The moon, wheeling up over the trees, turned the topmost drops of the fountain to silver, and gilded the head of the marble cupid with his dolphin. When Solange left off singing there was no sound in the night save the soft continuous whisper of the water. But Philomena’s thoughts were so restless and noisy that she could hardly believe they had not been spoken aloud. She stood on the path and watched Geraldine’s thoughtful clipping and wondered why nobody should have asked what was the matter with her. Rebellion flowed from her, but it was lost in the quiet and the darkness. She was sacrificing her youth and her happiness. But Geraldine went on cutting roses. Nobody would ever know. Hugo would never know, Gibbie would never know, the children would never know, what a martyrdom she was going through. It was unfair, and some time, some day, she would make somebody pay for it.
Solange, that happy, happy girl, sang on and the fountain played and a sound of music drifted out of the drawing-room windows. Corny was playing his pieces. He did this so seldom that many people were unaware that he could do it at all. He liked taking them by surprise. Towards the end of a visit he would sit down nonchalantly on the piano stool and strum a little, picking out tunes with one finger. And then, suddenly, he would break into quite an impressively difficult piece. Nobody had ever heard him practising and there was no piano in his flat in Whitehall Court. But his agility and dash suggested a high level of accomplishment and an astonished group would always gather round him.
Now he was executing a Liszt Rhapsodie and his hard, firm notes rang out into the night, breaking up its quiet like a shower of stones thrown into a pool. The rose-gatherers flocked into the house again and the Comstocks took their leave. Geraldine took Alec, Adrian and Laura into the library to play bridge, commanding the rest to play a round game in the drawing-room. But Solange had gone to put the roses in water, and Corny was determined to show how well he could play the Noveletten so that only Hugo and the Greys were left. It was the first time that the three of them had met at close quarters since Philomena talked to Gibbie. They none of them realised what was happening until too late. They were still standing and looking blankly at one another when Geraldine came back for her cigarette case. She said nothing but, as she went out again, her glance accused Philomena of managing very, very badly.
Gibbie was the first to recover countenance. He muttered something about having manuscripts to read and disappeared into the hall. And Philomena said rather petulantly, under cover of Corny’s music:
“I don’t think you’re very tactful, Hugo, I must say.”
“I didn’t know I had to be tactful,” growled Hugo. “It’s you who’ve got to be tactful.”
“Hush.”
“Corny won’t hear us. Come over here and sit down on this sofa and let’s get it over.”
“What do you mean?”
His eyes were bright and angry. While Corny’s music filled the room he took her over to a sofa by the fireplace and forced her to explain herself.
“You’re going to leave me cold, aren’t you?”
“Oh, Hugo, I’m so sorry.”
She explained to him that she was in a cage, and that she could never get out of it without hurting other people. One should not hurt other people. It was wrong. She reproached herself bitterly for having led him on, but maintained that being a wife and mother had turned out to be more of a whole-time job than she had thought. Not that she actually mentioned Ada or the children’s summer holiday, or even several other complications which had occurred to her during the day—a party for which she had already sent out invitations and the re-decoration of the drawing-room which would certainly be muddled if she were not there to supervise. But she went on saying vaguely that she was in a cage until Hugo said:
“You weren’t in one yesterday.”
“I hadn’t thought it out then.”
“Is it Gibbie? Has he put his foot down or what?”
Oh no, it was not fair to put the blame on poor Gibbie. As far as Gibbie was concerned it seemed that she might go off to-morrow.
“But the world isn’t properly organised yet,” she said. “One can’t do these things.”
“My dear Philomena! One can do these things perfectly well if one wants to. You talk as if no woman had ever done it before. Be reasonable!”
Philomena gave him a surly look. She was being reasonable and he ought to have been trying to argue her out of it. He must have experience enough to know that he ought not to appeal to her reason in order to make her change her mind. But he did not, as she now began to understand, really want her to change her mind. He was making no great efforts to move her, though his vanity was clearly wounded by her defection. She had been sorry for him, but now she began to be offended. Each resented the other’s want of urgency.
“The fact is you’ve weakened,” he told her. “If you wanted to come you’d come. But you’re glad of an excuse, because you mean to drop me and I know why.”
“You know why, Hugo?”
“Yes. I do know why.”
“Not so loud. Corny’ll hear you.”
He was trying to light a cigarette but his hand shook so much that he could not manage it. Suddenly his brain seemed to go molten with anger. He felt all power of self-control sliding and slipping away from him. The blood in his ears began to hum and his voice, high and shaking, rose above the noise of Corny’s piano.
“I don’t care if he does hear. I don’t care if anybody hears. I’m not saying anything that they don’t all know already. Oh yes, I know why. Oh yes, I know why. I know why. I know …”
“Hugo!”
