LITMIR.BIZ

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a moment for counsel over a music-book, for Arabella was about to do duty at the piano. During a pause, Mr. Pole lifting his white waistcoat with the effort, sent a word abroad, loudly and heartily, regardless of its guardian aspirate, like a bold-faced hoyden flying from her chaperon. They had dreaded it. They loved their father, but declined to think his grammar parental. Hushing together, they agreed that it had been a false move to invite Lady Gosstre, who did not care a bit for music, until the success of their Genius was assured by persons who did. To suppose that she would recognize a Genius, failing a special introduction, was absurd. The ladies could turn upon aristocracy too, when it suited them.

      Arabella had now to go through a quartett. The fever of ill-luck had seized the violin. He would not tune. Then his string broke; and while he was arranging it the footman came up to Arabella. Misfortunes, we know, are the most united family on earth. The news brought to her was that a lady of the name of Mrs. Chump was below. Holding her features rigidly bound, not to betray perturbation, Arabella confided the fact to Cornelia, who, with a similar mental and muscular compression, said instantly, “Manoeuvre her.” Adela remarked, “If you tell her the company is grand, she will come, and her Irish once heard here will destroy us. The very name of Chump!”

      Mrs. Chump was the wealthy Irish widow of an alderman, whose unaccountable bad taste in going to Ireland for a wife, yet filled the ladies with astonishment. She pretended to be in difficulties with her lawyers; for which reason she strove to be perpetually in consultation with her old flame and present trustee Mr. Pole. The ladies had fought against her in London, and since their installation at Brookfield they had announced to their father that she was not to be endured there. Mr. Pole had plaintively attempted to dilate on the virtues of Martha Chump. “In her place,” said the ladies, and illustrated to him that amid a nosegay of flowers there was no fit room for an exuberant vegetable. The old man had sighed and seemed to surrender. One thing was certain: Mrs. Chump had never been seen at Brookfield. “She never shall be, save by the servants,” said the ladies.

      Emilia, not unmarked of Mr. Pericles, had gone over to Wilfrid once or twice, to ask him if haply he disapproved of anything she had done. Mr. Pericles shrugged, and went “Ah!” as who should say, “This must be stopped.” Adela now came to her and caught her hand, showering sweet whispers on her, and bidding her go to her harp and do her best. “We love you; we all love you!” was her parting instigation.

      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 Emilia’s 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. Wilfrid’s 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 Emilia’s 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 them—then!”

      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 Emilia’s 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,

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