'Uncle!' Nicola looked up then, her eyes wide and startled in her white face. 'What on earth makes you say that?'
'Is it very important to you?'
'Terribly important!' she cried, with such intensity that her uncle sighed slightly and said, as he had when she asked him about his own dislike of Michele, 'It's a long story.'
She knew he meant that he disliked embarking on long stories. But she said imploringly, 'Please tell me, Uncle. It—it could be more important than you guess.'
Her uncle smiled sardonically, being a man who was used to guessing pretty accurately where his wife was concerned.
'Well, Nicola, it started a good many months ago now, during the Canadian Festival. I was there with Gina, who was singing, and Julian was conducting in one or two of the principal cities, beginning with Montreal. In the visiting orchestra was a specially brilliant young viola player called Brian Coverdale, with whom he was very friendly. I suppose they talked a great deal to each other about their hopes and plans. Anyway, Julian knew that Coverdale was engaged to a particularly nice girl back in London.—What did you say?'
'Nothing. I—I just wondered how you knew so much.'
'Oh, I've always liked Julian and believed in his future. We talked sometimes almost on an uncle and nephew basis, now I come to think of it. Gina didn't know, of course. She's not much interested in rising artists. She likes them to have risen before she takes much notice of them.'
'I know.' Nicola smiled faintly. 'But where does Michele come in?'
'Michele was singing in Montreal. Operatic performances and a recital of her own. She set her cap at Julian, but without much success. So she turned her attention to the other fellow, Brian Coverdale, who was a most attractive, gifted chap, I must say, though not, I suppose, quite such a catch as a rising conductor would have been. She completely infatuated him—'
'Uncle! Are you sure of that? Brian Coverdale was—was infatuated with Michele?'
'Besotted with her. She's the kind some men can't resist, you know. He was so far gone that when he caught a chill, just before they were due to leave Montreal and go on to Toronto, he made the most of it, pleading real illness and managing to stay on in Montreal.'
'Was Julian—very angry?'
'Furious.'
'Because that was going to spoil his Toronto concerts?'
'He wasn't pleased about that aspect, I suppose. But he deplored Coverdale's utterly irresponsible behaviour as an artist, and took it on himself to be angry too on behalf of the girl back in England.'
'He—he really minded about her?' Nicola said faintly.
'He's a bit quixotic in these matters.' Her uncle smiled and shook his head. 'Doesn't do, of course. Best to let people run their own lives. He knows that now, poor lad. But apparently he had been very much Brian's confidant about the girl before the Laraut came along. He told me he'd seen a photograph of her and that there was no doubt about her being something very special. To see her being treated so shabbily added fuel to his anger.'
He paused for a moment, but Nicola said almost feverishly, 'Go on—please go on.'
'Well, Coverdale had his way. He ditched his first engagement as soloist with the orchestra in Toronto, and stayed on in Montreal. But when it came to the second one, Julian refused to accept any sort of excuse. He telephoned—I was there at the time—and tore a strip and a half off Coverdale, telling him he would see he was sued for breach of contract if he didn't turn up. He said he knew that Michele was at the bottom of it, and asked him what sort of cad he thought he was being to his girl in England.'
'He brought her in again!'
'Though it was hardly his business—yes, he did. Anyway, Brian caught the next plane and kept his engagement, playing fantastically well, I might say. What Julian didn't know, poor devil, was that on this second occasion the plea of illness was all too genuine. Coverdale collapsed with pneumonia just after the concert and died the next day. That left Julian with a load of remorse, of course, and Michele with an implacable grudge against him.'
'But—' the words were almost dragged out of Nicola— 'he acted from the best of motives, didn't he?'
'The best of motives don't help much if they've prompted you to do something you'll regret for the rest of your life,' replied her uncle drily. 'It was just Julian's damned luck to accept the first excuse, which was false, and to reject the second one, which was genuine.'
'And he was thinking,' Nicola said slowly, 'of the girl back in England.'
