And as he sat there alone, he knew that never again would he have any sensation of peace or contentment, that never would his days or his nights be free from anguish and bitter distress. Because of what he had seen and heard that evening he would be driven tormented to mental horror as yet unknown to him and feared, there would be no rest for him until he had crushed and hidden and made secure into eternity his own creation, possessed for ever or returned to the place from whence it came.
The weeks that followed were hideous in their monotony. The days came up and passed Julius by, giving him no respite from his mood of bitterness and despair. He must watch and wait, and listen, despise no trick as unworthy, steam open her letters, peer amongst her things, sit with doors ajar, steal from his room at night-time to hearken outside hers.
Her secrets would not escape him, she would not break away.
It was the height of the London season and Gabriel was for plunging into it, and doing everything as they had done before the war, only with greater freedom now, and luxury and abandon, because the war was over and she belonged to this new generation. Very well then, she should do as she liked, but he would follow her. Every function, every race meeting, every party - he would be by her side. He would dance with her night after night, however much he loathed it, he would know minute by minute every movement of her day when business in the City or attendance in the House kept him from her. She must introduce him to all her friends, he would know in a glance which one to fear. He would not let them get to her. He would drive with her in the car back from her parties, he would see her to her room. Even then he would listen outside the door. Never left alone, never trusted for a moment, unless he knew for certainty her plans. If she announced a hairdresser appointment he would verify this, he would ring the hairdresser himself and find out if she were really there. Even then, the man might have lied, and to satisfy himself he would have to go in person, and walk into this shop and say: ‘Is Miss Lévy here? I am her father.’
And even with all these precautions, could he be certain? How was he to be sure?
She would say: ‘People are coming in to bridge this afternoon, ’ and he would answer: ‘What time?’ And when she told him he would remember this and if he could not be back he would telephone her from wherever he should be, asking to speak to her personally, counting the seconds she took to reach the telephone, listening if her voice should be breathless as though she had been surprised.
‘Who is with you? How many of them? How long will they stay? What are you all doing?’ and then, lying cunningly to her: ‘I shan’t be home before eight-thirty,’ so as to give her an opportunity to deceive him, and then returning stealthily at seven, going silently upstairs, flinging open the door, and finding her with her friends, playing bridge, calm and unconcerned.Was this a blind? How could he be sure?
When she smiled or talked to anyone, was there something behind that smile, a double meaning in her words? Why did she glance over her shoulder at that fellow, was there some reason in it?
He would watch her dancing, never taking his eyes from her for a single instant, and surely it would seem to him there must be some intimacy between her and her partner, her hand resting thus on his shoulder, her face upturned. What were they saying now, why did she laugh?
He would question her when she returned to the table. ‘What was he saying to you?’ And she, flushed and happy from her dancing, humming the tune: ‘Saying to me, when? I don’t remember.’
Surely she was lying.
‘Why do you like dancing with that boy? What does it do to you?’
And she, angry: ‘Oh! don’t harp like that. You’ll drive me mad.’
‘Dance with me, then,’ he said, and they would get up and dance together, he miserable, she bored, holding herself from him until he said to her: ‘Why do you keep away from me? Do you hate me?’ And she wearily: ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, why must you always be in this mood? Can’t I ever have any peace?’
A sullen silence, and then another scene, and then silence again.
The drive home in the car.
‘I suppose you want to be in a closed car with some boy, the lights turned off, under the trees in Regent’s Park,’ he said, and she, yawning, replying absently: ‘One’s not allowed to draw up in Regent’s Park,’ and he fiercely, seizing upon her words: ‘Ha! So you’ve tried, have you?’
Then she laughed. ‘God! What a fool you make of yourself.’ No understanding, no love, the old companionship gone. No intimacy, no trust.
‘Oh! Gabriel, this is such damned hell. Don’t let’s be like this.’
‘But it’s you,’ she said helplessly. ‘It’s nothing to do with me. What have I done?’
‘You think I’m old, is that if? I’m not young enough for you. You think I’m just an old fool, and you’re sick of me - is that it?’
