“And you’re not going to forget it, are you, Grandfather?” said Bess pointedly.
“Well, well, we shall see,” he evaded, stroking her brown hair.
Even poor delicate Mrs. Haselford made a supreme effort and went to church on Sunday evening. It was a beautiful service, and the old Minster looked lovely with the late sunshine streaming through its gorgeous west window. Some of the congregation went away after the sermon and concluding hymn were over, but a large number stayed to hear the recital. Bess, horribly nervous, went with Ingred to the choir, where she had left her violin. There were to be two organ solos, and her piece was to separate them. She was thankful she had not to play first. She sat on one of the old carved Miserere seats, and listened as Dr. Linton’s subtle fingers touched the keys, and flooded the church with the rich tones of Bach’s Toccata in F Major. She wished it had been five times as long, so as to delay her own turn. But a solo cannot last forever, and much too soon the last notes died away. There was a pause while the verger fetched a music stand and placed it close to the chancel steps. Dr. Linton was looking in her direction, and sounding the A for her. With her usually rosy face almost pale, Bess walked to the organ, tuned her violin, then took her place at the music stand. It was seldom that so young a girl had played in the Abbey, and everybody looked sympathetically at the palpably frightened little figure. It was the feeling of standing there facing all eyes that unnerved poor Bess. For a second or two her hand trembled so greatly that she could scarcely hold her bow. Then by a sudden inspiration she looked over the heads of the congregation to the west window, where the sunset light was gleaming through figures of crimson and blue and gold. Down all the centuries music had played a part in the service of the Minster. She would not remember that people were there to listen to her, but would let her violin give its praise to God alone. She did not need to look at her notes, for she knew the piece by heart, and with her eyes fixed on the west window she began the “Prelude.”
Once the first notes were started, her courage returned, and she brought out her tone with a firm bow. The splendid harmonies of the organ supported her and she seemed spurred along in an impulse to do her very best. Ingred, listening in the choir, was sure her friend had never played so well, or put such depth of feeling into her music before. It was over at last, and in the hush of the church, Bess stole back to her seat, while Dr. Linton plunged into the fantasies of a “Triumphal March.”
“I’m proud of you!” whispered Ingred, as they walked down the aisle together afterwards.
“Oh, don’t! I felt as if it wasn’t half good enough,” answered Bess, giving a nervous little shiver now that the ordeal was over.
When Ingred returned to Wynch-on-the-Wold next Friday afternoon she found the family had some news for her. Old Mr. Haselford had been to Mr. Saxon’s office, and had confided to him a scheme that lay very near to his heart. He had prospered exceedingly in his business affairs at Birkshaw, and he was anxious to do something for his native town of Grovebury, where he had been born and had spent his boyhood. He asked Mr. Saxon to prepare designs for a combined museum and art gallery, which he proposed to build and present to the public.
“I can trust the architect of ‘Rotherwood’ to give us something in the best possible taste,” he had remarked. “I want the place to be an object of beauty, not the blot on the landscape that such buildings often prove. Fortunately I have the offer of a splendid site, so the plans need not be hampered by lack of space. I think we shall be able to show that the twentieth century can produce work of merit on its own lines, without slavishly copying either the classical or the medieval style of architecture.”
Old Mr. Haselford had even gone further.
“My son’s part of the business is now entirely at Grovebury,” he continued. “And I feel I should like him to have a house of his own. I have bought five acres of land above the river at Trenton, on the hill, where there is a glorious view of the valley. I don’t ask you to copy ‘Rotherwood,’ for I know no architect cares to repeat himself, but a place in the same style and with equal conveniences would suit us very well. My daughter-in-law could talk over the details. It would make a fresh interest for her. We are all tremendously keen about it.”
The new schemes which occupied the minds of the Haselfords brought great rejoicings to the Bungalow.
“Why, it will almost make Father’s fortune!” triumphed Ingred, still in a state of delighted bewilderment.
“It will certainly be an immense pull to him professionally to have the designing of an important public building,” smiled Mother. “And I think he will be able to plan a house to satisfy Mr. and Mrs. Haselford. It’s just the kind of work he likes.”
“Mother, when they leave Rotherwood, shall we have to let it to anyone else, or would it be possible—” Ingred hesitated, with the wish that for nearly a year she had put resolutely away from her trembling on her lips.
“To go back there ourselves?” finished Mother. “If Father’s affairs prosper, as they seem likely to do at present, I think we may safely say ‘yes.’ It never rains but it pours, and just as his profession has suddenly taken a leap
