Feeling slightly embarrassed, she caught at the first subject that presented itself. "You have done a great deal for music in Crichton, Mr. Schöninger," she said. "You have taught our musicians, and improved the public taste immensely. Our people are musically inclined; and I hope the time may come when we shall have great artists among us who will do something besides present the works of others. I do not profess to be a critic, or learned in the art; but it seems to me that it is not yet exhausted, and that in the way of musical declamation there is much to be done. I have often thought that words do not belong with the highest kinds of music that we have at present, with the one exception of that wonderful Miserere, which one hears in perfection only in Rome. I would like to have a chant or recitative style for sublime and beautiful thoughts, so that the words should be more prominent than the tune, yet be delivered as one might fancy they would be delivered in heaven. That is the kind of music I wish to have grow up here. It would suit us better than the other. It is more rapid and impetuous."
Mr. Schöninger half uttered a doubtful "yes!"
"But art needs a warm atmosphere and an ardent people," he added; "and the kind of music you describe, which is in form like improvisation, is a failure if without enthusiasm in the singer and the listener. Ornate music may be sung by an almost soulless performer so as to produce an impression of meaning something, because the notes tell all; but declamatory music is a dead body, into which a singer must breathe a soul."
"So much the better," she replied. "Give the notes that tell all to the instrument. But when the text has great meaning, let a human voice interpret it, without help of florid ornamentation. But you, an artist, are content to breathe this cold atmosphere!"
"I am at once contented and discontented." His voice softened. "For I behold at last what I want, yet do not possess it."
He stopped, as if for some sign or question; but Honora did not utter a word. His voice, far more than what he said, startled and silenced her.
He turned gently toward her. "Would it be possible, Miss Pembroke, that I should find favor in your eyes?"
"You are, then, a Catholic?" she said quietly.
It was not necessary for her to say any more; yet he would not yield without a struggle, vain as it was.
"You exaggerate the difference between us," he said earnestly, coming nearer. "It is one of form rather than meaning. If I choose to walk by the pure, white light, and you prefer the prismatic colors, still both are but different conditions of the same light, and what I adore is the source of all that you adore. Your Christ quoted as the greatest of all the Commandments the very one which is greatest to me. You would have perfect freedom with me. Honora, and a greater love than words can tell."