‘When you behave in this way you might be senile,’ she said.
‘No - no - let’s finish that, let’s begin again. Tell me everything is just the same, Gabriel; tell me you’ll never be any different.’
‘Oh! of course,’ the sigh of exasperation, the silly half-hearted reconciliation, he groping for her hand, blubbering, murmuring nonsense in French, sentimental like an old drunkard, aware of his own fatuity and loathing it, and she so cool and impersonal, suffering him, her eyes somewhere else, and thinking what? Thinking of whom? No peace ever. Day after day, night after night.
He would give her presents after one of these scenes. Bracelets, ear-rings, a ring, a new hunter for next season, another boat, but whatever he gave her he knew it was but a temporary branch of truce, and meant little to her, she had so many of these things already.
‘Suggest something you want, I’ll give you anything,’ he would say, and she speaking straight from her heart: ‘Leave me alone, don’t harp at me - that’s all I ask.’ And this he could not do.
So the summer continued, the long drag through the little, petty events of the London season, dances, charity balls, dinners, garden parties, Epsom, Ascot, Wimbledon, Lords, Henley, Goodwood, Cowes - one after the other came and went, Gabriel professing herself to be amused by them, and Julius must therefore accompany her, otherwise she would deceive him, and escape, and go her way.
The City did not matter to him, nor the quarterly meeting with the managers of his cafés, nor the reports from his factories, nor the sales of his newspapers, nor the events in Parliament; there only remained to him this shadowing of Gabriel, this ceaseless vigilance that must not be relaxed.
She pretended she did not care, but he knew he was wearing her down. His was the stronger will, before long she would surrender and admit she could stand no more. He would have crushed the antagonism between them, and there would be no other course for her but to be subservient to him in all things. He had it in his mind that she took no pleasure in her days now that there was a barrier dividing them, her gaiety was a mask. He too, at her side, was like an actor playing a part, the happy father and the devoted daughter. It came to him sometimes that they were two dolls in a puppet show grimacing before company, but within they were lifeless, cold and stuffed like dummies. They would go to some big party together, she radiant and lovelier than ever, wearing those many jewels he had given her as though they were service stripes; and he at her elbow, tall and distinguished, bowing and smiling to their friends, calling a joke over his shoulder to someone who passed, and always a little buzz of excitement wherever they went: ‘There’s Julius Lévy and his daughter, isn’t she lovely! Oh! to be as rich as that. Mustn’t it be marvellous?’
No longer a fierce pride and a triumphant amusement because of their envy, but desolation, and emptiness, and a bitter feeling of contempt for their ignorance.
Those pitiful remarks: ‘You are a lucky fellow, Lévy, you’ve got everything in the world you want.’ And: ‘Hullo! Lévy - good man, you turn up at all these parties - gosh! You’ve got more capacity for enjoyment than any youngster,’ and then he must nod and smile and play his part, while Gabriel with her brilliant mask forced a smile in her turn, waved her hand to some friend who gazed at her in admiration, who called to her:‘Hullo, Gabriel - you look wonderful. Having a marvellous time as usual, I suppose?’
The clatter and screech of voices, the senseless patter of footsteps, little trills of empty laughter and loud guffaws, the thumping jazz band rattling above them all, and a fellow with a blackened face shouting to the moon.
While the end of all this would be the return to Grosvenor Square, the house for all its art treasures and exquisite furniture like a cold barracks, the servants in their livery, dumb and immobile as doorposts, Gabriel sitting down before the dressing-table in her bedroom, and pulling off one by one her bracelets and her rings, turning to glance over her shoulder at Julius who stood in the doorway. And she would yawn, tapping her foot on the floor impatiently, her face hard and her eyes cold, saying: ‘Well, what now?’ then not waiting for his answer, she lost control of herself, pushed the bracelets away from her, ran her hands through her hair in a frenzy of irritation and said: ‘Oh God! - if you knew how you bored me ...’
