Storm Music (1934)

by Dornford Yates

  The spot to which we were going lay twelve miles off, and after leaving the car we must walk half a mile through the forest to come to the dell. Be sure I drove slowly enough. But though half an hour went by before we left the coupe, in all that time we never exchanged one word.

  Again and again I sought to make some remark, but I feared that my voice would tremble and so betray an emotion I did not wish her to see. To sit thus by her side, as I had sat so often, was stirring the depths of my being as though with a sword. Though I kept my gaze fast on the road, with the tail of my eye I could see her peerless features and the gentle, steadfast look on her lovely face. She was neither grave nor smiling, but something betwixt the two; her air was the air of one whose day is over, who has of choice withdrawn from the lists of life and is now content to sit and watch the journey in which she will ride no more. I had never seen her like, this, and at first I could not discover what it was that I found unfamiliar in the beauty I knew so well; and then I saw—the eagerness was out of her face.

  When I brought the car to rest, Helena was out in the road before I could open the door. Then we entered the forest together, as we seemed to have done so often in other days.

  In silence we came to the glade where Geoffrey had been painting when I first set eyes on the thieves, and in silence we passed to the coverts which might have been planted on purpose to keep the dell. And then at last we came out—not quite as I had intended, above the bluff, but lower down, between the bluff and the water, at the edge of a sloping lawn.

  Helena caught her breath

  "Oh, John, how lovely," she said.

  Though I knew the spot was handsome, when I had seen it before I had been too much distracted to consider the features that went to make it so rare, and indeed, from where I had lain, I could not have observed their disposal, because of the bushes that clothed the head of the dell. But now I could mark its bulwarks and tell the lovely columns that stood, like those of a temple, to line its verge.

  The place was a lawn of fair grass, cropped I suppose by the grateful life of the forest, though I never saw a creature close to that spot. From the little bluff at its head two blowing banks sloped down to a tumbling rill. A delicate silver birch was the only tree that sprang from the vivid turf, but beeches and limes and chestnuts stood up on the flanking walls and rose in superb disorder beyond the brook. On these three sides the dell was hung with an arras of breathless leaves; but the head of the hollow was open, for there the trees stood back so that, facing the bluff, you might have been standing in a chancel and looking over its screen to the heights of the nave beyond. Yet the place was not grave, but gay. Great shafts of sunshine were piercing the plumes of the trees at the head of the dell, badging the turf and flashing the falling water and printing on Sabre's shoulders the trembling shadow of some obstructive spray.

  "It's finer than I thought," I said, quietly. "I never saw it from here."

  "Where were you lying?"

  I raised my arm and pointed.

  "Up there on the edge of the bluff."

  "And where—"

  I took off my hat and moved forward.

  "Here," I said. "You can see that the turf has been pieced."

  For a moment we stood together, looking down on young Florin's grave, while she no doubt remembered his strength and devotion, his pride in his lady's favour and the light she brought into his eyes; but I could only remember his pitiful, helpless body, and how in death he had seemed to be calling upon me to pick up his fallen torch.

  "I must bring old Florin," said Helena. "I think it would help him a little. He's gone straight on, of course; but I know that it must have hit him most frightfully hard. His son was exactly like him—very quiet and very respectful, very gentle in all he did. His smile was always grave, but he had a great natural charm. I think he belonged to Nature. He loved the woods and forests, and I think they gave him their gifts. It's strange that those fiends should have chosen to lay him where he belonged." She pulled off her little hat, and turned to the rill. "Dells seem to be our portion. But the last one was out of the sun."

  "It was full of perfume," said I. Helena took a deep breath.

  "Yes," she said. "That's true. You can't have it every way. The fragrance was exquisite. But here the air's quick and radiant, and there it was dim and still. But I love the light and the warmth. And sometimes I even need it— to lift up my heart."

  "The sun makes music." I said, "wherever he goes."

  Helena sat herself down with her back to the rippling brook.

  "I'd like to stay friends." she said. "I know you're going away, and I think you're right. But I'd like to think that though our— our moments are over, we still were friends."

