crimson
of an apostle’s robe, struck her hair and kindled it at once into flame; her
eyes, blue and laughing, gazed heavenwards with a look of matchless
tranquillity. She might have been a saint, come to life out of the
sun-drenched stained-glass.
She cried out, like a happy child: “Oh, I have enjoyed it, Mr.
Speed! All of it. I do wish I could come up there and watch you
play!”
With startled eagerness he answered: “Come up then—I should be
delighted! Go round into the vestry and I’ll help you up the ladder.”
Instinct warned him that she was only a child, interested in the merely
mechanical tricks of how things were done; that she wanted to see the working
of the stops and pedals more than to hear the music; that this impulse of
hers did not betoken any particular friendliness for him or admiration for
his playing. Yet some secondary instinct, some quick passionate enthusiasm,
swept away the calculating logic of that, and made him a prey to the wildest
and raptest of anticipations.
In the vestry she blushed violently as he met her; she seemed more a child
than ever before. And she scampered up the steep ladder into the loft with an
agility that bewildered him.
He never dreamt that she could so put away all fear and embarrassment of
his presence; as she clambered up on to the end of the bench beside him (for
there was no seating-room anywhere else) he wondered if this were merely a
mood of hers, or if some real and deep change, had come over her since their
last meeting. She was so delicately lovely; to see her there, with her eyes
upon him, so few inches from his, gave him a curious electrical pricking of
the skin. Sometimes, he noticed, her eyes watched his hands steadily;
sometimes, with a look half-bold, half-timid, they travelled for an instant
to his face. He even wondered, with an egotism that made him smile inwardly,
if she were thinking him good-looking.
“Now,” he said, beginning to pull out the necessary stops, “what shall we
have?—‘The Moonlight Sonata,’ eh?”
“Yes,” she assented, eagerly. “I’ve heard Clare talk about it.”
He played it to her; then he played her a medley of Bach, Dvorak, Mozart,
Mendelssohn and Lemare. He was surprised and pleased to discover that, on the
whole, she preferred the good music to the not so good, although, of course,
her musical taste was completely unsophisticated. Mainly, too, it was the
music that kept her attention, though she had a considerable childish
interest in his manual dexterity and in the mechanical arrangement of the
stops and couplings. She said once, in a pause between two pieces: “Aren’t
they strange hands?” He replied, laughing away his embarrassment: “I don’t
know. Are they?”
After he had played, rather badly but with great verve, the Ruy
Blas Overture of Mendelssohn, she exclaimed: “Oh, I wish I could play
like that!”
He said: “But you do play the piano, don’t you? And I prefer the piano to
the organ: it’s less mechanical.”
She clapped her hands together in a captivatingly childish gesture of
excitement and said: “Oh yes, the piano’s lovely, isn’t it? But I can’t play
well—oh, I wish I could!”
“You could if you practised hard enough,” he answered, with prosaic
encouragement. “I can hear you sometimes, you know, when I’m in my room at
nights and the window’s open. I think you could become quite a good
player.”
She leaned her elbow on the keys and started in momentary fright at the
resulting jangle of sound. “I—I get so nervous,” she said. “I don’t
know why. I could never play except to myself—and Clare.” She added,
slowly, and as if the revelation had only barely come to her: “Do you
know—it’s strange, isn’t it—I think—perhaps—I think I
might be able to play in front of you— now —without being
nervous!”
He laughed boisterously and swung himself off the bench. “Very well, then,
that’s
of an apostle’s robe, struck her hair and kindled it at once into flame; her
eyes, blue and laughing, gazed heavenwards with a look of matchless
tranquillity. She might have been a saint, come to life out of the
sun-drenched stained-glass.
She cried out, like a happy child: “Oh, I have enjoyed it, Mr.
Speed! All of it. I do wish I could come up there and watch you
play!”
With startled eagerness he answered: “Come up then—I should be
delighted! Go round into the vestry and I’ll help you up the ladder.”
Instinct warned him that she was only a child, interested in the merely
mechanical tricks of how things were done; that she wanted to see the working
of the stops and pedals more than to hear the music; that this impulse of
hers did not betoken any particular friendliness for him or admiration for
his playing. Yet some secondary instinct, some quick passionate enthusiasm,
swept away the calculating logic of that, and made him a prey to the wildest
and raptest of anticipations.
In the vestry she blushed violently as he met her; she seemed more a child
than ever before. And she scampered up the steep ladder into the loft with an
agility that bewildered him.
He never dreamt that she could so put away all fear and embarrassment of
his presence; as she clambered up on to the end of the bench beside him (for
there was no seating-room anywhere else) he wondered if this were merely a
mood of hers, or if some real and deep change, had come over her since their
last meeting. She was so delicately lovely; to see her there, with her eyes
upon him, so few inches from his, gave him a curious electrical pricking of
the skin. Sometimes, he noticed, her eyes watched his hands steadily;
sometimes, with a look half-bold, half-timid, they travelled for an instant
to his face. He even wondered, with an egotism that made him smile inwardly,
if she were thinking him good-looking.
“Now,” he said, beginning to pull out the necessary stops, “what shall we
have?—‘The Moonlight Sonata,’ eh?”
“Yes,” she assented, eagerly. “I’ve heard Clare talk about it.”
He played it to her; then he played her a medley of Bach, Dvorak, Mozart,
Mendelssohn and Lemare. He was surprised and pleased to discover that, on the
whole, she preferred the good music to the not so good, although, of course,
her musical taste was completely unsophisticated. Mainly, too, it was the
music that kept her attention, though she had a considerable childish
interest in his manual dexterity and in the mechanical arrangement of the
stops and couplings. She said once, in a pause between two pieces: “Aren’t
they strange hands?” He replied, laughing away his embarrassment: “I don’t
know. Are they?”
After he had played, rather badly but with great verve, the Ruy
Blas Overture of Mendelssohn, she exclaimed: “Oh, I wish I could play
like that!”
He said: “But you do play the piano, don’t you? And I prefer the piano to
the organ: it’s less mechanical.”
She clapped her hands together in a captivatingly childish gesture of
excitement and said: “Oh yes, the piano’s lovely, isn’t it? But I can’t play
well—oh, I wish I could!”
“You could if you practised hard enough,” he answered, with prosaic
encouragement. “I can hear you sometimes, you know, when I’m in my room at
nights and the window’s open. I think you could become quite a good
player.”
She leaned her elbow on the keys and started in momentary fright at the
resulting jangle of sound. “I—I get so nervous,” she said. “I don’t
know why. I could never play except to myself—and Clare.” She added,
slowly, and as if the revelation had only barely come to her: “Do you
know—it’s strange, isn’t it—I think—perhaps—I think I
might be able to play in front of you— now —without being
nervous!”
He laughed boisterously and swung himself off the bench. “Very well, then,
that’s
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