The Shivering Sands

4

I sat in the room next to Sir William’s and played for him. I played first Für Elise and after that some Chopin nocturnes. I believed that in that room I played my best, because I was conscious of a sympathetic atmosphere there, which may have suggested itself to me because I knew the room had belonged to one who had loved music. Pietro would have laughed at my fancies. An artist did not need an atmosphere, he would have told me.

Pietro’s image faded from my mind as I thought of this Isabella who had been Napier’s mother and who had loved music, who might have been a great pianist and had given up her career for the sake of marriage. Oh yes, we were in harmony. But she had had two sons and she had lavished more love on one than the other—and when her beloved son had died she had taken a gun and gone into the woods…

When I had played for an hour I stopped and went to the door. Mrs. Lincroft, who was with Sir William, asked me to come in and nodded for me to be seated. “Sir William would like to talk to you,” she said.

I sat down beside him and he turned slowly to me.

“Your performance is very moving,” he said.

Mrs. Lincroft tiptoed from the room and left us together.

“It reminds me,” he went on, “of my wife’s playing. I am not sure though that she had quite your excellence.”

“Perhaps she had less practice.”

“Yes, no doubt. Her duties here…”

I said hastily: “Yes, of course.”

“How do you find your pupils?”

“Mrs. Stacy has some talent.”

“A flimsy talent, eh?”

“A pleasant talent. I think she will find great joy in the piano.”

“I see. And the others?”

“They could play…adequately.”

“And that is a good thing to do.”

“Very good.”

We were silent and I wondered whether he had fallen asleep and I ought to tiptoe away.

I was about to do so when he said: “I trust you are comfortable here, Mrs. Verlaine.”

I assured him that I was.

“If there is anything you need you must ask Mrs. Lincroft. She manages everything.”

“Thank you.”

“You have made the acquaintance of my sister?”

“Yes.”

“And you have probably found her a little strange.”

I did not quite know what to answer but he went on: “Poor Sybil, when she was young she had an unfortunate love affair. She was going to be married and something went wrong. She has never been the same since. We were relieved when she began to take an interest in family affairs, but Sybil could never do anything very reasonably. She becomes obsessed. She has probably talked to you about our family affairs. She does to everyone. You should not take what she says too seriously.”

“She has talked to me, yes.”

“I thought so. The loss of my son affected her deeply. As it did us all. But in her case…”

His voice trailed off. He was clearly thinking of that terrible day when Beaumont had died…and afterwards when his wife had taken the gun into the woods. A double tragedy. I was so sorry for him. I was even sorry for Napier.

Sir William was speaking of Napier and his voice was quite lacking in any emotion. “Now that my son is married we shall be entertaining a little more than in the past. As you know, Mrs. Verlaine, I should like you to entertain my guests.”

“I should be delighted. What would you suggest I play?”

“That shall be decided later. My wife used to play for our guests…”

“Yes,” I said gently.

“Well, now you will do the same, and it will be like…”

He seemed unaware that he had stopped speaking.

He leaned forward and touched a bell and Mrs. Lincroft appeared so quickly that I felt she must have been outside the door listening.

I realized what was expected of me and left.

I was beginning to feel alive again—not exactly happy, but interested in what was going on around me. A fervent curiosity was growing up within me and at the heart of it was Napier Stacy, as in Paris Pietro had been the center of everything. Then it had been love; now it was hate. No, that was too strong a word. Dislike. That was all, but of one thing I was certain and this was that my feelings for Napier Stacy would never be mild. Dislike could easily flare into hatred. He had suffered because of that dreadful accident—and in my heart I refused to believe it was anything but an accident—but that was no reason why he should torment his poor little wife. He was a man who having been hurt himself, found satisfaction in hurting others and for this I despised him; I distrusted him; I disliked him; but at least I should be grateful to him for making me feel some emotion again. But perhaps no emotion was better than this violent dislike.

I had thought less of Pietro in the last weeks. There would be a lapse of hours when I did not give him one thought. I was shocked for I was, I told myself, being unfaithful to his memory.

One afternoon—during my off-duty period—I decided to take a long walk alone to think about the change in my attitude and my footsteps led me to the sea. It was a bright day and a fresh wind was blowing. I took pleasure in filling my lungs with that exhilarating air.

Whither was I going? I asked myself. I should not stay at Lovat Stacy forever. In fact my position there seemed most insecure. Three girls to whom I must teach music…and none of them, with the exception of Edith, musical. She was a married woman who might soon have a family. The idea struck me as incongruous. Napier a father…and the father of Edith’s children! But they were married, so why not. And when she was a mother would she want music lessons? I was to play for Sir William’s guests—but no one kept a pianist on the premises for the occasional musical evening. No, my post was a very insecure one and soon I should be dismissed. And then what? I was alone in the world. I had little money. I was no longer young. Should I not be planning my future? But how could anyone know what the future held. Once I had believed that Pietro and I would be together for the rest of our lives. There was no knowing, of course; but wise people planned for the years ahead so that they were not caught, like the foolish virgins, without oil in their lamps.

