Outbreak of Love (4 page)

“Who are the swells?” she asked, detecting in Steven and George the same intonation as her late husband's.

Wolfie could never resist an opportunity of adding to his own importance. As Mrs Montaubyn had classified Steven and George as swells, he had to announce that they were his wife's brothers.

“Why didn't you introduce me?”

“It is bad already. Now trouble may come upon me.”

“What can those two sticks do?”

“They can tell my wife and I am ruined.”

Mrs Montaubyn's cheeks reddened, but controlling herself she asked: “What's wrong with having tea with a friend?”

“That is so,” said Wolfie thoughtfully. “Perhaps we look modest.”

“You bet we do,” said Mrs Montaubyn, and she shook silently, and then emitted the long gasp of air.

But Wolfie's manner remained aloof, and he fidgeted to leave the restaurant and return to the flat. Mrs Montaubyn's bedroom had a rich appearance of pink satin, given not only by the curtains and the bedcover, but by pink satin bows tied on the dressing-table and on the looking-glass. Here Wolfie recovered his peace of mind.

“Now let us forget all worldliness and malice,” he said, and Mrs Montaubyn was only too glad to fall in with his change of mood. She took off her hat and feather boa, and flung herself back on the bed, much as some wanton peasant girl amongst her forebears might have flung herself beneath the haystacks of Garmisch-Partenkirchen.

Wolfie undid her hair, and the tumbling masses of hyacinthine gold, or perhaps brass, spread over the pillow and enveloped her shoulders. He buried his face in it for some moments. Then, lifting his shining eyes, he said: “You are my dear German childhood. You smell of the hedge-roses.” He believed that the strong scent she used had this delicate fragrance, as the only fastidious thing about Wolfie was his ears. He lifted her hair in handfuls and let it fall again, and while he did so he sang to her softly, a song of his own composition. When he had finished, Mrs Montaubyn, touched by an only dim understanding of his charm, his childlike love of play, which, freed from his normal pomposity, he carried up to the most intimate moments of lovemaking, said: “You are a scream, Dingo,” and she pulled his head down on to her bosom.

The ritual continued. He unveiled the splendid mysteries which to him were the vineyards of the Rhine and the apple orchards of Bavaria. They awoke in him intimations of a greater antique glory, the breasts of Ceres and the tumbling grapes in a Sicilian winepress, all the fruitfulness of the earth.

If an observer could have been freed alike from sensual stimulus and the repugnances of the flesh, Wolfie and Mrs Montaubyn might have been beautiful to watch, like two large roses, blown into gentle contact by the afternoon breeze, for the spirit which moved them was, after all, that from which springs most of the beauty that we know. Even those who were unable to view them
sub specie aeternitatis
, would have found in them the composition of a magnificent Rubens, with perhaps a hint of Fragonard in the way the light gleamed, against a background of rosy shadows, on the voluptuous centre of the bed.

Just as Mrs Montaubyn was subsiding into sleep, Wolfie exclaimed: “Ach, if I do not hurry I shall miss the eleven-thirty-three.”

“Don't be an old fusspot, Dingo,” she said drowsily. “You can make up some story. Stay for once.”

“I cannot deceive my wife,” said Wolfie, meaning that Diana was not easily hoodwinked. Mrs Montaubyn thought the reference to his wife, at this moment, in very bad taste. She also noticed, as Wolfie began to dress, that he had not taken off his socks.

Every class of society has its own refinements. A Victorian girl might burst into tears if a man offered her bread on the point of a knife. Anthea and Cynthia, the twins whom we shall meet presently, used to quote: “No lady helps a man on with his coat, struggle as he may,” and they would stand convulsed with laughter while some shy guest groped for the arm of his overcoat. A lady novelist has pointed out that a section of the landed gentry can tolerate any amount of butchery and adultery, but not the word “mantelpiece”. Mrs Montaubyn's most cherished convention was: “No gentleman enters a lady's bed with his socks on.” Wolfie had violated this. He embraced her hurriedly and rushed for the train.

