"Very," answered the blind girl quickly. "You see it is the only pleasure I have. When I go out on to the common and feel the fresh wind and smell the perfume of the gorse, I come back here and try and put it all into music. I often thank God for being able to play the organ."
It was deeply pathetic to hear her talk in this strain; shut out by her affliction from all the beauties of Nature, she could yet thank God for the one gift which enabled her in some measure to understand and appreciate what she had never beheld. Doctors, as a rule, are not very soft-hearted, but Nestley could hardly help feeling moved at the thrill of sadness which ran through her speech. This she perceived, and with a light laugh, hastened to dispel the illusion she had created.
"You must not think I am sad," she said cheerfully, "on the contrary, I never was so happy in my life as I am here. I was brought up all my life in London, and when I was appointed organist here, you can have no idea of the pleasure I felt. I have the common and the organ, while everyone is kind to me, so what have I to wish for? Now, Doctor Nestley, I must ask you to go, as I am about to practise. I think Miss Challoner and your friends have gone."
They were waiting for the doctor at the lower end of the church, so after saying good-bye to Cecilia, he hurried away into the dusky atmosphere, and as he reached Beaumont, the organ rolled out the opening chords of a mass by Pergolesi. Reginald went outside with Nestley as he wished to speak to him about the Squire, and Una was left standing with Beaumont in the grey old church. They listened in silence to the deep thunder of the bass notes echoing in the high roof, when suddenly in the middle of a crashing chord the sonorous tones died away and a sweet, pure melody thrilled through the silence, which seemed almost oppressive after the tempest of sound.
"After the fire there came a still small voice," quoted Basil dreamily. "Do you remember how perfectly Mendelssohn has expressed that idea in music?"
"Yes, I heard the Elijah at the Albert Hall," replied Una in a matter-of-fact way, being a healthy English girl and not moved by the subtle meaning of the sacred music which touched so quickly the highly-strung nerves of this man.
"The Albert Hall," he repeated with a shrug. "Oh yes, very fine I've no doubt, but to my mind it secularizes sacred music to hear it there--one hears a volume of sound--an immense number of voices in chorus and solos by the best artistes; but where is the soul of the work? one only finds that in a church. The Messiah was first heard in England in Westminster Abbey, and it was there, following the example set by the king, that the whole audience arose at the Hallelujah Chorus, but it was not the music alone, grand as it is, that produced this sudden burst of emotion, it was the august fane grey with centuries of tradition, the presence of the mighty dead sleeping around, and to crown all the dramatic grandeur of the chorus. All these together wrought on the feelings of those present and they did homage to the sublimity of the music--such a thing would be impossible in the Albert Hall."
"Don't you think you're giving all the praise to the surroundings and nothing to the musician," said Una quickly; "a true composer could impress his ideas on his hearers without any other aid."
"I've no doubt he could," replied Beaumont carelessly, "and no doubt plenty of people have felt emotion at Handel's music in the Albert Hall, but even Handel's genius would never have created such an effect as I have described anywhere but in a church; of course I haven't mentioned the memorable shaft of sunlight which deserves praise for its share in the affair."
Something in the flippancy of this remark jarred upon Una's feelings, so she made no reply but walked outside into the cool fresh air, followed by Beaumont.