Ivor brought his hands down with a bang on to the final chord of his
rhapsody. There was just a hint in that triumphant harmony that the
seventh had been struck along with the octave by the thumb of the left
hand; but the general effect of splendid noise emerged clearly enough.
Small details matter little so long as the general effect is good. And,
besides, that hint of the seventh was decidedly modern. He turned round
in his seat and tossed the hair back out of his eyes.
“There,” he said. “That’s the best I can do for you, I’m afraid.”
Murmurs of applause and gratitude were heard, and Mary, her large china
eyes fixed on the performer, cried out aloud, “Wonderful!” and gasped
for new breath as though she were suffocating.
Nature and fortune had vied with one another in heaping on Ivor
Lombard all their choicest gifts. He had wealth and he was perfectly
independent. He was good looking, possessed an irresistible charm of
manner, and was the hero of more amorous successes than he could well
remember. His accomplishments were extraordinary for their number and
variety. He had a beautiful untrained tenor voice; he could improvise,
with a startling brilliance, rapidly and loudly, on the piano. He was a
good amateur medium and telepathist, and had a considerable first-hand
knowledge of the next world. He could write rhymed verses with an
extraordinary rapidity. For painting symbolical pictures he had a
dashing style, and if the drawing was sometimes a little weak, the
colour was always pyrotechnical. He excelled in amateur theatricals
and, when occasion offered, he could cook with genius. He resembled
Shakespeare in knowing little Latin and less Greek. For a mind like his,
education seemed supererogatory. Training would only have destroyed his
natural aptitudes.
“Let’s go out into the garden,” Ivor suggested. “It’s a wonderful
night.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Scogan, “but I for one prefer these still more
wonderful arm-chairs.” His pipe had begun to bubble oozily every time he
pulled at it. He was perfectly happy.
Henry Wimbush was also happy. He looked for a moment over his pince-nez
in Ivor’s direction and then, without saying anything, returned to
the grimy little sixteenth-century account books which were now his
favourite reading. He knew more about Sir Ferdinando’s household
expenses than about his own.
The outdoor party, enrolled under Ivor’s banner, consisted of Anne,
Mary, Denis, and, rather unexpectedly, Jenny. Outside it was warm and
dark; there was no moon. They walked up and down the terrace, and Ivor
sang a Neapolitan song: “Stretti, stretti”--close, close--with something
about the little Spanish girl to follow. The atmosphere began to
palpitate. Ivor put his arm round Anne’s waist, dropped his head
sideways onto her shoulder, and in that position walked on, singing as
he walked. It seemed the easiest, the most natural, thing in the world.
Denis wondered why he had never done it. He hated Ivor.
“Let’s go down to the pool,” said Ivor. He disengaged his embrace and
turned round to shepherd his little flock. They made their way along the
side of the house to the entrance of the yew-tree walk that led down to
the lower garden. Between the blank precipitous wall of the house and
the tall yew trees the path was a chasm of impenetrable gloom. Somewhere
there were steps down to the right, a gap in the yew hedge. Denis, who
headed the party, groped his way cautiously; in this darkness, one
had an irrational fear of yawning precipices, of horrible spiked
obstructions. Suddenly from behind him he heard a shrill, startled,
“Oh!” and then a sharp, dry concussion that might have been the sound
of a slap. After that, Jenny’s voice was heard pronouncing, “I am going
back to the house.” Her tone was decided, and even as she pronounced the
words she was melting away into the darkness. The incident, whatever it
had been, was closed. Denis resumed his forward groping. From somewhere
behind Ivor began to sing again, softly:
“Phillis plus avare que tendre
Ne gagnant rien à refuser,
Un jour exigea à Silvandre
Trente moutons pour un baiser.”
The melody drooped and climbed again with a kind of easy languor; the
warm darkness seemed to pulse like blood about them.
“Le lendemain, nouvelle affaire:
Pour le berger le troc fut bon...”
