It had been a brave show, as formal and courageous as Gabrielle herself. Mrs. Ivory's ultimate act of gallantry was her personal appearance in the drawing room. She was waiting for them when they came in, enthroned in the largest of the wing chairs with Dorothea, like a sentinel, behind her. She was completely in black, a color she had always detested, and from the shrouding folds her face and hands shone out as pale and polished as her name.
Lawrence's full-length portrait of Philip Ivory as a young man smiled down at her and the light from the lustres which had seen her in her glory picked up the folds of her moire skirt. As a spectacle she took a lot of beating, and the unhappy company, in whose mind the words "mystery," "something queer," "scandal," "murder," were taking larger and larger space, turned to her with admiration and relief.
Yet it was not easy. Everyone in the room felt the same sense of responsibility, the same sensation of herding together in the face of disaster, while beneath this there was that other feeling, the sneaking sensationalism which murmurs. This may be an unforgettable experience. Who knows, I may be rubbing shoulders with a murderer at his victim's funeral."
As the sunburst clock over the mantelshelf ticked the seconds by this last thought grew more and more general, until it could almost be seen flitting from mind to mind. All round the room people would fall silent, blank expressions on their faces, uneasy excitement in their eyes, as they glanced round covertly over their cups and glasses. "Who?" whispered the thought. "Who had a motive? Who are the police watching? Who killed him?"
Frances was with Gabrielle when Norris came in. The old lady had both her granddaughters near her. Phillida, looking as if she were on the verge of collapse, sat in a chair only a trifle smaller than Mrs. Ivory's own. while Frances stood on the other side. She realized that they must make a fantastic little group and was relieved when David came up behind her.
"Just like the family album. You've no idea," he murmured. "Want a drink?"
"A small prussic acid, please." She let the flippancy escape her without taking her eyes from the door. Norris was worming his way towards them, tie looked anxious.
He spoke very quietly and yet everyone seemed to hear him. Godolphin. The name lied round the room as audibly as if he had screamed it aloud, and it snatched attention from the one all-absorbing but unfortunately unmentionable topic which was concerning the company. They pounced on it, and the general interest flared.
Godolphin, whose sensational story of his escape from death was even now flooding the newspapers in parallel columns with the latest news from Sallet Square? Godolphin, who had crept out on a ledge of icebound rock to die rather than jeopardize the chances of his companions' safety? Godolphin, who had been discovered on the point of death by a party of monks and carried up by them to a fortress which hitherto had been no more than a legend? Godolphin, who had been a prisoner for close to four years, to escape at last with a pilgrim train? Godolphin himself outside? Really? Godolphin. the Godolphin. actually present in the house? Here was romance; here was warmth; here was color!
Frances caught a glimpse of David's Grey face and saw his eyes turn to Phillida. but she was hidden in the depths of her chair, and even then the younger girl had no inkling of the great obvious fact which rose up so monstrously before her eyes that it escaped her altogether.
Norris went out again, and this time the crowd made a path and stood looking at the tall door covered by the silk portiere curtain with the Chinese panel. Memory is an unaccountable possession, and Frances, who until that moment had had only a hazy impression of the explorer, now received a clear vision of him as she had seen him last five years before. He had been a gaunt whirlwind of a man, not particularly tall but thick-boned and sturdy, with a shock of very black hair standing on end above an eagle nose and narrow eyes. She looked for him with interest when Norris reappeared, stepping back to hold the door open while a flutter of anticipation passed over the gathering.
There was a long pause, and then into the room blinking a little because of the light, and clad unconventionally in a tweed traveling suit, came a small, withered, elderly man walking with a stick.
It was not altogether an anticlimax. Many people present remembered Godulphin before his last trip, and David's single muttered expletive expressed their reaction.
Godolphin came uncertainly down the room towards them, and their first impression receded a little. It was Godolphin. The much-photographed face was recognizable under the harsh yellow skin, but the hair was white and close cropped and he stooped with the weakness of a man who has undergone a great physical hardship.
He came up to Gabrielle and bent over her hand with a touch of his old bombast.
"Forgive me," he said gently in the rather high metallic voice which Frances had forgotten. "I didn't know. Your man told me the news on the doorstep. I'm just off the plane. I haven't seen a paper or spoken to a soul. I came straight to Phillida, naturally."
Fortunately he was speaking softly, and the crowd, remembering its manners, made hasty conversation. Only the old woman and the four who surrounded her heard him clearly.
Gabrielle looked up.
"Naturally?" she inquired abruptly. "Why "naturally," Mr. Godolphin?"
He turned to Phillida, and the movement of his outstretched hand had a quality of finality and homecoming about it.
"It's still a secret, is it, my dear?" he said gently.
Phillida whimpered. There was no other word for that dreadful animalistic little sound. She was straining back in her chair as if she would force herself into the upholstery.
A bewildering thought struck Frances and she looked at Gabrielle. The old woman was rigid, her black eyes contracted into slits of startling intelligence. It was only then that the youngest Ivory recognized the truth, and with it the appalling explanation of a dozen mysteries of the past unbearable week. The facts came thundering into her mind with the force of revelation. Phillida must have married Godolphin before the Tibetan expedition, and now, as he stood smiling before them, Godolphin knew no more about Robert than that he was dead.
10
The drawing room looked despoiled as rooms do when a crowd has recently departed from them. Even the brilliance of the lustres looked disheveled and a trifle soiled. Also it was very lonely and quiet, while the smell of the flowers which still hung about the house was heavy and unpleasant.
Outside the wind was at its fidgety worst, and to Frances at least the memory of those days was ever afterward accompanied by the mischievous music of that irritating, ill-tempered breeze.
The old Gabrielle sat huddled in her chair by the graceful fireplace with the fluted columns. She looked so old that it seemed incredible that there should still be sufficient blood in her body to feed the intricate experienced brain behind her shrewd eyes. One small hand picked at the thick silk skirt which fell stiffly over her knees, but apart from this movement she showed no sign of agitation or even of life.
David leaned against the mantelpiece, watching her, with Frances at his feet on the hearthrug. She sat with her knees drawn under her, her black dress making her look younger than ever in spite of the new maturity which was etching itself upon her face.
The fourth member of the party remained expressionless. Dorothea stood behind her mistress like a soldier behind his king. Her face was blank and no one in the world could have deduced what thoughts, if any, were passing behind that strong, stupid and infinitely stoical exterior.
Phillida and Godolphin had been alone in the breakfast room for forty minutes now. The walls were thick and no sound had escaped to give the little gathering waiting in the drawing room any indication of the way in which that grimly dramatic interview progressed. There was nothing, only silence and the blank door.
Everyone deferred to Gabrielle. She had insisted that they stay beside her, and if it was obvious that she was keeping them under her eye so that they should not talk too much among themselves it was also clear that she was controlling the situation by a terrific eff
ort of will power alone. Meanwhile the silence was nerve racking.
David took out his cigarette case, looked at it and put it back again. Gabrielle eyed him.
"You knew about this," she said. It was not a question, and he did not deny it.
"Yes," he said. The lazy, tolerant expression had crept back into his face, but for the first time Frances wondered how much of it was protective covering. "Yes, I did. I was a witness at the wedding. It was when I was over here last time, about four years ago. I'd been seeing Phillida quite a lot, as you may remember." He looked down at Frances. "You were at school," he said.
Gabrielle shut her lips tightly, but if he noticed the gesture he ignored it and went on speaking, half to her and half to Frances, choosing his words with a sort of deliberate carelessness, allowing a touch of flippancy to lighten the bleakness of the story.
"Phillida phoned me one day and told me she was getting married, but that it was to be all done in secret. 'Dolly' was broke, or something equally undesirable. She asked me if I'd go along and support them at the ordeal. I did. I was the only friend of the bride or groom at the Registry Office, and I signed my name and wished 'em luck. I went back to the States a couple of days later and the next I heard of Godolphin was that he had died out in the wilds on this expedition. I gathered from the press accounts that there’s been no mention of his marriage so I took it that the whole affair was washed out. Then when I came back a few weeks ago I found that Phillida had married Robert and naturally I held my tongue because it was her affair and not mine, and since 'Dolly' was dead there was nothing in it. However, last week, when the whole situation blew sky-high, I did come to see her and I offered her my heartfelt advice, which was to get hold of 'Dolly' quickly and break the news as gently as possible before he got back and someone else told him. Unfortunately, when she did have an opportunity on the transcontinental phone she funked it. One can't really blame the poor girl, but it was a pity, It would have saved this ghastly tragicomedy this afternoon anyway."
There was silence again after he had spoken. Gabrielle rocked herself to and fro, her eyes narrowed and her mouth twisting to fit unuttered words. Frances stared into the fire. David's laconic account of the secret wedding had not deceived her. During the last few days she had learned enough about love and enough about people to clothe that skeleton story. She understood now why he had been so cautious when she had coupled Phillida and Godolphin in her first conversation with him in the Cafe Supreme, and she recognized the reason for his faint air of responsibility where Phillida was concerned. Behind his lazy voice she had caught a glimpse of the cruel if childish gesture of the two adventurers when they had decided to honor the unsuccessful boy friend with their secret. No doubt his presence had lent the occasion just the extra touch of piquancy so dear to their fey postwar generation. It must all have been very young and dramatic and for David unhappy and humiliating if also educational.
She looked up at him and found him watching her, half amused by his own embarrassment. He looked away at once.
"It's a fine old mess now, anyway," he said. "Pelion piled on Ossa, Where do we go from here?"
"She didn't ought to be worried." The passionate ungrammatical statement bursting from Dorothea startled everybody as violently as if a peaceful hill had suddenly decided to erupt without warning. Her large ugly face was suffused with blood, but her wooden expression remained and she shut her mouth as if a zipper fastener had held it.
Gabrielle laughed. It was the first sound of the kind that the house had heard for a week, and the room itself seemed to lighten.
"How true," she said. 'That's very kind of you, Dorothea. Very kind, very intelligent, but not helpful. Mr. Field, I never in my life allowed anyone to smoke in this room, but now if you want one you may light a cigarette."
David did not smile but he thanked her and took out his case.
