“I haven’t even the consolation of religion to help me through,” she thought; and her desolate mood surged once more around her, and all the gladness of the morning was gone.
She followed the stream of departing worshippers after the service, feeling too tired and dispirited to care much for the thought of the concert, yet unwilling to return to her rooms and face the long evening alone.
A cup of tea, which she got at a pastry-cook’s, took away her headache, however, and she made her way soon after to Piccadilly. It was very early; but St. James’s Hall would do to rest in, and she had nowhere else to go. She paid her half-crown, and climbed the narrow stone staircase into the orchestra, which was almost empty. She went right up to the top row, where there was a wall to lean against, and sat down with a sigh to wait. The hall gradually filled. All the seats in the rows below Bridget were speedily taken. She watched each fresh comer with interest,—strange-faced men, with long hair and spectacles carrying the score; women with lank hair and strange gowns, and intense expressions. One man turned the corner at the head of the staircase, and stood there a moment, scanning the well-filled lines with bright, alert eyes. Bridget watched him a little curiously. She liked his tall, lithe figure and air of genial determination. After a moment’s pause, he began to mount the giant steps between the rows of seats, making straight for the place at the back his quick eyes had discovered to be still vacant. She watched the quiet deliberateness of his ascent, with amusement, and noticed that every one made way for him without demur. The woman next to her moved closer to her girl friend, as she saw him making for the last row, and a seat was thus left, next to Bridget. He took it quietly, putting his hat down on the floor at his feet, and Bridget resumed her watching of the new-comers. The orchestra was on the platform by this time, and the air was full of the vibration of strings, as the men tuned their instruments. The sound, and the buzz of talk, and the sight of the great lighted hall, with its swaying sea of faces, excited her. Her weariness had gone. She sat with eyes alight, and clasped hands, in breathless expectancy. Presently a burst of clapping rose from the stalls, and was taken up by the galleries and orchestra, till it spread from end to end of the hall in a great wave of sound. Herr Richter stood bowing, first towards the body of the hall, then in the direction of the orchestra. There was a lull, the sharp click of the baton, a sudden pause; and then the rocking, breathless rush and swing of the Walkürenritt. Bridget sat motionless, her color coming and going, her heart beating wildly. It was wonderful, thrilling, almost terrible. She found herself praying for it to cease, yet dreading to hear the last note. The magnetism of the vast silent audience seized her, and set all her pulses vibrating. It was over. She drew a deep breath as the storm of applause swept the hall, and leaned back exhausted, her color fading.
“Here is the programme, if you care to see it,” the man at her elbow said.
He gave it to her, and she put out a trembling hand for it. “Thank you,” she said, in a low tone, bending over it. The man glanced at her swiftly. He had been watching her through the Walkürenritt.
“You are a Wagnerite, I see,” he said, as she returned the programme.
“I never heard any of his music before,” Bridget answered. Her voice was not firm yet.
“But you like it?”
“I never imagined anything so wonderful, so awful.”
“Wait till you hear the Siegfried Idyll for beauty. It comes next. We are too close, really; but I came here because I wanted to see Richter conduct. Ah, now!” Once more the breathless hush fell on the swaying crowd, and the long, low wail of the violins broke the silence.