Music of the Heart (The Warrender Saga No. 6) Page 5

  ‘Don’t raise my hopes,’ she interrupted earnestly. ‘I’m trying so hard to keep my feet on the ground. It’s better that I should go on thinking how unlikely it is' that I should be seriously considered. Then I shan’t be too disappointed.’

  ‘All right,’ he laughed, ‘we’ll leave the subject for the time being. What would you like to do now? Go for a drive? or just sit about on the terrace and talk about our interesting selves—or what?’

  What she really wanted to do was to go away by herself and think and think about the extraordinary scene which had taken place in the music-room. But it would have been both ungracious and ungrateful to say so. Instead, she gladly agreed to sit on the terrace in the sunshine and—in return for the helpful interest Oliver had shown in her affairs—she made him talk a little about his own work.

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t really count, in the rarified atmosphere of the Bannister household,’ he declared lightly.

  But Gail would not have that. And presently he was telling her about a friend of his who wrote extremely witty lyrics, and how he and Oliver planned to try their hand at sophisticated revue.

  ‘I haven’t told anyone else, of course,’ he said quickly. ‘And it may not come to anything. I mean—we may not be half as bright as we think we are! But it’s an interesting idea.’

  ‘It’s a splendid idea,’ Gail told him firmly. ‘And you know—sometimes I have hunches about things, Oliver—and I’ve a hunch you’re going to be very successful over this.’

  ‘Darling girl! Gross my palm with silver and say that again,’ he said with a laugh. But he leaned over suddenly and kissed her cheek. And because she felt he had done more for her in the last twenty-four hours than anyone else in half a lifetime, she kissed him lightly in return.

  Before they could say anything else—and a little to Gail’s discomfiture—Mrs. Bannister came out on to the terrace then to ask if they would like to go over to see the Forresters before lunch.

  ‘Mamie Forrester thought you might like to see their house, Gail. It’s much older than this one and very attractive. She rang up just now to suggest it and said she mentioned something of the sort to you yesterday.’

  ‘Yes, she did, and I’d love to go,’ Gail said quickly, wondering at the same time if her hostess had seen that light exchange of kisses.

  ‘Then I’ll drive you over. Are you coming too, Oliver?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Oliver, getting to his feet.

  ‘Your father is busy about some affair of his own. And Marc—’ Mrs. Bannister went to the open french windows of the music-room and called—‘Marc, I’m running Gail over to the Forresters’ place. I don’t expect you want to come?’

  The question hung in the atmosphere with just a shade too much meaning, Gail could not help thinking. Then Marc’s voice replied coolly,

  ‘Yes, I’ll come. Would you like me to drive?’

  So in the end the four of them went, Marc driving, as he had suggested, with his mother beside him in the front seat and Gail and Oliver behind.

  Most of the way Oliver chatted to Gail, either pointing out places of interest or amusingly recalling incidents from his childhood and boyhood connected with the district In consequence she heard little of what was being discussed in front. Only once her ear caught the name ‘Lena Dorman’, pronounced by her hostess in slightly over-tactful tones. And then Marc gave that short laugh of his and said,

  Don’t waste so much tact on dead issues, Mother.’ Quite shamelessly, Gail would like to have heard more, even though she knew it was not her business. But just then they turned into a short, straight drive and before them lay a small, but beautifully proportioned Elizabethan house.

  ‘It’s been a good deal restored.’ Mrs. Bannister turned to speak to Gail. ‘But it’s been done with perfect taste.’ Gail said truly that she had never seen anything more attractive. And even as she gazed in delight at the house, the front door opened and, Mrs. Forrester came out, accompanied by a couple of dogs, who barked vociferously and made a great show of warning off all comers, until Oliver said good-humouredly,

  ‘Shut up, idiots! No need to treat us like strangers. We’re all more or less family.’

  The description was not lost on Gail, and she was touched and pleased to be included thus. Indeed, within seconds, even the dogs, sniffing agreeably around her, seemed to be accepting her at Oliver’s valuation.

