What had caused that terrible heart attack of Jules’? Merely grief? Merely the thought that it had been he who had sent his cousin to his death? Peter now believed, with passionate conviction, that it had not been these.
Slowly, with blinding clarity, with shaking heart, Peter knew that Jules had known that Honoré had died because he could no longer bear to live.
It was this, then, which had stricken Jules down.
Peter’s eyelids burned. But his spirit was suddenly and painfully lightened. His heart ached with renewed grief for his father, but also with exaltation. The enigma was solved. Honoré’s self-decreed death had been a final repudiation of his life, of all the things he had done, of all the things he had been persuaded to do. It had been a deliberate expiation.
Then, he must have hated his life.
Things began to fall into a pattern. Peter remembered an odd conversation he had had with his father on the eve when he had first gone away to school. He had been only fourteen then. Honoré had called him into the library, and had taken his hand awkwardly in his own. He was not given to demonstrations of affection, and the young Peter had been very touched, so starved of heart had he been, so lonely and afraid in the midst of his terrible brothers. He had known, of course, that he had been his father’s favourite, but Honoré had never before touched him so gently, or smiled at him with such open grave affection.
‘You are going away to school, my son, and will be alone.’ Honoré had said, with that queer French inflection in his voice which had always puzzled Peter. Honoré the son of the French-born Eugene Bouchard, had been born in America, but had nevertheless acquired his father’s accent. And that accent gave to his voice a kind of warmth and dignity, an adult overtone.
‘Yes,’ Honoré had repeated, ‘you will be alone. But that won’t matter to you, will it, Peter? You have always been alone. Just as I was once alone.’
And then he had gazed into his young son’s eyes with deep and melancholy concentration. ‘We have always understood each other, have we not, my son? And so, someday you will remember that if a man is to remain as God intended him to be, he must strive always to be alone in his heart. Once that heart is opened to the things of the world, whether those things are power, or ambition, or greed, or even great love, then that heart is lost forever. The glass is broken. It will never hold water again.’
And then he had added, looking away from his son, though holding his hand still more tightly: ‘There is no mending the glass. There has never been a cement invented that will mend it, or conceal the cracks. It will never hold water again.’
All this, then, Honoré was trying to explain to Peter even at this late hour. And this explanation was the answer to the enigma. The soreness in Peter’s heart abated. He felt nothing for his father now but grief, passionate understanding, and deep unmuddled love.
All at once he felt strong and integrated again, almost exultant. His exhaustion vanished. Honoré’s face faded from his inner eye. But he could feel his smile, tender, at peace.
Peter picked up his pen. The words came more smoothly now. There was no longer any conflict, any pain, in him. He could work. He could have faith. Nothing mattered any longer but his work, not even Celeste. He was invulnerable as he had never been invulnerable before.
CHAPTER XXI
‘What shall I play?’ asked Annette, pushing back the cloud of fine light hair from her forehead, and smiling at her young aunt. She sat at her harp, her thin little fingers softly stroking the shining strings, her small white arms casting a shadow over the carved gilt.
‘Something of your own, darling,’ replied Celeste. She sat in the cool dusk of the great drawing-room, her lap filled with the lush roses from the gardens of Robin’s Nest. All her figure was in that dusk, but her face had borrowed a luminous quality from it, so that her features had the pale and polished look of a marble mask, austere and stern. There was a petrified quiet in the very contour of her forehead, a still rigidity about her lips.
Annette’s fingers struck the strings with muted gentleness, and the notes rose like golden butterflies expanding in the sunlight. Celeste could see those butterflies, catching the pure light on their wings, dipping, circling, blowing like brilliant leaves, dancing in a sudden puff of bright air, their movements murmurous with the softest harmony, hardly heard but sweet as an imagined melody. It was music heard in a dream, chaste yet gay, sinking to a whisper, rising on a thin and exquisite single note, suddenly scattering in a burst of poignant sound, frail and fluttering, to sink again to an incoherent caprice of radiant motion, almost inaudible.