The nerve-racking waiting continued. The entire house seemed to be listening, shut up inside itself with the wind ferreting and twittering round the walls.
"He'll have to see reason." said Frances suddenly. "It's an impossible business, and Godolphin will have to be reasonable. After all, it's quite dear how the thing happened."
"Hush." Gabrielle raised a small yellow hand. "Listen, they're coming."
They blinked at her. Her uncannily acute hearing in this house which she knew so well was always astonishing. It was almost a sixth sense with her, depending on a complicated system of old memories and instincts rather than an actual sound. She had raised her head and now turned stiffly in her chair.
She was right, of course. Almost immediately the inner door which connected the breakfast room with the eastern end of the drawing room jarred as the handle turned vigorously and Godolphin appeared. He looked back over his shoulder.
"Come on," he said. 'They're all here."
He held the door wide open but there was no sign of Phillida, and presently he disappeared again, to return a moment or so later leading her by the hand. They made an extraordinary pair coming across the rose-pink Chinese carpet together. Godolphin had lost much of the withered, broken appearance which had so shocked them on his first arrival. Whatever else the interview had done it had certainly stimulated him. There was animation in his movements now, and a great wave of nervous energy swept Into the room with him, reminding them that he was still a personality. It occurred to Frances for the first time that he might be very angry.
Phillida drooped. She looked utterly exhausted. Her dark lids hung over dull eyes and her arms swung loosely.
David pulled up a chair for her, and Godolphin lowered her into it. His manner was possessive and authoritative, and the old Gabrielle, who was watching him with lynx eyes, let her hands flutter in her lap.
"Well?" she said. It was a grim word, so much better than any conventional condolence or excuse, and Godolphin, who had had his back to her, turned with quick interest as he recognized a personality.
"It's ghastly, he said, his thin high voice snapping out the words. "Horrible. A great shock for you all... Not a comforting story for me. There's only one thing to be done. I've been explaining that to my wife. We must all pull together, get this mystery cleared up and then she and I must start afresh."
He made an alarmingly important figure standing before them, his dried flesh clinging to his bones and his whipcord face so thin that the double line of his jaw stuck out in high relief. The shock had told on him. He was leaning heavily on his stick, a quivering bundle of taut nerves.
"Oh, but how sensible." The old Gabrielle used an ingratiating tone which none of them had heard from her before. "You're quite right, of course, Mr. Godolphin. The police must be left to make their inquiry into Robert's death, and any mystery there must be settled utterly and beyond question before any other... adjustment can be considered. Until that is done you will keep away from Phillida and from this house, naturally. What will you do? Go abroad again?"
He raised his head, and they thought for a moment that he was going to laugh.
"No, dear lady," he said. "I've just spent two years in a filthy lamasery jail, or correction cell as they are pleased to call it, thinking of my home and my wife, and believe me I'm not going to lose either of them again."
His final words clattered in the silent room, and the old woman Stiffened visibly.
"I see," she said quietly. "And so what do you suggest?"
"That we get on with the work at once and see the whole hopeless mess settled." He spoke briskly, nervous irritability lending his words a faint contempt. 'That's the only thing to do. The entire affair must be taken in hand at once and, since it affects me principally. I'll do it myself."
Phillida gripped the arms of her chair and struggled to control her voice.
"He doesn't understand," she said helplessly. "He wants to stay in the house."
"That, of course, is impossible." Gabrielle spoke flatly and without intonation in her brittle voice.
"I don't think so." Godolphin was equally decisi
ve. "You're all approaching this thing from the wrong angle. Here you are, a houseful of women completely at the mercy of the police. Your solicitor appears to be worse than useless. Field can't do much because he has no authority and isn't even a permanent resident in the country. You must have somebody to manage things. Frankly, my instinct is to take Phillida out of this and let people say and think what they damned well like, but she won't have that and I can see her point of view. I realist I've come back at an awkward moment in one way, but I feel my arrival is providential in another. There's absolutely no reason why I shouldn't stay here as a guest and do what I can to clear things up. Alter all, I bring a fresh mind to it and I'm not hampered by the silly conventional mind tracks of this so-called civilized country."
"But my dear chap"—even David was forced to protest—"use your imagination. I know the whole thing is a bit of a mouthful for you to have to swallow but, good heavens, 'Dolly," think: however unpleasant the realization is, don't ignore what has happened. Phillida married Robert in all good faith, and he, poor chap, is only barely in his grave."
Godolphin turned on him. He was trembling and the veins at the sides of his forehead were prominent.
"I do realist that," he said. "My God, that's the one thing I do realist."
It was the first open sign of anger which he had revealed and it sent a thrill of apprehension through each of them.
Godolphin laughed abruptly.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but you forget. Where I've been rotting slowly out of existence the niceties have been absent. I've come back with a clear mind. I'm not deterred by a pack of half-baked ought and ought-not. I don't care if a thing's good form or even if it's socially dangerous. I want to take Phillida away. She's my wife, remember, not Robert's, and if she won't or can't come away with me until this blasted mystery's cleared up then I'll clear up the mystery, and no one on God's earth shall get in my way. Is that plain enough?"
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