LAUNA and Mr. Wainbridge drove to the concert—a private one—where Herr
Donau was going to play the piano for his hostess—Lady Blake, Launa,
and a friend.
The day was hot, terribly so. The heat rose from the ground, the houses,
and the pavement; it struck one like a fiery draught from a furnace.
Launa and Mr. Wainbridge were silent; they knew each other well enough
to be so. He was pondering. Though he found her interesting he did not
agree with her at all about many things, but therein lay her power of
attracting him, for she did not care whether she did or not. She did not
pretend this as many women do, when men always are aware of it.
“I am hot,” she said.
“And you look cool.”
“I am wishing to be where I could hear the river ripple, and hear the
sound of the water as it curls over the rocks. I wish I could see the
big lake where it widens, where the pines and the maples grow. Oh, the
smell of the wind there!”
“Why won’t you come and sit in the park instead of going to hear Donau?”
“Because I can imagine myself in that far-off land when Donau is
playing,” she answered. “I can shut my eyes and feel the wind; I see the
water just rippled and then still. In the park it is civilised and hot;
the trees are beautiful, but not like those I love. The grass is green,
but the wind is parching, and it is town-laden; it is—” She stopped.
“Who is that?”
He started at the tone of her voice. It was full of apprehension, of a
sort of cold joy, as if she had fought, and was glad to be beaten.
He asked, “Where?”
“I thought I saw someone—someone I knew—someone—Oh, I want to stop,
to get out. It is stifling here.”
“There are so many people,” he replied. “I did not notice anyone. Was it
a woman? We are nearly there now. Do not get out.”
“No—never mind. It was imagination. I thought I saw—it could not have
been really.”
“Ah,” he said, “imagination is deceiving and becoming. You have grown
most beautifully flushed. You are very good to look at, Miss Archer.”
“You must talk to Lady Blake,” said Launa. “I am tired.”
The room into which they were shown was dark, cool, and flower-scented.
Lady Blake was dressed in black. She was a woman men loved for an hour,
a dance, or a day. Sir Godfrey Blake had married her after a short
acquaintance. Immediately afterwards he went into Parliament, and now
sat out all the debates, and was seldom at home. Men pitied her, women
shook their heads, while she loudly lamented a cold husband, and was
consoled by other men.
“We have been waiting for you,” she said. “Herr Donau is ready to
begin.”
She gloried in her riches, and she was musical, though in the days of
her poverty she had not been. Shilling seats and deprivations did not
suit her; but to be able to pay the most expensive successful pianist in
London for a whole afternoon to play to her and one or two chosen ones,
what a triumph! That was success. And if she did not enjoy the music she
did derive great satisfaction from saying, “Donau played for us on
Sunday; he played marvellously. Of course we paid him.”
“Miss Archer’s imagination has been causing her to see people—a
person,” said Mr. Wainbridge, as he shook hands with Lady Blake.
He wanted to see Launa grow red again, as well as to discover who she
thought she had seen.
She laughed.
“Was it a ghost?” asked Lady Blake.
She looked uncomfortable. She had some ghosts behind her—a brother and
sister who were poor, and who lived at Clapham. They worked, and she
ignored them.
“A ghost!” repeated Wainbridge. “Do you believe in ghosts, Miss Archer?”
“Do I? Souls of the dead! I wish I could see them.”
“Don’t!” exclaimed Lady Blake. I believe in premonitory warnings. You
did not see me walking, did you, Miss Archer? I _hope_ not.”
“No, I only saw an old friend—an old Canadian friend. But it was only
in fancy, for the next moment it was gone.”
There was a slight pause when she said “it was gone.” Mr. Wainbridge
noticed she used “it.”
Lady Blake said “Oh” sadly, and then continued: “Premonitory warnings
are so interesting. Was the friend an old, I mean an ancient grey-headed
friend, or only old as regards the time of friendship? Was it a woman?”
“It was a spirit,” said Launa.
“You will hear of a death,” said Lady Blake with solemnity.
“It is already dead,” replied Launa.
“To you?” asked Mr. Wainbridge.