Celeste was entranced. The taut hands that lay on the roses relaxed. Her eyes were fixed on the innocent and illuminated vision the harp had evoked. Under that bright and innocuous harmony there was the sweetest of melancholies, of delicate sadnesses. Then she heard, under the murmur of butterflies’ wings, a rising wind, dimly ominous, dark with shadowy portent. The light on the dancing wings became stark and hard, like the sudden light piercing through dusky clouds. Faster, faster, blew the butterflies, now in a faintly discordant frenzy, struggling against the voice of the gale, which had become hoarse and threatening. Now the butterflies were pale ghost shapes, without gold, without brightness, and the wind had a shape, curling, grey, coiling like smoke, rising in vast form like a wall of darkness. And in the midst of the vortex fluttered the cold colourless feathers of falling and frantic little wings.
Now the notes became louder, bleak and harsh, as if coming from over long stretches of black ice from regions of thunderous death. The last wing sank and disintegrated. Chaos had the world. Celeste discerned wild cries in the midst of the vortex, lost cries of lost souls. A last whirling of discordant sound, a sudden crash of strings, and there was only silence now, ringing and breathless.
A heavy inertia lay over Celeste’s body. She stirred, sluggishly, looking at Annette, who had become very pale, and was gazing before her with empty wide eyes. Celeste began to speak, then closed her lips. She stared at Annette for a long time. Annette’s hands still touched the strings, but flaccidly, like dead and bloodless hands. Her small face was extremely quiet, the expression tragic in its immobility.
The blazing sunlight lay on the broad window-sills in aching radiance. The green shadows of trees cast waving reflections into the quiet room. Somewhere birds called sleepily in the heat, the summer breeze was filled with the scent of cut clover, warm and sweet, and heavy roses.
Then Annette suddenly smiled. It was a gentle smile, gay as always. But her large light-blue eyes, so beautiful in their shape and colour, remained empty. She looked at Celeste.
‘I haven’t a name for it, yet,’ she said, dropping her hands upon her knees. ‘Do you like it, darling?’
Celeste hesitated. Then she said in a strained voice: ‘It—was terrible. Yes, terrible. How can you think of such things, Annette?’
Annette’s fingers laced themselves together with a convulsive movement. But she still smiled, though the smile was fixed.
‘Did you think it was terrible? But it was true, wasn’t it? Everything innocent and lovely, gentle and pure, is finally destroyed. That is what I meant to say.’
Celeste stood up, abruptly. The roses spilled to her feet.
She stood behind them, as behind a barricade. ‘Don’t say that, Annette,’ she said, in a low tone. ‘It isn’t true. It can’t be.’
But Annette looked at the fallen roses, and did not move or speak. Celeste bent down, and fumbled at the flowers. Thorns pricked her fingers. Her eyes were dim, and her heart beating with sorrow and fear.
She stood up at last, the roses in her arms. She saw that Annette was gazing at her now, so gently, so tragically, and with such tender quiet.
‘You are so beautiful, Celeste,’ she said, in her sweet low voice.
The fear sharpened in Celeste, and the pain.
‘Some day, I’ll write a serenade for you,’ said Annette. She smiled a little.
Celeste looked down at the roses.
She thought: I ought not to have come today. But Annette’s pleading had finally broken down her decision to remain away forever from Robin’s Nest. She had come today to have luncheon with her niece. It was in this very room that she had heard of her mother’s illness, and here, later, had occurred that scene which she could not remember without shame and anguish. Now as she remembered again, the very dusky warm air was permeated with Henri’s personality. Celeste lifted her head with sudden and unbearable misery, and saw that Annette was regarding her with a still and sorrowful smile. Was it possible that Annette knew? It could not be! She, Celeste, could not endure it if Annette was aware.
Celeste stammered: ‘Don’t bother writing anything about me, darling. I’m not in the least interested.’ The foolish inane words struck with a sound of imbecility on her own ear.
A maid entered with tea. Celeste glanced at her, and exclaimed: ‘No. I must really go. It is almost four o’clock. Peter will be wondering—’
Annette rose with the light and effortless movements of a child from her stool. The strange and sorrowful look was gone from her little face. She was eager again, and coaxing. ‘Please, I haven’t seen you for so long. You always refuse our dinner invitations. Now I’m not going to let you go so soon.’
