The Judas Tree

Chapter One

The autumn morning was so brilliant that Moray, judiciously consulting the rheostat thermometer outside his window, decided to breakfast on the balcony of his bedroom. He had slept well: for an ex-insomniac six hours was a reassuring performance: the sun shone warm through his Grieder silk robe, and Arturo had, as usual, prepared his tray to perfection. He poured his Toscanini coffee—kept hot in a silver Thermos—anointed a fresh croissant with mountain honey, and let his eye wander, with all the rich, possessive pleasure of a discoverer. God, what beauty! On the one hand, the Riesenberg, rising to the blue sky with heaven-designed symmetry above green, green grasslands lightly peppered with little ancient red-roofed peasant chalets; on the other, the gentle slopes of Eschenbrück, orchards of pear, apricot and cherry; in front, to the south, a distant ridge of snowy Alp and beneath, ah yes, beneath the plateau of his property lay the Schwansee, beloved lake of so many, many moods, sudden, wild and wonderful, but now glimmering in peace, veiled by the faintest skein of mist, through which a little white boat stole silently, like . . . well, like a swan, he decided poetically.

How fortunate after long searching to find this restful, lovely spot, unpolluted by tourists, yet near enough the town of Melsburg to afford all the advantages of an efficient and civilised community. And the house, too, built with precision for a famous Swiss architect, it was all he could have wished. Solid rather than striking perhaps, yet stuffed with comfort. Think of finding chauffage à mazout, built-in cupboards, tiled kitchen, a fine long salon for his pictures, even the modern bathrooms demanded by his long sojourn in America! Drinking his orange juice, which he always reserved for a final bonne bouche, a sigh of satisfaction exhaled from Moray, so blandly euphoric was his mood, so sublimely unconscious was he of impending disaster.

How should he spend his day?—as he got up and began to dress he reviewed the possibilities. Should he telephone Madame von Altishofer and go walking on the Teufenthal?—on such a morning she would surely want to exercise her weird and wonderful pack of Weimaraners. But no, he was to have the pleasure of taking her to the Festival party at five o’clock—one must not press too hard. What then? Run into Melsburg for golf? Or take out the boat and join the fishermen who were already hoping for a run of felchen in the lake? Yet somehow his inclination lay towards gentler diversions and finally he decided to look into the question of his roses which, suffering from a late frost, had not fully flowered this summer.

He went downstairs to the covered terrace. Laid out beside the chaise longue he found his mail and the local news sheet—the English papers and the Paris Herald Tribune did not arrive until the afternoon. There was nothing to disturb him in his letters, each of which he opened with a curious hesitation, a reluctant movement of his thumb—strange how that ridiculous phobia persisted. In the kitchen Arturo was singing:

Moray smiled; his butler had irrepressible operatic tendencies—it was he who had chosen the blend of coffee once favoured by the maestro on a visit to Melsburg—but he was a cheerful, willing, devoted fellow and Elena, his wife, though stupendous in bulk, had proved a marvellous if temperamental cook. Even in his servants he was decidedly lucky . . . or was it merely luck, he asked himself mildly, moving out upon the lawn with pride. In Connecticut, with its stony soil and unconquerable crab grass, he had never had a proper lawn, at least nothing such as this close-cropped velvet stretch. He had made it, determinedly, uprooting a score of aged willow stumps, when he took over the property.

Flanking this luscious turf, a gay herbaceous border ran, following a paved path that led to the lily pond, where golden carp lay motionless beneath the great sappy pads. A copper beech shaded the pond, and beyond was the Japanese garden, a rocky mount, vivid with quince, dwarf maples, and scores of little plants and shrubs with Latin names defying the memory.

The further verge of the lawn was marked by a line of flowering bushes, lilac, forsythia, viburnum, and the rest, which screened the vegetable garden from the house. Then came his orchard, laden with ripe fruits: apple, pear, plum, damson, greengage—in an idle moment he had counted seventeen different varieties, but he owned to having cheated slightly, including the medlars, walnuts, and large filberts which grew in great abundance at the top of the slope, surrounding the dependence, a pretty little chalet, which he had converted to a guest house.