  "If you please," said I, dully, and sat down a little apart. "I've so much to thank you for."

  "I don't know that you have. But that's neither here nor there. We've peered at big things together— you and I. We've eaten of strange, sweet fruits— like two children, hand in hand. And now we're back where we were—where we were when you came to Plumage and I told you about the gold. We can go farther back: perhaps we have. But I'd like to stop there, if you can. I mean, one can always be friends."

  "I can stop there," I said thickly.

  "That's right," said Helena gently. "I thought you could."

  For a moment she looked at the palms of her little hands, as though to consult those pretty pages before proceeding with a discourse that was making my heart feel cold.

  Then—

  "When I say friends. I mean it. I'll always have a feeling that I can depend upon you. I shan't attempt to, you know. But I shall be glad of the feeling. You know. When things go wrong, it makes a world of difference if you can say to yourself 'If So-and-so were here, they would understand'."

  I nodded.

  "You can count on me," I said. "You let me come to know you as— as I'll never know anyone else."

  "Will it help you, John?"

  "I don't know. I'll write and tell you."

  "That's right. And I'll always answer. You see, my dear, we must never meet again. We've looked at glory together— and turned away. It wasn't our fault, you know. We rather ... rushed our fences. But down in that valley of shadow we gave each other judgment ... and the judgments were good."

  I could not speak. I sat as though turned to stone. My heart in my breast was ice. The blow which had fallen already, had fallen again. I had nothing to lose, and had lost it. "From him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath."

  "I— I don't know that mine was," I said desperately.

  "I'm afraid it was," said Helena. "I put my love above honour— and you mustn't do that. And in any event mine was. You took my love and you put it back in its place. I don’t say you weren't right to do it, because you were. But there are some flowers, my dear, that you can't transplant. I mean— if you move them, they die."

  Blow upon blow. Couldn't she see that the thing she was striking was dead? Everything and everyone was dead. Young Florin and Pharaoh and Dewdrop and Bugle and Rush, and now her love. And I had killed them— not Bugle, of course, nor young Florin. But everything else.

  "That's all right," I heard myself saying. "I'm glad ... it's dead."

  There was a long, long, silence. By the time it was over I had myself in hand.

  At length—

  "Poor Bugle," said Helena slowly. "He did me a very good turn."

  "By dropping the torch?" said I.

  "I suppose he dropped it," she said. "But Rush was bullying me, and sometimes I think that Bugle was going to stop him. I don't know, of course. When it fell. I just flew for the door. And in any event he waited to set me free."

  "A twinge of conscience, said I. Helena shrugged her shoulders.

  "He needn't have done it," she said. And then again. "Poor Bugle. I'll always remember him kindly. I think he was the best of the lot."

  "I think you're right," said I. "I had a weakness for Bugle, to tell you the truth. Of course
Rush showed him off."

  "I know, I know. But he had a spark of feeling. More than a spark, I think. Very few men, placed as he was, would have troubled to let me out."

  "What will you do," I said, "about the loss of your master key?"

  "Change the locks. I suppose. It's a hideous waste of money: but if Bugle's tempted, you know, there are plenty of crooks who'd pay a long price for that key."

  I dared not pursue the matter: to do so would be to sail too close to the wind. I decided that Bugle must show another spark of feeling by returning her master key. I would post it to her —not from Innsbruck. I should have to journey to Salzburg and post it from there. That would be easy enough: I could be back at Innsbruck again before my cousin arrived.

  There was another silence.

  I ventured to glance at my companion.

  She was sitting square, with her knees drawn up before her and her fingers laced about them, the pose of a thinking child. She was looking straight ahead, and when I followed her gaze I saw that this was fixed on the ragged oblong which the sun and the dew between them were already beginning to efface. The edge of a shaft of light was touching her hair with splendour, and her profile stood clean and faultless against the green of the leafage six paces away. As always, her chin was up, and I often think that the coin was never minted from which the image of royalty stood out so clear. Her temples, her exquisite nose and the droop of her mouth, the curve of her chin and the slender white of her throat— the chisel of Phidias might have rendered their beauty, but I cannot believe that chisel or brush or pen could ever have captured the aspect that made that beauty live. She looked so gentle, yet fearless, so calm, content and stabilised, so stately and yet so human, and yet again so distant, as though her flesh was sacred because her blood was royal. Her air was pensive, yet not at all unhappy, but rather glad: but for me, her crowning glory was absent; the eagerness was out of her face.