  Having welcomed them kindly, Mrs. Forrester led the way into a beautiful panelled room, where deep mullioned windows looked out on to a garden. Not such a large or impressive garden as at the Bannisters’ home, but most exquisitely in period and in keeping with the house.

  Entranced by the riot of colour in the long old-fashioned flower-border immediately outside, Gail went to stand for a minute in one of the windowed embrasures. So she missed the exact moment when Lena Dorman entered. But when she turned back again into the room the attractive, faintly disturbing girl was already there and gravitating apparently quite inevitably to Marc’s side.

  This time, however, Marc seemed unwilling that they should have any sort of tête-à-tête. Somewhat to Gail’s surprise, he turned to include her in the conversation.

  ‘You met Miss Rostall yesterday, didn’t you?’ he said to Lena.

  ‘Did I? Oh, yes—briefly.’ The other girl smiled faintly, though her curiously long, attractive eyes remained entirely untouched by the smile, Gail noticed. ‘My aunt was telling me that you too are a singer.’

  ‘I’m not very much more than a student,’ Gail admitted.

  ‘Well, we all have to start as students.’ The words in themselves were quite unexceptionable, but the tone suggested inescapably that some people never got any further than being students.

  Gail found herself flushing slightly. And when the other girl asked carelessly what her voice was, she replied curtly, ‘I’m a contralto,’ and offered no further information.

  ‘A contralto?’ Lena Dorman repeated. And then, with a slight laugh, ‘A contralto? Just what Marc needs for his new opera, according to all the newspaper reports. Isn’t that so, Marc?’

  ‘It is,’ he agreed coolly.

  ‘And with all speed Miss—Rostall arrives on the scene?’ she laughed again, that very slight, oddly significant laugh. ‘So now, Marc, perhaps you’ll admit that I’m not the only self-seeking pebble on the beach. It isn’t only the conscienceless Lena Dorman who uses her friends to further her career.’

  ‘I assure you—’ began Gail angrily. But she was silenced by the sudden grip of Marc’s fingers on her arm.

  ‘You do Miss Rostall an injustice,’ she was staggered to hear him say. ‘As a matter of fact, she came down here at the express invitation of my father and myself. We were both anxious to hear her in the part of Anya. And I might say that we are very much impressed. Very much impressed indeed.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Gail was speechless with astonishment at Marc’s sudden defence of her. A defence which even included a fiat lie. But her silence was probably the best thing she could have contributed to the conversation at that moment. For, combined with her composed air, it inevitably conveyed the impression that she felt innocent enough to disregard further argument.

  Lena Dorman gave that slight laugh once more, but it was not such a scornful laugh this time. It was even, Gail thought, a trifle disconcerted. And she seemed glad that the conversation now became general, so that she could withdraw quite naturally from the awkward three-cornered conversation which had turned so unmistakably against her.

  Presently they all drifted out into the lovely garden, and Gail then snatched the chance to speak to Marc quietly.

  ‘Why did you tell that fib about you and your father having invited me down here expressly to hear me sing?’ she demanded.

  He frowned and looked for a moment as though he were not going to reply. Then he said, not very informatively, ‘It seemed the best thing to say in the circumstances.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question! Why did it seem
the best thing to say?’

  ‘Nothing else would have convinced Lena that you were innocent of any ulterior motive in coming down here.’

  ‘Did that matter?’

  ‘Yes, I think it did.’

  ‘Even though you yourself were just as suspicious until about ten minutes ago?’

  ‘Until about an hour ago,’ he amended.

  Gail drew her brows together in a puzzled little frown.

  ‘What happened an hour ago that made you change your mind about me?’ she asked.

  ‘Something you said. But never mind that now. You’ve asked enough questions.’ He spoke as though she were a rather tiresome child. ‘In any case, the misstatement was not entirely on your account. It was time Lena was slightly deflated. She’s a completely self-seeking young woman, and would like to establish that you are the same.’

