And Kate was also moved; she could not well help but be. Her heart was in too emotional a state to be safe proof against such soft besieging. When the Duke leaned towards her, she did not stir, but sat with eyes downcast, her bosom plainly turbulent.
“Was I not right,” he said, “and could any gain in resonance have improved on this faultless unison of parts? Perfection must know bounds, even like a framed picture, or the soul cannot compass it. To have enlarged these but in one direction would have been to sacrifice the proportions of the whole—the harmonious concord of place, and sound, and tenderest feeling. Give me this bower, lady, for your rounded madrigal, wherein sweetest music lends itself with love and beauty to weave a finished pattern of delight. My lord, grant me the instrument a moment.”
He took the guitar, somewhat peremptorily, from the Earl’s hesitating hands; but he was in no mood, at this pass, to temporize or finesse. And, having received it, he went plucking softly among the strings, gathering up sweet chords and sobbing accidentals, as it were flowers, to present in a nosegay to the heart of his moved hearer. There was a knowledge, a sure emotionalism, in his touch which went far to discount his earlier pretence of inadequacy; and Arran in his weak brain may have felt somehow conscious of the fact, and of a suspicion that he had been subtly beguiled into lending his own vanity for a catspaw to the other’s schemes. But he had no wit to mend the situation he had encouraged; and so he only stood silent, with his mouth open—sowing gape-seed, as they say in Sussex.
The Duke, ending presently on a “dying fall,” sighed and looked up.
“Lady,” he said, “there is a test of the interpretative power of music (which some deny), to render the very spirit of a flower in sound, so that one listening, with closed eyes, will say, ‘That be jonquils,’ or ‘That be rosemary,’ or lavender, or what you will. Only the player must have that same blossom he would explain nigh to him, that his soul may be permeated by its essence while he improvises. What say you, shall we put it to the proof? Poor artist as I am, if my skill prove but twin-brother to my wish I will interpret you my blossoms so that you shall cry, ‘That’s for the one in flower language called Remembrance,’ or ‘That’s for gentle Friendship,’ or ‘That’s for Love.’ Will you be so entertained? Only—for the means.”
He looked to the Earl. This was no more than a ruse, devised on the moment to rid himself of that simple incubus.
“My lord,” said he, with an ingratiatory smile, “will you favour me so far as to go gather me a posy from the garden?”
But before the sappy youth could fall into that palpable trap, Kate had risen hurriedly to her feet.
“Nay, brother,” she said, “stay you here. I know better than you where to find the blooms most meet to his Highness’s purpose”—and she was going, half scared and yet half diverted.
But scarce had she taken a step or two, when a sudden voice singing outside the window brought her to an instant standstill—