In the afternoon she was alone with Lushington again. He was not at all

in an aggressive mood; indeed, he seemed rather depressed. They walked

slowly under the oaks and elms.

'What is the matter?' Margaret asked gently, after a silence.

'I have been thinking a great deal about you,' he answered.

'The thought seems to make you sad!' Margaret laughed, for she was very

happy.

'Yes. It does,' he answered, with a sigh that certainly was not

affected.

'But why?' she asked, growing grave at once.

'There is no reason why I should not tell you. After all, we know each

other too well to apologise for saying what we think. Don't we?' 'I hope so,' Margaret answered, wondering what he was going to say.

'But then,' said Lushington disconsolately, 'I am perfectly sure that

nothing I can say can have the slightest effect.' 'Who knows?' The young girl's lids drooped a little and then opened

again.

'You know.' He spoke gravely and with regret.

She tried to laugh.

'I wish I did! But what is it? There can be no harm in saying it!' 'You have made up your mind to be an opera-singer,' Lushington

answered. 'You have a beautiful voice, you have talent, you have been

well taught. You will succeed.' He had never said as much as that about her singing, and she was

pleased. After many months of patient work, the acknowledgment of it

seemed to be all coming in one day.

'You talk as if you were quite sure.' 'Yes. You will succeed. But there is another side to it. Shall you

think me priggish and call me disagreeable if I tell you that it is no

life for a woman brought up like you?' Margaret had just acquired some insight into the existence of the class

she meant to join, though by no means into the worst phase of it. She

was sure that if she closed her eyes she should see Madame Bonanni

vividly before her, and hear her talking to Logotheti, and smell the

heavy air of the big room. She felt that she could not call Lushington

a prig.

'I think I know what you mean,' she answered. 'But surely, an artist

can lead her own life, especially if she is successful.' 'No,' Lushington answered, 'she cannot. That's just it.' 'How do you know?' Margaret asked, incredulously.

'I do know,' he said with emphasis. 'I assure you that I know. I have

seen a great deal of operatic people. A few, and they are not generally

the great ones, try to lead their own lives, as you put it, but they

either don't succeed at all or else they make themselves so

disagreeable to their fellow artists that life becomes a burden.' 'If they don't succeed, it's because they have no strength of

character,' Margaret answered, 'and if they make themselves

disagreeable, it's because they have no tact!' 'That settles it!' Lushington laughed drily. 'I had better not say

anything more.' 'I did not mean to cut you short. I beg your pardon. Please go on,

please!' She turned to him as she said the last words, and there was in the word

'please' that one tone of hers which he could never resist. It is said

that even lifeless things, like bridges and towers, are subject by

nature to the vibration of a sympathetic note, and that the greatest

buildings in the world would tremble, and shake, and rock and fall in

ruins if that single musical sound were steadily produced near to them.

We men cannot pretend to be harder of hearing and feeling than stocks

and stones. The woman who loves, whether she herself knows it or not,

has her call, that we answer as the wood-bird answers his mate, her

sympathetic word and note at which we vibrate to our heart's core.




readonlinefreebook.com Copyright 2016 - 2024