“It was a spirit,” said Launa.
“You will hear of a death,” said Lady Blake with solemnity.
“It is already dead,” replied Launa.
“To you?” asked Mr. Wainbridge.
“Are we not going to hear Herr Donau play?” inquired Launa. “You have not forgotten you are to play the Waldstein Sonata for me?” she said to Herr Donau.
“I have not forgotten. Shall I begin?”
“Do,” said Lady Blake, seating herself in a chair covered with cream-coloured material.
Her black dress, yellow hair, and white skin had an ideal, an arranged background. Ideals have to be well arranged, otherwise they are deficient. Launa sat in a dim corner; Mr. Wainbridge chose a chair from which he could observe her.
She was listening intently; she had often played the Waldstein to Paul, and she wanted to see how Donau would play the octave run. Through it all she could think of Paul. Had she really seen him? No, he was not in England. Could he be dead? . . . Donau played the run beautifully. . . . Could Paul be dead? Donau played the octaves with one hand—glïssando. Wonderful! Launa glanced round her; no one appeared to have noticed. Lady Blake was keeping time with her head and her foot. Time in the Waldstein! Launa felt a great wave of longing, of desire for the woods, lakes, and the vastness of the real forest, and for the air. Oh! that air! Keen sometimes, sweet, full of the smell of wild flowers, of the pine woods—and where was Paul?
The Waldstein went on and on. To her it meant spring days, movement, hope, but not in the overcrowded old land. To the others it meant different things—music always does—and Launa’s mind returned to the impression of the afternoon. It could not have been Paul alive that she had seen? Could it be that he was dead, and because she loved him, he came to her? Did she love him? She heard the wailing of the Indian child. But if Paul were dead, he was hers—hers—hers—