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Book 1Eighteen
On the last evening Lucy got to the Arts Building just as James Mockford was arriving in a cab, followed by an express cart. Besides his travelling luggage, he brought with him a rusty little tin trunk and a large lounge chair, which he asked Sebastian to store, as he was giving up his lodgings. Mockford`s entrance caused some confusion. Giuseppe dragged the trunk back into the bedroom, beckoning Lucy to follow him. He whispered to her that later he would get the ugly chair out of the way, so that she would not have to look at it. He meant to leave the music room very nice for her, not like a second-hand shop. She had noticed before that Giuseppe disliked Mockford. He once said to her, when Sebastian`s favourite cigarette-case was not to be found, that, since he was responsible for the place, no one but he should have a latch-key, NO ONE!--with a murderous flash in his quick eyes.
After Morris Weisbourn had arrived, and they were all gathered in the music room, Mockford was the only person altogether cheerful. He was so pleased to be leaving Chicago that he made himself agreeable even to Lucy. Sebastian was at the bookcase behind the piano, going over a pile of music. Giuseppe, who had been so delighted to be starting for home, and to be sailing on a big boat, had lost his enthusiasm. He stood in the background among the trunks, his hands crossed before him, solemn and hushed, as if he were waiting for a coffin to be carried out. They were all, of course, impatiently expecting the transfer men who were to come and get the luggage. The air in the room was heavy and hot--no breeze, though all the windows were open. Out over the Lake the sky was black, and from time to time there was a low growl of thunder.
Sebastian called Lucy to his corner and began giving her some directions, to which she tried to listen. But she was distracted by Weisbourn and Mockford, who were talking very loud, as if they wished everything they said to be heard. They had seated themselves by an open window and were finishing the last bottle of port. Weisbourn must have been drinking before he came; his dark blue cheeks looked very thick, and his eyes were small. The moment they sat down together they had been overtaken by the brotherly affection which beams from two schemers who have done each other a good turn.
"And when you are to be operate, you will send me a cable? So?"
Sebastian shot a glance of amusement at the two from behind the piano. Lucy saw their wineglasses touch, one in the round fat hand, the other in the white freckled one.
Just then came heavy sounds and knocking at the door. Giuseppe flew to admit the baggage men. "Thank God!" Sebastian murmured. As soon as the trunks had gone down, he put on his topcoat and turned to Mockford and Weisbourn.
Gentlemen, I have some calls to make, and I am going to take Miss Gayheart home. I shan`t be back here. I will meet you at the station. Giuseppe will take the hand luggage down at eleven. Leave the keys with the doorman.
The cab Sebastian customarily used had been waiting outside half an hour. He told the driver to open the windows and take them out to the Park.
"You are worn out with all the fuss, and so am I," he said as they drove up the avenue. He drew her head over on his shoulder. "There. Shut your eyes and rest. We have three hours, all our own." He felt her soft young body take the line of his as she lay against him. She breathed lightly, like a child sleeping. He, too, closed his eyes. The warm night air blew in over their faces. After a while it began to smell of trees and new-cut grass, and the confused city noises died away.
Sebastian felt a wet splash on his face. He put his hand out of the window; it was raining a little. Then it came down harder, a fierce spring shower.
"Asleep, Lucy?"
"No."
"We were glad to get away, weren`t we? But I`ve grown fond of that studio. I like to think it`s not going to be shut up dumb and dusty all summer, that you`ll be coming and going. I shall be thinking of you. When I am at sea, I shall look at my watch every morning and figure the difference in time and tell myself whether you have opened the piano yet."
Lucy buried her face closer, her hand on his shoulder tightened. She felt the tears rising and could not hold them back.
"I ought to do better than this. I`m so sorry!" she quavered.
"Never mind, dear. Cry if you feel like it. Perhaps I shall cry with you."
"It`s only because I`m so afraid."
"Afraid again? Of what?"
"Oh, that you`ll never come back! Something tells me you won`t."
"That`s because you are just beginning, and are not used to good- byes. They hurt, sometimes, even after one has gone through a great many." Sebastian felt a heaviness of heart; he scarcely knew whether on her account or his own. He was wondering whether there was not some way of escape from his life: from concerts and hotels, from Mockford, and his wife, and his place in France, from his friends in England, from everything he was and had. In what stretched out before him there was nothing he wanted very much. And this youth and devotion would not be the same when he came back, he knew; what he held against his heart was for tonight only. It was a parting between two who would never meet again.
Lucy knew what he was thinking. She felt a kind of hopeless despair in the embrace that tightened about her. As they passed a lamppost she looked up, and in the flash of light she saw his face. Oh, then it came back to her! The night he sang When We Two Parted and she knew he had done something to her life. Presentiments like that one were not meaningless; they came out of the future. _Surely that hour foretold sorrow to this_. They were going to lose something. They were both clinging to it and to each other, but they must lose it.
Presently Sebastian stopped the carriage and told the driver he could wait for them. He took Lucy`s arm and they walked for a long while up and down the winding gravel paths, the bitter fragrance of young lilac leaves coming sharp into their faces at every turn. The rain had stopped, but the dripping bushes showered them with waterdrops. Their hands and faces were wet; it was good to feel. There was not a star to be seen, but the blackness above them was soft and velvety between the scattered park lights. Sebastian was telling Lucy that perhaps next summer they would be walking under night skies far away from here. If she went abroad with the Auerbachs, he would join them in Vienna. There were a great many things he would like to show her for the first time; gardens-- forests--mountains.
They had turned back toward the carriage, the wet gravel crushing softly under their feet. As he came under one of the lamp-posts, he slipped out his watch. He said nothing to Lucy, but he gave the cabman her street-number. They drove back into the heart of the city in silence, as they had come away from it.
At the bakery entrance Sebastian got out and followed Lucy up the two flights of stairs to her own door. In the dim hall light he took her face in his hands and looked into it for a long moment, Lucy felt the old terror coming back; _to sever for years_. . . . She couldn`t bear it any longer.
"Go," she whispered, "go now!" She scarcely felt his arms, his lips; she could only think that in a moment he would not be there at all. He held her closer and closer, and then he let her go. She stood just inside her door, leaning against it, listening to his quick heavy tread down the first stairway--the second--then she heard the cab door slam.
Sebastian knew she was listening. He shut the door violently to end her suspense. A last signal. He sank back in the seat and closed his eyes as the cab lumbered off. Against the rumble of the wheels he spoke aloud to himself. What he said was:
"Ein schoner Stern ging auf in meiner Nacht."
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