A Note in Music

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by Rosamond Lehmann


  The day of her departure, walking for the last time in the garden, she saw, half-hidden in the flower-bed beneath her bedroom window, the draggled skeleton of a young swallow.

  So it had been there all the time, waiting for her: it had dropped down, of course, and been broken, and never flown away. There was no winged life existing through her care: no salvation after all.

  She had gone away for her holiday a little farther, a little more recklessly than usual; was coming back a little later, a little more restless and rebellious.

  And now when she thought of the town she saw only the stretch of street and tram-line through the leafless lilac tree, from the sitting-room window.

  When she thought of him, she saw nothing but a shadowy figure passing, never stopping, never seeing her.

  Part Six

  The end of September. It is the time for autumn gardens. Michaelmas daisies are in the borders, and bright, lovely, free-petalled dahlias, asters of all colours, but formless and insipid; and deep red and yellow zinnias, with their stiff-carved abstract painted heads. The asparagus beds are a feathery forest for children playing hide-and-seek. Cat-mint still decorates the edges of the borders; the last crop of lavender throws up its many spindling lances; and the lit autumn roses burn with concentrated glow, richer by far than their summer sisters. The lawn is drenched in soaking dews till midday, and the trees stare through sunlit mists with a metallic, bluish glaze. The rich rowan leans with its toppling weight of berries. The apple-pickers hoist their ladders in the orchard. The rooks are in the glittering stubble. Around the fields the hedges begin to smoulder and burn; the green elms are patched with yellow, like a bold-patterned brocade.

  In the town, at dusk, when the lamps are lit, blue essence sifts through the streets like shaken powder, and flocks of red cloud linger unstirring behind black chimney-pots at the end of every vista.

  In the parks the browning trees shrivel, and the park gardeners begin to pile and burn the fallen leaves. Out of the heart of them the blue and acrid smoke is drawn in a thick rope.

  What number was it, Hugh asked himself, wandering down the avenue on his last evening—31, 33, 37? All these house-fronts looked alike, the windows screened with mauve or yellow net. No, Number 37 was unveiled, and he caught a glimpse of brownish curtains. That seemed characteristic of her somehow: colourless and unadorned. Might as well look in for a moment: there was nothing particular to do. He rang the bell, reflecting while he waited that good-byes were a thing he particularly hated; thinking, too, how grim must be the lives of people who lived behind these facades of tile and stucco. But they would not realize, of course, that their lives were grim: so it was all right.

  The stout maid beamed at him, in her eyes and smile such unreserved, angelic greeting, that he felt quite startled. She looked as if she had been waiting for years to welcome him as one coming at last with glad tidings from a far country. What a pleasant, peaceful-looking face and bosom; what comforting hips. He felt suddenly that not to have called would have been an unfriendly, inexcusable omission.

  “Oh, yes, sir. Mrs. Fairfax is in. Please come in, sir.” Of course she was in, she seemed to imply, reassuringly: always at home, she’d be, to the likes of him.

  And triumphantly she flung open the sitting-room door; with soft and intimate emphasis she announced: “Mr. Miller, madam.”

  Grace cried out:

  “Oh!”

  She was sitting on the floor in front of the gas-fire, and as she scrambled to her feet she felt a flush submerge her from head to foot.

  “I wondered if you’d be at home,” he said in his dual voice, diffident and assured, reluctant and sociable.

  She heard her own cry ringing in her ears—the avowals in it, the greeting rapturous, breathless, and amazed, of a woman to her lover. She felt a nervous tremor start in her bowels, in every limb, and bent down, helplessly pulling a chair-cover straight, patting a cushion.

  Why had he come? Why this simple, awaited, this undreamed-of miracle?

  “Sit down,” she said.

  What an awkward manner she had, he thought. How soon, consistently with politeness, could one get away?

  “Reading?” he said, looking down at the novel lying on the floor.

  “More or less.”

  “Do you read a lot?”

  “A lot of nonsense. I used to read all sorts of things—go to lectures—think myself cultured and superior. Now I can’t concentrate.” She put a hand to her forehead.

  “I used to read, too,” he said, “at Oxford … quite stiff things.”

  Oliver had given him a reading-list—poetry, essays, biography, goodness knows what—and he had ploughed through it zealously: given up cocktail parties and going out after Hall to sit in his digs and read; gone about ostentatiously with a volume of Blake or something in his pocket; felt an intellectual virtue uplift and sustain him for a season. He said:

  “My trouble is—things go in and come straight out again. The moment I’ve polished off the last page and shut up the book, I’ve clean forgotten every blessed word.” He laughed.

  “Cinemas are our undoing, I think.” She laughed too.

  It was all right now. The usual ease was re-establishing itself. She stopped trembling. Why had he come? Simply because he wanted to see her—could it be?—because he liked her company; because all this time he had not forgotten about her after all. Perhaps another invitation. …

  “Frightfully cold, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Yes. Summer’s gone. It would be nice in the country to-day. I was just thinking about it.”

  Still harping on that theme!

  “You always are—aren’t you?” he said shyly, with a hint of chaff.

  “Yes. I’m a bore.”

