Jernington, after sending to Claude several anxious and indeed almost
deplorable letters, pleading to be let off his bargain by telegram,
arrived in Algiers in the middle of the following July, with a great
deal of fuss and very little luggage.
The Heaths welcomed him warmly.
Although he was a native of Suffolk, and had only spent a year in
Germany, he succeeded in looking almost exactly like a German student.
Rather large and bulky, he had a quite hairless face, very fair, with
Teutonic features, and a high forehead, above which the pale hair of his
head was cropped like the coat of a newly singed horse. His eyes were
pale blue, introspective and romantic. At the back of his neck, just
above his low collar, appeared a neat little roll of white flesh.
Charmian thought he looked as if he had once, consenting, been gently
boiled. A flowing blue tie, freely peppered with ample white spots, gave
a Bohemian touch to his pleasant and innocent appearance. He was dressed
for cool weather in England, and wore boots with square toes and elastic
sides.
In his special line he was a man of extraordinary talent.
He had intended to be a composer, but had little faculty for original
work. His knowledge of composition, nevertheless, was enormous, and he
was the best orchestral "coach" in England.
His heart was in his work. His devotion to a clever pupil knew no
limits. And he considered Claude the cleverest pupil he had ever taught.
Charmian, therefore, accepted him with enthusiasm--boots, tie, little
roll of white flesh, the whole of him.
He settled down with them in Mustapha, once he had been conveyed into
the house, as comfortably as a cat in front of whom, with every tender
precaution, has been placed a bowl of rich milk. In a couple of days it
seemed as if he had always been there.
Charmian did not see very much of him. The two men toiled with diligence
despite the great heat which lay over the land. They began early in the
morning before the sun was high, rested and slept in the middle of the
day, resumed work about five, and, with an interval for dinner, went on
till late in the night.
The English Colony had long since broken up. Only the British
Vice-Consul and his wife remained, and they lived a good way out in the
country. Since May few people had come to disturb the peace of
Djenan-el-Maqui. Charmian dwelt in a strange and sun-smitten isolation.
She was very much alone. Only now and then some French acquaintance
would call to see her and sit with her for a little while at evening in
the garden, or in the courtyard of the fountain.
The beauty, the fierce romance of this land, sometimes excited her
spirit. Sometimes, with fiery hands, it lulled her into a condition
almost of apathy. She listened to the fountain, she looked at the sea
which was always blue, and she felt almost as if some part of her nature
had fallen away from her, leaving her vague and fragmentary, a Charmian
lacking some virtue, or vice, that had formerly been hers and had made
her salient. But this apathy did not last long. The sound of
Jernington's strangely German voice talking loudly above would disturb
it, perhaps, or the noise of chords or passages powerfully struck upon
the piano. And immediately the child was with her again, she was busy
thinking, planning, hoping, longing, concentrated on the future of the
child.
She had studied the libretto minutely, had practised reading it aloud.
It was of course written in French, and she found a clever woman,
retired from a theatrical career in Paris, Madame Thenant, who gave her
lessons in elocution, and who finally said that she read the libretto
"_assez bien_." This from Madame Thenant, who had played Dowagers at the
Comedie Francaise, was a high compliment. Charmian felt that she was
ready to make an effect on Jacob Crayford. She was in active
correspondence with Alston Lake, who was still in London, and who had
had greater success than before. From him she knew that Crayford was in
town, and would take his usual "cure" in August at Divonne-les-Bains.
Lake had "begun upon him" warily, but had not yet even hinted at the
visit to Africa. After his "cure" Crayford proposed making a motor tour.
He thought nothing of running all over Europe in his car. Lake was going
presently to speak of the perfect surfaces of the Algerian roads, "the
best way perhaps of getting him to go to Algeria." He still wanted
operas "badly," and had asked after the Heaths directly he arrived in
London. Lake had replied that Claude was finishing off an opera. Was he?
Where? Alston had evaded the question, giving the impression that Claude
wished to remain hidden away. Thereupon Crayford had asked after
Charmian, and had been informed that of course she was with her husband.
