Part 10 (1/2)
Drip, drip, drip!--it was the sad, graceful prelude in which the fall of rain is supposed to be suggested, the hot steady rain of the Mediterranean which had fallen at Majorca ever so many years ago and was falling now in sound, though he that caught its beauty was long since dust. Drip, drip!--and then the soft repet.i.tion which announced that the delicate and lovely vision had reached its close, that the august grey harmonies were over.
For a moment, there was silence in the drawing room.
Muriel's white fingers rested on the keys of the piano, the candles threw their light upwards upon the enigmatic maiden face. Her father sighed quietly--happily also as he looked at her--and the low buzz of Mrs. Amberley's and Mrs. Toftrees' talk became much more distinct.
Suddenly Gilbert Lothian jumped up from the settee. He hurried to the piano, his face flushed, his eyes liquid and bright.
It was consciously and theatrically done, an exaggeration of his bow in the dining room--not the right thing in the very least!
”Oh, thank you! _Thank you!_” he said in a high, fervent voice. ”How wonderful that is! And you played it as Crouchmann plays it--the _only_ interpretation! I know him quite well. We had supper together the other night after his concert, and he told me--no, that won't interest you.
I'll tell you another time, remind me! Now, _do_ play something else!”
He fumbled with the music upon the piano with tremulous and unsteady hands.
”Ah! here we are!” he cried, and there was an insistent note of familiarity in his voice. ”The book of Valses! You know the twelfth of course? Tempo giusto! It goes like this ...”
He began to hum, quite musically, and to wave his hands.
Muriel Amberley glanced quickly at her father and there was distress in her eyes.
Amberley was standing by the piano in a moment. He seemed very much master of himself, serene and dominant, by the side of Gilbert Lothian.
His face was coldly civil and there was disgust in his eyes.
”I don't think my daughter will play any more, Mr. Lothian,” he said.
An ugly look flashed out upon the poet's face, suspicion and realisation showed there for a second and pa.s.sed.
He became nervous, embarra.s.sed, almost pitiably apologetic. The savoir-faire which would have helped some men to take the rebuke entirely deserted him. There was something a.s.siduous, almost vulgar, a frightened acceptance of the lash indeed, which immensely accentuated the sudden _defaillance_ and break-down.
In the big drawing room no one spoke at all.
Then there was a sudden movement and stir. Gilbert Lothian was saying good-night.
He had remembered that he really had some work to do before going to bed, some letters to write, as a matter of fact. He was shaking hands with every one.
”I do hope that I shall have the pleasure of hearing you play some more Chopin before long, Miss Amberley! Thank you so much Mrs. Amberley--I'm going to write a poem about your beautiful Dining Room. I suppose we shall meet at the Authors' Club dinner on Sat.u.r.day, Mr. Toftrees?--so interested to have met you at last.”
... The people in the drawing room heard him chattering vivaciously to Mr. Amberley, who had accompanied his departing guest into the hall.
No one said a single word. They heard the front door close, and the steps of the master of the house as he returned to them. They were all waiting.
When Amberley came in he made a courtly attempt at ignoring what had just occurred. The calm surface of the evening had been rudely disturbed--yes! For once even an Amberley party had gone wrong--there was to be no fun from this meeting of young folk to-night.
But it was Mrs. Amberley who spoke. She really could not help it. Mrs.
Toftrees had been telling her of various rumours concerning Gilbert Lothian some time before the episode at the piano, and with all her tolerance Mrs. Amberley was thoroughly angry.
That such a thing should have happened in her house, before Muriel and her girl friend--oh! it was unthinkable!
”So Mr. Gilbert Lothian has gone,” she said with considerable emphasis.