Nor must he forget his greatest botanical treasure: the great gorgeous Judas tree that rose high, high above the backdrop of mountain, take and cloud. It was indeed a handsome specimen with a noble spreading head, covered in spring with heavy purplish flowers that appeared before the foliage. All his visitors admired it and when he gave a garden party it pleased him to display his knowledge to the ladies, omitting to reveal that he had looked it all up in the Encyclopaedia Britannica. “Yes,” he would say, “it’s the Cercis siliquastrium . . . the family of Leguminasae . . . the leaves have an agreeable taste, and in the East are often mixed with salad. You know, of course, the ridiculous popular tradition. In fact Arturo, my good Italian, who is amusingly superstitious, swears it’s unlucky and calls it l’albero dei dannati”—here he would smile, translating gracefully, “the tree of lost souls.”

But now he discovered Wilhelm, his gardener, who admitted seventy years and was seventy-nine at least, nipping buds by the cucumber frame. The old man had the face of the aged Saint Peter and the obduracy of a cavalry sergeant. It took tact even to agree with him, but he had proved his worth in knowledge and labour, his one drawback an embarrassing, if useful, propensity for making water on the compost heap. Straightening his green baize apron, he removed his hat and greeted Moray with a grimly impassive:

“Grüss Gott.”

“Die Rosen, Herr Wilhelm,” said Moray diplomatically. “Wollen wir diese ansehen?”

Together they went to the rose garden where, once the old man had scattered blame in all directions, the number of new varieties required was discussed and determined. As Wilhelm departed, a delightful diversion occurred. Two diminutive figures, the children of the village piermaster, aged seven and five, were observed breasting the steep path with that breathless speed and importance which denoted the delivery of an invoice; Suzy, the senior, clutched the yellow envelope, while Hans, her brother, carried book and pencil for the receipt. They were the most attractive, bright-eyed children, already smiling, glowing actually, in anticipation of the ritual he had established. So, after glancing at the invoice—it was, as expected, from Frankfurt, confirming the arrival of two cases of the special 1955 Johannisberger—he shook his head forbiddingly.

“You must be punished for being such good children.”

They were giggling as he led them to their favourite tree, a noble Reine Claude loaded with yellow plums. He shook a branch and when a rain of juicy fruit descended they burst into shrieks of laughter, scrambling down the slope, pouncing on the ripe rolling plums.

“Danke, danke vielmals, Herr Moray.”

Only when they had filled their pockets did he let them go. Then he looked at his watch and decided to be off.

In the garage, adjacent to the chalet, he chose to take the sports Jaguar. For one who had attained the age of fifty-five and had from choice retired to a life of leisure and repose, such a vehicle might possibly have been judged too racy, the more so since his other two cars, the Humber estate wagon and a new Rolls Silver Cloud—obviously, he favoured the British marque—were notably conservative. Yet he felt, and looked, he had often been told, far far younger than his years: his figure was slim, his teeth sound and even, he had kept his hair without a thread of grey, and in his smile, which was charming, he had retained an extraordinarily attractive quality, spontaneous, almost boyish.

At first his road ran through the pasture land, where soft-eyed, brown cows moved cumbrously, clanging the great bells strapped about their necks, bells which had descended through many generations. In the lower fields men, and women too, were busy with the eternal cycle of the grass. Some paused in their scything to lift a hand in greeting, for he was known, and liked, no doubt because of his kindness to the children, or perhaps because he had taken pains to interest himself in all the local junketings. Indeed, the rustic weddings, made dolorous by the final sounding of the Alpenhorn, the traditional processions, both religious and civil, even the brassy discords of the village band, which had come to serenade him on his birthday . . . all these amused and entertained him.

Presently he came to the outer suburbs: streets which seemed to have been scrubbed, green-shuttered white houses, with their front plots of asters and begonias, their window-boxes filled with blooming geraniums and petunias. Such flowers—he had never seen the like! And over all such a clean quiet air of neatness and efficiency, as if everything were ordered and would never break down—and indeed nothing did; as if honesty, civility and politeness were the watchwords of the people.

How wise in his special circumstances to settle here, away from the vulgarity of the present age: the hipsters and the beatniks, the striptease, the rock-and-roll, the ridiculous mouthings of angry young men, the lunatic abstractions of modern art, and all the other horrors and obscenities of a world gone mad.

