
Odd that the sun had gone in and that they should both have shivered—perhaps just at the
moment that that woman was watching them. . . .
Somehow, Harold felt a little uneasy.
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