'Oddly enough, I think that really did weigh with him. I don't say he would have pressed his point so ruthlessly on her behalf alone. There were the professional considerations too, of course. But he had taken the measure of Miss Laraut, and I suppose he rather fancied himself as playing God and snatching Brian out of her clutches and restoring him to his rightful girl. Quite absurd, of course,' he rubbed his chin regretfully. 'Real life never works that way. The best intentions often earn one the hardest knocks.'
'But, Uncle—' Nicola steadied her voice with the greatest difficulty—'don't you think he was largely moved by his own interests? Surely, surely he was thinking most of the fact that his concert would be spoiled?' She spoke almost pleadingly. '
'My dear, no one ever acts from unmixed motives.' Her uncle smiled almost indulgently at what he evidently considered the naïveté of her question. 'Julian knows better than anyone that there was an element of that. He would have been superhuman and rather foolish if it had been otherwise. Now neither he nor anyone else can say in what proportion he was thinking of Brian or himself or the unknown girl in England. But, being essentially a hard judge of himself, he blames himself far too much. Far more than anyone else would do.'
'Except,' said Nicola slowly, 'perhaps the girl in England.'
'She least of all,' was the dry reply. 'She never knew the truth. Julian told me himself that he meant to seek her out in England and go to any lengths to keep at least her memories of her Brian intact.'
'He told you that?' cried Nicola in the utmost dismay.
'Yes. And knowing Julian as I do, I feel sure that was what he did, whatever it cost him.'
For a moment words stuck in her throat, so that it physically ached. Then, as though she could not help it, she said, 'You—you think a lot of him, don't you, Uncle?'
'Yes.' He smiled musingly. 'I can't say I've ever allowed myself regrets that I'm a man without a son. If you marry a Gina Torelli you mustn't expect family life; you have other things instead. But if I'd had a son, I'd have been pleased to have him like Julian.'
'Would you, Uncle?'
'Oddly enough, Gina said something of the sort to me last night,' he added as though the recollection still amused and touched him.
'Gina did?' Nicola was thunderstruck. 'I knew she liked him nowadays, though not at first. But I'd no idea she felt like that.'
'Only passingly, I'm sure,' said her uncle realistically. 'But I'm glad they hit it off together so well. Gina, as we know, can be difficult. Tonight is vital to Julian, and it could have been disaster if there had been any major friction.'
Nicola felt her mouth go dry.
'It couldn't matter so much, surely? He always seems so cool—so well able to deal with anything.'
'Underneath that confident manner, he's a sensitive, vulnerable creature, like most artists. Added to which, he has—I don't know whether one would call it an obsession or a superstition—anyway, a sort of idée fixe about this business with Coverdale. He thinks that because he was somehow responsible for Brian's death he doesn't deserve great success and will never quite attain it.'
'But that's absurd—absurd!' Nicola cried.
'Of course it is. But it's difficult to argue with aft obsession. That's why we're all so anxious that he should have the kind of success tonight that will prove him wrong, once and for all.'
'But he won't!' Nicola heard her own voice run up to a quite unfamiliar pitch. 'He won't have a great success tonight. I've upset him as no one else could. Even bri
nging in Brian! Oh, what have I done? What have I done?'
And overwhelmed by despair and a sense of immeasurable guilt, she burst into wild tears.
It was at this moment that Torelli chose to come into the room.
CHAPTER NINE
For a moment Torelli stood and surveyed her weeping niece and her nonplussed husband, as though waiting for her exact cue. Then she moved forward into the room and inquired calmly,
'What is going on here?'
'I have no idea,' her husband said irritably. But then, because Gina was his first consideration, particularly on a day of performance, he added curtly to Nicola, 'Stop that nonsense. You're upsetting Gina.'
'She's not upsetting me at all. And don't bully her,' said Torelli, who was, of course, capable of bullying anyone much more efficiently than her husband if she thought the circumstances warranted it. 'Now, Nicola, what is the matter?' And, sitting down beside her agitated niece, she unexpectedly took her in her arms.
'Oh, Gina—' Nicola clung to her aunt and buried her face against her neck.
