§ 5
The following morning a typewritten letter waited her arrival in the basement sitting-room. It bore on the flap the seal of a business firm in London, and Catherine opened it without in the least guessing its contents.
It began:
MY DEAR CATHIE,
You will excuse my writing to you, but this is really nothing but a business letter. I found your address by enquiry at the theatre box-office: the method is somewhat irregular, but I hope you will forgive me.
What I want to say is this——
Catherine glanced down the typewritten script and saw the signature at the bottom. It was George Trant. Her face a little flushed, she read on:
The Upton Rising Conservative Club, of which I am a member, is giving a concert on May 2nd, in aid of the local hospitals. A friend of mine (and a fellow-member) was so impressed by your playing this evening that he suggested I should ask you to play a pianoforte solo at our projected concert. I cordially agree with his idea, and hope you will be able to accept. I enclose a draft of the musical programme so that you may realize that we are having some really “star” artists down. Bernard Hollins, for instance, has sung at the Queen’s Hall. Please write back immediately in acceptance and let me know the name of the piece you propose to play, so that the programmes can go to press immediately. Excuse haste, as I must catch the 11.30 post.
Yours sincerely,
GEORGE TRANT.
Catherine re-read the letter twice before she commenced to criticize it keenly. Her keen criticism resulted in the following deductions. To begin with:
This was some subtle cunning of his to entrap her. He was clever enough to devise it.... What had she played last evening at the Bockley Victoria Theatre that could have “impressed” anybody so much? The show had been a third-rate revue, the music of which was both mediocre and childishly simple. The piano was bad. She had played, if anything, not so well as usual. The piano was, for the most part, drowned in the orchestra. Moreover, there were scores of pianoforte players in the district who would have been eager to appear on such a distinguished programme as the one he had sent. It was absurd to pick her out. She had no musical degree, had never played at a big concert in her life. The other artists might even object to her inclusion if they knew who she was. In any case, no astute concert-organizer would risk putting her in. She was well-known, and scores of people would say, as soon as they saw her on the platform: “Why, that’s the red-haired girl who plays the piano at the theatre.”
Catherine came to the definite conclusion that the letter was thoroughly “fishy.”
Yet she wrote back saying:
DEAR GEORGE,
Thanks for letter and invitation, which I am pleased to accept. My piece will be Liszt’s Concert Study in A flat, unless you think it too classical, in which case I can play a Polischinelle by Rachmaninov.
Yours sincerely,
CATHERINE WESTON.
Catherine thought: If I can make use of George Trant to further my ambitions, why shouldn’t I? If this leads to anything in the way of bettering my earnings or getting engagements to play at concerts, it will be no more than what George Trant owes me. And if this is merely a trap laid for me, we’ll see who’s the more astute this time. In any case it should lead to some interesting situations, and it will at least vary the monotony of life....
It suddenly struck her that perhaps her father would come and hear her play. The possibility opened up wild speculations. Her dramatic interest pictured him rising from his seat in the middle of the Concert Study in A flat, and crying with arm uplifted—“God!—My daughter!”
Or perhaps he would sob loudly and bury his head in his hands.
Yet, remembering their meeting in the railway carriage, she knew he would do nothing of the sort....
... The audience would sit spell-bound as the Concert Study rang out its concluding chords. As the last whispered echo died on the air the whole building would ring with shouts of tumultuous applause. Those nearest the front would swarm on to the platform, seizing her hand in congratulation. A buzz of conversation would go round, startled, awe-stricken conversation: “Who is that red-haired girl?—Who is she?—Plays at the theatre?—Oh, surely not. Impossible!”
They would demand an encore. She would play Chopin’s Study, “Poland is Lost.”
And the Bockley and District Advertiser would foam at the headline with: “Musical Discovery at Upton Rising. Masterful playing by local pianiste....”
No, no, all that was absurd....
The audience would listen in bored silence punctuated only by the “scrooping” of chairs. She would probably tie her hands up in some of the arpeggios. There would be desultory, unenthusiastic clapping of hands at the finish. She would be asked for no encore. Somebody might say: “I fancy I’ve seen that girl at the theatre. She leads the orchestra.” And the Bockley and District Advertiser would say with frigid politeness: “Miss Catherine Weston gave a tasteful rendering of Liszt’s Concert Study in A flat....” Or, if they had used the word “tasteful” previously, they would say “excellent” or “spirited” or “vivid.”
“I suppose I’m getting cynical,” she thought, as she mercilessly tore to pieces her ideal imaginations.
Yet she was very joyous that morning.
Life was going to begin for her. If events didn’t carry her with them she was just going to stand in their way and make them. If not followed, she would pursue. Life, life, her soul cried, and life was mightily interesting. There came a silver April shower, and in her ecstasy she took off her hat and braved both the slanting rain and the conventional respectability of Upton Rising. Then came the sun, warm and drying, and her hair shone like a halo of pure flame.... She made herself rather foolishly conspicuous....