The Shivering Sands (8 page)

Mrs. Lincroft said in her quiet but authoritative voice: “Sir William, this is Mrs. Verlaine.”

“Ah, Mrs. Verlaine.” There was a slight slurring and hesitancy in the speech which I found moving. I suppose I was conscious—perhaps because of my recent encounter with his son—of the great change that illness had brought about in this man. “Pray be seated.”

Mrs. Lincroft put a chair immediately in front of Sir William, so close that I gathered his eyesight was failing too.

I sat down and he said: “You have good qualifications, Mrs. Verlaine. I am glad. I think Mrs. Stacy has some talent. I should like it to be developed. You have not yet had time to discover, I suppose…”

“No,” I answered. “But I have talked with the young ladies.”

He nodded. “When I realized who you were I was immediately interested.”

My heartbeats quickened. If he knew that I was Roma’s sister he might guess why I had come.

“I never had the pleasure of hearing your husband perform,” he went on, “but I have read of his great talent.”

Of course, he was referring to Pietro. How nervous I was! I should have known.

“He was a great musician,” I said, trying to hide the emotion I felt when speaking of him.

“You will find Mrs. Stacy something less.”

“There are very few people living who can be compared with him,” I said with dignity; and he inclined his head in a brief respect to Pietro.

“I shall require you to play for me from time to time,” he went on. “It will be part of your duties. And perhaps on occasions for our guests.”

“I see.”

“I should like to hear you play now.” Mrs. Lincroft was suddenly beside me.

“There’s a piano in the next room,” she said. “You will find the piece which Sir William wishes you to play there.”

Mrs. Lincroft drew back a heavy curtain and opened the door behind it as I followed her into the room. The first thing I noticed was the grand piano. It was open and a piece of music was set up on it. The room was furnished in the same colors as the one I had just left; and there was the same indication that the owner wished to shut out the light.

I went to the piano and glanced at the music. I knew every note by heart. It was Beethoven’s
Für Elise
, in my mind one of the most beautiful pieces ever written.

Mrs. Lincroft nodded to me and I sat down at the piano and played. I was deeply moved, for the piece brought back memories of the house in Paris and of Pietro. He had said of this piece: “Romantic…haunting…mysterious.
You
couldn’t go wrong with a piece like that. With that you can hypnotize yourself into thinking you’re a great pianist.”

So I played and I was soothed and I forgot the sad old man in the next room and the discourteous younger one whom I had met in the stables. Music has this effect on me. I am two people—the musician and the woman. The latter is practical, a little gauche in her defiance of the world because she has been hurt and doesn’t intend to be again, muzzling her emotions and her feelings, pretending they don’t exist because she is afraid of them.

But the musician is all emotion, all feeling; when I play I can imagine that I am carried away from the world, that I have a special sense, that I am in possession of some subtle understanding which is denied to ordinary people. And I felt as I played that this room which had been dark and sad for a long time was suddenly alive again; that I had brought back something for which it had long yearned. Fanciful yes. But music is not of this mundane world. Great musicians draw their inspiration from the divine influence…and although I am not great, I am at least a musician.

I finished playing and the room returned to normal, for the magic had disappeared. I felt I had never done better justice to
Für Elise
, and that had the master overcome his deafness and heard my rendering he would not have been displeased.

There was silence. I sat at the piano waiting. Then as nothing happened I rose and went through the door holding aside the curtain, which was not completely drawn over it. Sir William was lying back in his chair, his eyes closed. Mrs. Lincroft, who had been standing by him, came swiftly to my side.

“It was very good,” she whispered. “He was greatly touched by it. Can you find your way back to your room alone, do you think?”

I said I could and I went out wondering whether the music had so moved Sir William that it had made him ill. At least Mrs. Lincroft felt she must stay with him. What comfort she must be to him—far more than an ordinary housekeeper! No wonder he wanted to repay her by giving her daughter Alice every advantage of education and upbringing.

Thinking of Sir William, Mrs. Lincroft, and of course the encounter with Napier Stacy, I did not find my way back to my room as easily as I had imagined I would. The house was enormous; there were so many corridors and pairs of stairs which looked so much alike; therefore it was quite understandable that I should take the wrong turning.

