There was more music after tea. Winnie sang without further demur, at the maestro’s bidding, and was painfully conscious, as were her auditors, that, for her, she sang very badly. She had a beautiful, mezzo-soprano voice, sweet, true and fresh as a song-bird’s, and perfectly trained—Cacciola had seen to that—but to-night it was toneless, lifeless, devoid of expression.
“I’m sorry, maestro,” she murmured apologetically at the end, meeting his gaze of consternation.
“We shall do better to-morrow,” he said consolingly. “Will you come to me at three? Good! It is strange, for it went so well before; but, as you say, you are tired, I should not have insisted. Now, Boris, once more?”
Melikoff, sprawling on the hearthrug and looking through a pile of music, selected a book of Russian songs, and began to rise.
“Not those!” said Maddelena imperatively, snatching the book from him and picking up another. “Mr. Starr wants to hear the Neapolitan ones—with the guitar. I will get it!” As she passed Austin she bent and whispered significantly, “He shall sing no Russian here if I can prevent it,” and he nodded as one who understood.
Winnie could not hear the words, but she saw the incident, and found in it fresh food for thought.
“With a guitar—good; that gives me a rest,” said Cacciola, quitting the piano and settling himself comfortably in his big chair. “They are trifles, these songs, but not unworthy even of Boris. There is the soul of the people in them. Now, my children.”
He was right. Those songs—sung by generations of humble folk for centuries, and famous throughout the world to-day—were a revelation as Boris Melikoff sang them, albeit he was the son of a sterner and sadder race: songs of life, and love, and death, of sunshine and storm, with the sound of the sea as an undertone through all, heard in the thrilling throb of the guitar, which Maddelena played like the artiste she was.
Austin listened in sheer delight, forgetful of everything else in the world for the moment.
When the last exquisite note died away there was a little interval of silence more eloquent than any words. Maddelena, the guitar on her lap, looked up at Boris with a tremulous smile, her eyes shining through tears, murmuring something in Italian, and impulsively he stooped and kissed her on the lips, just as Cacciola cried, also in Italian: