Jesuits from St. Joseph's were not infrequently seen at Mr. Innes's
concerts. The worthy fathers, although they did not see their way to
guaranteeing a yearly grant of money sufficient to ensure adequate
performances of Palestrina's finest works, were glad to support, with
occasional guineas, their organist's concerts. Painters and men of
letters were attracted by them; musicians seldom. Nor did Mr. Innes
encourage their presence. Musicians were of no use to him. They were, he
said, divided into two classes--those who came to scoff, and those who
came to steal. He did not want either sort.
The rare music interested but a handful, and the audience that had come
from London shivered in remembrance of the east wind which had
accompanied their journey. But this little martyrdom did not seem to be
entirely without its satisfactions, and conscious of superiority, they
settled themselves to listen to the few words of explanation with which
Mr. Innes was accustomed to introduce the music that was going to be
played. He was speaking, when he was interrupted by the servant-maid,
who whispered and gave him a card: "Sir Owen Asher, Bart., 27 Berkeley
Square." He left the room hurriedly, and his audience surmised from his
manner that something important had happened.
Sir Owen, seemingly a tall man, certainly above the medium height, was
waiting for him in the passage. His thin figure was wrapped tightly in
an overcoat, most of his face was concealed in the collar, and the pale
gold-coloured moustache showed in contrast to the dark brown fur. The
face, wide across the forehead, acquired an accent in the pointed chin
and strongly marked jaw. The straight nose was thin and well shaped in
the nostrils. "An attractive man of forty" would be the criticism of a
woman. Sir Owen's attractiveness concentrated in his sparkling eyes and
his manner, which was at once courteous and manly. He told Mr. Innes
that he had heard of his concerts that morning at the office of the
_Wagnerian Review_, and Mr. Innes indulged in his habitual dream of a
wealthy patron who would help him to realise his musical ambitions. Sir
Owen had just bought the periodical, he intended to make it an organ of
advanced musical culture, and would like to include a criticism of these
concerts. Mr. Innes begged Sir Owen to come into the concert-room. But
while taking off his coat, Sir Owen mentioned what he had heard
regarding Mr. Innes's desire to revive the vocal masses of the sixteenth
century at St. Joseph's, and the interest of this conversation delayed
them a little in the passage.
The baronet's evening clothes were too well cut for those of a poet, a
designer of wall paper, or a journalist, and his hands were too white
and well cared for at the nails. His hair was pale brown, curling a
little at the ends, and carefully brushed and looking as if it had been
freshened by some faintest application of perfumed essence. Three pearl
studs fastened his shirt front, and his necktie was tied in a butterfly
bow. He displayed some of the nonchalant ease which wealth and position
create, smiled a little on catching sight of the jersey worn by a lady
who had neglected to fasten the back of her bodice, and strove to
decipher the impression the faces conveyed to him. He grew aware of that
flitting anxiety which is inseparable from the task of finding a daily
living, and that pathos which tells of fidelity to idea and abstinence
from gross pleasure. A young man, who stood apart, in a carefully
studied attitude, a dark lock of hair falling over his forehead, amused
him, and the young man in the chair next Sir Owen wore a threadbare coat
and clumsy boots, and sat bolt upright. Sir Owen pitied him and imagined
him working all day in some obscure employment, finding his life's
pleasure once a week in a score by Bach. Catching sight of a priest's
profile, a look of contempt appeared on his face.