“Here are the steps,” cried Denis. He guided his companions over the
danger, and in a moment they had the turf of the yew-tree walk under
their feet. It was lighter here, or at least it was just perceptibly
less dark; for the yew walk was wider than the path that had led them
under the lea of the house. Looking up, they could see between the high
black hedges a strip of sky and a few stars.
“Car il obtint de la bergere...”
Went on Ivor, and then interrupted himself to shout, “I’m going to run
down,” and he was off, full speed, down the invisible slope, singing
unevenly as he went:
“Trente baisers pour un mouton.”
The others followed. Denis shambled in the rear, vainly exhorting
everyone to caution: the slope was steep, one might break one’s neck.
What was wrong with these people, he wondered? They had become like
young kittens after a dose of cat-nip. He himself felt a certain
kittenishness sporting within him; but it was, like all his emotions,
rather a theoretical feeling; it did not overmasteringly seek to express
itself in a practical demonstration of kittenishness.
“Be careful,” he shouted once more, and hardly were the words out of his
mouth when, thump! there was the sound of a heavy fall in front of
him, followed by the long “F-f-f-f-f” of a breath indrawn with pain and
afterwards by a very sincere, “Oo-ooh!” Denis was almost pleased; he had
told them so, the idiots, and they wouldn’t listen. He trotted down the
slope towards the unseen sufferer.
Mary came down the hill like a runaway steam-engine. It was tremendously
exciting, this blind rush through the dark; she felt she would never
stop. But the ground grew level beneath her feet, her speed insensibly
slackened, and suddenly she was caught by an extended arm and brought to
an abrupt halt.
“Well,” said Ivor as he tightened his embrace, “you’re caught now,
Anne.”
She made an effort to release herself. “It’s not Anne. It’s Mary.”
Ivor burst into a peal of amused laughter. “So it is!” he exclaimed. “I
seem to be making nothing but floaters this evening. I’ve already made
one with Jenny.” He laughed again, and there was something so jolly
about his laughter that Mary could not help laughing too. He did not
remove his encircling arm, and somehow it was all so amusing and natural
that Mary made no further attempt to escape from it. They walked along
by the side of the pool, interlaced. Mary was too short for him to be
able, with any comfort, to lay his head on her shoulder. He rubbed his
cheek, caressed and caressing, against the thick, sleek mass of her
hair. In a little while he began to sing again; the night trembled
amorously to the sound of his voice. When he had finished he kissed her.
Anne or Mary: Mary or Anne. It didn’t seem to make much difference which
it was. There were differences in detail, of course; but the general
effect was the same; and, after all, the general effect was the
important thing.
Denis made his way down the hill.
“Any damage done?” he called out.
“Is that you, Denis? I’ve hurt my ankle so--and my knee, and my hand.
I’m all in pieces.”
“My poor Anne,” he said. “But then,” he couldn’t help adding, “it was
silly to start running downhill in the dark.”
“Ass!” she retorted in a tone of tearful irritation; “of course it was.”
He sat down beside her on the grass, and found himself breathing the faint,
delicious atmosphere of perfume that she carried always with her.
“Light a match,” she commanded. “I want to look at my wounds.”
He felt in his pockets for the match-box. The light spurted and then
grew steady. Magically, a little universe had been created, a world of
colours and forms--Anne’s face, the shimmering orange of her dress, her
white, bare arms, a patch of green turf--and round about a darkness that
had become solid and utterly blind. Anne held out her hands; both were
green and earthy with her fall, and the left exhibited two or three red
abrasions.
“Not so bad,” she said. But Denis was terribly distressed, and his
emotion was intensified when, looking up at her face, he saw that the
trace of tears, involuntary tears of pain, lingered on her eyelashes.
He pulled out his handkerchief and began to wipe away the dirt from
the wounded hand. The match went out; it was not worth while to light
another. Anne allowed herself to be attended to, meekly and gratefully.
