Part 11

But Gwendolen only laughed. That was so like Gerald. She knew, in his heart of hearts he was every bit as keen as she was. But he had this horror of showing his feelings like all men. Gwendolen understood it perfectly and wouldn’t have had him different for the world....

“I’ll write to Cook’s at once and tell them we don’t want to go to a very fashionable place, and we don’t want one of those big jazzy hotels! I’d much prefer a really small out-of-the-way place where we could really go in for the sports seriously.” This was quite untrue, but, like so many of Gwendolen’s statements, it was made to please Gerald. “Don’t you agree?”

Gerald lit his pipe for reply.

As you have gathered, the Christian names of Mr. and Mrs. Williams were Gwendolen and Gerald. How well they went together! They sounded married. Gwendolen-Gerald. Gwendolen wrote them, bracketed, on bits of blotting paper, on the backs of old envelopes, on the Stores’ catalogue. They looked married.

Gerald, when they were on their honeymoon, had made an awfully good joke about them. He had said one morning, “I say, has it ever struck you that both our names begin with _G_? Gwendolen-Gerald. You’re a _G_,” and he had pointed his razor at her—he was shaving—“and I’m a _G_. Two _Gs_. Gee-Gee. See?”

Oh, Gwendolen saw immediately. It was really most witty. Quite brilliant! And so—sweet and unexpected of him to have thought of it. Gee-Gee. Oh, _very_ good! She wished she could have told it to people. She had an idea that some people thought Gerald had not a very strong sense of humour. All the more precious for that reason, however.

“My dear, did you think of it at this moment? I mean—did you just make it up on the spot?”

Gerald, rubbing the lather with a finger, nodded. “Flashed into my mind while I was soaping my face,” he said seriously. “It’s a queer thing,”—and he dipped the razor into the pot of hot water—“I’ve noticed it before. Shaving gives me ideas.” It did, indeed, thought Gwendolen....

WEAK HEART

Although it sounded all the year round, although it rang out sometimes as early as half-past six in the morning, sometimes as late as half-past ten at night, it was in the spring, when Bengel’s violet patch just inside the gate was blue with flowers that that piano ... made the passers-by not only stop talking, but slow down, pause, look suddenly—if they were men—grave, even stern, and if they were women—dreamy, even sorrowful.

Tarana Street was beautiful in the spring; there was not a single house without its garden and trees and a plot of grass big enough to be called “the lawn.” Over the low painted fences, you could see, as you ran by, whose daffys were out, whose wild snowdrop border was over and who had the biggest hyacinths, so pink and white, the colour of cocoanut ice. But nobody had violets that grew, that smelled in the spring sun like Bengel’s. Did they really smell like that? Or did you shut your eyes and lean over the fence because of Edie Bengel’s piano?

A little wind ruffles among the leaves like a joyful hand looking for the finest flowers; and the piano sounds gay, tender, laughing. Now a cloud, like a swan, flies across the sun, the violets shine cold, like water, and a sudden questioning cry rings from Edie Bengel’s piano.

... Ah, if life must pass so quickly, why is the breath of these flowers so sweet? What is the meaning of this feeling of longing, of sweet trouble—of flying joy? Goodbye! Farewell! The young bees lie half awake on the slender dandelions, silver are the pink tipped arrowy petals of the daisies; the new grass shakes in the light. Everything is beginning again, marvellous as ever, heavenly fair. “Let me stay! Let me stay!” pleads Edie Bengel’s piano.

It is the afternoon, sunny and still. The blinds are down in the front to save the carpets, but upstairs the slats are open and in the golden light little Mrs. Bengel is feeling under her bed for the square bonnet box. She is flushed. She feels timid, excited, like a girl. And now the tissue paper is parted, her best bonnet, the one trimmed with a jet butterfly, which reposes on top, is lifted out and solemnly blown upon.