When he had gone she lay brooding on his treatment of her. He had mentioned his wife three times during the evening, and twice with the implication that she was more important than herself. He had hurried her through the streets, and had failed to introduce her to his brothers-in-law. She liked old Dingo, and she had good times with him, but she was not going to put up with his being ashamed of her. She had money, and very fashionable clothes, and if he introduced her to his friends he would see she could be refined. On top of all this he showed clearly his lack of respect by his failure to remove his socks. She was sure that he would have taken them off if she had been a lady. This, more than any of the other indications of his attitude, stuck in her mind. Lying abandoned in her rich bed, her cheeks flushed with love, drink and anger, she tried to think of some way of getting even with Wolfie, without breaking with him. The best way to do this would be to penetrate independently the circle of his friends, but she did not know how to set about it.

Wolfie caught the train with two minutes to spare. Unaware of the fuse he had lit in Mrs Montaubyn's resentful bosom, he thought of her with dreamy affection. As he leaned back against the green leather cushions, the noble contours of her body were vivid in his mind. He once more associated her with his native hills, the orchards and the vineyards, and he smelled the hedge-roses in her hair. As he did so his fingers tapped on his knees and he began to hum. The train started, and as he was alone in the carriage he sang. The rhythm of the train acted as a metronome. Suddenly his eyes lighted with joy. “Dum-ti-dum, dum-ti-dum,” he sang. “Dum-ti-dum dum dum.” He took an envelope from his pocket and began to scribble notes on the back of it. He had found the missing phrase for his prelude. The buds had blossomed in his brain.

 

There was some dead wood in the banksia rose which climbed along the veranda. Apart from this it wanted thinning as it darkened Diana's bedroom. The next morning was bright and still, and the branches would not blow in her face, so she decided to tackle it now, then all the spring growth could go into the young wood which she would leave. She cut the dead shoots close to the roots. Wearing thick leather gloves, she tugged at them, and the whole branch came away, disentangling itself and damaging those which remained. She enjoyed pulling them out, and thought one ought to do the same sort of thing with one's own life, though that too would damage the still living parts of one's being. Josie was up at Westhill for the week-end, and she felt rather alone. Wolfie was in the music-room, from which came bursts of melody, followed by periods of silence which in turn were broken by loud chords and difficult strummings. She could tell from long experience of these sounds, that the prelude was going ahead satisfactorily. The sea was still and shimmering in the morning light, a ship was steaming down the bay, and everything was very beautiful. She thought of Russell Lockwood and wondered when he would call.

Suddenly Wolfie appeared at the window. “Come,” he cried excitedly. “Come. I have finished. It is magnificent.”

She went into the music-room and sat, still wearing her thick gloves, while Wolfie played his prelude. It seemed to her to contain more lyrical motifs and richer harmonies than anything he had written for a long time. When he had finished he beamed at her with self-satisfaction.

“It's lovely, Wolfie,” she said, “it's really lovely. Oh, I am glad!” and she kissed him with affectionate pride.

CHAPTER THREE

Wolfie had completed his prelude on Saturday morning. On Monday Josie returned from Westhill, and on Tuesday Diana was lunching with both of them on the veranda. They generally had luncheon out of doors on the fine days of spring and autumn, and even on days of winter sunlight. In the summer it was too hot and the flies were troublesome.

Wolfie's elation at his creative achievement had lasted until Sunday evening, when it had been succeeded by depression at the thought that few people would hear his prelude. He could play it, like his other compositions, to a small group at the Conservatorium, but he wanted to be heard by a wider public.

“I want to play it before ladies with diamonds,” he said.

They discussed during luncheon how this could be brought about. Josie was the only one of the three children who took an intelligent interest in the general welfare of the family. Daisy before her marriage lived in clouds of self-centred romanticism, and in spite of burdens heavy enough to bring her down to earth, still did. Harry's contribution, before he left for the sheep station, had been to mow the lawn and grumble because his family were unconventional. But Josie seemed to want her parents to be happy. She encouraged Diana in any activity which brought colour or fun to their home. She alone was appreciative of all the artistry her mother had used to make the details of their lives charming and their parties original and amusing, as when Diana had constructed a marionette theatre, and with the governess had acted
Little Red Riding Hood, The Three Bears
and
The Snow Queen
. Diana often thought that Josie, though the youngest, had done most to help keep the house together. She now sat at the edge of the veranda with the sunlight in her hair, and looking very young and full of hope she said:

“Couldn't we have a big party here, and ask all the diamond ladies for Daddy to play to?”