He was of his class, he had lived its life and lived it still, in a
measure, but from the beginning his ideas and tastes had been superior
to those of a merely fashionable man. At five-and-twenty he had
purchased a Gainsborough, and at thirty he had spent a large sum of
money in exhuming some sonatas of Bach from the dust in which they were
lying. At three-and-thirty he had wrecked the career of a fashionable
soprano by inspiring her with the belief that she might become a great
singer, a great artist; at five-and-thirty Bayreuth and its world of
musical culture and ideas had interested him in spite of his
unconquerable aversion to long hair and dirty hands. After some
association with geniuses he withdrew from the art-world, confessing
himself unable to bear the society of those who did not dress for
dinner; but while repudiating, he continued to spy the art-world from a
distance. An audience is, however, necessary to a 'cello player, and the
Turf Club and the Royal Yacht Club contained not a dozen members, he
said, who would recognise the Heroica Symphony if they happened to hear
it, which was not likely. Lately he had declared openly that he was
afraid of entering any of his clubs, lest he should be asked once more
what he thought of the Spring Handicaps, and if he intended sailing the
_Medusa_ in the Solent this season. Nevertheless, his journey to
Bayreuth could not but produce an effect. He had purchased the
_Wagnerian Review_; it had led him to Mr. Innes's concerts, and he was
already interested in the prospect of reviving the early music and its
instruments. That this new movement should be begun in Dulwich, a suburb
he would never have heard of if it had not been for its picture gallery,
stimulated his curiosity.
It is the variation, not the ordinary specimen, that is most typical,
for the variation contains the rule in essence, and the deviation
elucidates the rule. So in his revolt against the habitual pleasures and
ideas of his class, Sir Owen became more explanatory of that class than
if he had acquiesced in the usual ignorance of £20,000 a year. To the
ordinary eye he was merely the conventional standard of the English
upper classes, but more intimate observation revealed the slight glaze
of Bohemianism which natural inclination and many adventures in that
land had left upon him. He listened without parade, his grey eyes
following the music--they, not the head, seeming to nod to it; and when
Mr. Innes approached to ask him his opinion, he sprang to his feet to
tell him.
One of the pieces they had heard was a pavane for five viols and a
harpsichord, composed by Ferrabosco, son of the Italian musician who had
settled in Greenwich at the end of the sixteenth century. Sir Owen was
extraordinarily pleased and interested, and declared the pavane to be as
complete as a sonata by Bach or Beethoven; but his appreciation was
suddenly interrupted by someone looking at him.
At a little distance, Evelyn stood looking at him. The moment she had
seen him she had stopped, and her eyes were delighted as by a vision.
Though he represented to her the completely unknown, she seemed to have
known him always in her heart; she seemed to have been waiting for
knowledge of this unknown, and the rumour of the future grew loud in her
ears.
He raised his eyes and saw a tall, fair girl dressed in pale green. Mr.
Innes introduced them.
"My daughter--Sir Owen Asher."
In the little while which he took to decide whether he would take tea or
coffee, he thought that something could be said for her figure, and he
liked her hair, but, on the whole, he did not think he cared for her.
She seemed to him an unimportant variety of what he had met before. He
said he would take tea, and then he changed his mind and said he would
have coffee, but Evelyn came back with a cup of tea, and perceiving her
mistake, she laughed abstractedly.
"You are going to sing two songs, Miss Innes. I'm glad; I hear your
voice is wonderful."
The sound of his voice conveyed a penetrating sense of his presence. It
was the same happiness which the very sight of him had awakened in her,
and she felt herself yielding to it as to a current. She was borne far
away into mists of dream, where she seemed to live a long while. Time
seemed to have ceased and the outside world to have fallen behind her.
The sensation was the most delicious she had ever experienced. She
hardly heard the answers that she made to his questions, and when her
father called her, it was like returning after a long absence.
She sang much more beautifully than he had expected, and during the
preludes and fugues and the sonatas by Bach, which finished the
programme, he thought of her voice, occasionally questioning himself
regarding his taste for her. Even in this short while he had come to
like her better. She had beautiful teeth and hair, and he liked her
figure, notwithstanding the fact that her shoulders sloped a
little--perhaps because they did slope a little. He noticed, whether her
eyes wandered or remained fixed, that they returned to him, and that
their glance was one of interrogation, as if all depended upon him. When
the concert was over he was anxious to speak to her, so that he grew
impatient with the people who stopped his way. The back room was filled
with musical instruments--there were two harpsichords, a clavichord and
an organ, and Mr. Innes insisted on explaining these instruments to him.