“Thank you,” she said, when he had finished cleaning and bandaging her
hand; and there was something in her tone that made him feel that she
had lost her superiority over him, that she was younger than he,
had become, suddenly, almost a child. He felt tremendously large and
protective. The feeling was so strong that instinctively he put his
arm about her. She drew closer, leaned against him, and so they sat in
silence. Then, from below, soft but wonderfully clear through the still
darkness, they heard the sound of Ivor’s singing. He was going on with
his half-finished song:
“Le lendemain Phillis plus tendre,
Ne voulant deplaire au berger,
Fut trop heureuse de lui rendre
Trente moutons pour un baiser.”
There was a rather prolonged pause. It was as though time were being
allowed for the giving and receiving of a few of those thirty kisses.
Then the voice sang on:
“Le lendemain Phillis peu sage
Aurait donne moutons et chien
Pour un baiser que le volage
À Lisette donnait pour rien.”
The last note died away into an uninterrupted silence.
“Are you better?” Denis whispered. “Are you comfortable like this?”
She nodded a Yes to both questions.
“Trente moutons pour un baiser.” The sheep, the woolly mutton--baa,
baa, baa...? Or the shepherd? Yes, decidedly, he felt himself to be
the shepherd now. He was the master, the protector. A wave of courage
swelled through him, warm as wine. He turned his head, and began to kiss
her face, at first rather randomly, then, with more precision, on the
mouth.
Anne averted her head; he kissed the ear, the smooth nape that this
movement presented him. “No,” she protested; “no, Denis.”
“Why not?”
“It spoils our friendship, and that was so jolly.”
“Bosh!” said Denis.
She tried to explain. “Can’t you see,” she said, “it isn’t...it isn’t
our stunt at all.” It was true. Somehow she had never thought of Denis
in the light of a man who might make love; she had never so much as
conceived the possibilities of an amorous relationship with him. He was
so absurdly young, so...so...she couldn’t find the adjective, but she
knew what she meant.
“Why isn’t it our stunt?” asked Denis. “And, by the way, that’s a
horrible and inappropriate expression.”
“Because it isn’t.”
“But if I say it is?”
“It makes no difference. I say it isn’t.”
“I shall make you say it is.”
“All right, Denis. But you must do it another time. I must go in and get
my ankle into hot water. It’s beginning to swell.”
Reasons of health could not be gainsaid. Denis got up reluctantly, and
helped his companion to her feet. She took a cautious step. “Ooh!” She
halted and leaned heavily on his arm.
“I’ll carry you,” Denis offered. He had never tried to carry a woman,
but on the cinema it always looked an easy piece of heroism.
“You couldn’t,” said Anne.
“Of course I can.” He felt larger and more protective than ever. “Put
your arms round my neck,” he ordered. She did so and, stooping, he
picked her up under the knees and lifted her from the ground. Good
heavens, what a weight! He took five staggering steps up the slope, then
almost lost his equilibrium, and had to deposit his burden suddenly,
with something of a bump.
Anne was shaking with laughter. “I said you couldn’t, my poor Denis.”
“I can,” said Denis, without conviction. “I’ll try again.”
“It’s perfectly sweet of you to offer, but I’d rather walk, thanks.” She
laid her hand on his shoulder and, thus supported, began to limp slowly
up the hill.
“My poor Denis!” she repeated, and laughed again. Humiliated, he was
silent. It seemed incredible that, only two minutes ago, he should
have been holding her in his embrace, kissing her. Incredible. She was
helpless then, a child. Now she had regained all her superiority; she
was once more the far-off being, desired and unassailable. Why had he
been such a fool as to suggest that carrying stunt? He reached the house
in a state of the profoundest depression.
He helped Anne upstairs, left her in the hands of a maid, and came down
again to the drawing-room. He was surprised to find them all sitting
just where he had left them. He had expected that, somehow, everything
would be quite different--it seemed such a prodigious time since he went
away. All silent and all damned, he reflected, as he looked at them. Mr.
