Jack Raymond

"Hullo, Jack!"

Even in the first moment of surprise Jack was conscious once more of the musician's splendid indolence of posture and freedom of movement. Theo never needed to scramble to his feet; getting up, after lying flat on the floor, he seemed merely to change one ap­propriate and graceful attitude for another.

"My sister," said Jack. "Theodore Mirski."

His own voice sounded dull and harsh in his ears. He had already seen the stiffening and hardening of Molly's face; the instant reserve in which she had enwrapped herself; and his heart was as lead within him.

"I thought you were in Vie

"Joachim can't come, and they telegraphed, asking me to play instead of him at St. James's Hall to-morrow. I was glad enough of the chance to see you. Why, Jack, I never saw you look so well, or so sulky. Don't you want me? You can turn me out, Miss Ray­mond, if I'm in the way."

"I'm afraid it's I that am in the way," said Molly. Her voice fell like a little icicle into their midst, chilling even Theo. He muttered some polite commonplace with a startled glance at her; and they sat down, decorously stiff and depressed.

Jack did his conscientious best to smooth away the queer awkwardness between his visitors. But, looking from Molly to Theo and back again to Molly, he realised how hopeless it was. These two, between whom lay all his personal life, appeared incompati­bility personified; the artist, half angel, half baby, to whom he must be never-failing mother and devotee, guardian and slave; and the unformed, intolerant, passionate little Puritan girl who held him at arm's length, and for whose sake he would have died. He was as chained to both of them, and it seemed to him that their mutual repulsion must tear him piecemeal.

The miserable effort at small-talk failed at last, hopelessly, and Jack looked up from the red coals with a desperate feeling that some­thing must be done to end the silence before it became unbearable. Theo's face was curi­ously agitated; Molly's, inscrutable and grave. He looked round the room, and the violin-case, lying on the sofa, caught his eyes.

"Theo," he said, "I wish you'd play. My sister has never heard you."

The musician rose at once, and fetched his instrument. He seemed to find the suggestion a relief.

"What do you want?" he asked, curling himself down on the hearth rug with the violin against his neck. "Folk-songs? They don't want accompaniments."

"Slavonic ones, if you will. Did you ever hear a Polish folk-song, Molly?"

"You know I've never heard anything."

She leaned back, drawing the fire-screen forwards; her brow a little contracted, her eyes grave and wide in a shadowed, listening face, while the folk-songs trailed their low sound through the half-darkened room like disembodied ghosts of music buried long ago.

"Jack," said Theo, laying the violin down on his knee, "do you remember a fancy mother had just before she died, about the crocus-flowers in the grass? Well, I... I've been seeing that in my head lately, and it's coming into tune. I think it's going to be for orchestra, I'm not sure yet; but I must play you some bits. Miss Raymond, did you ever look at a crocus, — I mean, really look at it?"

"Yes," she answered from the shadow of the screen. "But not often. You can look at a dicotyledonous flower every day, and be the happier for it; but I'm afraid of the spear-leaved things that grow in threes; they're like the angel with the flaming sword, and all my gates are shut."

Her brother glanced round at her in won­der; it was as if Helen had spoken. She had turned her head now, so that the fire-light shone on her face. She and Theo were look­ing at each other silently, with a long look, troubled, searching, and unsatisfied; the look of those who see into deep chasms and who are afraid.

Theo began to play; very softly, his eyes still on the girl's face. After a while he drifted unconsciously into improvisation, pausing now and then with lifted bow and filling in the spaces with low, rhythmic speech. The violin, with its faint wailing, its dim, in­adequate murmur; the flicker of the fire; the shabby, dingy, lodging-house room; all lost their separate characters, merged into a com­mon background of dreams. To listeners and artist alike, the glittering spears of vis­ionary warriors, the sight and sound of a great army marching, were an actual pres­ence, living and immense.

Silence followed, and Theo sat with bent head, trembling a little, the violin still in his hand. Molly was again in shadow, motion­less as if asleep with open eyes. It was Jack who spoke first, rising to light the lamp.

"Old man," he said, "there's one thing you might try to remember now and then."

"Yes?" Theo murmured vaguely. He had still not come back to earth.

"Only that ordinary mortals are your fel­low creatures, after all, and can sometimes

see when you guide their eyes, even though they're not crowned kings by right divine."

Molly made a sudden passionate movement, as though he had hurt her. Theo started up, a sort of horror in his face.

" 'Kings by...' Jack, how can you! Just because I can see things in my head! Do you think I wouldn't give it all — fiddle and everything — to do things and be things like you? What's nearer to being king by right divine — to see God's warrior flowers, or to be as they are? What am I but a fiddle?"

He turned away, his voice quivering with bitter discouragement, as with suppressed tears. Molly raised her head slowly and looked at her brother. His face was solemn, even to ster

"What do you think of that, Moll, for an artist's imagination? I look like a crocus, don't I, with this mug! Theo, put the kettle on, my son; it's tea-time; and don't be an unmitigated ass, if you can help it. Why, what's become of the butter? And there are no biscuits either. Have you eaten them all?"

He was rummaging in the cupboard.

"Not quite all. The landlady's cat had some. We held a feast here while I waited for you. It was the cat that strewed crumbs all over the floor; I was too hungry to waste them that way; I've had nothing to eat since breakfast in Paris this morning."

"Why didn't you get lunch on the boat?"

"I had no money; only my cab-fare and two-pence over. I wanted to ask the waiter for a pe

Jack turned round with an accusing face.

"What did you do with Hauptma

"Oh, I... don't know."

"I do," said Jack grimly. "Next time a deserving applicant comes to you with a pathetic story, hand him over to me, and I'll see he leaves you a little to go on with. You mean well, Theo, but you're a born fool, and oughtn't to be trusted with a cheque-book. There, sit still, and I'll get you something to eat. You'll have to put up here for to-night; and wire to Hauptma

He went out, leaving Theo and Molly silent by the fire. The deadly embarrassment of an hour ago had taken hold upon them again.

"You know my brother better than I do," she said suddenly, looking up with serious eyes. "I didn't understand what you meant just now."

He smiled; then grew suddenly grave.

"And I can't explain, though you'll realise it yourself when you know him better. I think what I meant is that he's so... unconscious."

"Unconscious?"

"Yes; like a thing that works by the laws of its own nature, not by anybody's ethical codes. Don't you see? For instance... well, take justice; in him it's not a virtue to be cultivated; it's what music is to me, an inborn passion eternally unsatisfied. That's why he seems to me the saddest phenomenon I know. He'll go on wanting justice all his life, and there's no such thing to be had."