“And so I hold,” added Herbert, with a sorrowful shake of his head “that it is neither pride nor suffering that kills men of this class. It is because they have failed to reach the pinnacle of their ideals—that goal for which some spirits risk both their lives and their hopes of heaven.”
XIV
A WOMAN’S WAY
However serious the talk of the night before—and Herbert’s pathetic story of the poor mould-maker was still in our memory when we awoke—the effect was completely dispelled as soon as we began to breathe the air of the out of doors.
The weather helped—another of those caressing Indian-summer days—the sleepy sun with half-closed eyes dozing at you through its lace curtains of mist; every fire out and all the windows wide open.
Leà helped. Never were her sabots so active nor so musical in their scuffle: now hot milk, now fresh coffee, now another crescent—all on the run, and all with a spontaneous, uncontrollable laugh between each serving—all the more unaccountable as of late the dear old woman’s face, except at brief intervals, had been as long as an undertaker’s.
And Mignon helped!
Helped? Why, she was the whole programme—with another clear, ringing, happy song that came straight from her heart; her head thrown back, her face to the sun as if she would drink in all its warmth and cheer, the coffee-roaster keeping time to the melody.
And it was not many minutes before each private box and orchestra chair in and about the court-yard, as well as the top galleries, were filled with spectators ready for the rise of the curtain. Herbert leaned out over his bedroom sill, one story up; Brierley from the balcony, towel in hand, craned his head in attention; Louis left his seat in the kiosk, where he was at work on a morning sketch of the court, and I abandoned my chair at one of the tables: all listened and all watched for what was going to happen. For happen something certainly must, with our pretty Mignon singing more merrily than ever.