He seemed to Owen to pay too slight a heed to his daughter's voice. That
she played the viola da gamba very well was true enough, but what sense
was there in a girl like that playing an instrument? Her voice was her
instrument.
When he was able to get a few words with her, he told her about Madame
Savelli. There was no one else, he said, who could teach singing. She
must go to France at once, and he seemed to take it for granted that she
might start at the end of the week, if she only made up her mind. She
did not know what answer to make, and was painfully conscious how silly
she must look standing before him unable to say a word. It was no longer
the same; some of the dream had been swept aside, and reality had begun
to look through it. Her intense consciousness of this tall, aristocratic
man frightened her. She saw the embroidered waistcoat, the slight hips,
the gold moustache, and the sparkling grey eyes asked her questions to
which her whole nature violently responded, and, though her feelings
were inexplicable to herself, she was overcome with physical shame.
Father Railston was looking at her, and the thought crossed her mind
that he would not approve of Sir Owen Asher. Feeling very uncomfortable,
she seized an opportunity of saying good-bye to a friend, and escaped
from Sir Owen, leaving him, as she knew, under the impression that she
was a little fool not worth taking further trouble about. But his ideas
were different from all that she had been taught, and it would be better
if she never saw him again. She did not doubt, however, that she would
see him again, and when, two days after, the servant announced him and
he walked into the music room, she was less surprised than her father.
The review, he said, could not go to press without an article on the
concert, but to do this article he must consult Mr. Innes, for in the
first piece, "La my," the viols had seemed to him out of tune. Of course
this was not so--perhaps one of the players had played a wrong note;
that might be the explanation. But on referring to the music, Mr. Innes
discovered a better one. "From the twelfth to the fifteenth century,
writers," he said, "did not consider their music as moderns do. Now we
watch the effect of a chord, a combination of notes heard at the same
moment, the top note of which is the tune, but the older writers used
their skill in divining musical phrases which could be followed
simultaneously, each one going logically its own way, irrespective of
some temporary clashing. They considered their music horizontally, as
the parts went on; we consider it vertically, each chord producing its
impression in turn. To them all the parts were of equal importance.
Their music was a purely decorative interweaving of melodies. Now we
have a tune with accompanying parts."
"What a wonderful knowledge of music your father has, Miss Innes!"
"Yes, father reads old MSS. that no one else can decipher."
"These discords happened," Mr. Innes said, as he went to the
harpsichord, "when a composition was based upon some old plain song
melody, the notes of which could not be altered. Then the musician did
not scruple to write in one of the other parts the same note altered by
a sharp or flat to suit the passing requirement of the musical phrase
allotted to that part. You could thus have together, say an F natural in
one part and an F sharp in another. This to modern ears, not trained to
understanding the meaning of the two parts, is intolerable."
While he spoke of the relative fineness of the ancient and modern ear,
maintaining that the reason ancient singers could sing without an
accompaniment was that they were trained to sing from the monochord,
Owen considered the figure of this tall, fair girl, and wondered if she
would elect to remain with her father, playing the viola da gamba in
Dulwich, or bolt with a manager--that was what generally happened. Her
father was a most interesting old man, a genius in his way, but just
such an one as might prove his daughter's ruin. He would keep her
singing the old music, perhaps marry her to a clerk, and she would be a
fat, prosaic mother of three in five years.
