“Maybe,” he added, after a pause, “if ye were to sing us a ballad it would be less obsearved!”
So Margot sang, and, finding a book of Scotch selections, could gratify the old man by selecting his favourite airs, and providing him with an excuse to hum a gentle accompaniment. Music, it appeared, was Mr Macalister’s passion in life. As a young man he had been quite a celebrated performer at Penny Readings and Church Soirées, and had been told by a lady who had heard Sims Reeves that she preferred his rendering of “Tom Bowling” to that of the famous tenor. This anecdote was proudly related by his wife, and though Mr Macalister cried, “Hoots!” and rustled his paper in protest, it was easy to see that he was gratified by the remembrance.
Margot essayed one Scotch air after another, and was instructed in the proper pronunciation of the words; feigning, it is to be feared, an extra amount of incapacity to pronounce the soft “ch,” for the sake of giving her patient a better opportunity of displaying his superior adroitness.
Comparatively speaking, Mr Macalister became quite genial and agreeable in the course of that musical hour, and when Margot finished her performance by singing “The Oak and the Ash,” he waxed, for him, positively enthusiastic.
“It’s a small organ,” he pronounced judicially, “a ve–ry small organ. Ye would make a poor show on a concert platform, but for all that, I’m not saying that it might not have been worse. Ye can keep in tune, and that’s a mearcy!”
“Indeed, Alexander, I call it a bonnie voice! There’s no call for squallings and squakings in a bit of a room like this. I love to hear a lassie’s voice sound sweet and clear, and happy like herself, and that’s just the truth about Miss Vane’s singing. Thank ye, my dear. It’s been a treat to hear you.”
The broad, beaming smile, the sly little nod behind Mr Macalister’s back, proclaiming triumph and delighted gratitude—these sent Margot up to her room heartened and revived in spirits, for there is nothing on earth so invigorating as to feel that we have helped a fellow-creature. The sunshine came back to her own heart, even as it was slowly breaking its way through the clouds overhead. She thrust her head out of the window, and opening her mouth, drank in great gulps of the fresh damp air, so sweet and reviving after the mouldy atmosphere of “the parlour.” Over the mountain tops in the direction from which the wind was blowing the clouds were slowly drifting aside, leaving broader and broader patches of blue. Blue! After the long grey hours of rain and mist. The rapture of it was almost beyond belief! A few minutes more, and the glen would be alight with sunshine. She would put on boots, cap, and cape, and hurry out to enjoy every moment that remained.
The strong-soled little boots were lifted from their corner behind the door, and down sat Margot on the floor, school-girl fashion, and began to thread the laces in and out, and tie them securely into place. Then the deerstalker cap was pinned on top of the chestnut locks, and the straps of the grey cape crossed over the white flannel blouse. Now she was ready, and the sunshine was already calling to her from without, dancing across the floor, and bringing a delicious warmth into the atmosphere.
Margot threw open the door and was about to descend the narrow staircase, when she stopped short, arrested by an unexpected sound. Some one was singing softly in a room near at hand, repeating the refrain of the ballad which she had taken last on her list. The deep bass tones lingered softly on the words—