It was a very nice neck, firm and white and designed by nature for the display of diamonds rather than one on which to weep. Improbably, however, Nicola was comforted by the cool firmness of it against her own hot, wet cheek.
'Come now—tell me.' Torelli's tone was authoritative though not unkind. 'Few things are worth such tears.'
And so, in gusts of feverish words, and often in little more than a whisper, Nicola poured out her story.
Once her uncle asked bewilderedly, 'Do you know what she's talking about?'
But Torelli said, 'Yes, of course. It's perfectly clear. Though her diction is poor, with all this gulping and sniffing. She was in love with Brian Coverdale, and consequently thought she hated Julian. Now she's in love with Julian, but because of Michele's spiteful intervention, she got the situation wrong, and chose this day, of all days, to telephone him and upset him by recalling his part in Brian's death. She's afraid—'
'What?' cried her husband, interrupting this superbly brief resume of Nicola's muddled story. 'She chose today to do that? Why, it could ruin his whole performance.'
'Of course. That's why she's upset.'
'How could you be such a wicked little fool?' Nicola could never have supposed her Uncle Peter could speak with such violence, and she shrank a little against her aunt.
'Don't be silly, Peter. Why are any of us wicked fools at some time in our lives?' countered Torelli with magnificent calm. 'For the husband of a prima donna you're showing singularly little understanding of the unreasonableness of the human race. It was a mistake to go away on holiday for so long. It has blunted your technique.'
'What do you expect me to do, then?' Her husband made a visible effort to exert his usual patience.
'You, dear? I don't expect you to do anything,' replied Torelli, with deceptive mildness. 'This is something for me to tackle.'
'You?' exclaimed her husband in his turn, and he ran his hands over his hair as though he thought it might have grown even greyer in the last ten minutes. 'Have you forgotten you're singing tonight?—an important first night, at that.'
'I forget nothing,' replied Torelli, firmly and not quite accurately. 'But Nicola has some vital explanations to make to Julian. Probably she is the only person in the world who can calm and steady him for tonight, and so—'
'I couldn't possibly speak to him!' Nicola cried. 'I can never, never speak to him again. I'm too ashamed and wretched and—'
'And who do you suppose is interested in your shame and wretchedness?' inquired her aunt coldly and bracingly. 'All we are interested in is Julian—and the performance. You have done him a great injustice and now you will have to explain to him—'
'He won't listen to me! If I tried to ring him up now, he would hang up the receiver the moment he heard my voice. He's probably refusing all calls, anyway, and—'
'You are not going to speak to him on the telephone, dear child. You are going to speak to him face to face.'
'I couldn't! Anyway, he wouldn't agree to see me.' she exclaimed, with a cowardly clutch at a passing straw.
Very likely not. But he will agree to see me,' replied Torelli calmly. 'Wash your face. Comb your hair. And get ready to come with me. Peter, call the car.'
'I can't. I truly, truly can't,' pleaded Nicola.
'You must. You've inflicted enough anguish on Julian in a poor cause. Now you can inflict some on yourself, in the best of all possible causes—a great performance. Stop being a coward. And please, Peter, don't you interfere. Just go and order the car.'
She made a brief, Queen-of-the-Night sort of gesture, and her husband went out of the room.
'Now, Nicola—' she turned back to her pale niece, who had drawn away and was standing now, in an agony of indecision, twisting her hands together. 'The first thing is to get your priorities straight. Do you love Julian? No coy evasions, mind. And no question of whether it's right or wrong, wise or unwise. Do you love him?'
'Yes,' said Nicola, in a very low voice. 'But he can't bear me.'
'How do you know that?'
'He couldn't, after what I've done.'
'There's no guarantee of that. Men are great fools. So are women, of course. But in rather different circumstances. If you love him, I suppose you want him to succeed tonight?'
'Of course, of course!'
'Above everything else? Think carefully.'
'Above everything else,' said Nicola, still in a low voice, but firmly.
'Then there is no question of your not coming now and trying to right what you have done, is there?'
