“Not of all music. I adore good music, I hate bad, and I despise mediocre. Silence is golden, indeed, compared with poor music.”
“You are right, sir. Have you good music in the house?”
“A little. I get all the operas, and you know there are generally one or two good things in an opera—among the rubbish. But the great bulk of our collection is rather old-fashioned. It is sacred music—oratorios, masses, anthems, services, chants. My mother was the collector. Her tastes were good, but narrow. Do you care for that sort of music?”
“Sacred music? Why, it is, of all music, the most divine, and soothes the troubled soul. Can I not see the books? I read music like words. By reading I almost hear.”
“We will bring you up a dozen books to begin on.”
He went down directly; and such was his pleasure in doing anything for the Klosking that he executed the order in person, brought up a little pile of folios and quartos, beautifully bound and lettered, a lady having been the collector.
Now, as he mounted the stairs, with his very chin upon the pile, who should he see looking over the rails at him but his sister Zoe.
She was sadly changed. There was a fixed ashen pallor on her cheek, and a dark circle under her eyes.
He stopped to look at her. “My poor child,” said he, “you look very ill.”
“I am very ill, dear.”