Miss Hargreaves (42 page)

‘We are opening our little concert,’ announced Lady Hargreaves, ‘with an original composition of my own. A slender link between the human consciousness and the untamed voice of nature. It is entitled a
Canzona
and I think I am betraying no secrets of composition when I tell you that it was inspired by the song of a willow-wren–’

‘Give me A, Norman, you devil. Here, what’s this? I said my tune.’

‘But she’s announced the
Canzona
.’

‘I don’t care what she’s announced. Give me my tune. And give me A, too.’

‘–I shall not easily forget that evening in a valley in my native Rutlandshire when from this elfin bird there poured forth notes which, in the words of a poet I cannot remember whom “plunged th’ incredulous universe to silence”. Much of it was written in my diary on the actual spot. Sir Henry Cowen was kind enough to commend it; it had imagery, he said. A
Canzona
, inspired–in F sharp major–by a willow-wren.’

She sat down, not far from the piano, and smiled at father. ‘We are ready,’ she said. ‘Give it
legato
, Mr Huntley. I beg you not to overlook the repeats.’

Father overlooked the whole thing. Without a word he started to play his tune for the G string.

Lady Hargreaves seized her sticks, rose, and made as if she were about to walk towards us. ‘Sit down!’ I muttered suddenly. She looked at me speechlessly, it was almost an appealing look, and slowly returned to her chair. I went on playing uneasily. I could not understand what was happening, except that I knew power was returning to me, slipping from her into me. I watched her. She was deathly still, her head low on her bosom, as she had been that day in the Cathedral when I had turned upon her. I was in anguish. Could I ever find the heart to destroy her?

Meanwhile, father soared away, suddenly beginning to improvise a
cadenza
which I was totally unprepared for. Holding a vague chord I waited, knowing that when he felt like it, he would return again to the original theme. So, after a few bars, he did. I don’t think I have ever heard him play so well. I felt proud of him. Every now and again I glanced over to Lady Hargreaves; although her eyes were covered by her hands, I knew she was watching father through the slits between her fingers. I wondered what she would say at the end of the piece, what words she would choose in which to tell the guests that we had
not
been playing her
Canzona
.

Richly, father approached the last bar, drawing, it seemed to me, much more than mere music out of the piece of wood held to his shoulder. Bending low, with his ear near to the strings, he sounded the last, long note. It was like a new sound in the world, as though father himself had discovered it and was loath to leave it. When he finally drew his bow from the violin, still holding it just above the strings, there was a long silence in the room, broken finally by the Dean, who murmured, ‘Bravo, bravo!’

And still Lady Hargreaves sat inert in her chair.

‘Reminded me of Beethoven,’ said the Colonel.

‘Thanks,’ said father. ‘Shall we do it again?’

‘Again–again!’ cried Miss Linkinghorne.

This stirred Lady Hargreaves. ‘No. It would be–a great mistake to repeat it.’ Every word now seemed an effort to her. I heard her murmur, ‘Beautiful, beautiful!’

The Archdeacon laughed. ‘You composers are too modest, Lady Hargreaves.’

‘You could hear the willow-wren in every bar, couldn’t you, Canon?’ said Mrs Auty.

‘Yes,’ he boomed. ‘One could certainly detect the voice of nature.’

‘When Carless next gives a recital,’ said the Dean, ‘I shall ask him to get Mr Huntley to play it in the Cathedral. This is a light, Lady Hargreaves, that must not any longer be hidden under a bushel.’

Lady Hargreaves looked at father, smiling almost sadly.

‘Here,’ I whispered to father, ‘do you realize they all think we were playing her
Canzona
?’

‘Oh? Well, what does it matter? They seemed to like it, that’s all that matters. What’re we doing next?’

‘You
must
tell them it wasn’t her
Canzona
. You–’

But Lady Hargreaves came towards us and interrupted me.

‘Thank you, Mr Huntley,’ she said, ‘for the most moving performance that I have ever heard.’

‘But–’ I began. She quickly silenced me, putting her finger on her lips. Turning to the guests, she announced, ‘And now, my friends, another original composition. This time by Mr Cornelius Huntley.’ She whispered to father and me. ‘You will now play my
Canzona
. Yes, yes–I
know
I have announced it as your composition. No matter. I am interested to see how it will be received. Norman dear, find the music.’

She had called me ‘Norman’; she had smiled; I was again dear. I put the
Canzona
on the music-stand while father tuned his violin. ‘All right, ready,’ he said. He closed his eyes dreamily.

Lady Hargreaves, with great deliberation, announced it. ‘Mr Huntley, accompanied by his son, will play an original air on the G string.’

‘H’m,’ muttered the Colonel loudly, ‘always fancied that was by Bach.’

‘Fool!’ I said, half aloud. ‘Fool!’

