Crome Yellow

  CHAPTER XVII.

  Ivor brought his hands down with a bang on to the final chord of hisrhapsody. There was just a hint in that triumphant harmony that theseventh had been struck along with the octave by the thumb of the lefthand; 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 roundin 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 chinaeyes fixed on the performer, cried out aloud, "Wonderful!" and gaspedfor new breath as though she were suffocating.

  Nature and fortune had vied with one another in heaping on IvorLombard all their choicest gifts. He had wealth and he was perfectlyindependent. He was good looking, possessed an irresistible charm ofmanner, and was the hero of more amorous successes than he could wellremember. His accomplishments were extraordinary for their number andvariety. He had a beautiful untrained tenor voice; he could improvise,with a startling brilliance, rapidly and loudly, on the piano. He was agood amateur medium and telepathist, and had a considerable first-handknowledge of the next world. He could write rhymed verses with anextraordinary rapidity. For painting symbolical pictures he had adashing style, and if the drawing was sometimes a little weak, thecolour was always pyrotechnical. He excelled in amateur theatricalsand, when occasion offered, he could cook with genius. He resembledShakespeare in knowing little Latin and less Greek. For a mind like his,education seemed supererogatory. Training would only have destroyed hisnatural aptitudes.

  "Let's go out into the garden," Ivor suggested. "It's a wonderfulnight."

  "Thank you," said Mr. Scogan, "but I for one prefer these still morewonderful arm-chairs." His pipe had begun to bubble oozily every time hepulled at it. He was perfectly happy.

  Henry Wimbush was also happy. He looked for a moment over his pince-nezin Ivor's direction and then, without saying anything, returned tothe grimy little sixteenth-century account books which were now hisfavourite reading. He knew more about Sir Ferdinando's householdexpenses 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 anddark; there was no moon. They walked up and down the terrace, and Ivorsang a Neapolitan song: "Stretti, stretti"--close, close--with somethingabout the little Spanish girl to follow. The atmosphere began topalpitate. Ivor put his arm round Anne's waist, dropped his headsideways onto her shoulder, and in that position walked on, singing ashe 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 andturned round to shepherd his little flock. They made their way along theside of the house to the entrance of the yew-tree walk that led down tothe lower garden. Between the blank precipitous wall of the house andthe tall yew trees the path was a chasm of impenetrable gloom. Somewherethere were steps down to the right, a gap in the yew hedge. Denis, whoheaded the party, groped his way cautiously; in this darkness, onehad an irrational fear of yawning precipices, of horrible spikedobstructions. Suddenly from behind him he heard a shrill, startled,"Oh!" and then a sharp, dry concussion that might have been the soundof a slap. After that, Jenny's voice was heard pronouncing, "I am goingback to the house." Her tone was decided, and even as she pronounced thewords she was melting away into the darkness. The incident, whatever ithad been, was closed. Denis resumed his forward groping. From somewherebehind Ivor began to sing again, softly:

  "Phillis plus avare que tendre Ne gagnant rien a refuser, Un jour exigeaa Silvandre Trente moutons pour un baiser."

  The melody drooped and climbed again with a kind of easy languor; thewarm 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 thedanger, and in a moment they had the turf of the yew-tree walk undertheir feet. It was lighter here, or at least it was just perceptiblyless dark; for the yew walk was wider than the path that had led themunder the lea of the house. Looking up, they could see between the highblack 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 rundown," and he was off, full speed, down the invisible slope, singingunevenly as he went:

  "Trente baisers pour un mouton."

  The others followed. Denis shambled in the rear, vainly exhortingeveryone to caution: the slope was steep, one might break one's neck.What was wrong with these people, he wondered? They had become likeyoung kittens after a dose of cat-nip. He himself felt a certainkittenishness sporting within him; but it was, like all his emotions,rather a theoretical feeling; it did not overmasteringly seek to expressitself in a practical demonstration of kittenishness.