However this might be, he, Owen, was interested in her voice, and, if he
had never met Georgina, he might have liked this girl. It would be
better that he should take her away than that she should go away with a
manager who would rob and beat her. But, if he were to take her away, he
would be tied to her; it would be like marrying her. Far better stick to
married women, and he remembered his epigram of last night. It was at
Lady. Ascott's dinner-party, the conversation had turned on marriage,
and its necessity had been questioned. "But, of course, marriage is
necessary," he had answered. "You can't have husbands without marriage,
and if there were no husbands, who would look after our mistresses?" A
lot of hypocrites had chosen to look shocked; Georgina had said it was a
horrid remark and had hardly spoken to him all the evening; and this
afternoon she had said she should not come and see him any more--she was
afraid her husband suspected, her children were growing up, etc. When
women cease to care for one, how importunate their consciences are! A
little terror took him, and he wondered if he were about to lose
Georgina, or if she were only trying to make him jealous. Perhaps he
could not do better than make her jealous. For that purpose this young
girl was just the thing.
Moreover, he was interested in the revival of Palestrina at St.
Joseph's, and he liked Ferrabosco's pavane. He would like to have a
harpsichord; even if he did not play on it much, it would be a
beautiful, characteristic piece of furniture.... And it would be a good
idea to ask Mr. Innes to bring all his queer instruments to Berkeley
Square, and give a concert to-morrow night after his dinner-party. His
friends had bored him with Hungarian bands, and the improvisations the
bands had been improvising for the last ten years, and he saw no reason
why he should not bore them, just for a change, with Mr. Innes.
At this moment his reflections were interrupted by Mr. Innes, who wanted
to know if he did not agree with him regarding the necessity for the
re-introduction of the monochord, if the sixteenth century masses were
ever to be sung again properly. All this was old story to Evelyn. In a
sort of dream, through a sort of mist, she saw the embroidered waistcoat
and the gold moustache, and when the small, grey, smiling eyes were
raised from her father's face and looked at her, a delicious sensation
penetrated through the very tissues of her flesh, and she experienced
the tremor of a decisive moment; and then there came again a gentle
sense of delicious bewilderment and illusion.
She did not know how it would all happen, but her life seemed for the
first time to have come to a definite issue. The very moment he had
spoken of Madame Savelli, the great singing mistress, it was as if a
light had begun in her brain, and she saw a faint horizon line; she
seemed to see Paris from afar; she knew she would go there to study, and
that night she had fallen asleep listening to the applause of three
thousand hands.
But she did not like to stand before him, offering him first the cup of
tea, then the milk and sugar, then the cake, and bread and butter. Her
repugnance had nothing to do with him; it was an obscure feeling, quite
incomprehensible to herself. When he looked up she answered him with a
smile which she felt to be mysterious, and he perceived its mystery, for
he compared it to the hesitating smile of the Monna Lisa, a print of
which hung on the wall. But the remark increased her foreboding and
premonition. And she was sorry for her father, who was saying that he
hoped to send her abroad in the spring; that he would have done so
before, but she was studying harmony with him. And she could see that
Owen was bored. He was only staying on in the hope of speaking to her,
but she knew that her father was not going out, so there was no chance
of their having a few words together. His invitation to Mr. Innes to
bring the instruments to London, and give a concert to-morrow night at
Berkeley Square, he had reserved till the moment he had got up to go.
Mr. Innes was taken aback. He doubted if there would be time to get the
instruments to London. But Owen said that all that was necessary was a
Pickford van, and that if he would say "Yes," the van and a competent
staff of packers would be at Dulwich in the morning, and would take all
further trouble off his hands. The question was debated. Mr. Innes
thought the instruments had better go by train, and Owen could not help
smiling when he said that he would arrive with the big harpsichord and
Evelyn about nine or half-past.
She had two evening gowns--a pale green silk and a white. The pale green
looked very nice; it had cost her three pounds. The white had nearly
ruined her, but it had seemed to suit her so well that she had not been
able to resist, and had paid five pounds ten, a great deal for her to
spend on a dress. Its great fault was that it soiled at the least touch.
She had worn it three times, and could not wear it again till it had
been cleaned. It was a pity, but there was no help for it. She would
have to wear the green, and to console herself she thought of the
compliments she had had for it at different parties. But these seemed
insignificant when she thought of the party she was going to to-night.