He asked her if there was anything in the world she would like to do, and she said she did not know, she had had everything, there was nothing left to do now; and when he suggested some fresh party or amusement, some new sport, motor-boating or flying, she shrugged her shoulders, she did not care.
He waited then, wondering if this was his chance, and he said gently:
‘Let’s go south in the yacht, we haven’t cruised since the war, wouldn’t you be happy doing that?’
She thought a moment, she would not commit herself, and: ‘Perhaps,’ she said, and reaching for a file began to cut her nails.
‘Shall we just be ourselves?’ he began, but she broke in on this as though it delighted her to hurt him, and she said: ‘My dear - how deadly. What would we do? No, let’s have a crowd.’
He knew then that life on board the yacht would only be a repetition of the present summer, and so there would be no peace for him.
When Cowes week was over the big steam yacht
Gabriel
sailed from Southampton bound for Cannes, a party of fifteen, besides Julius Lévy and his daughter.This yacht was the luxury ship built at Stockport - she was like a miniature hotel.
When they were on board, Julius had some measure of security, Gabriel was too close here to elude him. She was therefore under his eye continually. Her state-room adjoined his on deck, separated only by a bathroom; if he slept with both doors ajar, he could hear every movement. The rest of the guests slept in state-rooms below, and the men of the party in separate quarters to themselves. To go there anyone would have to pass along the deck outside the window of Julius’s state-room, and he would see them. He was pleased with this arrangement of the cabins, he had thought it out with the greatest care.
When they arrived in Cannes surveillance became more difficult. It was so easy for people to slip away at the Casino, to disappear from the ballroom into the gambling-rooms, and then out perhaps, undiscovered, hidden somewhere. He trusted none of Gabriel’s friends, he disliked them all. He felt safest when she was playing bridge, or actually dancing - then he was able to watch.
When he was making a fourth himself and she was dancing on deck to the gramophone, he would keep his ear awake to the sound of the tune, and if it was stopped and a pause came before another one started he would move restlessly in his seat, wondering the reason. He could hardly conceal his impatience before the rubber was over to make some excuse, and jump up from his chair and climb the stair to the upper deck to see whom she was with.
Daily he grew more apprehensive, more highly strung, and she seemed to notice none of this. Whether it was the air of Cannes and the change from London, he did not know, but as his anxiety for her increased, so did her spirits improve, and her old true gaiety return, and she was happier than she had been for many months, singing, laughing, the old Gabriel, but for the mute antagonism between them.
Either this meant an approaching surrender and a going back to his way of living, or it foretold a new departure. He did not know, he could not tell. His doubt was like a fever within him.
The yacht had left the harbour at Cannes and had come to an anchorage between the islands of St Marguérite and St Honoré. It was very hot and still. Here there was none of the glare and dust belonging to the baked, white streets of Cannes, nor clatter of sound, nor forced bright gaiety.
Here the silence was odd, unnatural, it was like the quiet of an enchanted land.The pale blue waters of the sea were motionless, they made no splash upon the shingle stones of the beaches, and the thick heavy trees in the wood never moved, they clung together and were still like sleeping things.
Day after day the sun shone from a sky, blue-black and shimmering with heat, and a thin white haze spread from the sea between the islands and the mainland.
The only sounds of life came from the yacht herself, and there was something wrong and harsh in these sounds, breaking so abruptly upon the silent air. The clanging of the ship’s bell, the run of the engines, the voices and laughter of those on board and that ceaseless blare of the gramophone were intrusions to which the sleeping islands held no welcome.
Sometimes a flitting brown figure of a monk peered furtively from amongst the trees of St Honoré, wondering at the great white yacht that lay across the channel, and then he would creep back to the monastery, his eyes downcast, his fingers fumbling at his beads.
Every morning the party from the yacht would land at St Marguérite to bathe. Avoiding the deep woods that held themselves aloof, mysterious and mosquito-laden, they would scatter into little groups and then lie on the beaches close to the water, the sun tanning them mahogany brown.When the glare became a torture, they would stretch themselves, yawning, and slip into the sea swimming lazily, turning over and over, splashing with their hands.