CHAPTER 13.

 

            LORD LITTMASS was by no means a family man. He had no social intimacies with any inmate of his house. On the evening of his return he dined alone; and after dinner he sent for Margaret. He had seen her immediately after her return from the convent, when pale and thin from the Carmelite regime.

 

            ‘Consumptive,’ he had then said to himself. ‘Poor child, it will save us both a good deal of trouble.’

 

            Looking at her now as she entered the room in obedience to his summons, and expecting to find written on her face the progress of the complaint that was to solve all difficulties, he started with surprise at seeing the improvement made during the month of his absence.

 

            ‘Hectic? No, the colour must be a healthy one, for she has gained flesh and firmness of gait.’

 

            He addressed her kindly, and with a tinge of admiration in his manner.

 

            ‘London agrees with you, I see. Its murky skies have turned your lilies into roses.’

 

            ‘Thank you, I am much stronger since I came here. I hope you are well, and have had a pleasant journey.’

 

            Lord Littmass scarcely knew which to admire most, the quiet self-possession with which she ventured to bandy compliments with him, or the sweet and steadfast tones of her voice. There was no longer the abstracted, pre-occupied air which he had accustomed himself to attribute to mental imbecility.’

 

            ‘And what have you been doing with yourself?’

 

            ‘I have been very idle as to everything except getting well. The fine weather and a kind companion have tempted me daily into the gardens.’

 

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            ‘All the doctors in the world could not have done better for you. Idleness, air, and exercise will cure most maladies.’

 

            ‘I scarcely seem to be idle when talking with one so full of information, and so ready to impart it, as Mr Maynard.’

 

            ‘Whom did you say?’ exclaimed Lord Littmass.

 

            ‘Mr. Maynard.’

 

            ‘James Maynard, –– my –– my ward, that was?’

 

            ‘Yes, he is a great friend of mine; the only friend I have had to talk to. I hope you are not displeased?’ she added, seeing the troubled expression of his face.

 

            Lord Littmass quickly recovered his self-possession, and said:

 

            ‘I was surprised because I did not know he was in England. I did not expect him to return just yet. Yes, he is an exceedingly well-informed person, but I did not think that young ladies were much in his way.’

 

            ‘Then I must esteem his kindness to me the more–––’ began Margaret, and stopped, suddenly remembering what she had for some time quite forgotten, Maynard’s outbreak of passion for her in the Park. Lord Littmass observed her embarrassment, but did not in the least appear to do so.

 

            ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that I have discovered a place where you will pick up health still faster than in London. You do not dislike the sea, I suppose?’

 

            ‘I love it dearly,’ answered Margaret, ‘and could listen for ever to its voice. I shall never forget the summer I spent by the Mediterranean with Lady Primavera. It was so delightfully lonely.’

 

            ‘You are fond of solitude? That will just do.’

 

            ‘It never seems to be solitude with the changeable yet constant sea for my companion.’

 

            ‘She does not speak as if she had any fancies about men in her mind,’ thought Lord Littmass. ‘I wonder what has happened. James is as much of a monk as this child is of nun. I hope he has not discovered that he is unsuited for the vocation. It is most unlucky that they should have met thus, and will make it additionally difficult for me to carry out my plans in regard to her.’

 

            ‘I have been practising some of the convent chants which I learnt in Rome. You said that you would like to hear them when I should be strong enough to sing,’ said Margaret. ‘May I try them for you now?’

 

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            He had forgotten all about the matter, but assented graciously, and Margaret sat down to the piano and commenced singing. Her voice was at first child-like and faltering, as if she were trying to remember a half-forgotten lesson. It then assumed volume and strength, as if she were becoming more certain of herself, and more forgetful of her audience. At length the notes poured forth, full, rich, and powerful, in all the exultant freedom of a rapt and glorying nature. On no familiar opera or hackneyed ballad did Margaret expend her powers. The chant she sang had never before been heard out of the convent where she had learnt it. Wild, weird, and quaint, it had been the special possession and glory of the sisterhood for many generations, and under its influence they had learnt to despise alike the good and evil of this world, and to realise beforehand the triumphs of that toward which their whole lives professed to be an aspiration.

 

            Lord Littmass at first scarcely heeded the young and timid tones. They simply induced him to say to himself, ‘She is but a child, although so tall.’ Then, as the voice grew in strength, ‘The lungs seem sound. Those notes are more befitting her age.’ Then, when swelling into her full power, she seemed to him in richness of tone and purity of musical sentiment to surpass the best foreign artistes he had been accustomed to engage for the delectation of his fashionable acquaintances, he turned round in his chair, and gazed at her with astonishment, and murmured,

 

            ‘Why, this is something new, indeed. Now she is a woman, with heart, voice, and feeling, far beyond either her years or her experiences.’