And, at the same moment, Lady Hargreaves uttered aloud, with remarkable vehemence, what I should like to have said. ‘Bach, my dear Colonel, did not
invent
the G string.’ She beckoned to Austen. ‘Austen, take the Colonel another bottle of whisky.’

A deathly silence fell amongst the guests. Nobody looked at anything except the carpet. Even the Cutler eyes could find no other field for investigation.

‘Proceed,’ commanded Lady Hargreaves, with a wave of her hand. ‘Proceed with your air, Mr Huntley.’

For the second time that evening father played his air on the G string. I often wonder whether he ever intended to do anything else.

‘No–no–’ I muttered at him.

‘Shut up!’ he hissed. ‘What’s the matter with you? She told me to play it again. Get on, you devil!’

Lady Hargreaves was beaten; there was almost a startled look in her eyes. Nothing short of an earthquake would have stopped him; and I’m not sure that he would have taken much notice of that. Already we were six bars into the composition.

I heard the Archdeacon whisper something about ‘this modern stuff’. The Colonel struck three matches over his cigar. The Dean jingled money in his pocket. Canon Auty searched in his beard. Mrs Cutler yawned very loudly.

When we had finished there was a chilly silence. Presently the Dean said, ‘Very nice. Perhaps a little beyond me.’

The Archdeacon said, ‘A little too advanced for us, eh, Mr Dean?’

Miss Linkinghorne said, ‘One would need to hear it several times, of course.’

The Colonel said, ‘I like tunes, myself.’

Mrs Auty said, ‘Funny stuff, wasn’t it, Edward?’

Canon Auty said, ‘It was certainly very well
played
.’

Mrs Cutler, who at least was honest, said, ‘I seem to have heard it before somewhere.’

Suddenly Lady Hargreaves, who all this time had said not a word, rose from her chair, tottered weakly into the little parlour without the use of her sticks, and slammed the double doors upon us all.

Panic seized me. Suppose she had a stroke and suddenly passed out? The thought was too awful.

I didn’t care a damn now about anything except her. Connie Hargreaves, my creation, was in that room, perhaps suffering, perhaps at the point of death.

Rushing to the parlour, I hurled open the doors. Austen was striding across the room towards me. I heard the Dean’s angry voice:

‘Huntley, stop! Come back!’

Rage seized me; a burning sense of the truth possessed me. With my back to the doors I turned and faced them all, the people who would never
believe
.

‘You go to hell!’ I cried. ‘Yes–you, Mr Dean–and all of you. She’s mine–
mine
! She wants
me
. She doesn’t want any of you. You’ve –’

Austen took hold of my arm and tried to swing me away from the door.

‘Father!’ I screamed. ‘Help me with this brute. Help!’

Suddenly Lady Hargreaves cried out from the parlour.

‘How dare you, Austen!
How
dare you! Norman, come to me. Austen, show them all out–at once. I abominate–’ Her voice broke; she could not finish her sentence.

I ran in. She was half lying on a sofa, her head buried in cushions, her voice choked with sobs. It simply tore my heart out. Oh, yes, call me a hypocrite! Tell me that I’d planned to get rid of her and altogether been unmercifully cruel to her. But I tell you, seeing her there like that simply tore my heart out.

I fell down on my knees beside the sofa.

‘Dear Miss Hargreaves Oh, Miss Hargreaves Connie, dear don’t cry, please don’t cry. I can’t bear you to be unhappy.’

Her hand fell and clutched mine. ‘Norman Norman,’ she whispered.

‘What’s the matter? Tell me. Please. I’m your
real
friend.’

‘Oh, I know I
know
! That is why I am so unhappy. I realized it suddenly, during your father’s beautiful music all those stupid, stupid people–only applauding your father’s music because they thought it was by me. I am so tired. Call your father–I want him–I want you both. I have been unkind, so very unkind. How will you ever forgive me?’

The Dean was standing in the doorway; in a whispering group behind him, the other guests.

‘We must send for a doctor at once.’ The Dean stepped forward. ‘Huntley, you are doing no good here. Leave us.’

‘It’s you who have upset her,’ I said. ‘You and all your gang. Go away all of you!’

‘Monstrous impertinence!’ snapped the Dean.

‘Away! Away!’ screamed Lady Hargreaves with amazing venom. ‘Out of my house–all of you! Yes, you too, Dean! Away! Away!’ She fell back again, exhausted.

Father pushed his way through the others and came in.

‘Air!’ he cried. ‘Give her air! What you want is anodyne. You want anodyne in a case like this. And cotton-wool. Norman, get some cotton-wool. She’ll be all right. Cousin Terence went off like this–cotton-wool and anodyne and in five minutes he was cycling home fit as a fiddle.’

The Dean had backed away almost nervously. Outside I could hear the impatient tooting of a motor-horn; I went to the window and looked out. Over the other side of the road I could see the lights of Henry’s car. I went to the doors and closed them deliberately on the bewildered guests.