Last Nocturne by Marjorie Eccles Page A

leather chair in the quiet reading room over a glass of port, interrupted only by friends of his father who had not seen him since Eliot had died, offering expressions of sympathy. He finally gave up his vigil when it became apparent that it was going to be futile, suddenly aware that perhaps the problems over the exhibition at the gallery had exhausted Carrington more than they had Guy himself. He was, after all, no longer a young man.
    One way and another, he had drunk rather more than was usual with him during the course of the evening, and rather than take a cab, he walked home to clear his head and stretch his legs. It was a beautiful night, the sky dark, and thick with stars. It reminded him of Tibet. Sometimes, lately, he would stop in the middle of what he was doing, wondering where he was, what he was doing here, why he was not back in that heartbreakingly beautiful country, rich in mysteries, with its perilous snow-capped peaks and icy green watercourses tearing along the chasms and gorges, its simple people.
    When the conflict with the Boers had broken out, like so many other patriotic young Englishmen, Guy had immediately enlisted in the army and sailed to South Africa to join in the fighting. He had come through unscathed, but the adventure had developed not only a cynical suspicion of his own country’s motives in this South African war but disillusioned him with the army and its stiff protocol. Not inclined to return to England immediately, he had joined a Swedish geographical expedition in the last stages of attempting to map the as yet unknown regions between the Gobi desert and the Tibetan plateau, dedicated to finding the sources of the great rivers of Asia, perhaps the last of the world’s great mysteries. Well, all this had now drawn to a triumphant close. Left behind, he had wondered what he was going to do with himself. And then his father had died, and the decision for his return had been made.
    In the simple life, with its unstressful pace, there had been time for thought and reflection, a temporary hiatus in his real life, a preparation for what was to come. But the thought of returning to London and passing his time in vapid and meaningless activities, in a life devoted to the pursuit of pleasure, was repugnant. He was not, like his father, artistic or even appreciative of art, in the sense that he had no instinctive or acquired knowledge; he was not pressed for money, yet Eliot’s example had shown him it was possible to lead a useful and interesting life without the need for it as an incentive. The thought had entered and lodged in his mind that he might enter Parliament.
    But tonight was no time for such thoughts; tonight he was preoccupied with his still unresolved problem. And as he walked the quiet, gas-lit streets, his quick impatient stride matching his preoccupations, his dark face was brooding, his brows drawn together in the concentrated frown that was rapidly becoming habitual. Thoughts rushed through his mind, the ones which always seemed to be there nowadays, mostly about whether he would ever manage to clear up the mystery of his father’s death, which was still confounding him. He had thrown himself into solving the problem as if it were an enemy to be attacked, but it was no nearer resolution.
    Arriving at Embury Square, he let himself in with his key, as his father had always done when returning late, in consideration for the servants. As soon as he entered the echoing hall, dimly lit by the one all-night lamp shooting grotesque shadows into the empty darkness above, he noticed a sharper line of light coming from under the drawing room door. It was unheard of for the servants to be so careless as to leave unnecessary lights burning all night. When he opened the door, there was his mother, sitting in a chair, under a single lamp, staring into a dying fire, doing nothing.
    She was dressed all in black, as if only recently widowed, but it was of course splendidly elegant black, and