I came to a door and wondering whether it would lead me back to that part of the house in which I had my room, I opened it. The first thing I noticed about this room was the bell rope and it occurred to me that I should ring this and ask a servant to conduct me to my own room.

As soon as I stepped into this room I was aware that there was something strange about it. It had what I can only call an air of studied naturalness, the impression being that its occupier had a moment before left it. A book was open on a table. I went over and saw that it was a stamp collection; a riding whip lay on a chair, and on the wall were pictures of soldiers in various uniforms. Over the fireplace hung a painting of a young man. I went to it and stood looking at it for it was a fascinating study. His hair was chestnut brown, his eyes vivid blue; the nose was long and slightly hawk-like and the mouth was curved into a smile. It was one of the most handsome faces I had ever seen. I knew of course who it was. It was the beautiful brother who had died and I had come into the room which had once been his. I was startled for I knew I had no right to be in this holy of holies; yet I found it difficult to take my attention from that face on the canvas up there. The picture was painted so that the eyes seemed to follow you no matter where you were; and as I stepped backwards keeping my gaze on the picture the blue eyes watched me, seeming sad one moment, smiling the next.

“Ha. Ha.” I heard a high-pitched titter which sent a shiver down my spine. “Are you looking for Beau?”

I turned round and for a moment I thought it was a little girl standing behind me. Then I saw that she was by no means young. She must have been in her seventies. But she was wearing a pale blue dress of cambric and about her waist was a blue satin sash. Her hair was white but in it she wore two little blue bows, one on either side of her head, the same color as the sash; the frilled skirt would have been more suited to Edith than to this woman.

“Yes,” she said almost coyly, “you
are
looking for Beau. I know you are…so don’t deny it.”

“I am the new music teacher,” I said.

“I know it. I know everything that goes on in this house. But that doesn’t prove, does it, that you weren’t looking for Beau?”

I studied her closely; she had a small heart-shaped face and in her youth must have been extremely pretty. She was certainly very feminine and determined to retain that quality; the dress and the bows gave evidence of that. She had light blue eyes that sparkled from her wrinkles with a kind of mischief, and a flat little nose like a kitten’s.

“I have only just arrived,” I explained. “I was trying to…”

“Look for Beau,” she finished. “I know you have only just arrived and I wanted to meet you. But you’d heard of Beau, of course. Everybody has heard of Beau.”

“I wonder whether you would be good enough to introduce yourself.”

“Of course, of course. How remiss of me.” She giggled. “I thought you might have heard of me…as you’d heard of Beau. I’m Miss Sybil Stacy—William’s sister, and I’ve lived in this house all my life so I’ve seen it all and I know exactly what it’s all about.”

“That must be very gratifying for you.”

She looked at me sharply. “You’re a widow,” she said. “So you’re a woman of experience. You were married to that famous man, weren’t you? And he died. That was sad. Death is sad. We have had deaths in this house…”

Her lips quivered and I thought she was going to weep. She brightened suddenly, as a child will. “But now Napier is back; he is married to Edith; there will be little children. Then it will begin to be better. The children will put everything right.” She looked up at the picture. “Perhaps Beau will go away then.”

Her face puckered.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” I said gently.

“The dead don’t always go, do they? Sometimes they decide to stay. They can’t tear themselves from those they’ve lived with. Sometimes it’s love that keeps them…sometimes it’s hate. Beau’s still here. He can’t rest, poor Beau. It was so lovely for him, you see. He had everything. He had beauty, charm, and he was brilliantly clever; he used to play the piano to make the tears run down your cheeks. Beau had everything. So he wouldn’t want to leave a life which was perfect would he?”

“Perhaps he found greater perfection.”

She shook her head and stamped her foot in a childish gesture. “It wasn’t possible,” she said angrily. “Beau couldn’t have been happier anywhere…neither on Earth nor in Heaven. Why did Beau have to die, do you think?”

