"Don't you think you're giving all the praise to the surroundings and nothing to the musician," said Una quickly; "a true composer could impress his ideas on his hearers without any other aid."
"I've no doubt he could," replied Beaumont carelessly, "and no doubt plenty of people have felt emotion at Handel's music in the Albert Hall, but even Handel's genius would never have created such an effect as I have described anywhere but in a church; of course I haven't mentioned the memorable shaft of sunlight which deserves praise for its share in the affair."
Something in the flippancy of this remark jarred upon Una's feelings, so she made no reply but walked outside into the cool fresh air, followed by Beaumont.
He accompanied her as far as the lichgate and then raised his hat.
"I won't go any further, Miss Challoner," he said. "I'm in a meditative mood and will take a look round this old place. I hope to see you again soon at the Grange."
"The Grange?" she questioned, looking at him inquiringly.
"Yes, I'm coming to see the Squire about painting his portrait you know."
"Of course," she replied quickly. "I remember Patience told me."
"Patience," he asked in a startled tone, "did you say Patience?"
"Yes, Patience Allerby, the housekeeper," said Una gaily. "How pale you look, just as if you had seen a ghost--I dare say it's the effect of the church and music; good-bye, at present," and she walked quickly away.
He raised his hat mechanically and stood staring at the ground, looking pale and haggard.
"Patience Allerby," he said in a low voice. "After all these years--Patience Allerby."
Is this the face I loved of yore, Ere years had run; Alas! I care for it no more Old love is done; We soon forget what we adore At twenty-one.
It was now about four o'clock in the afternoon and the short autumnal day was rapidly closing in, the grey veil of the sky was rent here and there showing a patch of pale cold blue, while the setting sun was tinting the ragged clouds in the west with iridescent hues.
Beaumont stood in the long, rank grass of the graveyard, thinking deeply, his eyes fixed dreamily on the ancient tombstones around with their half-obliterated inscriptions and weed-grown mounds of earth. Behind him was the old church, its grey walls covered with close-clinging ivy from out which peered the grotesque faces of the gargoyles, leering demoniacally at the silent figure. The great square tower, built of rough stone, stood out massively against the dull grey sky, and round it every now and then flashed the pigeons who lived therein, gleaming white in the faint light of the sun. He could hear the hoarse murmur of the river flowing past, the shrill voices of the children in the street, and at intervals the rising and falling of the organ music within. All this touched his artistic sensibilities and he fell into a strain of half-melancholy, half regretful reflection which, for the moment, gave him a better nature than the bitter cynicism of his usual thoughts.