I haply may remember—
And haply may forget.”
As she sang, the room, the company, all faded from her view and from her mind—all but Randolph. One strange longing filled her soul—the longing that she might indeed lie sleeping and at rest in some quiet, wind-swept spot, her spirit hovering free—to see if her husband ever came to stand beside that grave, to see if he would in such a case remember—or forget.
For herself Monica, knew well that remembrance would be her portion. She never could forget.
There was a wonderful sweetness and pathos in her voice as she sang. The listeners held their breath, and sudden tears started to Beatrice’s eyes. When the last note had died away, Randolph crossed the room and laid his hand upon his wife’s shoulder. There was a subdued murmur all through the room, but she only heard her husband’s voice.
“That was very sweet, Monica,” he said gently. “I have never heard it before; but you make it sound so unutterably sad.”
She looked up at him wistfully.
“I think sad songs are always sweetest—they are more like life, at least.”
His eyes were very full of tenderness; she saw it, and it almost unmanned her.
“I am so tired, Randolph; will you take me home? The carriage will not be here, but it is such a little way. I should like best to walk.”