fine news! You shall try. You shall play some of the Chopin waltzes to
me. Not very suitable for an organ, but that doesn’t matter. Sit further on
this bench and play on the lower keyboard. Never mind about the pedals. And
I’ll manage the stops for you.”
She wriggled excitedly into the position he had indicated and, laughing
softly, began one of the best-known of the waltzes. The experiment was not
entirely successful, for even an accomplished pianist does not play well on
an organ for the first time, nor do the Chopin waltzes lend themselves aptly
to such an instrument. But one thing, and to Speed the main thing of all, was
quite obvious: she was, as she had said she would be, entirely free from
nervousness of him. After ploughing rather disastrously through a dozen or so
bars she stopped, turned to him with flushed cheeks and happy eyes, and
exclaimed: “There! That’s enough! It’s not easy to play, is it?”
He said, smiling down at her: “No, it’s rather hard, especially at
first…But you weren’t nervous then, were you?”
“Not a bit,” she answered, proudly. She added, with a note of warning:
“Don’t be surprised if I am when you come in to our house to dinner I’m
always nervous when father’s there.”
Almost he added: “So am I.” But the way in which she had mentioned future
invitations to dinner at the Head’s house gave him the instant feeling that
henceforward the atmosphere on such occasions would be subtly different from
ever before. The Head’s drawing-room, with the baby grand piano and the
curio-cabinets and the faded cabbage-like design of the carpet, would never
look quite the same again; the Head’s drawing-room would look, perhaps, less
like a cross between a lady’s boudoir and the board-room of a City company;
even the Head’s study might take on a kindlier, less sinister hue.
He said, still with his eyes smiling upon her: “Who teaches you the
piano?”
“A Miss Peacham used to. I don’t have a teacher now.”
“I don’t know,” he said, beginning to flush with the consciousness of his
great daring, “if you would care to let me help you at all. I should be
delighted to do so, you know, at any time. Since”—he laughed a
little—“since you’re no longer a scrap nervous of me, you might find me
useful in giving you a few odd hints.”
He waited, anxious and perturbed, for her reply. After a sufficient pause
she answered slowly, as if thinking it out: “That would
be—rather—fine—I think.”
Most inopportunely then the bell began to ring for afternoon school, and,
most inopportunely also, he was due to take five beta in drawing. They
clambered down the ladder, chatting vivaciously the while, and at the vestry
door, when they separated she said eagerly: “Oh, I’ve had such a good
time, Mr. Speed. Haven’t you?”
“Rather!” he answered, with boyish emphasis and enthusiasm.
That afternoon hour, spent bewilderingly with five beta in the
art-room that was full of plaster casts and free-hand models and framed
reproductions of famous pictures, went for Speed like the passage of a
moment. His heart and brain were tingling with excitement, teeming with
suppressed consciousness. The green of the lawns as he looked out of the
window seemed greener than ever before; the particles of dust that shone in
the shafts of sunlight seemed to him each one mightily distinct; the glint of
a boy’s golden it in the sunshine was, to his eyes, like a patch of flame
that momentarily put all else in a haze. It seemed to him, passionately and
tremendously, that for the first time in his life he was alive; more than
that even: it seemed to him that for the first time since the beginning of
all things life had come shatteringly into the world.
III
“I should think, Mr. Speed, you have found out by now
whether Helen likes you or not.”
Those words of Clare Harrington echoed in his ears as he walked amidst the
dappled
me. Not very suitable for an organ, but that doesn’t matter. Sit further on
this bench and play on the lower keyboard. Never mind about the pedals. And
I’ll manage the stops for you.”
She wriggled excitedly into the position he had indicated and, laughing
softly, began one of the best-known of the waltzes. The experiment was not
entirely successful, for even an accomplished pianist does not play well on
an organ for the first time, nor do the Chopin waltzes lend themselves aptly
to such an instrument. But one thing, and to Speed the main thing of all, was
quite obvious: she was, as she had said she would be, entirely free from
nervousness of him. After ploughing rather disastrously through a dozen or so
bars she stopped, turned to him with flushed cheeks and happy eyes, and
exclaimed: “There! That’s enough! It’s not easy to play, is it?”
He said, smiling down at her: “No, it’s rather hard, especially at
first…But you weren’t nervous then, were you?”
“Not a bit,” she answered, proudly. She added, with a note of warning:
“Don’t be surprised if I am when you come in to our house to dinner I’m
always nervous when father’s there.”
Almost he added: “So am I.” But the way in which she had mentioned future
invitations to dinner at the Head’s house gave him the instant feeling that
henceforward the atmosphere on such occasions would be subtly different from
ever before. The Head’s drawing-room, with the baby grand piano and the
curio-cabinets and the faded cabbage-like design of the carpet, would never
look quite the same again; the Head’s drawing-room would look, perhaps, less
like a cross between a lady’s boudoir and the board-room of a City company;
even the Head’s study might take on a kindlier, less sinister hue.
He said, still with his eyes smiling upon her: “Who teaches you the
piano?”
“A Miss Peacham used to. I don’t have a teacher now.”
“I don’t know,” he said, beginning to flush with the consciousness of his
great daring, “if you would care to let me help you at all. I should be
delighted to do so, you know, at any time. Since”—he laughed a
little—“since you’re no longer a scrap nervous of me, you might find me
useful in giving you a few odd hints.”
He waited, anxious and perturbed, for her reply. After a sufficient pause
she answered slowly, as if thinking it out: “That would
be—rather—fine—I think.”
Most inopportunely then the bell began to ring for afternoon school, and,
most inopportunely also, he was due to take five beta in drawing. They
clambered down the ladder, chatting vivaciously the while, and at the vestry
door, when they separated she said eagerly: “Oh, I’ve had such a good
time, Mr. Speed. Haven’t you?”
“Rather!” he answered, with boyish emphasis and enthusiasm.
That afternoon hour, spent bewilderingly with five beta in the
art-room that was full of plaster casts and free-hand models and framed
reproductions of famous pictures, went for Speed like the passage of a
moment. His heart and brain were tingling with excitement, teeming with
suppressed consciousness. The green of the lawns as he looked out of the
window seemed greener than ever before; the particles of dust that shone in
the shafts of sunlight seemed to him each one mightily distinct; the glint of
a boy’s golden it in the sunshine was, to his eyes, like a patch of flame
that momentarily put all else in a haze. It seemed to him, passionately and
tremendously, that for the first time in his life he was alive; more than
that even: it seemed to him that for the first time since the beginning of
all things life had come shatteringly into the world.
III
“I should think, Mr. Speed, you have found out by now
whether Helen likes you or not.”
Those words of Clare Harrington echoed in his ears as he walked amidst the
dappled
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