After tea, they re-entered the house at Maryllia's request to hear Cicely play. Arrived in the drawing-room they found the only truly modern thing in it, a grand piano, of that noted French make which as far surpasses the German model as a genuine Stradivarius surpasses a child's fiddle put together yesterday, and, taking her seat at this instrument, Cicely had transformed both herself and it into unspeakable enchantment. The thing of wood and wire and ivory keys had become possessed, as it were, with the thunder of the battling clouds and the great rush of the sea,—and then it had suddenly whispered of the sweetness of love and life, till out of storm had grown the tender calm of a flowing melody, on which wordless dreams of happiness glittered like rainbow bubbles on foam, shining for a moment and then vanishing at a breath; it had caught the voices of the rain and wind,—and the pattering drops and sibilant hurricane had whizzed sharply through the scale of sound till the very notes seemed alive with the wrath of nature,—and then it had rolled all the wild clamour away into a sustained magnificence of prayerful chords which seemed to plead for all things grand, all things true, all things beautiful,—and to list the soul of man in panting, labouring ecstasy up to the very threshold of Heaven! And she—the 'goblin' who evoked all this phantasmagoria of life set in harmony—she too changed as it seemed, in nature and aspect,—her small meagre face was as the face of a pictured angel, with the dark hair clustering round it in thick knots and curling waves as of blackest bronze,—while the eyes, full of soft passion and fire, glowed beneath the broad temples with the light of youth's imperial dream of fame. What human creature could accept the limited fact of being mere man, mere woman only, while Cicely played? Such music as hers recalled and revealed the earliest splendour of the days when Poesy was newly born,—when gods and goddesses were believed to walk the world in large and majestic freedom,—and when brave deeds of chivalry and self-sacrifice became exalted by the very plenitude of rich imagination, into supernatural facts of heaven conquering, hell-charming prowess. Not then was man made to seem uncouth, or mean and savage in his attempts to dominate the planet, but strong, fearless, and endowed with dignity and power. Not then was every noble sentiment derided,—every truth scourged,—every trust betrayed,-every tenderness mocked,—and every sweet emotion made the subject of a slander or a sneer. Not then was love mere lust, marriage mere convenience, and life mere covetousness of gain. There was something higher, greater, purer than these,—something of the inspiring breath of God, which, according to the old Biblical narrative, was breathed into humanity with the words—"Let us make man in Our image, after Our likeness." That 'image' of God was featured gloriously in the waves of music which surged through Cicely's brain and fingers, out on the responsive air,—and when she ceased playing there followed a dumb spell of wonderment and awe, which those who had listened to her marvellous improvisation were afraid to break by a word or movement. And then, with a smile at their mute admiration and astonishment, she had passed her small supple hands lightly again over the piano- keys, evoking therefrom a playful prelude, and the pure silvery sound of her voice had cloven the air asunder with De Musset's 'Adieu, Suzon!'
"Adieu, Suzon, ma rose blonde,
Qui m'as aime pendant huit jours!
Les plus courts plaisirs de ce monde
Souvent font les meilleurs amours.
Sais-je au moment ou je te quitte
Ou m'entraine mon astre errant?
Je m'en vais pourtant, ma petite,
Bien loin, bien vite,
Adieu, Suzon!"
Was it possible for any man with a drop of warm blood flowing through his veins, not to feel a quicker heart-beat, a swifter pulse, at the entrancing, half-melancholy, half-mocking sweetness she infused into these lines?
"Je pars, et sur ma levre ardente
Brule encor ton dernier baiser.
Entre mes bras, chere imprudente
Ton beau front vient de reposer.
Sens-tu mon coeur, comme il palpite?
Le tien, comme il battait gaiment!
Je m'en vais pourtant, ma petite,
Bien loin, bien vite
Tourjours t'aimant!
Adieu, Suzon!"
With the passion, fire and exquisite abandon of her singing of this verse in tones of such youthful freshness and fervour as could scarcely be equalled and never surpassed, Adderley could no longer restrain himself, and crying 'Brava!—brava! Bravissima!' fell to clapping his hands in the wildest ecstasy. Walden, less demonstrative, was far more moved. Something quite new and strange to his long fixed habit and temperament had insidiously crept over him,—and being well accustomed to self-analysis, he was conscious of the fact, and uneasy at finding himself in the grip of an emotion to which he could give no name. Therefore, he was glad when,—the music being ended, and when he had expressed his more or less incoherent praise and thanks to Cicely for the delight her wonderful gift had afforded him,—he could plead some business in the village as an excuse to take his departure. Maryllia very sweetly bade him come again.
"As often as you like,"—she said—"And I want you to promise me one thing, Mr. Walden!—you must consent to meet some of my London friends here one evening to dinner."
She had given him her hand in parting, and he was holding it in his own.
"I'm afraid I should be very much in the way, Miss Vancourt,"—he replied, with a grave smile—"I am not a social acquisition by any means! I live very much alone,—and a solitary life, I think, suits me best."