She sat down on a sofa, before which the maid placed the tray and the cups. All her air was light and gay again, and full of innocent happiness. Her little hands moved swiftly amid the tinkle of china and silver. She filled a cup, and extended it smilingly to Celeste, who stood awkwardly near by, the roses still in her arms.
‘Oh, come,’ coaxed Annette. Her eyes were brilliant in the dusk, and gallant.
For the last three hours, Celeste had felt only the heavy and apathetic inertia which had lain over her since her mother’s death. She had the vague knowledge that this inertia was self-induced, a protection against thoughts which would have been unendurable. She had forced herself to move with the slow and careful movements of a drugged man, for any quick gesture, any quick word, would have broken open the thick scars which covered her wounds with a brittle crust. Careful, careful, her mind had whispered. Do not think. Do not remember.
But now the crust had been broken. Her mind and her body throbbed in painful unison. She was ill with her sorrow, her despair, and her fear. With these was a sick and over-powering shame. She wanted only to run from this room, from the sight of Annette’s frail and pretty face with the wide and intelligent eyes that knew so much, had never filled with hatred, and were so wisely gentle always.
She accepted the cup Annette gave her, and stared down at it dully. Annette had been speaking. Several minutes passed before Celeste became aware, with a vague start, that there had been silence in the room for some time. She looked up. Annette was regarding her with a singular expression, full of reflective but deep compassion.
‘I’m not very good company, I’m afraid,’ faltered Celeste.
‘I know,’ said Annette, softly. She put her hand over Celeste’s. ‘Mama and I weren’t as close as you and Grandmother were, dear. But still, it was terrible for me when she died.’
Celeste was silent. The wide blueness of Annette’s eyes was too close to her, so that she saw nothing else. Her heart sickened, huge with suffering.
In order to avoid Annette’s look, she glanced away, and her own eyes encountered the portrait of Ernest Barbour over the white fireplace. All at once, such an agony of longing and desire and passion swept over her that she trembled. She put her hand to her cheek, and pressed the fingers deeply into her flesh in a spasm of sharp anguish. She forgot everything, and saw only that painted face which had taken on the aspect, the third dimension, the colour of living flesh.
She turned to Annette, and put aside her cup.
‘I must go,’ she said, abruptly, and in a voice more than a little hoarse. Now she was seized with terror. At any moment Henri might return, Henri whom she had not seen for nearly a month. Annette did not move. She only looked up in a great and wordless silence, and her face, foreshortened and still, fallen in shadow, was unreadable. The cup stood on her thin knee, its amber contents catching a single ray of sunshine so that it seemed formed of liquid gold.
Celeste turned away and gathered up her roses once more. The powerful scent nauseated her. ‘Peter will be so grateful,’ she murmured. ‘There are no flowers at Endur.’
‘I know,’ said Annette, softly. ‘It must be very awful.’
There were footsteps on the terrace, light and swift. Celeste, with renewed terror, turned her head alertly and stiffly in the direction of the steps. Her suddenly thundering heart sent the blood to her face, so that its pallor was inundated by a wave of crimson. Then she glanced at Annette, who sat so still and motionless, and who was watching her with the strangest intensity.
But it was not Henri who entered. It was Antoine, Antoine of the dark and glittering smile, the sleek small black skull, the elegant and graceful carriage. He brought with him that air which Christopher had declared belonged to the ‘Internationale des Salonards.’ His subtle black eyes gleamed sardonically at the sight of his sister and his aunt, and he gave them an elaborate and exaggerated bow.
‘Ah, ladies!’ he exclaimed. He blew them a light kiss. ‘Just in time for tea, I see. Or, could I have a whiskey and soda, my pet?’ he added, bending down to kiss Annette, who put her fragile hand to his cheek in an affectionate gesture.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Do ring. I didn’t know you would drop in today. One never knows when one will see you again. How is Papa?’
