Chapter V

MAX was really astonished at himself, as he rode his chestnut by Norah's side, up the loop of the row that was before the Knightsbridge barracks, and pretended he was not watching the upper end for. the appearance of Marion.

He had done a great many interesting and absorbing things since they had parted more than two months ago, and he had had no time to talk when she dined in Park Lane in the previous week. He had shot four more stags and seen Captain Moreton wound two, and other visitors miss them altogether; he had caught nineteen salmon, which was a record for one rod on the Droom River, in that period, and an uncountable number of trout. He had also shot a number of grouse. He had danced at two Gillies' Balls; had pursued a party of poachers, unsuccessfully, all night and lost them in the outskirting woods above Mulligan; he had eaten and drunk and slept as much as a healthy young man of his age has any right to do; and he had been really interested in all these things, up to the point of forgetting Marion entirely for hours at a time. Yet she beamed, and with a particular kind of appeal that he could not understand — with the air of a gallant young boy rather than that of a marriageable girl. It would be absurd to say that the thought of marrying her had not occurred to him. If a young man of his type had spent as long in the company of the Empress of Russia as he had spent in Marion's there would have been moments when he would have contemplated the results of an alliance with the Imperial House itself. But he had not thought of marrying her, on the practical plane: it was not in order to propose to her that he wanted to see her again, but simply — in order to see her. And his knowledge that she was in London rehearsing for the Opera, and that he would see her in a month or two in the white dress and jewels of Elsa was a very distinct element in his impatience. Young men with red faces and a love of outdoor sport have, usually, a great deal more idealism and romance than their friends give them credit for; as well as more than they attribute to themselves; and it was his ignorance of this strain in his own character that puzzled him.

" I wonder how she's getting on? " said Norah, as they came under the plane-trees.

" Who? — Miss Tenterden? " said Max, with an air of disinterestedness.

" Who else? I suppose prima donnas make a frightful lot of money, don't they? "

" I haven't the slightest idea."

" Don't be superior. You want it nearly as much as I do. Not quite as much, as you haven't lost so much at bridge. I want pounds and pounds. My allowance is practically gone till Christmas. Captain Moreton played much too well."

" He couldn't shoot straight, though."

Norah began to stroke her mare's shoulder with her whip, in an absent-minded rhythm.

" I suppose they make quite twenty thousand a year, don't they?" she murmured. "And then how nice it must be to get it all without doing anything whatever except looking charming and singing very loud. Why are prima donnas all so very stout? I suppose they never take any exercise..What are you looking at, Max? Oh, there she is! "

It was really a charming figure that came towards them. Maggie had insisted on choosing the girl's horse, and had picked out a grey mare of picturesque appearance, with a long tail.

" You want to have people looking after you, my dear," she said, " and saying, ' Who is that charming girl on a grey mare?* They show so much further off, you know. We live in very vulgar days — nothing but advertisement everywhere. If you rode a rattailed cob no one would give you another thought. And then I shall say, * That's the distinguished young prima donna, Miss Tenterden, and her debut is on January the fourth, at Covent Garden Opera House. The curtain rises at seven-thirty precisely. How many seats can I book you? '

Under the same auspices a green habit had been chosen with a very small green hat, in which was an iridescent cock's feather. It was unusual at that date, though no doubt it has been tried by others since. However, Miss Tenterden was actually the first to wear it. Fashions were in the melting-pot just then; and so long as one looked nice one could do as one pleased.

" How perfectly delicious you look! " cried Norah, with a quick look that took in every inch of her.

Marion smiled, and bowed to Max. She was as radiant as the morning, and that happened to be very radiant indeed, with a clear blue sky and an air as mellow as spring.

" I feel delicious," she said. " I've been singing exercises till half an hour ago; then I tore back and changed. I've only got till one. School begins again at two, sharp, till four. Four hours a day, at present."

"Good gracious! And I've just been saying that prima donnas had nothing to do, and how I envied you. What are you learning to do, now? "

" I'm learning to sing," said Marion, " and to act a little, too. But, you know, in a way it goes on all the time — one deep-breathes as one walks; one thinks about methods and phrasing and so on from morning till night."

" Come in the middle," said Norah, " where you can talk to both of us. Max, go round to the right. You must tell us every single thing you do. Shall we have a canter first, though? "

" This little mare is just dancing," said Marion. " Yes."

They pulled up about half way down the Ladies' Mile. Marion's mare was not quite so good as she looked; she blew out her red nostrils, and a distinct wheeze came from them.

" How well you ride! " said Norah.

** That's very kind of you," said Marion. " But I know I don't, you know. I only learned last year."

Norah made polite noises.

