It was that something in him,
obscurely but intimately associated with Robina, responded to that
sensual and infernal tremor that Alice was wringing out of the
Polonaise. So that, without clearly knowing why it was abominable,
Mr. Cartaret said to himself that the tune Alice was playing was an
abominable tune and must be stopped at once.
He went into the drawing-room to stop it.
And Essy, in the kitchen, raised her head and dried her eyes on her
apron.
"If you must make a noise," said Mr. Cartaret, "be good enough to make
one that is less--disturbing."
* * * * *
He stood in the doorway staring at his daughter Alice.
Her excitement had missed by a hairsbreadth the spiritual climax. It
had held itself in for one unspeakable moment, then surged, crowding
the courses of her nerves. Beaten back by the frenzy of the Polonaise,
it made a violent return; it rose, quivering, at her eyelids and her
mouth; it broke, and, with a shudder of all her body, split itself and
fell.
The Vicar stared. He opened his mouth to say something, and said
nothing; finally he went out, muttering.
"Wisdom and patience. Wisdom and patience."
It was a prayer.
Alice trailed to the window and leaned out, listening for the sound of
hoofs and wheels. Nothing there but the darkness and stillness of the
moors. She trailed back to the Erard and began to play again.
This time it was Beethoven, the Pathetic Sonata.
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