To be sure, Mrs. Abington had professed to stand in need of no confession from him. She had—if she was to be believed—posted down to Bath the moment she had heard that Betsy had given her promise to Mr. Long, in order to tell Dick that she sympathised with him.
And if Mrs. Abington, living in London, was aware of his secret, might it not be possible that it was known to numbers of people living in Bath, who had far more frequent opportunities than could possibly be available to her to become aware of the truth?
This question caused him a sleepless hour after he had gone to bed. He could not endure the thought of being pointed at—of being whispered at by busybodies as one of the rejected suitors. His vanity recoiled from the thought of the bare possibility of his being relegated to so ignoble a position. He made up his mind to go to Mrs. Abington the next day and beg of her to keep his secret.
But, strangely enough, he became conscious of a curious reluctance—it seemed a curious instinct of reluctance—to go to Mrs. Abington. The truth was that what she had said to him when talking unreservedly and sincerely had somewhat frightened him. He had not quite understood what she meant when she had reproached herself for being a fool, and it was because he did not understand her that he was—in a measure—afraid of her. The young animal is invariably afraid of what it does not understand. To do so is an elementary impulse of instinct. That is why a dog is cowed when it sees a ghost; ghosts are unusual—very unusual; and that is why men who have not gone througha course of astronomy are terrified at the appearance of a comet.
And the more that Dick Sheridan tried to arrive at an understanding of what the fascinating actress had said to him, the more frightened he became. She had spoken with convincing sincerity. That was just where the element of the unusual appeared, giving rise to his fears.
And then there was that little twinge—was it of jealousy?—which he had felt on looking up the Room and seeing her lavishing her attention upon Tom Linley.
He resolved that for the present, at any rate, he would not go near Mrs. Abington.
But when was he to meet Betsy face to face?
It was not until he had dined the next day that the thought suddenly came to him:
“Why should not I solve in the simplest way the problem of meeting Betsy Linley, by seeking such a meeting myself? Why should not I go to her at her father’s house on the chance of finding her there?”
He wondered how it was that it had not occurred to him long ago to take such a step. Surely, since his aim was to show her and the rest of the world how little he was touched by the news of her having promised to marry Mr. Long, no more effective step than this could be taken by him!
Of course her father would be in the room when he should meet her—certainly Mr. Long would be there; perhaps Tom would be scraping away at his violin, and Polly would be squalling—that was the word which was in his mind when he thought of the likelihood of Mary Linley’s being engaged in practising some of her songs in the music-room—Polly would be squalling at the top of her voice. But any one, or all, of these incidents would only tend to make him more at home—more at ease when meeting Betsy for the first time under the changed conditions of her life. The Linleys’ house in Pierrepont Street would not seem like the same place to him if Polly’s voice were not ringing through it—if the children were not making a noise on thestairs—if Mrs. Linley was not bustling about with a kitchen apron on, or, in the moments of her leisure, with her knitting-needles clicking over half a yard of worsted hose. Yes, he felt that he would be quite at his ease under the usual conditions of the Linleys’ house; and that was why he took no pains to dress himself for the visit. With an instinct of what was dramatically appropriate—he never lost this instinct—he put on the old coat which he had been accustomed to wear when he had enjoyed what Mr. Linley called the “freedom of the Guild of Linley.” That would show Betsy and the rest of them—though it didn’t matter about the rest of them—that, whoever had changed, he was still the same.
He got his first surprise when the door was opened for him by Mrs. Linley. She had on her working-apron, and her hands were not free from a suspicion of flour. She beamed on Dick and wiped one of her hands on her apron to greet him.
