Part 51 (2/2)
”You are right,” he said, ”not to live in London; one avoids a great deal of loneliness. One is more lonely in London than anywhere I know. The country is the natural home of man. Man is an arborial animal,” he added, laughing, ”and is only happy among trees.”
”And woman, what is she? A material animal?”
”I suppose so. You have your children; I have my trees.”
The words seemed to have a meaning which eluded them, and they pondered while they descended the hillside until the piece of low-lying land came into view and the bridge crossing the sluggish stream, amid whose rushes he had gathered the wild forget-me-not. As he was about to speak of them he remembered her singing cla.s.ses, and that yester evening had worn away without hearing her sing. ”You have lost all interest in music, I fear. You think of it now as a means of making money... for your children,” he added, so that his words might not wound her.
”And you, Owen, does music still interest you,”--she nearly said, ”now that I am out of it?” but stopped, the words on her lips.
”Yes,” he said, ”I think it does,” and there was an eagerness in his voice when he said, ”I have been trying my hand at composition again, and I have written a good many songs and some piano pieces, one for piano and violin.”
”A sonata?”
”Well, something in that way... not very strict in form perhaps.”
”That doesn't matter.”
”When you come to see me I should like to show you some of my things.
You will come to see me when you are in London... when you have a moment?”
”Evelyn always keeps her promises,” he said to himself, and he did not give up hope that she would come to see him, although nearly two weeks went by without his hearing from her. Then a note came, saying that she had been kept busy and had not been able to find spare time, but yesterday a pupil had written saying she would not come to her lesson, ”so now I can come to you.”
”Miss Innes, Sir Owen.”
His face lighted up, and laying his book aside he sprang out of his chair, and all consciousness of time ceased in his mind till she began to put on her glove.
”You have only just arrived, and already you are going.”
”My dear Owen, I have been here an hour, and the time has pa.s.sed quickly for you because you have been playing your music over for me and I have been singing... humming, for it is hardly singing now.”
”I am sorry, Evelyn, the time has seemed so long to you. I didn't intend to bore you. You said you would like to see some of my music.”
”So I did, Owen, and some of the best things you have composed are among those you have shown me. Your writing has improved a great deal.”
”I am so glad you think so. When will you come again?”
”The first spare hour.”
”Really? You promise.”
They saw each other at intervals. Sometimes the intervals were very long, and Owen would write to her complaining, and he would get a note telling that her time was not her own, and that a great deal of money was necessary for her boys. But she would try to come and see him next week, and he would write begging her not to disappoint him, as he was giving a concert and wanted her help to compose the programme.
A great deal of time was spent in Berkeley Square, more than she could afford, trying pieces over; and she would often say, ”My dear Owen, I really must go now or I shall miss my train at Victoria.” He always looked disappointed when she said she was going, and he never could understand why she would not sing at his concerts. It was very difficult even to persuade her to come to one.
”You see, I cannot sleep here, Owen. I have to go to a hotel.”
One day she got a letter from him which she feared to open. ”It is to ask me to help him to compose another programme, and I haven't got a minute.”
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