Turtle doves, eh? Crayford had dropped the subject, but had eventually
returned to it again in a casual way. Had Lake heard the opera? Some of
it. Did it seem any good? Lake had not expressed an opinion. He had
shrewdly made rather a mystery of the whole thing. This, as he expected,
had put Crayford on the alert. Since the success of Jacques Sennier he
saw the hand of his rival, "The Metropolitan," everywhere, like the
giant hand of one of the great Trusts. Lake's air of mystery had
evidently made him suspect that Claude had some reason for keeping away
and making a sort of secret of what he was doing. Finally he had
inquired point blank whether any one was "after young Heath's opera."
Lake could not say anything as to that. "Why don't he write in Europe
anyway, where folk could get at him if they wanted to?" had been the
next question. Lake's answer had rather indicated that the composer was
very glad to have a good stretch of ocean between himself and any "folk"
who might want to get at him.
This was the point at which the Lake correspondence with Charmian stood
in the first week of August. His last letter lay on her knee one
afternoon, as she sat in a hidden nook at the bottom of the garden, with
delicate bamboos rustling in a warm south wind about her.
Claude knew nothing of this exchange of letters, of all the planning and
plotting. It was all for him. Some day, when the result was success, he
should be told everything, unless by that time it was too late, and the
steps to success were all forgotten. Charmian did nothing to disturb
him. She wished him to be obsessed by the work, to do it now merely for
its own sake. The result of his labors would probably be better if that
were so. If Crayford did come--and he must come! Charmian was willing it
every day--his coming would be a surprise to Claude, and would seem to
be a surprise to Charmian. She would get rid of Claude for a few days
when Lake forewarned her that their arrival was imminent; would persuade
him to take a little holiday, to go, perhaps, up into the cork woods to
Hammam R'rirha. He was very pale, had dark circles beneath his eyes. The
incessant work was beginning to tell upon him severely. Charmian saw
that. But how could she beg him to rest now, when Jernington had come
out, when it was so vital to their interests that the opera should be
finished as soon as possible! Besides, she was certain that even if she
spoke Claude would not listen to her. Jernington, so he said, always
gave him an impetus, always excited him. It was a keen pleasure to show
a man of such deep knowledge what he had been doing, a keener pleasure
still when he approved, when he said, in his German voice, "That goes!"
And they had been trying over passages with instrumentalists who had
been "unearthed," as Jernington expressed it, in Algiers. They had got
hold of a horn player, had found another man who played the clarinet,
the violin, and a third instrument.
In fact, they were living for, and in, the opera. And Charmian, devoured
by her secret ambition, had no heart to play a careful wife's part. She
had the will to urge her man on. She had no will to hold him back.
Afterward he could rest, he should rest--on the bed of his laurels.
She smiled now when she thought of that.
Presently she felt that some one was approaching her. She looked up and
saw Jernington coming down the path, wiping his pale forehead with a
silk handkerchief in which various colors seemed fortuitously combined.
"Is the work over?" she cried out to him.
He threw up one square-nailed white hand.
"No. But for once he has got a passage all wrong. I have left him to
correct it. He kicked me out, in fact!"
Jernington threw back his head and laughed gutturally. His laugh always
contradicted his eyes. They were romantic, but his laugh was prosaic.
He sat down by Charmian and put his hands on his knees. One still
grasped the handkerchief.
"Dear Mr. Jernington, tell me!" she said. "You know so much. Claude says
your knowledge is extraordinary. Isn't the opera fine?"
Now Jernington was a specialist, and he was one of those men who cannot
detach their minds from the subject in which they specialize in order to
take a broad view. His vision was extraordinarily acute, but it was
strictly limited. When Charmian spoke of the opera he believed he was
thinking of the opera as a whole, whereas he was in reality only
thinking about the orchestration of it.
"It is superb!" he replied enthusiastically. "Never before have I had a
pupil with such talent as your husband."
With a rapid movement he put one hand to the back of his neck and softly
rubbed his little roll of white flesh.
"He has an instinct for orchestration such as I have found in no one
else. Now, for example--"
He flung himself into depths of orchestral knowledge, dragging Charmian
with him. She was happily engulfed. When they emerged in about half an
hour's time she again threw out a lure for general praise.
"Then you really admire the opera as a whole? You think it undoubtedly
fine, don't you?"
Jernington wiped his perspiring face, his forehead, and, finally, his
whole head and neck, manipulating the huge handkerchief in a masterly
manner almost worthy of an expensive conjurer.
