An irrepressible smile swept Lily’s face. “They couldn’t have chosen
better, I’m sure. Do play it, Ellen.”
The girl turned to the piano and a respectful silence fell once more.
Slowly she swept into the somber rhythms of the _March Funèbre_,
beginning so softly that the music was scarcely audible, climbing
steadily toward a climax. From the depths of the old Pleyel she brought
such music as is seldom heard. The faces in the drawing-room became
grave and thoughtful. Lying among the pillows of the divan, Lily closed
her eyes and listened through a wall of darkness. Nearby, her mother,
leaning on the ebony stick, bowed her head because her eyes had grown
dim with tears, a spectacle which she never permitted this world to
witness. Presently the music swung again into a somber retarding rhythm;
and then slowly, surely, with a weird, unearthly certainty, it became
synchronized with the throbbing of the Mills. The steady beat was
identical. Old Julia Shane opened her eyes and stared out of the window
into the gathering darkness. The music, all at once, made the pounding
of the Mills hideously audible.
When the last note echoing through the old house died away, Eva Barr,
fidgeting with her embroidered reticule in search of a handkerchief to
wipe her lean red nose, rose and said, “Well, I must go. It’s late and
the hack is already here. He charges extra for waiting, you know.”
That was the inevitable sign. The dinner was ended. Grandpa Barr, very
rosy from his promenade about the grounds, and the red-haired Robert,
much stuffed with Willie Harrison’s courting chocolates, reappeared and
the round of farewells was begun.
Before Hennery brought round from the stable the Tolliver’s sleigh, Lily
placing her arm about Ellen’s waist, drew her aside and praised her
playing. “You must not throw it away,” she said. “It is too great a
gift.” She whispered. Her manner became that of a conspirator. “Don’t
let them make you settle into the pattern of the Town. It’s what they’ll
try to do, but don’t let them. We only live once, Ellen, don’t waste
your life. The others ... the ones who aren’t remarkable in any way will
try to pull you down from your pedestal to their level. But don’t let
them. Fitting the pattern is the end of their existence. ‘Be like every
one else,’ is their motto. Don’t give in. And when the time comes, if
you want to come and study in Paris with the great Philippe, you can
live with me.”
The girl blushed and regarded the floor silently for a moment. “I won’t
let them,” she managed to say presently. “Thank you, Cousin Lily.” At
the door, she turned sharply, all her shyness suddenly vanished, an air
of defiance in its place. “I won’t let them.... You needn’t worry,” she
added with a sudden fierceness.
“And next week,” said Lily, “come here and spend the night. I want to
hear more music. There’s no music in this Town but the Mills.”
By the fireplace under the flaming Venice of Mr. Turner, Julia Shane
talked earnestly with her niece, Mrs. Tolliver, who stood warming her
short astrakhan jacket by the gentle blaze.
“And one more thing, Hattie,” said the old woman. “I’ve been planning to
give you these for some time but the opportunity never arose. I shan’t
live many more years and I want you to have them.”
With an air of secrecy she took from her thin fingers two rings and
slipped them into the red, worn hands of her niece. “Don’t tell any
one,” she added. “It’s a matter between us.”
Mrs. Tolliver’s hand closed on the rings. She could say nothing, but she
kissed Aunt Julia affectionately and the tears came into her eyes
because the old woman understood so well the intricate conventions of
pride in matters of money. The rings were worth thousands. Hattie
Tolliver could not have accepted their value in money.
At the door the little party made its departure with a great deal of
healthy hubbub, colliding at the same time with a visitor who had driven
up unseen. It was Willie Harrison, come to call upon Lily and to propose
a visit to the Mills to look over the new furnaces that were building.
In the stream of light from the doorway the caller and Charles Tolliver
recognized each other and an awkward moment followed. It was Willie
Harrison, overcome with confusion, who bowed politely. Charles Tolliver
climbed into his sleigh without making any sign of recognition. The feud
between the old and the new, concealed for so many years, was emerging
slowly into the open.