 

            She ceased, her voice dying away in softest cadences, as if full of a realised bliss which she feared to dispel by a sound. Her hands rested still upon the keys, and she seemed entirely forgetful of all things around her. She was back again in Rome, and beginning to shrink from the cell for which she had left it, when she was startled back into consciousness by the voice of her guardian, saying, –

 

            ‘Thank you. I like it immensely. I had no idea your voice was so strong, and, I may say, good. I am not surprised at the nuns wishing to get you among them. Did you sing at the French convent, too?’

 

            ‘No, everything was so different there, so gloomy. I should soon have died there, I believe.’

 

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            ‘Well, you may say good-night now, and in two or three days you may be singing to the loud-resounding sea, as Homer calls it.’

 

            ‘There,’ he said to himself, when Margaret had retired, ‘I have seen just enough of her to suggest a character that will exactly suit my new novel, “Arrested Developments.” If I see more at present, the harmony of the picture presented to my mind may be destroyed. Such is the function of Genius, from a part to imagine the whole, as the anatomist from a single bit of bone restores the entire structure. That, however, is rather memory than creation. Creation! pooh, the Artist does not create; he remembers, and he adapts. Yes, adaptation is the word. Genius is adaptation. Shakespeare is the greatest of adapters; though James gives the palm to the Emperor Constantine. –That girl’s singing is a phenomenon. It represents the three eras of woman. It is worthy of an ode.’

 

            Then, after a little thought, Lord Littmass took out his note-book, and rapidly wrote down some lines.

 

            ‘There, I think something of that kind will do to introduce with the character,’ he said, reading them aloud. ‘I don’t much like that epitomising stanza. I should prefer “Love” to “Wife,” and perhaps “Heart” is better than “All.” No, the alliteration of “Wife” is indispensable, though it is rather an anti-climax in sentiment. The public don’t think so, however, – yet. The “All” is certainly best, poetically speaking; though, conventionally, it may be too comprehensive. However, the song points to matrimony, which is what the young ladies who sing ballads in drawing-rooms want. I will get V–– to write one of her charming airs for it, and have it published separately as a song from Lord Littmass’s new novel, “Arrested Developments,” which will be a capital advertisement for the book. V–– won’t be able to help me with the words, though. True musician like, all words are the same to her. She values only the idea contained in them, and it is that which she seeks to express in her music. If they are too warm, however, she will find that out fast enough, and I can then use the cooler phrases. No, I have it. “All” with a small a confines its reference to what immediately precedes it. Yes, that will do. Now for a fair copy of it.

 

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            ‘ “SONG.

“SHE SANG, AND––”

 

“She sang, and softly fell each word,

            So simple, pare, and sweet,

As utter’d by a holy child, –

            I fain would kiss her feet.

 

“She sang, and older, statelier grown,

            Like youthful queen she stands:

Her voice so noble, arch, and gay,

            I fain would kiss her hands.

 

“She sang, and lo! her heart is found;

            A woman, strong – and weak:

Such tenderness inspires each tone,

            I fain would kiss her cheek.

 

“I fain would clasp her in these arms,

            She saint, and I the shrine:

That as child, maiden, woman, wife,

            Feet, hands, cheek, all be mine.” ’

 

            ‘I should like to hear Sophia Bevan sing those words. Fine creature as she is, I doubt if she would relish them. She and Margaret are as different as earth and heaven, though each perfect in their kind. Never mind, I will dedicate the song to Sophia, and she shall introduce it to the London season. Thus in this modern age, does Art ally itself to Business.’

 

            Lord Littmass read over his verses once more, and then continued his musings, first about his ripening plot, in which Margaret, or rather the character suggested to him by Margaret, was to play a leading part; then on the young lady herself; and, lastly, by a sudden transition, on James Maynard.

 

            ‘If she lives, I may have trouble with her,’ he meditated. ‘Would to goodness I could replace her fortune. If she goes on improving as she has done, and once appears in society, or is seen by her aunt, my position will become most awkward. Her death alone would have set matters right. I should have inherited under her father’s will, and none would have known that I had anticipated the reversion. I must keep her hidden now, more than ever. Why did I let her come away from that convent? Confound that meddling Bishop! And what does James mean by coming in my absence, and playing the civil to her? If once he takes into his head a fancy for marrying her, no consideration of prudence will stop him. What trouble I had to get him to take his degree and accept his fellowship. I don’t believe he will ever take Orders to keep it beyond the

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seven years. “Religious scruples. Did not believe enough of what he had to sign.” As if he wasn’t already as good a Christian as half the bishops; only he does not know it. I suppose he will call to-morrow, when I shall have to start him off on a new journey. Poor fellow, how little he thinks that

I ––.’

 

            Here Lord Littmass’s cogitations terminated in a sigh, after which he slowly rose from his seat, and, deep in thought, retired to rest.

 

 

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