CHAPTER ONE


The thin winter day had died early, and at four o'clock it was dark
night in the long room in which Mr. Innes gave his concerts of early
music. An Elizabethan virginal had come to him to be repaired, and he
had worked all the afternoon, and when overtaken by the dusk, he had
impatiently sought a candle end, lit it, and placed it so that its light
fell upon the jacks.... Only one more remained to be adjusted. He picked
it up, touched the quill and dropped it into its place, rapidly tuned
the instrument, and ran his fingers over the keys.

Iron-grey hair hung in thick locks over his forehead, and, shining
through their shadows, his eyes drew attention from the rest of his
face, so that none noticed at first the small and firmly cut nose, nor
the scanty growth of beard twisted to a point by a movement habitual to
the weak, white hand. His face was in his eyes: they reflected the flame
of faith and of mission; they were the eyes of one whom fate had thrown
on an obscure wayside of dreams, the face of a dreamer and propagandist
of old-time music and its instruments. He sat at the virginal, like one
who loved its old design and sweet tone, in such strict keeping with the
music he was playing--a piece by W. Byrd, "John, come kiss me now"--and
when it was finished, his fingers strayed into another, "Nancie," by
Thomas Morley. His hands moved over the keyboard softly, as if they
loved it, and his thoughts, though deep in the gentle music, entertained
casual admiration of the sixteenth century organ, which had lately come
into his possession, and which he could see at the end of the room on a
slightly raised platform. Its beautiful shape, and the shape of the old
instruments, vaguely perceived, lent an enchantment to the darkness. In
the corner was a viola da gamba, and against the walls a harpsichord and