  She looked out at the misty, darkening street, made a grimace, leaned forward and turned up the gas-fire.

  “Gas-fires are terrible,” she said. “They haunt me in the night. Obscene little Molochs, squatting in every room, with their bland blind faces. …” She looked up at him, her eyes narrowed, twinkling, and said dubiously: “I’ve noticed people in this town with the same sort of look. … Faces like those pictures of insides—intestines, and things. … Have you noticed? … It’s a warning.”

  He grinned, wrinkling his nose.

  “However, as Tom says, they’re very useful and convenient. He had them put in everywhere. I told him once he ought to adopt one for his crest. He’s always talking about family crests and things.” She gasped and checked herself, lowered her eyes, a little ashamed. This was not playing the game, as Tom would say. At the time, he had been puzzled and suspicious. She added quickly: “It would be very suitable to me. I sit over this one all day and breathe it in.”

  Annie appeared at the door, in her best apron.

  “Would the gentleman care for some tea?” Her voice was mild, reproachful.

  “No, thanks,” he said hurriedly. “I must be off very soon.”

  “Not just a cup?” she said, tenderly persuasive.

  “No, thanks.”

  The door closed again with a disappointed, lingering click. (But she had accomplished her purpose. She had seen them both with her own eyes, sitting together as pleasant as could be, smiling at each other.)

  “Ages since I’ve seen you,” he said.

  “Yes. Not since that day. … Oh, it was so lovely! Oh, it’s so long ago.”

  The sudden heightening and warmth of tone, breaking through the restraint of her habitual manner, took him aback. Had it really meant so much to her? He seemed to catch an uncomfortable glimpse of empty and monotonous days.

  “Yes, it was a good day,” he agreed.

  But for his own part, he did not remember it as a striking success. He remembered only a general atmosphere of moodiness, unease—the old boy refusing to come out of his shell again; and other more disturbing reasons for
being glad when the week-end was over. In fact, he had refrained from dwelling on it ever since. He said, to change the subject:

  “What have you been doing all the summer? Been away?”

  “Yes, I went away to the South, by myself—just as I said I would.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember.” He laughed. (She really was funny, like a child, her eagerness, her triumph.) “You were determined to do a bolt.”

  “Yes. And I did! I found a little red village and the loveliest country—a real southern landscape—just what I’d wanted. I was very happy there. But that was weeks ago. It seems like a dream now—too remote and unreal to remember almost. I can’t think about it. … Since I’ve been back, I’ve done nothing at all.”

  Nothing but think of him and forbid herself to think of him; nothing but trample on hope and feel it rear once more its sickly head; nothing but look out of the window and never see him pass.

  “And where have you been?” she said. “I thought perhaps you’d gone away for good.”

  “Not yet.” He smiled. “I’ve been in Scotland these last three weeks.”

  “And Grock?”

  “Yes, and Grock. He’s in grand form. I’ve left him up there with my people.”

  “You look as if you’d been having draughts of moorland air.”

  Like a sort of sun-baby he looked—so fresh, so glowing: he made her want to laugh.

  “Never been so fit in my life.” He stretched himself. “Do you know Scotland?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “What—never been across the Border? Try it next time you run away by yourself.” His look teased her.

  “How’s your sister?” she said. “Your lovely sister.”

  He looked gratified by the epithet.

  “I was forgetting you’d met her. Oh, she’s all right, I think. She never writes. I suppose I’ll be seeing her in a few days.”

  “Is she coming to see you again?”

  “No. In London, I mean. I’m off to-morrow, you know.”

  “Off? For good do you mean?”

  “Yes. I thought perhaps you might have heard. Though goodness knows why you should have,” he added hastily. (For it sounded as if he thought his movements should be of some importance to her.) “I don’t suppose you take a violent interest in my career—or anything else at the office.”

  “Tom doesn’t tell me much,” she murmured, adding slowly: “He would, I think. He likes to talk about the office. It’s my fault. I—I don’t encourage him enough.”

  And less than ever since her return. A change had taken place: they were now less strangers than estranged. He had given up bothering to keep their evenings on an agreeable footing—seemed acquiescent now in the silences. Otherwise he might have risked a snub and mentioned changes … mentioned the departure of young Miller.

  “No,” she said. “I didn’t know you were going away.”

  “I thought I’d just look in and say good-bye.”

  “That was very kind of you. … I might never have known you’d gone.” Her voice faded. It was very kind. Surprising, really. He must like her a little. …

  “I’ve been sort of going round saying good-bye all day. It’s a beastly feeling, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She paused. “Have you seen Norah MacKay?”

  “Not yet. I must try to blow in this evening.”

  He had come first to her. … Was there any significance in that—any weighing and apportioning of their respective value to him?

  What did it matter? …

  “I haven’t seen her since that week-end,” he said.

  “Nor I.”

  She got up, leaned her arms on the mantelpiece, and her head on her arms. Glancing at her drooping, unanimated profile, he told himself her whole attraction, such as it was, must lie in a smile she had, an occasional expression. For he had thought her quite attractive; but now she was positively plain, looked any age. Now, more acutely than ever, he had the feeling that he was being detained; as if in another minute she was going to ask him or tell him something which would make it awkward to get away without some sort of fuss. And he asked himself who before in his life had given him this feeling, so that he recognized it as a familiar experience. And it flashed on him suddenly: Oliver again.

