"Sing! I am afraid I should not please Lady Rythdale."
"Will you please me?"
Eleanor quitted his hand and went to the door of communication with the red parlour, which was by two or three steps, on which she sat down. Her eyes were on the floor, where the object they encountered was Mr. Carlisle's spurs. That would not do; she buried them in the depths of a wonderful white lily, and so sang the old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence. And so sweet and pure, so natural and wild, was her giving of the wild old song, as if it could have come out of the throat of the flower. The thrill of her voice was as a leaf trembles on its stem. No art there; it was unadulterated nature. A very delicious voice had been spoiled by no master; the soul of the singer rendered the soul of the song. The listeners did both of them, to do them justice, hold their breath till she had done. Then Mr. Carlisle brought her in, to luncheon, in triumph; rose and all.
"You have a very remarkable voice, my dear!" said Lady Rythdale. "Do you always sing such melancholy things?"
"You must take my mother's compliments, Nellie, as you would olives—it takes a little while to get accustomed to them."
Eleanor thought so.
"Do not you spoil her with sweet things," said the baroness. "Come here, child—let me look at you. You have certainly as pretty a head of hair as ever I saw. Did you put in that rose?"
"No, ma'am," said Eleanor, blushing with somewhat besides pleasure.
Much to her amazement, the next thing was Lady Rythdale's taking her in her arms and kissing her. Nor was Eleanor immediately released; not until she had been held and looked over and caressed to the content of the old baroness, and Eleanor's cheeks were in a state of furious protestation. She was dismissed at last with the assurance to Mr. Carlisle that she was "an innocent little thing."
"But she is not one of those people who are good because they have not force to be anything else, Macintosh."