Blows on the head have few surgical comparisons. That which kills one
man only temporarily stuns another. One man loses his identity; another
escapes with all his faculties and suffers but trifling inconvenience.
In Hawksley's case the blow had probably restricted some current
of thought, and that which would have flowed normally now shot out
obliquely, perversely. It might be that the natural perverseness of his
blood, unchecked by the noble influence of Stefani Gregor and liberated
by the blow, governed his thoughts in relation to Kitty. The subjugation
of women, the old cynical warfare of sex--the dominant business of his
rich and idle forbears, the business that had made Boris Karlov a deadly
and implacable enemy--became paramount in his disordered brain.
She had forgotten him! Very well. He would stir the soul of her, play
with it, lift it to the stars and dash it down--if she had a soul.
Beautiful, natural, alone. He became all Latin under the pressure of
this idea.
"I will play for you," he said, quietly.
"Please! And then I'll go home where I belong. I'll be in the living
room."
When he returned he found her before a window, staring at the myriad
lights.
"Sit here," he said, indicating the divan. "I shall stand and walk about
as I play."
Kitty sat down, touching the pillows, reflectively. She thought of
the tears she had wept upon them. That sinister and cynical thought!
Suddenly she saw light. Her problem would have been none at all if Cutty
had said he loved her. There would have been something sublime in making
him happy in his twilight. He had loved and lost her mother. To pay
him for that! He was right. Those twenty-odd years--his seniority--had
mellowed him, filled him with deep and tender understanding. To be with
him was restful; the very thought of him now was resting. No matter how
much she might love a younger man he would frequently torture her by
unconscious egoism; and by the time he had mellowed, the mulled wine
would be cold. If only Cutty had said he loved her!
"What shall I play?"
Kitty raised her eyes in frank astonishment. There was a fiercely proud
expression on Hawksley's face. It was not the man, it was the artist who
was angry.
"Forgive me! I was dreaming a little," she apologized with quick
understanding. "I am not quite--myself."
"Neither am I. I will play something to fit your dream. But wait! When
I play I am articulate. I can express myself--all emotions. I am what
I play--happy, sad, gay, full of the devil. I warn you. I can speak all
things. I can laugh at you, weep with you, despise you, love you! All
in the touch of these strings. I warn you there is magic in this Amati.
Will you risk it?"