THE LAST MUSIC-LESSON.
On the Tuesday morning Bertie was late for breakfast, and came in yawning
rather ostentatiously. Judith protested good-humoredly: "Lie in bed late
_or_ yawn, but you can't want to do both. Why, it is eleven hours since
you went up to bed!" This was perfectly true, but not so much to the point
as she supposed.
Ever since the mysterious fainting-fit Judith had watched him with tender
anxiety, and it seemed to her that there was something strange in his
manner that morning. She did not know what it was, but had she held any
clew to his thoughts she would have perceived that Bertie was astonished
and bewildered. He looked as if a dream had suddenly become a reality, as
if a jest had turned into marvellous earnest. He smoked his pipe, leaning
by the open window, with a serious and almost awestruck expression in his
eyes. One might have fancied that he was transformed visibly to himself,
and was perplexed to find that the change was invisible to others. Judith
could not understand this quiet gravity.
She came up to him and laid her hand caressingly on his shoulder. He did
not turn, but pointed with the stem of his pipe across the street. "Look!"
he said. "There's a bit of houseleek on those tiles. I never saw it till
to-day."
"Nor I."
"It looks green and pleasant," said Bertie in a gentle, meditative voice.
"I like it."
"Our summer garden," Judith suggested.
"I wonder if there's any houseleek on our roof?" he went on after a
moment.
"We will hope so, for our neighbors' sake," said his sister. "It's a new
idea to me. I thought our roof was nothing but tiles and cats--principally
cats."
Bertie smoked his pipe, and surveyed the houseleek as if it were a
newly-discovered star. Everything was strange and wonderful that morning.
Vague ideas floated in the atmosphere, half seen against the background of
common things. The mood, born of exceptional circumstances, was unique in
his life. Had it been habitual, there would have been hope of a new poet,
or, since his taste lay in the direction of wordless harmony, of a great
musician.
"You won't be late at the square, Bertie dear?" said Judith.
"No, I'll not be late," he answered absently. He felt that the pale gold
of the April sunlight was beautiful even in Bellevue street.
"The last lesson," she said. Bertie, suddenly roused, looked round at her
with startled eyes. "What! had you forgotten that the girls go home
to-morrow?" cried Judith in great surprise. She had counted the days so
often.
He laughed shortly and uneasily: "I suppose I had. Queer, wasn't it? Yes,
it's my last lesson, as you say. If I had only thought of it, I might have
composed a Lament, taught it to all my pupils, and charged a fancy price
for it in the bill."
"That would have been very touching. A little tiresome to you perhaps, and
to Miss Crawford--"
"Bless you! she's always asleep," said Bertie, knocking the ashes out of
his pipe and pocketing it. "I might teach them the Old Hundredth, one
after the other, all the morning through: she wouldn't know. So your work
ends to-morrow?"
"Not quite. The girls go to-morrow, but I have promised to be at the
square on Thursday. There's a good deal to be done, and I should like to
see Miss Crawford safely off in the afternoon."
"Where's the old woman going?"
"To Cromer for a few days. She lived there as a child, and loves it more
than any place in the world."
"Does the poor old lady think she'll grow young again there?" said Bertie.
"Well, perhaps she will," he added after a pause. "At any rate, she may
forget that she has grown old."
Punctually at the appointed hour the young music-master arrived in Standon
Square. It was for the last time, as Judith had said. Miss Crawford looked
older, and Miss Crawford's cap looked newer, than either had ever done
before. She put her weak little hand into Bertie's, and said some prim,
kindly words about the satisfaction his lessons had given, the progress
his pupils had made and the confidence she felt in his sister and himself.
As she spoke she was sure he was gratified, for the color mounted to his
face. Suddenly she stopped in the midst of her neatly-worded sentences.
"You are like your mother, Mr. Lisle," she said: "I never saw it so much
before." And she murmured something, half to herself, about her first
pupil, the dearest of them all. Bertie, for once in his life, was silent
and bashful.
The old lady rang the bell, and requested that Miss Macdonald might be
told that it was time for her lesson and that Mr. Lisle had arrived.
