Chapter X

Palgrave had not gone to the drawing-room, and that, at all events, was a comfort. A wood fire burned on the hearth and near it Nancy was holding wool for Mrs. Chadwick to wind. Barbara had been sent to bed and Meg and Miss Toner sat on the sofa hand in hand. Even in the pressure of his distress and anxiety Oldmeadow could but be aware of amusement at seeing Meg thus. It had, of course, been Miss Toner who had taken her hand. But no one else could have taken it. No one else could have been allowed to go on holding it placidly before on-lookers of whose mirthful impressions Meg must be well aware. She didn't mind in the least. That was what Miss Toner had done to her. She enjoyed having her hand held by anyone so much interested in her.

Barney walked to the fireplace and stood before it. He had no faculty for concealing his emotions and the painful ones through which he had just passed were visible on his sensitive face.

"Give us a song, Meg," Oldmeadow suggested. He did not care for Meg's singing, which conveyed, in a rich, sweet medium, a mingled fervour and shallowness of feeling. But to hear her sing would be better than to see her holding Miss Toner's hand.

Barney crossed at once to the seat Meg vacated and dropped down into it, no doubt thanking his friend for what he imagined to be a display of tact, and Oldmeadow saw the quiet, firm look that flowed over and took possession of him. Miss Toner knew, of course, that Barney had been having painful emotions; and she probably knew that they had been caused by the dry, deep-hearted Meredithian hero. But after the long look she did not speak to him. She sat in her pearls and whiteness and gave careful attention to the music.

Oldmeadow accompanied Meg, tolerantly, and a trifle humorously, throwing a touch of mockery into his part. Meg's preference to-night seemed to be for gardens; Gardens of Sleep; Gardens of Love; God's Gardens. "What a wretch you are, Roger," she said, when she had finished. "You despise feeling."

"I thought I was wallowing in it," Oldmeadow returned. "Did I stint you?"

"No; you helped me to wallow. That's why you're such a wretch. Always showing one that one is wallowing when one thinks one's soaring. It's your turn, now, Adrienne. Let's see if he'll manage to make fun of you."

"Does Miss Toner sing, too? Now do you know, Meg," said Oldmeadow, keeping up the friendly banter, "I'm sure she doesn't sing the sort of rubbish you do."

"I think they're beautiful songs," Mrs. Chadwick murmured from her wool, "and I think Roger played them most beautifully. Why should you say he is making fun of you, Meg?"

"Because he makes you think something's beautiful that he thinks rubbish, Mummy. Come along, Adrienne. You will, won't you? I expect my voice sounds all wrong to you. I've had no proper training."

"It's a very lovely voice, Meg, used in a poor cause," said Miss Toner smiling. "And it is badly placed. I think I could help you there. I've no voice at all, but I have been taught how to sing. It would be more to the point, though, if Mr. Oldmeadow were to play to us, for I hear that he is an accomplished musician."

"I'm really anything but accomplished," said Oldmeadow; "but I can play accompaniments cleverly. Do sing to us. I know you'll give us something worth accompanying."

Miss Toner rose and came to the piano with her complete and unassuming confidence. She turned the pages of the music piled there and asked him if he cared for Schubert's songs. Yes; she was a watch wound to go accurately and she could rely on herself, always, to the last tick. Even if she knew--and he was sure she knew--that he had been undermining her, she would never show a shadow or a tremor; and she would always know what was the best music. Only, as she selected "Litanei" and placed it before him, he felt that over him, also, flowed the quiet, firm look.

"Litanei" was one of his favourites in a composer he loved, and, as she sang there above him, he found the song emerging unharmed from her interpretation. It was as she had said--no voice to speak of; the dryest, flattest little thread of sound; and no feeling, either (what a relief after Meg!), except the feeling for scrupulous accuracy. Yet her singing was what he found in her to like best. It was disciplined; it accepted its own limits; it fulfilled an order. There was no desecration of the heavenly song, for, intelligently after all, she made no attempt upon its heart.

When she had finished, she looked down at him. They were removed by half the length of the room from the fireside group. The lamps were behind them. Only the candles set in the piano-rack illumined Miss Toner; and while the white roses over her ears struck him anew as foolish, her eyes anew struck him as powerful.

"Thank you. That was a pleasure," he said.

It was a pleasure. It was almost a link. He had found a ground to meet her on. He saw himself in the future accompanying Barney's wife. He need, then, so seldom talk to her. But, alas! she stepped at once from the safe frame of art.

