M

ONTH after month the clarionet player found his wa way to a certain street in the West End of London, and standing by the lamp at the corner of the pavement, began his recital. His tone was perfect; anyone hearing the unfailing rhythm of his phrasing would have known that he was no ordinary street musician. He came in all weathers-in the damp cold of the winter, and on the uncertain spring nights, and the long summer evenings, and was generally at his post any time between eight and nine. Month after month Janet Ravenscroft listened to him, and every time he came, the fixed sum of sixpence was sent out to him from the rich woman's house.

Sometimes he came when she was in the midst of a dinner party, engaged perhaps in listening to some interesting conversation, or herself talking with a really intelligent member of Parliament, or a distinguished traveller, or a successful playwright; for many persons of all sorts gathered together at her hospitable house. But whether she were hearing about our Imperial destinies, or the Russian peasant revolt, or the last new play, something in her memory became arrested when she heard the clarionet player; and she said to herself: "The clarionet player." Then she beckoned to the butler, who already knew what she meant, and she whispered to him: "Send out sixpence to the clarionet player."

It was an unwritten rule in the household that if she did not hear him, she was immediately to be told of his arrival. She had never given instructions to that effect, but her wishes on the subject were taken for granted. And so, even if she were holding a musical reception, and some well-known artiste were singing or playing, the butler would wait until the song or the piece was finished, and then he would step softly in and say to her: "The clarionet player, madam." She never gave more than sixpence, except at Christmas, when the sixpence became a shilling. And he always sent back some message of thanks. "Tell the lady that I feel her kindness very greatly," he said; and once he said: "Tell the lady that

* Copyright, 1902, by Beatrice Harraden, in the United States of America.

That was all that ever passed between them month after month.

She had never seen him, had never asked to see him, and had never questioned her servant about him. She seemed to have no curiosity concerning him; so that her interest in him was evidently not personal. It was, indeed, a memory, nothing save a memory. For in the years which were gone, her husband-happily for her, now deadhad played the clarionet, had played it with skill and feeling, with rhythm and with poetry; and now, whenever she heard its mournful voice, her thoughts, in spite of themselves, wandered back to the time when the man whom she had loved, and who had used her cruelly, had lifted his instrument to his lips and had filled the air with the haunting tones characteristic of the clarionet.

And since this unknown musician was merely the embodiment of a memory, it did not concern her whether he were tall or short, dark or fair, of grave or gay bearing, a broken down ne'er-do-well, or merely a careless Bohemian who might have seen better days. Indeed, she scarcely took the trouble to identify the music which he played the usual Irish songs, of which he seemed to prefer "Rich and rare were the gems she wore"; various airs and variations from Donizetti and other Italian masters, passages from Weber's "Clarionet Concertino several tours de force which showed off his skill as an executant, and many plaintive melodies, in the rendering of which he was always at his best. She scarcely noticed that he always began with the same melody. This was it:

Andante.

Her life was full. She had riches, friends, many interests, increasing as the years went on. She was fifty years old. Her face, still

beautiful, bore signs of grief, and although she never referred to her married life, it was known that Mrs. Ravenscroft had endured bitter years of tragic suffering and unhappiness. When her husband died, disgraced and in a foreign land, she could only be thankful that she was free at last. She was obliged to change her name on coming into a large fortune unexpectedly, and she was thus able to alter her whole mode of life and to forget that fifteen years of marriage had been to her fifteen years of misery. She was considered metallic by most people ; indeed, she gave out very little tenderness to anyone, and therefore received but little in exchange. Perhaps she had given all she had.

In

And then the clarionet player came. the beginning she never thought of him except at the moment of his arrival and whilst he was playing. When he ceased playing and passed on his way, her reawakened memories fell into lethargy once more, and she took up her new life as though nothing had occurred to disturb its continuity. But as time went on, she found herself thinking about him; and one day remembering that he had not been there lately, she said to the butler

"Surely the clarionet player has not been here for some time?

"No, madam," he answered, "not for several weeks."

But at last he came again. She heard with a sense of relief his preliminary trills and shakes and runs, and the plaintive melody :--

Andante.

She sent a message of welcome out to him, together with the usual sixpence.

