________________________________________________
_ 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 a refuser,
Un jour exigea a 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 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
A 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. _
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