Dipping down to the glass she tries it with fingers that tremble. She twitches her dolman round her slender shoulders, clasps her purse and before leaving the bedroom kneels down a moment to ask God’s blessing on her “goings out.” And as she kneels there quivering, she is rather like a butterfly herself, fanning her wings before the Lord. When the door is open the sound of the piano coming up through the silent house is almost frightening, so bold, so defiant, so reckless it rolls under Edie’s fingers. And just for a moment the thought comes to Mrs. Bengel and is gone again, that there is a stranger with Edie in the drawing-room, but a fantastic person, out of a book, a—a—villain. It’s very absurd. She flits across the hall, turns the door handle and confronts her flushed daughter. Edie’s hands drop from the keys. She squeezes them between her knees, her head is bent, her curls are fallen forward. She gazes at her mother with brilliant eyes. There is something painful in that glance, something very strange. It is dusky in the drawing-room, the top of the piano is open. Edie has been playing from memory; it’s as though the air still tingles.

“I’m going, dear,” said Mrs. Bengel softly, so softly it is like a sigh.

“Yes, Mother,” came from Edie.

“I don’t expect I shall be long.”

Mrs. Bengel lingers. She would very much like just a word, of sympathy, of understanding, even from Edie, to cheer her on her way.

But Edie murmurs, “I’ll put the kettle on in half an hour.”

“Do, dear!” Mrs. Bengel grasped at that even. A nervous little smile touched her lips. “I expect I shall want my tea.”

But to that Edie makes no reply; she frowns, she stretches out a hand, quickly unscrews one of the piano candle-sticks, lifts off a pink china ring and screws all tight again. The ring has been rattling. As the front door bangs softly after her mother Edie and the piano seem to plunge together into deep dark water, into waves that flow over both, relentless. She plays on desperately until her nose is white and her heart beats. It is her way of getting over her nervousness and her way too of praying. Would they accept her? Would she be allowed to go? Was it possible that in a week’s time she would be one of Miss Farmer’s girls, wearing a red and blue hat band, running up the broad steps leading to the big grey painted house that buzzed, that hummed as you went by? Their pew in Church faced Miss Farmer’s boarders. Would she at last know the names of the girls she had looked at so often? The pretty pale one with red hair, the dark one with a fringe, the fair one who held Miss Farmer’s hand during the sermon?... But after all....

* * * * *

It was Edie’s fourteenth birthday. Her father gave her a silver brooch with a bar of music, two crotchets, two quavers and a minim headed by a very twisted treble clef. Her mother gave her blue satin gloves and two boxes for gloves and handkerchiefs, hand-painted the glove box with a sprig of gold roses tying up the capital G. and the handkerchief box with a marvellously lifelike butterfly quivering on the capital H. From the aunts in....

* * * * *

There was a tree at the corner of Tarana Street and May Street. It grew so close to the pavement that the heavy boughs stretched over, and on that part of the pavement there was always a fine sifting of minute twigs.

* * * * *

But in the dusk, lovers parading came into its shade as into a tent. There, however long they had been together, they greeted each other again with long kisses, with embraces that were sweet torture, agony to bear, agony to end.

* * * * *

Edie never knew that Roddie “loved” it, Roddie never knew that it meant anything to Edie.

* * * * *

Roddie, spruce, sleek with water, bumped his new bike down the wooden steps, through the gate. He was off for a spin, and looking at that tree, dark in the glow of evening, he felt the tree was watching him. He wanted to do marvels, to astonish, to shock, to amaze it.

Roddie had a complete new outfit for the occasion. A black serge suit, a black tie, a straw hat so white it was almost silver, a dazzling white straw hat with a broad black band. Attached to the hat there was a thick guard that somehow reminded one of a fishing line and the little clasp on the brim was like a fly.... He stood at the graveside, his legs apart, his hands loosely clasped, and watched Edie being lowered into the grave—as a half-grown boy watches anything, a man at work, or a bicycle accident, or a chap cleaning a spring-carriage wheel—but suddenly as the men drew back he gave a violent start, turned, muttered something to his father and dashed away, so fast that people looked positively frightened, through the cemetery, down the avenue of dripping clay banks into Tarana Road, and started pelting for home. His suit was very tight and hot. It was like a dream. He kept his head down and his fists clenched, he couldn’t look up, nothing could have made him look higher than the tops of the fences—What was he thinking of as he pressed along? On, on until the gate was reached, up the steps, in at the front door, through the hall, up to the drawing-room.

“Edie!” called Roddie. “Edie, old girl!”

And he gave a low strange squawk and cried “Edie!” and stared across at Edie’s piano.

