The car turned into the Laudon Gasse, but it was not the familiar
apartment-house that confronted me when, a moment later, I stepped out
on to the pavement. It was the "Hotel London," with a frontage of eighty
feet, and an electric sign over the entrance. And also there was an
uniformed porter to attend to my luggage, a bureau, an Aufzug fur
Personen, a Gastzimmer, and a notice declaring "English Spoken Here: On
Parle Français; Si Parla Italiano...." Mizzi could see my astonishment
as I penetrated further into such colossal metamorphosis; and I could
see her pride. She said, almost apologetically: "It iss a very good
hotel. Ass good ass the Bristol, but not so expensif.... My mother--did
you know?--died two years ago, and the last thing she said wass to warn
me not to do all this because it would not pay.... But--I do it--all the
same--and it _does_ pay...."
Five minutes later we were sitting together in her comfortably furnished
sitting-room, with an English breakfast of ham-and-eggs before us. And
she was trying to tell me why she had sent me that telegram.
He _was_ ill, she said, whether I thought so or not. His going to work
really _proved_ that he was ill, because the hours he spent at the
laboratories were absurd. He practically lived there. He went very early
in the mornings and came back very late at nights, and he had grown very
quiet and silent, hardly speaking a word even when he met her, which
wasn't very often. He had been overworking for years, but lately he had
been more than overworking. She was sure he was on the verge of a
breakdown. There had been a doctor staying at the hotel--a German nerve
specialist--and his opinion, formed merely from observation of Terry
during the few seconds of a lift-journey, had been sufficiently
disquieting. "And then once--but that wass many weeks ago--he wass ill
when he came in at night, and he began to say things to himself in a
very strange way. I would think he wass drunken, but he does not
drink.... He talked about hiss work, and you, and somebody named
Helen.... Who iss this Helen? Do you know?"
I wonder if the shock of that sent me pale suddenly. She seemed to
notice something in my face, anyway, for she went on, gazing at me
intently: "I wondered if this Helen wass a lady in England whom he had
known a long time ago...."
She paused, and then, as if accepting the fact that there were things I
could tell her, but wouldn't, went on: "So you see why I sent for you. I
am afraid for him--I am afraid of what will happen. You must take him
away--to England--anywhere--anywhere where he cannot work....
Otherwise--I do not like to think of what will happen."
"When can I see him?" I asked.
She said: "He will come back here to-night--probably very late--and you
must tell him then, and persuade him, and not go away till he hass given
in...." She leaned forward across the table towards me and suddenly laid
her cool hand on mine. "Oh, I know it will not be easy for you--I know
it iss like trying to move a rock ... but...." An atom of calmness left
her as she continued: "I can do nothing. I haf tried, but it iss no use.
He takes no notice of me now.... Oh, I know how I haf deranged you--you
leave your work in London and come all the way here thinking he iss ill,
and then you find he iss not ill as you expect--I know you think I ought
not to haf sent this telegraph for you--but I--_I_ am glad you haf
come--because you can help him. Oh, you _must_ help him--you _must_ take
him away where he cannot work. He iss _worth_ helping--he iss worth
anything that can be done--_you_ know that, don't you?"
I nodded, and she suddenly began to cry. "It iss stupid of me," she
said, wiping her eyes. "I did not think I should be so stupid.... But
after seven years, I like him very much. I did not ever meet any
man--except him--whom I could marry...."
So that was it.
I thought of that afternoon, years before, when Helen had made a similar
confession across the table at Rumpelmayer's. But Helen, of course, had
told me differently; she had been excited, ecstatic; whereas Mizzi was
calm and a little sad. What was it in Terry that could so attract them
both--Helen the brilliant, pleasure-loving woman who was still, in so
many ways, a girl; and Mizzi, the calm, business-like girl who was
almost more than a woman?
And then I remembered how, on my former visit to Vienna, I had jocularly
suggested to him that he should marry Mizzi.... Well, why not? If only
he loved her a little, it wouldn't be at all a bad match. She on her
side had love for him, brains, energy, and a flourishing business of her
own. Hadn't he once told me that she was "the sort of woman he could
stand, anyway"? ... Supposing they were to marry? The idea curiously
attracted me.... Terry as a hotel-proprietor--but no, of course; Mizzi
would always be that; she wouldn't be such a fool as to let him have
anything to do with the business. He would plod along with his
research-work, and she would look after him and see that he didn't
overwork, and on fine Sundays she would positively compel him to go with
her to the Semmering.... And I should spend my annual holidays at the
Hotel London and take the pair of them to all the theatres and
operas.... Delightful vision!
I said, marvelling at her: "And yet, although you feel like that about
him, you want me to take him back with me to England?"
And she answered: "Yes, if it iss the best for him. I want anything to
happen that iss the best for him...."