CHAPTER XVII. Crome yellow | ||
17. CHAPTER XVII.
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
"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
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
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.
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.
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:
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
"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,
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:
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
"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
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
"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.
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,
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
"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.
CHAPTER XVII. Crome yellow | ||