Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  CHAPTER VII

  THE INTERMEZZO

  Business on the Stock Exchange had been, as was not uncommon, somewhat slack during this month of June, and Edward found it easy to get down to Heathmoor by the train that arrived soon after five instead of that which started an hour later. It was natural for him, after getting rid of the habiliments of town, to come round next door, where he would find Mrs. Hancock and Edith ready to give him a slightly belated cup of tea in the garden-house that adjoined the croquet-lawn. As a rule Elizabeth was not there, but her whereabouts was indicated by the sound of the piano, for she was practising with the energy of the enthusiast, and found this hour, when the house was empty and she could escape from the sense of disturbing or being disturbed, the most congenial time in which to make as much noise as she chose, or to practise a particular bar in endless repetition. Mrs. Hancock continued to believe — and to reiterate — that Edward was the maestro and that Elizabeth followed, faint but pursuing, in the wake of his victorious fingers, and she often asked him how he thought she was getting on. He frequently dined there, and, with the regularity that characterized her, she insisted on his playing one or more of his “pieces” when he had smoked the cigarette that detained him in the dining-room. And on these occasions his eye was wont to seek Elizabeth’s in tacit apology, and though no word had passed between them on the subject the situation was quite clear to them both. More than once he had attempted to convince Mrs. Hancock that while he could only strum abominably her niece played, and she, perfectly incredulous, thought it was nice of him to be so modest himself and to encourage Elizabeth. So, protest being utterly useless, he played, with Elizabeth in his confidence. But the sense of this secret between them — for Edith shared her mother’s belief in the maestro — gave him a peculiar and, so he still told himself, an inexplicable satisfaction. With that knowledge he enjoyed, rather than otherwise, his own long-drawn murders of the classical authors, and he completely understood the dimpling smile that fluttered, light-winged, over Elizabeth’s face as he performed his ruthless deeds.

  During this last fortnight life at Arundel had pursued, to all outward appearance, the regulated and emotionless course that characterized existence at Heathmoor. The time of strawberries had come, and therefore also the time of garden parties; and a quarter of an hour after the arrival of the evening train from town the well-laid roads were thick with hurrying flannelled figures, carrying lawn-tennis racquets or croquet mallets, for this latter game was taken with extreme seriousness, and nobody among the regular players would have dreamed of trusting to a mallet of the house. Elizabeth naturally had her share in these invitations, and it was a source of never-ending surprise to see young and athletically limbed men, of the same species apparently as those who in India spent their leisure in polo and pig-sticking, pursuing their laborious way through hoop after hoop, and talking about the game afterwards with greater gusto and minuteness than if they had been tiger-shooting. Chief amongst those heroes of the lawn was Edward, but he, as she did him the justice to observe, preserved the reticence of the accustomed conqueror and sat silent when the Vicar and Mr. Dale “lived their triumphs o’er again.” Elizabeth felt that to be like him, but she made the admission grudgingly.

  The fact that she grudged him such credit was symptomatic of her feelings towards him, and in especial of those feelings which she did not admit. Though she would honestly have denied it, she was fighting him. Again and again, not knowing why, she assured herself that he was a very ordinary young man, that Edith must be blind, so to speak, to see anything in him. Except in one point, she told herself that there was nothing there, that a lanky frame — it was beyond her power to deny his inches — crowned by a vacant face, was the harbourage of an insignificant soul. He spent his day among the money-bags, his evening on the croquet-lawn, and found that sufficient for him. He was not nearly worthy of Edith or of Edith’s inexplicable adoration; he was not even, so he appeared to Elizabeth’s eye, in love with her, which would have been a foundation for worthiness. He seemed indulgent of her, kind to her, sometimes a little impatient of her. There Elizabeth did not wholly acquit her cousin of blame; she set him, willy-nilly, on a pedestal, and those on pedestals, for he did not deprecate the plinth, are bound to stoop. But he should have stepped down from the pedestal, he should not have consented to be edified into the statuesque; here was the ground of Elizabeth’s censure of him. In fine, she reminded herself twenty times a day of some reason for belittling to her own mind her cousin’s betrothed, and concealed from herself that she belittled him. That was an affair of her instinct, and instinctively she knew, though she whispered it not to herself, why she did it, for she feared to give rein to her liking for him.

  One exception she made in this policy of self-defence; in one thing she gave him his due, for she never attempted to deny or belittle the validity of his musical passion. It was a fingerless passion, so to speak; between his brain and his hands there seemed to be a total want of co-ordination; he was paralytic, but she could not doubt the intensity of his perception. He was but an alphabet-babbler when he tried to communicate, but when she played to him she knew by a glance at his face whether she did ill or well. Thus, ironically, Mrs. Hancock’s judgment of him as maestro and Elizabeth as pupil was strangely correct, and the girl did not attempt to conceal from herself that it was of him and his opinion that she thought, when she practised, with a greater diligence and fire than had ever been hers before, the music which he understood and loved so discerningly. Day by day she slaved exultingly at the piano, and the thought that he would appreciate her progress became an inspiration to her. But at present this reverence for his gift was like an insoluble lump in the cup of her cold indifference towards him; it neither sweetened nor embittered the beverage. But certainly through him she was beginning to get closer every day to the ineffable spring and spirit from which that bewildering beauty of sound is poured forth, that “dweller in the innermost,” one glance from whom sends the beholder mad with melody.

