“Don’t say that!” she cried, her voice little above a whisper. “I cannot bear it. I can do nothing more. There is no time. Once or twice I asked the Master would he listen, and he did. But he said there was no tune in what I played, no harmony of any sort—that all was a delusion, a fancy of my brain.”
“But that was not the truth.” And Rosalie held her very tight, that woman who in the morning had seemed so strong to her. “And he only said it because he knew you would be fool enough to take it all to heart.”
“Hush! hush! It’s treason to talk like that.”
“Nothing’s treason but failure. You follow my advice, and give up the fiddle. Then after a while you’ll get it back again in such a way that even Mr. Barringcourt will not be able to say there’s no tune in it.”
Mariana looked at her, with surprise and misunderstanding on every feature.
“I can’t give it up. I’m bound to play for two hours every Wednesday night, harmony or discord.”
“Why bound?”
“It was the stipulation I made when first I came here. It’s the kind of thing one can’t break through.”
“You don’t want to?”
“No, I don’t; but if I did I could not.”