'But what can I say to him? What can I say to him?'
'I don't know. Whatever you think he most wants to hear. I suppose it could be just that you love him,' said Torelli, with the magnificent simplicity of perfect art.
'You—you do know all the answers, don't you?' Nicola gazed at her in a sort of wonderment.
'Not all of them—no. No one does. But I know a lot of them. That's why I am who I am,' replied Torelli coolly. 'Get ready.'
So Nicola washed her face and combed her hair and, trembling but resolute, was ready to accompany her aunt in a matter of minutes.
'Do you want me to come?' her uncle asked.
'No,' said Torelli. 'Nicola and I can handle this.'
Nicola simply did not believe that they could. Not even Gina, with her genius and her confidence, could possibly right the fearful tangle of wrong which she herself had woven. But she owed it to Julian to try. She owed it to the man she loved to make some sort of gesture, however futile, however humiliating, in atonement for the dreadful thing she had done.
When they arrived at the Gloria it was Torelli who approached the inquiry desk, ignoring for once the flutter of startled recognition around her, and asked for her name to be sent up to the conductor.
'He isn't in, Madame Torelli,' said a respectful clerk,
'He must be. On a day of performance.'
'No—' it evidently shook the clerk to have to contradict her—'he went out ten minutes ago. He went—' the clerk reached for a slip of paper—'to Covent Garden.'
'So early?' Torelli frowned and glanced at her watch. 'Extraordinary. Well—thank you.' And turning, she took Nicola's arm and propelled her out once more to the waiting car.
'Covent Garden,' she said to the chauffeur. 'Stage door.'
To Nicola, who had called on the last remnants of her courage as they entered the hotel, it was almost insupportable to have the crisis delayed. She leaned back in the car, pale and silent, during the few minutes it took to reach the Opera House.
As they went in at the stage door the man on duty said,
'Mr. Evett's already here, Madame.—Oh, and here comes Mr. Warrender,' he added as a long black car slid up behind the one they had just left.
'Oscar!' Torelli waited for him and addressed him in open astonishment. 'What are you doing here? What has happened?'
'I was just going to ask you that,' re
plied the famous conductor, who was frowning and looking rather grim. 'Come—' he ignored the insignificant Nicola and took Torelli by the arm. And as they went along the corridor, past the big mirror near the ballet room, he said, 'What's the matter with Julian? Has he been in touch with you? He telephoned and asked me to meet him here. He says he can't conduct tonight—that I must take over. And he wants to run through the score with me and give any necessary pointers about the line he's taken throughout the rehearsals. Is he ill or something?'
'No, he's not ill. There's been a bit of a crisis.'
'A crisis? Have you—'
'Not me this time.' Torelli gave a quick, humorous glance at her old colleague. 'Oscar, will you go to my dressing-room and wait for me? I'll join you in a minute.'
'But Julian asked to see me. There isn't a lot of time to waste, you know.'
'No time will be wasted,' replied Torelli. 'I doubt if you will have to take over, anyway. Give me a few minutes.'
The conductor looked at her, half amused, half doubtful. But he said, 'Ten minutes, then,' and turned off in the direction of the singers' dressing-rooms, while Torelli, with an almost painfully firm hand on Nicola's arm, turned the other way.
'Gina, it's no good! I can't—'
'If he were drowning you'd do the impossible to save him,' was the curious reply. 'It's somewhat the same thing.' And she raised her hand and knocked authoritatively on the door of the conductor's dressing-room.
'Who's that?' There was a sort of feverish sharpness about the voice which answered.
'Gina Torelli,' replied the singer, a little as though she were announcing royalty. Friendly royalty perhaps—but royalty without a doubt.
'Madame—' They heard a chair pushed back and footsteps. But before he could reach the door, she opened it and walked into the room, her hand still on Nicola's rigid arm.
'Madame!' he said again, and fell back from her, so that the light from the high window was full upon him and Nicola saw that he looked very pale, slightly dishevelled and, in some strange way, haunted.
The Curtain Rises Page 15
