She raised the baton; she tapped the music stand twice. Down came Mary on the opening chord; down came all those left hands, beating the air, and in chimed those young, mournful voices:—
Fast! Ah, too Fast Fade the Ro-o-ses of Pleasure;
Soon Autumn yields unto Wi-i-nter Drear.
Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Mu-u-sic’s Gay Measure
Passes away from the Listening Ear.
Good Heavens, what could be more tragic than that lament! Every note was a sigh, a sob, a groan of awful mournfulness. Miss Meadows lifted her arms in the wide gown and began conducting with both hands. “... I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake....” she beat. And the voices cried: Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly. What could have possessed him to write such a letter! What could have led up to it! It came out of nothing. His last letter had been all about a fumed-oak bookcase he had bought for “our” books, and a “natty little hall-stand” he had seen, “a very neat affair with a carved owl on a bracket, holding three hat-brushes in its claws.” How she had smiled at that! So like a man to think one needed three hat-brushes! From the Listening Ear, sang the voices.
“Once again,” said Miss Meadows. “But this time in parts. Still without expression.” Fast! Ah, too Fast. With the gloom of the contraltos added, one could scarcely help shuddering. Fade the Roses of Pleasure. Last time he had come to see her, Basil had worn a rose in his buttonhole. How handsome he had looked in that bright blue suit, with that dark red rose! And he knew it, too. He couldn’t help knowing it. First he stroked his hair, then his moustache; his teeth gleamed when he smiled.
“The headmaster’s wife keeps on asking me to dinner. It’s a perfect nuisance. I never get an evening to myself in that place.”
“But can’t you refuse?”
“Oh, well, it doesn’t do for a man in my position to be unpopular.”
Music’s Gay Measure, wailed the voices. The willow trees, outside the high, narrow windows, waved in the wind. They had lost half their leaves. The tiny ones that clung wriggled like fishes caught on a line. “... I am not a marrying man....” The voices were silent; the piano waited.
“Quite good,” said Miss Meadows, but still in such a strange, stony tone that the younger girls began to feel positively frightened. “But now that we know it, we shall take it with expression. As much expression as you can put into it. Think of the words, girls. Use your imaginations. Fast! Ah, too Fast,” cried Miss Meadows. “That ought to break out—a loud, strong forte—a lament. And then in the second line, Winter Drear, make that Drear sound as if a cold wind were blowing through it. Dre-ear!” said she so awfully that Mary Beazley, on the music stool, wriggled her spine. “The third line should be one crescendo. Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Music’s Gay Measure. Breaking on the first word of the last line, Passes. And then on the word, Away, you must begin to die... to fade... until The Listening Ear is nothing more than a faint whisper.... You can slow down as much as you like almost on the last line. Now, please.”
Again the two light taps; she lifted her arms again. Fast! Ah, too Fast. “... and the idea of settling down fills me with nothing but disgust—” Disgust was what he had written. That was as good as to say their engagement was definitely broken off. Broken off! Their engagement! People had been surprised enough that she had got engaged. The Science Mistress would not believe it at first. But nobody had been as surprised as she. She was thirty. Basil was twenty-five. It had been a miracle, simply a miracle, to hear him say, as they walked home from church that very dark night, “You know, somehow or other, I’ve got fond of you.” And he had taken hold of the end of her ostrich feather boa. Passes away from the Listening Ear.