And then, when I was feeling particularly safe and complacent, disaster came.
The day was Wednesday, and my “afternoon off,” but the rain was driving against the windows, and the attractions of billiards with the marker at the Feathers had not proved sufficient to make me face the two-mile walk in the storm. I had settled myself in the study. There was a noble fire burning in the grate, and the darkness lit by the glow of the coals, the dripping of the rain, the good behaviour of my pipe, and the reflection that, as I sat there, Glossop was engaged downstairs in wrestling with my class, combined to steep me in a meditative peace. Audrey was playing the piano in the drawing-room. The sound came to me faintly through the closed doors. I recognized what she was playing. I wondered if the melody had the same associations for her that it had for me.
The music stopped. I heard the drawing-room door open. She came into the study.
“I didn’t know there was anyone here,” she said. “I’m frozen. The drawing-room fire’s out.”
“Come and sit down,” I said. “You don’t mind the smoke?”
I drew a chair up to the fire for her, feeling, as I did so, a certain pride. Here I was, alone with her in the firelight, and my pulse was regular and my brain cool. I had a momentary vision of myself as the Strong Man, the strong, quiet man with the iron grip on his emotions. I was pleased with myself.
She sat for some minutes, gazing into the fire. Little spurts of flame whistled comfortably in the heart of the black-red coals. Outside the storm shrieked faintly, and flurries of rain dashed themselves against the window.
“It’s very nice in here,” she said at last.
“Peaceful.”
I filled my pipe and re-lit it. Her eyes, seen for an instant in the light of the match, looked dreamy.
“I’ve been sitting here listening to you,” I said. “I liked that last thing you played.”
“You always did.”
“You remember that? Do you remember one evening—no, you wouldn’t.”
“Which evening?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t remember. It’s only one particular evening when you played that thing. It sticks in my mind. It was at your father’s studio.”
She looked up quickly.
“We went out afterwards and sat in the park.”
I sat up thrilled.
“A man came by with a dog,” I said.
“Two dogs.”
“One surely!”
“Two. A bulldog and a fox-terrier.”
“I remember the bulldog, but—by Jove, you’re right. A fox-terrier with a black patch over his left eye.”
“Right eye.”
“Right eye. They came up to us, and you—”
“Gave them chocolates.”
I sank back slowly in my chair.
“You’ve got a wonderful memory,” I said.
She bent over the fire without speaking. The rain rattled on the window.
“So you still like my playing, Peter?”
“I like it better than ever; there’s something in it now that I don’t believe there used to be. I can’t describe it—something—”
“I think it’s knowledge, Peter,” she said quietly. “Experience. I’m five years older than I was when I used to play to you before, and I’ve seen a good deal in those five years. It may not be altogether pleasant seeing life, but—well, it makes you play the piano better. Experience goes in at the heart and comes out at the fingertips.”
It seemed to me that she spoke a little bitterly.
“Have you had a bad time, Audrey, these last years?” I said.
“Pretty bad.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not—altogether. I’ve learned a lot.”
She was silent again, her eyes fixed on the fire.
“What are you thinking about?” I said.
“Oh, a great many things.”
“Pleasant?”
“Mixed. The last thing I thought about was pleasant. That was, that I am very lucky to be doing the work I am doing now. Compared with some of the things I have done—”
She shivered.
“I wish you would tell me about those years, Audrey,” I said. “What were some of the things you did?”
She leaned back in her chair and shaded her face from the fire with a newspaper. Her eyes were in the shadow.
“Well, let me see. I was a nurse for some time at the Lafayette Hospital in New York.”
“That’s hard work?”
“Horribly hard. I had to give it up after a while. But—it teaches you. … You learn. … You learn—all sorts of things. Realities. How much of your own trouble is imagination. You get real trouble in a hospital. You get it thrown at you.”
I said nothing. I was feeling—I don’t know why—a little uncomfortable, a little at a disadvantage, as one feels in the presence of someone bigger than oneself.
“Then I was a waitress.”
“A waitress?”
“I tell you I did everything. I was a waitress, and a very bad one. I broke plates. I muddled orders. Finally I was very rude to a customer and I went on to try something else. I forget what came next. I think it was the stage. I travelled for a year with a touring company. That was hard work, too, but I liked it. After that came dressmaking, which was harder and which I hated. And then I had my first stroke of real luck.”
“What was that?”
“I met Mr. Ford.”
“How did that happen?”
“You wouldn’t remember a Miss Vanderley, an American girl who was over in London five or six years ago? My father taught her painting. She was very rich, but she was wild at that time to be Bohemian. I think that’s why she chose Father as a teacher. Well, she was always at the studio, and we became great friends, and one day, after all these things I have been telling you of, I thought I would write to her, and see if she could not find me something to do. She was a dear.” Her voice trembled, and she lowered the newspaper till her whole face was hidden. “She wanted me to come to their home and live on her forever, but I couldn’t have that. I told her I must work. So she sent me to