"It is superb. When it is given, when the world knows that the great
Heath studied with me--well, I shall have to take a studio as large as
the Albert Hall, there will be such a rush of pupils. Do you know that
his employment of the oboe in combination with the flute, the strings
being divided--"
And once more he plunged down into the depths of orchestral knowledge
taking Charmian with him. He quoted Prout, he quoted Vincent d'Indy; he
minutely compared passages in Elgar's second symphony with passages in
Tchaikovsky's fifth symphony; he dissected the delicate orchestral
effects in Debussy's _Nuages_ and _Fete Nocturne_, compared the modern
French methods in orchestration with Richard Strauss's gigantic, and
sometimes monstrous combinations. But again and again he returned to his
pupil, Claude. As he talked his enthusiasm mounted. The little roll of
flesh trembled as he emphatically moved his head. His voice grew
harsher, more German. He untied and reknotted his flowing cravat, pulled
up his boots with elastic sides, thrust his cuffs, which were not
attached to his shirt, violently out of sight up his plump arms.
Charmian could not doubt his admiration for the opera. It was expressed
in a manner peculiar to Jernington that became almost epileptic, but it
was undoubtedly sincere.
When he left her and went back to Claude's workroom she was glowing with
pride and happiness.
"That funny old thing knows!" she thought. "He knows!"
Jernington was usually called an old thing, although he was not yet
forty.
His departure was due about the twentieth of August, but when that day
drew near Claude begged him to stay on till the end of the month.
Charmian was secretly dismayed. She had news from Lake that his campaign
on Claude's behalf had every prospect of success. Crayford was now at
Divonne-les-Bains, but had invited Lake to join him in a motor tour as
soon as his "cure"--by no means a severe one--was over.
"That tour, Mrs. Charmian, as I'm a living man with good prospects, will
end on the quay at Marseilles, and start again on the quay at Algiers.
Crayford has tried to bring off a fresh deal with Sennier, but been
beaten off by the pierrot in petticoats, as he calls the great
Henriette. She asked for the earth, and all the planets and
constellations besides. Now they are at daggers drawn. That's bully for
us. Take out your bottom dollar, and bet it that I bring him over before
September is ten days old."
September--yes. But Lake was impulsive. He might hurry things, might
arrive with the impresario sooner. Jernington must not be at
Djenan-el-Maqui when he arrived. If Claude were found studying with a
sort of professor Crayford would certainly get a wrong impression. It
might just make the difference between the success of the great plan and
its failure. Claude must present himself, or be presented by Lake as a
master, not as a pupil.
She must get rid of old Jernington as soon as possible.
But it now became alarmingly manifest that old Jernington was in no
hurry to go. He was one of those persons who arrive with great
difficulty, but who find an even greater difficulty in bringing
themselves to the point of departure. Never having been out of Europe
before, it seemed that he was not unwilling to end his days in a
tropical exile. He "felt" the heat terribly, but professed to like it,
was charmed with the villa and the comfort of the life, and "really had
no need to hurry away" now that he had definitely relinquished his
annual holiday at Bury St. Edmunds.
As Claude wished him to stay on, and had no suspicion that any plan was
in the wind, Charmian found herself in a difficult position as the days
went by and the end of August drew near. Her imagination revolved about
all sorts of preposterous means for getting rid of the poor fellow, whom
she honestly liked, and to whom she was grateful for his enthusiastic
labors. She thought of making a hole in his mosquito net, to permit the
entry of those marauders whom he dreaded; of casually mentioning that
there had been cases suspiciously resembling Asiatic cholera in the
Casbah of Algiers; of pretending to fall ill and saying that Claude must
take her away for a change; even of getting Alston Lake to send a
telegram to Jernington saying that his presence was urgently demanded in
his native Suffolk. Had he a mother? Till now Charmian had never thought
of probing into Jernington's family affairs. When, driven by stress of
circumstances, she began to do so, she found that his mother had died
almost before he was born. Indeed, his relatives seemed to be as few in
number as they were robust in constitution.
She dismissed the idea of the telegram. She even said to herself that of
course she had never entertained it. But what was she to do?
She tried to be a little cold to Jernington, thinking it might be
possible to convey to him subtly the idea that perhaps his visit had
lasted long enough, that his hostess had other plans in which his
presence was not included.
