The Goose Man Part 30

Gertrude replied that he was unkind to everybody, including her herself, and that she must not pay any attention to this; for she knew full well that Daniel liked her-and perhaps he himself was offended because she never called.

Eleanore thought it all over, and from then on visited her sister more frequently. But if it did not look as though Daniel did everything in his power to avoid her, this much was certain: he never said a word to her more than human decency required, and was an expert at finding reasons why he had to leave the room when she was there. Eleanore was gainfully conscious of this; it hurt her.

IX

One morning Gertrude returned from the market, carrying a heavy basket full of things she had bought. As she came in the front door she heard Daniel playing. She noticed at once that he was not improvising; that he was playing a set piece, the tones of which were quite unfamiliar to her.

As she came up the steps, the basket no longer seemed like a burden.

She went quietly into the living room and listened. Something drew her closer and closer to the piano. Daniel had not noticed that she had entered the room and sat down. He was wholly lost in what he was doing; he never took his rapt and wondering eyes from the music before him.

It was his draft of the "Harzreise im Winter." For a year and a half, since the time he had composed it in Ansbach, he had never again thought of it; it had lain untouched. Suddenly the fire of creation had flamed up in him; he could once more bind the incoherent, and make what had been merely implied or indicated take definite shape.

He would play a movement again and again, trying to connect it with what went before or came after; he would take his pencil and write in a few notes here or there; then he would try it again, and smile to himself in a strange, confused, and yet enchanted way, when he saw that the motif was complete, perfect. Gertrude was drawn still closer to him. In her awe-struck admiration she crouched on the floor beside him. She would have liked to creep into the piano, and give her soul the opportunity it sought to express itself in the tones that came from the strings. When Daniel had finished, she pressed her head to his hips, and reached her hot hands up to him.

Daniel was terrified; for he recalled instantaneously another occasion on which another woman had done precisely the same thing. His eye involuntarily fell on the mask of Zingarella. He was not conscious of the connection; there was no visible bridge between the two incidents; Gertrude's face was too unlike that of its momentary prototype. But with a feeling of awe he detected a mysterious liaison between then and now: he imagined he could hear a voice calling to him from the distant sh.o.r.es of yonder world.

He laid his hand on Gertrude's hair. She interpreted the gesture as a visible sign that his promise had been fulfilled; that this work belonged to her; that he had created it for her, had taken it from her heart, and was returning it to the heart from whence it came.

X

Zierfuss, the music dealer, had sent out invitations to a concert.

Daniel did not feel like going. Gertrude asked Eleanore if she would not go with her. Daniel called for them after the concert.

Eleanore told him on the way home that she had received a letter for him that afternoon bearing a London stamp.

"From Benda?" asked Daniel quickly.

"It is Benda's handwriting," replied Eleanore. "I was going to bring it to you when Gertrude called for me. Wait out in the front of the house, and I'll go in and get it."

"Take dinner with us this evening, Eleanore," said Gertrude, looking rather uncertainly at Daniel.

"If it is agreeable to Daniel...."

"No nonsense, Eleanore, of course it is agreeable to me," said Daniel.

A quarter of an hour later Daniel was sitting by the lamp reading Benda's letter.

The first thing his friend told him was that he was to join a scientific expedition to the Congo, and that his party would follow almost exactly the same route that had been taken by the Stanley Expedition when it set out to look for Emin Pascha.

Benda wrote: "This letter then, my dear friend, is written to say good-bye for a number of years, perhaps forever. I feel as if I had been born anew. I have eyes again; and the ideas that fill my brain are no longer condemned to be stifled in the mora.s.s of imprisoned colleagues, loyal and inimical. To labour in nature's laboratory will make me forget the wrongs I have suffered, the injustice that has been done me. Hunger and thirst, disease and danger will of course have to be endured; they are the effects of those crimes of civilisation that spare the body while they poison the mind and soul."

Further on Benda wrote: "I am bound to my home by only two people, my mother and you. When I think of you, a feeling of pride comes over me; every hour we spent together is indelibly stamped on my heart. But there is one delicate point: it is a point of conscience. Call it, so far as I am concerned, a chip; call it anything you please. The fact is I have had a Don Quixotic run in, and I have got to defend myself."

Daniel shook his head and read on. Benda knew nothing of his marriage.

He did not even seem to know that Daniel and Gertrude had been engaged.

Or if he had known it he had forgotten it. Daniel could hardly believe his own eyes when he came to the following pa.s.sage: "My greatest anxiety always lay in the fear that you would pa.s.s Eleanore by. I was too cowardly to tell you how I felt on this point, and I have reproached myself ever since for my cowardice. Now that I am leaving I tell you how I feel about this matter, though not exactly with the sensation of performing a belated task."

For Heaven's sake, thought Daniel, what is he trying to do to me?

"I have often thought about it in quiet hours; it gave me the same feeling of satisfaction that I have in a chemical experiment, when the reactions of the various elements take place as they should: what Eleanore says is your word; what you feel is Eleanore's law."

He is seeing ghosts, cried Daniel, he is tangling up the threads of my life. What does he mean? Why does he do it?

"Don't neglect what I am telling you! Don't crush that wonderful flower!

The girl is a rare specimen; the rarest I know. You need your whole heart with all its powers of love and kindness to appreciate her. But if my words reach you too late, please tear this letter into shreds, and get the whole idea out of your mind as soon and completely as possible."

"Come, let's eat," said Gertrude, as she entered the room with a dish of pickled herring.

Eleanore was sitting on the sofa looking at Daniel quizzically. He was lost in thought.

Daniel looked up, and studied the two women as if they were the figures of a hallucination: the one in dark red, the other in dark blue; minor and major keys. The two stood side by side, and yet so far removed from each other: they were the two poles of his world.

XI

"What has Benda got to say?" asked Gertrude hesitatingly.

"Just think, he is going to Africa," replied Daniel, with a voice as if he were lying. "Curious, isn't it? I suppose he is on the ocean by this time."

With an expression on his face that clearly betrayed the fact that he was afraid the sisters might somehow divine or suspect the parts of the letter he wished to keep to himself, he read as much of it as he dared to them.

"Why don't you read on?" asked Eleanore, when he paused.

She bent over the table, filled with a burning curiosity to know the whole contents of the letter, and while so doing her hair became entangled in the metal bric-a-brac of the hanging lamp. Gertrude got up and liberated her.

Daniel had laid his hand over the letter, and was looking at Eleanore threateningly. His eye and that of the captured girl chanced to meet; she struggled between a feeling of amus.e.m.e.nt and one of annoyance. It gave Daniel an uncomfortable feeling to have her eyes so close to his.

"Don't you know that that is not polite?" he asked. "We have some secrets, probably, Benda and I."

"I merely thought that Benda had sent me his greetings," replied Eleanore, and blushed with embarra.s.sment.

Daniel then held the letter above the chimney of the lamp, waited until it had caught fire, and then threw it on the floor, where it burned up.

"It is late, and father is already waiting," said Eleanore, after they had eaten in great haste.

"I will take you home," declared Daniel. Surprised by such unusual gallantry, Eleanore looked at him with amazement. He at once became moody; she was still more surprised. "I can go home alone, Daniel," she said in a tone of noticeable seriousness, "you do not need to put yourself out for me."

"Put myself out? What do you mean? Are you one of those people who can't keep a tune, and step on the pedal when their sentiment runs short?"

Eleanore had nothing to say.

"Put your great coat on, Daniel," said Gertrude in the hall, "it is cold and windy out."

She wanted to help him on with it, but he threw it in the clothes press; he was irritated.

He walked along at Eleanore's side through the deserted streets.