The curate's distress was piteous.

"Aunt! Have you any sense of shame?"

"Suppose I try," observed Miss Vesey, her face alive with laughter.

"I'm sure I'm poor enough, and I'm already connected with the clergy."

"Aunt, I entreat you, come away. If you will not come, then I must go alone. I cannot stay to see the Church insulted."

Miss Macleod turned to Miss Vesey.

"Will you let him go?"

"Certainly not," laughed the young lady. "If only to pay him out for being so ungallant."

The Rev. Alan--literally--wrung his hands.

"This--this is intolerable. Aunt, it is impossible for me to stay.

You--you'll find me there when you get home."

The Rev. Alan, in a state of quite indescribable confusion, turned towards the door. But before he could move a step, Miss Vesey struck a chord on the piano.

"Stay!" she said.

The curate seemed to hesitate for a moment, then turned to her again.

He seemed to be under the impression that he owed an apology to the pianist. "I--I must apologise for--for my seeming rudeness. I know that my--my aunt only meant what she said as--as a joke; but, at the same time, my respect for my sacred office"--at this point the little man drew himself up--"compels me, after what has pa.s.sed, to go."

Miss Vesey struck a second chord.

"Stay!" she said again.

Before the agitated believer in the propriety of the unmarried state for clergymen could say her yea or nay, she cast her spells--and her hands--upon the keyboard of the instrument, so that it burst out into a concourse of sweet sounds. The Rev. Alan was, in his way a born musician. The only dissipation he allowed himself was music. The soul of the mean-looking, wrong-headed little man was attuned to harmony.

Good music had on him the effect which Orpheus with his lute had on more stubborn materials than curates--it bewitched him. Miss Vesey had not played ten seconds before he realised that here was a dispenser of the food which his soul loved--a mistress of melody. What it was she played he did not know--it seemed to him an improvisation. He stood listening--entranced. Suddenly the musician's mood changed. The notes of triumph ceased, and there came instead a strain of languorous music which set all the curate's pulses throbbing.

"Come here!"

Miss Vesey whispered. The curate settled his spectacles upon his nose.

He looked around him as though he were not sure that he had heard aright. And the command was uttered in such half-tones that he might be excused for supposing that his ears had played him false.

"Come here!"

The command again. Again the Rev. Alan settled his spectacles upon his nose. He gazed at the musician as if still in doubt.

"I--I beg your pardon? Did you speak to me?"

"Come here!"

A third time the command--this time clearer and louder too. As if unconsciously he advanced towards the pianist, hat in one hand, handkerchief in another, his whole bearing eloquent of a state of mental indecision. He went quite close to her--so close that there would be no excuse for saying that he could not hear her if she whispered again.

Again the musician's theme was changed. The languorous melody faded.

There came a succession of wild sounds, as of souls in pain. The curate's organisation was a sensitive one--the cries were almost more than he could bear.

"Pity me!"

The voice was corporal enough. It was Miss Vesey, once more indulging in a whisper. Again the curate was at a nonplus. Again he went through the mechanical action of settling his spectacles upon his nose.

"I--I beg your pardon?" It seemed to be a stereotyped form of words with him.

"Pity me! Pity me! Do!"

The words were a cry of anguish--quite as anguished as the music was.

The Rev. Alan looked round the room, perhaps for succour and relief.

He saw his aunt, but at that moment her face happened to be turned another way.

"If you need my pity, it is yours."

The words, like the lady's, were spoken, doubtless unintentionally, in a whisper.

"If you pity me, then help me too!"

"If I can, I--I will!"

"You promise?"

"Certainly."

Although the word was a tolerably bold one, it was by no means boldly spoken; probably that was owing to the state of confusion existing in the speaker's mind.

The theme was changed again. The piano ceased to wail. A tumult of sound came from it which was positively deafening. The effect was most bewildering, especially as it concerned the Rev. Alan. For in the midst of all the tumult he was conscious of these words being addressed to him by Miss Vesey.

"Help me with your love!"

The instant the words were spoken the tumult died away, there was the languorous strain again. The curate was speechless, which, all things considered, was perhaps excusable. An idea was taking root in his brain that the musician was mad, at least mad enough to be irresponsible for the words she used. If that were so, then, unlike the generality of lunatics, she had a curious apt.i.tude for sticking to the point.

"Love me, or I die!"

"My--my dear young lady!" stammered the curate.

"You will be my murderer!"

The accent with which these words were spoken was indescribable, as indescribable as the music which accompanied them. It may be doubted if, as he heard them, it was not the Rev. Alan himself who was going mad. The heat and agitation brought on by the pace at which his aunt had marched him from Cadogan Place, the extraordinary manner of his reception at Pomona Villa, the still more extraordinary things which had happened to him since he had got inside; all these, put together, were quite enough to make him uncertain as to whether he were standing on his head or his heels. And then, for him, a staunch believer in the theory, and the practice, of the celibate priest, to have such language addressed to him, after five minutes' acquaintance, by a total stranger! and such a pianist! and a fine young woman! No wonder the Rev. Alan put his hand up to his head under the impression that that portion of his frame was leaving him.

"If you do not marry me," continued this extraordinary young woman, in tones which harrowed his heart--and yet which were not so harrowing as her music, by a very great deal, "I shall die before your eyes."

The Rev. Alan still had his hand to his head. He looked round him with bewildered, short-sighted eyes. Curiously enough his aunt still had her face turned in the opposite direction.

"I--I'm sure--" he stammered.

"Of what?"