To friends in America who had protested against his decision, and in particular to Holbrook, his partner in the Stamford company, who had gone so far as to ridicule the country and its inhabitants, he had reasoned calmly, logically. Hadn’t Wagner spent seven happy and fruitful years in this same canton, composing Die Meistersinger and even—this with a smile—a brilliant march for the local fire brigade? The house, now a museum, still stood as evidence. Did not Shelley, Keats and Byron spend long periods of romantic leisure in the vicinity? As for the lake, Turner had painted it, Rousseau had rowed upon it, Ruskin had raved about it.

Nor was he burying himself in a soulless vacuum. He had his books, his collection of beautiful things. Besides, if the native Swiss were not—how should he put it nicely?—not intellectually stimulating, there existed in Melsburg an expatriate society, a number of delightful people, of whom Madame von Altishofer was one, who had accepted him as a member of their coterie. And if this were not enough, the airport at Zurich lay within a forty-minute drive, and thereafter in two hours, or less, he was in Paris . . . Milan . . . Vienna . . . studying the rich textures of Titian’s Entombment; hearing Callas in Tosca; savouring the marvellous Schafsragout mit Weisskraut in Sacher’s Bar.

By this time he had reached the Lauerbach nursery. Here he made his selection of roses, resolutely adding several varieties of his own choice to the list Wilhelm had given him, although wryly aware that his would probably perish mysteriously while the others would survive and flourish. When he left the nursery it was still quite early, only eleven o’clock. He decided to return by Melsburg and do some errands.

The town was pleasantly empty, most of the visitors gone, the lakeside promenade, where crisp leaves from the pollard chestnuts were already rustling, half deserted. This was the season Moray enjoyed, which he viewed as an act of repossession. The twin spires of the cathedral seemed to pierce the sky more sharply, the ring of ancient forts, no longer floodlit, grew old and grey again, the ancient Mels Brücke, free of gaping sightseers, calmly resumed its true identity.

He parked in the square by the fountain and, without even thinking of locking the car, strolled into the town. First he visited his tobacconist’s, bought a box of two hundred of his special Sobranie cigarettes, then at the apothecary’s a large flask of Pineau’s Eau de Quinine, the particular hair tonic he always used. In the next street was Maier’s, the famous confectioner’s. Here, after a chat with Herr Maier, he sent off a great package of milk chocolate to Holbrook’s children in Connecticut—they’d never get chocolate of that quality in Stamford. As an afterthought—he had a sweet tooth—he took away a demi-kilo of the new season’s marrons glacés for himself. Shopping here really was a joy, he told himself, one met smiles and politeness on every side.

He was now in the Stadplatz where, answering a subconscious prompting, his legs had borne him. He could not refrain from smiling, though with a slight sense of guilt. Immediately opposite stood the Galerie Leuschner: He hesitated, humorously aware that he was yielding to temptation. But the thought of the Vuillard pastel drove him on. He crossed the street, pushed open the door of the gallery, and went in.

Leuschner was in his office looking over a folio of pen-and-ink sketches. The dealer, a plump, smooth, smiling little man, whose morning coat, striped trousers and pearl tie-pin were notably de rigueur, greeted Moray with cordial deference, yet with an uncommercial air which assumed his presence in the gallery to be purely casual. They discussed the weather.

“These are quite nice,” Leuschner presently remarked, indicating the folio, when they had finished with the weather. “And reasonable. Kandinsky is a very underrated man.”

Moray had no interest in Kandinsky’s gaunt figures and simian faces, and he suspected that the dealer knew this, yet both spent the next fifteen minutes examining the drawings and praising them. Then Moray took up his hat.

“By the way,” he said offhandedly, “I suppose you still have the little Vuillard we glanced at last week.”

“Only just.” The dealer suddenly looked grave. “An American collector is most interested.”

“Rubbish,” Moray said lightly. “There are no Americans left in Melsburg.”

“This American is in Philadelphia—the Curator of the Art Museum. Shall I show you his telegram?”

Moray, inwardly alarmed, shook his head in a manner implying amused dubiety.

“Are you still asking that ridiculous price? After all, it’s only a pastel.”

