"You may be sure that he will be able to defend himself without drawing either his sword or his fiddle. To your singing, Betsy. Go back to the recitative."
"It would be a terrible thing to find that he had outgrown his affection for us. I have heard that in Italy----"
"Still harping on my daughter's brother! Come, Miss Linnet, you shall have your chance. You shall fancy that your prayer is uttered on behalf of your brother.
'Angels, ever bright and fair, Take, oh, take _him_ to your care.'
Now shall the angels hear for certain. Come, child; one, two----"
"Brava!" cried her father _sotto voce_, as the sound thrilled through the room and there was a suggestion of an answering vibration from the voice of the harpsichord.
"'Angels, ever bright and fair, Take, oh, take me----'"
The harpsichord jingled alone. The girl's voice failed. She threw herself into a chair, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into a passion of sobbing.
"Oh, if he does not arrive after all--if some accident has happened--if--if----"
The apprehensions which she was too much overcome to name were emphasised in the glance that she cast at her father. Her eyes, the most marvellous wells of deep tenderness that ever woman possessed, at all times suggested a certain pathetic emotion of fear, causing every man who looked into their depths to seek to be her protector from the danger they seemed to foresee; but at this moment they appeared to look straight into the face of disaster.
"If I could translate that expression of your face into music, I should be the greatest musician alive," said her father.
In a second the girl was on her feet, uttering a little sound of contempt. She began pacing the floor excitedly, her long white muslin dress flowing from her high waist in waves.
"Ah, always this art--always this art!" she cried. "Always the imitation--always the pitiful attempt to arouse an artificial emotion in others, and never to have an hour of true emotion oneself, never an hour of real life, never an hour apart from the artifices of Art,--that is the life which you would have me to lead. I hate it! I hate it! Oh, better a day--an hour--a minute of true tenderness than a long lifetime spent in shamming emotion!"