" Go on, Miss Tenterden," said Max, suddenly. " Tell us all about it. Tell us what time you get up in the morning, and what you have for breakfast — and every single thing."

Marion smiled at him. He noticed again that sudden concentration of life in her eyes, and the tremulous laughter on her lips.

"Well " she began.

A great deal of what she said was far too allusive for them to understand, though she put it as simply as she could. But it is the most difficult thing in the world to convey an atmosphere that is completely alien to the hearers. They understood her more or less when she spoke of the hours in the music-room, the endless repetition of certain phrases, and all the fierce private discipline necessary to one who would excel in Grand Opera, or even be decently competent in it. But she could convey very little to them of the great echoing House, in which two rehearsals had been actually held, of the grand piano that sounded like a Jew's harp and the passionate little man who banged on it, bringing all his hands down together in a medley of discords when he was angry — which he usually was; of the great figure of Mr. Harrison, silent and aloof, yet moving here and there like a stout cat after mice, of Lohengrin's absurd appearance in a grey top-hat and a full-skirted coat gathered at the waist; of the heartbreaking interruptions and repetitions; of the sensations that descended upon her now and again in her endless lessons with von Giinther, either that the music was so stale and inevitable that the audience would rise in a body and go out as soon as it began; or that it was entirely arbitrary and ugly, and that if Mr. Richard Wagner had chosen any other notes it would have done just as well; of the mysteries of " colour " in orchestration; of the astonishing fact (which the two simply could not believe) that Metzing, who was to conduct, demanded that not a note should be sung, even by the principals, except on the beat of his baton.

"Do you mean that?" asked Norah. "Do you mean that when you're singing away all by yourself, you mayn't go as you please; and that this fat man is beating your time for you? "

" I do, indeed," said Marion. " And every single gesture is fixed, too. It sounds dreadfully wooden, I know; but it isn't really. Personality comes out, you know, if you've got any. I didn't see that at first, and thought it awful; but it isn't really. And Metzing is simply glorious. We've had him twice, at present. He came over from Dresden, and went back by the night train. But it's only because he's Metzing, and insists on these rehearsals, that we've had any at all. Usually there might be just one, before the actual performance: and no more. But he's exceptional, and, as I said, glorious."

"Glorious? How do you mean?" asked Max.

" Well, he's so absolutely certain, for one thing. He knows exactly what he wants, and goes on till he gets it. He kept two unhappy French horns going over a phrase for forty minutes at his rehearsal of the orchestra till they did what he wanted; and everybody else had to wait. He was going to run through one or two scenes with the chorus, and they were all there. After about ten minutes he told the rest to sit down. ' You may sit down,' he said, with his absurd accent, * till these gentlemen have it right begotten.' They said, of course, that theyrd always played it in their own way. They were rather insolent. ' You will play it in my way now,' he said. * Why else am I come from Dresden? ' After half an hour he threw down his baton. ' Go on, gentlemen, till I bid you1 stay,' he said, and folded his arms and turned &s back on them. Then at last he cried out loud, ' Ach! you have it! We will now proceed.' And the extraordinary thing was that nobody laughed."

" I don't think that sounds very glorious," said Norah. " I should call him an obstinate pig."

" No, you wouldn't indeed," said Marion very earnestly. " After all, he must get what he wants. He's the interpreter, and he's got to interpret..And then he really is kind if you're doing your best. I wasn't a bit frightened of him after the first few minutes, when he said he wanted to hear me. He's got kind eyes. He's fearfully fat; he's as fat as Planck was — the Tristan bass, you know; and Klingsor in Parsifal."

" I don't know," said Norah. " How frightful it all sounds! "

" It isn't frightful at all," said Marion, " when once you understand that you're nobody, and that he's everybody; that you're just a little joint of his finger; and that he waggles you about. That's the Bayreuth way, you know. It's new to England."

Max emitted a short exclamation. She turned to him.

" But you won't see all that, when you come," she said. " You'll think Lohengrin and I are really almost making it up as we go along. But it's Metzing — Metzing, from beginning to end." She paused. " Ah! but Isolde! That's why I'm working so hard now. I knew Elsa inside out, of course, before I left Munich. I sang it in Diisseldorf, you know. That's where Mr. Harrison heard me. But I've not sung Isolde yet."

Her eyes sparkled as she spoke; but they softened in sudden friendliness as they rested on Max.

" What's Lohengrin all about? " asked Norah. " I know the story of Tristan all right."

