A single shaded lamp illuminated the studio, making the shapes of
things vague where outline and colour were lost in the golden dusk.
Dulcie, alone at the piano, accompanied her own voice with soft,
scarcely heard harmonies, as she hummed, one after another, old
melodies she had learned from the Sisters so long ago--"The Harp,"
"Shandon Bells," "The Exile," "Shannon Water"--songs of that sort and
period:
"_The Bells of Shandon,
Then sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the River Lee._"
Thessalie sat by the open window and Westmore squatted at her feet on
the sill of the little balcony, doing, as usual, all the talking while
she lay deep in her armchair waving her fan, listening, responding
with a low-voiced laugh or word now and again.
Dulcie sang:
"_On the banks of the Shannon
When Mary was nigh._"
From that she changed to a haunting, poignant little song; and Barres
looked up from his desk under the lamp. Then he sealed and stamped the
three letters which he had written to his Foreland kinfolk, and,
holding them in one hand, took his hat from the table with the other,
as though preparing to rise. Dulcie half turned her head, her hands
still idling over the shadowy keys:
"Are you going out?"
"Just to the corner."
"Why don't you mail your letters down stairs?"
"I'll step around to the branch post office; they'll go quicker....
What was that air you were playing just now?"
"It is called 'Mea Culpa.'"
"Play it again."
She turned to the keys, recommenced the Celtic air, and sang in a
clear, childish voice:
"Wake, little maid!
Red dawns the morn,
The last stars fade,
The day is born;
Now the first lark wings high in air,
And sings the Virgin's praises there!
"I am afraid
To see the morn;
I lie dismayed
Beside the thorn.
Gazing at God with frightened eyes,
Where larks are singing in the skies.