Lost
in thought, she scarcely knew what she played, nor how she was
playing,--but she was conscious of a sudden and singular exaltation
of spirit,--a rush of inward energy that was almost protest,--a
force which refused to be checked, and which seemed to fill her to
the very finger tips with ardours not her own,--martyrs going to the
destroying flames might have felt as she felt then. There was a
grave sense of impending sorrow hanging over her, mingled with a
strong and prayerful resolve to overcome whatever threatened her
soul's peace,--and she played on and on, listening to the rushing
waves of sound which she herself evoked, and almost losing herself
in a trance of thought and vision. And in this dreamy,
supersensitive condition, she imagined that even Manuel's face fair
and innocent as it was, grew still more beautiful,--a light, not of
the sun's making, seemed to dwell like an aureole in his clustering
hair and in his earnest eyes,--and a smile sweeter than any she had
ever seen, seemed to tremble on his lips as she looked at him.
"You are thinking beautiful things," he said gently, "And they are
all in the music. Shall I tell you about them?"
She nodded assent, while her fingers, softly pressing out the last
chord of Beethoven's music, wandered of their own will into the
melancholy pathos of a Schubert "Reverie.
Pages:
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277