Twilight, Julia Frankau [100 books to read in a lifetime txt] 📗

Nothing suited either of them so well today as a long silent drive. The car went too fast for them to talk. Retrospect or the comparison of notes was practically impossible. They sat side by side, smiling rarely, one at the other as the spring burst into life around them. The tall hedges were full of may blossom, with here and there a flowering currant, the trees wore their coronal of young green leaves, great clumps of primroses succeeded the yellow gorse of which they had tired, fields were already green with the autumn-sown corn, there was nothing to remind them of Carbies. For a long time the sea was out of sight. Never had they been happier together, for all they spoke so little.

At Ryde he played the host to her, and she sat on the verandah whilst he went in to give his orders. A few ships were aride in the bay, but the scene was very different from what she had ever seen it before, in Regatta time, when it was gay with bunting and familiar faces. Today they had it to themselves, the hotel she only knew as overcrowded, and the view of the town, so strangely quiet. And excellent was the luncheon served to them. A lobster mayonnaise and a fillet steak, a pie of early gooseberries, which nevertheless Margaret declared were bottled. They spoke of other meals they had had together, of one in the British Museum in particular. On this occasion it pleased her to declare that boiled cod, not crimped, but flabby and served with lukewarm egg sauce, was the most ambrosial food she knew.

“I don’t know when I enjoyed a meal so much,” she said reflectively.

“You wrote and reproached me for it.” His eyes caressed and forgave her for it.

“Impossible!”

“You did indeed. I can produce your plaint in your own handwriting.”

“You don’t mean to say you keep my letters!”

“I would rather part with my Elzevirs.”

This was the only time they approached sentiment, approached and sheered off. There was something between them, in wait for them, at which at that moment neither wished to look.

The sun sparkled on the waters, a boatload of smart young naval officers put off from a strange yacht in the bay. Gabriel and Margaret wished that their landing at the pier should synchronise with their own departure. Nothing was to break the unusualness of their solitude in this whilom crowded place. He showed his tenderness in the way he cloaked her, tucked the rugs about her, not in any spoken word. She felt it subtly about her, and glowed in it, most amazingly content.

When they got back to Carbies, after having satisfied herself that her guest had recovered and would join them at dinner, she astonished her maid by demanding an evening toilette. She wore a gown of grey and silver brocade, very stiff and Elizabethan, a chain of uncut cabochon emeralds hung round her neck, and a stomacher of the same decorated her corsage. The mauve osprey upstanding in her hair was clasped by a similar encrusted jewel. She carried herself regally. Had she not come into her woman’s Kingdom? Tonight she meant that he should see what he had won.

It was a strange evening, nevertheless, and they were a strangely assorted quartette. There was a little glow of colour in Margaret’s cheeks, such as Peter Kennedy had never seen there before, her eyes shone like stars, and she wore this regal toilette. Peter was introduced to Anne. Anne, yellowish and subdued after the migraine, dressed in brown taffeta, opening at the wizened throat to display a locket of seed pearls on a gold chain; her brown toupee had slipped a little and discovered a few grey hairs, her hands, covered with inexpensive rings, showed clawlike and tremulous. Margaret’s unringed hands, so pale and small, were like Japanese flowers. Peter had to take in Anne. Gabriel gave his arm to Margaret. The poverty of the dining-room furniture was out of the circle of the white spread table, where the suspended lamp shone on fine silver and glass. Flowers came constantly to Carbies from London. Tonight red roses scented the room; hothouse roses, blooming before their time, on long thornless stems. Margaret drew a vase toward her, exclaimed at the wealth of perfume.

“I only hope they won’t make your headache worse.”

Anne tried to insist she had no headache. Peter advised a glass of champagne. She began to tell him something of her new-found panacea for all ills, but ceased upon finding he was what she called a “medical man,” one of the enemies of their creed. Before the dinner had passed the soup stage he hardly made a pretence of listening to her. Both men were absorbed in this regal Margaret. All her graciousness was for Gabriel, but she found occasion now and again for a smile and a word for Peter. Poor Peter! guest at this high feast where there was no food for him. But he made the most of the material provender, and proved fortunately to be an excellent trencherman. Otherwise Margaret’s good cook had exerted herself in vain. For none of them had appetite but Peter; Margaret because she talked too much, and Gabriel because he could do nothing but listen; Anne because she was feeling the after-effects, and regretting she had yielded to the temptation of the aspirin.

The men sat together but a short time after the ladies left them. They had one subject in common of which neither wished to speak. Gabriel smoked only a cigarette, Peter praised the port, which happened to be exceptionally bad; the weather was a topic that drew blank. Fortunately they struck upon Pineland and its health-giving qualities, upon which both were enthusiastic. Peter Kennedy was in Gabriel’s secret, but Gabriel had no intuition of his.