But Jernington was conscious of no subtleties except those connected
with the employment of musical instruments. And Charmian found it almost
impossible to be glacial to such a simple and warm-hearted creature. His
very boots seemed to claim her cordiality with their unabashed elastic
sides. The way in which he pushed his cuffs out of sight appealed to the
goodness of her heart, although it displeased her aesthetic sense. She
had to recognize the fact that old Jernington was one of those tiresome
people you cannot be unkind to.
Nevertheless she must get him out of the house and out of Africa.
If he stuck to the plan of leaving them at the end of August there would
probably be no need of diplomacy, or of forcible ejection; but it had
become obvious to Charmian that the last thing old Jernington was
capable of doing was just that sticking to a plan.
"Do you mean to sail on the _Marechal Bugeaud_ or the _Ville d'Alger_?"
she asked him.
"I wonder," he replied artlessly. "In my idea Berlioz was not really the
founder of modern orchestration as some have asserted. Your husband and
I--"
She could not stop him. She began to feel almost as if she hated the
delicious orchestral family. Jernington had a special passion for the
oboe. Charmian found herself absurdly feeling against that rustic and
Arcadian charmer an enmity such as she had scarcely ever experienced
against a human being. One night she spoke unkindly, almost with a
warmth of malignity, about the oboe. Jernington sprang amorously to its
defense. She tried to quarrel with him, but was disarmed by his fidelity
to the object of his affections. She was too much a woman to rail
against fidelity.
The 30th of August arrived. In the afternoon of that day she received
the following telegram from Alston Lake:
"Crayford and I start motor trip to-morrow he thinks Germany have no
fear all right Marseilles or I Dutchman.--LAKE."
As she read this telegram Charmian knew that the two men would come to
Algiers. She believed in Alston Lake. He had an extraordinary faculty
for carrying things through; and Crayford was fond of him. Crayford had
been kind, generous to the boy, and loved him as a man may love his own
good action. Lake, as he had said in private to Charmian, could "do a
lot with dear old Crayford."
He would certainly bring Crayford to Mustapha. Old Jernington must go.
The 31st of August dawned and began to fade.
Charmian felt desperate. She resolved to tackle Claude on the matter.
Old Jernington would never understand unless she said to him, "Go! For
Heaven's sake, go!" And even then he would probably think that she was
saying the reverse of what she meant, in an effort after that type of
playful humor which, for all she knew, perhaps still prevailed in his
native Suffolk. She had bent Claude to her purposes before. She must
bend him to her purpose now.
"Claudie," she said, "you know what an old dear I think Jernington,
don't you?"
Claude looked up at her with rather searching eyes. She had come into
his workroom at sunset. All day she had been considering what would be
the best thing to do. Old Jernington was strolling in the garden smoking
a very German pipe after having been "at it" for many hours.
"Jernington?"
"Yes, old Jernington."
"Of course he's an excellent fellow. What about him?"
She sat down delicately. She was looking very calm, and her movement was
very quiet.
"Well, I'm beginning almost to hate him!" she remarked quietly.
"What do you mean, Charmian?"
"If I tell you are you going to get angry?"
"Why should I get angry?"
"You are looking very fierce."
He altered his expression.
"It's the work," he muttered. "When one grinds as I do one does feel
fierce."
"That's why I'm beginning to--well, love Mr. Jernington a little less
than I used to. He's almost killing you."
"Jernington!"
"Yes. It's got to stop."
Her voice and manner had quite changed. She spoke now with earnest and
very serious decision.
"What?"
"The work, Claude. I've seen for some time that unless you take a short
holiday you are going to break down."
"Well, but you have always encouraged me to work!"
She noticed a faint suspicion in his expression and voice.
"I know. I've been too eager, too keen on the opera. I haven't realized
what a strain you are going through. But--it's just like a woman, I'm
afraid!--now I see another urging you on, I see plainly. It may be
jealousy--"
"You jealous of old Jernington!"
"I believe I am a tiny bit. But, apart really from that, you are looking
dreadful these last few days. When you asked Jernington to prolong his
visit I was horrified. You see, he's come to it all fresh. And then he's
not creating. That's the tiring work. It's all very well helping and
criticising."
"That's very true," Claude said.
He sighed heavily. She had told him that he was very tired, and he felt
that he was very tired.
"It is a great strain," he added.
"It has got to stop, Claude."
