‘To London,’ said Christopher, quoting Mrs. Browning; ‘to the gathering-place of souls.’
‘What shall you do there, Christopher?’ asked Barbara, by this time tremulous.
‘I shall take my compositions with me,’ he answered,’ and offer them to the publishers. I will find out the people who give concerts and get leave to play. I will play at first for nothing: I can but try. If I fail, I fail. But there is nothing here to work upon. There is no knowledge of art and no love for it. I must have more elbow-room.’
Elbow-room is indispensable to a violinist, and Barbara was compelled to agree to her lover’s programme. She was a brave little creature, and though she was as sorry to part with her lover as even he could wish her, she accepted the inevitable. Christopher finished his quarter’s instructions where he had pupils, declined such few further engagements as offered themselves, packed up his belongings in a tin box somewhat too large for them, said farewell, and went his way to London. Barbara went with him by coach into the great neighbouring town five miles away, and saw him off by train. The times and the place where these two were bred were alike primitive, and this farewell journey had no shadow of impropriety in it even for the most censorious eyes. The coach did not return till evening, and little Barbara had three or four hours on her hands. She walked disconsolately from the station, with her veil down to hide the few tears which forced themselves past her resolution. Scarcely noticing whither her feet carried her, she had wandered into a retired and dusty street which bore plainly upon its surface the unwritten but readable announcement of genteel poverty, and there in a parlour window was a largeish placard bearing this legend: ‘Mrs. Lochleven Cameron prepares pupils for the Stage. Enquire Within.’ A sudden inspiration entered Barbara’s heart. She had seen the inside of a theatre once or twice, and she thought herself prettier and knew she could sing better than the singing chambermaid whom everybody had so applauded. Christopher had often defended the stage from the aspersions cast upon it by the ignorant prejudices of country-bred folk, who looked on the theatre as a device of the Arch-Enemy and an avenue to his halls of darkness. In pious varyings from church she had heard the Eeverend Paul Screed compare the theatrical pit with that other pit of which the Enemy holds perpetual lease, but she respected Christopher’s opinion more highly than that of the Eeverend Paul. There was yet a sense of wickedness in the thought which assailed her, and her heart beat violently as she ascended the steps which led to Mrs. Lochleven Cameron’s door. She dried her eyes, summoned her resolution, and rang the bell. A pale-faced lady of stately carriage opened the door.
‘I wish,’ said little Barbara, with a beating heart, ‘to see Mrs. Cameron.’
‘Pray enter,’ returned the lady in tones so deep that she might have been a gentleman in disguise.
Barbara entered, and the deep-voiced lady closed the door, and led the way into a scantily furnished parlour, which held, amongst other objects, a rickety-looking grand piano of ancient make.
‘Be seated,’ said the deep-voiced lady. ‘I am Mrs. Lochleven Cameron. What are your wishes?’
There was just a suspicion of Dublin in Mrs. Cameron’s rich and rolling tones.
‘You prepare pupils for the stage?’ said Barbara. Her own clear and sweet voice sounded strange to her, as though it belonged to somebody else, but she spoke with outward calm.