  On one afternoon at the end of the month, graciously exempt from garden-parties, Elizabeth was alone in the house, for the hour after lunch had been too hot for Mrs. Hancock’s drive, and the whole curriculum of the day had been upset, tea having taken place at the very unusual hour of half-past four, so that she might enjoy a cooler progress between that time and dinner — a dislocation of affairs that had not occurred since the year before last. But the heat was so intense that she really hardly cared at all whether Denton and Lind thought it odd or not, and punctually at five she had set out with Edith, leaving a message with Lind that if Mr. Holroyd came round he was to be told that they were out, but would be back by half-past six. Thus — here Denton became concerned — they would have time to go round by the mill, proceeding very slowly where the road had been newly mended, and so forth. But if — here Lind was attentive again — Mr. Holroyd came by the six o’clock train he might be offered a whisky and soda and asked to wait, but if by the five o’clock train the original message should be delivered. Then Filson brought out a light dust-cloak and the heavier blue one was taken out; then it was put back again in case the evening got chilly. They passed over the bridge by the station the moment after the five o’clock train got in, and Edith thought she saw Edward stepping out of it, but she was not sure. But Edward saw the motor and its passengers without any doubt whatever.

  He went straight to his house and out into the garden. There from the open French windows of the house next door the piano was plainly audible. Elizabeth was playing the first of the Brahms’ intermezzi, and the air sang like a bed of breeze-stirred flowers.... In less than a minute he had rung the bell, and in answer to Lind’s message had said he would come in and wait. In spite of the fact that the offer of whisky and soda applied only to the six o’clock train Lind suggested it. But Edward said he wanted nothing, and, turning the handle of the drawing-room door very softly, he entered.

  Elizabeth, utterly intent on her music, heard nothing of his comi
ng, and he sat down in a chair close to the door, knowing that he was doing a rude and an ill-bred thing, knowing, too, in his heart that he was doing worse than that, for he was definitely indulging infidelity, even though the infidelity was, in fact, no more than listening to the girl’s playing. But he knew quite well why he listened, and it was not for the sake of the music alone; it was to allow himself, unseen and unsuspected — for there was in this questionable conduct something of the self-effacing quality of love — to see incarnated the dreams from which he had roused himself when a month ago he engaged himself to Edith. For years of his youth he had cherished this unrealized vision, fondling it in his dreams; now, when too early he had told himself that the time for dreaming was done and he must awake to the average humdrum satisfaction of domesticity with a delightful partner, the dream incarnate had walked into his waking hours.

  The sound of what she played had been the magnet which drew him here, but now that he had come he was scarcely conscious of her music, which throughout this month had been that which attracted him to her. Now it was as if that had done its work, for it had brought his heart to her, and Nature, or the law of attraction, threw it aside like a discarded instrument, and for the first moments that he sat here he scarcely heard the sweetness of the melody. Then it seemed to him that the strong and tender tune was Elizabeth’s soul made audible; she played, thinking she was alone, as she had never played before. She seemed to reveal herself.... And then it struck him that he had done, and was doing, what was equivalent to looking through a keyhole at somebody who thought she was alone. Shame awoke in him for that, but shame passed and was swallowed up in his intense consciousness of her, of Elizabeth and the tune that was Elizabeth herself.

  She finished, and sat still for a moment with her fingers still resting on the last chord. Then she gave a long sigh, and, turning round, saw him.

  “Cousin Edward!” she said, almost incredulously, feeling exactly what just now he had felt, namely, that he had been looking through a keyhole at her.

  He got up, only dimly conscious of the rebuke in her voice.

  “I came in after you had begun that intermezzo,” he said, “and I didn’t want to disturb you. I know how you hate an interruption. I — —”

  He paused a moment, dead to all else except the fact of her.

  “I never heard you play like that before,” he said. “It was you.”

  She still looked troubled.

  “I don’t think you should have done that,” she said. “Didn’t Lind tell you that Aunt Julia and Edith were out?”

  “Yes. If you think I oughtn’t to have come in I am sorry. But I can’t help rejoicing that I have heard you play like that.”

  Suddenly it seemed to Elizabeth that it was ridiculous of her to object to what he had done. She had often played to him alone before, and what difference did it make if on this occasion she did not know of his presence? But her reason was at variance with her instinct.

  She smiled at him.

  “It is nothing,” she said; “I was absurd to mind. I am glad you thought I played it well. Have you had tea? Shall we go into the garden?”

  He saw his danger slipping away from him; he had but to make a commonplace reply and it would be past. But he saw his dream, that had become incarnate, slipping away from him also, and at the moment that meant everything in the world to him. He was reckless, on fire, and came close to her and stammered a little when he spoke.