“Mrs. Capel seems to have derived great benefit from her stay. Probably from your treatment also,” he said courteously. His thoughts were so full of her; how could he speak of anything else?

“I can’t do much for her,” Peter said gloomily. He had had the greater part of a bottle of champagne, and the port on the top of it. “She doesn’t do a thing I tell her. She doesn’t care whether I’m dead or alive.”

“I am sure you are wrong,” Gabriel reassured him earnestly. “She has, I am sure, the highest possible opinion of your skill. She carries out your regime as far as possible. You think she should rest more?”

“She should do nothing but rest.”

“But with an active mind?”

“It is not only her mind that is active.”

“You mean the piano-playing, writing…”

“She ought just to vegetate. She has a weak heart, one of the valves…”

Gabriel rose hurriedly, it was not possible for him to listen to a description of his beloved’s physical ailments. He was shocked with Peter for wishing to tell him, genuinely shocked. It was a breach of professional etiquette, of good manners. They arrived upstairs in the music room completely out of tune.

“He wouldn’t even listen when I told him how seedy you were, that you ought to be kept quiet. Selfish owl. You’ve been out with him all day.”

“I rested for half an hour before dinner. Do I look tired or washed out?” She turned a radiant face to Peter for investigation. “I am going to play to you presently, when you will see if I am without power.”

“Power! Who said you were without that? You’d have power over the devil tonight.”

“Or over my eccentric physician.” She smiled at him. “Have you been behaving yourself prettily downstairs?”

“I haven’t told him what I think of him, if that’s what you mean!”

“Will you play first?” she asked him. Peter Kennedy was a genuine music lover, and he played well, very much better since Margaret Capel had come to Pineland. He sang also, but this accomplishment Margaret would never let him display. She had no use for a man’s singing since James Capel had lured her with his love songs.

Gabriel was talking to his sister whilst Margaret and Peter had this little conversation. He was persuading her to an early retreat.

“Did you send my telegram to Mrs. Roope? I am sure I am getting better, I have been thinking so all the evening. She must have been treating me.”

“I am sure, but are not the vibrations stronger between you if you are alone, if there is nothing to disturb your thoughts?…” Even Gabriel Stanton could be disingenuous when the occasion demanded. She hesitated.

“Wouldn’t Mrs. Capel be offended? One owes something to one’s hostess. She has promised to play. You told me she played beautifully. I do think she is very sweet. But, Gabriel, have you thought of the flat? I shouldn’t like to give it up. The gravel soil and air from the heath, and everything. Isn’t she… isn’t she…”

“A size too big for it?” He finished her sentence for her.

“Too grand, I meant.”

“Yes, too grand. Of course she is too grand.” He turned to look at her. This time their eloquent eyes met. She indicated the piano stool to Peter Kennedy and came swiftly to the brother and sister.

“Has he made you comfortable?” She adjusted the pillows, and stole a glance at Gabriel. Whenever she looked at him it seemed that his eyes were upon her. They were extraordinarily conscious of each other, acting a little because Anne and Peter were there. Peter Kennedy, over on the music stool, struck a chord or two, as if to lure her back.

“One can always listen better when one is comfortable,” she said to Anne. Then went over to the fender stool, where Gabriel joined her, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Isn’t it too hot for you?” she asked him innocently.

“It might have been,” he answered, smiling, “only the fire is out.”

“Is it?” she turned to look. “I had not noticed it. Hush! He is going to play the Berceuse. You haven’t heard him before, have you? He plays quite well.”

So they sat there together whilst Peter Kennedy played, and every now and then Anne said from the sofa:

“How delicious! Thank you ever so much. What was it? I thought I knew the piece.”

Peter got up from the piano before Gabriel and Margaret had tired of sitting side by side on the fender stool, or Anne of ejaculating her little complimentary, grateful, or enquiring phrases.

“I suppose you’ve had enough of it,” he said abruptly to Margaret.

“No, I haven’t. You could have gone on for another hour.”

“I daresay.”

Gabriel thought his manner singularly abrupt, almost rude. This was only the second or third time he had met Margaret’s medical attendant, and he was not at all favourably impressed by him. As for Peter:

“Damned dry stick,” he said to Margaret, when he had persuaded her to the redemption of her promise, and was leading her to the piano.

“What a boor you really are, notwithstanding your playing,” she answered calmly, adjusting the candles, the height of the piano stool, looking out some music. “I really thought you were going to behave well tonight. And not a word about Christian Science,” she chaffed him gently, “after all the coaching.”

She too tried a few chords.

“I say, don’t you play too long tonight. Don’t you go overdoing it.” Her chaff made no impression upon him, he was used to it. But he was struck by some alteration or intensification of her brilliancy. How could he know the secret of it? The love of which he was capable gave him no key to the spell that was on those two tonight.

Anne slipped off to bed presently, at Gabriel’s whispered encouragement, and Margaret went on playing to the two men. Peter commented sometimes, asked for this or