“Do you remember a night in June,” asked Edith, her heart beating faster at the memory, “when you came under this window and played”—she hesitated—“a certain tune?”
The girl nodded.
“Why, yes,” she said in surprise, “of course I remember that night of all nights.”
“Why of all nights?” asked Edith quickly.
“Well, you see as a rule my grandfather plays for Mr. Standerton, and that night he was ill. He caught a bad chill on Derby Day—we were wet through by the storm, for we were playing at Epsom—and I had to come here and deputise for him. I did not want to go out a bit that night,” she confessed with a bitter laugh, “and I hate the tune; but it was all so mysterious and so romantic.”
“Just tell me what was ‘mysterious’ and what was ‘romantic,’ ” said Edith.
The coffee came in at that moment, and she poured a cup for her visitor.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“May Wing,” said the girl.
“Now tell me, May, all you know,” said Edith, as she passed the coffee, “and please believe it is not out of curiosity that I ask you.”
“I will tell you everything,” said the girl, nodding “I remember that day particularly because I had been to the Academy of Music to take my lesson—you would not think we could afford that, but granny absolutely insists upon it. I got back home rather tired. Grandfather was lying down on the couch. We live at Hoxton. He seemed a little troubled. ‘May,’ he said, ‘I want you to do something for me tonight.’ Of course, I was quite willing and happy to do it.”
The girl stopped suddenly.
“Why, how extraordinary,” she said, “I believe I have got proof in my pocket of all that I say.”
She had hanging from her waist a little bag of the same material as her dress, and this she opened and searched inside.
She brought out an envelope.
“I will not show you this yet,” she said, “but I will tell you what happened. Grandfather, as I was saying, was very troubled, and he asked me if I would do something for him, knowing of course that I would.
“ ‘I have had a letter which I cannot make head or tail of,’ he said, and he showed me this letter.”
The girl held out the envelope.
Edith took it and removed the card inside.
“Why, this is my husband’s writing!” she cried.
“Yes,” nodded the girl.
It bore the postmark of Doncaster, and the letter was brief. It was addressed to the old musician, and ran:—
“Enclosed you will find a postal order for one pound. On receipt of this go to the house of Mr. Standerton between the hours of half-past seven and eight o’clock and play Rubenstein’s ‘Melody in F.’ Ascertain if he is at home, and if he is not return the next night and play the same tune at the same hour.”
That was all.
“I cannot understand it,” said Edith, puzzled. “What does it mean?”
The girl musician smiled.
“I should like to know what it meant too. You see, I am as curious as you, and think it is a failing which all women share.”
“And you do not know why this was sent?”
“No.”
“Or what is its meaning?”
Again the girl shook her head.
Edith looked at the envelope and examined the postmark.
It was dated May the twenty-fourth.
“May the twenty-fourth,” she repeated to herself. “Just wait one moment,” she said, and ran upstairs to her bedroom.
Feverishly she unlocked her bureau and took out the red-covered diary in which she had inscribed the little events of her life in Portland Square. She turned to May the twenty-fourth. There were only two entries. The first had to do with the arrival of a new dress but the second was very emphatic:—
“G. S. came at seven o’clock and stayed to dinner. Was very absentminded and worried apparently. He left at ten. Had a depressing evening.”
She looked at the envelope again.
“Doncaster, 7:30,” it said.
So the letter had been posted a hundred and eighty miles away half an hour after he had arrived in Portland Square.
She went back to the dining-room bewildered, but she controlled her agitation in the presence of the girl.
“I must really patronise one of the arts,” she smiled.
She took a half-sovereign from her purse and handed it to May.
“Oh, really,” protested the little musician.
“No, take it, please. You have given me a great deal to think about. Has Mr. Standerton ever referred to this incident since?”
“Never,” said the girl. “I have never seen him since except once when I was on the top of an omnibus.”
A few minutes later the girl left.
Here was food for imagination, sufficient to occupy her mind, thought Edith.
“What did it mean?” she asked, “what mystery was behind all this?”
Now that she recalled the circumstances, she remembered that Gilbert had been terribly distrait that night; he was nervous, she had noticed his hand shaking, and had remarked to her mother upon his extraordinary absentmindedness.
And if he had expected the musician to call, and if he himself had specified what tune should be played, why had its playing produced so terrible an effect upon him? He was no poseur.
There was nothing theatrical in his temperament.
He was a musician, and loved music as he loved nothing else in the world save her!
She thought of that reservation with some tenderness.
He had loved her then, whatever might be his feelings now, and the love of a strong man does not easily evaporate, nor is it destroyed at a word.
Since their marriage his piano had not been opened. He had been a subscriber to almost every musical event in London, yet he had not attended a single concert, not once visited the opera.
With the playing of the “Melody in F” it seemed to her there had ended one precious period of his life.
She had suggested once that they should go to a concert which all musical London was attending.
“Perhaps you would like to go,” he had suggested briefly. “I am
