IN THE GARDEN
The next morning, after a night spent chiefly in thought, Audrey issued
forth rather early. Indeed she was probably the first person afoot in the
house of the Spatts, the parlour-maid entering the hall just as Audrey had
managed to open the front door. As the parlour-maid was obviously not yet
in that fullness and spruceness of attire which parlour-maids affect when
performing their mission in life, Audrey decided to offer no remark,
explanatory or otherwise, and passed into the garden with nonchalance as
though her invariable habit when staying in strange houses was to get up
before anybody else and spy out the whole property while the helpless hosts
were yet in bed and asleep.
Now it was a magnificent morning: no wind, no cloud, and the sun rising
over the sea; not a trace of the previous evening's weather. Audrey had not
been in the leafy street more than a moment when she forgot that she was
tired and short of sleep, and also very worried by affairs both private and
public. Her body responded to the sun, and her mind also. She felt almost
magically healthy, strong and mettlesome, and, further, she began to feel
happy; she rather blamed herself for this tendency to feel happy, calling
herself heedless and indifferent. She did not understand what it is to be
young. She had risen partly because of the futility of bed, but more
because of a desire to inspect again her own part of the world after the
unprecedented absence from it.
Frinton was within the borders of her own part of the world, and, though
she now regarded it with the condescending eyes of a Parisian and Londoner,
she found pleasure in looking upon it and in recognising old landmarks and
recent innovations. She saw, on the Greensward separating the promenade
from the beach, that a rustic seat had been elaborately built by the
Council round the great trunk of the only tree in Frinton; and she decided
that there had been questionable changes since her time. And in this way
she went on. However, the splendour and reality of the sun, making such an
overwhelming contrast with the insubstantial phenomena of the gloomy night,
prevented undue cerebral activity. She reflected that Frinton on a dark
night and Frinton on a bright morning were not like the same place, and she
left it at that, and gazed at the façade of the Excelsior Hotel, wondering
for an instant why she should be interested in it, and then looking swiftly
away.
She had to glance at all the shops, though none of them was open except the
dairy-shop; and in the shopping street, which had a sunrise at one end and
the railway station at the other, she lit on the new palatial garage.
"My car may be in there," she thought.
After the manner of most car-owners on tour, she had allowed the chauffeur
to disappear with the car in the evening where he listed, confident that
the next morning he and it would reappear cleansed and in good running
order.
The car was in the garage, almost solitary on a floor of asphalt under a
glass roof. An untidy youth, with the end of a cigarette clinging to his
upper lip in a way to suggest that it had clung there throughout the night
and was the last vestige of a jollification, seemed to be dragging a length
of hose from a hydrant towards the car, the while his eyes rested on a
large notice: "Smoking absolutely prohibited. By order."
Then from the other extremity of the garage came a jaunty, dapper,
quasi-martial figure, in a new grey uniform, with a peaked grey cap, bright
brown leggings, and bright brown boots to match--the whole highly brushed,
polished, smooth and glittering. This being pulled out of his pocket a
superb pair of kid gloves, then a silver cigarette-case, and then a silver
match-box, and he ignited a cigarette--the unrivalled, wondrous first
cigarette of the day--casting down the match with a large, free gesture. At
sight of him the untidy youth grew more active.
"Look 'ere," said the being to the youth, "what the 'ell time did I tell
you to have that car cleaned by, and you not begun it!"
Pointing to the clock, he lounged magnificently to and fro, spreading smoke
around the intimidated and now industrious youth. The next second he caught
sight of Audrey, and transformed himself instantaneously into what she had
hitherto imagined a chauffeur always was; but in those few moments she had
learnt that the essence of a chauffeur is godlike, and that he toils not,
neither does he swab.
"Good morning, madam," in a soft, courtly voice.
"Good morning."
"Were you wanting the car, madam?"
She was not, but the suggestion gave her an idea.
"Can we take it as it is?"
"Yes, madam. I'll just look at the petrol gauge ... But ... I haven't had
my breakfast, madam."
