The notion of Soulsby, not knowing at all how to sing, yet diligently learning those sixths, brought a smile to his mind; and then he seemed to hear Celia calling out over her shoulder, "That's what Chopin does--he sings!"The spirit of that wonderful music came back to him, enfolded him in its wings.It seemed to raise itself up--a palpable barrier between him and all that he had known and felt and done before.That was his new birth--that marvellous night with the piano.The conceit pleased him--not the less because there flashed along with it the thought that it was a poet that had been born.Yes; the former country lout, the narrow zealot, the untutored slave groping about in the dark after silly superstitions, cringing at the scowl of mean Pierces and Winches, was dead.There was an end of him, and good riddance.
In his place there had been born a Poet--he spelled the word out now unabashed--a child of light, a lover of beauty and sweet sounds, a recognizable brother to Renan and Chopin--and Celia!
Out of the soothing, tenderly grateful revery, a practical suggestion suddenly took shape.He acted upon it without a moment's delay, getting out his letter-pad, and writing hurriedly--"Dear Miss Madden,--Life will be more tolerable to me if before nightfall I can know that there is a piano under my roof.Even if it remains dumb, it will be some comfort to have it here and look at it, and imagine how a great master might make it speak.
"Would it be too much to beg you to look in at Thurston's, say at eleven this forenoon, and give me the inestimable benefit of your judgment in selecting an instrument?
"Do not trouble to answer this, for I am leaving home now, but shall call at Thurston's at eleven, and wait.
"Thanking you in anticipation,"I am--"Here Theron's fluency came to a sharp halt.There were adverbs enough and to spare on the point of his pen, but the right one was not easy to come at."Gratefully," "faithfully,""sincerely," "truly"--each in turn struck a false note.
He felt himself not quite any of these things.
At last he decided to write just the ****** word "yours,"and then wavered between satisfaction at his boldness, dread lest he had been over-bold, and, worst of the lot, fear that she would not notice it one way or the other--all the while he sealed and addressed the letter, put it carefully in an inner pocket, and got his hat.
There was a moment's hesitation as to notifying the kitchen of his departure.The interests of domestic discipline seemed to point the other way.He walked softly through the hall, and let himself out by the front door without a sound.
Down by the canal bridge he picked out an idle boy to his mind--a lad whose aspect appeared to promise intelligence as a messenger, combined with large impartiality in sectarian matters.He was to have ten cents on his return;and he might report himself to his patron at the bookstore yonder.
Theron was grateful to the old bookseller for remaining at his desk in the rear.There was a tacit compliment in the suggestion that he was not a mere customer, demanding instant attention.Besides, there was no keeping "Thurston's" out of conversations in this place.
Loitering along the shelves, the young minister's eye suddenly found itself arrested by a name on a cover.
There were a dozen narrow volumes in uniform binding, huddled together under a cardboard label of "Eminent Women Series." Oddly enough, one of these bore the title "George Sand." Theron saw there must be some mistake, as he took the book down, and opened it.His glance hit by accident upon the name of Chopin.Then he read attentively until almost the stroke of eleven.
"We have to make ourselves acquainted with all sorts of queer phases of life," he explained in self-defence to the old bookseller, then counting out the money for the book from his lean purse.He smiled as he added, "There seems something almost wrong about taking advantage of the clergyman's discount for a life of George Sand.""I don't know," answered the other, pleasantly."Guess she wasn't so much different from the rest of 'em--except that she didn't mind appearances.We know about her.
We don't know about the others."
"I must hurry," said Theron, turning on his heel.
The haste with which he strode out of the store, crossed the street, and made his way toward Thurston's, did not prevent his thinking much upon the astonishing things he had encountered in this book.Their relation to Celia forced itself more and more upon his mind.
He could recall the twinkle in her eye, the sub-mockery in her tone, as she commented with that half-contemptuous "Yes--George something!" upon his blundering ignorance.
His mortification at having thus exposed his dull rusticity was swallowed up in conjectures as to just what her tolerant familiarity with such things involved.
He had never before met a young unmarried woman who would have confessed to him any such knowledge.But then, of course, he had never known a girl who resembled Celia in any other way.He recognized vaguely that he must provide himself with an entire new set of standards by which to measure and comprehend her.But it was for the moment more interesting to wonder what her standards were.
Did she object to George Sand's behavior? Or did she sympathize with that sort of thing? Did those statues, and the loose-flowing diaphonous toga and unbound hair, the cigarettes, the fiery liqueur, the deliberately sensuous music--was he to believe that they signified--?
"Good-morning, Mr.Ware.You have managed by a miracle to hit on one of my punctual days," said Celia.
She was standing on the doorstep, at the entrance to the musical department of Thurston's.He had not noticed before the fact that the sun was shining.The full glare of its strong light, enveloping her figure as she stood, and drawing the dazzled eye for relief to the bower of softened color, close beneath her parasol of creamy silk and lace, was what struck him now first of all.
It was as if Celia had brought the sun with her.
