Perhaps the supreme moment of it, the ecstasy, only came when her phantasm had disappeared. He couldn’t go back to Pauline after _that_. IF THE DEAD KNEW I The voluntary swelled, it rose, it rushed to its climax. The organist tossed back his head with a noble gesture, exalted; he rocked on his bench; his feet shuffled faster and faster, pedalling passionately. The young girl who stood beside him drew in a deep, rushing breath; her heart swelled; her whole body listened, with hurried senses desiring the climax, the climax, the crash of sound. Her nerves shook as the organist rocked towards her; when he tossed back his head her chin lifted; she loved his playing hands, his rocking body, his superb, excited gesture. Three times a week Wilfrid Hollyer went down to Lower Wyck, to give Effie Carroll a music lesson; three times a week Effie Carroll came up to Wyck on the Hill to listen to Hollyer’s organ practice. The climax had come. The voluntary fell from its height and died in a long cadence, thinned out, a trickling, trembling diminuendo. It was all over. The young girl released her breath in a long, trembling sigh. [Illustration: ... her whole body listened ...] The organist rose and put out the organ lights. He took Effie by the arm and led her down the short aisles of the little country church and out on to the flagged path of the churchyard between the tombstones. “Wilfrid,” she said, “you’re too good for Wyck. You ought to be playing in Gloucester Cathedral.” “I’m not good enough. Perhaps—if I’d been trained—” “Why weren’t you?” “My mother couldn’t afford it. Besides, I couldn’t leave her. She hasn’t anybody but me.” “I know. You’re awfully fond of her, aren’t you?” “Yes,” he said shortly. They had passed down the turn of the street into the Market Square. There was a plot of grass laid down in the north-east corner. Two tall elms stood up on the grass, and behind the elms a small, ivy-covered house with mullioned windows, looking south. “That’s our house,” Hollyer said. “Won’t you come in and see her?” They found her sitting by herself in the little cramped, green drawing-room. She was the most beautiful old lady; small, upright and perfect; slender, like a girl, in her grey silk blouse. She had a miniature oval face, pretty and white: a sharp chin, and a wide forehead under a pile of pure white hair. And sorrowful blue eyes, white-lidded, in two rings of mauve and bistre. She couldn’t be so very old, Effie thought. Not more than sixty. Mrs. Hollyer rose, holding out a fragile hand. Presently she said: “I wanted to see you; after all you’ve done for him.” “I? I haven’t done anything.” “You’ve listened to his playing. He can’t get anybody to do that for him in Wyck.” “They hear enough of me on Sundays.” “Then they haven’t heard him. He plays much better on week-days, when he plays to me,” said Effie. “So I can imagine,” Mrs. Hollyer said.