  "Be careful," he shouted once more, and hardly were the words out of hismouth when, thump! there was the sound of a heavy fall in front ofhim, followed by the long "F-f-f-f-f" of a breath indrawn with pain andafterwards by a very sincere, "Oo-ooh!" Denis was almost pleased; he hadtold them so, the idiots, and they wouldn't listen. He trotted down theslope towards the unseen sufferer.

  Mary came down the hill like a runaway steam-engine. It was tremendouslyexciting, this blind rush through the dark; she felt she would neverstop. But the ground grew level beneath her feet, her speed insensiblyslackened, and suddenly she was caught by an extended arm and brought toan 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. "Iseem to be making nothing but floaters this evening. I've already madeone with Jenny." He laughed again, and there was something so jollyabout his laughter that Mary could not help laughing too. He did notremove his encircling arm, and somehow it was all so amusing and naturalthat Mary made no further attempt to escape from it. They walked alongby the side of the pool, interlaced. Mary was too short for him to beable, with any comfort, to lay his head on her shoulder. He rubbed hischeek, caressed and caressing, against the thick, sleek mass of herhair. In a little while he began to sing again; the night trembledamorously 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 whichit was. There were differences in detail, of course; but the generaleffect was the same; and, after all, the general effect was theimportant 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 wassilly to start running downhill in the dark."

  "Ass!" she retorted in a tone of tearful irritation; "of course it was."

  He sat down beside her 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 thengrew steady. Magically, a little universe had been created, a world ofcolours and forms--Anne's face, the shimmering orange of her dress, herwhite, bare arms, a patch of green turf--and round about a darkness thathad become solid and utterly blind. Anne held out her hands; both weregreen and earthy with her fall, and the left exhibited two or three redabrasions.

  "Not so bad," she said. But Denis was terribly distressed, and hisemotion was intensified when, looking up at her face, he saw that thetrace of tears, involuntary tears of pain, lingered on her eyelashes.He pulled out his handkerchief and began to wipe away the dirt fromthe wou
nded hand. The match went out; it was not worth while to lightanother. Anne allowed herself to be attended to, meekly and gratefully."Thank you," she said, when he had finished cleaning and bandaging herhand; and there was something in her tone that made him feel that shehad lost her superiority over him, that she was younger than he,had become, suddenly, almost a child. He felt tremendously large andprotective. The feeling was so strong that instinctively he put hisarm about her. She drew closer, leaned against him, and so they sat insilence. Then, from below, soft but wonderfully clear through the stilldarkness, they heard the sound of Ivor's singing. He was going on withhis half-finished song:

  "Le lendemain Phillis plus tendre, Ne voulant deplaire au berger, Futtrop heureuse de lui rendre Trente moutons pour un baiser."

  There was a rather prolonged pause. It was as though time were beingallowed 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 unbaiser 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 bethe shepherd now. He was the master, the protector. A wave of courageswelled through him, warm as wine. He turned his head, and began to kissher face, at first rather randomly, then, with more precision, on themouth.

  Anne averted her head; he kissed the ear, the smooth nape that thismovement 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'tour stunt at all." It was true. Somehow she had never thought of Denisin the light of a man who might make love; she had never so much asconceived the possibilities of an amorous relationship with him. He wasso absurdly young, so...so...she couldn't find the adjective, but sheknew what she meant.

  "Why isn't it our stunt?" asked Denis. "And, by the way, that's ahorrible 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 getmy ankle into hot water. It's beginning to swell."

  Reasons of health could not be gainsaid. Denis got up reluctantly, andhelped his companion to her feet. She took a cautious step. "Ooh!" Shehalted 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. "Putyour arms round my neck," he ordered. She did so and, stooping, hepicked her up under the knees and lifted her from the ground. Goodheavens, what a weight! He took five staggering steps up the slope, thenalmost 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." Shelaid her hand on his shoulder and, thus supported, began to limp slowlyup the hill.

