After the first piece, Miss Ferrier and Sister Cecilia, seated by a distant window, began to talk in whispers about various business affairs; but as the gentleman by the piano was listening, and pushed toward her a second sheet of music when she laid the first aside, the performer did not rise.
“Yes,” Sister Cecilia was saying, her eyes fixed on a rough sofa the nuns had themselves stuffed cushions for, “I think there is something up-stairs that will do to cover it. We have several large packages that have not been opened. They were sent here the day after Mother Chevreuse died, and we have had no heart to touch them since. There are some shawls, and blankets, and quilts that Mrs. Macon gathered for us from any one who would give. I am sure we shall find something there that will do very well.”
“And now sing for me,” Lawrence said gently, as Anita ended her second piece. “I am sure you sing. You....” He checked himself there, not daring to finish his speech. “You have the full throat of a singing-bird,” he was going to say.
He placed on the music-rack a simple little Ave Maria, and she sang it in a pure, flute-toned voice, and with a composed painstaking to do her best that provoked him. He leaned a little, only a little, nearer when she had ended, and sat with her eyes downcast, the lashes making a shadow on her smooth, colorless cheeks.
“It is a sweet song,” he said; “but you can sing what is far more difficult and expressive. Sing once again, something stronger. Give me a love-song.”
He trembled at his own audacity, and his face reddened as he brought out the last words. Would she start up and rush out of the room? Would she blush, or burst into tears? Nothing of the kind. She merely sat with her eyes downcast, and her fingers resting lightly on the keys, and tried to recollect something.
Then a little smile, faint from within, touched the corners of her mouth, her eyes were lifted fully and fixed on air, and she sang that hymn beloved by S. Francis Xaverius:
“O Deus! ego amo te.”
It was no longer the pale and timid novice. Fire shone from her uplifted eyes, a roseate color warmed her transparent face, and the soul of a smile hovered about her lips. It was the bride singing to her Beloved.
When she had finished the last words, the singer turned toward the window, as if looking to Sister Cecilia for sympathy, knowing well that only with her could she find it, and perceived then that she was alone with Lawrence Gerald.