He threaded his way through the dark backward and abysm of the antique shop, clearing away a spinning-wheel, a Georgian wine-cooler, a brass lamp and a small forest of Burmese idols that stood between him and the instrument. “Variations on a musical-box,” he said, as he ran his fingers over the keys, and, disentangling a coffin-stool from his surroundings, sat down and played, first a minuet from a Bach suite and then a gigue, before striking into the air of Greensleeves.
“Alas! my love, you do me wrong
To cast me off discourteously,
And I have loved you so long,
Delighting in your company.”
He shall see that I don’t mind that, thought Harriet, and raised her voice cheerfully in the refrain:
“For O Greensleeves was all my joy,
And O Greensleeves was my delight-”
He stopped playing instantly.
“Wrong key for you. God meant you for a contralto.” He transposed the air into E minor, in a tinkling cascade of modulations. “You never told me you could sing…No, I can hear you’re not trained…chorus-singer? Bach Choir?… of course-I might have guessed it… ‘And O Greensleeves was my heart of gold And who but my Lady Greensleeves’… Do you know any of Morley’s Canzonets for Two Voices?… Come on, then, ‘When lo! by Break of Morning’… Whichever part you like-they’re exactly the same… ‘My love herself adorning… G natural, my dear, G natural…”
The dealer, descending with his arms full of packing materials, paid no attention to them. He was well accustomed to the eccentricities of customers; and, moreover, probably cherished hopes of selling them the spinet. “This kind of thing,” said Peter, as tenor and alto twined themselves in a last companionable cadence, “is the body and bones of music. Anybody can have the harmony, if they will leave us the counterpoint. What next?… ‘Go to Bed, sweet Muse’? Come, come! Is it true? is it kind? is it necessary?… ‘Love is a fancy, love is a frenzy.’… Very well, I owe you one for that,” and with a mischievous eye he played the opening bars of “Sweet Cupid, Ripen Her Desire.”
“No,” said Harriet, reddening.
“No. Not in the best of taste. Try again.”
He hesitated; ran from one tune to another; then settled down to that best-known of all Elizabethan love-songs.
“Fain would I change that note
To which fond love hath charmed me…”
Harriet, with her elbows on the lid of the spinet and her chin propped on her hands, let him sing alone. Two young gentlemen, who had strayed in and were talking rather loudly in the front part of the shop, abandoned a halfhearted quest for brass candlesticks and came stumbling through the gloom to see who was making the noise.
“True house of joy and bliss
Where sweetest pleasure is
I do adore thee;
I see thee what thou art,
I love thee in my heart
And fall before thee.”
Tobias Hume’s excellent air rises to a high-pitched and triumphant challenge in the penultimate line, before tumbling with a clatter to the keynote. Too late, Harriet signed to the singer to moderate his voice.
“Here, you!” said the larger of the two young gentlemen, belligerently. “You’re making a filthy row. Shut up!”
Peter swung round on the stool. “Sir?” He polished his monocle with exaggerated care, adjusted it and let his eye travel up the immense tweedy form towering over him. “I beg your pardon. Was that obligin’ observation addressed to me?”
Harriet started to speak, but the young man turned to her. “Who,” he demanded loudly, “is this effeminate bounder?”
“I have been accused of many things,” said Wimsey, interested, “but the charge of effeminacy is new to me. Do you mind explaining yourself?”
“I don’t like your song,” said the young man, rocking slightly on his feet, “and I don’t like your voice, and I don’t like your tom-fool eyeglass.”
“Steady on, Reggie,” said his friend.
“You’re annoying this lady,” persisted the young man. “You’re making her conspicuous. Get out!”
“Good God!” said Wimsey, turning to Harriet. “Is this by any chance Mr. Jones of Jesus?”
“Who are you calling a bloody Welshman?” snarled the young man, much exasperated. “My name’s Pomfret.”
“Mine’s Wimsey,” said Peter. “Quite as ancient though less euphonious. Come on, son, don’t be an ass. You mustn’t behave like this to senior members and before ladies.”
“Senior member be damned!” cried Mr. Pomfret, to whom this unfortunate phrase conveyed only too much. “Do you think I’m going to be sneered at by you? Stand up, blast you! why can’t you stand up for yourself?”
“First,” replied Peter, mildly, “because I’m twenty years older than you are. Secondly, because you’re six inches taller than I am. And thirdly, because I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then,” said Mr. Pomfret, “take that, you sitting rabbit!”
He launched an impetuous blow at Peter’s head, and found himself held by the wrist in an iron grip.
“If you don’t keep quiet,” said his lordship, “you’ll break something. Here, you, sir. Take your effervescent friend home, can’t you? How the devil does he come to be drunk at this time of the day?”
The friend offered a confused explanation about a lunch party and subsequent cocktail binge. Peter shook his head. “One damn gin after another,” he said, sadly. “Now, sir. You had better apologize to the lady and beetle off.”
Mr. Pomfret, much subdued and tending to become lachrymose, muttered that he was sorry to have made a row. “But why did you make fun of me with that?” he asked Harriet, reproachfully.
“I didn’t, Mr. Pomfret. You’re quite mistaken.”
“Damn your senior members!” said Mr. Pomfret.
“Now, don’t begin all over again,” urged Peter, kindly. He got up, his eyes about on a level with Mr. Pomfret’s chin. “If you want to continue the discussion, you’ll find me at the Mitre in the morning. This way out.”
“Come on, Reggie,” said the friend.
The dealer, who had returned to his packing after assuring himself that it would not be necessary to send for the police or the proctors, leapt helpfully to open the door, and said “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” as though nothing out of the way had happened.
“I’m damned if I’ll be sneered at,” said Mr. Pomfret, endeavoring to stage a come-back on the doorstep.
“Of course not, old boy,” said his friend. “Nobody’s sneering at you. Come on! You’ve had quite enough fun for one afternoon.” The door shut them out.
“Well, well!” said Peter.
“Young gentlemen will be lively,” said the dealer. “I’m afraid it’s a bit bulky, sir. I’ve put the board up separate.”
“Stick ’em in the car,” said Peter. “They’ll be all right.”
This was done; and the dealer, glad enough to get his shop cleared, began to put up his shutters, as it was now long past closing-time.
“I apologize for my young friend,” said Harriet.
“He seems to have taken it hard. What on earth was there so infuriating about my being a senior?”
“Oh, poor lamb! He thought I’d been telling you about him and me and the proctor. I suppose I had better tell you now.”
Peter listened and laughed a little ruefully.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That kind of thing hurts like hell when you’re his age. I’d better send him a note and set that right. I say!”
“What?”
“We never had that beer. Come round and have one with me at the Mitre, and we’ll concoct a salve for wounded feelings.”
With two half-pint tankards on the table before them, Peter produced his epistle.
The Mitre Hotel,
Oxford
TO REGINALD POMFRET, ESQ.
Sir,
I am given to understand by Miss Vane that in the course of our conversation this afternoon I unhappily made use of an expression which might have been misconstrued as a reference to your private affairs. Permit me to assure you that the words were uttered in complete ignorance, and that nothing could have been farther from my intentions than to make any such offensive allusion. While deprecating very strongly the behaviour you thought fit to use, I desire to express my sincere regret for any pain I may have inadvertently caused you, and beg to remain,