Beyond. Galsworthy John
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once – the very ride we’ve been to-day. She was on a black mare; I had a chestnut – ” Yes, in that grove on the little hill, which they had ridden through that morning, he had dismounted and stood beside her.
Gyp stretched her hand across the table and laid it on his.
“Tell me about her, dear. Was she beautiful?”
“Yes.”
“Dark? Tall?”
“Very like you, Gyp. A little – a little” – he did not know how to describe that difference – “a little more foreign-looking perhaps. One of her grandmothers was Italian, you know.”
“How did you come to love her? Suddenly?”
“As suddenly as” – he drew his hand away and laid it on the veranda rail – “as that sun came on my hand.”
Gyp said quietly, as if to herself:
“Yes; I don’t think I understand that – yet.”
Winton drew breath through his teeth with a subdued hiss.
“Did she love you at first sight, too?”
He blew out a long puff of smoke.
“One easily believes what one wants to – but I think she did. She used to say so.”
“And how long?”
“Only a year.”
Gyp said very softly:
“Poor darling Dad.” And suddenly she added: “I can’t bear to think I killed her – I can’t bear it!”
Winton got up in the discomfort of these sudden confidences; a blackbird, startled by the movement, ceased his song. Gyp said in a hard voice:
“No; I don’t want to have any children.”
“Without that, I shouldn’t have had you, Gyp.”
“No; but I don’t want to have them. And I don’t – I don’t want to love like that. I should be afraid.”
Winton looked at her for a long time without speaking, his brows drawn down, frowning, puzzled, as though over his own past.
“Love,” he said, “it catches you, and you’re gone. When it comes, you welcome it, whether it’s to kill you or not. Shall we start back, my child?”
When she got home, it was not quite noon. She hurried over her bath and dressing, and ran out to the music-room. Its walls had been hung with Willesden scrim gilded over; the curtains were silver-grey; there was a divan covered with silver-and-gold stuff, and a beaten brass fireplace. It was a study in silver, and gold, save for two touches of fantasy – a screen round the piano-head, covered with brilliantly painted peacocks’ tails, and a blue Persian vase, in which were flowers of various hues of red.
Fiorsen was standing at the window in a fume of cigarette smoke. He did not turn round. Gyp put her hand within his arm, and said:
“So sorry, dear. But it’s only just half-past twelve.”
His face was as if the whole world had injured him.
“Pity you came back! Very nice, riding, I’m sure!”
Could she not go riding with her own father? What insensate jealousy and egomania! She turned away, without a word, and sat down at the piano. She was not good at standing injustice – not good at all! The scent of brandy, too, was mixed with the fumes of his cigarette. Drink in the morning was so ugly – really horrid! She sat at the piano, waiting. He would be like this till he had played away the fumes of his ill mood, and then he would come and paw her shoulders and put his lips to her neck. Yes; but it was not the way to behave, not the way to make her love him. And she said suddenly:
“Gustav; what exactly have I done that you dislike?”
“You have had a father.”
Gyp sat quite still for a few seconds, and then began to laugh. He looked so like a sulky child, standing there. He turned swiftly on her and put his hand over her mouth. She looked up over that hand which smelled of tobacco. Her heart was doing the grand ecart within her, this way in compunction, that way in resentment. His eyes fell before hers; he dropped his hand.
“Well, shall we begin?” she said.
He answered roughly: “No,” and went out into the garden.
Gyp was left dismayed, disgusted. Was it possible that she could have taken part in such a horrid little scene? She remained sitting at the piano, playing over and over a single passage, without heeding what it was.
So far, they had seen nothing of Rosek at the little house. She wondered if Fiorsen had passed on to him her remark, though if he had, he would surely say he hadn’t; she had learned that her husband spoke the truth when convenient, not when it caused him pain. About music, or any art, however, he could be implicitly relied on; and his frankness was appalling when his nerves were ruffled.
But at the first concert she saw Rosek’s unwelcome figure on the other side of the gangway, two rows back. He was talking to a young girl, whose face, short and beautifully formed, had the opaque transparency of alabaster. With her round blue eyes fixed on him, and her lips just parted, she had a slightly vacant look. Her laugh, too, was just a little vacant. And yet her features were so beautiful, her hair so smooth and fair, her colouring so pale and fine, her neck so white and round, the poise of her body so perfect that Gyp found it difficult to take her glance away. She had refused her aunt’s companionship. It might irritate Fiorsen and affect his playing to see her with “that stiff English creature.” She wanted, too, to feel again the sensations of Wiesbaden. There would be a kind of sacred pleasure in knowing that she had helped to perfect sounds which touched the hearts and senses of so many listeners. She had looked forward to this concert so long. And she sat scarcely breathing, abstracted from consciousness of those about her, soft and still, radiating warmth and eagerness.
Fiorsen looked his worst, as ever, when first coming before an audience – cold, furtive, defensive, defiant, half turned away, with those long fingers tightening the screws, touching the strings. It seemed queer to think that only six hours ago she had stolen out of bed from beside him. Wiesbaden! No; this was not like Wiesbaden! And when he played she had not the same emotions. She had heard him now too often, knew too exactly how he produced those sounds; knew that their fire and sweetness and nobility sprang from fingers, ear, brain – not from his soul. Nor was it possible any longer to drift off on those currents of sound into new worlds, to hear bells at dawn, and the dews of evening as they fell, to feel the divinity of wind and sunlight. The romance and ecstasy that at Wiesbaden had soaked her spirit came no more. She was watching for the weak spots, the passages with which he had struggled and she had struggled; she was distracted by memories of petulance, black moods, and sudden caresses. And then she caught his eye. The look was like, yet how unlike, those looks at Wiesbaden. It had the old love-hunger, but had lost the adoration, its spiritual essence. And she thought: ‘Is it my fault, or is it only because he has me now to do what he likes with?’ It was all another disillusionment, perhaps the greatest yet. But she kindled and flushed at the applause, and lost herself in pleasure at his success. At the interval, she slipped out at once, for her first visit to the artist’s room, the mysterious enchantment of a peep behind the scenes. He was coming down from his last recall; and at sight of her his look of bored contempt vanished; lifting her hand, he kissed it. Gyp felt happier than she had since her marriage. Her eyes shone, and she whispered:
“Beautiful!”
He whispered back:
“So! Do you love me, Gyp?”
She nodded. And at that moment she did, or thought so.
Then people began to come; amongst them her old music-master, Monsieur Harmost, grey and mahogany as ever, who, after a “Merveilleux,” “Tres fort” or two to Fiorsen, turned his back on him to talk to his old pupil.
So she had married Fiorsen – dear, dear! That was extraordinary, but extraordinary! And what was it like, to be always with him – a little funny – not so?