“Because his time had come,” I suggested. “It happens so…now and then. Young people die.” Pietro, Roma, I thought. I felt my lips quiver.

“Oh, he was beautiful,” she said. She raised her eyes to the picture as though she were before some god. “That was him…to the life. That picture seems to speak to you. And I’ll never forget the day. The blood…the blood…”

Her face puckered, and I said: “Please don’t think of it. It must be very distressing even now.”

She came closer to me and all the sorrow had left her blue eyes; they sparkled with that mischief which was more alarming than her grief.

“They took his dying depositions. The doctor insisted. He said it was not Napier’s fault. They were playing with the guns…as boys will. ‘Hands up or I’ll fire!’ said Napier. And Beau replied: ‘I’ll get you first.’ At least that’s what Napier told us. But no one was there to see. They were in the gunroom. Then Beau reached for his gun and Napier fired his. Napier said they both thought the guns weren’t loaded. But you see they were.”

“What a terrible accident.”

“Nothing has ever been the same again.”

“But it was an accident.”

“You are a very sure person, Mrs.…Mrs.…”

“Verlaine.”

“I shall remember it. I never forget a name. I never forget a face. You are a very sure person, Mrs. Verlaine. And you have not been here a day yet. So you must be very sure indeed.”

“I can’t know anything, of course,” I said, “but I can quite see how two boys playing together could have an accident. It’s not the first time it’s happened.”

She whispered conspiratorially: “Napier was jealous of Beau. Everybody knew it. How could it have been otherwise? Beau was so handsome; he could do everything well. He used to challenge Napier in lots of ways.”

“Then he couldn’t have been so wonderful,” I said sharply and wondered why I wanted to protect Napier. It was the boy I was eager should have justice, not that arrogant man in the stables.

“Just in a boyish way. He was so boyish…And Napier, well he was quite different.”

“In what way?”

“Difficult. He’d go off on his own. He was always going off on his own. Wouldn’t practice the piano.”

“They have always been fond of music in this house?”

“Their mother played the piano beautifully. As well as you do. Oh yes, I heard you just now. I could have believed it was Isabella come back. Isabella could have been a very great pianist, I’ve heard it said. But she didn’t go on studying when she married. William didn’t wish it. He wanted her to play for him only. Can you understand that, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“No,” I said vehemently. “I think she should have been allowed to go on with her studies. If we have talent we should not hide it away.”

“The parable of the talents,” she cried, her eyes alight with pleasure. “It’s what Isabella thought too. She was…resentful.”

I felt a sympathy with Isabella. She had thrown away a career no doubt for marriage…somewhat as I had.

I felt those childish yet penetrating eyes on me.

Then she turned once more to the picture. “I’ll tell you a secret, Mrs. Verlaine. That is my work.”

“Then you’re an artist.”

She put her hands behind her back and nodded slowly.

“How interesting!”

“Oh yes. I painted that picture.”

“How long before he died did he sit for it?”

“Sit for it. He never would sit for anything. Imagine getting Beau to sit down! And why should I want him to? I knew him. I could see him clearly then…just as I see him now. I didn’t need him to
sit
, Mrs. Verlaine. I only paint the people I know.”

“It’s very clever of you.”

“Would you like to see some more of my pictures?”

“I’d be most interested.”

“Isabella was a clever musician, but she wasn’t the only clever one. Come to my rooms now. I have my own little suite. I’ve had it all my life. There was a time when I might have left here. I was going to be married…” Her face puckered and I thought she was going to burst into tears. “But I didn’t…and so I stayed here where I had been all my life. I had my home and my pictures…”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She smiled. “Perhaps I’ll paint you one day, Mrs. Verlaine. It’ll be when I’ve learned to know you. Then I’ll see how I’ll paint you. Come with me now.”

I was fascinated by this strange little woman. She sprang round daintily and I saw her black satin slippers peeping out from beneath her blue skirt. There was mischief in her smile; as I have said she was like a high-spirited little girl and the manner coupled with that wrinkled face was intriguing and yet, I fancied, a little sinister. I wondered what I was going to see in her room, and if she really was responsible for the picture over the fireplace in Beau’s room.