During the brief interval that ensued the music-master looked furtively
round the room, as if he had never seen it before. It seemed to him almost
as if he looked at it with different eyes, and read Miss Crawford's life
in it. It was a prim, light-colored drawing-room, adorned with many
trifles which were interesting as indications of patience and curious in
point of taste. There was a great deal of worsted work, and still more of
crochet. Everything that could possibly stand on a mat stood on a mat, and
other mats lay disconsolately about, waiting as cabmen wait for a fare.
Every piece of furniture was carefully arranged with a view to supporting
the greatest possible number of anti-macassars. There were water-color
paintings on the walls, and bouquets of wax flowers bloomed gayly under
glass shades on every table. There were screens, cushions, pen-wipers.
Bertie calculated that Miss Crawford's drawing-room might yield several
quarts of beads. He had seen all these things many times, but they had
acquired a new meaning and interest that day.
Miss Macdonald appeared, and Miss Crawford seated herself on a pink rose,
about the size of a Jersey cabbage, with two colossal buds, and rested her
tired back against a similar group. At the first notes of the piano her
watchful and smiling face relaxed and she nodded wearily in the
background. It did not matter much. The young master was grave, silent,
patient, conscientious. In fact, it did not matter at all. Having slept
through the earlier lessons, the schoolmistress might well sleep through
this. It was rather a pity that, instead of taking a placid and unbroken
rest on the sofa, she sat stiffly on a worked chair and started into
uneasy wakefulness between the lessons, dismissing one girl and sending
for the next with infinite politeness and propriety. At last she said,
"And will you have the kindness to tell Miss Nash?"
Bertie sat turning over a piece of music till the sound of the opening
door told him that his pupil had arrived. Then he rose and looked in her
direction, but avoided her eyes.
There was no school-girl slovenliness about Emmeline Nash. Her gray dress
was fresh and neat, a tiny bunch of spring flowers was fastened in it, a
ribbon of delicate blue was round her neck. As she came forward with a
slight flush on her cheek, her head carried defiantly and the sunlight
shining on her pale hair, Miss Crawford said to herself that really she
was a stylish girl, ladylike and pretty. Her schoolfellows declared that
Emmeline always went about with her mouth hanging open. But that day the
parted lips had an innocent expression of wonder and expectation.
The lesson was begun in as business-like a fashion as the others. Perhaps
Emmeline regaled the young master with a few more false notes than usual,
but she was curiously intent on the page before her. Presently she stole a
glance over her shoulder at Miss Crawford. She was asleep. Emmeline played
a few bars mechanically, and then she turned to Bertie.
The eyes which met her own had an anxious, tender, almost reverential,
expression. This slim fair girl had suddenly become a very wonderful
being to Lisle, and he touched her hand with delicate respect and looked
strangely at her pretty vacant face.
Had there been the usual laughter lurking in his glance, Emmeline would
have giggled. Her nerves were tensely strung, and giggling was her sole
expression for a wide range of emotion. But his gravity astonished her so
much that she looked at the page before her again, and went on playing
with her mouth open.
Toward the close of the lesson master and pupil exchanged a few whispered
words. "You may rely on me," said Bertie finally: "what did I promise this
morning?" He spoke cautiously, watching Miss Crawford. She moved in her
light slumber and uttered an inarticulate sound. The young people started
asunder and blushed a guilty red. Emmeline, with an unfounded assumption
of presence of mind, began to play a variation containing such loud and
agitated discords that further slumber must have been miraculous. But
Lisle interposed. "Gently," he said. "Let me show you how that should be
played." And he lulled the sleeper with the tenderest harmony.
In due time the lesson came to an end. Miss Crawford presided over the
farewell, and regretted that it was really Miss Nash's last lesson, as
(though Mr. Lisle perhaps was not aware of it) she was not coming back to
Standon Square. Mr. Lisle in his turn expressed much regret, and said that
he should miss his pupil. "You must on no account forget to practise every
day," said the old lady, turning to Emmeline.--"Must she, Mr. Lisle?"
Mr. Lisle hoped that Miss Nash would devote at least three hours every day
to her music. The falsehood was so audacious that he shuddered as he
uttered it. He made a ceremonious bow and fled.
