VIII

And Terry, meanwhile, lived through the summer and autumn at the Valley

Hotel. Every Saturday (with few exceptions) I went down to see him and

every Monday I came away; and yet, even after so many visits, the

picture of him will be rather blurred. Physically he was all that he had

ever been, and more; the weeks of sunshine and fine air had left a

splendid mark upon him. But in other ways he seemed hardly to have begun

to recover at all; indeed, it was as if the full extent of the trouble

were only just being revealed. He was intensely quiet and melancholy;

nothing interested him or stirred him to any expressed emotion; he had

the look of one who has lost his way and doesn't particularly care

whether he finds it again. All his habits were listless and slack; his

not-caring invaded even the most trivial things. It was not-caring,

also, that had made him take to drinking; and, since his drinks were

obtained from Taplow, he very obviously didn't care how much he was

costing Severn. I don't think he ever troubled to realize that a record

was kept of everything he had and a bill made out in the usual way. My

own habit, when accepting Severn's hospitality at the hotel, was to pay

for the drinks I had, and I rather wondered why Terry didn't do the

same. Then I found out one reason, at any rate.

It was a Monday morning and I was preparing to leave on my motor-cycle

for town. Terry walked with me as I wheeled the machine into the lane,

and then, quite suddenly, he asked me to lend him half-a-crown. It was a

simple, almost a half-hearted request; there was certainly no trace of

either shame or truculence in it. When I had mastered my surprise I made

him take a pound, and then, leaving my machine where it was, I led him

away from the hotel and asked him to tell me frankly about his financial

position. He confessed (as if it didn't trouble him much) that he hadn't

any money at all, and after much questioning I gathered that the journey

to England and the hotel expenses in Paris (of which he had insisted on

paying his own share) had swallowed every penny he possessed. Then I

asked him what his salary had been in Vienna, and he named a sum which a

skilled artisan would have scorned.

Even my indignation didn't stir him. But after further cross-examination

I found out something of more immediate importance--that Karelsky hadn't

paid him for that last and unfinished quarter. "I suppose he forgot to

send it on," Terry said listlessly, and was obviously prepared to let

the matter drop. But I wasn't. I said I would write to Vienna as soon as

I reached town, and that until Karelsky's cheque arrived he could draw

on me for whatever sums he wanted.

Karelsky didn't answer my letter. After ten days I wrote to Mizzi,

asking her if she would interview him on Terry's behalf, and she replied

almost by return as follows:

"DEAR MR. HILTON,--I went to see K. as you asked, but he was away, so I

had to talk to his chief assistant, Herr Schubert. He said there was no

money at all owing to T., because he left without giving notice. I

explained that he was ill, and then S. showed me an agreement signed by

T. seven years ago, when he first came here. I am afraid that this

agreement, though very unjust, is quite legal, and will give T. no

chance at all of getting any money. S. said that T. had caused great

inconvenience by leaving so suddenly, and that K. will never have him

again. If you like, I will see K. personally as soon as he returns, but

I do not think it will be much good.

"S. sent me some of T's books and papers that were left at the

laboratory, and these are now with the rest of T's things in his room

here. Shall I have them all packed up and send them to you or to T.

himself? Please do not think I mind keeping his room for him; it is just

that I think, if he cannot return here, he may soon want his books again

in England.

"I should like to know about T., and also about Mr. Severn. Things are

just the same here, and I am quite well and remain--_Deine treue, mit

den herzlichsten Grüszen_,

"MIZZI."

That letter reached me on a Saturday morning, and I read it a second

time by the roadside near Ripley, on my way to Hindhead. I remember

smoking a cigarette and deciding that for the present, at any rate, I

wouldn't tell Terry the disappointing news. I decided also that I would

give him the quarter's money in cash, and let him think that Karelsky

had sent it.... The plan would have been easily carried out but for a

single act of carelessness; in changing my clothes when I arrived at the

hotel, I chanced to drop the second sheet of Mizzi's letter on the floor

of the room which Terry and I were sharing. He picked it up when he

entered some time later, and, I suppose, he recognized the handwriting;

anyhow, he read it and understood it quite sufficiently to learn all

that I hadn't intended him to learn. He met me afterwards in the

bar-parlour with a quiet, almost a bored--"So Karelsky's given me the

push?" I stared at him in astonishment, and then he added: "You left

part of Mizzi's letter on the floor. I didn't know it was yours till

after I'd read it.... Anyhow, it doesn't really matter, does it? Have a

drink?"

_He didn't care_! I don't know whether I was more glad than sorry that

he didn't, or more sorry than glad. I was glad, at any rate, because I

didn't want him to begin worrying about the future, and I was sorry

because his not caring seemed such a tragic thing in itself. Not to care

that he had lost his position, that he had been virtually swindled out

of the money he had earned, and that for seven whole years he had been

giving out his best and deepest in the service of an unprincipled rogue!

Naturally I didn't lay stress on the matter, nor did I give my opinion

of Karelsky. But I couldn't help protesting when he said, as if he were

calmly thinking it out: "I suppose Karelsky found I wasn't any use.

After all, I'd been seven years on the job and hadn't much to show for

it."

I said sharply: "You know perfectly well that you _had_ something to

show for it. You told me yourself that you'd nearly finished something

important."

"Oh, never mind about it now," he replied, almost peevishly. "Take me on

the back of your bike into Guildford and let's have a canoe out on the

river."

We went, and the odd thing was that for the rest of the day he was

actually more cheerful than I had known him since the beginning of his

illness. The weather was perfect, and we splashed about in the Wey for

an hour or two, had tea, and then returned along the Hog's Back and

through Farnham.

"When you write back to Mizzi," he shouted into my ear as we were doing

forty against a strong wind, "tell her to send on all my books and

papers to the hotel, will you? ... Then on Guy Fawkes' Night we'll take

them into Taplow's garden and make a damned great bonfire with the

lot...."

He laughed loudly, and I think I have never heard so eerie a sound as

his laughter then, borne far away from me by the wind and the speed....