Raymount's utterance may perhaps seem obscure
to a better thinker. He concluded merely that his host was talking for
talk's sake, so talking rubbish. The girl came in again, and the
conversation dropped. Mr. Raymount went to his writing, Vavasor toward
the piano. Willing to please Cornelius, whom he almost regarded with a
little respect now that he had turned out brother to such a sister.
"Sing the song you gave us the other night at our house," he said
carelessly.
Hester could hardly credit her hearing. Still more astonished was she
when Cornelius actually struck a few chords and began to sing. The song
was one of those common drawing-room ones more like the remnants of a
trifle the day after a party than any other dish for human use. But
there was one mercy in it: the words and the music went together in a
perfect concord of weak worthlessness; and Hester had not to listen,
with the miserable feeling that rude hands were pulling at the modest
garments of her soul, to a true poem set to the music of a scrannel pipe
of wretched straw, whose every tone and phrase choked the divine bird
caged in the verse.
Cornelius sang like a would-be singer, a song written by a would-be
poet, and set by a would-be musician.
Pages:
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121