When William Came, Saki [red scrolls of magic .txt] 📗

discourse that she would contract to listen to next Sunday.  And Cicely listened with the wistful equivocal triumph of one whose goose has turned out to be a swan and who realises with secret concern that she has only planned the rôle of goosegirl for herself.

The last chords died away, the fire faded out of the jade-coloured eyes, and Ronnie became once more a well-groomed youth in a drawing-room full of well-dressed people.  But around him rose an explosive clamour of applause and congratulation, the sincere tribute of appreciation and the equally hearty expression of imitative homage.

“It is a great gift, a great gift,” chanted Canon Mousepace, “You must put it to a great use.  A talent is vouchsafed to us for a purpose; you must fulfil the purpose.  Talent such as yours is a responsibility; you must meet that responsibility.”

The dictionary of the English language was an inexhaustible quarry, from which the Canon had hewn and fashioned for himself a great reputation.

“You must gom and blay to me at Schlachsenberg,” said the kindly-faced Landgraf, whom the world adored and thwarted in about equal proportions.  “At Christmas, yes, that will be a good time.  We still keep the Christ-Fest at Schlachsenberg, though the ‘Sozi’ keep telling our schoolchildren that it is only a Christ myth.  Never mind, I will have the Vice-President of our Landtag to listen to you; he is ‘Sozi’ but we are good friends outside the Parliament House; you shall blay to him, my young friendt, and gonfince him that there is a Got in Heaven.  You will gom?  Yes?”

“It was beautiful,” said the Gräfin simply; “it made me cry.  Go back to the piano again, please, at once.”

Perhaps the near neighbourhood of the Canon inspired this command, but the Gräfin had been genuinely charmed.  She adored good music and she was unaffectedly fond of good-looking boys.

Ronnie went back to the piano and tasted the matured pleasure of a repeated success.  Any measure of nervousness that he may have felt at first had completely passed away.  He was sure of his audience and he played as though they did not exist.  A renewed clamour of excited approval attended the conclusion of his performance.

“It is a triumph, a perfectly glorious triumph,” exclaimed the Duchess of Dreyshire, turning to Yeovil, who sat silent among his wife’s guests; “isn’t it just glorious?” she demanded, with a heavy insistent intonation of the word.

“Is it?” said Yeovil.

“Well, isn’t it?” she cried, with a rising inflection, “isn’t it just perfectly glorious?”

“I don’t know,” confessed Yeovil; “you see glory hasn’t come very much my way lately.”  Then, before he exactly realised what he was doing, he raised his voice and quoted loudly for the benefit of half the room:

“‘Other Romans shall arise,
Heedless of a soldier’s name,
Sounds, not deeds, shall win the prize,
Harmony the path to fame.’”

There was a sort of shiver of surprised silence at Yeovil’s end of the room.

“Hell!”

The word rang out in a strong young voice.

“Hell!  And it’s true, that’s the worst of it.  It’s damned true!”

Yeovil turned, with some dozen others, to see who was responsible for this vigorously expressed statement.

Tony Luton confronted him, an angry scowl on his face, a blaze in his heavy-lidded eyes.  The boy was without a conscience, almost without a soul, as priests and parsons reckon souls, but there was a slumbering devil-god within him, and Yeovil’s taunting words had broken the slumber.  Life had been for Tony a hard school, in which right and wrong, high endeavour and good resolve, were untaught subjects; but there was a sterling something in him, just that something that helped poor street-scavenged men to die brave-fronted deaths in the trenches of Salamanca, that fired a handful of apprentice boys to shut the gates of Derry and stare unflinchingly at grim leaguer and starvation.  It was just that nameless something that was lacking in the young musician, who stood at the further end of the room, bathed in a flood of compliment and congratulation, enjoying the honey-drops of his triumph.

Luton pushed his way through the crowd and left the room, without troubling to take leave of his hostess.

“What a strange young man,” exclaimed the Duchess; “now do take me into the next room,” she went on almost in the same breath, “I’m just dying for some iced coffee.”

Yeovil escorted her through the throng of Ronnie-worshippers to the desired haven of refreshment.

“Marvellous!” Mrs. Menteith-Mendlesohnn was exclaiming in ringing trumpet tones; “of course I always knew he could play, but this is not mere piano playing, it is tone-mastery, it is sound magic.  Mrs. Yeovil has introduced us to a new star in the musical firmament.  Do you know, I feel this afternoon just like Cortez, in the poem, gazing at the newly discovered sea.”

“‘Silent upon a peak in Darien,’” quoted a penetrating voice that could only belong to Joan Mardle; “I say, can any one picture Mrs. Menteith-Mendlesohnn silent on any peak or under any circumstances?”

If any one had that measure of imagination, no one acknowledged the fact.

“A great gift and a great responsibility,” Canon Mousepace was assuring the Gräfin; “the power of evoking sublime melody is akin to the power of awakening thought; a musician can appeal to dormant consciousness as the preacher can appeal to dormant conscience.  It is a responsibility, an instrument for good or evil.  Our young friend here, we may be sure, will use it as an instrument for good.  He has, I feel certain, a sense of his responsibility.”

“He is a nice boy,” said the Gräfin simply; “he has such pretty hair.”

In one of the window recesses Rhapsodie Pantril was talking vaguely but beautifully to a small audience on the subject of chromatic chords; she had the advantage of knowing what she was talking about, an advantage that her listeners did not in the least share.  “All through his playing there ran a tone-note of malachite green,” she declared recklessly, feeling safe from immediate contradiction; “malachite green, my colour—the colour of striving.”