I had taken a winding path down to the sea and had come to a sandy shore. Above me rose the stark white cliff; overhead was Lovat Stacy but I could not see it, for the projecting cliff made a kind of shelf over my head.

The melancholy cry of a gull broke the peace and then I heard a voice calling me. “Mrs. Verlaine. Mrs. Verlaine. Where are you going?”

I turned and there was Alice running toward me, her light brown hair streaming behind her.

She came running up to me, breathlessly, faintly flushed.

“I saw you coming down here,” she panted. “And I came to get you. It’s dangerous.”

I looked at her in disbelief.

“Oh yes,” she reiterated, “it is dangerous. Look.” She waved her arms. “We’re in a little cove. The sea comes right in…and long before high tide you could get cut off. Then what would you do?”

She folded her arms behind her back and looked up at the overhanging cliff. “You couldn’t go that way, you see. You’d be quite cut off. You shouldn’t come here—only at low tide.”

“Thanks for warning me.”

She said: “It’s all right now, but in ten minutes or so it won’t be. Do come now, Mrs. Verlaine.”

She led me back the way I had come and as I rounded a rock I saw how far the tide had come in. She was right; this part of the beach would be entirely cut off.

“You see,” she said.

“Yes, I do.”

“It can be dangerous. People have been drowned here.”

I said suddenly: “I wonder if that was what happened to Ro…to the archaeologist.”

“Why, I think that could be an explanation. You’re very interested in her, aren’t you?”

“It is interesting surely, when someone disappears.”

“Yes, of course.” She put out a hand to help me over the rock. “It could be the answer,” she said. “She came here and was drowned. Yes, I do think that could be the answer.”

I looked out at the water and imagined it creeping up. Roma was not a strong swimmer. She could have been carried out to sea.

“I should have thought her body would have been washed up.”

“Yes,” agreed Alice. “But I suppose sometimes bodies are carried out to sea. I think people ought to be careful. Particularly those who are new to the place.”

I laughed. “I will,” I said; and she seemed relieved, which was charming of her.

“Do you wish to continue your walk alone?” asked Alice.

“Do you mean that you will accompany me?”

“Only if you wanted me to.”

“But I should be glad of your company.”

Her smile was dazzling and I warmed to her. I wondered how keenly Allegra made her feel her position as housekeeper’s daughter.

She walked sedately by my side and pointed out some of the flowers in the hedgerows.

“Isn’t that blue lovely, Mrs. Verlaine? It’s germander speedwell and ground ivy. Mr. Brown gives us lessons and brings us for walks so that we can see the flowers he talks about. Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”

“Excellent.”

“It’s botany. Edith used to love it. I expect she misses it now. Sometimes I think she’d like to go on taking lessons. But a married lady could hardly go to the vicarage for lessons could she? Oh look, Mrs. Verlaine, there’s a swift. Do you see it? I like to come out at dusk. Then I might see a churn owl. Mr. Brown told us about them. They sound like an old spinning wheel going round and round and they chase ghost moths in the fields.”

“You seem to enjoy your botany lessons.”

“Oh yes, but not so much now that Edith doesn’t come. I think Mr. Brown enjoyed them more then.”

I felt again that uneasiness and remembered afresh my suspicions.

“The gulls are coming inland, Mrs. Verlaine. That’s a sign of stormy weather at sea. They come in by the hundreds and when I see them I think of the sailors at sea.” She began to sing in her high-pitched clear young voice:

“Lord hear us when we cry to Thee

For those in peril on the sea.”

She shivered. “It must be terrible to drown, Mrs. Verlaine. They say you relive your life while you’re drowning. Do you think that’s true?”

“I don’t know and I’d hate to put it to the test.”

“The trouble is,” she went on thoughtfully, “that the people who have drowned can’t tell us if it’s true. If they came back…But they say only those who have died violently come back. They can’t rest. Do you believe it?”

“No,” I said firmly.

“The servants think that Beaumont comes back.”

“Surely not.”

“Yes, they do. And they think he comes back more now that Mr. Napier is back.”

“Oh, but why?”

“Because he’s angry that Napier’s back. Napier sent him away didn’t he, and he wants Napier to be banished because of it.”

“I thought Beaumont was such a good character. It doesn’t sound so if he wants to punish his brother for what was an accident.”

“No,” she said slowly, “it doesn’t, does it. But perhaps he has to. People who die like that may have to haunt people. Do you think that’s so?”

“I think it’s a pack of nonsense.”

“But what about the lights in the ruined chapel? They say it’s haunted. And there are lights there. I’ve seen them.”

“You’ve imagined them.”

“I don’t think so. My room is at the top of the house, above the schoolroom. I can see a long way, and I’ve seen the lights. Truly I have.”

I was silent and she went on earnestly: “You don’t believe me. You think I’ve imagined it. If I see it sometime may I show it to you? But perhaps you don’t want to see it.”