  I shifted my gaze to her insteps, slim and silk and shining, making the turf a carpet fit for a queen.

  With her eyes on young Florin's grave. Helena spoke again.

  "That wasn't the only reason why I wanted to see you before you went. I want your help in a matter ...

  "Your cousin is painting my picture— he's nearly done. It is the most lovely portrait ... And as he won't hear of a fee, I want to make him a present.

  "Well, I've got a cup at Yorick, an old, gold cup, with a curious history. Years ago, in the sixteenth century, the Yorick of that day was painted. A young painter came from Vienna, a man called Latz. Had he lived, he would have been famous, for the picture is terribly good. Your cousin picked it out in an instant as being the best of the lot. Well, when the painter had finished, the Count was so pleased with his work that he called for wine and drank the young man's health, and when he had drained the cup he called for gold. I suppose his treasurer brought it. Then he filled the cup with gold pieces and gave the painter the lot. I hope it was adequate payment. In those days it probably was. The next morning the painter left Yorick to make his way home. On his lonely ride to Salzburg the poor man was robbed and murdered— his body was found by the road. Now the thieves didn't break up the cup, but six months later they tried to sell it at Innsbruck where Yorick then had a hotel. But, as it happened, they took it to the very goldsmith that Yorick himself employed. The moment he saw the arms, he knew that the cup had been stolen, and, to cut a long story short, the thieves were taken and hanged and the cup came back to the castle because the poor painter was dead.

  "So you see that cup will make a most appropriate gift. But I'm so afraid that your cousin may refuse to accept it that, before I ask him to do so, I want to have it engraved with his crest. And that's where you can help me I must have something of his that bears his crest, to give to the engraver to copy. A cigarette-case or a flask. Perhaps it's on the backs of his brushes. You see, without that I'm stuck. At the present moment I don't even know what his crest is."

  I wrinkled my brow.

  "Strangely enough," said I, "it's the same as your own— a leopard. But that doesn't mean—"

  "What?"

  The word flamed.

  As the saying goes. I almost leapt out of my skin: and turned to find her staring—tense, wide-eyed and staring, white to the lips.

  And then I knew I was lost. I had learned her crest from Pharaoh in that room, and Pharaoh was wrong: and I had repeated the error which Pharaoh had made.

  "I— I thought," I stammered. "I had an idea—"

  "The badge of Yorick is an oak tree." She whispered rather than spoke "We've never displayed the leopard for more than two hundred years."

  The sibilant accusation struck me dumb.

  She was round now and was kneeling, with her arms held close to her breast and her hands to her throat. Her breath was whistling in her nostrils and her eyes seemed to pierce my brain.

  Helplessly I shrugged my shoulders. "I suppose I must have—"

  "My God," she breathed, "you were there."

  As my eyes went down, she clapped her hands to her head. "My God!" she cried. "It was you! You, John, you and not Bugle that ..."

  I pulled out my note-case and took out her master key

  As I laid it down by her side—

  "Sabre killed Bugle," I said "His body's down in the moat. None of them saw it happen, so I walked into the castle and took his place."

  Helena sat back on her heels, finger to lip. Her eyes were still wide, still staring: she seemed to be murmuring something I could not hear.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean you to know."

  At that a tremor ran through her: then, with a sudden movement, she flung herself down on her face and burst into tears.

  For a moment I sat hesitant. Then something snapped within me.

  I lifted her up and gathered her into my arms.

  With my face pressed tight against hers—

  "Don't cry, Nell," I said. "I can't bear it. And—and please don't send me away."

  "I'm not sending you away," she sobbed. She caught at my coat. "And I'll tell you another thing. I'd never have let you go. If all else had failed, I was going down to the station."

  I held her off and looked into her tear-stained face.

