It was a very small party, and the hostess wore her gayest
countenance. A delightful evening, from the social point of view;
for Piers Otway a time of self-forgetfulness in the pleasures of
sight and hearing. He could have little private talk with Irene; she
did not talk much with anyone; but he saw her, he heard her voice,
he lived in the glory of her presence. Moreover, she consented to
play. Of her skill as a pianist, Otway could not judge; what he
heard was Music, music absolute, the very music of the spheres. When
it ceased, Mrs. Borisoff chanced to look at him; he was startlingly
pale, his eyes wide as if in vision more than mortal.
"I leave town to-morrow," said his hostess, as he took leave. "Some
friends are going with me. You shall hear how we get on at the
Castle."
Perhaps her look was meant to supplement this bare news. It seemed
to offer reassurance. Did she understand his look of entreaty in
reply?
Music breathed about him in the lonely hours. It exalted his
passion, lulled the pains of desire, held the flesh subservient to
spirit. What is love, says the physiologist, but ravening sex? If
so, in Piers Otway's breast the primal instinct had undergone
strange transformation. How wrought?--he asked himself. To what
destiny did it correspond, this winged love soaring into the
infinite? This rapture of devotion, this utter humbling of self,
this ardour of the poet soul singing a fellow-creature to the heaven
of heavens--by what alchemy comes it forth from blood and tissue?
Nature has no need of such lyric life her purpose is well achieved
by humbler instrumentality.
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