"What time do you have it?"
"Well, madam, when you have yours."
"That's all right, then. You've got hours yet. I want you to take me to
Flank Hall."
"Flank Hall, madam?" His tone expressed the fact that his mind was a blank
as to Flank Hall.
As soon as Audrey had comprehended that the situation of Flank Hall was not
necessarily known to every chauffeur in England, and that a stay of one
night in Frinton might not have been enough to familiarise this particular
one with the geography of the entire district, she replied that she would
direct him.
They were held up by a train at the railway crossing, and a milk-cart and a
young pedestrian were also held up. When Audrey identified the pedestrian
she wished momentarily that she had not set out on the expedition. Then she
said to herself that really it did not matter, and why should she be
afraid... etc., etc. The pedestrian was Musa. In French they greeted each
other stiffly, like distant acquaintances, and the train thundered past.
"I was taking the air, simply, Madame," said Musa, with his ingenuous shy
smile.
"Take it in my car," said Audrey with a sudden resolve. "In one hour at
the latest we shall have returned."
She had a great deal to say to him and a great deal to listen to, and there
could not possibly be any occasion equal to the present, which was ideal.
He got in; the chauffeur manoeuvred to oust the milk-cart from its rightful
precedence, the gates opened, and the car swung at gathering speed into the
well-remembered road to Moze. And the two passengers said nothing to each
other of the slightest import. Musa's escape from Paris was between them;
the unimaginable episode at the Spatts was between them; the sleepless
night was between them. (And had she not saved him by her presence of mind
from the murderous hand of Mr. Ziegler?) They had a million things to
impart. And yet naught was uttered save a few banalities about the weather
and about the healthfulness of being up early. They were bashful,
constrained, altogether too young and inexperienced. They wanted to behave
in the grand, social, easeful manner of a celebrated public performer and
an heiress worth ten million francs. And they could only succeed in being a
boy and a girl. The chauffeur alone, at from thirty to forty miles an hour,
was worthy of himself and his high vocation. Both the passengers regretted
that they had left their beds. Happily the car laughed at the alleged
distance between Frinton and Moze. In a few minutes, as it seemed, with
but one false turning, due to the impetuosity of the chauffeur, the vehicle
drew up before the gates of Flank Hall. Audrey had avoided the village of
Moze. The passengers descended.
"This is my house," Audrey murmured.
The gates were shut but not locked. They creaked as Audrey pushed against
them. The drive was covered with a soft film of green, as though it were
gradually being entombed in the past. The young roses, however, belonged
emphatically to the present. Dewdrops hung from them like jewels, and their
odour filled the air. Audrey turned off the main drive towards the garden
front of the house, which had always been the aspect that she preferred,
and at the same moment she saw the house windows and the thrilling
perspective of Mozewater. One of the windows was open. She was glad,
because this proved that the perfect Aguilar, gardener and caretaker, was
after all imperfect. It was his crusty perfection that had ever set Audrey,
and others, against Aguilar. But he had gone to bed and forgotten a
window--and it was the French window. While, in her suddenly revived
character of a harsh Essex inhabitant, she was thinking of some sarcastic
word to say to Aguilar about the window, another window slowly opened from
within, and Aguilar's head became visible. Once more he had exasperatingly
proved his perfection. He had not gone to bed and forgotten a window. But
he had risen with exemplary earliness to give air to the house.
"'d mornin', miss," mumbled the unsmiling Aguilar, impassively, as though
Audrey had never been away from Moze.
"Well, Aguilar."
"I didn't expect ye so early, miss."
"But how could you be expecting me at all?"
"Miss Ingate come home yesterday. She said you couldn't be far off, miss."
"Not Miss ... _Mrs._--Moncreiff," said Audrey firmly.
"I beg your pardon, madam," Aguilar responded with absolute
imperturbability. "She never said nothing about that."
And he proceeded mechanically to the next window.
