The quartett was abandoned. Arabella had departed with a firm countenance to combat Mrs. Chump.
Emilia sat by her harp. The saloon was critically still; so still that Adela fancied she heard a faint Irish protest from the parlour. Wilfrid was perhaps the most critical auditor present: for he doubted whether she could renew that singular charm of her singing in the pale lighted woods. The first smooth contralto notes took him captive. He scarcely believed that this could be the raw girl whom his sisters delicately pitied.
A murmur of plaudits, the low thunder of gathering acclamation, went round. Lady Gosstre looked a satisfied, This will do. Wilfrid saw Emilias eyes appeal hopefully to Mr. Pericles. The connoisseur shrugged. A pain lodged visibly on her black eyebrows. She gripped her harp, and her eyelids appeared to quiver as she took the notes. Again, and still singing, she turned her head to him. The eyes of Mr. Pericles were white, as if upraised to intercede for her with the Powers of Harmony. Her voice grew unnerved. On a sudden she excited herself to pitch and give volume to that note which had been the enchantment of the night in the woods. It quavered. One might have thought her caught by the throat.
Emilia gazed at no one now. She rose, without a word or an apology, keeping her eyes down.
Fiasco! cruelly cried Mr. Pericles.
That was better to her than the silly kindness of the people who deemed it well to encourage her with applause. Emilia could not bear the clapping of hands, and fled.
CHAPTER V
The night was warm under a slowly-floating moon. Full of compassion for the poor girl, who had moved him if she had failed in winning the assembly, Wilfrid stepped into the garden, where he expected to find her, and to be the first to pet and console her. Threading the scented shrubs, he came upon a turn in one of the alleys, from which point he had a view of her figure, as she stood near a Portugal laurel on the lawn. Mr. Pericles was by her side. Wilfrids intention was to join them. A loud sob from Emilia checked his foot.
You are cruel, he heard her say.
If it is good, I tell it you; if it is bad; abominable, I tell it you, juste ze same, responded Mr. Pericles.
The others did not think it very bad.
Ah! bah! Mr. Pericles cut her short.
Had they been talking of matters secret and too sweet, Wilfrid would have retired, like a man of honour. As it was, he continued to listen. The tears of his poor little friend, moreover, seemed to hold him there in the hope that he might afford some help.
Yes; I do not care for the others, she resumed. You praised me the night I first saw you.
It is perhaps zat you can sing to z moon, returned Mr. Pericles. But, what! a singer, she must sing in a house. To-night it is warm, to-morrow it is cold. If you sing through a cold, what noise do we hear? It is a nose, not a voice. It is a trompet.
Emilia, with a whimpering firmness, replied: You said I am lazy. I am not.
Not lazy, Mr. Pericles assented.
Do I care for praise from people who do not understand music? It is not true. I only like to please them.
Be a street-organ, Mr. Pericles retorted.
I must like to see them pleased when I sing, said Emilia desperately.
And you like ze clap of ze hands. Yez. It is quite natural. Yess. You are a good child, it is clear. But, look. You are a voice uncultivated, sauvage. You go wrong: I hear you: and dese claps of zese noodels send you into squeaks and shrills, and false! false away you go. It is a gallop ze wrong way.
Here Mr. Pericles attempted the most horrible reproduction of Emilias failure. She cried out as if she had been bitten.
What am I to do? she asked sadly.
Not now, Mr. Pericles answered. You live in London?at where?
Must I tell you?
Certainly, you must tell me.
But, I am not going there; I mean, not yet.
You are going to sing to z moon through z nose. Yez. For how long?
These ladies have asked me to stay with them. They make me so happy. When I leave themthen!
Emilia sighed.
And zen? quoth Mr. Pericles.
Then, while my money lasts, I shall stay in the country.
How much money?
How much money have I? Emilia frankly and accurately summed up the condition of her treasury. Four pounds and nineteen shillings.
Hom! it is spent, and you go to your father again?
Yes.
To ze old Belloni?
My father.
No! cried Mr. Pericles, upon Emilias melancholy utterance. He bent to her ear and rapidly spoke, in an undertone, what seemed to be a vivid sketch of a new course of fortune for her. Emilia gave one joyful outcry; and now Wilfrid retreated, questioning within himself whether he should have remained so long. But, as he argued, if he was convinced that the rascally Greek fellow meant mischief to her, was he not bound to employ every stratagem to be her safeguard? The influence of Mr. Pericles already exercised over her was immense and mysterious. Within ten minutes she was singing triumphantly indoors. Wilfrid could hear that her voice was firm and assured. She was singing the song of the woods. He found to his surprise that his heart dropped under some burden, as if he had no longer force to sustain it.
By-and-by some of the members of the company issued forth. Carriages were heard on the gravel, and young men in couples, preparing to light the ensign of happy release from the ladies (or of indemnification for their absence, if you please), strolled about the grounds.
Did you see that little passage between Laura Tinley and Bella Pole? said one, and forthwith mimicked them: Laura commencing:-We must have her over to us. I fear we have pre-engaged her.Oh, but you, dear, will do us the favour to come, too? I fear, dear, our immediate engagements will preclude the possibility.Surely, dear Miss Pole, we may hope that you have not abandoned us?That, my dear Miss Tinley, is out of the question.May we not name a day?If it depends upon us, frankly, we cannot bid you do so.
The other joined him in laughter, adding: Frankly s capital! What absurd creatures women are! How the deuce did you manage to remember it all?
My sister was at my elbow. She repeated it, word for word.
Pon my honour, women are wonderful creatures!
The two young men continued their remarks, with a sense of perfect consistency.
Lady Gosstre, as she was being conducted to her carriage, had pronounced aloud that Emilia was decidedly worth hearing.
Shes better worth knowing, said Tracy Runningbrook. I see you are all bent on spoiling her. If you were to sit and talk with her, you would perceive that shes meant for more than to make a machine of her throat. What a throat it is! She has the most comical notion of things. I fancy Im looking at the budding of my own brain. Shes a born artist, but Im afraid everybodys conspiring to ruin her.
Surely, said Adela, we shall not do that, if we encourage her in her Art.
He means another kind of art, said Lady Gosstre. The term artist, applied to our sex, signifies Frenchwoman with him. He does not allow us to be anything but women. As artists then we are largely privileged, I assure you.
Are we placed under a professor to learn the art? Adela inquired, pleased with the subject under such high patronage.
Each new experience is your accomplished professor, said Tracy. One Ill call Cleopatra a professor: shes but an illustrious example.