"She shall play what she likes," Mr. Sutcliffe said. He had come in late,
without his wife.
She was going to play to them. They always asked you to play.
She thought: "It'll be all right. They won't listen; they'll go on
talking. I'll play something so soft and slow that they won't hear it. I
shall be alone, listening to myself."
She played the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata. A beating heart, a
grieving voice; beautiful, quiet grief; it couldn't disturb them.
Suddenly they all left off talking. They were listening. Each note
sounded pure and sweet, as if it went out into an empty room. They came
close up, one by one, on tiptoe, with slight creakings and rustlings,
Miss Kendal, Louisa Wright, Dorsy Heron. Their eyes were soft and quiet
like the music.
Mr. Sutcliffe sat where he could see her. He was far away from the place
where she heard herself playing, but she could feel his face turned on
her like a light.
The first movement died on its two chords. Somebody was saying "How
beautifully she plays." Life and warmth flowed into her. Exquisite,
tingling life and warmth. "Go on. Go on." Mr. Sutcliffe's voice sounded
miles away beyond the music.
She went on into the lovely _Allegretto_. She could see their hushed
faces leaning nearer. You could make them happy by playing to them. They
loved you because you made them happy.
Mr. Sutcliffe had got up; he had come closer.
She was playing the _Presto agitato_. It flowed smoothly under her
fingers, at an incredible pace, with an incredible certainty.
Something seemed to be happening over there, outside the place where she
heard the music. Martha came in and whispered to the Doctor. The Doctor
whispered to Roddy. Roddy started up and they went out together.
She thought: "Papa again." But she was too happy to care. Nothing
mattered so long as she could listen to herself playing the Moonlight
Sonata.
Under the music she was aware of Miss Kendal stooping over her, pressing
her shoulder, saying something. She stood up. Everybody was standing up,
looking frightened.
Outside, in the hall, she saw Catty, crying. She went past her over the
open threshold where the snow lay like a light. She couldn't stay to find
her snow-shoes and her coat.
The track across the Green struck hard and cold under her slippers. The
tickling and trickling of the snow felt like the play of cold light
fingers on her skin. Her fear was a body inside her body; it ached and
dragged, stone cold and still.