She rose at once without speaking or raising her eyes, and went to the piano.
"What shall I sing?" she said then, turning over her music.
"Anything—it does not matter," said Graham, who had followed her; "never mind your music—sing the first thing that comes into your head."
She considered a moment, and then began.
When Madelon sang, her hearers could not choose but listen; in other matters she had very sufficient abilities, but in singing she rose to genius. Gifted by nature with a superb voice, an exceptional musical talent, these had been carefully cultivated during the last two or three years, and the result was an art that was no art, a noble and simple style, which gave an added intensity to her natural powers of expression, and forbade every suspicion of affectation. As she sang now, the Doctor roused up from his doze, and Mrs. Vavasour dropped her work; only Maria Leslie, sitting in the shadow of the window-curtain, knitted on with increased assiduity.
It was a German song, Schumann's "Sehnsucht," that she was singing; it was the first that had come to her mind at Graham's bidding, and, still preoccupied, she began it almost without thought of the words and sentiment; but she had not sung two lines, when some hidden emotion made itself felt in her face with a quite irresistible enthusiasm and pathos. These were the words:—
"Ich blick' im mein Herz, und ich blick' in die Welt,
Bis vom schwimmenden Auge die Thräne mir fällt:
Wohl leuchtet die Ferne mit goldenem Licht,
Doch hält mich der Nord, ich erreiche sie nicht.
O die Schranken so eng, und die Welt so weit!
Und so flüchtig die Zeit, und so flüchtig die Zeit.
Ich weiss ein Land, wo aus sonnigem Grün
Um versunkene Temple die Trauben blühn,
Wo die purpurne Woge das Ufer besaümt,
Und von kommenden Sängern der Lorbeer träumt;
Fern lockt es und winkt dem verlangenden Sinn,
Und ich kann nicht hin—kann nicht hin!"
As Madelon sang these last words she looked up, and her eyes met Graham's, as he stood leaning against the piano, gazing at her face. She blushed scarlet, and stopped suddenly.
"I—I don't think I can sing any more," she said, letting her hands fall from the keys into her lap. She turned round, and saw Maria looking at her also, watching her and Graham perhaps. "How hot it is!" she cried, pushing the hair off her forehead with a little impatient gesture. "J'étouffe ici!" And she jumped up quickly and ran out of the room.