She had never been to Berkeley Square, and expected to be surprised. But
it lay in a hollow, a dignified, secluded square, exactly as she had
imagined it. Nor did the great doorway, and the carpet that stretched
across the pavement for her to walk upon, surprise her, nor the lines of
footmen, nor the natural grace of the wide staircase. She seemed to have
seen it all before, only she could not remember where. It came back to
her like a dream. She seemed to recognise the pictures of the goddesses,
the Holy Families and the gold mirrors; and lifting her eyes, she saw
Owen at the head of the stairs, and he smiled so familiarly, that it
seemed strange to think that this was only the third time she had seen
him.
He introduced her father to a fashionable musician, whose pavanes and
sonatas were composed with that lack of matter and excess of erudition
which delight the amateur and irritate the artist, and he walked down
the rooms looking for seats where they could talk undisturbed for a few
minutes. He was nervous lest Georgina should find him sitting with this
girl in an intimate corner, but he did not expect her for another
half-hour, and could not resist the temptation. He was curious to know
how far Evelyn acquiesced in the obscure lot which her father imposed
upon her, to play the viola da gamba, and sing old music, instead of
singing for her own fame upon the stage. But had she a great voice? If
she had, he would like to help her. The discovery of a new prima donna
would be a fine feather in his cap. Above all, he was also curious to
find out if she were the innocent maiden she appeared to be, or if she
had had flirtations with the clerks in the neighbourhood, and he found
his opportunity to speak to her on this subject in the first line of a
French song she was going to sing:--
"Que vous me coûtez cher, mon coeur, pour vos plaisirs."
His appreciation of her changed every moment. Truly her eyes lit up with
a beautiful light, and her remarks about the length of our payment for
our pleasures revealed an apprehension which he had not credited her
with. But he was alarmed at the quickness with which they had strayed to
the very verge of things: From the other room they would seem very
intimate, sitting on a sofa together, and he was expecting Georgina
every minute. If she were to see them, it would lead to further
discussion, and supply her with an excuse. But his curiosity was
kindled, and while he considered how he could lead Evelyn into
confidences, he saw her arm trembling through the gauze sleeve, for it
seemed to her that all that was happening now had happened before. The
walls covered with red pleated silk, the bracket-clocks, the
brocade-covered chairs: where had she seen them? And Owen's grey eyes
fixed upon her: where had she seen them? In a dream perhaps. She asked
him if he had ever experienced the sensation of having already lived
through a scene that was happening at the very moment. He did not seem
to hear; he seemed expecting someone; and then the vision returned to
her again, and she could not but think that she had known Sir Owen long
ago, but how and where she could not tell. At that moment she noticed
his absent-mindedness, and it was suddenly flashed upon her that he was
in love with some woman and was waiting for her, and almost at the same
moment she saw a tall, red-haired woman cross the further room. The
woman paused in the doorway, as if looking for someone. She nodded to
Owen and engaged in conversation with a group of men standing by the
fireplace. Something told Evelyn that that smooth, cream-coloured neck
was the woman Owen was in love with, and the sudden formality of his
manner convinced her that she was right, that that was the woman he was
in love with. He said that he must go and see after his other guests,
and, as she expected, he went straight to the woman with the red hair.
But she did not leave her friends. After shaking hands with Owen, she
continued talking to them, and he was left out of the conversation.
