Force and cunning
Never can my heart trepan.
All your sallies
Are but malice——”
Mr. Rich made a start here that completely overset her and she dropped the music outright and put her hand quick to her heart.
“O, Sir,” she fluttered.
“Hush, hush, my child. Compose yourself and proceed. Begin again.” For here came the third surprise! Heavens, what a voice! Not grand, massive, commanding like Cuzzoni’s—not a voice to storm the town in grave opera or in the great Mr. Handel’s oratorios, but fresh, clear and sweet as a linnet’s at dawn.
“O Lord, the pretty innocent!” cries Mrs. Scawen from behind her master’s chair. “Sure she trips up the notes like a lark running up the sky. Was ever anything so uncommon! Sure she fetches the tears and I don’t know why.”
“Be quiet, woman. Be not a chatter-chops!” says Mr. Rich, as stiff as a magistrate in his chair. “Continue, Mrs. Beswick. To the end, if you please.”
She did so, less fluttered now that she perceived the start was not fury. Indeed she sang it charmingly. She hit every note in the middle true as a silver mallet. Never was such effortless singing. ’Twas art concealing art. It might be supposed the fair creature had never sung a lesson nor a scale nor had human teacher, but sang as a bird does on a flowery branch for mere delight in the sound of her own most delicious voice—a singular high soprano, clear as crystal and as little impassioned. But that might in part be owing to the circumstances which certainly did not invite passion. He was about to speak when she interrupted, but modestly: