Music-lessons! He reached to a pigeon-hole, and took out her address-book. "H--Harmost, 305A, Marylebone Road," and against it the words in pencil, "3 P.M."Three o'clock. So that was her hour! His eyes rested idly on a little old coloured print of a Bacchante, with flowing green scarf, shaking a tambourine at a naked Cupid, who with a baby bow and arrow in his hands, was gazing up at her. He turned it over; on the back was written in a pointed, scriggly hand, "To my little friend.--E. H." Fiorsen drew smoke deep down into his lungs, expelled it slowly, and went to the piano. He opened it and began to play, staring vacantly before him, the cigarette burned nearly to his lips. He went on, scarcely knowing what he played. At last he stopped, and sat dejected. A great artist? Often, nowadays, he did not care if he never touched a violin again. Tired of standing up before a sea of dull faces, seeing the blockheads knock their silly hands one against the other! Sick of the sameness of it all!
Besides--besides, were his powers beginning to fail? What was happening to him of late?
He got up, went into the dining-room, and drank some brandy. Gyp could not bear his drinking. Well, she shouldn't be out so much--taking music-lessons. Music-lessons! Nearly three o'clock. If he went for once and saw what she really did-- Went, and offered her his escort home! An attention. It might please her. Better, anyway, than waiting here until she chose to come in with her face all closed up. He drank a little more brandy--ever so little--took his hat and went. Not far to walk, but the sun was hot, and he reached the house feeling rather dizzy. A maid-servant opened the door to him.
"I am Mr. Fiorsen. Mrs. Fiorsen here?"
"Yes, sir; will you wait?"
Why did she look at him like that? Ugly girl! How hateful ugly people were! When she was gone, he reopened the door of the waiting-room, and listened.
Chopin! The polonaise in A flat. Good! Could that be Gyp? Very good! He moved out, down the passage, drawn on by her playing, and softly turned the handle. The music stopped. He went in.
When Winton had left him, an hour and a half later that afternoon, Fiorsen continued to stand at the front door, swaying his body to and fro. The brandy-nurtured burst of jealousy which had made him insult his wife and old Monsieur Harmost had died suddenly when Gyp turned on him in the street and spoke in that icy voice; since then he had felt fear, increasing every minute. Would she forgive? To one who always acted on the impulse of the moment, so that he rarely knew afterward exactly what he had done, or whom hurt, Gyp's self-control had ever been mysterious and a little frightening.
Where had she gone? Why did she not come in? Anxiety is like a ball that rolls down-hill, gathering momentum. Suppose she did not come back! But she must--there was the baby--their baby!
For the first time, the thought of it gave him unalloyed satisfaction. He left the door, and, after drinking a glass to steady him, flung himself down on the sofa in the drawing-room.
And while he lay there, the brandy warm within him, he thought: 'Iwill turn over a new leaf; give up drink, give up everything, send the baby into the country, take Gyp to Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Rome--anywhere out of this England, anywhere, away from that father of hers and all these stiff, dull folk! She will like that--she loves travelling!' Yes, they would be happy! Delicious nights--delicious days--air that did not weigh you down and make you feel that you must drink--real inspiration--real music! The acrid wood-smoke scent of Paris streets, the glistening cleanness of the Thiergarten, a serenading song in a Florence back street, fireflies in the summer dusk at Sorrento--he had intoxicating memories of them all! Slowly the warmth of the brandy died away, and, despite the heat, he felt chill and shuddery. He shut his eyes, thinking to sleep till she came in. But very soon he opened them, because--a thing usual with him of late--he saw such ugly things--faces, vivid, changing as he looked, growing ugly and uglier, becoming all holes--holes--horrible holes-- Corruption--matted, twisted, dark human-tree-roots of faces! Horrible! He opened his eyes, for when he did that, they always went. It was very silent. No sound from above. No sound of the dogs. He would go up and see the baby.
While he was crossing the hall, there came a ring. He opened the door himself. A telegram! He tore the envelope.
"Gyp and the baby are with me letter follows.--WINTON."He gave a short laugh, shut the door in the boy's face, and ran up-stairs; why--heaven knew! There was nobody there now! Nobody!
Did it mean that she had really left him--was not coming back? He stopped by the side of Gyp's bed, and flinging himself forward, lay across it, burying his face. And he sobbed, as men will, unmanned by drink. Had he lost her? Never to see her eyes closing and press his lips against them! Never to soak his senses in her loveliness! He leaped up, with the tears still wet on his face.
Lost her? Absurd! That calm, prim, devilish Englishman, her father--he was to blame--he had worked it all--stealing the baby!
He went down-stairs and drank some brandy. It steadied him a little. What should he do? "Letter follows." Drink, and wait?
Go to Bury Street? No. Drink! Enjoy himself!
