Part 24 (2/2)
”I have told you, inspiration, pure inspiration.”
”And what sent the inspiration, Mr. Monk?”
”Fate, I suppose.”
”Yes, I think it must be what we call fate--if it troubles itself about so small a thing as the life of one woman.”
Then, to change the subject, she began to talk of the Northumberland moors and mountains, and of their years of rather dreary existence among them, till at length it was time to leave the table. This they did together, for even then Morris drank very little wine.
”May I get you the violin, and will you sing?” he asked eagerly, when they reached the library.
”If you wish it I will try.”
”Then come to the chapel; there is a good fire, and it is put away there.”
Presently they were in the ancient place, where Morris produced the violin from the cupboard, and having set a new string began to tune it.
”That is a very good instrument,” said Stella, her eyes s.h.i.+ning, ”you don't know what you have brought upon yourself. Playing the violin is my pet insanity, and once or twice since I have been here, when I wanted it, I have cried over the loss of mine, especially as I can't afford to buy another. Oh! what a lovely night it is; look at the full moon s.h.i.+ning on the sea and snow. I never remember her so bright; and the stars, too; they glitter like great diamonds.”
”It is the frost,” answered Morris. ”Yes, everything is beautiful to-night.”
Stella took the violin, played a note or two, then screwed up the strings to her liking.
”Do you really wish me to sing, Mr. Monk?” she asked.
”Of course; more than I can tell you.”
”Then, will you think me very odd if I ask you to turn out the electric lamps? I can sing best so. You stand by the fire, so that I can see my audience; the moon through this window will give me all the light I want.”
He obeyed, and now she was but an ethereal figure, with a patch of red at her heart, and a line of glimmering white from the silver girdle beneath her breast, on whose pale face the moonbeams poured sweetly.
For a while she stood thus, and the silence was heavy in that beautiful, dismantled place of prayer. Then she lifted the violin, and from the first touch of the bow Morris knew that he was in the presence of a mistress of one of the most entrancing of the arts. Slow and sweet came the plaintive, penetrating sounds, that seemed to pa.s.s into his heart and thrill his every nerve. Now they swelled louder, now they almost died away; and now, only touching the strings from time to time, she began to sing in her rich, contralto voice. He could not understand the words, but their burden was clear enough; they were a lament, the lament of some sorrowing woman, the sweet embodiment of an ancient and forgotten grief thus embalmed in heavenly music.
It was done; the echoes of the following notes of the violin fainted and died among the carven angels of the roof. It was done, and Morris sighed aloud.
”How can I thank you?” he said. ”I knew that you were a musician, but not that you had such genius. To listen to you makes a man feel very humble.”
She laughed. ”The voice is a mere gift, for which no one deserves credit, although, of course, it can be improved.”
”If so, what of the accompaniment?”
”That is different; that comes from the heart and hard work. Do you know that when I was under my old master out in Denmark, who in his time was one of the finest of violinists in the north of Europe, I often played for five and sang for two hours a day? Also, I have never let the thing drop; it has been the consolation and amus.e.m.e.nt of a somewhat lonely life. So, by this time, I ought to understand my art, although there remains much to be learnt.”
”Understand it! Why, you could make a fortune on the stage.”
”A living, perhaps, if my voice will bear the continual strain. I daresay that some time I shall drift there--for the living--not because I like the trade or have any wish for popular success. It is a fact that I had far rather sing alone to you here to-night, and know that you are pleased, than be cheered by a whole opera house full of strange people.”
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