“If it existed I should,” I said.

“Then I will.”

I smiled. “I’m rather surprised at you, Alice. I thought you were a very practical girl.”

“Oh, I am, Mrs. Verlaine, but if something is there it wouldn’t be very practical to pretend it wasn’t, would it?”

“The practical thing would be to try to find out the cause.”

“The cause would be because Beaumont couldn’t rest.”

“Or someone playing a trick. I’ll wait and see the light first before I wonder what caused it.”

“You are certainly very practical, Mrs. Verlaine,” said Alice.

I admitted to it and dismissing the subject talked of music and musicians all the way back to the house.

“I must say,” said Mrs. Rendall, “that I find this most inconvenient. After all we have done…I am surprised. As for the vicar…”

Her plump cheeks shook with indignation as I walked with her up the path to the vicarage door. I had come over to give Sylvia a piano lesson while Allegra and Alice were with the curate.

Mrs. Rendall went on in this strain for some minutes before I discovered the cause of her indignation.

“He’s such a good curate…and what he thinks he is going to do in that outlandish place I can’t imagine. Sometimes there is more useful work to be done at home. I think it is time some of these earnest young men realized this.”

“Don’t tell me that Mr. Brown is going away.”

“That is precisely what he intends to do. What we are going to do, I can’t imagine. He is going to some village in Africa, if you please, to teach heathens! A nice thing. I’ve told him that he will no doubt end up by being served for dinner.”

“I suppose he feels he has a vocation.”

“Vocation, fiddlesticks! He can have a vocation for working here at home. Why does he want to go to one of these far off places. I said to him, ‘The heat will kill you, Mr. Brown, if the cannibals don’t.’ And I didn’t mince my words. I told him straight out that I for one should consider it his own fault.”

I was thinking of the quiet young man…and Edith. And I wondered whether his decision to go right away had any connection with his feeling for her. I was sorry for them both; they seemed like two helpless children caught up in their emotions.

“I’ve told the vicar to talk to him. Good curates are hard to come by, and the vicar is overworked. In fact I have thought of telling the vicar that the bishop might be able to help. If Mr. Brown was told by the bishop that it was his duty to stay…”

“Is Mr. Brown very eager to go?” I asked.

“Eager! The young idiot is determined. Mind you, since he told the vicar of his decision he has been growing more and more mournful every day. I cannot imagine how he could have got such a foolish notion. Just when the vicar…and I…had taught him to make himself so useful.”

“And you can’t persuade him?”

“I shall go on attempting to,” she answered firmly.

“And the vicar?”

“My dear Mrs. Verlaine, if I can’t persuade him, nobody can.”

What about Edith? I asked myself as I went into the house.

When I saw Edith that morning, I noticed how desolate she looked. She stumbled through the Schumann piece, not in time, playing several false notes.

Poor Edith—so young and so bitterly buffeted by life. I wished I could help her.

After I had played for Sir William, Mrs. Lincroft came into the room and said that he wished to speak to me.

I took the chair beside him and he told me that he had fixed a date for the occasion when he wished me to play for his guests.

“You could play for about an hour, I thought, Mrs. Verlaine, and I shall choose the music. I will let you know in good time so that you can run through it a few times if you feel that is necessary.”

“I should like to do that.”

He nodded. “My wife used to be rather nervous on these occasions. Mind you, she enjoyed them…but that was afterwards. She would never have been able to perform in public. It was quite different in the family circle.”

“I think one is always a little nervous when one is going to perform before an audience. My husband was and he…”

“Ah, he was a genius.”

He closed his eyes, which was an indication for me to leave. Mrs. Lincroft told me that he became tired suddenly and the doctor had warned her that when he showed the least signs of fatigue he needed absolute quiet.

So I rose and went away. Mrs. Lincroft came in as I was leaving. She smiled her appreciative smile. I had the notion that she liked and approved of me, which was pleasant.

The musical evening was obviously a great event.

The girls were always talking of it.

Allegra said: “It will be like old times…before I was born.”

“So,” Alice said gravely, “we shall know what it was like before we were here.”

“No, we shan’t,” contradicted Allegra, “because it’ll be quite different. Mrs. Verlaine will be playing instead of Lady Stacy. And then nobody had been shot nor committed suicide, nor got the gypsy servant into trouble.”

I pretended not to hear.

They were excited though because although they would not be at the dinner party, they were to be allowed into the hall to hear my playing, which was to take place between nine and ten o’clock.

They were having new dresses for the occasion and they were very pleased about this.

I had decided to wear a dress which I had not worn since Pietro’s death. I had worn it only once—on the night of his last concert. A special dress for a special occasion. It was of burgundy-colored velvet—a long flowing skirt, a tightly fitting bodice which fell slightly off the shoulders. On the front was an artificial flower—a mauve orchid—so delicately colored, so beautifully made that it looked like a perfect bloom. Pietro had seen it in the window of one of the boutiques in the Rue St. Honoré and had bought it for me.