  "But, Nell, just now you—"

  "I wanted to know if you loved me. I had to be sure of that. But now . . ." She hid her face in my coat. "Oh, John, my darling, you've made me feel so humble, so cheap and—"

  I stopped her beautiful mouth.

  "How d'you think I feel, Nell? How d'you think I felt when I stood in that secret chamber and heard you buying my safety— the life and health of the man who'd just turned you down?"

  A child looked into my eyes.

  "Shall we ... take each other back, John?"

  "Yes, please, Nell," I said quietly.

  With a little sigh of contentment she slid an arm round my neck.

  Our respective tales had been told, my disaffection forgiven, our grace had been said, and we were now standing together at the edge of the lawn. We had started to return to the car, but now with one consent we had stopped to look again upon the beauty which, we were to leave.

  It seemed so strange that life and death and fortune had lain in that peaceful setting, awaiting a sweet June dayspring to leap to their battle stations, thence to dispute the fate of six human beings, not one of whom, till that morning, had so much as suspected the existence of such a spot. A century of dawns and sundowns had found and left it sleeping, as it was sleeping now : and then in a twinkling the earth had opened, the brook had played storm music and . . .

  "To think," said Helena, "that I treated you as a child."

  "The truth is," said I, "we're both children: and children hate to be treated as children, you know."

  Helena lifted her head, to survey the blue of the sky. The eager look in her face would have made a sick man well.

  "I wasn't," she said. "I was a woman all right. But I think—it's all your own doing, you know— but I think, my
dear, you'll have a child for a wife."

  There is not much more to be told. My cousin's reception of the truth was more than handsome: and I really believe that Barley would not have exchanged the knowledge that I had caused Pharaoh's death for all the gold that lay in the cellars of Yorick or anywhere else. But old Florin's simple tribute would have warmed any man's heart.

  "Sir, you have done my duty. And that, by the grace of God; for I myself could never have done it so well."

  It was he who said at once that Bugle's body would be found held down by the grill that kept foreign matter from passing into the waste-pipes that led from the moat. Sure enough, there it was. Its removal and the subsequent rites were grisly enough: but the four of us did the business without any help, because, having got so far, it seemed a pity that we should explode a theory which Yorick— and Yorick's neighbours— had been at such pains to digest.

  When my cousin broached the question of getting rid of the gold, Helena made no objection, but only begged his assistance to carry through a transaction she dared not attempt alone. This to our great surprise, till we learned that her solemn trust was now at an end, because her father had said that on her marriage the gold must be re-invested or lodged at a bank. And this in due course was done. My cousin arranged the affair with a famous house and within six weeks, a fortnight before we were wed, the bullion was out of the cellar and Helena mistress of a fortune which was considerably greater than that which her father laid up.

  A LETTER from the Count of Yorick afforded us infinite pleasure and deserves to be set out in full:

  Dear Helena,

  I hope you are very well. I am not at Yorick because I was bitten by a mad dog and a good Summarrytone brought me straight here. I would like to thank him for that. He saved my life, you know. Fancy a mad dog worrying me. I think I must just have gone out for a walk or something and then it just leeped upon me and worried me and I knew no moar. And this is the only one place that I could have been saved from going mad. It makes you get hot all over. By the way I'm off liquor. Achohol, I mean. They make me heeling drinks here with virtue in them and I fairly lapp them up. And the wound's heeling like a little child. They say liquor's very dangerous for hiderofobea. I nearly died, you know. All the wile the good Summarrytones were taking me to the monnastery, it was touch and go moar than once. The madness was in my vanes. It makes you go hot. But I'm all right now. They say I can get up for a little wile on Sunday and look at the flours. I shall like that. I see the vannity of life now all right. There is a good monk here called Father Bernard. Of course they are all good: but he is the best. He says all is vannity and that the pumps of the world are void. You know there's a lot in that. Well, I must end now. But I thought you might wunder where I was. What a escape! Fancy a mad dog like that ranging about seaking whom he might devower. I tell you, I hadn't a chance. He just leeped upon me, nashing their fangs. I can see it now.