She extends both her hands, and her eyes deepen and flash.

"Ah! you are one of those great men whom we all love and admire!" she says, with direct frankness,--and the cynical Beau, who has never yet received so sincere a compliment, feels himself coloring like a school-girl. "I am so very proud to meet you! I have read your wonderful book, 'Azaziel,' and it made me glad and sorry together. For why do you draw a n.o.ble example and yet say at the same time that it is impossible to follow it? Because in one breath you inspire us to be good, and yet you tell us we shall never become so! That is not right,--is it?"

Beau meets her questioning glance with a grave smile.

"It is most likely entirely wrong from _your_ point of view, Lady Errington," he said. "Some day we will talk over the matter. You shall show me the error of my ways. Perhaps you will put life, and the troublesome business of living, in quite a new light for me! You see, we novelists have an unfortunate trick of looking at the worst or most ludicrous side of everything--we can't help it! So many apparently lofty and pathetic tragedies turn out, on close examination, to be the meanest and most miserable of farces,--it's no good making them out to be grand Greek poems when they are only base doggerel rhymes. Besides, it's the fashion nowadays to be _chiffonniers_ in literature--to pick up the rags of life and sort them in all their uncomeliness before the morbid eyes of the public. What's the use of spending thought and care on the manufacture of a jewelled diadem, and offering it to the people on a velvet cushion, when they prefer an _olla-podrida_ of cast-off clothing, dried bones and candle-ends? In brief, what would it avail to write as grandly as Shakespeare or Scott, when society clamors for Zola and others of his school?"

There was a little group round them by this time,--men generally collected wherever Beau Lovelace aired his opinions,--and a double attraction drew them together now in the person of the lovely woman to whom he was holding forth.

Marcia Van Clupp stared mightily--surely the Norwegian peasant would not understand Beau's similes,--for they were certainly incomprehensible to Marcia. As for his last remark--why! she had read all Zola's novels in the secrecy of her own room, and had gloated over them;--no words could describe her intense admiration of books that were so indelicately realistic! "He is jealous of other writers, I suppose," she thought; "these literary people hate each other like poison."

Meanwhile Thelma's blue eyes looked puzzled. "I do not know that name,"

she said. "Zola!--what is he? He cannot be great. Shakespeare I know,--he is the glory of the world, of course; I think him as n.o.ble as Homer. Then for Walter Scott--I love all his beautiful stories--I have read them many, many times, nearly as often as I have read Homer and the Norse Sagas. And the world must surely love such writings--or how should they last so long?" She laughed and shook her bright head archly.

"_Chiffonnier! Point du tout! Monsieur, les divines pensets que vous avez donne au monde ne sont pas des chiffons._"

Beau smiled again, and offered her his arm. "Let me find you a chair!"

he said. "It will be rather a difficult matter,--still I can but try.

You will be fatigued if you stand too long." And he moved through the swaying crowd, with her little gloved hand resting lightly on his coat-sleeve,--while Marcia Van Clupp and her mother exchanged looks of wonder and dismay. The "fisherwoman" could speak French,--moreover, she could speak it with a wonderfully soft and perfect accent,--the "person"

had studied Homer and Shakespeare, and was conversant with the best literature,--and, bitterest sting of all, the "peasant" could give every woman in the room a lesson in deportment, grace, and perfect taste in dress. Every costume looked tawdry beside her richly flowing velvet draperies--every low bodice became indecent compared with the modesty of that small square opening at Thelma's white throat--an opening just sufficient to display her collar of diamonds--and every figure seemed either dumpy and awkward, too big or too fat, or too lean and too lanky--when brought into contrast with her statuesque outlines.

The die was cast,--the authority of Beau Lovelace was nearly supreme in fashionable and artistic circles, and from the moment he was seen devoting his attention to the "new beauty," excited whispers began to flit from mouth to mouth,--"She will be the rage this season!"--"We must ask her to come to us!"--"_Do_ ask Lady Winsleigh to introduce us!"--"She _must_ come to _our_ house!" and so on. And Lady Winsleigh was neither blind nor deaf--she saw and heard plainly enough that her reign was over, and in her secret soul she was furious. The "common farmer's daughter" was neither vulgar nor uneducated--and she was surpa.s.singly lovely--even Lady Winsleigh could not deny so plain and absolute a fact. But her ladyship was a woman of the world, and she perceived at once that Thelma was not. Philip had married a creature with the bodily loveliness of a G.o.ddess and the innocent soul of a child--and it was just that child-like, pure soul looking serenely out of Thelma's eyes that had brought the long-forgotten blush of shame to Clara Winsleigh's cheek. But that feeling of self-contempt soon pa.s.sed--she was no better and no worse than other women of her set, she thought--after all, what had she to be ashamed of? Nothing, except--except--perhaps, her "little affair" with "Lennie." A new emotion now stirred her blood--one of malice and hatred, mingled with a sense of outraged love and ungratified pa.s.sion--for she still admired Philip to a foolish excess. Her dark eyes flashed scornfully as she noted the att.i.tude of Sir Francis Lennox,--he was leaning against the marble mantel-piece, stroking his moustache with one hand, absorbed in watching Thelma, who, seated in an easy chair which Beau Lovelace had found for her, was talking and laughing gaily with those immediately around her, a group which increased in size every moment, and in which the men were most predominant.