  “For the last fortnight,” he said, “I have thought of nothing else but you — —”

  Loyalty and cowardice mixed caused him to stop. He saw amazement and utter surprise flood Elizabeth’s face; he saw also, faint as the reflection of far-away lightning, something that responded to him, something that leaped towards him instead of recoiling from him. But all the rest of her was lost in pure bewilderment, which only wanted to get rid of him. She did not even answer him, but, with finger and following eye, pointed to the door.

  “I beg your pardon!” he said quickly.

  “Please go!” said the girl.

  She sat down on the music-stool which she had so lately left, and while waiting for her brain to work again struck a random note or two. As far as she felt anything she felt surprise. Then in a flash came indignation that, while he was but a month old in his engagement to Edith, he should speak thus to her. And following instantly on that, like some burglar violently breaking into her mind, came the unbidden thought, “He cares for me.”

  She tried to eject it; she called for help, so to speak, but the burglar contemplated her quite calmly, as if he had a right to be there. He seemed to speak to her, to say, “You will have to get used to me.” In turn she looked at him and ceased calling for help. Something inside her — that, without doubt, which Edward had seen faintly behind her first amazement and surprise — seemed to recognize, to smile at him.... And Elizabeth ceased from being surprised at Edward and became surprised at herself. But what was to be done? Beyond all doubt the answer was clear. There was nothing to be done at all; at any rate, there was nothing for her to do. It was ludicrous to contemplate telling Aunt Julia; it would not have been more ludicrous to tell Edith. Nobody must know; nobody must ever so faintly conjecture what had happened. Edward was going to marry Edith on the eighth of October, and there were to be six bridesmaids, of whom she herself was to be one.

  Elizabeth’s surprise at herself waxed and grew, and her surprise was due to the fact that she was not in the least shocked. She made one unsuccessful attempt to tell herself that Edward had not meant what he said, but she swiftly gave that up, being quite aware that he meant much more than he had said. His trembling voice, his fingers that plaited themselves together, told her that. He was quite in earnest. Then, as suddenly as if she had been shaken out of some deep sleep, she obtained complete control and consciousness of herself. She was not shocked because she welcomed what he had said, because she responded to it. Shame and a secret rapture overwhelmed her, and the burglar went neck and crop out of the wide-flung window of her mind. It was not till she had turned him out that any struggle in her own mind began. She knew now why she had made a habit of belittling and criticizing him to herself: she had been defending herself against him. Now she had to defend herself against herself as well. She had to inquire into the fidelity of her own garrison. And she knew that there were traitors among them. But still she was not the least shocked; certainly they must be turned out or executed or drawn and quartered, but their crime against herself did not anger her against them.

  The practical aspect of the situation engaged her again, and she saw now that there was just one thing to be done, namely, to obliterate altogether what had happened — not to think of it any more at all. No doubt it was very bad that Edith’s affianced lover should have said what he had said, should have meant so much more than he said, and that she should not have been horrified at him, but only surprised, and when her surprise was passed that she should have found that there was response to him in her soul. But all this must be expunged, and if she could not forget it she must remember it only as some queer distorted dream that in reality is nonsense, though, while the dreamer still slept, it seemed so intensely real. She felt she could answer for herself in this matter, that she was quite competent to seal the affair up in her mind, as bees seal up in wax some intruder to their hive. Edward must also see that to her the whole episode was no longer existent, since non-existence was undoubtedly the best fate for it, and thus her manner to him must be exactly what it had been before he had made his unfortunate intrusion. Hardly less important was it that Edith and her aunt should remain unaware that anything had occurred between Edward and herself. This gave a reason the more for her treating him quite normally. Only ... how did she treat him before?... How did she look at him? Did she usually smile when she spoke to him? She felt that to meet him again now without consciousness of what had just happened would be like meeting a perfect stranger. But it had got to be done. To admit in her bearing to him that any recollection
of the scene still had a place in her mind, to indicate even by coldness of manner and an aloof demeanour that he must keep his distance was impossible, for Edith would be sure to notice it, and, above everything almost, it was essential that Edith should be utterly unaware of any — she hardly knew what to call it — any understanding or misunderstanding between them. Over those three minutes there must be pasted a sheet of white paper. It seemed to her well within her power to do that. And she must continue to make her mind fight and belittle and criticize him. That ought to be easy now that he had done what she knew to be a despicable thing. Unfortunately she did not despise him for being despicable, or, at the most, her reason did, but not her instinct.

  She heard the sound of the motor-wheels crunching the gravel, and felt perfectly prepared to resume not only her natural manner, but her normal consciousness. She swung round on her music-stool and began the intermezzo again, getting up as her aunt entered with Edith.

  “Well? And I hope you’ve had a good practice, dear!” said Mrs. Hancock very cordially. “And we’ve had a pleasant drive, and not so dusty as I expected it would be. But we hurried back sooner than I intended originally, because there was a huge black cloud coming up, and Denton said he wouldn’t be surprised if it came on to rain very suddenly. So I think I shall sit out in the garden to get a little more air, and you and Edith might have a game of croquet. I expect Edward will come in when the six o’clock train arrives. Dear me, it is after six. Perhaps he has been, Edith, and went back. Lind will know. Then you can all three play croquet. If you touch the bell, dear.”