" Oh, dear me!... Well, it's like this. I'm going to be tried and condemned because I'm supposed to have murdered my brother. I haven't, of course; he's been turned into a swan by Ortrud, who is going to marry the man I ought really to marry — Tetramund, or Friedrich — only I won't. Well, I've dreamt of a knight in silver armour, with a golden horn, who is going to rescue me; and I agree that the trumpets shall summon him; and that, if he doesn't come, I shall be condemned. Well, of course, he comes, the second time — just as in my dream. But he comes up the river in a boat drawn fyy a swan — and the swan's my brother. There's a lovely motif for him. And there's another glorious one in A flat for Lohengrin; and the best of all is the grail motif."

" What's a motive? " asked Norah.

" Oh! it's a phrase of music that means the thing it represents. Then there's a Warning motif: we come to that presently; and. I've got one all to myself. It means me."

She smiled with delight.

" Do go on," said Norah. " I don't understand a bit; but it sounds nice."

" Well; there's a very short fight between Friedrich and Lohengrin; and then the First Act ends with general rejoicings, because of course Lohengrin's going to marry me. In the Second Act Friedrich and Ortrud — oh! I forgot to say that the condition of all this is that I must nevte^ask Lohengrin's name, but just trust him entirely; and so Ortrud and Friedrich plot to make me ask, and spoil everything. Well, they begin by making me feel uncomfortable; and by the time that the Second Act ends and we're going into the Cathedral to get married, I'm dreadfully upset by all Ortrud's hints and so on; and you can see I'm going to break my promise. In the Third Act Lohengrin and I are taken to the nuptial chamber; and there's a procession and the wedding march, and all that. Then when we're left alone I become rather hysterical — I always get furious with Elsa just there — and I ask his name and where he comes from; and everything's spoilt. But before he answers, in come the knights, with Fried-rich, to kill Lohengrin. There's a frightful scene, and of course Friedrich gets killed instead. Then the dawn is just breaking: and the scene changes to out of doors again. And then Lohengrin says who he is: he's the son of Parsifal, who is lord of the castle where they keep the Holy Grail: and now that I've been a little fool and asked his name, he must go back and leave me. Then the swan-boat comes up again; and he says good-bye to me. But before he goes, Ortrud interrupts again; and Lohengrin prays, because he wants to turn the swan back again into my brother Godfrey. Then a dove comes down: and the.swan is changed back into my brother, and I fall into his arms and die, just as the dove is beginning to tow Lohengrin's boat back again up the river. It's a dreadful sad ending. And how very badly I have told it."

She looked from one to the other; and her eyes were bright with tears or excitement.

" You've told it beautifully," said Max.

" She really did seem to feel it," said Norah, as they turned at last homewards, having said good-bye to Marion at the entrance to Kensington Gardens.

" Why, of course," said Max.

" No: but I should have thought she'd have got over the romance of it by now; after all that hammering in rehearsals."

Max said nothing.

" Well: we've ridden with Elsa in the Park," continued Norah. " Not every one's done that. Good gracious! "

"What's the matter?"

" I said we'd come out again to-morrow at the same time. Well: I can't. I quite forgot I'd promised to go with Jerry. I'll have to write and say so."

"Why need you do that?" asked Max. "I suppose I can meet her, can't I? "

Norah closed her parted lips.

" Yes: I suppose you can," she said.

It had been one more stage of initiation for Max to hear Marion tell the story of Elsa. He had seen that the very rapidity with which she spoke and the loose phraseology that she used, were assumed to hide a very deep feeling beneath. He had known that she had the mind of a child in some respects; she had shown that in her absorption in her adventures in Scotland; but he had not expected her, somehow, to show it with regard to her art. But there was no mistaking her emotion. She had begun quietly, but her pace and her intensity had increased as she talked, until it was Elsa herself — very nearly — pouring out the story of her troubles, and all with that same sort of innocent appeal that she had shown in her song that evening, two months ago. It was as if a child had spoken, but out of a tragedy — a child that had been foolish and knew it. He wondered what her acting would be like. If she could get that kind of feeling to play upon the audience, she would certainly be a success.

Lady Merival was in one of her mildly peevish moods that day at lunch. Her husband was out; and on such occasions she was apt to talk a good deal more than when he was there. It was like the sun coming out on a cold spring morning: birds begin to awake from, their winter depression, and to chirp gently and querulously. Lady Merival chirped to-day.

" You're a little late," she said, as they came into the drawing-room, " but your father's out: so I thought I'd wait for you. Have you had a nice ride? "

" Delightful," said Norah. " Marion Tenterden met us, you know; and told us all about Lohengrin. We mustn't forget her first night. It's on the fourth of January."

" Can she ride, too? " inquired Lady Merival plaintively, as she took her seat at the table.

" Oh! yes: quite well, too. Didn't you think so, Max?"

" First-rate," said Max, shortly.

