THE OFFERING OF FIRST-FRUITS
The concerto was finished! Finished, at least, as far as it was
possible without rehearsing the effect with orchestra, and as Nan
turned over the sheets of manuscript, thickly dotted with their medley
of notes and rests and slurs, she was conscious of that glorious thrill
of accomplishment which is the creative artist's recompense for long
hours of work and sacrifice,--and for those black moments of
discouragement and self-distrust which no true artist can escape.
She sat very quietly in the West Parlour, thinking of the concerto and
of what she meant to do with it. She was longing to show it to Sandy
McBain, who would have a musician's comprehension of every bar, and she
knew he would rejoice with her whole-heartedly over it. But that would
have to wait until after Roger had heard it. The first-fruits, as it
were, were to be offered to him.
She had it all planned out in her mind. Roger was out hunting to-day,
so that she had been able to add certain final touches to the concerto
uninterrupted, and after dinner she proposed to carry him off to the
West Parlour and play it to him. There would be only their two selves,
alone together--for she had no intention of inviting Lady Gertrude and
Isobel to attend this first performance.
She was nervously excited at the prospect, and when she heard the
distant sound of a horseman trotting up the drive she jumped up and ran
to the window, peering out into the dusk. It was Roger, and as horse
and rider swung past the window she drew back suddenly into the
fire-lit shadows of the room, letting the short window-curtains fall
together.
Five minutes later she heard his footsteps as he came striding along
the corridor on to which the West Parlour opened. Then the door-handle
was turned with imperious eagerness, someone switched on the light, and
he came in--splashed with mud, his face red from the lash of the wind,
his hair beaded with moisture from the misty air. He looked just what
he was--a typical big sporting Englishman--as he tramped into the room
and made his way to the warmth of the blazing log fire.
Nan looked up and threw him a little smile of greeting.
"Hullo, darling, there you are!" He stooped and kissed her, and she
forced herself to sit quiet and unshrinking while his lips sought and
found her own.
"Have you had a good day?" she asked.
"Topping. Best run of the season. We found at once and went right
away." And he launched out into an enthusiastic description of the
day's sport.
Nan listened patiently. She wasn't in the least interested, really,
but she had been trying very hard latterly not to let Roger pay for
what had been her own blunder--not to let him pay even in the small
things of daily life. So she feigned an interest she was far from
feeling and discussed the day's hunting with snatches of melody from
the concerto running through her mind all the time.
The man and woman offered a curious contrast as they talked; he, big,
virile, muddied with his day in the saddle, an aroma of mingled damp
and leather exuding from his clothes as they steamed in front of the
fire--she, slim, silken-clad, delicately wrought by nature and
over-finely strung by reason of the high-pitched artist's life she had
led.
Roger himself seemed suddenly struck by the contrast.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, surveying her rather ruefully. "We're a
pretty fair example of beauty and the beast, aren't we?"
Nan looked back at him composedly--at the strong, ugly face and
far-visioned eyes.
"Not in the least," she replied judicially. "We're--different, that's
all. And"--smiling faintly--"you're rather grubby just at present."
"I suppose I am." He glanced ruefully down at his mud-bespattered
coat. "I oughtn't to have come in here like this," he added with an
awkward attempt at apology. "Only I couldn't wait to see you."
"Well, go and have your tub and a change," she said, with a small,
indulgent laugh. "And by dinner time you'll have a better opinion of
your outward man."
It was not until after dinner that she mentioned the concerto to him,
snatching an opportunity when they chanced to find themselves alone for
a few minutes. Some distracted young married woman from the village
had called to ask Lady Gertrude's advice as to how she should deal with
a husband who seemed to find his chief entertainment in life in beating
her with a broomstick and in threatening to "do her in" altogether if
the application of the broomstick proved barren of wifely improvement.
Accordingly, Lady Gertrude, accompanied by her aide-de-camp, Isobel,
were interviewing the poor, terrified creature with a view to
ameliorating her lot.
"It's good, Roger," said Nan, when she had told him that the concerto
was finished. "It's really good. And I want you to hear it first of
anyone."
Roger smiled down at her. He was obviously pleased.
"Of course I must hear it first," he answered. "I'm your lawful lord
and master, remember."
"Not yet?" she objected hastily.
He threw his arm round her and pulled her into his embrace.
"No. But very soon," he said.
"You won't beat me, I suppose--like Mrs. Pike's husband?" she suggested
teasingly, with a gesture towards the room where Lady Gertrude and
Isobel were closeted with the woman from the village.
His arm tightened round her possessively.
