"Won't you play us something, Mrs. Ellison?" Merton said, after a few moments. "I feel sure you are a musician. Indeed, I saw a pile of music by the piano."
"Do you play or sing, Mr. Merton?" she said, as she turned to comply with his request.
"A little," he replied. "If you will perform first, I will do my best to follow you."
"A bargain," said Ellison. And his wife sat down to the piano.
When she had finished both men thanked her, and Merton rose from his chair and went in to fulfil his promise.
Esther seated herself by her husband's side and her hand found his. Merton struck a few chords and then began to sing. The attention of the couple in the veranda was riveted immediately. Few men could sing as Merton sang; his voice was a tenor of the richest quality, his execution faultless. He sang as one inspired, and the song he chose suited him exactly; it was "Si j'etais Roi!" When he had finished not a sound came from the veranda; he smiled to himself. That silence was greater praise than any thanks. He knew his power, and he had discovered by intuition that the man and woman were in sympathy with him. He began to play again; this time the song was an English one. The music was his own, the words some of the most beautiful Tennyson ever wrote:
"Sweet is true Love tho' given in vain, in vain;
And sweet is Death who puts an end to pain:
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.
"Love, art thou sweet? Then bitter Death must be:
Love, thou art bitter; sweet is Death to me.
Oh, Love, if Death be sweeter, let me die.
"Sweet Love, that seems not made to fade away,
Sweet Death, that seems to make us loveless clay,
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.
"I fain would follow Love, if that could be;
I needs must follow Death, who calls for me;
Call and I follow, I follow! Let me die."