" I. wish she had offered to sing last week though," continued his mother, " when she came to dine. I particularly wanted General Mainwaring and his wife to hear her. They're both very fond of music; and I asked her for that reason. But your father told me I mustn't even have the candles lighted on the piano unless she offered to sing."

" They're fearfully strict with her, I hear," explained Norah. " She was telling us about that, too. (No. I'll have some cold pheasant.) She's not allowed to sing anywhere without special leave."

" What nonsense, my dear! As if she need ask any one's leave just to sing in a drawing-room. But it's just like all professionals — demanding to be received by everybody; and then not behaving like any one else."

Max lifted his eyes suddenly. Then he dropped them again.

Lady Merival proceeded. Her chirping was a little peevish to-day.

" Your father didn't like it at all; I could see that. He didn't say 'anything to me about it: but I am sure he expected it. I could see he was annoyed. And I let the conversation stop two or three times on purpose. I even said that it was a new piano which we had just had from Har rod's Stores; and that I hoped it was a good one. But she didn't even take that hint."

Max could bear it no more.

" I expect she thought you had asked her because you wanted to see her, mother. Very foolish, no doubt."

" My dear! how can you say that when you know I only asked her because you wanted me to? Your father didn't say a word about it, as I said. But I don't think she'd better come again for the present."

" My dear mother," said Max, with the awful detached dignity of a young man; " you don't seem to realise that in the ordinary way — at least early next year, anyhow, if she's allowed to sing at all — you'd probably have to pay her at least a hundred pounds."

" My dear; what nonsense! Why, she's only a girl. It isn't as if she was at all well known: and after our asking her to Scotland, and everything."

Max was silent. He felt so angry that he could not quite trust himself to speak. His mother moved on in her slow stream of talk. It is surprising how malicious, in a small way, quite nice people are capable of being.

" I suppose she hires that horse she rode this morning. I wonder where she learned to ride. She was telling me in Scotland that she lived down in Bedford Park somewhere, until her father died."

Norah glanced imperceptibly at Max.

" She rode very well, anyhow. She's going to ride every day, she says. She is rehearsing or something, nearly all the time now."

"I daresay, my dear," said Lady Merival with dignity. And Marion ceased to exist.

Ill

Mr. Noble's famous shop in Oxford Street had a new customer that afternoon, when at three o'clock a very correctly dressed young man, rather weather-beaten about the face, with white spats, walked in and demanded a book all about Wagner.

" Yes, sir," said the other young man, on the wrong side of a counter. "A biography? I'm afraid we don't keep "

" No; no. About his operas."

" Yes, sir: we have a very learned work by "

" I don't want a learned work. I know nothing whatever about it. I want a book that'll tell me. I want one that really describes it all — and gives the motifs — aren't they? — and so on."

The other young man knit his forehead.

" Well, sir, I'm afraid you'll find it hard to get a book of that description. There are, of course, books that contain stories from Wagner; and there are books that are really musical studies."

Max sighed.

" Let's see some, will you? "

He stood turning one over, presently.

" This looks the kind of thing. Has it got Loliengrin in it?"

" Sure to have, sir. Allow me."

The other young man took it deferentially in his white hands, and turned to the index.

" Yes, sir: you will observe "

" Thanks. That'll do then. I'll take it with me."

He waited while it was being wrapped up. Then he had a burst of confidentiality.

" What about this new January season at Covent Garden? " he asked.

"Well, sir>5 — (the other young man hastened to remove an end of string from his mouth) — "it's an experiment, of course. But Mr. Harrison's generally right. There's a new artiste, I hear "

" Yes? " said Max suddenly.

" A Madame Farinese " — (Max's face fell) • — " who, I understand, is to sing Isolde "

" Ah! "

" And there's a Miss Marion Tenterden "

" Oh! Yes: what about her? "

" There is your book, sir. Six shillings, if you please."

" What about Miss Tenterden? " asked Max earnestly, feeling for his sovereign-purse.

" She is what we call a dark horse, sir, I understand. She is to sing Elsa, it is reported." (The other young man's face suddenly glimmered with intelligence: but he made haste to dispose of it again.) " Nothing much is known of her, at present, outside privileged circles, sir.... There is your change, sir."

" I've heard she's very good," said Max, putting his change into his trousers pocket. He had never had so long a conversation before with a shop-assistant, except on strictly professional lines; and wondered how he was doing it.

" Indeed, sir. Well, let us hope she will justify expectations, sir. A first appearance is a very critical occasion, sir."

" Yes. Well. Good morning."

The other young man bent from his hips.

" Good morning, sir. And thank you. You're sure you wouldn't prefer that we should send the book, sir? "

" No, thanks. I'll take it."

