“Sometimes,” he continued more lightly—“just at odd moments—I like to believe in Paradise. It is a relief, even to a hardened sinner like myself, to fancy that there may exist something in the way of a world better than this one.”
“Surely sir,” said Miss Charlotte Fitzroy severely—“you believe in Heaven?”
He looked at her and smiled slightly.
“Madame, forgive me! I do not believe in the clerical heaven. I know you will be angry with me for this frank [p 152] confession! But I cannot picture the angels in white smocks with goose wings, or the Deity as a somewhat excitable personage with a beard. Personally I should decline to go to any heaven which was only a city with golden streets; and I should object to a sea of glass, resenting it as a want of invention on the part of the creative Intelligence. But——do not frown, dear Miss Fitzroy!—I do believe in Heaven all the same,—a different kind of heaven,—I often see it in my dreams!”
He paused, and again we were all silent, gazing at him. Lady Sibyl’s eyes indeed, rested upon him with such absorbed interest, that I became somewhat irritated, and was glad, when turning towards the Countess once more, he said quietly.
“Shall I give you some music now, Madame?”
She murmured assent, and followed him with a vaguely uneasy glance as he crossed over to the grand piano and sat down. I had never heard him either play or sing; in fact so far as his accomplishments went, I knew nothing of him as yet except that he was a perfect master of the art of horsemanship. With the first few bars he struck I half started from my chair in amazement;—could a mere pianoforte produce such sounds?—or was there some witchery hidden in the commonplace instrument, unguessed by any other performer? I stared around me, bewildered,—I saw Miss Charlotte drop her knitting abstractedly,—Diana Chesney, lying lazily back in one corner of the sofa, half closed her eyelids in dreamy ecstasy,—Lord Elton stood near the fire resting one arm on the mantelpiece and shading his fuzzy brows with his hand,—and Lady Sibyl sat beside her mother, her lovely face pale with emotion, while on the worn features of the invalided lady there was an expression of mingled pain and pleasure difficult to describe. The music swelled into passionate cadence,—melodies crossed and re-crossed each other like rays of light glittering among green leaves,—voices of birds and streams and tossing waterfalls chimed in with songs of love and playful merriment;—anon came wilder strains of grief and angry clamour; cries of despair were heard echoing through the [p 153] thunderous noise of some relentless storm,—farewells everlastingly shrieked amid sobs of reluctant shuddering agony;—and then, as I listened, before my eyes a black mist gathered slowly, and I thought I saw great rocks bursting asunder into flame, and drifting islands in a sea of fire,—faces, wonderful, hideous, beautiful, peered at me out of a darkness denser than night, and in the midst of this there came a tune, complete in sweetness and suggestion,—a piercing sword-like tune that plunged into my very heart and rankled there,——my breath failed me,—my senses swam,—I felt that I must move, speak, cry out, and implore that this music, this horribly insidious music should cease ere I swooned with the voluptuous poison of it,—when, with a full chord of splendid harmony that rolled out upon the air like a breaking wave, the intoxicating sounds ebbed away into silence. No one spoke,—our hearts were yet beating too wildly with the pulsations roused by that wondrous lyric storm. Diana Chesney was the first to break the spell.
“Well, that beats everything I’ve ever heard!” she murmured tremulously.
I could say nothing,—I was too occupied with my own thoughts. Something in the music had instilled itself into my blood, or so I fancied, and the clinging subtle sweetness of it, moved me to strange emotions that were neither wise, nor worthy of a man. I looked at Lady Sibyl; she was very pale,—her eyes were cast down and her hands were trembling. On a sudden impulse I rose and went to Rimânez where he still sat at the piano, his hands dumbly wandering over the keys.
“You are a great master”—I said—“A wonderful performer! But do you know what your music suggests?”