“Are we not going to hear Herr Donau play?” inquired Launa. “You have
not forgotten you are to play the Waldstein Sonata for me?” she said to
Herr Donau.
“I have not forgotten. Shall I begin?”
“Do,” said Lady Blake, seating herself in a chair covered with
cream-coloured material.
Her black dress, yellow hair, and white skin had an ideal, an arranged
background. Ideals have to be well arranged, otherwise they are
deficient. Launa sat in a dim corner; Mr. Wainbridge chose a chair from
which he could observe her.
She was listening intently; she had often played the Waldstein to Paul,
and she wanted to see how Donau would play the octave run. Through it
all she could think of Paul. Had she really seen him? No, he was not in
England. Could he be dead? . . . Donau played the run beautifully. . . .
Could Paul be dead? Donau played the octaves with one hand—glïssando.
Wonderful! Launa glanced round her; no one appeared to have noticed.
Lady Blake was keeping time with her head and her foot. Time in the
Waldstein! Launa felt a great wave of longing, of desire for the woods,
lakes, and the vastness of the real forest, and for the air. Oh! that
air! Keen sometimes, sweet, full of the smell of wild flowers, of the
pine woods—and where was Paul?
The Waldstein went on and on. To her it meant spring days, movement,
hope, but not in the overcrowded old land. To the others it meant
different things—music always does—and Launa’s mind returned to the
impression of the afternoon. It could not have been Paul alive that she
had seen? Could it be that he was dead, and because she loved him, he
came to her? Did she love him? She heard the wailing of the Indian
child. But if Paul were dead, he was hers—hers—hers—
Her thoughts were interrupted by the ceasing of the piano and the
compliments of Lady Blake and Mr. Wainbridge.
“You were asleep,” said Mr. Wainbridge to Launa.
“No. My thoughts were wandering.”
“With more spirits?”
“Mr. Wainbridge, come here,” said Lady Blake. “Come and see this; it is
by Herr Donau. Play it, do, Herr Donau, and then Miss Archer has
promised to play ‘Warum.’”
“There is a history in that,” said Launa, when the great man had
finished. “There is an unravelled thread in it.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, “there is. You have understanding, Miss Archer.”
“And now, will you play ‘Warum?’” asked Lady Blake.
“To hear Miss Archer play ‘Warum’ is one of the world’s desires,” said
Mr. Wainbridge, “because you puzzle it—the world, I mean.”
She did not answer. Lady Blake rehearsed speeches to all her dear and
jealous friends while the music lasted. She would say “Donau and Miss
Archer played for us during a whole afternoon.” She _had_ triumphed.
Launa drove home alone. Mr. Wainbridge to his regret had an engagement.
He said good-bye to her with sorrow, while she was indifferent. There
was something in the spirit theory after all.
Mrs. Phillips and Mr. Herbert were still sitting at Victoria Mansions.
She had changed her dress for a tea-gown and invited him to dinner. The
evening was hot. Launa dressed in white and went to the music-room.
Conversation did not appeal to her. She began to play, to work hard at
an impossible sonata. The hard work was taking away her weariness, the
feeling of misery and longing when the door was opened and Captain
Carden came in.
“I did not let your maid announce me. I wanted to surprise you, Launa,”
he said, advancing with an air of expectation. “She said you were not at
home, but I heard the piano, and I knew you would see me.”
He held out his hand.
“I will finish this page,” she said, not taking the hand thus affably
extended, and playing on.
Captain Carden seated himself near and stared at her. She could feel his
eyes taking her in, all over, gloating over her, but she finished and
sat on the music-stool, turning herself round until she faced him.
“Your mother was here to lunch.”
“Yes, Launa, she told me so.”
“Did you want to see me particularly?” she asked. “I suppose you did,
because I said ‘not at home.’ I am very tired and in a musical mood.”
He smiled languidly and leaned back.
“You don’t mean that, Launa.”
His detestable habit of repeating her name irritated her. She looked at
him.
“Why do you never call me Charlie? We are relations.”
“Are we?” she asked.
“Yes. That is one reason why I came, and then my mother asked me to come
and see you. She and I are both worried. Mother thinks—”
“Do think yourself; you remind me of Uriah Heep.”