The other young man, so soon as Max had gone out, turned to yet a third young man who was getting down music from a shelf.

" Sweet on Marion Tenterden," he said in an undertone.

IT was not until the week before Christmas that Maggie made up her mind to speak plainly to Marion.

If there was one thing, besides sin, that she hated, it was the giving of pain. She hated to throw away flowers until they were positively rank with decay: she hated to find fault with Rhadamanthus even when he swore at her publicly; she hated ever to say No to any one about anything. But she was also courageous, and when she was absolutely certain that pain-giving was a necessary duty, she applied it with a firm hand, but a bleeding heart. She had even been known to beat Rhadamanthus with the Catholic Times rolled up, when she had forgotten to put him back in his cage, and he bit, as his custom was, a visitor's ankle.

It appeared to her now, with relentless clarity, that she must speak to Marion about Max. It was not that she had the faintest doubt of Marion's excellent intentions, but there was1 such a thing, she said to herself, as a Reputation; and -when it comes to a young prvma donna, not yet established, riding at least three times a week with a young man like Mr. Merival — (whom, however, Maggie thoroughly liked: in fact she was engaged just now on a novena for his conversion to the Catholic religion ) — when that same young prvma donna is brought back from her practice by that same young man in a taxi-cab, three evenings out of four, something is bound to give somewhere: the strain is too great.

The moment she elected was unfortunate, but she had screwed herself up to it by her " hour " in the Carmelite church, and dared not flinch. She walked straight upstairs to Marion's bedroom, on hearing she was there, and tapped. It was about six in the evening.

" Is that you, Maggie? " came a clear voice. " Wait one minute. No, five minutes. No. Go down to the music-room and wait for me there. I'm very busy indeed."

" But my dear "

" I mean it. You shall not come in. Besides the door's locked. I shan't be long."

So the music-room was to be the scene of the tragedy. Yet it looked inviting enough as she came in, down the two steps that led from the passage. The fire was bright on the hearth: and the great Bechstein winked with little flashes of light. The curtains were drawn — they were necessary in London, unfortunately — and the great rug glimmered with old Persian colours in the midst of that sea of stained and polished boards; and the white bear-skin looked warm and inviting. Over the mantelpiece hung a big engraving of the sharp featured eagle-face of the man called Richard Wagner. There was a German inscription in ink at the foot of the border, stating that it was a gift from Johann von Giinther to his dear child and pupil, Marion Tenterden, with a further line, practically unreadable, with something about " auspices " in it.

She felt really unhappy; and the more so as her courage seemed melting like wax. " And all my bones are out of joint," she murmured, reminiscent of the Church of England Prayer-Book. For she really did not know how to put it, without wounding Marion, who, she knew well enough, was as innocent as an angel, and as little versed in the ways of the world, in spite of her new airs. What she had to say to her was not easy: she wondered how she would express it: she be-gan to construct little sentences....

There was a rustle at the door, which she had left open. She turned and saw a vision. On the little platform of the upper step, with the shaded light shining on her stood Elsa.

It was a very childish Elsa — in fact the Elsa, obviously, of Wagner's dream. It was amazing how any one could ever doubt that again — the Elsa who dreamt romantically of knights in silver armour, who confidently appealed through the call of trumpets to bring him down from heaven, and who was therefore not disappointed: yet the same Elsa who broke all her promises on the very wedding-night itself, and distrusted the very hero in whom she had believed. She was " clad in white " now, " with sad and resigned demeanour, attempting no defence," standing there with her hands loosely clasped before her, and her head divinely and pathetically tilted, as a flower beaten by the storm. She was " clad in white," not of the penitent, but of the innocent maid, who needs no penitence, since she has not known sin. Her skirt hung straight, in heavy folds, from a high waist, and a border of daises, with pearl-petals ran round its edging, as round also the square-cut neck, and the square sleeves, beneath which the under-sleeves, of a yet more bleached white, were fitted to her arms. Her shoes were white, and her stockings of a daring blue; and the notes were repeated in the heavy loose necklace that fell below her waist, in turquoise and moonstone. Her black hair was combed perfectly straight, without ornament. But the face was the greatest marvel of all; for while the features were Marion's, the face itself was, obviously, Elsa's. Her lips were down-turned, and pale; her eyebrows arched in infinite pathos; there were such lines of pain as a child's face shows after a fit of sobbing.

Then she sang, softly, a wailing phrase. Then came transformation: and her eyes brightened and glowed, and a smile came on her lips, and her hands rose, and there pealed out a cry of ecstatic welcome — yet always as of a child. So she stood: and Maggie rose in her seat staring.

Then Elsa was gone entirely; and Marion came down into the room.