[Illustration: "SHE WAS ASLEEP."--Page 426.]
Going back to Bellevue street, he locked himself into his room and turned
out all his worldly goods. A little portmanteau was carefully packed with
a selection from them, and hidden away in a cupboard, and the rest were
laid by as nearly as possible in their accustomed order. Then he took out
his purse and examined its contents with dissatisfied eyes. "Can't get on
without the sinews of war," Bertie soliloquized. "I might manage with
double as much perhaps, but how shall I get it? Spoiling the Egyptians
would be the scriptural course of conduct I suppose, and I'm ready; but
where are the Egyptians? I wonder if Judith keeps a hoard anywhere? Or
Lydia? Shall I go and ask her to lend me jewels of silver and jewels of
gold? Poor Lydia! I fear I could hardly find a plausible excuse for
borrowing the blue earrings. And I doubt they wouldn't help me much. No, I
must find some better plan than that."
He was intensely excited: his flushed cheek and glittering eyes betrayed
it. But the feelings of the morning had worn off in the practical work of
packing and preparing for his flight. Perhaps it was as well they had, for
they could hardly have survived an interview with Lydia in the afternoon.
She was suspicious, and required coaxing to begin with.
"Why, what's the matter, Lydia?" said Lisle at last in his gentlest voice.
"You might do this for me."
"You are always wanting something done for you."
"Oh, Lydia! and I've been such a good boy lately!"
"Too good by half," said Lydia.
"And a month ago I was always too bad. How am I to hit your precise taste
in wickedness?"
"Oh, I ain't particular to a shade," said Lydia, "as you might know by my
helping you to deceive ma and your sister. But as to your goodness, I
don't believe in it: so there! Don't tell me! People don't give up all at
once, and go to bed at ten o'clock every night, and turn as good as all
that. It's my belief you mean to bolt. What have you been doing?"
"Look here, Lydia, I've told you once, and I tell you again: I want a
holiday, and I'm off for two or three days by myself--can't be tied to my
sister's apron-string all my life. But I would rather not have any fuss
about it, so I shall just go quietly, and send her a line when I've
started. I want you to get that portmanteau off, so that I may pick it up
at the station to-morrow morning. I _did_ think I might count on _you_,"
said Bertie with heartrending pathos: delicately-shaded acting would have
been wasted on Miss Bryant. "You've always been as true as steel. But it
seems I was mistaken. Well, no matter. If my sister makes a scene about
my going away, it can't be helped. Perhaps I was wrong to keep my little
secrets from her and trust them to any one else."
"I don't say that," Lydia replied. "P'raps others may do as well or better
by you."
"Thank you all the same for your former kindness," Bertie continued in a
tone of gentle resignation, ignoring her remark. "Since you won't, there
is nothing more to be said."
"What do you want to fly off in that fashion for?" said Lydia. "I'll see
about your portmanteau if this is all true--"
Bertie assumed an insulted-gentleman air: it was extremely lofty: "Oh, if
you doubt me, Miss Bryant--"
"Gracious me! You _are_ touchy!" exclaimed poor Lydia in perplexity and
distress. "Only one word: you haven't been doing anything bad?"
"On my honor--no," said Bertie haughtily.
"And there's nothing wrong about the portmanteau?"
"Oh, this is too much!" Lisle exclaimed. "I can't be cross-questioned in
this fashion--even by _you_." The careless parenthesis was not without
effect. "Wrong about it--no! But we'll leave the subject altogether, if
you please. I won't trouble you any further."
It was evident to Lydia that he was offended. There was an angry light in
his eyes and his cheeks were flushed. "You _are_ unkind," she said. "I'll
see about it for you; and you knew I would." She saw Bertie's handsome
face dimly through a mist of gathering tears.
"Crying?" said Lisle. "Not for me, Lydia? I'm not worth it."
"That I'll be bound you are not," said the girl.
"Then why do you do it?"
"Perhaps you think we always measure our tears, and mind we don't give
over-weight," said Lydia scornfully. "Shouldn't cry much at that rate, I
expect. I do it because I'm a fool, if you particularly want to know."