“Pastel is Vuillard’s medium,” Leuschner replied, with calm authority. “And I assure you, sir, this one is worth every centime of the price. Why, when you consider the other day in London a few rough brush strokes by Renoir, some half-dozen wretched-looking strawberries, a pitiful thing, really, of which the master must have been heartily ashamed, brought twenty thousand pounds. . . . But this, this is a gem, worthy of your fine collection, and you know how rare good Post-Impressionists have become, yet I ask only nineteen thousand dollars. If you buy it, and I do not press you, for practically it is almost sold, you will never regret it.”

There was a silence. For the first time they both looked at the pastel which hung alone, against the neutral cartridge paper of the wall. Moray knew it well, it was recorded in the book and it was indeed a lovely thing—an interior, full of light and colour, pinks, greys and greens. The subject too, was exactly to his taste: a conversation piece, Madame Melo and her little daughter in the salon of the actress’s house.

A surge of possessive craving tightened his throat. He must have it, he must, to hang opposite his Sisley. It was a shocking price, of course, but he could well afford it, he was rich, far richer even than the good Leuschner had computed, having of course no access to that little black book, locked in the safe, with its fascinating rows of ciphers. And why, after all those years of sterile work and marital strife, should he not have everything he wanted? That snug profit he had recently made in Royal Dutch could not be put to better use. He wrote the cheque, shook hands with Leuschner and went off in triumph, with the pastel carefully tucked beneath his arm. Back at his villa, before Arturo announced lunch, he had time to hang it. Perfect . . . perfect . . . he exulted, standing back. He hoped Frida von Altishofer would admire it.

Chapter Two

He had invited her for five o’clock and, as punctuality was to her an expression of good manners, at that hour precisely she arrived—not however as was customary, in her battered little cream-coloured Dauphine, but on foot. Actually her barracks of a house, the Schloss Seeburg, stood on the opposite shore of the lake, two kilometres across, and as she came into the drawing-room he reproached her for taking the boat, holding both her hands. It was a warm afternoon and the hill path to his villa was steep; he could have sent Arturo to fetch her.

“I don’t mind the little ferry.” She smiled. “As you were so kindly driving me I thought not to bother with my car.”

Her English, though stylised, was perfectly good, with just a faint, and indeed attractive, over-accentuation of certain syllables.

“Well, now you shall have tea. I have ordered it.” He pressed the bell. “We’ll get nothing but watery vermouth at the party.”

“You are most thoughtful.” She sat down gracefully, removing her gloves; she had strong supple Sogers, the nails polished but unvarnished. “I hope you won’t be too bored at the Kunsthaus.”

While Arturo wheeled in the trolley and, with bows that were almost genuflections, served the tea, Moray studied her. In her youth she must have been very beautiful. The structure of her facial bones was perfect. Even now at forty-five, or six . . . well, perhaps even forty-seven, although her hair was greying and her skin beginning to show the faint crenellations and brownish stigmata of her years, she remained an attractive woman, with the upright striding figure of a believer in fresh air and exercise. Her eyes were her most remarkable feature, the pupils of a dark tawny yellowish green shot with black specks. “They are cat’s eyes.” She had smiled once when he ventured a compliment. “But I do not scratch . . . or seldom only.”

Yes, he reflected sympathetically, she had been through a lot, yet never spoke of it. She was horribly hard up and had not many clothes but those she possessed were good and she wore them with style. When they went walking together she usually appeared in a faded costume of russet brown, a rakish bersagliere hat, white knitted stockings and strong handsewn brogues of faded brown. Today she had on a simple but well cut fawn suit, shoes of the same shade, as were her gloves, and she was bareheaded. Taste, distinction, and perfect breeding were evident in every look and gesture—no need to tell himself again, she was a cultured woman of the highest class.

“Always what delicious tea you give me.”

“It’s Twining’s,” he explained. “I had it specially blended for the hard Schwansee water.”

She shook her head, half reproachfully.

“Really . . . you think of everything.” She paused. “Yet how wonderful to be able to give effect to all one’s wishes.”

A considerable silence followed while they savoured the hard-water tea, then suddenly, an upward glance arrested, she exclaimed:

“My dear friend . . . you have bought it!”

She had seen the Vuillard at last and rising, excitedly, though still skilfully, retaining cup and saucer, she moved across the room to inspect it.

“It is lovely . . . lovely! And looks so much better here than in the gallery. Oh, that so delightful child, on the little stool. I only hope Leuschner did not rob you.”