" Well? How did I do it? " she said: and her lips trembled with laughter.

Maggie threw her arms round her.

" You... you darling! "

The girl shrank back.

" Don't! The paint'll come off. When I heard you at the door, I simply had to do it. I was trying my dress on — for the First Act: it came home half an hour ago. Isn't it heavenly? " She took her skirt up, and pirouetted slowly, showing it off.

" Isn't Madame a dear? Isn't it a dream? I insisted on the blue stockings; because Elsa's just the shade of a prig, you know — well; she's got the makings of a very small prig, anyhow. Do you think they'll see the point? And then of course we had to have turquoises. But it doesn't matter if they don't: it's a lovely shade, anj'how. It's just the tone of the knights' mantles in Parsifal, translated into blue — you know, that veiled colour. They're just dead in tune. But of course these donkeys of a B. P. wouldn't see it anyhow. I've half a mind to have a note put in the book of the words, pointing it all out; and why they'veto be in tune. Of course they must be; because, you see, Lohengrin is really a Knight of the Grail, though old van Roth doesn't look it. I don't care twopence. I'm Elsa: and I'm going to be just exactly right. And then my hair! Oh! they made such a fuss. They said Elsa was bound to be flaxen, and that she never had been anything else from the year one: and I said, * Stuff and nonsense! A flaxen girl wouldn't have broken her promise: she'd just have adored, and been trustful and German and all that.' And, you know, Harrison actually gave in. I never dreamt he would, really. And then Madame wanted me to have a coronet or a fillet of some kind: and I said ' Stuff and nonsense! ' to that, too. But they'll have a fit at Covent Garden. I don't care. Elsa wouldn't have had anything whatever on her head when she was coming up for trial. Now would she? But you just wait till my nuptial crown comes along. That's a crown all right.... Why don't you say something?... Oh! I'm so happy I don't know what to do! Kiss me, after all. And then you can go and wash it off."

But there was no evading the little real scene that had to come.

Maggie was dreadfully severe with herself all the while she was waiting downstairs, for her gross cowardice in not doing as she had resolved, at the time she had fixed: and it was a very tremulous lady that began to administer counsel and reproaches, as soon as they had come back into the music-room after dinner.

She arranged it all beautifully.

She got the low chair for herself, and the tall chair, with wings for Marion. She thought that the poor child would be dreadfully confused and unhappy when she heard what really must be said to her, and that some little protection for her blushes would be a real kindness. And she waited, too, until Marion had become a little restless, and had had her coffee, and was beginning to walk up and down the room. And she waited, too, until Marion had done walking, because, after all, it would be kinder to let her have the shock sitting down. In fact she waited, from one excellent motive after another, each unimpeachable, so long that she saw with consternation that there were only ten minutes more before night prayers.

Then she gripped her courage with both hands — and it shook, in spite of that — and began:

" Marion, my dear."

"Yes?"

" I've got something to say. I... I don't think you'll like it."

" Not my dress! " cried the girl in consternation. " You don't say you don't "

" No, no, no. I think that's lovely. No — much more serious."

" My dear! It simply can't be."

Marion sank back again, smiling. With sudden resolution Maggie got up and came round behind the tall chair, leaning over its back.

" No: don't move," she said. " You won't like it a bit. It's... it's about Mr. Merival." (The girl's foot had been swinging gently; she had one knee crossed over the other; and Maggie saw how, suddenly, the movement ceased.) She went on hurriedly:

" My dear, you know I'm an old woman — a very wicked old woman too; and I do know the world — at least I know a good deal of it — more than enough. And... and I know what a simple darling you are, and that you don't understand a bit about all kinds of things."

Marion's head turned — the least little fraction — so that Maggie could see the curve of her cheek.

" And — and: oh! I must say it straight out. I can't beat about things; at least, if I do I always make the dust fly so terribly that no one can see what they are." (She put her hand softly on to the girl's hair. Marion made no more movement.)

" Well: this is it. My dearest, you simply mustn't go with him such a lot. You don't understand."

There followed a profound silence. Then the tick of the clock was heard very distinctly five or six times.

Maggie had begun very softly to stroke the girl's head, when suddenly a pair of hands rose swiftly from below and caught her own.

" There 1 I've got you," said Marion. " You censorious old body! Now you come round here and be talked to! "

" But "

" You come round here."

Maggie suffered herself to be led round the wing of the chair, her hand still grasped by the two of the girl. She was a little reassured, tut not altogether, by the tone in the other's voice. It was natural and easy: but it was not entirely natural and easy.

" You're not angry with me? " she began, peering at Marion's face in the leaping firelight.

For answer the girl slid her hands up to the other's elbow, and drew down her face.