  "My poor Denis!" she repeated, and laughed again. Humiliated, he wassilent. It seemed incredible that, only two minutes ago, he shouldhave been holding her in his embrace, kissing her. Incredible. She washelpless then, a child. Now she had regained all her superiority; shewas once more the far-off being, desired and unassailable. Why had hebeen such a fool as to suggest that carrying stunt? He reached the housein a state of the profoundest depression.

  He helped Anne upstairs, left her in the hands of a maid, and came downagain to the drawing-room. He was surprised to find them all sittingjust where he had left them. He had expected that, somehow, everythingwould be quite different--it seemed such a prodigious time since he wentaway. 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 wasstill deep in his account books; he had just made the discovery that SirFerdinando was in the habit of eating oysters the whole summer through,regardless of the absence of the justifying R. Gombauld, in horn-rimmedspectacles, was reading. Jenny was mysteriously scribbling in her rednotebook. And, seated in her favourite arm-chair at the corner of thehearth, Priscilla was looking through a pile of drawings. One by one sheheld them out at arm's length and, throwing back her mountainous orangehead, looked long and attentively through half-closed eyelids. She worea pale sea-green dress; on the slope of her mauve-powdered decolletagediamonds twinkled. An immensely long cigarette-holder projected at anangle from her face. Diamonds were embedded in her high-piledcoiffure; they glittered every time she moved. It was a batch of Ivor'sdrawings--sketches of Spirit Life, made in the course of tranced toursthrough the other world. On the back of each sheet descriptive titleswere written: "Portrait of an Angel, 15th March '20;" "Astral Beingsat Play, 3rd December '19;" "A Party of Souls on their Way to a HigherSphere, 21st May '21." Before examining the drawing on the obverse ofeach sheet, she turned it over to read the title. Try as she could--andshe tried hard--Priscilla had never seen a vision or succeeded inestablishing any communication with the Spirit World. She had to becontent with the reported experiences of others.

  "What have you done with the rest of your party?" she asked, looking upas Denis entered the room.

  He explained. Anne had gone to bed, Ivor and Mary were still in thegarden. He selected a book and a comfortable chair, and tried, as far asthe disturbed state of his mind would permit him, to compose himselffor an evening's reading. The lamplight was utterly serene; there was nomovement save the stir of Priscilla among her papers. All silent and alldamned, 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 andscientific.

  "It was so beautiful down in the garden! The trees, the scent of theflowers, 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 thepiano and opened the lid.

  "There were a great many meteorites," said Mary to anyone who wouldlisten. "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 anightingale that was not there. Mary looked on and listened with partedlips. The others pursued their occupations, without appearing to beseriously disturbed. On this very July day, exactly three hundred andfifty years ago, Sir Ferdinando had eaten seven dozen oysters. Thediscovery of this fact gave Henry Wimbush a peculiar pleasure. He hada natural piety which made him delight in the celebration of memorialfeasts. The three hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the seven dozenoysters...He wished he had known before dinner; he would have orderedchampagne.

  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 findAnne's non-appearance so simply accounted for. She had been vaguelysuspicious, down there in the garden--suspicious of what, she hardlyknew; but there had seemed to be something a little louche in the wayshe had suddenly found herself alone with Ivor. Not that she minded, ofcourse; far from it. But she didn't like the idea that perhaps sh
e wasthe victim of a put-up job.

  "I do hope you'll be better to-morrow," she said, and she commiseratedwith Anne on all she had missed--the garden, the stars, the scent offlowers, the meteorites through whose summer shower the earth was nowpassing, the rising moon and its gibbosity. And then they had had suchinteresting conversation. What about? About almost everything. Nature,art, science, poetry, the stars, spiritualism, the relations of thesexes, music, religion. Ivor, she thought, had an interesting mind.

  The two young ladies parted affectionately.