being frightened for her, I was dead beat by morning; but she came out of that mist like a spirit from another world. I've never seen her like it. She went down that blasted mountain as if she had spent the night on Olympus, while I limped behind her like a child. She is a very remarkable person: you realise that, don't you?'
'Yes,' I said slowly, 'I do agree. Anna is very remarkable.'
Shortly afterwards we went upstairs to bed, and as I undressed and put on my pyjamas, which had been left to warm for me before the fire, and noticed the Thermos flask of hot milk on the bedside table, in case I should be wakeful, and padded about the thick carpeted room in my soft slippers, I thought once again of that strange bare room where Anna slept, and of the narrow trestle bed. In a futile, unnecessary gesture, I threw aside the heavy satin quilt that lay on top of my blankets, and before getting into bed opened my windows wide.
I was restless, though, and could not sleep. My fire sank low and the cold air penetrated the room. I heard my old worn travelling clock race round the hours through the night. At four I could stand it no longer and remembered the Thermos of milk with gratitude. Before drinking it I decided to pamper myself still further and close the window.
I climbed out of bed and, shivering, went across the room to do so. Victor was right. A white frost covered the ground. The moon was full. I stood for a moment by the open window, and from the trees in shadow I saw a figure come and stand below me on the lawn. Not furtive, as a trespasser, not creeping, as a thief. Whoever it was stood motionless, as though in meditation, with face uplifted to the moon.
Then I perceived that it was Anna. She wore a dressing-gown, with a cord about it, and her hair was loose on her shoulders. She made no sound as she stood there on the frosty lawn, and I saw, with a shock of horror, that her feet were bare. I stood watching, my hand on the curtain, and suddenly I felt that I was looking upon something intimate and secret, which concerned me not. So I shut my window and returned to bed. Instinct told me that I must say nothing of what I had seen to Victor, or to Anna herself; and because of this I was filled with disquiet, almost with apprehension.
Next morning the sun shone and we were out about the grounds with the dogs, Anna and Victor both so normal and cheerful that I told myself I had been overwrought the previous night. If Anna chose to walk bare-foot in the small hours it was her business, and I had behaved ill in spying upon her. The rest of my visit passed without incident; we were all three happy and content, and I was very loath to leave them.
I saw them again for a brief moment, some months later, before I left for America. I had gone into the Map House, in St. James's, to buy myself some half-dozen books to read on that long thrash across the Atlantic — a journey one took with certain qualms in those days, the Titanic tragedy still fresh in memory — and there were Victor and Anna, poring over maps, which they had spread out over every available space.
There was no chance of a real meeting. I had engagements for the rest of the day, and so had they, so it was hail and farewell. 'You find us,' said Victor, 'getting busy about the summer holiday. The itinerary is planned. Change your mind and join us.'
'Impossible,' I said. 'All being well, I should be home by September. I'll get in touch with you directly I return. Well, where are you making for?'
'Anna's choice,' said Victor. 'She's been thinking this out for weeks, and she's hit on a spot that looks completely inaccessible. Anyway, it's somewhere you and I have never climbed.'
He pointed down to the large-scale map in front of them. I followed his finger to a point that Anna had already marked with a tiny cross.
'Monte Verita,' I read.
I looked up and saw that Anna's eyes were upon me.
'Completely unknown territory, as far as I'm concerned,' I said. 'Be sure and have advice first, before setting forth. Get hold of local guides, and so on. What made you choose that particular ridge of mountains?'
Anna smiled, and I felt a sense of shame, of inferiority beside her.
'The Mountain of Truth,' she said. 'Come with us, do.'
I shook my head and went off upon my journey.
During the months that followed I thought of them both, and envied them too. They were climbing, and I was hemmed in, not by the mountains that I loved but by hard business. Often I wished I had the courage to throw my work aside, turn my back on the civilised world and its dubious delights, and go seeking after truth with my two friends. Only convention deterred me, the sense that I was making a successful career for myself which it would be folly to cut short. The pattern of my life was set. It was too late to change.
I returned to England in September, and I was surprised, in going through the great pile of letters that awaited me, to have nothing from Victor. He had promised to write and give me news of all they had seen and done. They were not on the telephone, so I could not get in touch with them direct, but I made a note to write to Victor as soon as I had sorted out my business mail.
A couple of days later, coming out of my club, I ran into a man, a mutual friend of ours, who detained me a moment to ask some question about my journey, and then, just as I was going down the steps, called over his shoulder, 'I say, what a tragedy about poor Victor. Are you going to see him?'
'What do you mean? What tragedy?' I asked. 'Has there been an accident?'
'He's terribly ill in a nursing-home, here in London,' came the answer. 'Nervous breakdown. You know his wife has left him?'
'Good God, no,' I exclaimed.
'Oh, yes. That's the cause of all the trouble. He's gone quite to pieces. You know he was devoted to her.'
I was stunned. I stood staring at the fellow, my face blank.
'Do you mean,' I said, 'that she has gone off with somebody else?'
'I don't know. I assume so. No one can get anything out of Victor. Anyway, there he has been for several weeks, with this breakdown.'
I asked for the address of the nursing-home, and at once, without further delay, jumped into a cab and was driven there.
At first I was told, on making enquiry, that Victor was seeing no visitors, but I took out my card and scribbled a line across the back. Surely he would not refuse to see me? A nurse came, and I was taken upstairs to a room on the first floor.
I was horrified, when she opened the door, to see the haggard face that looked up at me from the chair beside the gas-fire, so frail he was, so altered.
'My dear old boy,' I said, going towards him, 'I only heard five minutes ago that you were here.'
The nurse closed the door and left us together.
To my distress Victor's eyes filled with tears.
'It's all right,' I said, 'don't mind me. You know I shall understand.'
He seemed unable to speak. He just sat there, hunched in his dressing-gown, the tears running down his cheeks. I had never felt more helpless. He pointed to a chair, and I drew it up beside him. I waited. If he did not want to tell me what had happened I would not press him. I only wanted to comfort him, to be of some assistance.
At last he spoke, and I hardly recognised his voice.
'Anna's gone,' he said. 'Did you know that? She's gone.'
I nodded. I put my hand on his knee, as though he were a small boy again and not a man past thirty, of my own age.
'I know,' I said gently, 'but it will be all right. She will come back again. You are sure to get her back.'
He shook his head. I had never seen such despair, and such complete conviction.
'Oh no,' he said, 'she will never come back. I know her too well. She's found what she wants.'
It was pitiful to see how completely he had given in to what had happened. Victor, usually so strong, so well-balanced.
'Who is it?' I said. 'Where did she meet this other fellow?'
Victor stared at me, bewildered.
'What do you mean?' he said. 'She hasn't met anyone. It's not that at all. If it were, that would be easy…'
He paused, spreading out his hands in a hopeless gesture. And suddenly he broke down again, but this time not with weakness but with a more fearful sort of stifled rage, the impotent, useless rage of a man who fights
