Part 32 (2/2)

”It was out of the instrument--out of improvisation--that all my composing grew. Do you remember the tale they tell of George Sand, how when she began a novel, she made a few dots and scratches on a sheet of paper, and as she played with them they ran into words, and then into sentences--that suggested ideas--and so, in half an hour, she had sketched a plot, and was ready to go to work? So it was with me. As I played, the ideas came. I am not one of your scientific musicians who can build up everything _in vacuo_. I must translate everything into sound--through my fingers. It was the same with Chopin.” He pointed to a life of Chopin that was lying open on the couch beside him.

”But you will do wonders with your left hand. And your right will perhaps improve. The doctors mayn't know,” she pleaded, catching at straws. ”Dear Otto--don't despair!”

He flushed and smiled. His uninjured hand slipped back into hers again.

”I like you to call me Otto. How dear that was of you! May I call you Constance?”

She nodded. There was a sob in her throat that would not let her speak.

”I don't despair--now,” he said, after a moment. ”I did at first. I wanted to put an end to myself. But, of course, it was Sorell who saved me. If my mother had lived, she could not have done more.”

He turned away his face so that Constance should not see it. When he looked at her again, he was quite calm and smiling.

”Do you know who come to see me almost every day?”

”Tell me.”

”Meyrick--Lord Meyrick, and Robertson. Perhaps you don't know him. He's a Winchester man, a splendid cricketer. It was Robertson I was struggling with when I fell. How could he know I should hurt myself? It wasn't his fault and he gave up his 'choice' for the Oxford Eleven. They put him in at the last moment. But he wouldn't play. I didn't know till afterwards. I told him he was a great fool.”

There was a pause. Then Connie said--with difficulty--”Did--did Mr.

Falloden write? Has he said anything?”

”Oh yes, he sent a message. After all, when you run over a dog, you send a message, don't you?” said the lad with sudden bitterness. ”And I believe he wrote a letter--after I came here. But I didn't open it. I gave it to Sorell.”

Then he raised himself on his pillows and looked keenly at Connie.

”You see the others didn't mean any harm. They were drunk, and it was a row. But Falloden wasn't drunk--and he did mean--”

”Oh, not to hurt you so?” cried Connie involuntarily.

”No--but to humble and trample on me,” said the youth with vehemence, his pale cheeks flaming. ”He knew quite well what he was about. I felt that when they came into my room. He is cruel--he has the temper of the torturer--in cold blood--”

A shudder of rage went through him. His excitable Slav nature brought everything back to him--as ugly and as real as when it happened.

”Oh, no--no!” said Constance, putting her hand over her eyes.

Radowitz controlled himself at once.

”I won't say any more,” he said in a low voice, breathing deep--”I won't say any more.” But a minute afterwards he looked up again, his brow contracting--”Only, for G.o.d's sake, don't marry him!”

”Don't be afraid,” said Constance. ”I shall never marry him!”

He looked at her piteously. ”Only--if you care for him--what then? You are not to be unhappy!--you are to be the happiest person in the world.

If you did care for him--I should have to see some good in him--and that would be awful. It is not because he did me an injury, you understand.

The other two are my friends--they will be always my friends. But there is something in Falloden's soul that I hate--that I would like to fight--till either he drops or I. It is the same sort of feeling I have towards those who have killed my country.”

He lay frowning, his blue eyes sombrely fixed and strained.

”But now”--he drew himself sharply together--”you must talk of something else, and I will be quite quiet. Tell me where you have been--what you have seen--the theatre--the opera--everything!”

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