Last night I lay in a goose-feather bed
With my good lord beside me, O,
To-night I’ll lie in a tenant’s barn
Whatever may betide me, O.
And so forth; the Countess tripping down the stair with all her maids about her to meet the black fire of the gipsy lover’s eyes and her fate.
But the song itself slid off Greville, his taste was more on the Italian, the “Luce bella” order, with quirks and trills and brilliant fioriture, and the girl knew nothing of that. Yet she held him fixed—the voice was glorious, strong and clear and true on the notes; a noble instrument for passion, and nobly used, for her bosom expanded, her throat pulsed like a bird’s and she poured it forth till the high ceiling rang again. And not only so, but the drama! The first verse, she sang sitting demurely, the great lady tripping down the stair with a thought for the velvet of her robes, the set of the pearl chains in her hair. Then rose, and the voice quickened, and at the last she flung her arms abroad and drew the wild air of the moors into her lungs. Freedom, freedom!—the pearl chains torn away and the barefoot woman following her man to hell if he called her. Wild fire shone in her eyes to answer the gipsy flame.
“I’m off with the raggle-taggle gipsy, O!” and stopped breathless, white arms gleaming above her head; then dropped them, and sat down demurely, the life fading from her face.
“Brava, brava!” cries Greville, applauding with ringing hands. For what was he an amateur of gem and crystal if he did not know a jewel when he saw it, and this, by all the Olympians, was a jewel! Sir Harry never budged in his sleep, the others listened warm and drowsy.
“Sing again, Mrs. Hart,” says one, and again she sang, but what did not stir so much this time; a rose and nightingale business, a little mawkish, and yet with high notes touched most wonderfully.
“A prima donna if trained!” thinks Greville. “And that face! Lord help us! The luck of that fool!” and cast the tail of his eye contemptuously on the unconscious Sir Harry.