Part 45 (2/2)

A strange moisture dimmed the poor German's eyes. This was the first time in England that the ”celebrate” had been treated as a friend and a gentleman. Up to this moment, at all the ”at homes” and ”a.s.semblies,” he had not been considered as a guest at all,--he was an ”artist,” ”a good pianist,”--”a man who had played before the Emperor of Germany”--and he was expected to perform for nothing, and be grateful for the ”influence”

exercised on his behalf--influence which as yet had not put one single extra guinea in his pocket. Now, here was a great lady almost apologizing for asking him to play, lest it should take him away from his ”friends”! His heart swelled with emotion and grat.i.tude--the poor fellow had no ”friends” in London, except Beau Lovelace, who was kind to him, but who had no power in the musical world,--and, as Thelma's gentle voice addressed him, he could have knelt and kissed her little shoe for her sweet courtesy and kindness.

”Miladi,” he said, with a profound reverence, ”I will blay for you with bleasure,--it will be a joy for ze music to make itself beautiful for you!”

And with this fantastic attempt at a compliment, he seated himself at the instrument and struck a cras.h.i.+ng chord to command silence.

The hum of conversation grew louder than ever--and to Thelma's surprise Lady Winsleigh seated herself by her and began to converse. Herr Machtenklinken struck another chord,--in vain! The deafening clamor of tongues continued, and Lady Winsleigh asked Thelma with much seeming interest if the scenery was very romantic in Norway?

The girl colored deeply, and after a little hesitation, said--

”Excuse me,--I would rather not speak till the music is over. It is impossible for a great musician to think his thoughts out properly unless there is silence. Would it not be better to ask every one to leave off talking while this gentleman plays?”

Clara Winsleigh looked amused. ”My dear, you don't know them,” she said carelessly. ”They would think me mad to propose such a thing! There are always a few who listen.”

Once more the pianist poised his hands over the keys of the instrument,--Thelma looked a little troubled and grieved. Beau Lovelace saw it, and acting on a sudden impulse, turned towards the chattering crowds, and, holding up his hand, called, ”Silence, please!”

There was an astonished hush. Beau laughed. ”We want to hear some music,” he said, with the utmost coolness. ”Conversation can be continued afterwards.” He then nodded cheerfully towards Herr Machtenklinken, who, inspired by this open encouragement, started off like a race-horse into one of the exquisite rambling preludes of Chopin.

Gradually, as he played, his plain face took upon itself a n.o.ble, thoughtful, rapt expression,--his wild eyes softened,--his furrowed, frowning brow smoothed,--and, meeting the grave, rare blue eyes of Thelma, he smiled. His touch grew more and more delicate and tender--from the prelude he wandered into a nocturne of plaintive and exceeding melancholy, which he played with thrilling and exquisite pathos--anon, he glided into one of those dreamily joyous yet sorrowful mazurkas, that remind one of bright flowers growing in wild luxuriance over lonely and forsaken graves. The ”celebrate” had reason to boast of himself--he was a perfect master of the instrument,--and as his fingers closed on the final chord, a hearty burst of applause rewarded his efforts, led by Lovelace and Lorimer. He responded by the usual bow,--but his real grat.i.tude was all for Thelma. For her he had played his best--and he had seen tears in her lovely eyes. He felt as proud of her appreciation as of the ring he had received from the Tsar,--and bent low over the fair hand she extended to him.

”You must be very happy,” she said, ”to feel all those lovely sounds in your heart! I hope I shall see and hear you again some day,--I thank you so very much for the pleasure you have given me!”

Lady Winsleigh said nothing--and she listened to Thelma's words with a sort of contempt.

”Is the girl half-witted?” she thought. ”She must be, or she would not be so absurdly enthusiastic! The man plays well,--but it is his profession to play well--it's no good praising these sort of people,--they are never grateful, and they always impose upon you.”

Aloud she asked Sir Philip--

”Does Lady Errington play?”

”A little,” he answered. ”She sings.”

At once there was a chorus of inanely polite voices round the piano, ”Oh, _do_ sing, Lady Errington! Please, give us one song!” and Sir Francis Lennox, sauntering up, fixed his languorous gaze on Thelma's face, murmuring, ”You will not be so cruel as to refuse us such delight?”

”But, of course not!” answered the girl, greatly surprised at all these unnecessary entreaties. ”I am always pleased to sing.” And she drew off her long loose gloves and seated herself at the piano without the least affectation of reluctance. Then, glancing at her husband with a bright smile, she asked, ”What song do you think will be best, Philip?”

”One of those old Norse mountain-songs,” he answered.

She played a soft minor prelude--there was not a sound in the room now--everybody pressed towards the piano, staring with a curious fascination at her beautiful face and diamond-crowned hair. One moment--and her voice, in all its pa.s.sionate, glorious fullness, rang out with a fresh vibrating tone that thrilled to the very heart--and the foolish crowd that gaped and listened was speechless, motionless, astonished, and bewildered.

A Norse mountain-song was it? How strange, and grand, and wild! George Lorimer stood apart--his eyes ached with restrained tears. He knew the melody well--and up before him rose the dear solemnity of the Altenguard hills, the glittering expanse of the Fjord, the dear old farmhouse behind its cl.u.s.ter of pines. Again he saw Thelma as he had seen her first--clad in her plain white gown, spinning in the dark embrasure of the rose-wreathed window--again the words of the self-destroyed Sigurd came back to his recollection, ”Good things may come for others--but for you the heavens are empty!” He looked at her now,--Philip's wife--in all the splendor of her rich attire;--she was lovelier than ever, and her sweet nature was as yet unspoilt by all the wealth and luxury around her.

”Good G.o.d! what an _inferno_ she has come into!” he thought vaguely.

”How will she stand these people when she gets to know them? The Van Clupps, the Rush-Marvelles, and others like them,--and as for Clara Winsleigh--” He turned to study her ladys.h.i.+p attentively. She was sitting quite close to the piano--her eyes were cast down, but the rubies on her bosom heaved quickly and restlessly, and she furled and unfurled her fan impatiently. ”I shouldn't wonder,” he went on meditating gravely, ”if she doesn't try and make some mischief somehow.

She looks it.”

At that moment Thelma ceased singing, and the room rang with applause.

Herr Machtenklinken was overcome with admiration.

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