Vizard was in raptures.
They cooled suddenly when she reminded him what he had said, that she must stay till she could sing Siebel's song. “I keep to the letter of the contract,” said she. “My friends, this is my last night at Vizard Court.”
“Please try and shake that resolution,” said Vizard, gravely, to Mesdemoiselles Dover and Gale.
“They cannot,” said Ina. “It is my destiny. And yet,” said she, after a pause, “I would not have you remember me by that flimsy thing. Let me sing you a song your mother loved; let me be remembered in this house, as a singer, by that.”
Then she sung Handel's song:
“What though I trace each herb and flower That decks the morning dew? Did I not own Jehovah's power, How vain were all I knew.”
She sung it with amazing purity, volume, grandeur, and power; the lusters rang and shook, the hearts were thrilled, and the very souls of the hearers ravished. She herself turned a little pale in singing it, and the tears stood in her eyes.
The song and its interpretation were so far above what passes for music that they all felt compliments would be an impertinence. Their eyes and their long drawn breath paid the true homage to that great master rightly interpreted—a very rare occurrence.
“Ah!” said she; “that was the hand could brandish Goliath's spear.”
“And this is how you reconcile us to losing you,” said Vizard. “You might stay, at least, till you had gone through my poor mother's collection.”