Chapter Eleven.
Shows that Music hath Charms, and also that it sometimes has Disadvantages.
One morning, not long after his arrival at St. Just, the young doctor went out to make a round of professional visits. He had on his way to pass the cottage of his uncle, which stood a little apart from the chief square or triangle of the town, and had a small piece of ground in front. Here Rose was wont to cultivate her namesakes, and other flowers, with her own fair hands, and here Mr Thomas Donnithorne refreshed himself each evening with a pipe of tobacco, the flavour of which was inexpressibly enhanced to him by the knowledge that it had been smuggled.
He was in the habit of washing the taste of the same away each night, before retiring to rest, with a glass of brandy and water, hot, which was likewise improved in flavour by the same interesting association.
The windows of the cottage were wide open, for no Atlantic fog dimmed the glory of the summer sun that morning, and the light air that came up from the mighty sea was fresh and agreeably cool.
As Oliver approached the end of the cottage he observed that Rose was not at her accustomed work in the garden, and he was about to pass the door when the tones of a guitar struck his ear and arrested his step. He was surprised, for at that period the instrument was not much used, and the out-of-the-way town of St. Just was naturally the last place in the land where he would have expected to meet with one. No air was played—only a few chords were lightly touched by fingers which were evidently expert. Presently a female voice was heard to sing in rich contralto tones. The air was extremely simple, and very beautiful—at least, so thought Oliver, as he leaned against a wall and listened to the words. These, also, were simple enough, but sounded both sweet and sensible to the listener, coming as they did from a woman’s lips so tunefully, and sounding the praises of the sea, of which he was passionately fond:—
Song.
“I love the land where acres broad
Are clothed in yellow grain;
Where cot of thrall and lordly hall
Lie scattered o’er the plain.
Oh! I have trod the velvet sod
Beneath the beechwood tree;
And roamed the brake by stream and lake
Where peace and plenty be.
But more than plain,
Or rich domain,
I love the bright blue sea!
“I love the land where bracken grows
And heath-clad mountains rise;
Where peaks still fringed with winter snows
Tower in the summer skies.
Oh! I have seen the red and green
Of fir and rowan tree,
And heard the din of flooded linn,
With bleating on the lea.
But better still
Than heath-clad hill
I love the stormy sea!”
The air ceased, and Oliver, stepping in at the open door, found Rose Ellis with a Spanish guitar resting on her knee. She neither blushed nor started up nor looked confused—which was, of course, very strange of her in the circumstances, seeing that she is the heroine of this tale—but, rising with a smile on her pretty mouth, shook hands with the youth.
“Why, cousin,” said Oliver, “I had no idea you could sing so charmingly.”
“I am fond of singing,” said Rose.