I had thought never to wear that dress again. I had kept it in a box and never looked at it until now. I had told myself it would be too painful to look at it. Yet when I had known that I was to play before these people I had thought of this dress and I knew that it was just right for the occasion and that it would give me the confidence I needed.

I took the dress from its box, lifting it out from the layers of tissue paper and spread it on my bed. How it came back to me…Pietro…coming onto the platform, that almost arrogant bow; the quick searching for me, finding me and smiling, comforted because I was there, because he knew that I shared every triumph and that I cared as deeply for his success as he did himself, and at the same time he would be telling me: You could never have done this.

When I thought of that night I wanted to throw myself onto that soft velvet and weep for the past.

Put it away. Forget it. Wear something else.

But no. I was going to wear that dress and nothing must prevent me.

While I was looking at it the door of my room opened stealthily and Miss Stacy looked in.

“Oh, there you are.” She tripped to the bed. Her lips formed a round oh. “It’s lovely. Is it your dress?”

I nodded.

“I didn’t know you had anything so grand.”

“I had it…long ago.”

“Ah, when your famous husband was alive.”

I nodded.

She peered up at me and said: “Your eyes are very bright. Are you going to cry?”

“No,” I told her. And then to excuse my emotion, I added: “I wore it at his last concert.”

She did her mandarin’s nodding but I sensed her sympathy.

“I suffered too,” she said. “It was the same…in a way. I understand.”

Then she went to the bed and stroked the velvet.

“Bows of the same velvet would look so pretty in your hair,” she said. “I think I’ll have a new velvet dress. Not this color though…blue, powder blue. Don’t you think that will be pretty?”

“Very,” I said.

She nodded and went out, thinking, I was sure, of the powder blue velvet dress she would have and the little bows to go with it.

A few days later Sir William had a bad turn and Mrs. Lincroft was worried. For a whole day and night she scarcely left his room and when I did see her she told me he was a little better.

“We have to be very careful,” she explained. “Another stroke could be fatal and of course he’s vulnerable.”

She was clearly deeply moved and I thought how lucky he was to have such a good housekeeper who could at a moment’s notice become a first-class nurse.

I mentioned this and she turned away slightly to hide her emotion, I imagined. “I shall never forget,” she said, “what he has done for Alice.”

Because she seemed so overcome by her feelings I sought to change the subject briskly and said: “I suppose this means the dinner party will be canceled?”

“Oh no.” She was immediately in charge of herself. “Sir William has actually said he doesn’t want that. All arrangements are to go ahead. In fact he sent for Mr. Napier and told him so.” She frowned. “I was alarmed,” she went on, “because Napier always upsets him. It’s not his fault,” she went on quickly. “It’s merely the sight of him. He keeps away as much as possible. But on this occasion…it passed very well.”

“It’s a pity…” I began.

“Family quarrels are the worst,” she said. “Still, I think that in time…” Her voice faded away. “I believe when there are children…Sir William is very anxious that there shall be children.”

There was a knock on my door and Alice came in. She smiled demurely and said: “Mr. Napier wishes to see you, Mrs. Verlaine. He’s in the library.”

“Now?” I asked.

“He said at your convenience.”

“Thank you, Alice.”

She lingered and I wished she would go because I wanted to comb my hair before I went down to the library and did not want Alice to see me do it. She was a very observant girl.

“Are you looking forward to playing before all those people, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“Well…I suppose in a way I am.”

I was taking surreptitious glances at my hair. It was untidy. I wished that I had piled it higher on my head because that gave me height; it gave me a look of dignity too. I smoothed down my dress. I wished I was wearing the lavender with a faint white stripe on it. That was most becoming. I had bought it in one of the little shops near the Rue de Rivoli. Pietro had liked me to have beautiful clothes—when he had become famous of course—even before that I had always been able to get the most out of clothes…in contrast to Roma.

Now I looked down at my brown gabardine dress. The cut was good, the dress serviceable, but it was not one of my best; and I wished that I had known this summons was coming.

I could obviously not change my dress but I could comb my hair. I did so while Alice still stood there.

“You look…pleased, Mrs. Verlaine,” she commented.

“Pleased?”

“Well…more than that. Different in a way.”

I knew that I must have betrayed the excitement of going into battle, for that was what it was like…having an encounter with Napier Stacy.

I went past Alice and down to the library. I had been in this room only once before, when I had been struck by the character of the oak paneling. There was a design of arches divided by pilasters which was surmounted by a frieze and a cornice. The carved ceiling was the most intricate in the house, and the arms of the Stacy, Beaumont and Napier families were entwined up there to make an intricate pattern.

One wall was entirely covered by the most exquisite piece of tapestry which had interested me immediately not only because of the fine weaving of wool and silk on a linen warp but because of the subject—Julius Caesar landing on these shores. Mrs. Lincroft, when she had shown me this room, told me that it had been started soon after the house was built and that it had been put away—forgotten for more than a hundred years. Then a member of the family having committed some misdemeanor at Court for which she had been banished, discovered the unfinished work and to while away her exile had completed it. In a house of this kind one was always stumbling on little incidents of this kind—links with the past.

