Sandra Belloni (originally Emilia in England). Complete. George Meredith

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СКАЧАТЬ to the charmed circle, though they could discern nothing save the glimmer of the instrument and one set of fingers caressing it. How she viewed their rather impertinent advance toward her, till they had ranged in a half-circle nearer and nearer, could not be guessed. She did not seem abashed in any way, for, having preluded, she threw herself into another song.

      The charm was now more human, though scarcely less powerful. This was a different song from the last: it was not the sculptured music of the old school, but had the richness and fulness of passionate blood that marks the modern Italian, where there is much dallying with beauty in the thick of sweet anguish. Here, at a certain passage of the song, she gathered herself up and pitched a nervous note, so shrewdly triumphing, that, as her voice sank to rest, her hearers could not restrain a deep murmur of admiration.

      Then came an awkward moment. The ladies did not wish to go, and they were not justified in stopping. They were anxious to speak, and they could not choose the word to utter. Mr. Pericles relieved them by moving forward and doffing his hat, at the same time begging excuse for the rudeness they were guilty of.

      The fair singer answered, with the quickness that showed a girl: “Oh, stay; do stay, if I please you!” A singular form of speech, it was thought by the ladies.

      She added: “I feel that I sing better when I have people to listen to me.”

      “You find it more sympathetic, do you not?” remarked Cornelia.

      “I don’t know,” responded the unknown, with a very honest smile. “I like it.”

      She was evidently uneducated. “A professional?” whispered Adela to Arabella. She wanted little invitation to exhibit her skill, at all events, for, at a word, the clear, bold, but finely nervous voice, was pealing to a brisker measure, that would have been joyous but for one fall it had, coming unexpectedly, without harshness, and winding up the song in a ringing melancholy.

      After a few bars had been sung, Mr. Pericles was seen tapping his forehead perplexedly. The moment it ended, he cried out, in a tone of vexed apology for strange ignorance: “But I know not it? It is Italian—yes, I swear it is Italian! But—who then? It is superbe! But I know not it!”

      “It is mine,” said the young person.

      “Your music, miss?”

      “I mean, I composed it.”

      “Permit me to say, Brava!”

      The ladies instantly petitioned to have it sung to them again; and whether or not they thought more of it, or less, now that the authorship was known to them, they were louder in their applause, which seemed to make the little person very happy.

      “You are sure it pleases you?” she exclaimed.

      They were very sure it pleased them. Somehow the ladies were growing gracious toward her, from having previously felt too humble, it may be. She was girlish in her manner, and not imposing in her figure. She would be a sweet mystery to talk about, they thought: but she had ceased to be quite the same mystery to them.

      “I would go on singing to you,” she said; “I could sing all night long: but my people at the farm will not keep supper for me, when it’s late, and I shall have to go hungry to bed, if I wait.”

      “Have you far to go?” ventured Adela.

      “Only to Wilson’s farm; about ten minutes’ walk through the wood,” she answered unhesitatingly.

      Arabella wished to know whether she came frequently to this lovely spot.

      “When it does not rain, every evening,” was the reply.

      “You feel that the place inspires you?” said Cornelia.

      “I am obliged to come,” she explained. “The good old dame at the farm is ill, and she says that music all day is enough for her, and I must come here, or I should get no chance of playing at all at night.”

      “But surely you feel an inspiration in the place, do you not?” Cornelia persisted.

      She looked at this lady as if she had got a hard word given her to crack, and muttered: “I feel it quite warm here. And I do begin to love the place.”

      The stately Cornelia fell back a step.

      The moon was now a silver ball on the edge of the circle of grey blue above the ring of firs, and by the light falling on the strange little person, as she stood out of the shadow to muffle up her harp, it could be seen that she was simply clad, and that her bonnet was not of the newest fashion. The sisters remarked a boot-lace hanging loose. The peculiar black lustre of her hair, and thickness of her long black eyebrows, struck them likewise. Her harp being now comfortably mantled, Cornet Wilfrid Pole, who had been watching her and balancing repeatedly on his forward foot, made a stride, and “really could not allow her to carry it herself,” and begged her permission that he might assist her. “It’s very heavy, you know,” he added.

      “Too heavy for me,” she said, favouring him with a thankful smile. “I have some one who does that. Where is Jim?”

      She called for Jim, and from the back of the sandy hillock, where he had been reclining, a broad-shouldered rustic came lurching round to them.

      “Now, take my harp, if you please, and be as careful as possible of branches, and don’t stumble.” She uttered this as if she were giving Jim his evening lesson: and then with a sudden cry she laughed out: “Oh! but I haven’t played you your tune, and you must have your tune!”

      Forthwith she stript the harp half bare, and throwing a propitiatory bright glance at her audience on the other side of her, she commenced thrumming a kind of Giles Scroggins, native British, beer-begotten air, while Jim smeared his mouth and grinned, as one who sees his love dragged into public view, and is not the man to be ashamed of her, though he hopes you will hardly put him to the trial.

      “This is his favourite tune, that he taught me,” she emphasized to the company. “I play to him every night, for a finish; and then he takes care not to knock my poor harp to pieces and tumble about.”

      The gentlemen were amused by the Giles Scroggins air, which she had delivered with a sufficient sense of its lumping fun and leg-for-leg jollity, and they laughed and applauded; but the ladies were silent after the performance, until the moment came to thank her for the entertainment she had afforded them: and then they broke into gentle smiles, and trusted they might have the pleasure of hearing her another night.

      “Oh! just as often and as much as you like,” she said, and first held her hand to Arabella, next to Cornelia, and then to Adela. She seemed to be hesitating before the gentlemen, and when Wilfrid raised his hat, she was put to some confusion, and bowed rather awkwardly, and retired.

      “Good night, miss!” called Mr. Pericles.

      “Good night, sir!” she answered from a little distance, and they could see that she was there emboldened to drop a proper curtsey in accompaniment.

      Then the ladies stood together and talked of her, not with absolute enthusiasm. For, “Was it not divine?” said Adela; and Cornelia asked her if she meant the last piece; and, “Oh, gracious! not that!” Adela exclaimed. And then it was discovered how their common observation had fastened on the boot-lace; and this vagrant article became the key to certain speculations on her condition and character.

      “I wish I’d had a dozen bouquets, that’s all!” cried Wilfrid, “she deserved СКАЧАТЬ