Something like the above I heard from time to time in the intervals of Marion’s singing. But I had little thought to spare on it. My whole attention was absorbed in a voice and execution that would have held their own in any London concert-room.
It was a pure soprano, of the finest quality, that had been splendidly trained (I heard afterwards) under the best masters of Leipzig and Dresden. She began with Tosti’s familiar ballad ‘For ever and for ever’—a song of atrociously bad sentiment, but wedded to music that fits it ‘like a glove.’ Only one other writer, within my own range of knowledge, has realised with such pathos the depths of an infinite despair, and, if only for the closing scenes of ‘Cometh up as a Flower’ and ‘Good-bye Sweetheart,’ their authoress should stand not very far lower than the topmost pinnacle of Fame. Then she passed to a higher class of music and sang Blumenthal’s ‘Message’ and ‘Requital.’ And my wonder was that even habituation could have rendered the squire and his brother so insensitive as to prefer the discussion of their parochial trivialities.
I was glad that no conversation followed when she had ended. Almost in silence, which I could see she appreciated better than words, we parted. It was only as I turned to say good-bye that my eye rested for a moment on a photograph which stood on a small table in a corner near the music stand. It was a portrait of Riverdale, and the companion picture stood always before my eyes on my writing-table at home. So I had gained a fresh lesson in the disquietudes of love. In my case, at any rate, its course was not to lie in smooth untroubled waters.
As soon as we had started on our walk back to the village, I questioned the Rector concerning my discovery. “What, you know Riverdale?” he answered, “and well enough to call him your dearest friend? Verily the world is small indeed, as wiser men than I have said. He’s a distant cousin of Marion’s, and, as soon as his work on the continent is ended, this will be one of the first places that will see him. For we are all devoted to him, and look forward to some faint reflection of his glory when he shall have become a well-known artist. Besides, he was always rather taken with Marion—a suitable match—very—supposing it comes off, and I think, I may almost say I’m sure, it will.”
CHAPTER V
The following evening, punctually at eight o’clock, I presented myself at the door of the Council Chamber. But the comedy which I had been promised was not forthcoming. To the surprise of all of us, a tragedy was represented in its place.
It was only a self-constituted Council of four, and had nothing to do with roadways and sanitation. And it met in the village inn of Fleetwater on a Saturday night, as it had met in the same room at the same time for fifty years previously. It was deliberative rather than executive in character, for its one ostensible function was to select the hymns for the Sunday services. And when this was done it resolved itself into a committee for discussing the affairs of the parish and the nation at large.
“’Twill be a privilege for ye, Master Stirling, to mix for onst wi’ men as be so much older an’ wiser nor yerself. For wi’ all the book-learnin’ that has been yours at school and college, ’tis nowt but age an’ experience as gi’es the true wisdom. Life must be well nigh ended afore as ever we begins to see the drift an’ bearin’ on’t. An’ so the young can’t never be wise, though, ’tis true, the aged may sometimes be foolish.”
You will gather from the above that Joseph Weyman did not begin by flattering me.
The Old Inn where we met was a picturesque thatched cottage, that had crept up beside the churchyard porch, either to shelter itself beneath the churchyard trees, or to sanctify its reputation by the proximity of things divine. And as it lay embowered in a valley three miles from our western shore, it was cheered rather than saddened by a gentle sighing from the sea, alternating at times with a deep and hollow roar when a storm was on its way towards the coast.