"Fool!" muttered Lady Winsleigh to herself, apostrophizing "Lennie" in this uncomplimentary manner. "Fool! I wonder if he thinks I care! He may play hired lacquey to all the women in London if he likes! He looks a prig compared to Philip!"

And her gaze wandered,--Philip was standing by his wife, engaged in an animated conversation with Lord Winsleigh. They were all near the grand piano--and Lady Clara, smoothing her vexed brow, swept her ruby velvets gracefully up to that quarter of the room. Before she could speak, the celebrated Herr Machtenklinken confronted her with some sternness.

"Your ladyshib vill do me ze kindness to remember," he said, loftily, "zat I am here to blay! Zere has been no obbortunity--ze biano could not make itself to be heard in zis fery moch noise. It is bossible your ladyshib shall require not ze music zis efening? In zat case I shall take my fery goot leave."

Lady Winsleigh raised her eyes with much superciliousness.

"As you please," she said coolly. "If _you_ are so indifferent to your advantages--then all I can say is, so am I! You are, perhaps, known on the Continent, Herr Machtenklinken,--but not here--and I think you ought to be more grateful for my influence."

So saying, she pa.s.sed on, leaving the luckless pianist in a state of the greatest indignation.

"_Gott in Himmel!_" he gasped, in a sort of infuriated sotto voce. "Ze Emberor himself would not have speak to me so! I come here as a favor--her ladyshib do not offer me one _pfenning_,--ach! ze music is not for such beoble! I shall brefer to blay to bigs! Zere is no art in zis country!--"

And he began to make his way out of the room, when he was overtaken by Beau Lovelace, who had followed him in haste.

"Where are you off to, Hermann?" he asked good-naturedly. "We want you to play. There is a lady here who heard you in Paris quite recently--she admires you immensely. Won't you come and be introduced to her?"

Herr Machtenklinken paused, and a smile softened his. .h.i.therto angry countenance.

"You are fery goot, Mr. Lofelace," he remarked--"and I would do moch for _you_--but her ladyshib understands me not--she has offend me--it is better I should take my leave."

"Oh, bother her ladyship!" said Beau lightly. "Come along, and give us something in your best style."

So saying, he led the half-reluctant artist back to the piano, where he was introduced to Thelma, who gave him so sweet a smile that he was fairly dazzled.

"It is you who play Schumann so beautifully," she said. "My husband and I heard you at one of Lamoureux's concerts in Paris. I fear," and she looked wistfully at him, "that you would think it very rude and selfish of me if I asked you to play just one little piece? Because, of course, you are here to enjoy yourself, and talk to your friends, and it seems unkind to take you away from them!"

A strange moisture dimmed the poor German's eyes. This was the first time in England that the "celebrate" had been treated as a friend and a gentleman. Up to this moment, at all the "at homes" and "a.s.semblies," he had not been considered as a guest at all,--he was an "artist," "a good pianist,"--"a man who had played before the Emperor of Germany"--and he was expected to perform for nothing, and be grateful for the "influence"

exercised on his behalf--influence which as yet had not put one single extra guinea in his pocket. Now, here was a great lady almost apologizing for asking him to play, lest it should take him away from his "friends"! His heart swelled with emotion and grat.i.tude--the poor fellow had no "friends" in London, except Beau Lovelace, who was kind to him, but who had no power in the musical world,--and, as Thelma's gentle voice addressed him, he could have knelt and kissed her little shoe for her sweet courtesy and kindness.

"Miladi," he said, with a profound reverence, "I will blay for you with bleasure,--it will be a joy for ze music to make itself beautiful for you!"

And with this fantastic attempt at a compliment, he seated himself at the instrument and struck a crashing chord to command silence.

The hum of conversation grew louder than ever--and to Thelma's surprise Lady Winsleigh seated herself by her and began to converse. Herr Machtenklinken struck another chord,--in vain! The deafening clamor of tongues continued, and Lady Winsleigh asked Thelma with much seeming interest if the scenery was very romantic in Norway?