"If we can rise from loss to feel like that, if we can lift our sorrows like that, we need never turn to palliatives, need we, Mr. Oldmeadow?" she said.

Stupidity, complacency, or power, whatever it was, it completely disenchanted him. It left him also bereft of repartee. What he fell back upon, as he looked up at her and then down at the keys again, was a mere schoolboy mutter of "Come now!"

After all a schoolboy mutter best expressed what he felt. She was not accustomed to having her ministrations met with such mutters and she did not like it. That was apparent to him as she turned away and went back to the sofa and Barney. She had again tried him and again found him wanting.

* * * * *

Barney and Miss Toner left in her motor next morning shortly after breakfast, and though with his friend Oldmeadow had no further exchange, he had, with Miss Toner, a curious encounter that was, he felt sure, a direct result of her impressions of the night before. They met in the dining-room a few moments before breakfast, and as she entered, wearing already her motoring hat, closely bound round her face with a veil, he was aware that she looked, if that were possible, more composed than he had ever seen her. He felt sure that she had waited for her opportunity, and had followed him downstairs, knowing that she would find him alone; and he realized then that she was more composed, because she had an intention or, rather, since it was more definite, a determination. Determination in her involved no effort: it imparted, merely, the added calm of an assured aim.

She gave him her hand and said good morning with the same air of scrupulous accuracy that she had given to the rendering of "Litanei" and then, standing before the fire, her hands clasped behind her, her eyes raised to his, she said: "Mr. Oldmeadow, I want to say something to you."

It was the gentle little voice, unaltered, yet he knew that he was in for something he would very much rather have avoided; something with anybody else unimaginable, but with her, he saw it now, quite inevitable. Yet he tried, even at this last moment, to avoid it and said, adjusting his eyeglass and moving to the sideboard: "But not before we've had our tea, surely. Can't I get you some? Will you trust me to pour it out?"

"Thanks; I take coffee--not tea," said Miss Toner from her place at the fire, "and neither has been brought in yet."

He had just perceived, to his discomfiture, that they had not. There was nothing for it but to turn from the ungarnished sideboard and face her again.

"It's about Barney, Mr. Oldmeadow," Miss Toner said, unmoved by his patent evasion. "It's because I know you love Barney and care for his happiness. And it's because I hope that you and I are to be friends, and friendship can only be built on truth. Try to trust more; will you? That's all I want to say. Try to trust. You will be happier if you do and make other people happier."

Oldmeadow had never experienced such an assault upon his personality, and he met it gagged and bound, for, assuredly, this was to be Barney's wife. A slow flush mounted to his face.

"I'm afraid I seem very strange and unconventional to you," Adrienne Toner went on. "You've lived in a world where people don't care enough for each other to say the real things. They must be felt if they've to be said, mustn't they? Yet you do care for people. I have seen that, watching you here; and you care for real things. It's a crust of caution and convention that is about you. You are afraid of expression. You are afraid of feeling. You are afraid of being taken in and of wasting yourself. Don't be afraid, Mr. Oldmeadow. We never lose ourselves by trusting. We never lose ourselves by giving. It's a realer self that comes. And with you, I see it clearly, if you let the crust grow thicker, it will shut life and light and joy away from you; and when light cannot visit our hearts, they wither within us. That is your danger. I want to be your friend, so I must say the truth to you."

He knew, though he had to struggle not to laugh, that he was very angry and that he must not show anger; though it would really be better to show that than his intense amusement; and it took him a moment, during which they confronted each other, to find words; dry, donnish words; words of caution and convention. They were the only ones he had available for the situation. "My dear young lady," he said, "you take too much upon yourself."

She was not in the least disconcerted. She met his eyes steadily. "You mean that I am presumptuous, Mr. Oldmeadow?"

"You take too much upon yourself," he repeated. "As you say, I hope we may be friends."

"Is that really all, Mr. Oldmeadow?" she said, looking at him with such a depth of thoughtfulness that he could not for the life of him make out whether she found him odious or merely pitiful.

"Yes; that's really all," he returned.

The dining-room was very bright and the little blue figure before the fire was very still. The moment fixed itself deep in his consciousness with that impression of stillness and brightness. It was an uncomfortable impression. Her little face, uplifted to his, absurd, yet not uncharming, was, in its still force, almost ominous.

"I'm sorry," was all she said, and she turned and went forward to greet Mrs. Chadwick.