'I thought it might help you a little if I ran through the opera with
you,' said Madame Bonanni, after a long time. 'I have sung it very
often.' But as she spoke she shut the score on the piano rather sharply, as if
she had changed her mind. Margaret looked up quickly in surprise and
dropped her work in her lap.
'You did not come all the way from London for that?' she asked, in a
voice full of gratitude and wonder.
There was a moment's pause, during which the singer looked uneasy.
'No,' she said, 'I didn't. I never could lie very well--I can't at all
to-day! But I would have come, only for that, if I had thought you
needed it. That is the truth.' 'How good you are!' Margaret cried.
'Good!' The singer's hand covered her big eyes for a moment and her elbow
rested on the edge of the piano desk. There was a very sad note in the
single word she had spoken, a note of despair not far off; but Margaret
did not understand.
'What is the matter?' she asked, leaning forward, and laying one hand
gently on Madame Bonanni's wrist. 'Why do you speak like that?' 'Do you think you would have been any better, in my place?' The question came in a harsh tone, suddenly, as if it broke through
some opposing medium, the hand dropped from the brow, and the big dark
eyes gazed into Margaret's almost fiercely. Still the girl did not
understand.
'Better? I? In what way? Tell me what it is, if something is
distressing you. Let me help you, if I can. You know I will, with all
my heart.' 'Yes, I know.' Madame Bonanni's voice sank again. 'But how can you? The
trouble is older than you are. There is one thing--yes--there is one
thing, if you could say it truly! It would help me a little if you
could say it--and yet--no--I'm not sure--if you did, it would only show
that you have more heart than he has.' 'Who?' Margaret vaguely guessed the truth.
'Who? Tom--my son! "Edmund Lushington," who feels that he cannot ask a
respectable girl to marry him because his mother has been a wicked
woman.' The big woman shook from head to foot as she spoke.
Margaret was pained and her fingers tightened nervously on the other's
wrist.
'Oh, please don't!' she cried. 'Please don't!' 'He's right,' answered Madame Bonanni, hanging her large head and
shaking it despairingly. 'Of course, he's right, and it's true! But,
oh!--she looked up again, suddenly--'oh, how much more right it must be
for a man to forgive his mother, no matter what she has done!' Margaret's fingers glided from the wrist they held, to the large hand,
and pressed it sympathetically, but she could not find anything to say
which would do. The friendly pressure, however, evidently meant enough
to the distressed woman.