"Tell the clarionet player that I have missed him and his beautiful music."

The answer came back: "Tell the lady that I have been ill, but that I am well again."

One day she herself fell ill. It was a winter trying both for the rich and the poor. She was ill for many weeks, weeks of great loneliness; for in spite of her riches and her position, in spite of all her many interests and occupations, she was alone in the world. And her thoughts turned involuntarily to that unknown clarionet player. She longed to hear him. She began to wonder why she had never made inquiries about him, why

she had never interested herself in his life and misfortunes, why she had let him come time after time, and go time after time, without even the slightest sign of personal sympathy. Then she began to excuse herself to herself, urging as a strong argument in favour of her attitude, that she had only erred on the side of wisdom. He was just a street musician, and she was a lonely, unprotected woman. It was better that she had erred on the side of wisdom.

At last he came again, eagerly waited for, although he did not know it, and she lay in her room listening more intently than ever before to his delicate phrasing. In the months that had passed, she had only listened. half-heartedly, vaguely, distracted by her company and the circumstances of her life. But now she listened with all her heart and with all her hearing. That melody he was playing what was it? She remembered now that he always began with it, and played it more beautifully than anything else. Why did he always begin with it? Ah! there was a world of sorrow and regret and longing in it. Was it the expression of his own feelings?

Andante.

She sent out to ask the name of this beautiful, melancholy melody, and the answer came back: "Schumann's Third Romance for Oboe, arranged for clarionet."

A few more weeks passed, and she was still lying there, weak and ill, cut off from all her ordinary activities. And he came again.

For the first time an uncontrollable impulse seized her, and she felt she must see him. But at the moment when she reached the window and leaned out, she saw his tall form retreating down the street. She saw him put his clarionet in his pocket and go his own way. She stood for a moment lost in thought. He was tall,

then.

With the return of spring, strength came back to her, and one evening she was sitting in her boudoir, still alone, and full of many thoughts, when she heard the sweet opening notes of the Schumann Romance:

Andante.

She touched the bell, and the butler came.

"Tell the clarionet player that I should be pleased to see him, if he can spare me a few minutes," she said, in her grave way.

The well-trained servant showed no sign of surprise. After he had gone, she moved aside the curtain of the window and looked across to the other side of the road, where the clarionet player was standing, as usual, near the street-lamp. She was anxiously restless whilst she was waiting; those few minutes seemed to her like years. She laughed nervously at herself. "It must be because I've been ill," she said in excuse, "it is because I've been ill."

She went and stood against the mantelpiece and, resting her arm on the shelf, stared into the fire. The door opened, and the servant announced: "The clarionet player," and closed the door.

The musician came a few steps towards her, holding his clarionet in one hand and his hat in the other, with an old-world, easy grace and irresistible charm. There was a smile of gratified surprise on his pale but handsome face. He bowed and began in a soft voice

"It is very good of you, madam, to wish to see me. I assure you I

Then he broke off suddenly as she turned round and looked at him.

same steely face and steely manner that used to madden me with irritation."

She gave no sign.

Then he threw himself down in the armchair, threw himself back recklessly, rudely, and laughed as though in a frenzy. And still she did not stir, standing as one paralysed. He waved his arms in the air and clasped them over his head.

Good Heavens!" he cried, loosening them again and slapping his knees violently. "And to think you've only been sending me out sixpences! You living in this fine house here, and I a poor devil out in the street! Well, you have done me at last. To think you've only been sending me out. sixpences!"

And he laughed, laughed. It was horrible to hear him. Suddenly he fell back and was silent, and his clarionet slipped to the ground.

Then she moved towards the chair and bent over him, and the stony expression of her face changed to a look of deep tenderness and longing and sympathy. The love which, as she believed, had died in her heart, sprang once more into flower when she saw again the husband whom she had loved, and who, so she had thought, was dead, and who had wrecked her life.

She bent over him and she put her hands on his shoulders.

"Oh, Ralph!" she cried, with a whole. world of passionate love in her voice. "Oh, Ralph! if I had only known it was you, I should have sent out hundreds, hundredsall I had you know it surely you know it! All I had surely you know it, my Ralph.

There was no movement, no sound, for the clarionet player was dead.