"I don't know," he said slowly. "I might--if I couldn't manage you any
other way."
"Roger!"
There was almost a note of fear in her quick, astonished exclamation.
With his arm gripped round her she recognised how utterly powerless she
would be against his immense strength, and something flint-like and
merciless in the expression of those piercing eyes which were blazing
down at her made her feel, with a sudden catch at her heart, as though
he might actually do the thing he said.
"I hope it won't come to beating you," he resumed in a lighter tone of
voice. "But"--grimly--"not even you, when you're my wife, shall defy
me with impunity."
Nan drew herself out of his arms.
"Well, I'm not your wife yet," she said, trying to laugh away the
queer, unexpected tensity of the moment. "Only a very hard-working
young woman, who has a concerto to play to you."
He frowned a little.
"There's no need for you to work hard. I'd rather you didn't. I want
you just to enjoy life--have a good time--and keep your music as a
relaxation."
Her face clouded over.
"Oh, Roger, you don't understand! I _must_ do it. I couldn't live
without it. It fills my life."
His expression softened. He reached out his arm again and drew her
back to his side, but this time with a strange, unwonted tenderness.
"I suppose it does," he conceded. "But some day, darling, after we're
married, I hope there'll be something--someone--else to fill your life.
And when that time comes,--why, the music will take second place."
Nan flushed scarlet and wriggled irritably in his embrace.
"Oh, Roger, do try to understand! As if . . . having a child . . .
would make any difference. A baby's a baby, and music's music--the one
can't take the place of the other."
Roger looked a trifle taken aback. He held old-fashioned views and
rather thought that all women regarded motherhood as a duty and
privilege of existence. And, inside himself, he had never doubted that
if this great happiness were ever granted to Nan, she would lose all
those funny, unaccountable ways of hers--which alternately bewildered
and annoyed him--and turn into a nice, normal woman like ninety-nine
per cent. of the other women of his somewhat limited acquaintance.
Man has an odd trick of falling in love with the last kind of woman you
would expect him to, the very antithesis of the ideal he has previously
formulated to himself, and then of expecting her, after matrimony,
suddenly to change her whole individuality--the very individuality
which attracted him in the first instance--and conform to his
preconceived notions of what a wife ought to he.
It is illogical, of course, with that gloriously pig-headed
illogicalness not infrequently to be found in the supposedly logical
sex, and it would be laughable were it not that it so often ends in
tragedy.
So that Roger was quite genuinely dumbfounded at Nan's heterodox
pronouncement on the relative values of music and babies.
A baby was not in the least an object of absorbing interest to her. It
cried out of tune and made ear-piercing noises that were not included
in even the most modern of compositions. Moreover, she was not by
nature of the maternal type of woman, to whom marriage is but the
beautiful path which leads to motherhood. She was essentially one of
the lovers of the world. Had she married her mate, she would have
demanded nothing more of life, though, if a child had been born of such
mating, it would have seemed to her so beautiful and sure a link, so
blent with love itself, that her arms would have opened to receive it.
But of all these intricacies of the feminine heart and mind Roger was
sublimely ignorant. So he chided her, still with that same unwonted
gentleness which the thought of fatherhood sometimes brings to men of
strong and violent temper.
"That's all nonsense, you know, sweetheart. And some day . . . when
there's a small son to be thought about and planned for and loved,
you'll find that what I say is true."
"It might chance to be a small daughter," suggested Nan snubbily, and
Roger's face fell a little. "So, meanwhile, as I haven't a baby and I
_have_ a concerto, come along and listen to it."
He nodded and followed her into the West Parlour. A cheerful fire was
blazing on the hearth, a big lounge chair drawn up invitingly beside
it, while close at hand stood a small table with pipe, tobacco pouch,
and matches lying on it in readiness.
Roger smiled at the careful arrangement.
"What a thoughtful child it's becoming!" he commented, taking up his
pipe.
"Well, you can listen to music much better if you're really comfy,"
said Nan. "Sit down and light your pipe--there, I'll light it for you
when you've finished squashing the 'baccy down into it."
Roger dropped leisurely into the big chair, filled and lit his pipe,
and when it was drawing well, stretched out his legs to the logs' warm
glow with a sigh of contentment.
"Now, fire away, sweetheart," he said. "I'm all attention."
She looked across at him, feeling for the first time a little anxious
and uncertain of the success of her plan.
"Of course, it'll sound very bald--just played on the piano," she
explained carefully. "You'll have to try and imagine the difference
the orchestral part makes."
Switching off the lights, so that nothing but the flickering glow of
the fire illumined the room, she began to play.