Lisle was wondering what style of answer would be suitable and harmless
when Mr. Fordham came up the stairs. Lydia saw him, exclaimed, "Oh my
good gracious!" and vanished, while Bertie strolled into his room,
invoking blessings on the old man's head.
That evening there was a choir-practice at St. Sylvester's. Mr. Clifton
was peculiarly tiresome, and the young organist replied with an air of
easy scorn, the more irritating that it was so good-humored. Had the
worthy incumbent been a shade less musical there would have been a quarrel
then and there. But how could he part with a man who played so splendidly?
Bertie received his instructions as to their next meeting with an unmoved
face. "It is so important now that Easter is so near," said the clergyman.
"Thursday evening, and you won't be late?"
"Au revoir, then," said Lisle airily, "since we are to meet so soon." And
with a pleasant smile he went his way.
When he got back he found Judith at home, looking worn and white. He was
tenderly reproachful. "I'm sure you want your tea," he said. "You should
not have thought about me." He waited on her, he busied himself about her
in a dozen little ways. He was bright, gay, affectionate. A faint color
flushed her face and a smile dawned on her lips. How could she fail to be
pleased and touched? How could she do otherwise than smile at this paragon
of young brothers? He talked of holiday schemes in a happy though rather
random fashion. He sang snatches of songs softly in his pleasant tenor
voice.
"Bertie, our mother used to sing that," said Judith after one of them.
"Did she?" He paused. "I don't remember."
"No, you can't," she answered sorrowfully. "I wish you could."
"I've only the faintest and most shadowy recollection--just a dim idea of
somebody," he replied. "But in my little childish troubles I always had
you. I don't think I wanted any one else."
Judith took his hand in hers, and held it for a moment fondly clasped:
"You can't think how much I like to hear you say that."
Lisle blushed, and was thankful for the dim light. "Do you know," he said
hurriedly, "I rather think I may have a chance of giving old Clifton
warning before long?"
"Oh, Bertie! Where could you get anything else as good?"
"Not five-and-twenty miles away." Bertie named a place which they had
passed on their journey to Brenthill. "Gordon of our choir told me of it
this evening. I think I shall run over to-morrow and make inquiries."
"But why would it be so much better?"
"There's a big grammar school and they have a chapel. I should be organist
there."
"But do they pay more?" she persisted.
"Hardly as much to the organist perhaps. But I could give lessons in the
school, Gordon tells me, and make no end of money so. Oh, it would be a
first-rate thing for me."
"And for me?"
"Oh, I hope you won't have to go on slaving for Miss Crawford. You must
come and keep house--" Bertie stopped abruptly. He could deceive on a
grand scale, but these small fibs, which came unexpectedly, confused him
and stuck in his throat.
"Keep house for you? Is that all I am to do? Bertie, how rich do you hope
to be?"
"Rich enough to keep you very soon," he answered gravely.
"But does Mr. Gordon think you have a chance of this appointment?"
"Why not?" said Bertie. "I am fit for it." There was no arrogance in his
simple statement of the fact.
"I know you are. All the same, I think I won't give up my situation till
we see how this new plan turns out. And I don't want to be idle."
"But I don't want you to work," said Bertie. "You are killing yourself,
and you know it. Well, this is worth inquiring about at any rate, isn't
it?"
"Yes, it certainly is. It sounds very pleasant. But pray don't be rash:
don't give up what you have already until you quite see your way."
"No, but I think I do see it. I'll just take the 8.35 train to-morrow and
find out how the land lies. I can be back early in the afternoon."
So the matter was settled. As they went off to bed Lisle casually remarked
that he had not seen Thorne that day: "Is he out, I wonder?"
Miss Bryant was making her nightly examination of the premises. She
overheard the remark as she turned down the gas in the passage, and
informed them that when Mr. Thorne came in from the office he complained
of a headache, asked for a cup of tea and went early to bed. "Poor
fellow!" said Lisle.--"Good-night, Miss Bryant."
Apparently, Percival's headache did not keep him in bed, for a light
gleamed dimly in his sitting-room late that Tuesday night.