Lord Kilgobbin Part 58

She next tried Gorman, and here her success was complete. All those womanly prettinesses, which are so many modes of displaying graceful attraction of voice, look, gesture, or att.i.tude, were especially dear to him. Not only they gave beauty its chief charm, but they const.i.tuted a sort of game, whose address was quickness of eye, readiness of perception, prompt reply, and that refined tact that can follow out one thought in a conversation just as you follow a melody through a ma.s.s of variations.

Perhaps the young soldier did not yield himself the less readily to these captivations that Kate Kearney's manner towards him was studiously cold and ceremonious.

'The other girl is more like the old friend,' muttered he, as he chatted on with her about Rome, and Florence, and Venice, imperceptibly gliding into the language which the names of places suggested.

'If any had told me that I ever could have talked thus freely and openly with an Austrian soldier, I'd not have believed him,' said she at length, 'for all my sympathies in Italy were with the National party.'

[Ill.u.s.tration: He knelt down on one knee before her]

'But we were not the "Barbari" in your recollection, mademoiselle,' said he. 'We were out of Italy before you could have any feeling for either party.'

'The tradition of all your cruelties has survived you, and I am sure, if you were wearing your white coat still, I'd hate you.'

'You are giving me another reason to ask for a longer leave of absence,'

said he, bowing courteously.

'And this leave of yours--how long does it last?'

'I am afraid to own to myself. Wednesday fortnight is the end of it; that is, it gives me four days after that to reach Vienna.'

'And presenting yourself in humble guise before your colonel, to say, "_Ich melde mich gehorsamst_."'

'Not exactly that--but something like it.'

'I'll be the Herr Oberst Lieutenant,' said she, laughing; 'so come forward now and clap your heels together, and let us hear how you utter your few syllables in true abject fas.h.i.+on. I'll sit here, and receive you.' As she spoke, she threw herself into an arm-chair, and a.s.suming a look of intense hauteur and defiance, affected to stroke an imaginary moustache with one hand, while with the other she waved a haughty gesture of welcome.

'I have outstayed my leave,' muttered Gorman, in a tremulous tone. 'I hope my colonel, with that bland mercy which characterises him, will forgive my fault, and let me ask his pardon.' And with this, he knelt down on one knee before her, and kissed her hand.

'What liberties are these, sir?' cried she, so angrily, that it was not easy to say whether the anger was not real.

'It is the latest rule introduced into our service,' said he, with mock humility.

'Is that a comedy they are acting yonder,' said Walpole, 'or is it a proverb?'

'Whatever the drama,' replied Kate coldly, 'I don't think they want a public.'

'You may go back to your duty, Herr Lieutenant,' said Nina proudly, and with a significant glance towards Kate. 'Indeed, I suspect you have been rather neglecting it of late.' And with this she sailed majestically away towards the end of the room.

'I wish I could provoke even that much of jealousy from the other,'

muttered Gorman to himself, as he bit his lip in pa.s.sion. And certainly, if a look and manner of calm unconcern meant anything, there was little that seemed less likely.

'I am glad you are going to the piano, Nina,' said Kate. 'Mr. Walpole has been asking me by what artifice you could be induced to sing something of Mendelssohn.'

'I am going to sing an Irish ballad for that Austrian patriot, who, like his national poet, thinks "Ireland a beautiful country to live out of."'

Though a haughty toss of her head accompanied these words, there was a glance in her eye towards Gorman that plainly invited a renewal of their half-flirting hostilities.

'When I left it, _you_ had not been here,' said he, with an obsequious tone, and an air of deference only too marked in its courtesy.

A slight, very faint blush on her cheek showed that she rather resented than accepted the flattery, but she appeared to be occupied in looking through the music-books, and made no rejoinder.

'We want Mendelssohn, Nina,' said Kate.

'Or at least Spohr,' added Walpole.

'I never accept dictation about what I sing,' muttered Nina, only loud enough to be overheard by Gorman. 'People don't tell you what theme you are to talk on; they don't presume to say, "Be serious or be witty." They don't tell you to come to the aid of their sluggish natures by pa.s.sion, or to dispel their dreariness by flights of fancy; and why are they to dare all this to _us_ who speak through song?'

'Just because you alone can do these things,' said Gorman, in the same low voice as she had spoken in.

'Can I help you in your search, dearest?' said Kate, coming over to the piano.

'Might I hope to be of use?' asked Walpole.

'Mr. O'Shea wants me to sing something for _him_,' said Nina coldly. 'What is it to be?' asked she of Gorman. With the readiness of one who could respond to any sudden call upon his tact, Gorman at once took up a piece of music from the ma.s.s before him, and said, 'Here is what I have been searching for.' It was a little Neapolitan ballad, of no peculiar beauty, but one of those simple melodies in which the rapid transition from deep feeling to a wild, almost reckless, gaiety imparts all the character.

'Yes, I'll sing that,' said Nina; and almost in the same breath the notes came floating through the air, slow and sad at first, as though labouring under some heavy sorrow; the very syllables faltered on her lips like a grief struggling for utterance--when, just as a thrilling cadence died slowly away, she burst forth into the wildest and merriest strain, something so impetuous in gaiety, that the singer seemed to lose all control of expression, and floated away in sound with every caprice of enraptured imagination. When in the very whirlwind of this impetuous gladness, as though a memory of a terrible sorrow had suddenly crossed her, she ceased; then, in tones of actual agony, her voice rose to a cry of such utter misery as despair alone could utter. The sounds died slowly away as though lingeringly. Two bold chords followed, and she was silent.

None spoke in the room. Was this real pa.s.sion, or was it the mere exhibition of an accomplished artist, who could call up expression at will, as easily as a painter could heighten colour? Kate Kearney evidently believed the former, as her heaving chest and her tremulous lip betrayed, while the cold, simpering smile on Walpole's face, and the 'brava, bravissima' in which he broke the silence, vouched how he had interpreted that show of emotion.

'If that is singing, I wonder what is crying,' cried old Kearney, while he wiped his eyes, very angry at his own weakness.' And now will any one tell me what it was all about?'

'A young girl, sir,' replied Gorman, 'who, by a great effort, has rallied herself to dispel her sorrow and be merry, suddenly remembers that her sweetheart may not love her, and the more she dwells on the thought, the more firmly she believes it. That was the cry, "He never loved me," that went to all our hearts.'

'Faith, then, if Nina has to say that,' said the old man, 'Heaven help the others.'

'Indeed, uncle, you are more gallant than all these young gentlemen,' said Nina, rising and approaching him.

'Why they are not all at your feet this moment is more than I can tell.

They're always telling me the world is changed, and I begin to see it now.'

'I suspect, sir, it's pretty much what it used to be,' lisped out Walpole.

'We are only less demonstrative than our fathers.'

'Just as I am less extravagant than mine,' cried Kilgobbin, 'because I have not got it to spend.'

'I hope Mademoiselle Nina judges us more mercifully,' said Walpole.

'Is that song a favourite of yours?' asked she of Gorman, without noticing Walpole's remark in any way.

'No,' said he bluntly; 'it makes me feel like a fool, and, I am afraid, look like one too, when I hear it.'

'I'm glad there's even that much blood in you,' cried old Kearney, who had caught the words. 'Oh dear! oh dear! England need never be afraid of the young generation.'

'That seems to be a very painful thought to you, sir,' said Walpole.

'And so it is,' replied he. 'The lower we bend, the more you'll lay on us.

It was your language, and what you call your civilisation, broke us down first, and the little spirit that fought against either is fast dying out of us.'

'Do you want Mr. Walpole to become a Fenian, papa?' asked Kate.