“My mother thinks,” he continued with a sort of leer, “that you are
lonely. She fears the friends you have, the contamination of their talk
about no morals—she says—”
Launa got up.
“You will either go away or else you will talk of something else. Speak
for yourself, pray. I do not care what your mother thinks.”
Captain Carden looked at her.
“Don’t get cross. You know I am in love with you, and I want to marry
you. It will be such an advantage to you, an unknown Canadian, to marry
into a good old English family, and to be well looked after.”
She was silent, first from surprise, then from anger. It was as if the
words would not come rapidly enough.
“Thank you,” she said. “I decline your insulting offer. Now will you
go?”
“Now, Launa, you know it is the best thing you can do. I am really in
love with you. You will have some of your own money settled on you, of
course, and you will have an excellent position and be thought a great
deal of as my wife.”
“I will never be your wife,” she answered. “_Never._”
“All girls want to marry; you do. They all do. I like a girl who
pretends to be backward, but this is enough, Launa. Give in now, you
know how I love you, you—”
Launa’s cheeks were blazing, she got up and rang the bell violently. He
followed, unseen by her, until she felt his arm on her waist; his face
was detestably close, his eyes staring into hers, glaring like an
animal’s, and his breath was hot against her face. She gave him one firm
push; she had not paddled so much in vain; her arms were very strong,
and he did not expect it. He staggered across the room, upsetting a
little table and breaking some china ornaments which fell with a crash
as he sprawled on the floor. Just then the maid opened the door, and Mr.
Wainbridge walked in.
“Curtis, show Captain Carden out,” said Launa, apparently with calm
indifference.
She looked very tall, slight, and angry, as she stood waiting. Captain
Carden gathered himself together with a sheepish look, and advanced
towards her.
“Good-bye, Launa.”
“Go,” she said.
“Launa, say good-bye.”
And as the door closed she threw herself into a big chair and laughed.
Captain Carden heard it as he left the flat and detected nothing but
ridicule in it. Mr. Wainbridge went over to her; he saw she would have
cried had she not laughed, and that her nerves were all unstrung.
“Why didn’t you tell me to kick him out? He deserved it.”
“Why didn’t you do it?”
She put her hands over her face, and began to sob. He stroked her hair
gently, tenderly, and she liked it.
“I am an idiot! I am an idiot!” she said at last.
“What did he do?”
“How did you come? You were dining at the Grays’, I thought you said?”
“I came because I wanted to see you.”
She dried her eyes and leaned back in her chair and looked out at the
night, feeling the curious rest of exhaustion. The greyness of twilight
crept into the room, it was peaceful though still sultry. He took her
hand and said:
“I am glad I came.”
“So am I,” she said, cheerfully. Her mood had changed. “You saved me
from unknown bother. He was most impertinent.”
In the other room Mrs. Phillips was becoming impatient. She was hungry.
At tea-time Herbert’s conversation engrossed her, and now where was
dinner?
She was also anxious to create a sensation, to surprise Launa and
everyone by telling of her speedy marriage, which was to take place in
one month exactly. And so she went into the music-room.
“Has that awful Carden man gone? I am so hungry, Launa dear. Do say you
are hungry too, Mr. Wainbridge. I am going to be married in a month.”
She sighed.
“No wonder, then, that you are hungry,” said Mr. Wainbridge, “with that
awful prospect you need restoratives of all sorts.”
“Lucky Mr. Herbert,” said Launa. “I congratulate him.”
“How nice of you,” said Mrs. Phillips. “I feared you might be small
minded enough to congratulate me. He is in the drawing-room—starving
too.”
“Let us go, then, to dinner,” said Launa. “Mr. Herbert, you are so
lucky.”
“That is good of you,” he answered.
“Merely decent of her,” said Mrs. Phillips. “She knows my worth.”
“How are the spirits?” asked Wainbridge, as Launa and he followed the
other two into the dining-room.
“Good. Look at my eyes. Are they red?”
“They are beautiful.”
He took her hand for one moment; it was an involuntary caress.
And they drank to the perfect happiness of Mrs. Phillips and Mr.
Herbert.