Scogan’s pipe still wheezed; that was the only sound. Henry Wimbush was
still deep in his account books; he had just made the discovery that Sir
Ferdinando was in the habit of eating oysters the whole summer through,
regardless of the absence of the justifying R. Gombauld, in horn-rimmed
spectacles, was reading. Jenny was mysteriously scribbling in her red
notebook. And, seated in her favourite arm-chair at the corner of the
hearth, Priscilla was looking through a pile of drawings. One by one she
held them out at arm’s length and, throwing back her mountainous orange
head, looked long and attentively through half-closed eyelids. She wore
a pale sea-green dress; on the slope of her mauve-powdered decolletage
diamonds twinkled. An immensely long cigarette-holder projected at an
angle from her face. Diamonds were embedded in her high-piled
coiffure; they glittered every time she moved. It was a batch of Ivor’s
drawings--sketches of Spirit Life, made in the course of tranced tours
through the other world. On the back of each sheet descriptive titles
were written: “Portrait of an Angel, 15th March ‘20;” “Astral Beings
at Play, 3rd December ‘19;” “A Party of Souls on their Way to a Higher
Sphere, 21st May ‘21.” Before examining the drawing on the obverse of
each sheet, she turned it over to read the title. Try as she could--and
she tried hard--Priscilla had never seen a vision or succeeded in
establishing any communication with the Spirit World. She had to be
content with the reported experiences of others.
“What have you done with the rest of your party?” she asked, looking up
as Denis entered the room.
He explained. Anne had gone to bed, Ivor and Mary were still in the
garden. He selected a book and a comfortable chair, and tried, as far as
the disturbed state of his mind would permit him, to compose himself
for an evening’s reading. The lamplight was utterly serene; there was no
movement save the stir of Priscilla among her papers. All silent and all
damned, Denis repeated to himself, all silent and all damned...
It was nearly an hour later when Ivor and Mary made their appearance.
“We waited to see the moon rise,” said Ivor.
“It was gibbous, you know,” Mary explained, very technical and
scientific.
“It was so beautiful down in the garden! The trees, the scent of the
flowers, the stars...” Ivor waved his arms. “And when the moon came up,
it was really too much. It made me burst into tears.” He sat down at the
piano and opened the lid.
“There were a great many meteorites,” said Mary to anyone who would
listen. “The earth must just be coming into the summer shower of them.
In July and August...”
But Ivor had already begun to strike the keys. He played the garden,
the stars, the scent of flowers, the rising moon. He even put in a
nightingale that was not there. Mary looked on and listened with parted
lips. The others pursued their occupations, without appearing to be
seriously disturbed. On this very July day, exactly three hundred and
fifty years ago, Sir Ferdinando had eaten seven dozen oysters. The
discovery of this fact gave Henry Wimbush a peculiar pleasure. He had
a natural piety which made him delight in the celebration of memorial
feasts. The three hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the seven dozen
oysters...He wished he had known before dinner; he would have ordered
champagne.
On her way to bed Mary paid a call. The light was out in Anne’s room,
but she was not yet asleep.
“Why didn’t you come down to the garden with us?” Mary asked.
“I fell down and twisted my ankle. Denis helped me home.”
Mary was full of sympathy. Inwardly, too, she was relieved to find
Anne’s non-appearance so simply accounted for. She had been vaguely
suspicious, down there in the garden--suspicious of what, she hardly
knew; but there had seemed to be something a little louche in the way
she had suddenly found herself alone with Ivor. Not that she minded, of
course; far from it. But she didn’t like the idea that perhaps she was
the victim of a put-up job.
“I do hope you’ll be better to-morrow,” she said, and she commiserated
with Anne on all she had missed--the garden, the stars, the scent of
flowers, the meteorites through whose summer shower the earth was now
passing, the rising moon and its gibbosity. And then they had had such
interesting conversation. What about? About almost everything. Nature,
art, science, poetry, the stars, spiritualism, the relations of the
sexes, music, religion. Ivor, she thought, had an interesting mind.
The two young ladies parted affectionately.