Part 48 (1/2)

”I'm not crying, it's only the music,” she murmured.

”The music,” he echoed, bewildered.

”Yessir. The music always makes me cry--but you can't call it crying--it feels so nice.”

”Oh, then you've been listening!”

”Yessir.” Her eyes drooped in humiliation.

”But you ought to have been in bed,” he said. ”You get little enough sleep as it is.”

”It's better than sleep,” she answered.

The simple phrase vibrated through him, like a beautiful minor chord. He smoothed her hair tenderly.

”Poor child!” he said.

There was an instant's silence. It was past midnight, and the house was painfully still. They stood upon the dusky landing, across which a bar of light streamed from his half-open door, and only Beethoven's eyes were upon them. But Lancelot felt no impulse to fondle her, only just to lay his hand on her hair, as in benediction and pity.

”So you liked what I was playing,” he said, not without a pang of personal pleasure.

”Yessir; I never heard you play that before.”

”So you often listen!”

”I can hear you, even in the kitchen. Oh, it's just lovely! I don't care what I have to do then, if it's grates or plates or steps. The music goes and goes, and I feel back in the country again, and standing, as I used to love to stand of an evening, by the stile, under the big elm, and watch how the sunset did redden the white birches, and fade in the water.

Oh, it was so nice in the springtime, with the hawthorn that grew on the other bank, and the bluebells--”

The pretty face was full of dreamy tenderness, the eyes lit up witchingly. She pulled herself up suddenly, and stole a shy glance at her auditor.

”Yes, yes, go on,” he said; ”tell me all you feel about the music.”

”And there's one song you sometimes play that makes me feel floating on and on like a great white swan.”

She hummed a few bars of the _Gondel-Lied_--flawlessly.

”Dear me! you have an ear!” he said, pinching it. ”And how did you like what I was playing just now?” he went on, growing curious to know how his own improvisations struck her.

”Oh, I liked it so much,” she whispered back, enthusiastically; ”because it reminded me of my favourite one--every moment I did think--I thought--you were going to come into that.”

The whimsical sparkle leapt into his eyes. ”And I thought I was so original,” he murmured.

”But what I liked best,” she began, then checked herself, as if suddenly remembering she had never made a spontaneous remark before, and lacking courage to establish a precedent.

”Yes--what you liked best?” he said encouragingly.

”That song you sang this afternoon,” she said shyly.

”What song? I sang no song,” he said, puzzled for a moment.

”Oh, yes! That one about--