Having satisfied the ruling passion that demanded gentle and dextrous self-advertisement, she realised that the Augusta Smith in her craved refreshment, and moved with one of her over-awed admirers towards the haven where peaches and iced coffee might be considered a certainty.

The refreshment alcove, which was really a good-sized room, a sort of chapel-of-ease to the larger drawing-room, was already packed with a crowd who felt that they could best discuss Ronnie’s triumph between mouthfuls of fruit salad and iced draughts of hock-cup.  So brief is human glory that two or three independent souls had even now drifted from the theme of the moment on to other more personally interesting topics.

“Iced mulberry salad, my dear, it’s a spécialité de la maison, so to speak; they say the roving husband brought the recipe from Astrakhan, or Seville, or some such outlandish place.”

“I wish my husband would roam about a bit and bring back strange palatable dishes.  No such luck, he’s got asthma and has to keep on a gravel soil with a south aspect and all sorts of other restrictions.”

“I don’t think you’re to be pitied in the least; a husband with asthma is like a captive golf-ball, you can always put your hand on him when you want him.”

“All the hangings, violette de Parme, all the furniture, rosewood.  Nothing is to be played in it except Mozart.  Mozart only.  Some of my friends wanted me to have a replica of the Mozart statue at Vienna put up in a corner of the room, with flowers always around it, but I really couldn’t.  I couldn’t.  One is so tired of it, one sees it everywhere.  I couldn’t do it.  I’m like that, you know.”

“Yes, I’ve secured the hero of the hour, Ronnie Storre, oh yes, rather.  He’s going to join our yachting trip, third week of August.  We’re going as far afield as Fiume, in the Adriatic—or is it the Ægean?  Won’t it be jolly.  Oh no, we’re not asking Mrs. Yeovil; it’s quite a small yacht you know—at least, it’s a small party.”

The excellent von Tolb took her departure, bearing off with her the Landgraf, who had already settled the date and duration of Ronnie’s Christmas visit.

“It will be dull, you know,” he warned the prospective guest; “our Landtag will not be sitting, and what is a bear-garden without the bears?  However, we haf some wildt schwein in our woods, we can show you some sport in that way.”

Ronnie instantly saw himself in a well-fitting shooting costume, with a Tyrolese hat placed at a very careful angle on his head, but he confessed that the other details of boar-hunting were rather beyond him.

With the departure of the von Tolb party Canon Mousepace gravitated decently but persistently towards a corner where the Duchess, still at concert pitch, was alternatively praising Ronnie’s performance and the mulberry salad.  Joan Mardle, who formed one of the group, was not openly praising any one, but she was paying a silent tribute to the salad.

“We were just talking about Ronnie Storre’s music, Canon,” said the Duchess; “I consider it just perfectly glorious.”

“It’s a great talent, isn’t it, Canon,” put in Joan briskly, “and of course it’s a responsibility as well, don’t you think?  Music can be such an influence, just as eloquence can; don’t you agree with me?”

The quarry of the English language was of course a public property, but it was disconcerting to have one’s own particular barrow-load of sentence-building material carried off before one’s eyes.  The Canon’s impressive homily on Ronnie’s gift and its possibilities had to be hastily whittled down to a weakly acquiescent, “Quite so, quite so.”

“Have you tasted this iced mulberry salad, Canon?” asked the Duchess; “it’s perfectly luscious.  Just hurry along and get some before it’s all gone.”

And her Grace hurried along in an opposite direction, to thank Cicely for past favours and to express lively gratitude for the Tuesday to come.

The guests departed, with a rather irritating slowness, for which perhaps the excellence of Cicely’s buffet arrangements was partly responsible.  The great drawing-room seemed to grow larger and more oppressive as the human wave receded, and the hostess fled at last with some relief to the narrower limits of her writing-room and the sedative influences of a cigarette.  She was inclined to be sorry for herself; the triumph of the afternoon had turned out much as she had predicted at lunch time.  Her idol of onyx had not been swept from its pedestal, but the pedestal itself had an air of being packed up ready for transport to some other temple.  Ronnie would be flattered and spoiled by half a hundred people, just because he could conjure sounds out of a keyboard, and Cicely felt no great incentive to go on flattering and spoiling him herself.  And Ronnie would acquiesce in his dismissal with the good grace born of indifference—the surest guarantor of perfect manners.  Already he had social engagements for the coming months in which she had no share; the drifting apart would be mutual.  He had been an intelligent and amusing companion, and he had played the game as she had wished it to be played, without the fatigue of keeping up pretences which neither of them could have believed in.  “Let us have a wonderfully good time together” had been the single stipulation in their unwritten treaty of comradeship, and they had had the good time.  Their whole-hearted pursuit of material happiness would go on as keenly as before, but they would hunt in different company, that was all.  Yes, that was all. . . .

Cicely found the effect of her cigarette less sedative than she was disposed to exact.  It might be necessary to change the brand.  Some ten or eleven days later Yeovil read an announcement in the papers that, in spite of handsome offers of increased salary, Mr. Tony Luton, the original singer of the popular ditty “Eccleston Square,” had terminated his engagement with Messrs. Isaac Grosvenor and Leon Hebhardt of the Caravansery Theatre, and signed on