It was a swift rushing melody in which a gay mood had been imprisoned with an exquisite art, and the girl’s voice caught it up and sang it into life. She gave the little Provençal song in the patois; but the words did not matter. It was a song of spring, which the melody told without their aid.
Leighton was standing by her and the sudden out-leaping of the song laid a spell upon him. There was something delightfully joyous and spontaneous in it—as though it were a newly created thing that would always remain in the world, now that a voice had been found for it. He knew nothing of music and the finish of the girl’s singing was wasted on him; but the spirit with which she gave the chansonnette amazed him. He had felt that there was a kind of languor in her, an impression created by her way of speaking; but her singing voice dispelled the illusion. There was in her prayer to the spirit of spring a strange new note of passion that struck into his heart and thrilled it.
The song ended as abruptly as it began. The house was very still, save that the voices of Mrs. Forrest and her brother were heard across the hall. Leighton waited; it was not for him to profane the silence into which such melody had gone.
Rodney Merriam looked at his sister inquiringly.
“You never told me—”
“That it was like that? It is wonderful. I never dared try to tell you. I never understood it myself. Technically it is not so good, her teachers say; but the girl’s self gets into it and carries her away. I sometimes wonder whether it is quite right to encourage her. A girl’s soul ought to be shielded—”
Mrs. Forrest paused in her helpless way.
“Her soul will take care of itself, I think,” said Rodney Merriam.
Zelda turned abruptly to Morris.
“Just once more, if you can stand it. Don’t say a word! But I rarely sing anything unless I try a certain piece for my own satisfaction. It’s for bigger voices than mine. Dreams—you know—a study for Tristan and Isolde. I really hope you won’t like it at all, for I want it all to myself, no matter how badly I do it. Go on talking,” she called to the others across the hall; “this isn’t a stunt,—it’s just my own little meditation.”