But cold, solemn, as if frozen, heavily the piano stared back at Roddie. Then it answered, but on its own behalf, on behalf of the house and the violet patch, the garden, the velvet tree at the corner of May Street, and all that was delightful: “There is nobody here of that name, young man!”

WIDOWED

They came down to breakfast next morning absolutely their own selves. Rosy, fresh, and just chilled enough by the cold air blowing through the bedroom windows to be very ready for hot coffee.

“Nippy.” That was Geraldine’s word as she buttoned on her orange coat with pink-washed fingers. “Don’t you find it decidedly nippy?” And her voice, so matter-of-fact, so natural, sounded as though they had been married for years.

Parting his hair with two brushes (marvellous feat for a woman to watch) in the little round mirror, he had replied, lightly clapping the brushes together, “My dear, have you got enough _on_?” and he, too, sounded as though well he knew from the experience of years her habit of clothing herself underneath in wisps of chiffon and two satin bows.... Then they ran down to breakfast, laughing together and terribly startling the shy parlour-maid who, after talking it over with Cook, had decided to be invisible until she was rung for.

“Good-morning, Nellie, I think we shall want more toast than _that_,” said the smiling Geraldine as she hung over the breakfast table. She deliberated—“Ask Cook to make us four more pieces, please.”

Marvellous, the parlour-maid thought it was. And as she closed the door she heard the voice say, “I do so hate to be short of toast, don’t you?”

He was standing in the sunny window. Geraldine went up to him. She put her hand on his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. How pleasant it was to feel that rough man’s tweed again. Ah, how pleasant! She rubbed her hand against it, touched it with her cheek, sniffed the smell.

The window looked out on to flower beds, a tangle of michaelmas daisies, late dahlias, hanging heavy, and shaggy little asters. Then there came a lawn strewn with yellow leaves with a broad path beyond and a row of gold-fluttering trees. An old gardener, in woollen mitts, was sweeping the path, brushing the leaves into a neat little heap. Now, the broom tucked in his arm, he fumbled in his coat pocket, brought out some matches, and scooping a hole in the leaves he set fire to them.

Such lovely blue smoke came breathing into the air through those dry leaves; there was something so calm and orderly in the way the pile burned that it was a pleasure to watch. The old gardener stumped away and came back with a handful of withered twigs. He flung them on and stood by, and little light flames began to flicker.

“I do think,” said Geraldine, “I do think there is nothing nicer than a real satisfactory fire.”

“Jolly, isn’t it,” he murmured back, and they went to their first breakfast.

Just over a year ago, thirteen months, to be exact, she had been standing before the dining-room window of the little house in Sloane Street. It looked over the railed gardens. Breakfast was over, cleared away and done with ... she had a fat bunch of letters in her hand that she meant to answer, snugly, over the fire. But before settling down, the autumn sun, the freshness had drawn her to the window. Such a perfect morning for the Row. Jimmie had gone riding.

“Goodbye, dear thing.”

“Goodbye, Gerry mine.” And then the morning kiss, quick and firm. He looked so handsome in his riding kit. She imagined him as she stood there ... riding. Geraldine was not very good at imagining things. But there was mist, a thud of hooves and Jimmie’s moustache was damp. From the garden there sounded the creak of a gardener’s barrow. An old man came into sight with a load of leaves and a broom lying across. He stopped; he began to sweep. “What enormous tufts of irises grew in London gardens,” mused Geraldine. “Why?” And now the smoke of a real fire ascended.

“There is nothing nicer,” she thought, “than a really satisfactory fire.”

Just at that moment the telephone bell rang. Geraldine sat down at Jimmie’s desk to answer it. It was Major Hunter.

“Good morning, Major. You’re a very early bird!”

“Good morning, Mrs. Howard. Yes. I am.” (Geraldine made a little surprised face at herself. How odd he sounded!) “Mrs. Howard, I’m coming round to see you ... now ... I’m taking a taxi.... Please don’t go out. And—and—” the voice stammered, “p-please don’t let the servants go out.”