He stood beside her and together, in silence, they admired the pastel. She had the good taste not to over-praise, but as they turned away, looking around her at the mellow eighteenth-century furniture, the soft grey carpet and the Louis XVI tapestry chairs, at his paintings, his Pont Aven Gauguin, signed and dated, above the Tang figures on the Georgian mantel, the wonderful Degas nude on the opposite wall, the early Utrillo and the Sisley landscape, his richly subdued Bonnard, the deliciously maternal Mary Cassat, and now the Vuillard, she murmured:

“I adore your room. Here you can spend your life in the celebration of beautiful things. And better still when you have earned them.”

“I think I am entitled to them.” He spoke modestly. “As a young man, in Scotland, I had little enough. Indeed, then I was miserably poor.”

It was a mistake. Once he had spoken the words he regretted them. Had be not been warned never to look back, only forward, forward, forward. Hastily he said:

“But you . . . until the war, you always lived . . .” he fumbled slightly, “. . . in state.”

“Yes, we had nice things,” she answered mildly.

Again there was silence. The half-smiling reserve she had given to the remark was truly heroic. She was the widow of the Baron von Altishofer, who came of an old Jewish family that had acquired immense wealth from state tobacco concessions in the previous century, with possessions ranging from a vast estate in Bavaria to a hunting lodge in Slovakia. He had been shot during the first six months of the war and, although she was not of his faith, she had spent the next three years in a concentration camp at Lensbach. On her eventual release, she had crossed the Swiss border. All that remained to her was the lakeside house, the Seeburg, and there, though practically penniless, she had striven courageously to rebuild her life. She began by breeding rare Weimaraner dogs. Then, while the ignominy of an ordinary pensionnat was naturally unthinkable, friends—and she had many—came to stay and to enjoy, as paying guests, the spaciousness of the big Germanic schloss and the huge overgrown garden. Indeed, a very exclusive little society had now developed round the Seeburg, of which she herself was the centre. What fun to restore the fine old place, fill it with furniture of the period, replant the garden, recondition the statuary. Had she hinted? Never, never . . . it was his own thought, a flight of fancy. Self-consciously, rather abruptly, he looked at his watch.

“I think we should be going, if you are ready.”

He had decided to take her to the party in full fig: Arturo wore his best blue uniform, a lighter shade than navy, and they went in the big car. Since this was the only Rolls in Melsburg its appearance always made something of a spectacle.

Seated beside her, as they glided off, his sleeve touching hers on the cushioned armrest, he was in an expansive mood. Although his marriage had been a catastrophic failure he had, since his retirement, seriously considered the prospect of—in Wilenski’s vulgar phrase—having another go. During the eighteen months they had been neighbours their friendship had developed to such an extent as to induce gradually the idea of a closer companionship. Yet his mind had hitherto dwelt on young and tender images. Frida von Altishofer was not young, in bed she would not prove so succulent as he might wish, and as a man in whom the intensive demands of his late wife had induced a prostatic hypertrophy, he now had needs that should, if only for reasons of health, be satisfied. Nevertheless, Frida was a strong and vital woman with deep though conceded feelings, who might be capable of unsuspected passion. Such, he knew from his medical training, was often the case with women who had passed the menopause. Certainly, in all other respects she would make the most admirable aristocratic wife.

But now they were in the town and sweeping round the public garden with its high central fountain. Arturo drew up, was out in a flash to remove his uniform cap and open the car door. They mounted the steps towards the Kunsthaus.

“Some of my friends in the diplomatic corps may have come up from Bern for this affair. If it wouldn’t bore you, you might care to meet them.”

He was deeply pleased. Although not a snob—good heavens, no!—he liked meeting “the right people”.

“You are charming, Frida,” he murmured, with a sudden quick intimate glance.

