Part 4 (1/2)
”Charms!” said Gerald. ”Yours. Bowled her over completely. Nice child, the child Toots. Think so?”
”I think she looks as good as she is beautiful,” said Margaret. ”Does she really like me? I am very glad, for I know I shall love her.”
”Don't you think she is the image of me?” asked Gerald, plaintively.
”No, I never thought of it!” said downright Margaret. ”Oh! hark, Gerald; what is that? I hear music.”
They listened. Directly in front of them lay a deep black shadow, and forth from this shadow stole notes of music, low, sweet, almost unearthly in their purity and clearness.
”Evidently the stunt of Tintinnabula and the Camelopard!” said Gerald.
”That is the Black Sh.o.r.e yonder, and the noise is that of the Tree-browser's fiddle, in sooth a goodly noise. Approach we along the moonglade! that is what we call the wake here. Pretty?”
”Lovely!” murmured Margaret. ”Oh! but hush, and listen!”
The other canoes had slackened their speed, and now all four crept on abreast over the luminous water. From the black shadow ahead forms began to detach themselves, black rocks, dark trees stooping to the water's edge, fir and pine, with here and there a white birch glimmering ghostlike; and still the music rose, ever clearer and sweeter, thrilling on the silent air. It seemed no voice of anything made by man; it was as if the trees spoke, the rocks, the water, the very silence itself. But now--now another tone was heard; a human voice this time, a full, rich contralto, blending with the aerial notes of the violin.
”Over all the mountains is peace; Among the tree-tops Hardly a breath is stirring; The birds are silent, Silent in the woodland; Only wait! only wait!
Soon thou too shalt rest.”
”Harry Monmouth!” murmured the Colonel under his breath. ”Am I alive, or is this the gate of Heaven?”
”Oh! who is it?” whispered Margaret.
”Tintinnabula! rather a neat thing in voices, the Tintinnabula's. Nor does the song altogether excite to strenutation. Ah! but that is the best yet!”
The notes changed. It was Schubert's Serenade now that rose from voice and violin together. No one stirred. The canoes were now close insh.o.r.e, and the long, soft fingers of fir and cedar brushed Margaret's cheek as she sat motionless, spellbound. It was a world of soft darkness, black upon black: the silver world they had just left seemed almost garish as she looked back on it. Here in the cool shadow, the voices of the night pouring forth their wonderful melody--”Oh!” she thought; ”if this might last forever!”
But it was over. Floating round a great rock that stretched far out from the sh.o.r.e, they came upon the musicians, their canoe drawn up close to the rock.
”Here they are!” cried w.i.l.l.y. ”It's Bell and Jack, Kitty; I knew it was.
You are such a silly!”
”I don't care!” pouted Kitty. ”It did sound like nymphs; I am sure that is just the way they sound.”
”You are quite right, Kitty,” said her mother. ”Children, you have given us a great treat. May we not have some more?”
”Oh, we were only waiting for you,” said Bell; ”now we must have choruses, many of them!”
And lying close together, the paddles stretched across from one canoe to another, the Merryweathers sang, to Jack's accompaniment, song after song in chorus: German student songs, with merry refrain of ”_vivallera la_” and ”_juch heira sa sa!_” Scottish ballads and quaint old Highland boat-songs; till Mr. Merryweather declared that it was time to go home.
So home they went, down the moonglade once more, across the glimmering floor of the lake, singing as they went; till, twinkling through the fringe of trees, they saw the lights of the Camp, and the long outline of the float, and the boats swinging at their moorings.
CHAPTER IV.
AFTER THE PICNIC
”AND what comes next on the programme?” asked the Chief.
”Coma, I should say,” replied Colonel Ferrers. ”After that watermelon, I see nothing else for it. It's my avowed belief that my nephew there could not stir if his life depended on it; it stands to reason. The boy has eaten more than his own weight. Monstrous!”