The girl colored deeply, and after a little hesitation, said--

"Excuse me,--I would rather not speak till the music is over. It is impossible for a great musician to think his thoughts out properly unless there is silence. Would it not be better to ask every one to leave off talking while this gentleman plays?"

Clara Winsleigh looked amused. "My dear, you don't know them," she said carelessly. "They would think me mad to propose such a thing! There are always a few who listen."

Once more the pianist poised his hands over the keys of the instrument,--Thelma looked a little troubled and grieved. Beau Lovelace saw it, and acting on a sudden impulse, turned towards the chattering crowds, and, holding up his hand, called, "Silence, please!"

There was an astonished hush. Beau laughed. "We want to hear some music," he said, with the utmost coolness. "Conversation can be continued afterwards." He then nodded cheerfully towards Herr Machtenklinken, who, inspired by this open encouragement, started off like a race-horse into one of the exquisite rambling preludes of Chopin.

Gradually, as he played, his plain face took upon itself a n.o.ble, thoughtful, rapt expression,--his wild eyes softened,--his furrowed, frowning brow smoothed,--and, meeting the grave, rare blue eyes of Thelma, he smiled. His touch grew more and more delicate and tender--from the prelude he wandered into a nocturne of plaintive and exceeding melancholy, which he played with thrilling and exquisite pathos--anon, he glided into one of those dreamily joyous yet sorrowful mazurkas, that remind one of bright flowers growing in wild luxuriance over lonely and forsaken graves. The "celebrate" had reason to boast of himself--he was a perfect master of the instrument,--and as his fingers closed on the final chord, a hearty burst of applause rewarded his efforts, led by Lovelace and Lorimer. He responded by the usual bow,--but his real grat.i.tude was all for Thelma. For her he had played his best--and he had seen tears in her lovely eyes. He felt as proud of her appreciation as of the ring he had received from the Tsar,--and bent low over the fair hand she extended to him.

"You must be very happy," she said, "to feel all those lovely sounds in your heart! I hope I shall see and hear you again some day,--I thank you so very much for the pleasure you have given me!"

Lady Winsleigh said nothing--and she listened to Thelma's words with a sort of contempt.

"Is the girl half-witted?" she thought. "She must be, or she would not be so absurdly enthusiastic! The man plays well,--but it is his profession to play well--it's no good praising these sort of people,--they are never grateful, and they always impose upon you."

Aloud she asked Sir Philip--

"Does Lady Errington play?"

"A little," he answered. "She sings."

At once there was a chorus of inanely polite voices round the piano, "Oh, _do_ sing, Lady Errington! Please, give us one song!" and Sir Francis Lennox, sauntering up, fixed his languorous gaze on Thelma's face, murmuring, "You will not be so cruel as to refuse us such delight?"

"But, of course not!" answered the girl, greatly surprised at all these unnecessary entreaties. "I am always pleased to sing." And she drew off her long loose gloves and seated herself at the piano without the least affectation of reluctance. Then, glancing at her husband with a bright smile, she asked, "What song do you think will be best, Philip?"

"One of those old Norse mountain-songs," he answered.

She played a soft minor prelude--there was not a sound in the room now--everybody pressed towards the piano, staring with a curious fascination at her beautiful face and diamond-crowned hair. One moment--and her voice, in all its pa.s.sionate, glorious fullness, rang out with a fresh vibrating tone that thrilled to the very heart--and the foolish crowd that gaped and listened was speechless, motionless, astonished, and bewildered.

A Norse mountain-song was it? How strange, and grand, and wild! George Lorimer stood apart--his eyes ached with restrained tears. He knew the melody well--and up before him rose the dear solemnity of the Altenguard hills, the glittering expanse of the Fjord, the dear old farmhouse behind its cl.u.s.ter of pines. Again he saw Thelma as he had seen her first--clad in her plain white gown, spinning in the dark embrasure of the rose-wreathed window--again the words of the self-destroyed Sigurd came back to his recollection, "Good things may come for others--but for you the heavens are empty!" He looked at her now,--Philip's wife--in all the splendor of her rich attire;--she was lovelier than ever, and her sweet nature was as yet unspoilt by all the wealth and luxury around her.

"Good G.o.d! what an _inferno_ she has come into!" he thought vaguely.

"How will she stand these people when she gets to know them? The Van Clupps, the Rush-Marvelles, and others like them,--and as for Clara Winsleigh--" He turned to study her ladyship attentively. She was sitting quite close to the piano--her eyes were cast down, but the rubies on her bosom heaved quickly and restlessly, and she furled and unfurled her fan impatiently. "I shouldn't wonder," he went on meditating gravely, "if she doesn't try and make some mischief somehow.

She looks it."

At that moment Thelma ceased singing, and the room rang with applause.

Herr Machtenklinken was overcome with admiration.