The concert began with a sonata for the harpsichord and the viola da
gamba, and then Evelyn sang her two songs. She sang for Owen, and it
seemed to her that she was telling him that she was sorry that it had
all happened as it had happened, and that he must go away and be happy
with the woman he loved. She did not think that she sang particularly
well, but Owen came and told her that she had sung charmingly, and in
their eyes were strange questions and excuses, and an avowal of regret
that things were not different. Slim women in delicious gowns glided up
and praised her, but she did not think that they had been as much
impressed by her singing as they said; distinguished men were introduced
to her, and she felt she had nothing to say to them; and looking round
the circle of men and women she saw Owen in the doorway, and noticed
that his eyes were restless and constantly wandered in the direction of
the tall woman with the red hair, who sat calmly talking to her friends,
never noticing him. He seemed waiting for a look that never came; his
glances were furtive and quickly withdrawn, as if he feared he was being
watched. When she got up to leave, Owen came forward and spoke to her,
but she barely replied, and left the room alone. Evelyn saw all this,
and she was surprised when Owen came rapidly through the room and sat
down by her. He was painfully absent-minded, and so nervous that he did
not seem to know what he was saying: indeed, that was the only excuse
she could make for his remarks. She hardly recognised this man as the
man she had hitherto known. She hated all his sentiments and his ideas;
she thought them horrid, and was glad when her father came to tell her
it was time for her to go.
"You didn't sing well," he said, as they went home. "What was the matter
with you?"
Owen and the red-haired lady seemed to fall behind this last misfortune.
If she had lost her voice she was no longer herself, and as she went to
her teaching she saw herself a music mistress to the end of her days.
But on Sunday morning she came down stairs singing, and Mr. Innes heard
a future prima donna in her voice. Her face lit up, and she said, "Do
you think so, dear. It was unlucky I sang so badly the other night. I
seemed to have no voice at all."
He told her that there were times when her mother suddenly lost her
voice.
"But, father, you are not fit to go out, and can't go out in that
state."
"What is the matter?" and his hand went to his shirt collar.
"No, your necktie is all right. Ah! there you've untied it; I'll tie it
for you. It's your coat that wants brushing."
The black frock coat which he wore on Sundays was too small for him. If
he buttoned it, it wrinkled round the waist and across the chest; if he
left it open, its meagre width and the shortness of the skirts (they
were the fashion of more than ten years ago) made it seem ridiculous.
At the elbows the cloth was shiny with long wear, and the cuffs were
frayed. His hat was as antiquated as his coat. It was a mere pulp,
greasy inside and brown outside; the brim was too small, it was too low
in the crown, and after the severest brushing it remained rough like a
blanket. Evelyn handed it back to him in despair. He thanked his
daughter, put it on his head, and forgot its appearance. But in spite of
shabby coat and shabbier hat, Mr. Innes remained free from suspicion of
vulgarity--the sad dignity of his grey face and the dreams that haunted
his eyes saved him from that.
"And whose mass are you going to play to-day?" she asked him.
"A mass by Hummel, in B; on Thursday, a mass by Dr. Gladstone; and next
Sunday, Mozart's Twelfth, beloved of Father Gordon and village choirs. I
wonder if he will allow the Reproaches to be sung in Holy Week? He will
insist on the expense of the double choir."
"But, father, do you think that the congregation of St. Joseph's is one
that would care for the refinement of Palestrina? Would you not require
a cultivated West-end audience--the Oratory or Farm Street?"
"That is Sir Owen's opinion."
"I never heard him say so."
How had she come to repeat anything she had heard him say? Moreover, why
had she said that she had not heard him say so? And Evelyn argued with
herself until the train reached their station--it was one of those
absurd little mental complications, the infinitesimal life that
flourishes deep in the soul.