  ‘That I am? But she never met me before this weekend. What has she got against me?’

  ‘Nothing against you personally. You were just the yardstick by which she wanted to measure her own conduct and not find it anything but the general rule.’

  ‘Oh.—’ For the first time Gail wondered if she had been mistaken in thinking Marc had once been in love with this girl. His lightly contemptuous tone hardly suggested devotion. But then she noticed that his glance followed Lena with a sort of angry—almost hungry—attention which was the very reverse of indifference.

  ‘Well, thank you for defending the purity of my motives,’ she said, speaking lightly in her turn. ‘And thank you also for deciding to believe in it yourself.’

  He transferred his glance to her then and laughed, his whole air suddenly much more relaxed.

  ‘You’re a nice kid,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘And if I overstated our interest in you to Lena, believe me, my father and I were not at all unimpressed by your gifts.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Gail smiled. For she knew that praise from that quarter, even if rather negative, was not to be despised. If she carried nothing more than that away with her from the week-end with the Bannisters she might, she decided, be very well satisfied.

  The rest of the visit, though pleasant, was artistically uneventful. Guests came in on the Sunday evening, but although there was a good deal of extremely interesting musical discussion—in which Quentin Bannister unerringly took the lead—nothing more was said about Gail or her particular gifts.

  As Oliver and she had to catch quite an early train on Monday morning, her host and hostess said good-bye to her overnight.

  ‘Come again, dear. It was delightful to see you,’ said Mrs. Bannister kindly. But it was difficult to tell from her charmingly vague air whether she really meant this or whether it was merely her standard farewell to any guest

  Her husband was more forthright

  ‘I shall have a word about you with Elsa Marburger,’ he informed Gail. ‘If your further development is interesting, I shall want to hear more of you.’

  Gail smiled and flushed with pleasure.

  ‘And whether you do that or not I shall never forget the magic of hearing you recreate the Furies Scene from “Orpheus”,’ she replied sincerely.

  He pinched her cheek at that—an outdated gesture which seemed not only natural to him but entirely charming.

  Marc was nowhere about when she went to bed, for which she was genuinely sorry. She would have liked to say good-bye to him. But, to her surprise, he came into the breakfast-room the following morning, just as she and Oliver were hastily swallowing the last of their coffee and toast.

  She was not the only one to be surprised at Marc’s appearance.

  ‘What got you up so early?’ Oliver wanted to know. ‘I hardly expected you to join in the dawn chorus.’

  ‘I came down to say good-bye to Gail,’ was the cool reply. ‘Give me your phone number, Gail, in case anything comes up with regard to “The Exile”.’

  ‘You—you mean—’ she stammered, hardly daring to complete the sentence.

  ‘I don’t necessarily mean anything,’ he returned rather disagreeably. ‘I just want to know where one can get hold of you in the unlikely event of our wanting to contact you further.’

  She gave him the number, trying not to look chastened by his words, nor unduly excited still by their implication. And Marc wrote down the number in his diary, while his brother looked on with a certain degree of annoyance as well as amusement. However, since it had been his declared hope that Gail might just conceivably be considered for a role in Marc’s opera, he could hardly resent the fact that his brother apparently meant to keep in touch with her.

  Later, in the train on the way to town, he warned her not to attach too much importance to the incident of the telephone number..

  ‘Father and Marc will ruthlessly pursue every possible line, and quite as ruthlessly eliminate people later, without regard to any fond hopes they may have aroused.’

  ‘I’m not counting on anything,’ Gail assured him. ‘I’m just stunned to think that anyone in the Bannister family should want to retain even a faint recollection of me.’

  ‘What about me?’ he grinned.

  ‘Oh, you’re different! You’re Oliver—and my very good friend. It’s only with an effort, even now, that I think of you as one of the Bannisters. Do you mind?’

  ‘On the contrary, I’m delighted.’ He put his hand round her arm and for a moment she felt the affectionate pressure of his fingers. She remembered again what he had said about longing to be an individual, rather than just a member of a distinguished family. And she liked him all the better for it.