There was a little silence. Then she said:
"These extra months have made a great difference, haven't they?"
"Enormous."
"You've got on very far?"
"Farther than I had thought would be possible."
Her heart bounded. But she only said:
"There's a boat to Marseilles the day after to-morrow. Old Jernington is
going by it."
"Oh, but Charmian, we can't pack the dear old fellow--"
"The dear old fellow is going by that boat, Claudie."
"But what a tyrant you are!"
"I've been selfish. My keenness about your work has blinded me.
Jernington has made me see. We've been two slave-drivers. It can't go
on. If he could stay and be different--but he can't. He's a marvel of
learning, but he has only one subject--orchestration. You've got to
forget that for a little. So Jernington must go. Dear old boy! When I
see your pale cheeks and your burning eyes I--I--"
Tears came into her eyes. From beneath the trickster the woman arose.
Her own words touched her suddenly, made her understand how Claude had
sacrificed himself to his work, and so to her ambition. She got up and
turned away.
"Old Jernington shall go by the _Marechal Bugeaud_," she said, in a
voice that slightly shook.
And by the _Marechal Bugeaud_ old Jernington did go.
So ingeniously did Charmian manage things that he believed he went of
his own accord, indeed that it had been his "idea" to go. She told
Claude to leave it to her and not to say one word. Then she went to
Jernington, and began to talk of his extraordinary influence over her
husband. He soon pulled at his boots, thrust his cuffs up his arms, and
showed other unmistakable symptoms of gratification.
"You can do anything with him," she said presently. "I wish I could."
Jernington protested with guttural exclamations.
"He's killing himself," she resumed. "And I have to sit by and see it,
and say nothing."
"Killing himself!"
Jernington, who believed in women, was shocked.
"With overwork. He's on the verge of a complete breakdown. And it's you,
Mr. Jernington, it's all you!"
Jernington was more than shocked. His gratification had vanished. A
piteous, almost a guilty expression, came into his large fair face.
"Ach!" he exclaimed. "What have I done?"
"Oh, it's not your fault. But Claude almost worships you. He thinks
there is no one like you. He's afraid to lose a moment of time while you
are with him. Your learning, your enthusiasm excite him till he's beside
himself. He can't rest with such a worker as you in the house, and no
wonder. You are an inspiration to him. Who could rest with such an
influence near? What are we to do? Unless he has a complete holiday he
is going to break completely down. Do watch him to-day! Notice! See for
yourself!"
Jernington, much impressed--for Charmian's despair had been very
definite indeed, "oleographic in type," as she acknowledged to
herself--did notice, did see for himself, and inquired innocently of
Charmian what was to be done.
"I leave that to you," she answered, fixing her eyes almost hypnotically
upon him.
Secretly she was willing him to go. She was saying in her mind: "Go! Go!
Go!" was striving to "suggestion" him.
"Perhaps--" he paused, and pulled his cuffs down over his large, pale
hands.
"Yes?"
"Perhaps I had better take him away for a little holiday."
She could have slapped him. But she only said eagerly:
"To England, you mean! Why not? There's a boat going the day after
to-morrow take your passage on the _Marechal Bugeaud_. Don't say a word
to Claude. But and leave the rest to me. I know how to manage Claude.
And if I get a little help from you!"
Old Jernington took his passage on the _Marechal Bugeaud_ and left the
rest to Charmian, with this result. Late the next night, when they were
all going to bed, she whispered to him, "I've put a note in your room.
Don't say a word to him!" She touched her lips. Much intrigued by all
this feminine diplomacy Jernington went to his room, and found the
following note under a candlestick. (Charmian had a sense of the
dramatic.)
"DEAR MR. JERNINGTON,--Claude _won't_ go. It's no use for
me to say anything. He is in a highly nervous state brought on by
this overwork. I see the only thing is to let him have his own way
in everything. Don't even mention that we had thought of this
holiday in England. The least thing excites him. And as he _won't_
go, what is the use of speaking of it? If I can get him to join you
later well and good. For the moment we can only give in and be
discreet. You have been such a dear to us both. The house will
seem quite different without you. _Not a word to Claude. Burn
this!_
"C. H."
And old Jernington burnt it in the flame of the candle, and went away
alone on the _Marechal Bugeaud_ the next morning, with apologies to
Claude.
The house did seem to Charmian quite different without him.