At length, her hand upon his shoulder, and her
breath upon his forehead, roused Tom from his reverie.
'Dear me!' he cried, desisting with a start. 'I am afraid I have been
very inconsiderate and unpolite.'
Tom little thought how much consideration and politeness he had shown!
'Sing something to us, my dear,' said Tom, 'let us hear your voice.
Come!'
John Westlock added his entreaties with such earnestness that a flinty
heart alone could have resisted them. Hers was not a flinty heart. Oh,
dear no! Quite another thing.
So down she sat, and in a pleasant voice began to sing the ballads Tom
loved well. Old rhyming stories, with here and there a pause for a few
simple chords, such as a harper might have sounded in the ancient time
while looking upward for the current of some half-remembered legend;
words of old poets, wedded to such measures that the strain of music
might have been the poet's breath, giving utterance and expression to
his thoughts; and now a melody so joyous and light-hearted, that the
singer seemed incapable of sadness, until in her inconstancy (oh wicked
little singer!) she relapsed, and broke the listeners' hearts again;
these were the simple means she used to please them.
Pages:
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303