LITMIR.BIZ

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over the family breakfast-table; a constant humming and crying, “I have it”; and after two or three bars, baffled pauses and confusion of mind. Mr. Pericles was almost abusive at the impotent efforts of the sisters to revive in his memory that particular delicious melody, the composition of the fair singer herself. At last he grew so impatient as to arrest their opening notes, and even to interrupt their unmusical consultations, with “No: it is no use; it is no use: no, no, I say!” But instantly he would plunge his forehead into the palm of his hand, and rub it red, and work his eyebrows frightfully, until tender humanity led the sisters to resume. Adela’s, “I’m sure it began low down—tum!” Cornelia’s: “The key-note, I am positive, was B flat—ta!” and Arabella’s putting of these two assertions together, and promise to combine them at the piano when breakfast was at an end, though it was Sunday morning, were exasperating to the exquisite lover of music. Mr. Pericles was really suffering torments. Do you know what it is to pursue the sylph, and touch her flying skirts, think you have caught her, and are sure of her—that she is yours, the rapturous evanescent darling! when some well-meaning earthly wretch interposes and trips you, and off she flies and leaves you floundering? A lovely melody nearly grasped and lost in this fashion, tries the temper. Apollo chasing Daphne could have been barely polite to the wood-nymphs in his path, and Mr. Pericles was rude to the daughters of his host. Smoothing his clean square chin and thick moustache hastily, with outspread thumb and fingers, he implored them to spare his nerves. Smiling rigidly, he trusted they would be merciful to a sensitive ear. Mr. Pole—who, as an Englishman, could not understand anyone being so serious in the pursuit of a tune—laughed, and asked questions, and almost drove Mr. Pericles mad. On a sudden the Greek’s sallow visage lightened. “It is to you! it is to you!” he cried, stretching his finger at Wilfrid. The young officer, having apparently waited till he had finished with his knife and fork, was leaning his cheek on his fist, looking at nobody, and quietly humming a part of the air. Mr. Pericles complimented and thanked him.

      “But you have ear for music extraordinaire!” he said.

      Adela patted her brother fondly, remarking—“Yes, when his feelings are concerned.”

      “Will you repeat zat?” asked the Greek. “‘To-to-ri:’ hein? I lose it. ‘To-to-ru:’ bah! I lose it; ‘To-ri:—to—ru—ri ro:’ it is no use: I lose it.”

      Neither his persuasions, nor his sneer, “Because it is Sunday, perhaps!” would induce Wilfrid to be guilty of another attempt. The ladies tried sisterly cajoleries on him fruitlessly, until Mr. Pole, seeing the desperation of his guest, said: “Why not have her up here, toon and all, some week-day? Sunday birds won’t suit us, you know. We’ve got a piano for her that’s good enough for the first of ‘em, if money means anything.”

      The ladies murmured meekly: “Yes, papa.”

      “I shall find her for you while you go to your charch,” said Mr. Pericles. And here Wilfrid was seized with a yawn, and rose, and asked his eldest sister if she meant to attend the service that morning.

      “Undoubtedly,” she answered; and Mr. Pole took it up: “That’s our discipline, my boy. Must set an example: do our duty. All the house goes to worship in the country.”

      “Why, in ze country?” queried Mr. Pericles.

      “Because”—Cornelia came to the rescue of her sire; but her impetuosity was either unsupported by a reason, or she stooped to fit one to the comprehension of the interrogator: “Oh, because—do you know, we have very select music at our church?”

      “We have a highly-paid organist,” added Arabella.

      “Recently elected,” said Adela.

      “Ah! mon Dieu!” Mr. Pericles ejaculated. “Some music sound well at afar—mellow, you say. I prefer your charch music mellow.”

      “Won’t you come?” cried Wilfrid, with wonderful briskness.

      “No. Mellow for me!”

      The Greek’s grinders flashed, and Wilfrid turned off from him sulkily. He saw in fancy the robber-Greek prowling about Wilson’s farm, setting snares for the marvellous night-bird, and it was with more than his customary inattention to his sisters’ refined conversation that he formed part of their male escort to the place of worship.

      Mr. Pericles met the church-goers on their return in one of the green bowery lanes leading up to Brookfield. Cold as he was to English scenes and sentiments, his alien ideas were not unimpressed by the picture of those daintily-clad young women demurely stepping homeward, while the air held a revel of skylarks, and the scented hedgeways quickened with sunshine.

      “You have missed a treat!” Arabella greeted him.

      “A sermon?” said he.

      The ladies would not tell him, until his complacent cynicism at the notion of his having missed a sermon, spurred them to reveal that the organ had been handled in a masterly manner; and that the voluntary played at the close of the service was most exquisite.

      “Even papa was in raptures.”

      “Very good indeed,” said Mr. Pole. “I’m no judge; but you might listen to that sort of playing after dinner.”

      Mr. Pericles seemed to think that was scarcely a critical period, but he merely grimaced, and inquired: “Did you see ze player?”

      “Oh, no: they are hidden,” Arabella explained to him, “behind a curtain.”

      “But, what!” shouted the impetuous Greek: “have you no curiosity? A woman! And zen, you saw not her?”

      “No,” remarked Cornelia, in the same aggravating sing-song voice of utter indifference: “we don’t know whether it was not a man. Our usual organist is a man, I believe.”

      The eyes of the Greek whitened savagely, and he relapsed into frigid politeness.

      Wilfrid was not present to point their apprehensions. He had loitered behind; but when he joined them in the house subsequently, he was cheerful, and had a look of triumph about him which made his sisters say, “So, you have been with the Copleys:” and he allowed them to suppose it, if they pleased; the Copleys being young ladies of position in the neighbourhood, of much higher standing than the Tinleys, who, though very wealthy, could not have given their brother such an air, the sisters imagined.

      At lunch, Wilfrid remarked carelessly: “By the way, I met that little girl we saw last night.”

      “The singer! where?” asked his sisters, with one voice.

      “Coming out of church.”

      “She goes to church, then!”

      This exclamation showed the heathen they took her to be.

      “Why, she played the organ,” said Wilfrid.

      “And how does she look by day? How does she dress?”

      “Oh! very jolly little woman! Dresses quiet enough.”

      “She played the organ! It was she, then! An organist! Is there anything approaching to gentility in her appearance?”

      “I—really I’m no judge,” said Wilfrid. “You had better ask Laura Tinley. She was talking to her when I went up.”

      The sisters exchanged looks. Presently they stood together in consultation. Then they spoke with their aunt, Mrs. Lupin, and went to their papa. The rapacity of those Tinleys for anything extraordinary was known to them, but they would not have conceived that their own discovery, their own treasure, could have been caught up so quickly. If the Tinleys got possession of her, the defection of Mr. Pericles might be counted on, and the display of a phenomenon would be lost to them. They decided to go down to Wilson’s farm that very day, and forestall their rivals by having her up to Brookfield. The idea of doing this had been in a corner of their minds all the morning: it seemed now the most sensible plan in the world. It was patronage, in its right sense. And they might be of great service to her, by giving a proper elevation and tone to her genius; while she might amuse them, and their guests, and be let off, in fact, as a firework for the nonce. Among the queenly cases of women who are designing to become the heads of a circle

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