‘Papa?’ repeated Antoine, giving a subtle accent of light ridicule to the words. ‘Oh, Papa, is always, is engrossed in The List. Last night he had sweetbreads, and is closely watching the reaction. You know: the old Chinese superstition that like cures like. The magical stone in the toad’s head cures kidney stones,’ he continued, at Annette’s questioning look. ‘The brains of dogs cure brain fever, or brain tumours. Livers cure bad livers. And so, dear Papa believes that the pancreas of innocent cattle will normalize his own pancreas. We watch and wait.’
‘You are nasty,’ said Annette, with a fond smile. She sighed. ‘Poor Papa. When I can’t supervise him, he gets the most exotic and dangerous ideas. Is sweetbreads on The List?’
‘I’ve never studied that interesting document,’ replied her brother. He turned gallantly to Celeste, who still stood near by in stony silence. He thought: She gets thinner, and paler. She is gaunt, the pretty little bitch. Itching, no doubt. What a devoured and devouring look she has, in her eyes.
He said: ‘Well, Celeste how is our genius?’
She started a little, and looked at him with stern steadfastness, hating him, repudiating him.
‘I suppose you mean Peter?’ she answered, with quiet scorn. ‘Peter is well. He is very busy.’
The maid entered with the whiskey and soda. Antoine bent over the tray and filled a glass with a large amount. He sniffed it delicately. He shook his head with sadness. ‘Your esteemed husband, my pet, has execrable taste in whiskeys. One of these days I’ll give him some excellent advice. This smells like Prohibition bathtub brew.’
‘You’re very rude,’ said Annette. ‘You know Henri drinks hardly at all.’
Antoine nodded his head several times, slowly and wisely. ‘He should, my dear. He really should. I think that’s what is the matter with him. A man who doesn’t drink is a dangerous man. And sometimes a vulnerable one, too.’
He drank deeply, and grimaced. ‘A man who doesn’t escape from reality occasionally will eventually go mad,’ he remarked, lifting the glass and turning it about in his thin dark fingers. ‘Hitler doesn’t drink. Ergo, he’s mad. Henri doesn’t drink. Ergo—’
Annette laughed. The sweet and musical trilling of her laughter was like the note of a bird.
‘Ergo?’ she repeated.
‘Ergo, he’s your husband,’ said Antoine, lightly. He turned to Celeste again. His black eyes sparkled upon her evilly.
‘Am I right, Celeste?’ he asked.
/>
She looked, at him. ‘You talk nonsense,’ she said. She hesitated, and added: ‘Darling, I really must go.’
But Annette reached out and clasped her hand warmly and lovingly. ‘Oh, don’t run off just yet, dear, Antoine’s just come,’
‘Filling the air with brightness and gaiety. Such fun,’ remarked Antoine. ‘I’m a fascinating devil, aren’t I, Celeste? Not like our heavy villain, Henri? Is it true that ladies prefer devils? Or do they prefer glaciers like our own Iron Man?’
‘Antoine!’ protested Annette, with a laugh. ‘Don’t call Henri that.’
‘Well, how is old “Stone Face,” then?’ he asked, ruffling the airy bright hair on her head. His hand was unusually tender. She looked up at him with a sudden melting of her small features.
‘You are so naughty,’ she said. ‘You have a name for everyone, haven’t you? What do you call me, you wretch?’
He paused. He looked down at her with a strange changing of his dark and elegant features. Then he said: ‘“Lady of Shalott,” perhaps. You remember? She sat in front of a mirror, and spun great webs of silvery cloth. She didn’t dare turn away from the mirror and look at the real world it reflected.’ He was silent a moment. He swung back to Celeste so quickly that she stepped backwards as if to avoid him. ‘You remember, don’t you, Celeste?’
‘No,’ she said, coldly, her arms tightening about the roses.
‘I don’t, either,’ said Annette. She leaned back against the sofa, and smiled. ‘Do go on, Antoine.’
He refilled his glass, but did not drink. He stared down at its contents, and smiled in a peculiar way.
‘There was a curse on the Lady of Shalott. She was doomed never to look directly at the world, but only at its reflection in the mirror. She saw the green river through it, near her castle, and the wooded slopes, and the traffic on the water, and the towers of the distant town. She saw Lancelot in the mirror, and she fell in love with him. And then—she turned away from the mirror to look at him closely.’