Sword and Gown. George A. Lawrence
Mrs. Molyneux for ten minutes without hearing it. Though she had scarcely glanced at him in the morning, she had decided that the tall, erect figure and the enormous mustache, with its crocs à la mousquetaire, could only belong to Fanny’s Household Word. It was very odd—she had not a shade of a reason for it—but neither had she mentioned that rencontre to her friend. Perhaps they had so many other things to talk about. She could scan him now more narrowly, for his face was turned away from her. The result was satisfactory: when Major Keene stood up on his feet, not even his habitual laziness could disguise the fair proportions and trained vigor of a stalwart man-at-arms; and be it known that Cecil’s eye, though not so professional as that of Good Queen Bess, loved to light upon such dearly.
“Harry,” Mrs. Molyneux observed, “Mr. Fullarton called while I was at the Lion d’Or this morning, and staid half an hour. He is so very anxious to get Cecil to lead the singing in church.”
“Yes; he has been, so to speak, throwing his hat up ever since he heard you were coming, Miss Tresilyan,” was the reply. “I suppose he calculated on your vocal talents; there’s the nuisance of having an European reputation, you are always expected to do something for somebody’s benefit. I hope you’ll indulge him, in charity to us. You have no idea what it has been. Two Sundays ago, for instance, a Mr. Rolleston and his wife volunteered to give us a lead. He didn’t look like a racing man; and yet he must have been. I never saw any thing more artistically done. He went off at score, and made the pace so strong that he cut them all down in the first two verses; and then the wife, who had waited very patiently, came and won as she liked—nothing else near her.”
Cecil thought the illustration rather irreverent, and did not smile. Keene saw this as he turned round.
“The turf slang has got into your constitution, I think, since you won that Garrison Cup. It’s very wrong of you not to cure yourself, when you know how it annoys Mrs. Molyneux. He is right, though, Miss Tresilyan; it is a case of real distress: our vocal destitution is pitiable; so, if you have any benevolence to spare, do bestow it upon us, and your petitioners will ever pray, etc.”
Now it so happened that Fanny valued that same 14 cup above all her earthly possessions, as a mark of her husband’s prowess. No testimonial ever gave so much satisfaction to a popular rector’s wife as that little ugly mug afforded her, albeit it was the very wooden-spoon of racing plate. So she first smiled consolingly at the culprit, who was already contrite, and then looked up at the last speaker with amusement and wonder glittering in her pretty brown eyes. She did not see what interest the subject could have for Keene, who had only darkened the chapel doors once since they came. Mr. Fullarton, indeed, was supposed to have alluded to him several times—his discourses were apt to take a personal and individualizing turn—but he had never had the satisfaction of a “shot in the open” at that stout-hearted sinner.
Royston caught la mignonne’s glance, and understood it perfectly, but not a line of his face moved. He was waiting for Cecil’s reply very anxiously: he had not heard her speak yet.
“Mr. Fullarton is rather rash,” she said, “for our acquaintance is slight, and I don’t think he ever heard me sing. But I shall do my best next Sunday. Every one ought to help in such a case as much as they can.”
“Yes, and you will do it so beautifully, dearest!” Cecil bit her lip, and colored angrily. Nothing annoyed her like Mrs. Danvers’ obtrusive partisanship and uncouth flattery.
The gleam of pleasure that shone out on Keene’s dark face for a moment, only Harry interpreted rightly. He had scarcely listened to the words, but he thought, “I knew I was right; I knew the voice would match the rest!” When they moved on again, he walked by Miss Tresilyan’s side, and “still their speech was song.”
His first remark was, “I hope you condescend to ballads sometimes? I confess to not deriving much pleasure from those elaborate performances where the voice tries dangerous feats of strength and agility: even at the Opera they make one rather uncomfortable. Some of the very scientific pieces suggest ideas of homicide or suicide, as the case may be, according to my temper at the moment. Of course, I know less than nothing about music; but I don’t think this quite accounts for it. I really believe that unsophisticated human nature revolts at the bravura.”
It was rare good fortune, so early in their acquaintance, to tempt forth the brilliant smile that always betrayed when Cecil was well pleased.
“Mrs. Molyneux has told you what my tastes are?” she said. “I have never tried bravuras since I left off masters, and even then I only attempted them under protest. But there are some quiet songs I like so much that I sing them to myself when I am out of spirits, and it does me good. Don’t you like the old-fashioned ones best? I fancy, in those days, people felt more what they wrote, and did not consider only how the words would suit the composer.”
“Probably,” Keene replied. “If Charles Edward was of no other use, some good strong lines were written about him. I do not think he lived in vain. There are no partisans now. The only songs of the sort that I ever saw with any verve in them were some seditious Irish ones: rather spirited—only they had not grammar enough to ballast them. The writer either was, or wanted to be, transported. We are all very fond of the Guelphs—at least every body in decent society is—and that is just the reason why we are not enthusiastic. We are all ready to ‘die for the throne,’ etc., but we don’t see any immediate probability of our devotion being tested. So the laureate only rhymes loyally, and he at stated seasons, and in a temperate, professional style.”
“Please don’t laugh at Tennyson,” she interrupted; “I suppose it is very easy to do so, for so many people try it; but I never listen to them if I can help it.”
“A premature warning,” was the grave reply; “I had no such idea. I admire Tennyson fully as much as you can do, and read him, I dare say, much oftener. I was only speaking of his performances in the manège; indeed, there is not enough of these to make a fair illustration, so I was wrong to bring them in. When he settles to his stride, few of the ‘cracks’ of last century seem able to live with him. They have not set all his best things to music. A clever composer might do great things, I fancy, with ‘The Sisters,’ and the refrain of ‘the wind in turret and tree.’ ”
“It would never be a very general favorite,” Miss Tresilyan observed. “It seems hardly right to set to music even an imaginary story of great sin and sorrow. I saw a sketch of it some time ago. The murderess was sitting on a cushion close to the earl’s body, with her head bent so low that one of her black tresses almost touched his smooth golden curls; you could just see the hilt of the dagger under her left hand. That, and the corpse’s quiet, pale face were the only two objects that stood out in relief; for the storm outside was stirring the window-curtains, and making the one lamp flare irregularly. Her features were in the shadow, and you had to fancy how hard, and rigid, and dreary they must be. It was the merest sketch, but if it had been worked out, it would have made a very terrible picture.”
“A good conception,” Royston said; “well, perhaps it would not be a pleasant song to sing, but better, I should think, than some of those dreadful sentimental ones. They are not much worse than the Strephon and the Chloe class, in which our ancestors delighted; still, they are indefensible. If our Lauras find Petrarchs now, they are usually very beardless ones, and the green morocco cover, with its golden lock, covers their indiscretions. Those who write love ditties for the piano must celebrate a shadow who can’t be critical. Imagine any man insulting a real woman of average intellect with ‘Will you love me then as now!’ ”
“Yes,” she assented, “they are too absurd as a rule. They make our cheeks burn, as if we were performing some very ridiculous part in low comedy; but they do not warm one’s heart, like ‘Annie Laurie.’ ”
“Ah! it’s curious how that always suggests itself as the standard to compare others with: not fair, though, for it makes most of them sound so feeble and effeminate. Douglas of Finland wrote it, you know, in the campaign which finished him. Long before that the charming Annie had given her promise true to Craigdarroch; and she had to keep it, tant