“It is too far out,” said Diana, “and there's not a big enough room. All the rooms are too big and too high, but the drawing-room's just the same size as Harry's bedroom. And I don't think we know enough diamond ladies—only Elsie and Maysie, and Sophie, who wouldn't come, and anyhow she wears garnets.”

“Why not hire the Auditorium, and have a concert?”

“We might not sell the tickets,” said Wolfie, determined to be gloomy. “We should lose money and I would be humbled. People will not come largely to pianos alone.”

“Well,” said Josie, “why not sell this house, and build quite a little house in South Yarra, but with one absolutely enormous music-room?”

“We could not leave our fine house for a little house,” said Wolfie, shocked. “To look not at the noble expanse of sea but the opposite neighbour.”

Diana thought this might be a good idea, and yet she was a little hurt that Josie could so lightly suggest selling the house which they had entered with so much pride and hope. She was perhaps more reluctant to sell it, because it had not quite fulfilled her hopes, and to do so would be admitting a failure. And yet it would be better for all of them to have a little house, white and clean and modern and easily run, with a room big enough for Wolfie to give small concerts in. It would be delightful. It would also be better for Josie. She could give dances for her, and she would meet more young people. She did not want her to be wasted in a marriage like Daisy's, but when she tried to think of the marriage she would like her to make, her mind was a blank. She supposed that she would like her to marry a young man of their own sort, sensitive, belonging to one of the families which had lived near them at St Kilda when she was a girl—the Lockwoods, the Bynghams, the Cranes. But the younger generation of these families had little money. Daisy had married one of them and had begun a life of hardship. The rich people were the squatters. Many of these were what she had been taught to call gentlemen, but they did not appear to think of anything but horses, like their opposite numbers in England. Several of them were the grandsons of Scottish crofters, and although they were good, useful people who had developed the country, and had been able to afford expensive educations, she could not see Josie, who had been brought up, in spite of certain deficiencies, amongst people whose lives were devoted to artistic creation, to pleasure, and to the almost over-exercise of a sharp and simmering wit, living happily with a sprig of Calvinism.

They dawdled on over the luncheon table, but nothing was settled. Josie went to change for tennis at a neighbour's house. Wolfie went into Melbourne, giving a detailed explanation of the lessons he had to give, which only had the effect of convincing Diana that when he did not give these explanations his rendezvous was dubious. Thinking of this she was a little dispirited when he had gone, and felt disinclined to continue working in the garden, which she had attacked with vigour for the last few days. She pulled out a deck-chair, fetched the morning papers and settled down on the veranda to read, but she could not give her attention to the paper.

Perhaps Josie was right and they should sell the house. It did seem that she had come to the end of a phase in her life. Until now, she thought, she had been learning a lesson. The time had arrived for her to live by it. When she was young she had been impatient and selfish, grabbing at the things she had wanted, one of which was Wolfie. At last, when it appeared that she would never have them, she had thought: “Well then, let me at least see that someone else has what he wants.” Whereas more evil natures would say: “If I can't have it, I'll see that no one else has.” From then on she devoted herself to trying to prevent the frustration of those nearest to her. By frequent self-denials she could satisfy the children, give Daisy a bedroom carpet, Josie a new party dress, or make a slight raid on capital to send Harry to an expensive school. And this had effected a change in her character, which was not yet fully recognized by her relatives, who continued to regard her as clever, but spoilt, as if anyone could be spoilt living with Wolfie. Even so, she would have strained all her resources to their limit to bring Wolfie recognition, but it was beyond her capacity.

Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of a motor car stopping at the gate. It looked very large and new, as much as she could see of it, and she thought that it must be Russell's. She went through the French window into her room, and tidied her hair. She was wondering if she had time to change her dress, when she heard Elsie Radcliffe in the hall, calling out: “Is anyone at home?”