For half an hour she played on, lost to all thoughts of the world
around her, wrapped in the melody and meaning of the music. Then, as
the _finale_ rushed in a torrent of golden chords to its climax and the
last note was struck, her hands fell away from the piano and she sank
back on her seat with a little sigh of exhaustion and happiness.
A pause followed. How well she remembered listening for that pause
when she played, in public!--The brief, pulsating silence which falls
while the thought of the audience steal back from the fairyland whither
they have wandered and readjust themselves reluctantly to the things of
daily life. And then, the outburst of applause.
In silence she awaited Roger's approval, her lips just parted, her face
still alight with the joy of the creator who knows that his work is
good.
But the words for which she was listening did not come. . . .
Instead--utter silence! . . . Wondering, half apprehensive of she knew
not what, Nan twisted round on the music-seat and looked across to
where Roger was sitting. The sharp, quick intake of her breath broke
the silence as might a cry. Weary after his long day in the saddle,
soothed by the warmth of the fire and the rhythm of the music, Roger
was sleeping peacefully, his head thrown back against a cushion!
Nan rose slowly and, coming forward into the circle of the firelight,
stared down at him incredulously. It was unbelievable! She had been
giving him all the best that was in her--the work of her brain, the
interpretation of her hands--baring her very heart to him during the
last half-hour. And he had slept through it all!
In any other circumstances, probably, the humorous side of the matter
would have struck her, and the sting and smart of it been washed away
in laughter.
But just now it was impossible for her to feel anything but bitterness
and hopeless disappointment. For weeks she had been working hard,
without the fillip of congenial atmosphere, doggedly sticking to it in
spite of depression and discouragement, and now that the results of her
labour were ready to be given to the world, she was strung up to a high
pitch and ill-prepared to receive a sudden check.
She had counted so intensely on winning Roger's sympathy and
understanding--on putting an end to that blundering, terrible jealousy
of his by playing the game to the limit of her ability. It had been
like making a burnt-offering for her to share the thing she loved best
with Roger--to let him into some of the secret places where dwelt her
inmost dreams and emotions. And she had nerved herself to do it, made
her sacrifice--in vain! Roger was even unconscious that it was a
sacrifice!
She looked down at him as he lay with the firelight flickering across
his strong-featured face, and a storm of fury and indignation swept
over her. She could have struck him!
Presently he stirred uneasily. Perhaps he felt the cessation of the
music, the sense of someone moving in the room. A moment later he
opened his eyes and saw her standing beside him.
"You, darling?" he murmured drowsily. He stretched his arms. "I
think . . . I've been to sleep." Then, recollection returning to him:
"By Jove! And you were playing to me--"
"Yes," she answered slowly. Her lips felt dry. "And I'll never play
to you again as long as I live!"
He smiled indulgently.
"That's putting it rather strong, isn't it?" he said, making a long arm
and pulling her down on to his knee.
She sprang up again instantly and stood a little away from him, her
hands clenched, her breast heaving tumultuously.
"Come back, small firebrand!" he commanded laughingly.
A fresh gust of indignation, swept over her. Even now he didn't
comprehend, didn't realise in the very least how he had wounded her.
Her nails dug into the flesh of her palms as she took a fresh grip of
herself and answered him--very slowly and distinctly so that he might
not miss her meaning.
"It's not putting it one bit too strong. It's what I feel--that I
can't ever play to you again." She paused, then burst out impetuously:
"You've always disliked my love of music! You were jealous of it. And
to-night I wanted to show you--to--to share it with you. You hated the
piano--you wanted to smash it, because you thought it came between us.
And so I tried to make you understand!" Her words came rushing out
headlong now, bitter, sobbing words, holding all the agony of mind
which she had been enduring for so long.
"You've no idea what music means to me--and you've not tried to find
out. Instead, you've laughed indulgently about it, been impatient over
it, and behaved as though it were some child's toy of which you didn't
quite approve." Her voice shook. "And it isn't! It's _part_ of
me--part of the woman you want to marry . . ."
She broke off, a little breathlessly.
Roger was on his feet now and there was a deep, smouldering anger in
his eyes as he regarded her.
"And is all this outburst because I fell asleep while you were
playing?" he asked curtly.
She was silent, battling with the emotion that was shaking her.
"Because"--he went on with a tinge of contempt in his voice--"if so,
it's a ridiculous storm in a tea-cup."
"'Ridiculous'! . . . Yes, that's all it would be to you," she answered
bitterly. "But to me it's just like a light flashed on our future life
together. We're miles apart--miles! We haven't a thought, an idea, in
common. And when it comes to music--to the one big thing in my
life--you brush it aside as if it could be taken up or put down like a
child's musical box!"