  “Well,” she said at last, “I told you not to stay, didn’t I?”

  “Did you?” he murmured.

  “I’m so glad for your sake. And now one can just rot again. It was much more comfortable.”

  Her head was turned from him, and she spoke so low he scarcely heard her; thought of asking her to repeat herself; decided not to; for the few syllables he had distinguished sounded so very odd.

  “And now where?” she said, looking round and smiling faintly at him.

  “Oh, abroad again, I think. Back to the Argentine perhaps. Or I may get a job in Ceylon. I’m afraid I’m hopeless. Always have to be trying something new. …”

  She saw sun beating down on burning sands, and sapphire seas lapping the coral reefs; palm-trees waving over low white houses; and brown-skinned people—brown women, graceful, soft-voiced, smiling, clad in bright garments, moving in the fields of rice and cotton; and intensest sunlight always, filling the fierce blue sky, the thirsty land from end to end; no clouds, no shadows at all. She saw him, standing in the sun, alone, smoking his pipe, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, looking about him with calm blue eyes. …

  “And I shall go on staying in the same place till I’m an old woman—like a limpet on a rock—as if I hadn’t any limbs or senses. Why doesn’t one just set out, and go on and on for ever?”

  He laughed awkwardly.

  “Because one prefers to settle down, I suppose,” he said. “Have a home.”

  “I don’t. I’ve got nothing to keep me,” she said harshly. “Nothing.”

  He was at a loss. And he could only think that here again sympathy seemed to be required of him; and he was, as Oliver had told him, incapable of producing a morsel of it. Instead, a deep antagonism filled him, a desire to fly. He simply could not help despising, recoiling from any one who wanted pity. The more he tried to force himself, the colder he felt. Why should people moan? He never did so himself. He loathed any interference with his private feelings.

  He said nothing, and presently she asked, quietly:

  “Would you like to settle down, then?”

  “I suppose I would, some time or other.” His voice was stilted, a little hostile.

  “Wanderers always want a home. A place to come back to in between times and somebody always waiting. Isn’t that it?” She smiled.

  “Perhaps.” He smiled too. This was better. After all, she was not going to tell him (as more than one woman had) what a failure her married life was: how coarse, unsympathetic, bad-tempered, her husband was. He was not going to be forced to mutter “Bad luck,” and offer a handkerchief (or, as upon one ghastly occasion in London, a most reluctant shoulder).

  “I feel,” she said, flushing and looking at him in a shy, deprecatory smiling way (and now, he thought, she looked quite pretty again)—“I can’t help feeling I should like you to get everything you want.”

  “Thanks awfully,” he said, taking up her jesting tone. He added: “I always seem to somehow. It’s awful.”

  “You always will,” she cried. “You’re the person I’ve been waiting for all my life. …”

  He looked at her, startled. She leaned towards him and continued eagerly:

  “I always felt there must be somebody who was perfectly happy. You’re happy, aren’t you? You’re not afraid of anything; and you’ll always be lucky. Good luck’s the greatest virtue in the world. …” She paused. Her expression was exalted.

  “I do enjoy life, I suppose,” he murmured, overcome. “All the same—I get pretty blue sometimes.”

  For truth m
ust be served, he felt. This was not he. A lot she knew about him! What would she say if he tried to explain to her what happened whenever he stopped to think: how he felt stirring in the depths of him his potent legacy from Oliver: that sly and secret draining of his self-confidence? If only he could explain, without her thinking he was asking for sympathy, it might be a comfort. … But no. He could not. Silence and secrecy were the only remaining links, as it were; the only loyalties he could offer.

  “Do you get blue?” She smiled at him, softly, teasingly. She thought it was a joke. “I can’t believe it. When I’m on my death-bed I shall think of you somewhere in the world, still gay and lucky. … So you must promise me you’ll be so always.”

  His smile faded as he caught her queer expression. She seemed to be serious, to be willing him to speak: to say, as he now said, quite seriously, obediently, looking at her and repeating after her like a child:

  “I promise.”

  She told herself that he was armoured now in her love. This must be her faith, in future, if she was to endure life. She must make herself believe in the spiritual efficacy of her love.

  He was moving, looking at his watch. He was going.

  “I must be getting on,” he said.

  “Will you stay a little longer?”

  “Well—” he said, feeling, for some reason, he really could not think of any excuses.

  “Please do.”

  She had not yet dragged herself to the uttermost peak where she could shake his hand and say a simple good-bye. She must be allowed a few more minutes to shape herself a lasting image of this meeting. She must make it endure in the infinite void, with inward reality, for the rest of her life; so that his absence, his silence, his forgetfulness—which were to start in another half-hour at most and continue for ever more—should be mere facts of earthly time and space—terms artificial and of no account.

  She saw him relax, lean back again in his chair, and she felt the cord of her anguish miraculously loosen, and a fragile joy emerge. He was here. He was now. … Holding this here, this now, every fragment of it, with all her being, she must reach always.

 

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