The yard-dog began to bark. Audrey, ignoring Musa, went round the shrubbery
towards the kennel. The chained dog continued to bark, furiously, until
Audrey was within six feet of him, and then he crouched and squirmed and
gave low whines and his tail wagged with extreme rapidity. Audrey bent
down, trembling.... She could scarcely see.... There was something about
the green film on the drive, about the look of the house, about the sheeted
drawing-room glimpsed through the open window, about the view of
Mozewater...! She felt acutely and painfully sorry for, and yet envious of,
the young girl in a plain blue frock who used to haunt the house and the
garden, and who had somehow made the house and the garden holy for evermore
by her unhappiness and her longings.... Audrey was crying.... She heard a
step and stood upright. It was Musa's step.
"I have never seen you so exquisite," said Musa in a murmur subdued and yet
enthusiastic. All his faculties seemed to be dwelling reflectively upon her
with passionate appreciation.
They had at last begun to talk, really--he in French, and she partly in
French and partly in English. It was her tears, or perhaps her gesture in
trying to master them, that had loosed their tongues. The ancient dog was
forgotten, and could not understand why. Audrey was excusably startled by
Musa's words and tone, and by the sudden change in his attitude. She
thought that his personal distinction at the moment was different from and
superior to any other in her experience. She had a comfortable feeling of
condescension towards Nick and towards Jane Foley. And at the same time she
blamed Musa, perceiving that as usual he was behaving like a child who
cannot grasp the great fact that life is very serious.
"Yes," she said. "That's all very fine, that is. You pretend this, that,
and the other. But why are you here? Why aren't you at work in Paris?
You've got the chance of a lifetime, and instead of staying at home and
practising hard and preparing yourself, you come gadding over to England
simply because there's a bit of money in your pocket!"
She was very young, and in the splendour of the magnificent morning she
looked the emblem of simplicity; but in her heart she was his mother, his
sole fount of wisdom and energy and shrewdness.
Pain showed in his sensitive features, and then appeal, and then a hot
determination.
"I came because I could not work," he said.
"Because you couldn't work? Why couldn't you work?" There was no yielding
in her hard voice.
"I don't know! I don't know! I suppose it is because you are not there,
because you have made yourself necessary to me; or," he corrected quickly,
"because _I_ have made you necessary to myself. Oh! I can practise for so
many hours per day. But it is useless. It is not authentic practice. I
think not of the music. It is as if some other person was playing, with my
arm, on my violin. I am not there. I am with you, where you are. It is the
same day after day, every day, every day. I am done for. I am convinced
that I am done for. These concerts will infallibly be my ruin, and I shall
be shamed before all Paris."
"And did you come to England to tell me this?"
"Yes."
She was relieved, for she had thought of another explanation of his
escapade, and had that explanation proved to be the true one, she was very
ready to make unpleasantness to the best of her ability. Nevertheless,
though relieved in one direction, she was gravely worried in another. She
had undertaken the job of setting Musa grandiosely on his artistic career,
and the difficulties of it were growing more and more complex and
redoubtable.
She said:
"But you seemed so jolly when you arrived last night. Nobody would have
guessed you had a care in the world."
"I had not," he replied eagerly, "as soon as I saw you. The surprise of
seeing you--it was that.... And you left Paris without saying good-bye! Why
did you leave Paris without saying good-bye? Never since the moment when I
learnt that you had gone have I had the soul to practise. My violin became
a wooden box; my fingers, too, were of wood."
He stopped. The dog sniffed round.
Audrey was melting in bliss. She could feel herself dissolving. Her
pleasure was terrible. It was true that she had left Paris without saying
good-bye to Musa. She had done it on purpose. Why? She did not know.
