‘Yes, it is a music worth listening to. But the music of humanity is not always sad, Herr Falkenberg, is it?’
‘No,’ said Rudolf, looking down at her. He was standing, Sara was seated on a low chair, leaning forward, and looking up at him with an earnest, large gaze, and in her eyes was so deep, so triumphant and secure a happiness, that he could not fail to see it—it made her face glorious with its reflection. Falkenberg, looking at her, repressed the words of admiration he would fain have uttered, and sighed before he answered her, in his usual courteous, collected fashion. ‘No,’ he repeated; ‘it is often glad, I think, and when it is so, it is very glad. Pardon me, Miss Ford,’ he went on, with a slight smile, ‘I think it has been glad for you lately; you look as if your life’s music were pitched just now in a major key.’
Her cheek flushed, and her eyes fell, as she answered, in a low tone:
‘Yes, I have had a great happiness lately. I am very happy.’
‘I am very glad to hear it,’ said he, and he was at no loss to guess to what kind of happiness she alluded. If he had been—his eyes fell upon her hands, clasped upon her knee, and upon the solitary sapphire hoop which decked the third finger of the left hand, with the broad tight gold guard above. That was enough. He had observed her hands in days gone by, and then, he knew, when they were at Ems and Nassau, she had worn several rings, old-fashioned, but valuable—a diamond one, and a pearl and emerald one, and others. They were gone. Nothing remained but the sapphire hoop.
‘Let me congratulate you on your happiness,’ he added, ‘and forgive my saying that the ring you wear is a good omen. Those blue stones mean steadfastness and faith.’
‘Yes, I know. Those qualities are about the best things we can have. Don’t you think so?’
‘They are very good things,’ he replied slowly, as he thought within himself, ‘Two can be steadfast: one may steadfastly give up, as well as steadfastly cling to a thing.’
‘Are you not tired with your exertions last night?’ he asked.
‘I—oh no! I am very strong; I do not easily get tired. I should like always to feel as I did feel last night: as if nothing would ever be difficult again, as if one’s powers would easily sweep away every obstacle. Do you know, in the scene from Hermann and Thusnelda, I was wishing, with all my heart, that I was here in my atelier, with an appropriate subject. I felt as if I could have painted then.’