Roger looked at her. Something of her passionate pain and resentment
was becoming clear to him.
"I didn't know it meant as much to you as that," he said slowly.
"It's everything to me now!" she burst out wildly. "The only thing I
have left--left of my world as I knew it."
His face whitened, and a curious, strained brilliance came into his
eyes. She had touched him an the raw, roused his mad jealousy of all
that had been in her life of which, he had had no share.
"The only thing you have left?" he repeated, with a slow, dangerous
inflection in his voice. "Do you mean that?"
"Yes!"--smiting her hands together. "Can't you see it? There's . . .
_nothing_ . . . here for me. Are we companions, you and I? We're
absolute strangers! We don't think, or feel, or move in the same
world."
"No?"
Just the brief monosyllable, spoken as coolly as though she had
remarked that she didn't like the colour of his tie. She looked up,
bewildered, and met his gaze. His eyes frightened her. They were
ablaze, remorseless as the eyes of a bird of prey. A sudden terror of
him overwhelmed her.
"Roger!" she cried. "We can't marry! Let me go--release me from my
promise! Oh!"--breaking down all at once--"I can't bear it! I can't
marry you! Let me go--oh, please let me go!"
There was a pause--a pause during which Nan could feel her heart
leaping in her body like some terrified captive thing. Then, Roger
made a movement. Instinctively she knew it was towards her and flung
out her arms to ward him off. But she might as well have opposed him
with two straws. He caught both wrists in one of his big hands and
bent her arms downwards, drawing her close to him till she lay
unwillingly against his breast, held there in a grasp like iron.
"Will I release you?" he said savagely. "No, I will _not_! Neither
now, nor at any future time. You're _mine_! Do you understand what
that means? It means if you'd one day left to live, it would be _my_
day--one night, _mine_! And I swear to you if any man takes you from
me I'll kill him first and you after. _Now_ do you understand?"
She tried to speak, but her voice failed her. It was as though he had
pronounced sentence on her--a life sentence! She could never get away
from him--never, never! A shudder ran through her whole body. He felt
it, and it stung him to fresh anger. Her head was pressed into his
shoulder as though for shelter.
"Look up!" he demanded imperiously. "Don't hide your face. It's mine.
And I want to see it!"
Reluctantly, compelled by his voice, she lifted a white, tortured face
to his. Then, meeting his eyes, savagely alight with the fire of
conquest, she turned her head quickly aside. But it was useless. She
was powerless in the vice-like grip of his arms, and the next moment he
was kissing her, eyes and mouth and pulsing throat, with terrible,
burning kisses that seemed to sear their way through her whole body,
branding her indelibly his.
It was useless to struggle. She hung nervelessly in his straining
arms, mute and helpless to withstand him, while his passion swept over
her like a tidal wave, submerging her utterly.
When at last he set her free she swayed unsteadily, catching at the
table for support. Her knees seemed to be giving way under her. She
was voiceless, breathless from his violence. The tide had receded,
leaving her utterly spent and exhausted.
He regarded her in silence for a moment.
"I don't think you'll ask me to release you from your engagement
again," he said slowly.
"No," she whispered tonelessly. "No."
She tottered almost as though she were going to fall. With a sort of
rough kindliness he put out his hand to steady her, but she shrank from
him like a beaten child.
"Don't do that!" he exclaimed unevenly. Adding: "I've frightened you,
I suppose?"
She bent her head.
"Well"--sulkily--"it was your own fault. You roused the wild beast in
me." Then, with a queer, half-shamed laugh, he added: "There's Spanish
blood in the Trenbys, you know--as there is in many of the Cornish
folk."
Nan supposed this avowal was intended as an apology, or at least as an
explanation of sorts. It was rather appealing in its boyish
clumsiness, but she felt too numb, too utterly weary, to respond to it.
"You're tired," he said abruptly. "You'd better go to bed." He put a
hand beneath her arm, but she shrank away from him with a fresh spasm
of terror.
"Don't be afraid. I'm not going to kiss you again." He spoke
reassuringly. "Come, let me help you. You can hardly stand."
Once more he took her arm, and, too stunned to offer any resistance,
she allowed him to lead her from the room.
"Will you be all right, now?" he asked anxiously, as they paused at the
foot of the staircase.
She gripped the banister.
"Yes," she answered mechanically. "I shall be all right."
He remained at the bottom of the stairs, watching until her slight
figure had disappeared round the bend of the stairway.