"Better late than never," retorted Bertha, gayly; "so, my dear aunt, you will not say 'No.'"
The countess would gladly have found some reason for refusing, but none presented itself, and Bertha was sufficiently self-willed to dispute her authority; it was therefore impolitic to make an open objection.
M. de Bois also received an invitation. Maurice and Madeleine joined the little circle in the evening,—a delightful surprise to Bertha and Gaston. This was the first evening that Madeleine had passed out of her own dwelling during her residence in America. She had necessarily renounced society when she adopted a vocation incompatible with her legitimate social position; but, on this occasion, she could not resist Mrs. Walton's persuasions, and perhaps the promptings of her own inclination.
Once more Madeleine's vocal powers were called into requisition. She was ever ready to contribute her mite (so she termed it) toward the general entertainment, and she would have despised the petty affectation of pretended reluctance to draw forth entreaty, or give value to her performance. Her voice had never sounded more touchingly, mournfully pathetic, and her listeners hung entranced upon the sounds. Maurice drank in every tone, and never moved his eyes from her face; but when the soft cadences sank in silence, what a look of anguish passed over his manly features, and told that the sharp bayonet of his life-sorrow pierced him anew. He turned involuntarily toward Mrs. Walton, and met a look of sympathy not wholly powerless to soothe.
Mr. Walton was loud in his praises of Madeleine's vocalization; he had a courtier's felicity in expressing admiration, never more genuine than on the present occasion.
"We must not be so ungrateful as to forget to offer Mademoiselle de Gramont the only return in our power, however far it may fall short of what she merits," said he; "the 'Don' here, does not sing; he is not a poet even, except in soul, and all his inspirations flow through his brush; but he interprets poets with an art which I think is hardly less valuable than the poet's own divine afflatus."
Madeleine, delighted, seized upon the suggestion, and solicited Ronald to favor the company. His mother placed in his hands a volume of Mrs. Browning's poems, and he turned to that surpassingly beautiful romance, "Lady Geraldine's Courtship."
Ronald was one of those rare readers gifted with the power of filling, at pleasure, the poet's place, or of embodying the characters which he delineated. The young artist's rich, sonorous voice; obeyed his will, and was modulated to express every variety of emotion, while his animated countenance glowed, flushed, paled, grew radiant or clouded, with the scene he described. A master-spirit playing upon a thoroughly comprehended instrument manifested itself in his rendition of the author.
All eyes were riveted upon him as he read; he possessed in an eminent degree the faculty of magnetizing his hearers, taking them captive for the time being, and bearing them, as upon a rising or falling wave, whither he would. As the tale progressed, the silence grew deeper, and, save Ronald's voice, not a sound was to be heard, except, now and then, a quickened breath and Bertha's low sobbing; for she wept as though Bertram had been one whom she had known.
Mrs. Walton's eyes had been fixed upon her son, with an expression of ineffable soul-drawn delight; but, just before the poem drew to a close, they stole around the circle to note the effect produced by his masterly reading upon others. Every face mirrored such emotions as the poem might have awakened in minds capable of appreciating the noble and beautiful; but by Madeleine's countenance she was forcibly struck; a marble pallor overspread her visage, her eyes were strangely dilated and filled with moisture; if the lids for a moment had closed, the "silver tears" must have run down her cheeks as freely as ran Lady Geraldine's; but, when Ronald came to that passage where Lady Geraldine thrills Bertram with joy by the confession that it was him whom she loved,—though he had never divined that love,—him only! Madeleine's lips quivered, and, with a sudden impulse, which defied control, she covered her face with her hands as though she dreaded that her heart might be perused in her countenance. It was an involuntary action, repented of as soon as made, for she withdrew the hands immediately, but the spontaneous movement spoke volumes.