“Will you not be persuaded to play for us now?”
She played one of Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsodies, and then something of Chopin's, and then something of Schumann's; after which, leaving the piano, she said to Fairchild--
“Why, how do you know I can sing?” cried he.
“It is evident from the _timbre_ of your voice,” she answered.
“You must not be too sure of that,” he protested. “The speaking voice and the singing voice are two very different things.”
“Nevertheless, please sing for us,” she repeated.
“Very good,” said he, taking possession of the key-board, “I will sing for you; but at your peril. The beauty of the song, however, may perhaps be allowed to atone for the deficiencies of my execution. It is by the English composer, Marzials, a man of the rarest genius, too little known out of his own country. He wrote both words and music, and the song is entitled 'Never Laugh at Love.'”
Therewith, to his own accompaniment, he sang in his sweet baritone one of the pleasantest and wittiest songs of its kind that I have ever heard.
Oh, never laugh at Love, Miss, fancy free,
Lest the wanton boy should laugh at thee!
Should he but aim in play his tiny dart--
So never laugh at Love, Miss, fancy free,
Lest the wanton boy should laugh at thee!
I cannot forbear quoting that one verse, to give a notion of the quaint mediæval charm of the words. * I wish I could transcribe the melody as well, which was delicious with the same quaint flavour.
* The Editor of this work must disclaim all responsibility Dr. Benary's opinions upon matters literary and aesthetic.
Fairchild having finished his song, he and Miriam plunged into an animated conversation about music in the abstract, which I, for one--being, though an ardent lover of music, no musician--found of dubious interest.
“Wherefore, I think,” I interrupted them to say, “if you will forgive the breach of ceremony, Mr. Fairchild, I shall retire to my bedroom for a bit, and take a nap. I feel somewhat fatigued after the exertions of the forenoon; and, anyhow, I am accustomed to my forty winks at this hour of the day. I am sure I leave you in good hands when I leave you to my sister and my niece.”
“Indeed, Dr. Benary, the kindest thing you can do for me--you and your good ladies--will be to let me feel that in no wise do I interfere with your convenience or your pleasure. Otherwise, I shall be compelled to take my departure _instanter_; and I confess that by this time I am so deeply penetrated by the comfort of your interior that I should hate mortally to renew close quarters with the storm.”