“Yes, fairly well,” said Peggy; and Edith thought she heard a little tremor of laughter in her voice.
Edith wondered as she sat down what he would sing. She was herself intensely musical, but rather seriously so, and she expected something of “Geisha” kind—a species of song with which she was not much in sympathy. Perhaps even it would be worse than that, more directly comic, which would be harder to bear. And she waited for the inevitable running up and down of the hands over the keyboard which usually precedes the melody of those who offer to sing. But it did not come. Instead there came the one bar of Introduction to Schumann’s “Widmung,” played with the quiet restraint of a real accompanist, and played quite simply and perfectly. And then he sang.
The song was perhaps just a shade low for him, for his voice was not that which so often does duty for a tenor—namely, a baritone, screwed up, as it were, and nailed firmly to its new pitch, but a real tenor, soft on its high notes, and with the intense purity of tone that is seldom heard except in a boy’s unbroken voice. But here there was the passion of the adult voice, passion in all its simplicity and noble sincerity. Also, so she knew instantly, that voice, so wonderful in itself, had been trained to the utmost pitch of perfection. Years of work, years of patient learning under some supreme teacher had gone to the making of it. All this she perceived almost at once, for the fine mind and the cultivated taste require but little on which to found their judgment; and then she thought no more either of the voice or the singer or the wonderful accompaniment so easily and surely handled. It was just the song that filled her: its first fine careless rapture, its more meditative sequel, its whole-hearted cry of love and devotion at the end. And on “Mein gute Geist, mein besseres Ich!” she just laughed; laughed aloud for the pure pleasure of it. Since the beginning of the scarred and maimed years she had not laughed quite like that. And from inside Hugh heard her laugh, and that pleased him enormously. He knew he was singing to some one who understood, and no applause, no words of thanks and praise could have spoken to him so directly.
And when he had finished, Edith sat still, saying nothing, for really there was nothing to say, her mouth smiling from that laugh, her eyes a little dim. And Peggy’s “Oh, Hugh!” which was all she said, was nearly as appreciative as her sister’s silence.
He sang a couple more songs, one by Brahms and the short one-versed “Am Jordan” from the “Meistersingers,” and then came and joined them on the veranda.
“And that’s the end of my parlour tricks this evening,” he said. “I promised Reuss not to sing much on days when I smoked much. And I have smoked much, and will now smoke more.”
“I wonder if you enjoyed it as much as I did?” said Edith.
“Oh, more probably, because it is such fun doing things oneself!” said he.
“You must have worked very hard. Did Reuss teach you entirely?”
At this moment the children’s nurse appeared in the drawing-room, and Peggy went in to see what she wanted. The interview seemed not to be satisfactory, for she went upstairs with her, leaving the other two alone.