A little way down a side street, a few yards from the main thoroughfare,
where the roads branched, the great gaunt façade of St. Joseph's pointed
against a yellow sky. Its foundations had been laid and its walls built
by a priest, who had collected large sums of money in America, and whose
desire had been to have the largest church that could be built for the
least money, in the shortest possible time. The result was the great,
sprawling, grey stone building with a desolate spire, now fading into
the darkness of the snow-storm. Money had run short. The church had not
been completed when its founder died; then another energetic priest had
raised another subscription. Doors and stained glass had been added,
and, for a while, St. Joseph's had become a flourishing parish church,
supported by various suburbs, and projects for the completion of its
interior decoration had begun to be entertained; but while these
projects were under consideration, the suburbs had acquired churches of
their own, and the congregation of St. Joseph's had dwindled until it
had lost all means of support, except the meagre assistance it received
from the poor Irish and Italians of the neighbourhood. There had been
talk of closing the church, and it would have had to be closed if the
Jesuits had not accepted the mission. Another subscription had been
started, but the greater part of this third subscription the Jesuits had
spent upon their schools, so the fate of St. Joseph's seemed to be to
remain, as someone had said, an unfinished ruin. Their resources were
exhausted, and they surveyed the barren aisles, dreaming of the painting
and mosaics they would put up when the promises of Father Gordon were
realised. For it was understood that their fortunes should be retrieved
by his musical abilities, and his competence to select the most
attractive masses. Father Gordon was a type often found among amateur
musicians--a man with a slight technical knowledge, a good ear, a nice
voice, and absolutely no taste whatever. His natural ear was for obvious
rhythm, his taste coincided with the popular taste, and as the necessity
of attracting a congregation was paramount, it is easy to imagine how
easily he conceded to his natural inclinations. And the arguments with
which he rebutted those of his opponents were unanswerable, that
whatever moved the heart to the love of God was right; that if the plain
chant failed to help the soul to aspiration, we were justified in
substituting Rossini's _Stabat Mater_, or whatever other musical idiom
the neighbourhood craved for.
Religious rite, according to Father Gordon, should conform to the
artistic taste of the congregation, and he urged, with some force, that
the artistic taste of Southwark stood on quite as high a level as that
of Mayfair. To get a Mayfair audience they had only to follow the taste
of Southwark. And so, under his guidance, the Jesuits had increased
their orchestra and employed the best tenors that could be hired.
Nevertheless, their progress was slow. Father Gordon pleaded patience.
The neighbourhood was unfashionable; it was difficult to persuade their
friends to come so far. Mr. Innes answered that if they gave him a choir
of forty-five voices--he could do nothing with less--the West-end would
come at once to hear Palestrina. The distance, and the fact of the
church being in a slum, he maintained, would not be in itself a
drawback. Half the success of Bayreuth, he urged, is owing to its being
so far off. And this plan, too, seemed to possess some elements of
success, and so the Jesuits hesitated between very divergent methods by
which the same result might be attained.
A few flakes of snow were falling, and Evelyn and her father put up
their umbrellas as they crossed the road to the church. Three steps led
to the pointed door above which was the figure of the patron saint.
The nakedness of the unfinished and undecorated church was hidden in the
twilight of the approaching storm, and Evelyn trembled as she walked up
the aisle, so menacing seemed the darkness that descended from the sky.
The stained glass, blackened by the smoke of the factory chimneys, let
in but little light, the aisles were plunged in darkness, and kneeling
in her favourite place the ineffectual gaslight seemed to her like
painted flames on a dark background. The side chapels which opened on to
the aisles were shut off by no ornamental screens, indeed, the only
piece of decoration seemed to be the fine modern ironwork which veiled
the sanctuary.
She opened her prayer book, but in the shadow of the pillar where she
was kneeling there was not sufficient light for her to read, so she bent
her face upon her hands, intent upon losing herself in prayer. She
abased herself before her Father in Heaven; attaining once more the
wonderful human moment when the creature who crouches on this rim of
earth implores pardon for her trespass from the beneficent Creator of
things. But to-day her devotional mood was interrupted by sudden thought
and sensation of Owen's presence; she was forced to look up, and
convinced that he was very near her, she sought him amid the crowd of
people who sat and knelt in front of her, blackening the dusk, a vague
darkness in which she could at first distinguish nothing but an
occasional white plume and a bald head. But her eyes grew accustomed to
the darkness, and above the uninteresting backs of middle-aged men she
recognised his thin sharp shoulders. She had been compelled to look up
from her prayers, and she wondered if he had been thinking of her. If
so, it was very wrong of him to interrupt her at her prayers. But a
sensation of pleasure arose spontaneously in her. At that moment he had
to remove his hat from the chair on which he had placed it, and she
noticed the gold stud links in his large shirt cuffs, the rough material
of which the coat was made, and how well it lay along the thin arm. She
imagined the look of vexation on the grave interesting face, and laughed
a little to herself. What was the poor woman to do? She had a right to
her chair. But she did look so frightened, and was visibly perturbed by
the presence of so fine a gentleman. Evelyn knew the woman by sight--a
curious thin and crooked creature, who wore a strange bonnet and a
little black mantle, and walked up the church, her hands crossed like a
doll....
