Mrs. Gerald had not yet returned. The night was very warm, and the doors and windows all stood open, the parlor being lighted only from the next room. Honora seated herself by an open window, and listened with a perfect enjoyment to which nothing was wanting. She was in the mood to hear music, the composition and the rendering were both excellent, and the half-light in-doors and out not only veiled all defects in their surroundings, but invested them with a soft and dreamy grace.
Her mood was so happy that, when the sonata was ended, she did not feel obliged to praise it, nor to speak at all; and they were silent a little while, Mr. Schöninger touching octaves with his right hand so exquisitely that they faltered out as the stars come—faint at first, yet ending brightly.
"I like to look on the whole of creation as a symphony," he said presently. "The morning stars sang together. What a song it must be to the ears that can hear it! Fancy them setting out on that race, their hearts on fire, their orbits ringing as they rolled, their sides blooming, light just kindled! The stars, then, being tuneful, everything on their surfaces and beneath them must have been harmonious. How complex and wonderful—large and small, from the song of the sun to the song of the pine-needles! The ocean had its tune, and the rivers, and there was music in the clouds that rose from them. How ethereal it must have been! Yes, nature was born singing, and everything was musically ordered. The days were grouped in octaves. They climbed from Sabbath to Sabbath."
He had spoken slowly, as if to himself, or to some sweeter self, and let a note drop here and there into pauses. He paused a moment now, then added: "What is music? It is harmonious action; and in action the mystical number is seven."
He lifted his head, but not his eyes, and seemed to await a reply.
"And in being, the perfect number is three," Honora said quietly.
He did not answer for a moment, and, if he understood her meaning, did not reply to it when he spoke. "I had not thought of that; but I catch a glimpse of truth in your remark which I should like to follow out. In nature, there are the three colors for one item. In art—say, architecture—there are the three types: the rectangular Greek, rounding up into Roman, as if lifted over a head passing under, and the Gothic, shaped like a flame. Those may be the signs of the material, the intellectual, and the spiritual. Yes, I must follow that out."
The light was too dim to show how Miss Pembroke's cheeks reddened as she said, "The feasts in the church carry out this musical idea, and have their octaves; and for the Supreme Being, there is trinity."
Was it fair or wise to catch him so? She doubted, and awaited his next remark in some agitation.
"Miss Pembroke, I respect your opinions and your beliefs," he said, with a dignified emphasis which might be meant to reassure or to reprove her. In either case, it was impossible for her to pursue the subject.