" Kiss me instantly," she said, " or I shall be."

Maggie obeyed.

" But how nice of you to take it like that! " she said.

" Come! sit down by me. There's plenty of room for two."

Marion slid into the corner of the wide chair and drew Maggie down into it, slipping her arm round her waist.

" Now you've got to listen to me. I think it's perfectly dear of you to have spoken out what was in your mind. How you must have hated it, you poor darling! And I know exactly what you mean. Well: first of all I can reassure you. Mr. Merival has gone down with his people into the country this afternoon. To be quite accurate, they all left together by the four o'clock train from Victoria; and they won't be back till just after Christmas. Does that make you feel better?"

" Oh! "

" That's number one. Number two is that you don't a bit understand the — the new system of things. In your young days — as you're always saying — (you must remember you're as nearly as possible twice my age ) — well, in your young days it would have been Most Improper for me to go about alone with Mr. Merival in the sort of way I've been doing."

" My dearest, I don't think you realise "

" Wait. Number three. I entirely recognise your right to look after me in this sort of thing: and... and I love you to do it." (Her voice sank to a murmur; and she drew Maggie's cheek down to her own for an instant.) "So I'll do as you say; though I don't agree a bit. That's to say, I'll promise to ask your leave, solemnly, any time I want to go with him — though there certainly won't be much chance, anyhow. And if you say No, I won't go. Will that do? At any rate for the next six months."

Maggie was suddenly overwhelmed with a passion of affection and gratitude. She threw her other arm round the girl, and kissed her.

"My darling: you're just an angel come down from heaven. Only you mustn't go back, because I want you. And I won't be tiresome and narrow. I'm... I'm a silly old woman."

Somehow, after all, Maggie was not so content an hour later: and yet when she tried to analyse the reasons for her uneasiness, they appeared to dissolve into nothing at all.

Immediately after her burst of gratitude, the other had stood up and said that it was time for nigjit prayers, but that she was so tired that she thought she'd go to bed before them. She had had five hours' singing that day, it seemed, and Isolde had proved extremely trying. She had been at the Llebestod — that amazing combination of love and memory and joy and misery — and von Giinther had been far from pleased, although he had been comparatively complimentary a week ago. Also he had found fault with no less than five of her phrasings in Elsa, although she had been under the impression that she knew Elsa backwards, and " in her sleep " as she said. In fact she thought she would go to bed; and would Maggie, for once, not come and say good night?

Therefore, when night prayers were over, Maggie had nothing whatever to do — (since she had performed her various devotions earlier in the day, on purpose to have an hour free for conversation) — except go over her recent action and its effects.

There were just three reasons, she considered, for uneasiness: yet each one of them was simply nothing taken by itself.

First there was Marion's minute knowledge of the departure of the Merivals by the four o'clock train. Yet, what was there in that? What could be more natural than that Max Merival should have happened to mention it, and Marion to remember it? Did not Maggie herself remember, at this very moment, that she had seen on a placard that morning that a man called P. R. Johnson either was or was not going to South Africa; and that an American on an omnibus had said in her hearing that some one — she did not know who — could " give " some one else — she did not know who — " cards and spades "? If wholly irrelevant pieces of information of this kind could stick in her own mind all day, why should it be thought significant that Marion should remember that the Merivals were leaving Victoria by the four o'clock train?

The other two causes for uneasiness — causes which she repudiated the moment she examined them — were that neither the voice nor the face of Marion, as she had uttered her reassuring sentences, and stood up afterwards, were entirely natural and familiar.

Yet what else could she — Maggie — expect, after the blundering way in which she had introduced the subject? Obviously it could not have been very pleasant for the girl to have been accused, practically without any warning, of indiscretion, however slight, in regard to a young man. Had she not, after all, taken the rebuke admirably and submissively? And, since that was so, could she not be allowed to show just the faintest shock, in her manner, after so clumsily veiled an accusation?

No. It was plain that there was no reason for uneasiness at all. And Maggie not only called herself an old fool, but actually mentioned the matter in her final devotions in her own bedroom an hour later.

Ill

In the days that followed up to Christmas and even beyond it, it appeared to Maggie that really and truly the girl was a little overdone; and this was a very appalling consideration, since the strain afterwards would be incalculably greater than any strain now. Even Maggie was beginning to appreciate what that strain would be.

First there was the terrific ordeal of the debut itself: for the appearance at Diisseldorf, though it had been the final occasion of so much, did not really count. And there were further elements, too, that made this particular debut the more trying. There was, for example, the element of experiment in having a Wagner season at such a time of year, there was the new departure of allowing Metzing to introduce the Bayreuth system for the first time, and to interfere, from the musician's point of view, very profoundly indeed with the traditions of Covent Garden. That he should already have come twice from Dresden was a sufficient indication that significant changes were contemplated.

