Part 7 (1/2)

'Sir, it has been ever beyond my dreams.'

'Then I am glad--because I can now supply that want. I have brought with me, dear lad--and dear blooming bride, as good an instrument as I have in my shop: no better in all the world.' He went out and called his man.

We lifted the instrument--it was most beautiful not only in touch but also with its rosewood case. We set it up and I tried it.

'Oh!' Alice caught his hand and kissed it. 'Now Will is happy indeed.

How can we thank you sufficiently?'

'Play upon it,' he said. 'Play daily upon it: play the finest music only upon it. So shall your souls be raised--even to the gates of Heaven.'

Once more he drew my wife towards him and kissed her on the forehead.

Then he seized my hand and shook it and before I had time or could find words to speak or to thank him, he was gone, marching down the hot lane with the firm step of thirty, instead of seventy.

A n.o.ble gift, dictated by the most friendly feeling. Yet it led to the first misfortune of my life--one that might well have proved a misfortune impossible to be overcome.

Then began our wedded life. For two years we continued to live in that little cottage. There our first child was born, a lovely boy. Every evening I repaired to the Dog and Duck, and took my place in the orchestra. Familiarity makes one callous: I had long since ceased to regard the character of the company. They might be, as Tom pretended, the most aristocratic a.s.sembly in the world: they might be the reverse.

The coloured lamps in the garden pleased me no more: nor did the sight of those who danced or the pulling of corks and the singing of songs after supper in the bowers: the ladies were no longer beautiful in my eyes: I enquired not about the entertainment except for my own part: I never looked at the fireworks. All these things to one who has to attend night after night becomes part of the work and not of the entertainment and amus.e.m.e.nt of life.

The musician is a being apart. He takes no part in the conduct of State or City: he is not a philosopher: or a theologian: he is not a preacher or teacher: he writes nothing either for instruction or for amus.e.m.e.nt: in the pleasures of mankind he a.s.sists but having no share or part in them. His place is in the gallery: they cannot do without him: he cannot live without them: but he is a creature apart.

My mornings were my own. Sometimes I walked with Alice on the terrace of Lambeth Palace: or went down into the Marsh and walked about the meadows: we made no friends except among the humble fishermen to whose wives Alice taught cleanliness. Sometimes, after the child came, I would leave Alice for the morning and walk into the City. Perhaps I had a hope that I might meet my father. I never did, however. I looked for him on Change: I walked in Great College Street: but I never met him. I knew beforehand that my reception would be of the coldest--but I wanted to see him and to speak with him. I went down to Billingsgate Stairs and took boat and was rowed about the s.h.i.+ps in the Pool. There I recognised our own s.h.i.+ps: they might have been my own, but would never be mine, now. All these things I had thrown away--s.h.i.+ps, wharf, trade, fortune.

It made me proud to think so. Yet I would have spoken to my father had I met him.

Once I met Matthew in the street and pa.s.sed him touching shoulders. He looked me full in the face with the pretence of not knowing me. I commanded my temper and let him go without expostulation which would have led to a second fight, for which I had no desire.

On two other occasions I saw him though he did not see me. The first was on a certain afternoon in October when it grows dark about five. I was strolling down Garlickhithe near Queenhithe. As I pa.s.sed the Church of St. James's which stands a little back with steps I saw two figures conversing: one was a man whom I knew at once for my cousin by his shoulders and by the shape of his head. The other was a woman with a veil over her face. I knew the man next by his voice. Our Matthew had such a voice--oily and yet harsh. 'If you loved me,' he said, 'you would do this simple thing.'

'I will never do it,' she declared, pa.s.sionately. 'You have deceived me.'

I would not be an eavesdropper, and I pa.s.sed on. Matthew, therefore, had 'deceived'--the word may mean many things--a woman. Matthew, of all men!

However, it was no concern of mine.

A third time I saw him--or heard him, because I did not see him. It was in one of those taverns where small square pews are provided with high walls so that one cannot be heard. I sat in one with Tom s.h.i.+rley, taking a pint of wine. All round were the voices of people carrying on business in whispers and in murmurs. Suddenly I distinguished the voice of Matthew.

'The security is good,' he said. 'There is no finer security in the City. I want the money.'

'You can have some to-morrow night.' I was destined to hear a great deal more of that grating voice. 'And the rest next week, if I can get the papers signed. It is a confidential business, I suppose.

'Nothing is to be said. Our House does not like to borrow money, but the occasion is pressing.'

'Let us go,' I said to Tom. 'We shall learn presently all Matthew's secrets.'

'Matthew? Your cousin Matthew?'

'He is in one of the boxes. I have heard his voice. Come, Tom.'

CHAPTER VI