The three other walls were lined with books; some in leather binding with gilt lettering, behind glass. There were Persian rugs on the parquet floor, the usual seats in the window embrasures, and a heavy oak table in the center of the room with several arm chairs.

There was an air of solemnity about the library. I could not enter it without imagining all the serious family conferences which must have taken place in it over the centuries. Here, I had no doubt, Napier had been interrogated after the shooting of his brother.

Napier, who was seated at the table, rose as I entered.

“Ah,” he said, “Mrs. Verlaine!” Those lights seemed to shoot up in his eyes making them a more dazzling blue than ever; I called them mischievous—but they were more than that. He was looking forward to an amusing quarter of an hour which he was going to make as uncomfortable for me as possible. “Please sit down.” His voice was silky. Dangerous, I thought.

“I suppose you’ve guessed that I want to talk to you about your performance. The tuners assure me that the grand piano on the hall dais is now in perfect condition, so everything should be satisfactory. I am sure you are going to delight us all.”

“Thank you.” So polite, I thought. Where is the sting?

“Have you ever played on the concert platform, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“Not…seriously.”

“I see. Did you have no ambitions to do so?”

“Yes,” I said, “great ambition.” He raised his eyebrows and I went on quickly. “Not great enough apparently.”

“You mean that you failed to reach the standard demanded?”

“I mean just that.”

“So your ambition was not strong enough.”

I said as coolly as I could: “I married.”

“But that is not the answer. There are married geniuses, I believe.”

“I have never said I was a genius.”

His eyes glinted. “You gave up your career for the sake of marriage,” he said. “But your husband was more fortunate. He did not have to give up his career.”

I was at a loss for words. I was afraid that if I spoke my voice would betray my emotion.

How I detested this man!

He went on talking. “I have chosen the pieces which you will play for us. I am sure you will agree that my choice is a good one. Great favorites…and I know you will do justice to them.”

I said: “Thank you, Mr. Stacy.”

I glanced at the sheets in my hand. Hungarian Dances. The Rhapsody No. 2. The music Pietro had played during that last concert!

I felt as though I were choking. I could not stay in that room.

I turned; the Julius Caesar tapestry seemed to swim before my eyes. I groped for the handle of the door and I was outside.

He knows, I thought. He chose those pieces deliberately. He wanted to play on my emotions; he wanted to taunt me, to trick me into betraying myself; he wanted to amuse himself as a boy does when he puts two spiders in a basin and watches their reaction to each other.

In such a way he taunted Edith. And now his attention was turned to me. I obviously interested him. Why? Could it be that he knew more about me than I had believed possible?

He had taken the trouble to find out what Pietro had played on that night. Perhaps it would have been mentioned in some of the papers of the time.

How much else did he know about me?

On the day preceding the dinner party Alice came to tell me that Edith was sick and I went along to her room to see her.

This was the apartment where Charles I had lodged during the Civil War. The actual room led out of the main chamber and was occupied by Napier, while Edith used the larger bedroom. In it was a huge bed over which was a dome upheld by four columns engraved with flowers. The bed head and tester were ornamented with gilt figures and the hangings were of blue velvet. It was a very elaborate bed—and I remembered that this was the bridal suite. The door leading to the next room—the chamber in which a king had lodged—looked less elaborate as far as I could see. The bed was a carved wooden four-poster and beside it were a pair of wooden steps used for stepping into the bed. That room doubtless looked as it had done in the days of the Civil War—but the furniture in this one was a later and more elegant period.

It was the first time I had been in the bridal suite and I felt embarrassed because I thought of Napier here with Edith and I wondered what their relationship could possibly be like with so much fear on her side, so much contempt on his.

There was a consul table attached to one wall, over which was a tall mirror with a gilded frame; I noticed the secretaire-cabinet of satin wood and golden Honduras mahogany with fluted columns. This must be the most elegant room in the house—and that grim chamber leading from it made a strong contrast.

My quick survey of the room was over in a few seconds for it was Edith whom I had come to see.

She was sitting up in that ornate bed looking small and lost with her lovely golden hair in two plaits which hung over each shoulder.

“Oh, Mrs. Verlaine, I feel…terrible.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

She bit her lip. “It’s tomorrow night. I have to be hostess, and they’ll be such terrifying people. I can’t face them.”

“Why should they be terrifying? They’re only guests.”

“But I shan’t know what to say. I did wish I needn’t go.” She looked at me hopefully, as though asking me to produce some reason for her absence.

I said: “You’ll get used to it. It’s no use avoiding this one. You’ll have to face up to the next. And I’m sure you’ll find it’s not so bad.”

“I thought you might…you might suggest that you…did it for me.”

“I!” I was astonished. “But I am not even going to the dinner. I am merely coming down to play for the guests.”

“You would do it so much better than I would.”

“Thank you,” I said, “but I am not the mistress of this house, I am merely employed here.”