Next, for Marion, there was the suspense as to whether her future should be of one kind or of another. It was a very startling exception at all that a singer of her age and almost negligible experience should be cast for the extraordinarily fatiguing part of Elsa — which part, too, she would have to sing, according to agreement, not less than five times in the proposed six weeks of the season, to say nothing of the three performances in Tristan und Isolde for which she had now pledged herself, should Madame Farinese be unable to appear. And there was no doubt but that, ordinarily speaking, her entire future as a singer in Grand Opera depended on the first impression she produced. She had accepted rather low terms — fifteen pounds only for each appearance — on the understanding that should the authorities engage her for.Wagner opera in the summer, these should be raised to a hundred. Von Giinther, indeed, was confident of her success, if her temperament and physical strength should prove adequate: but this was exactly the matter in doubt.

Thirdly, as the days went by and the girl's moodiness seemed to increase, more than once it was only by a real effort of will that Maggie was able to suppress the suspicion that Max Merival was yet one more element of disturbance. Yet Marion never mentioned him until Christmas Day. Meantime Maggie did all in her power to soothe and quiet her friend, to watch her health, and to force her out for exercise and fresh air.

It was on Christmas Day, then, that Marion first spoke, without introduction, of Max, directly.

The two had been down together to St. Paul's Cathedral to hear the carols after the evening service. Maggie had, indeed, shrunk from going; and it was not until she had been to see her Carmelite confessor and had received from him an assurance that she could not possibly incur the sin of schism by sitting in the last row of the nave of that Protestant temple that she gave in.

" But I shall feel most uncomfortable, for all that," she had said in the taxi on the way down. " Suppose the roof were to fall in and kill us! Where should we be then? "

" I don't think it could possibly displease the Heavenly Powers," Marion had retorted, " nearly so much as my appearing on a positive stage. And yet you're going to be my accomplice the week after next — in that."

"Well; but "

" If the roof does fall in, and we're all killed," continued the girl, " I shall just say that I went to hear the music. You can say what you like."

" My dear: don't talk like that. It's too serious."

" Well: you can say Father James gave you leave."

Maggie eyed her, with a gleam of returning hope.

" That's exactly what I shall say," she said with resolution.

The beauty of the music and the place certainly did something, at least after a while, to soothe poor Maggie's agitation. Overhead the great dim dome darkened and darkened, till the ring of light sprang out as by magic and crowned its brows with glory. Far away up in the choir, beyond the shaded lights, burned the two tall candles before the white reredos; on either side were the lines of white figures, luminous against the black woodwork of the stalls. And down through these pleasures of sight, like light cutting through dusty air, came the pleasures of sound — the music of those antique bitter-sweet airs, solemn as a church and yet as gay as a country-fair; that strange wedding, accomplished in carols as in nothing else, of the deepest mys-teries of Supernature with the lightest emotions of humanity. They sang of the Virgin Unspotted, of the bells of the City of God, of the First Adam and of the Second, of the Nowell of the Fields of Bethlehem. Once Maggie, with eyes a little dim, turned smiling to her friend. But Marion sat with closed eyes and parted lips, as if she slept.

On the way back Maggie's scruples returned and she made haste to silence them by professions of loyalty.

" How sad it is to think of all those poor misguided people '

Marion turned with something almost like impatience.

"My dear: do leave them alone. At any rate they sang very beautifully. You must admit that."

" Yes: I know: and that makes it all the worse. And they're our carols, after all, which they've stolen from us."

" I don't want to spoil your argument," said Marion, " but do do Dr. Barnby the justice to remember that he certainly was not a Catholic."

Maggie closed her eyes patiently.

— "As they've stolen the very buildings in which they worship."

" That particular building, anyhow, they didn't. It was built by Sir Christopher Wren in the reign of Charles the Second. See how I remember my lessons."

" Well: anyhow, it's very sad," said Maggie, whose humour was apt to forsake her when she was in the controversial vein. " And if you'd ever been a Protestant, my dear, as I was "

Marion suddenly turned and clapped her hands vigorously in Maggie's face.

" Wake up, my dear: you're dreaming. This is the twentieth century and Christmas Day. And we're going home to tea: and then a large dinner. I want my dinner. At least, I shall about eight. Oh! those exercises! I must do at least an hour at the — the accursed things."

"My dear!"

" Yes: I know. And that reminds me that Mr. Merival's coming back the day after to-morrow; and wants to come and see me."

There was something in her tone that made Maggie turn sharply and look at her. But the girl's face told her nothing.