Chapter Three

The party had been in progress for some time: the long hall was filled with noise and crushed human forms. Most of the notables of the canton were there, with many worthy burghers of Melsburg and those of the Festival artistes who had performed during the final week. These, alas, were mainly of the old brigade since, unlike the larger resorts of Montreux and Lucerne, Melsburg was not rich, and between sentiment and lack of funds, the committee fell back year after year upon familiar names and faces. Through the haze of cigarette smoke Moray made out the aged and decrepit figure of Flackmeister, who could barely totter to the podium, held together by his tight dress coat, green with the sweat of years beneath the arm holes. And over there stood Tuberose, the ’cellist, thin, tall as a beanpole, and, through long clasping of his instrument, very gone about the knees. He was talking to the superbly bosomed English contralto, Amy Rivers Fox-Finden. Well, it made no odds, Moray reflected, gaily edging his way into the crush with his companion, the applause at the concerts was always rapturous and prolonged, reminding him, much as he loved his neighbours, of row upon row of happy sheep flapping their front legs together.

They were served with a beverage of no known species, tepid, and swimming with fragments of melting ice. She did not drink hers, merely met his eye in a humorous communicative side glance which plainly said, “How wise you were, and how glad I am of your delicious tea”—almost, indeed, “and of you!” Then, with a gentle pressure of the elbow, she steered him across the room, introduced him first to the German, then to the Austrian minister. He did not fail to observe the affectionate respect with which each greeted her, nor her poise in turning away their compliments. As they moved off Moray was hailed exuberantly across the press by a sporty British type, all amiable plastic dentures and alcoholic eyeballs, dressed in a double-breasted, brass-buttoned blue blazer, baggy fawn trousers and scuffed suede shoes.

“So nice to see you, dear boy,” Archie Stench boomed, waving a glass of actual whisky. “Can’t move now. Keep the flag flying. I’ll be giving you a ring.”

His face clouding slightly, Moray gave a discouraging answering wave. He did not care for Stench, correspondent of the London Daily Echo, who also “on the side” did a weekly social column for the local Tageblatt—airy little items, often with a sting in the tail. Several times Moray had been stung.

Fortunately they were near the far end of the big room where, by the wide bay window, a group of their own particular friends had gathered. Here were demure Madame Ludin of the Europa Hof and her delicate husband, standing with Doctor Alpenstück, grave addict of the higher altitudes. Tall, erect, a noted yodeller in his youth, the worthy doctor never missed a Festival. Beyond, beside the ugly Courter sisters, at a round table from which, short-sightedly, she had cleared all the cocktail biscuits within reach, sat Gallie, the little old Russian Princess Galliatine, who was stone deaf and rarely spoke a word but went everywhere to eat, even to remove food expertly in the large cracked handbag she always carried, bulging from over-use, and containing papers proving her relationship with the famous Prince Yussapov, husband of the Tsar’s niece. A pale, limp little creature with a straggle of worn sable on her neck, whatever the past had done to her it had given her a smile of docile sweetness. Not altogether presentable perhaps—still, an authentic princess. A rather different figure occupied the centre of the group, Leonora Schutz-Spengler, and as they drew near Madame von Altishofer murmured humorously:

“We shall hear the full story of Leonora’s hunting trip.”

Pausing in the act of narration, Leonora had already acknowledged them with a brilliant smile. She was a vivacious little brunette from the Tessin, with a red laughing mouth, enterprising eyes and pretty teeth, who some years before had nibbled her way into the heart of Herman Schutz, the richest cheese exporter in Switzerland, a large, pallid, heavy man who seemed fashioned from his own product. Yet Leonora was herself worthy of affection, if only for her splendid and amusing parties, junketings which took place at her hilltop villa above the town, in a candlelit, red wood outbuilding, the walls bristling with contorted mammalian horns, amongst which scores of budgerigars flew, fluttered, perched and twittered while Leonora, wearing a paper hat, prodigally dispensed bortsch, melon soup, goulash, caviar, cheese blintzes, Pekin duck, truffles in port wine, and other exotic foods; before initiating wild and improbable games, all produced out of her own head.

Moray seldom gave much heed to Leonora’s excited ramblings, and his thoughts wandered as, speaking in French, she went on describing the trip from which she and her husband had just returned. Vaguely Moray had heard that Schutz, who late in life had developed ambitions as a jäger, was renting a shoot, somewhere in Hungary he believed.