“_Par_-don?” This last was so very peculiar, though the whole thing had been peculiar enough, that Geraldine couldn’t believe what she heard. But he was gone. He had rung off. What on earth—and putting down the receiver, she took up a pencil and drew what she always drew when she sat down before a piece of blotting-paper—the behind of a little cat with whiskers and tail complete. Geraldine must have drawn that little cat hundreds of times, all over the world, in hotels, in clubs, at steamer desks, waiting at the Bank. The little cat was her sign, her mark. She had copied it from a little girl at school when she thought it most wonderful. And she never tried anything else. She was ... not very good at drawing. This particular cat was drawn with an extra firm pen and even its whiskers looked surprised.

“Not to let the servants go out!” But she had never heard anything so peculiar in her life. She must have made a mistake. Geraldine couldn’t help a little giggle of amusement. And why should he tell her he was taking a taxi? And why—above all—should he be coming to see her at that hour of the morning?

Then—it came over her—like a flash she remembered Major Hunter’s mania for old furniture. They had been discussing it at the Carlton the last time they lunched together. And he had said something to Jimmie about some—Jacobean or Queen Anne—Geraldine knew nothing about these things—something or other. Could he possibly be bringing it round? But of course. He must be. And that explained the remark about the servants. He wanted them to help getting it into the house. What a bore! Geraldine did hope it would tone in. And really, she must say she thought Major Hunter was taking a good deal for granted to produce a thing that size at that hour of the day without a word of warning. They hardly knew him well enough for that. Why make such a mystery of it too? Geraldine hated mysteries. But she had heard his head was rather troublesome at times ever since the Somme affair. Perhaps this was one of his bad days. In that case, a pity Jimmie was not back. She rang. Mullins answered.

“Oh, Mullins, I’m expecting Major Hunter in a few moments. He’s bringing something rather heavy. He may want you to help with it. And Cook better be ready, too.”

Geraldine’s manner was slightly lofty with her servants. She enjoyed carrying things off with a high hand. All the same Mullins did look surprised. She seemed to hover for a moment before she went out. It annoyed Geraldine greatly. What was there to be surprised at? What could have been simpler? she thought, sitting down to her batch of letters, and the fire, and the clock and her pen began to whisper together.

There was the taxi—making an enormous noise at the door. She thought she heard the driver’s voice, too, arguing. It took her a long moment to clasp her writing case and to get up out of the low chair. The bell rang. She went straight to the dining-room door——

And there was Major Hunter in his riding kit, coming quickly towards her, and behind him, through the open door at the bottom of the steps she saw something big, something grey. It was an ambulance.

“There’s been an accident,” cried Geraldine sharply.

“Mrs. Howard.” Major Hunter ran forward. He put out his icy cold hand and wrung hers. “You’ll be brave, won’t you?” he said, he pleaded.

But of course she would be brave.

“Is it serious?”

Major Hunter nodded gravely. He said the one word “Yes.”

“Very serious?”

Now he raised his head. He looked her full in the eyes. She’d never realized until that moment that he was extraordinarily handsome though in a melodrama kind of way. “It’s as bad as it can be, Mrs. Howard,” said Major Hunter simply. “But—go in there,” he said hastily and he almost pushed her into her own dining-room. “We must bring him in—where can we——”

“Can he be taken upstairs?” asked Geraldine.

“Yes, yes of course.” Major Hunter looked at her so strangely—so painfully.

“There’s his dressing-room,” said Geraldine. “It’s on the first floor. I’ll lead the way,” and she put her hand on the Major’s arm. “It’s quite all right, Major,” she said, “I’m not going to break down—” and she actually smiled, a confident brilliant smile.

To her amazement as Major Hunter turned away he burst out with, “Ah, my God! I’m so sorry.”

Poor man. He was quite overcome. “Brandy afterwards,” thought Geraldine. “Not now, of course.”

It was a painful moment when she heard those measured deliberate steps in the hall. But Geraldine, realizing this was not the moment, and there was nothing to be gained by it, refrained from looking.

“This way, Major.” She skimmed on in front, up the stairs, along the passage; she flung open the door of Jimmie’s gay living breathing dressing-room and stood to one side—for Major Hunter, for the two stretcher-bearers. Only then she realized that it must be a scalp wound—some injury to the head. For there was nothing to be seen of Jimmie; the sheet was pulled right over....

THE END