  During the next week Gail plunged back into hard work and tried not to indulge in too many dreams. She had one or two minor engagements ahead of her—mostly solo performances with church choirs—and these entailed some extra lessons and some very intensive work.

  When she came to one of these lessons late in the week, she found her teacher in a much more talkative mood than was usual with her. She regarded Gail with more than customary interest and said, ‘I hear that you sang for Quentin Bannister recently.’

  ‘Yes—I did. Quite informally. In his own house,’ Gail explained. ‘I didn’t mention it because there was nothing professional about it. I—I happened to be a house guest, and the opportunity came up.’

  ‘So he tells me.’ Elsa Marburger picked up a letter from her desk. ‘Did he give you any opinion?’

  ‘He liked my voice, I think. And he said I had been very well taught—’ Gail smiled at her teacher, of whom she was genuinely fond. ‘He remembered your singing in “The Kingdom” as long as thirty years ago, so you must have made a great impression.’

  Madame Marburger was no more conceited than any good artist should be, but she gave a pleased little laugh at that.

  ‘He writes about you with what appears to be genuine interest. He even—’ she referred to the letter again—Ventures to make a few observations about your future development, which I naturally would not ignore from such a quarter. But he writes of you as though he sees you as an operatic artist rather than an oratorio singer.’

  ‘I suppose I gave him the impression that that was my ultimate ambition,’ Gail admitted. ‘They—the whole family, I mean—were a good deal excited about the opera which his eldest son had just completed and—’

  ‘“The Exile”. I read about it,’ Madame Marburger put in.

  ‘Yes, that’s it. They let me see the score. And Mr. Bannister—both Mr. Marc Bannister and his father—tried me out in some of it.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Amusement and a sort of surprised respect showed in her teacher’s face. ‘With what result?’

  ‘They both said I was not absolutely impossible,’ said Gail frankly, and at that her teacher laughed.

  ‘Well, come! they didn’t try to turn your head, it seems.’

  ‘Oh, no! There was some very plain speaking.’ Gail laughed in her turn, but without rancour. ‘I didn’t mind. I was just thrilled at such people listening to me at all.’ The older woman gave her a half affectionate g
lance.

  ‘What is the work like? If it’s in a very modern idiom, I shouldn’t wish you to try to handle it at this stage.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it modem in the extreme sense,’ Gail said thoughtfully. ‘It’s eminently singable—’

  ‘Well, that’s a change,’ commented Madame Marburger cynically.

  ‘It has an extraordinarily attractive story—libretto.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I have an extra hour this afternoon, and I think this merits some discussion before you have your lesson.’

  So Gail sat down and, as accurately as she could recall Marc’s own words, she told the story of ‘The Exile’.

  At the end, Madame Marburger simply asked, ‘Did anyone comment on your capacity to portray such a character?’

  ‘Yes.’ Gail was struck that she should instantly put her finger on what Marc had regarded as the weak spot. ‘Marc—Mr. Marc Bannister—said he doubted if I had had enough experience of real suffering to give all the part of Anya. I’m not sure that I know quite what he meant.’

  ‘No?’ The older woman looked almost sombrely at the bright face of her pupil for a moment. Then she said a strange thing. ‘Happy English child—’ she spoke half to herself—’how should you know how an exile feels? With your long, safe roots in a land that hasn’t known conquest for close on a thousand years.’

  Gail caught her breath, and for a moment she seemed to glimpse something far beyond the limits of her natural experience. She knew that Elsa Marburger’s people were Jewish refugees who had come to England in the troubled days of the nineteen-thirties. But she had never thought much about what that meant. Still less had she ever thought about her teacher as anything but a sensitive artist and an extremely successful woman.

  ‘You mean,’ she said slowly, and with a slightly crestfallen air, ‘that I’ve always been too happy and secure to know or understand how to portray the sort of desolation Anya feels?’