No doubt he had driven all the way from Berkeley Square. She could see
him leaning back in his brougham, humming various music, or plaintively
thinking about the lady with the red hair, who did not care for him. Her
breath caught her in the throat. That was the reason why he had come to
St. Joseph's. It was all over with the red-haired lady, and it was for
her that he had come to St. Joseph's! But that could not be.... She saw
him moving in rich and elegant society, where everyone had a title, and
the narrowness of her life compared with his dismayed her. It was
impossible that he could care for her. She was remaining in Dulwich,
with nothing but a few music lessons to look forward to.... But when she
reached the operatic stage her life would be like his, and the vision
of her future passed before her eyes--diamonds in stars, baskets of
wonderful flowers, applause, and the perfume of a love story, swinging
like a censer over it all.
At that moment the priests entered; mass began. She opened her prayer
book, but, however firmly she fixed her thoughts in prayer, they sprang
back, without her knowing it, to Owen and the red-haired woman, with the
smooth, cream-coloured shoulders. Without being aware of it, she was
looking at him, and it was such a delight to think of him that she could
not refrain. His chair was the last on the third line from the altar
rail, and she noticed that he wore patent leather shoes; the hitching of
the dark grey trousers displayed a silk sock; but he suddenly uncrossed
his legs, and assumed a less negligent attitude. In a sudden little
melancholy she remembered how he had watched the woman with the red
hair, and the determined indifference of this woman's face as she left
the room. Immediately after she was amused at the way in which his face
expressed his opinion of the music, and she had to admit to herself that
he listened as if he understood it.
It was not until her father began to play the offertory, one of
Schubert's beautiful inspirations, that she noticed the look of real
delight that held the florid profile till the last note, and for some
seconds after. "He certainly does love music," she thought; and when the
bell rang for the Elevation, she bowed her head and became aware of the
Real Presence. When it rang a second time she felt life stifle in her.
When it rang a third time she again became conscious of time and place.
But the sensation of awe which the accomplishment of the mystery had
inspired was dissipated in the tumult of a very hideous Agnus Dei, in
the voice of a certain concert singer, who seemed determined to shout
down the organ. Evelyn had some difficulty in keeping her countenance,
so plain was the expression of amazement upon the profile in front of
her.
Then the book was carried from the right to the left side of the altar,
and when the priest had read the Gospel, she began once more to ask
herself the reason that had brought Sir Owen to St. Joseph's. The manner
in which he genuflected before the altar told her that he was a
Catholic; perhaps he had come to St. Joseph's merely to hear mass.
"I have come to see your father."
"You will find him in the organ loft.... But he'll be down presently."
And at the end of the church, in a corner out of the way of the crowd,
they waited for Mr. Innes, and she learnt almost at once, from his face
and the remarks that he addressed to her, that it was not for her that
he had come to St. Joseph's. His carriage was waiting, he told the
coachman to follow; all three tramped through the snow together to the
station. In this miserable walk she learnt that he had decided to go for
a trip round the world in his yacht, and expected to be away for nearly
a year. As he bade them good-bye he looked at her, and his eyes seemed
to say he was sorry that it was so, that he wished it were otherwise.
She felt that if she had been able to ask him to stay he would have
stayed; but, of course, that was impossible, and the last she saw of him
was as he turned, just before getting into his brougham, to tell her
father that the best critic of the _Review_ should attend the concerts,
and that he hoped that what he would write would bring some people of
taste to hear them.