Perhaps out of naughtiness, perhaps.... She was aware that she could be
hard, like her father. But she was glad, intensely glad, that she had left
Paris so, because the result had been this avowal. She, Audrey, little
Audrey, scarcely yet convinced that she was grown up, was necessary to the
genius whom all the Quarter worshipped! Miss Thompkins was not necessary to
him, Miss Nickall was not necessary to him, though both had helped to
provide the means to keep him alive. She herself alone was necessary to
him. And she had not guessed it. She had not even hoped for it. The effect
of her personality upon Musa was mysterious--she did not affect to
understand it--but it was obviously real and it was vital. If anything in
the world could surpass the pleasure, her pride surpassed it. All tears
were forgotten. She was the proudest young woman in the world; and she was
the wisest, and the most harassed, too. But the anxieties were delicious to
her.
"I am essential to him," she thought ecstatically. "I stand between him and
disaster. When he has succeeded his success will be my work and nobody
else's. I have a mission. I must live for it.... If anyone had told me a
year ago that a great French genius would be absolutely dependent upon me,
and that I meant for him all the difference between failure and triumph, I
should have laughed.... And yet!..." She looked at him surreptitiously.
"He's an angel. But he's also a baby." The feelings of motherhood were as
naught compared to hers.
Then she remarked harshly, icily:
"Well, I shall be much obliged if you will go back to Paris at
once--to-day. _Somebody_ must have a little sense."
Just at this point Aguilar interrupted. He came slouching round the corner
of the clipped bushes, untidy, shabby, implacable, with some set purpose in
his hard blue eyes. She could have annihilated him with satisfaction, but
the fellow was indestructible as well as implacable.
"Could I have a word with ye, madam?" he mumbled, putting on his well-known
air of chicane.
With the unexplained Musa close by her she could not answer: "Wait a
little. I'm engaged." She had to be careful. She had to make out especially
that she and the young man were up to nothing in particular, nothing that
had the slightest importance.
"What is it, Aguilar?" she questioned, inimically.
"It's down here," said Aguilar, who recked not of the implications of a
tone. And by the mere force of his glance he drew his mistress away, out of
sight of Musa and the dog.
"Is that your motor-car at the gates, madam?" he demanded gloomily and
confidentially, his gaze now fixed on the ground or on his patched boots.
"Of course it is," said Audrey. "Why, what's the matter?"
"That's all right then," said he. "But I thought it might belong to another
person, and I had to make sure. Now if ye'll just step along a bit
farther, I've a little thing as I want to point out to ye, madam. It's my
duty to point it out, let others say _what_ they will."
He walked ahead doggedly, and Audrey crossly came after, until they arrived
nearly at the end of the hedge which, separating the upper from the lower
garden, hid from those immediately behind it all view of the estuary.
Here, still sheltered by the hedge, he stopped and Audrey stopped, and
Aguilar absently plucked up a young plantain from the turf and dropped it
into his pocket.
"There's been a man a-hanging round this place since yesterday mornin',"
said Aguilar intimately. "I call him a suspicious character--at least, I
_did_, till last night. He ain't slept in the village, that I do know, but
he's about again this morning."
"Well," said Audrey with impatience. "Why don't you tell Inspector Keeble?
Or have you quarrelled with Inspector Keeble again?"
"It's not that as would ha' stopped me from acquainting Inspector Keeble
with the circumstances if I thought it my duty so to do," replied Aguilar.
"But the fact is I saw the chap talking to Inspector Keeble yesterday
evening. He don't know as I saw him. It was that as made me think; now is
he a suspicious character or ain't he? Of course Keeble's a rare
simple-minded 'un, as we all know."
"And what do you want me to do?"
"I thought you might like to have a look at him yeself, madam. And if
you'll just peep round the end of this hedge casual-like, ye'll see him
walking across the salting from Lousey Hard. He's a-comin' this way.
Casual-like now--and he won't see ye."
Audrey had to obey. She peeped casual-like, and she did in fact see a man
on the salting, and this man was getting nearer. She could see him very
plainly in the brilliant clearness of the summer morning. After the
shortest instant of hesitation she recognised him beyond any doubt. It was
the detective who had been so plenteously baptised by Susan Foley in the
area of the house at Paget Gardens. Aguilar looked at Audrey, and Audrey
annoyed herself somewhat by blushing. However, an agreeable elation quickly
overcame the blush.