‘No I don’t,’ said Noel, whose own mood that day was not of the sunniest. ‘It is nothing but an amateurish snapshot of you looking affected. Frankly, I see no merit in any of them whatever, and as I said before, all those young aesthetes at Rackenbridge strike me as being fearfully 1923, and bogus at that.’
As a result of this conversation the series was removed from the walls of Anne-Marie’s drawing-room, from whence it had long revolted Major Lace, and consigned to those of a downstairs lavatory. Here it was duly observed by poor Mr Forderen on the occasion of the cocktail party.
Under the stress of these circumstances Rackenbridge abandoned the petty jealousies which usually marred its peace, and decided with unanimity upon a course of action. Mr Leader, who, up till now had been the envied but acknowledged favourite at Comberry Manor, was deputized to woo Mrs Lace away from her Philistine lover or, if this should not prove feasible, to point out at any rate that her old friends were entitled to some small part of her time and attention. To this end Mr Leader sent a little note accompanied by an offering of honey in a handmade jar, in which he begged Mrs Lace to keep a midnight assignation with him at a spot well known to them both, a little green knoll surmounted by a giant oak tree. He knew his Anne-Marie well enough to be convinced that whereas she might easily refuse to see him alone if he called in the ordinary way at six o’clock, the prospect of tearful scenes by moonlight would be beyond her powers to resist. Sure enough, at the very stroke of twelve o’clock she crept from her conjugal bed, leaving Major Lace to the company of his own tremendous snores which, as she well knew, nothing short of an earthquake could disturb. Throwing a chiffon wrap over her chiffon nightdress she floated away to join Mr Leader at his oak tree.
As she approached he took a graceful step forward, throwing out both his hands and cried, ‘Beautiful Swan!’ hoping thus to evoke romantic memories of a time when he and she were known in Rackenbridge as ‘Leader and the Swan’. ‘You look more lovely than I have ever seen you tonight. Are you a denizen of this earth, you wonderful creature, or do you come to us from another sphere!’
Anne-Marie, arranging herself upon the greensward, assumed a classical pose and gazed up at him with sombre eyes.
‘I have com,’ she said, her foreign accent more than usually stressed. ‘It was dangerrous and deef feecult, but I have com. What ees it that you want – que veux-tu mon ami?’
‘Everything,’ said Mr Leader, moodily, ‘or nothing.’
Anne-Marie leant back and waited for the passionate outburst which she hoped was coming; she was not disappointed. Mr Leader, assuming the attitude which had proved so successful when he as Hamlet and she as Ophelia had taken Rackenbridge by storm two years previously, began to accuse her of unfaithfulness, not to individuals, but to the deathless cause of Art. He told her that she alone could provide inspiration to those who loved her so earnestly, that no good work had been done at Rackenbridge that year, or could ever be done again until she should consent to shine like a star in their midst once more. As individuals they could bear her loss even if it killed them, as artists it was their duty to recall her to hers. Mr Leader spoke in this strain for some time, during which Anne-Marie wept and enjoyed it all very much, and particularly wished that Noel could have heard. When at last she had an opportunity to speak she said that those to whom she meant so much must make a tremendous effort to understand her now. She explained that she was probably one of the world’s great lovers, and her love for Noel would be accounted in days to come as one of history’s greatest loves.
‘You must remember,’ she said, gazing at the moon which hung over them like a large melon, ‘that love, if it is to be worth while, is always tragic, always demands immense sacrifice. Otherwise it is of no value. I will sacrifice everything to it ruthlessly: my husband, my children, my reputation, even all of you my friends, you and your wonderful work must go to feed the flames which light its altar. Je n’en peux rien, que voulez-vous. C’est plus fort que la mort.’
‘How wonderful,’ said Mr Leader, gloomily contrasting in his mind scrambled eggs and sardines with the very satisfying quality of Mrs Lace’s food; ‘but, dear Anne-Marie, can he be worthy of your exquisite intellect? We all greatly fear that he is not.’
‘That may be so,’ she said, complacently, ‘but that is neither here nor there. What is intellect, compared with passion? I tell you that I love him, he occupies my time, my thoughts, my very soul – there is no room in my life for anybody else at the moment. When he is gone, as go he must, I may come back to all of you, an empty hollow husk; life will hold no more for me, but I shall at least have loved and made the great sacrifice, and I shall struggle on to the end, living for my memories.’
Her voice trailed away into a sob. Mr Leader, in the face of so much fortitude, and so much grief, found no words with which to suggest that a few free meals and one or two of the usual small commissions would be a great boon to himself, and his companions. He assured Anne-Marie that when her hour of sorrow should come she would find loving friends at Rackenbridge ready and anxious to pour balm into her wounds. Before he could