Nevertheless, as Leonora irrepressibly continued, his ear was caught by certain phrases, and with a sharp tightening of his nerves, he began to listen with attention. She was not speaking of Hungary but describing a stretch of Highland countryside in terms which suddenly seemed to him familiar. Impossible: he must be mistaken. Yet as she proceeded, his strained suspicion grew. Now she was speaking of the road uphill from the estuary, of the view of the moor from the summit, the river rushing between the high walls of the corrie into the loch, the mountain dominating all. Suddenly he felt himself tremble, his heart turned over and began to beat rapidly. God, could he ever have imagined this turning up again, so unexpectedly. For she had named the mountain, and the river, and the loch, she named lastly the moor her husband had rented, and these utterly unforeseen words sent a painful shock of shame and apprehension through all his body.

Someone was asking her:

“How did you reach this outlandish place?”

“We went by the most fantastic railway—one narrow line, three trains a day—to an adorable little station with such a pretty name. They call it . . .”

He couldn’t bear to hear that name, yet he did hear it, and it brought back, though unspoken, the last unavoidable name of all. He turned, muttering some excuse, and moved off, only to discover Stench good-naturedly at his elbow.

“Not going already, dear boy? Or can’t you stand the weirdies any longer?”

Somehow he brushed him aside. In the foyer a draught of cool air revived him, brought some order to his confused mind. He mustn’t rush off like this, leaving Madame von Altishofer to return alone. He must wait, find a less crowded place—over there, beside that pillar, near the door. He hoped she would not stay long. Indeed, even as he moved to take up his new position she was beside him.

“My dear friend, you are ill.” She spoke with concern. “I saw you turn quite pale.”

“I did feel rather queer.” With an effort he forced a smile. “It’s fearfully warm in there.”

“Then we shall go at once,” she said decisively.

He made as if to protest, then dropped it. Outside, Arturo stood talking with a group of chauffeurs. They drove off. She wished to take him directly to his villa but, less from politeness than from a desperate need to be alone, he insisted on leaving her at the Seeburg.

“Come in for a drink,” she suggested, as they arrived. “A real one.” And when he refused, saving that he should rest, she added solicitously: “Do take care, my friend. If I may, I will telephone you tomorrow.”

At the villa he lay down for an hour, trying to reason with himself. He must not allow a chance word, a mere coincidence, to wreck the serenity he had so carefully built up. Yet it was no chance word, it was a word that had lain hauntingly, tormentingly in the depths of memory for many years. He must fight it, beat it down again into the darkness of the subconscious. He could not do it, could not seal his mind against the buffeting of his thoughts. At dinner he made only a pretence of eating; his depression filled the house, affecting even the servants, who saw in this unusual mood something reflecting upon themselves.

After the meal he went into the drawing-room, stood by the window opening on the terrace. He saw that a storm was about to break, one of those swift, dazzling exhibitions when, shouting to Arturo to put on a Berlioz record, he would watch and listen with a sense of sheer exhilaration. Now, however, he stood mood viewing the great mass of umbered cloud which had been gathering, unperceived, drifting above the Riesenberg. The air was deadly still, sultry with silence, the light unnatural; a brooding ochre. And now there came a sighing, faint, as from a distance. The leaves trembled and on the flat surface of the lake a ripple passed. Slowly the sky darkened to dull impenetrable lead, masking the mountain, and all at once from the unseen a fork of blue flashed out, followed by the first crashing detonation. Then came the wind, sudden, searing, a circular wind that cut like a whiplash. Under it, with a shudder, the trees bent and grovelled, scattering leaves like chaff. At the garden end the tall twin poplars scourged the earth. The lake, churned into spume, writhed like a mad thing, waves lashed the little pier, the yellow flag swung up. Lightning now played incessantly, the thunder echoing and re-echoing amongst the hidden peaks. And then the rain, large, solitary, speculative drops, not soothing rain, but rain warning; ominous of what at last struck from above, straight sheets of hissing water, a flooding from the sky—the eventual deluge.

Abruptly he turned from the window and went upstairs to his bedroom, more agitated than ever. In the medicine cupboard in his bathroom he found the bottle of phenobarbitone. He had imagined he would never need it again. He took four tablets. Even so he knew he would not sleep. When he had undressed, he threw himself upon the bed and closed his eyes. Outside the rain still lashed the terrace, the waves still broke upon the shore, but it was her name that kept sounding, sounding in his ears . . . Mary . . . Mary Douglas . . . Mary . . . Douglas . . . bringing him back through the years, to Craigdoran and the days of his youth.