“I thought you might speak to Napier.”

“And suggest that I take your place? Surely you must see how impossible that is.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Edith. “Oh, I do hope I shall feel better. But he would listen to you.”

“If someone is to speak to your husband surely you would do that better than anyone else?”

“No,” said Edith, putting a hand momentarily over her eyes. Then she added: “He does take notice of you, Mrs. Verlaine…and he doesn’t take notice of many people.”

I laughed, but a terrible uneasiness had come to me. He was interested in me. Why?

I said briskly: “You should get up now and go for a long walk. Stop worrying. When it is over you will be asking yourself what there was to worry about.”

Edith lowered her hands and looked at me earnestly.

What a child she was. My words had made some impression on her.

“I’ll try,” she said.

How silent it was in the big hall! There was the piano on the dais. Banks of flowers would be brought in from the greenhouses. Tulips and carnations, I imagined. The seats were already there. It was like a concert hall…a unique one, with the suit of armor standing guard at the staircase—the weapons on the walls, the arms of the Stacys entwined with those of the Napiers and the Beaumonts.

I should be there—in my burgundy velvet—looking as I had looked on that fateful night.

No, different. I should not be a member of the audience; this time I should be there on that dais.

I went to it. I sat at the piano. I must not think of Pietro. Pietro was dead. If he had been here in this audience I should have been afraid of faltering, of earning his contempt. I should have been conscious of him, his ears straining to catch the false note, the lack of sureness…and I should have known that while he trembled for me, yet he hoped that I should give a less perfect performance than his.

I played. I had not played these pieces since. I had told myself that I could not bear to. But I played now and I was caught up in the excitement which the master had felt when he composed them. It was there in all its glory, that inspiration which came from something not of this world. It was wonderful. And as I played I did not see Pietro’s long hair flung back in the agitation of creative interpretation. To me the music meant what it had in those days before I knew Pietro. I was exalted as I played.

When I stopped it all came back so vividly; I could see him bowing to the audience. He had looked a little tired and strained and he never had looked like that after a performance…not immediately after. That came later after he had left the platform, when the flatterers and sycophants had left, when we were alone together. Then the effect of all that he had put into the evening would begin to show.

I saw him, lying back in the chair in the dressing room…Pietro…who would never play again.

A low chuckle behind me. For a moment I thought he had come back, that he was there laughing at me. If anything could evoke the return of his spirit surely that music would.

Miss Stacy was sitting in one of the seats. She was wearing a dress of pale pink crepe material and little pink bows were in her hair.

“I crept in when you were in the middle,” she said. “You play beautifully, Mrs. Verlaine.”

I did not answer. And she went on: “It reminds me of the old days so much. Isabella used to be so nervous. You’re not. And afterwards she used to cry in her room. It was because she wasn’t pleased with her performance and knew she could have done better if she’d gone on with her teachers. When I sat there listening I thought…I wouldn’t be surprised if this brought the ghosts out. It’s just like it used to be. Suppose Isabella couldn’t rest. Suppose she came back…Well, the hall would look just as it did on those nights when she played…all the same…only someone different at the piano. Isn’t that exciting, Mrs. Verlaine? Don’t you think it would bring the ghosts out?”

“If they existed, yes. But I don’t believe they do.”

“That’s a dangerous thing to say. They might be listening.”

I didn’t answer. Instead I closed the lid of the piano. And I was thinking: Yes, it would be an occasion for ghosts. And I wasn’t thinking of the ghost of Isabella Stacy but that of Pietro.

The image that looked back at me from my mirror was reassuring—red velvet, and that orchid. It became me as no other dress ever had. Pietro had not said so, but his eyes had told me.

He had stood behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders, looking at us both in the mirror. That picture would be stamped on my memory forever.

“You look worthy…of me,” he said, with typical Pietro candor; and I had laughed at him and said that if he thought that I must look very well indeed.

We had gone to the concert hall together, and I had left him to take my place in the audience.

But what was the use of going over it. I must not think of him tonight. I smoothed one hand over the other, massaging my fingers. They were supple…adequate, I told myself. But I knew better. They had some magic in them tonight, and no one was going to rob them of it, not even the ghost of Pietro.

I was glad I had not been invited to dine with the party. Mrs. Lincroft had said that she had thought it a little remiss of Napier not to suggest it, for she was sure it had been Sir William’s intention. I replied that I preferred not to go.

“I understand,” she said, “you want to be perfectly fresh for your performance.”

I wondered about the guests. Friends of Napier’s or of Sir William? Scarcely Napier’s for he had not been home long enough to make many. How did it feel, I wondered, to be exiled and then return? It would be a little like that for me tonight. I had been exiled in a way, and tonight I was to go onto that dais and people would listen to my playing. It would be an uncritical audience, I told myself, quite unlike the audiences Pietro had played to. There was nothing to fear.