“I’m not such a feather in your cap as you thought I was. This week-end’s been a flop and so you find you’re in a cage. You needn’t think I don’t know. You needn’t think I don’t know. If Aggie hadn’t gone we shouldn’t hear so much about cages …”
“Hugo! Be quiet! Don’t make such an exhibition …”
“I suppose you all think she knows a good play from a bad one. I didn’t want to read the thing to her. But as it was written to amuse a lot of frustrated old women I thought I might as well try it out on her. I don’t know what she’s been saying about it. I only know you’ve all dropped me as if I had the plague.”
“You must be mad. Nobody’s been saying anything about you that I know of. You’re so eaten up with vanity, your head’s so turned, you’ll soon be quite impossible.”
“You didn’t think so yesterday.”
“Going off to lunch with a lot of reporters! I didn’t believe it, at first, when I heard about it.”
“Who told you?”
“Corny. And let me tell you, Hugo, that you can’t do that sort of thing here. You may as well know that we had some difficulty to persuade Geraldine to invite you. She was afraid you’d bring your publicity manager with you. ‘Isn’t he rather a shallow little arriviste?’ she said. We told her you were very amusing. But the only time you’ve been amusing was when you were shouting at Mrs. Comstock and that was in very bad taste.”
“So you ‘find you’re in a cage!’ Thank you.”
“Thank heaven I did. I don’t like hysterics.”
“Yes, you ought to be thankful, oughtn’t you? My God, yes. I’m no catch now …”
“How dare you talk like that! I thought I loved you!”
“You certainly behaved as if you did. But how far did you mean to go? And when did you change your mind?”
“I’d have given you all you wanted … everything … if …”
“Everything! Don’t make me laugh.”
“Don’t be more of a cad than you can help.”
“When women like you talk of giving everything …”
“Hush!”
Corny, at last aware that something exciting was going forward at the other end of the room, had left off playing. Hugo’s voice rang through an attentive silence as, ignoring her gesture, he shouted on:
“It means you’ve only got one thing to offer. And if I want that I can get it elsewhere without having to ask Gibbie’s leave.”
Philomena did not reply. She was looking at Corny on the piano stool and to him she said:
“Please go on playing. Hugo is having a nerve storm.”
Corny played middle C very softly and shook his head.
“I’ve played all my pieces,” he said.
He was smiling to himself and Philomena had a suspicion that he might have heard a very great deal. She looked at Hugo in despair, wondering what else he might be going to say. But he was beginning to recover. Her gesture of appeal was not lost on him.
“All right,” he said. “I’ve finished.”
“Shall I go?” asked Corny, getting up.
“Wait a minute,” said Hugo.
Something must be done to keep Corny’s mouth shut, and his brain cleared rapidly as he came to this conclusion. He left off shaking. He made up his mind.
“Tell them this,” he said.
Crossing the room he pulled Corny’s nose very hard indeed. Then he nodded reassuringly at Philomena and walked slowly out through the French windows on to the terrace. For a few minutes he stood waiting just beyond the circle of light thrown out on to the stones. He wondered whether Corny would choose swords or pistols, or if a simple apology would suffice. He would be quite ready to apologise, for he was certain that his end was gained and that there would be no talk.
But no sound came from the astonished room behind him. They might both have fainted, they were so quiet. And, just when he was wondering what he ought to do next, a fresh torrent of music flowed on to the terrace. He crept back on tiptoe to look. Philomena had disappeared and Corny, still with a very red nose, was executing a Bach Prelude. There would be no duel this time.
He went into the hall to get a drink and found Solange putting away the basket and the scissors. She said:
“Where have you been?”
And he said:
“Listening to Corny.”
“Isn’t he clever?” said Solange admiringly. “I didn’t know he could play Augustus Harris.”
“Play what?”
“That fugue. At school we used to call it Augustus Harris. Because of the rhythm. It says:
‘AuGUStus Har-ris
Caught a FLEA in his COFF-ee.’ ”
“Where’s Marianne?”
“Gone to bed. Thanks. I’ll have some lemonade.”
They sipped and listened to Corny playing Augustus Harris. Solange looked thoughtful. Presently she asked if he had had a row with Marianne at dinner.
“I don’t know,” said Hugo. “It isn’t finished yet. I’m sorry she’s gone to bed.”
Solange pondered again. She made up her mind.
“I don’t think she has gone to bed, as a matter of fact. She’s gone up on to the downs.”
“Oh.”
He finished his drink and wandered out into the garden again. Solange tip-toed to the door to watch him. As soon as he had got off the terrace and believed himself to be unobserved he set off down the garden at a great rate. She smiled to herself, looked doubtful, and then smiled again as she went up to bed.