At nine o’clock I went down to the great hall. Sir William was there in his chair. Mrs. Lincroft in a long gray chiffon skirt with cornflower blue chiffon blouse wheeled him in. She was not of the company but like myself a kind of higher servant. I remembered thinking this as I saw her.

Sir William beckoned to me and he told me that he was sorry I had not joined the company for dinner. I replied that I preferred to be quiet before the performance and he bowed his head in understanding.

Napier came over to me, Edith was with him. She looked very pretty but highly nervous. I smiled reassuringly at her. Then the company seated itself and I went to the dais. I played the dances first as Pietro had done; and as my fingers touched the keys and those magical sounds came forth I forgot everything but the joy they gave me. As I went on playing, I saw pictures evoked by the music; and that wonderful mood of exultation came to me. I forgot that I was playing to strangers in a baronial hall; I even forgot that I had lost Pietro; there was nothing for me but the music.

The applause was spontaneous. I smiled at the audience who went on clapping. I scanned them lightly. I saw Sir William deeply affected; Napier sitting upright applauding with the rest; Edith beside him smiling almost happily; and somewhere at the back of the hall Allegra and Alice—Allegra bouncing up and down on her seat in her excitement and Alice gravely clapping. I sensed their pleasure—not so much in the music. But in my success.

The applause died down and I began the Rhapsody. This was Pietro’s piece but I didn’t care. To me it had always opened a world of color and delight. I could undergo twenty different emotions while I played it and so had he. He had told me once that during one part of the Rhapsody he always imagined that he was sitting in a dentist’s chair having a tooth removed which had made us both laugh at the time. “It’s pain,” he had cried. “Sheer pain…and then that acute joy.”

I suffered; I rejoiced; and there was nothing for me but the music. And when I came to an end I knew that I had never played so well.

I stood up; the applause was deafening.

Napier was beside me. He said: “My father wishes to speak to you.”

I followed him to Sir William’s wheelchair. There were tears in the old man’s eyes.

“I’ve no need to tell you, Mrs. Verlaine,” he said. “It was superb. Beyond…my expectations.”

“Thank you. Thank you.”

“We shall be requested to repeat this often, I believe. It—it reminded me…”

He did not continue and I said: “I understand.”

“These people will be wanting to congratulate you.”

“I think I will go to my room now.”

“Ah yes. Exhausting. I know. Well, we understand that.”

Napier was looking at me and I could not read the expression in his eyes.

“Triumph,” he whispered.

“Thank you.”

“I trust you approve my choice of pieces.”

“They were magnificent.”

He bowed his head smiling and people began to approach to tell me how they had enjoyed my playing. I could not escape for a time. I was aware of Miss Stacy—lavender bows in her hair—looking excited and fey as though she were in touch with the ghosts she was sure would be visiting us that night; I saw Mrs. Lincroft sending the girls to their rooms and I listened to compliments; several people mentioned my husband. Few of them had heard him play, but they knew his name. It was some time before I could escape.

In my room I could not stop looking at my reflection. The faint color under my skin, the luminosity of my eyes; my hair seemed darker and my skin gleamed magnolia color against the rich burgundy velvet.

“I did it,” I whispered. “Pietro, I did it.”

In a country house. To an uncritical audience. What do they know of music?

“They loved it!”

Pah! They would have been pleased with Essie Elgin. She could have done as well. Gymnastics, my dear Caro.

And I wanted nothing but to be with Pietro to quarrel with him…anything, but to be with him.

My cheeks were burning; I felt that I was stifled in this room and impulsively I left it and went down by means of a back staircase and out into the gardens.

The June night was warm, and it was a perfect night, for a near-full moon was high in the sky. I went to my walled garden and sat there, and I was filled with a longing to go back to those days when Pietro and I had sat outside the Paris cafés and talked. I should have had both Pietro and my music and how much better it would have been for us both if I had. I should have been closer to him; he would have respected me; I should have been better able to look after him; I should not have allowed him to subdue me; firmly I should have safeguarded his health.

I covered my face with my hands and wept for the past and longed to live it all again.

I sat there for some little time, my head buried in my hands; and then suddenly I gave a little cry of dismay for there was a movement beside me. Someone was sitting close to me on the seat.

“I hope I didn’t startle you,” said Napier.

I drew away from him. He was the last person I wanted to see. I half rose but he took my wrist in a firm grip. “Don’t go,” he said.

“I…I didn’t hear you come.”

“You were engrossed in your own thoughts,” he said.

I was horrified. I believed there might be a trace of tears on my face, and that he should see them was unendurable.

He seemed different, softer. That should warn me.

“I saw you come here and I wanted to speak to you,” he said.

“You…saw me?”

“Yes. I was a little bored with my father’s guests.”

“I hope you did not tell them so.”

“Not in so many words.”

“You are…”

“Please go on. You know you need not choose your words with care as far as I’m concerned. I’d rather know exactly what you think.”

“Then I think that you are a little…uncivil.”

“What more can you expect, brought up as I was. But enough of me. You are far more interesting.”

“Surely you don’t find anyone as interesting as yourself?”

“At the moment—much as it may surprise you—I do.” He turned to me suddenly and went on: “Let’s drop the banter. Let us talk seriously.”

“Please begin.”

“We have something in common you and I. You realize that.”

“I cannot think what.”

“Then you are not seriously thinking. Our pasts, of course. That’s what we both have to put behind us. You tonight…” He put his hand up suddenly and with astonishing tenderness touched my cheek. “You are grieving for your genius. It’s no use. He’s dead. You have to forget him. You have to begin again. When will you learn that?”

“And you?”

“I too have much to forget.”

“You make no attempt to forget.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Tonight?”

“Those pieces I played.”

“I know, I chose them deliberately.”

“You knew.”

“I read it in one of the papers. The last he played.”

“How like you to remind me!”

“But you have taken a step away from your grief tonight. Did you know? You faced up to life. I’ll swear you had never played those pieces since he died.”

“No, not till tonight.”

“Now you will play them often. It’s a sign that you’ve moved on a bit.”

“And you chose them for my good?”

“You won’t believe me if I say yes. If I say I chose them to discountenance you, you will I suppose.”

“I believe,” I said, “that I should believe what you told me tonight.”

He turned to me suddenly. I wanted to hold him off yet to draw him on. I could not understand what had happened to him…or to myself. He was different. I was different. I was unsure of myself. I felt I should not stay here with him. There was something evil about this night…this moon…this garden…and about him.

“Why…tonight?” he asked me.

“I think you will tell the truth…tonight.”

He lifted his hands; I thought he was going to touch me. But he refrained from doing so. Then he said: “I chose those pieces deliberately. I wanted you to play them because it’s better to face up to life and not turn away from it.”

“And you are doing that?”

He nodded.

“That is why you remind everyone that you shot your brother?”

“You see,” he said, “it’s true that we have something in common. We have to escape from the past.”

“Why should I want to escape?”

“Because you will go on grieving until you do. Because you have built up an ideal which grows rosier with every year and quite unlike what it was in reality.”

“How do you know what it was in reality?”

“I know a great deal about you.”

“What?”

“What you have told me.”

“You seem to be very interested in me.”

“I am. Didn’t you realize that?”

“I thought I was beneath your notice.”

Then he laughed and it was the old laugh—mocking, taunting.

He said suddenly: “You are fascinated by this place.”

I admitted it.

“And the people in it?”

“I always find people interesting.”

“But we are a little…unusual, aren’t we?”

“It’s usual for people to be unusual.”

“Have you ever known anyone else who killed his brother?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t that make me unique?”

“Accidents can happen to anyone.”

“You’re determined to dismiss the general view that it was not an accident?”

“I’m sure it was.”

“I should now take your hand…so…and raise it to my lips.” He did so. “I should kiss it in gratitude…” His lips scorched my skin; the kiss was fervent, frightening. I withdrew my hand as casually as I could.

“Should I?” he asked.

“Certainly not. There is nothing for which to be grateful. It seemed to me a perfectly logical explanation. An accident.”

“And you are always so logical, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“I try to be.”

“Dispensing sympathy where it is deserved.”

“Isn’t that where it should be dispensed?”

“You knew of course that I was sent to Australia…to a cousin of my father’s. He couldn’t bear the sight of me…my father I mean…after the accident. My mother killed herself. They said it was because of my brother’s death. Two deaths at my door. Well, you can understand it, can’t you? I was such a reminder. So off I went to my father’s cousin who was a grazier some eighty miles north of Melbourne. I thought I should stay there until the end of my life.”

“And you were content to do that?”

“Never. This was where I belonged, and when the opportunity came, I did not hesitate. I accepted my father’s bargain.”

“Well, now you are back and all is well.”

“Is it, Mrs. Verlaine?” He moved nearer to me. “How strange it seems to be sitting in this moonlit garden and talking seriously to Mrs. Verlaine. I know your name is Caroline. Caro, your genius called you.”

“How could you know that?”

“I read it. It was in the paper, you know. It said he spoke to you when you came into the dressing room. All he could say was: ‘It’s all right, Caro…’”

I felt my lips quiver. I burst out: “You are deliberately trying to—”

“To hurt you? I want you to face it…Caro. I want you to face it and then you can turn your back on it. That’s what we both have to do.”

There was a strange tremor in his voice and I turned to him. He put out his hands and it was as though he said: Help me. And I wanted to say: We’ll help each other. Because oddly enough I believed him then. And I was glad…glad to be there with him in that moonlit garden which had a kind of magic which had driven away the evil.

He took my hands in his suddenly. And I did not withdraw them. We sat on the seat looking at each other and I knew that something had grown up between us which neither of us could deny.

And suddenly I was afraid, afraid of my emotions—and his.

I stood up.

I said: “It’s a little chilly. I think I should return to the house.”

He had changed; the arrogance had dropped from him. Or did I deceive myself? Was the moonlight playing tricks?

I was unsure of all but one thing: I only knew I had to get away from him.