“Come within, Dick,” she cried. “Come within, man; though there’s no one at home but Betsy and me. These are busy days with us, Dick, and this is the first quiet hour we have had since Tom returned from Italy. Of course you have heard the news—all Bath is talking of it, and I shouldn’t wonder if it had gone as far as the Wells! ’Tis great news, to be sure; but it means a deal of extra house-work, and more pastry. The children are all gone to Monsieur Badier’s assembly. The boys are taking part in the minuet, and Polly is to sing for the company between the dances. Mr. Linley and Mr. Long are at Lawyer Stott’s. These settlements are always a trouble, though I will say that Mr. Long is more than liberal in his views. Poor Betsy! What will the house be without her, Dick? You will find her in the music-room. She sings every day now, but not real singing—only for her own pleasure. There she goes. Oh lud! why am I standing talking like thiswhen I should be turning my tartlets in the oven? Sniff, Dick, sniff! You have a fine nose. Do you smell the smell of burning paste, or is it only a bit over-crisp?”
Dick sniffed.
“I wouldn’t be too sure of those tartlets, madam,” said he. “But I don’t believe there is more than a brown sniff coming from the oven.”
“Oh lud! if you can sniff the brown, you may swear that the paste is black; you must make allowance for the distance the smell has to travel. Go upstairs; you’ll be able to track her by the sound.”
The good woman was already at the farther end of the passage to her kitchen before Dick had begun to mount the stairs.
The sound of Betsy’s singing went through the house. The song was one of Dr. Arne’s, which he had always loved. But had he ever loved the voice till now?
This was his thought while he stood outside the door of the music-room waiting for the song to come to an end.
It seemed to him that her singing of that song had the magical power of bringing before his eyes every day in the past that he had spent near her. The day when he first saw her she had sung that very song. It was at one of the entertainments given by his father in Bath, and he had just left Harrow. Every phrase of that song which now came from her lips renewed his boyish impressions of the girl, her beauty and the witchery of her voice. He could see himself standing before her, silent and shy, when she had come later in the day to have supper at his father’s house. He had been silent and shy, but she had been quite self-possessed. It was upon that occasion that Mr. Burke referred to the Linley family as a Nest of Linnets.
Dick remembered how he had wondered why it was that he himself had not said that about the Linleys: why shouldit be left to Mr. Burke to say it when it was exactly what was in his own mind?
He had loved her then. He recollected how he had struggled hard all the next day to write a poem about her—a song that her father might perhaps set to music to be sung by Betsy herself.
And then ... and then ... and then....
The ghosts of the sweet past days flitted before him while the sound of that song enveloped him, and every spectral day shone white and bright in his memory. For a time he failed to realise that they were merely shadows flitting across his memory. They seemed to him full of life—a heart beating in every one of them. Alas! it was only his own heart that throbbed with those sweet recollections; for when the song faded away and closed in silence, he felt that he was alone. The beautiful creature of those old days had passed away from him and had left him lonely. He had awakened from a dream.
He felt such a sadness come over him that he could not open the door that separated them. He turned silently away, and was about to go down the stairs, when suddenly the door opened and the girl took a step into the lobby. She started, and gave an exclamation of surprise.
“What! is’t you, Dick?” she cried. “Why, how was it that I failed to hear you come? How is it that you are going down the stairs?”
His self-possession had fled at the moment of her appearance. He faltered out something.
“You were singing, that was how you did not hear me come; and then—then—well, I thought that—that maybe I should disturb you by entering. Yes, you were singing.”
“Oh, Dick!” she said, and there was a note of reproach in her voice.
She turned and walked back into the room. He followed her.
“I knew you would come, Dick,” she cried, giving him both her hands. “Oh, I knew that you were not one who would stay away! I looked for you all yesterday, and I waited within the house all this morning. But you have come now, Dick, and I am glad—you know that I am glad to see you. Were we not always friends—the very best friends that could be, Dick?”
“Yes, I have come, dear Betsy,” he said. “I have come to wish you—to wish you happiness; indeed, I wish you all happiness—with all my heart—with all my heart and soul, dear Betsy.”
He saw her white figure before him through the mist of the tears that sprung to his eyes. And at that moment there was really no desire in his heart but that she should be entirely happy. Every selfish wish—every sense of disappointment—every sense of wounded vanity—every sense of self had dissolved in that mist of tears that came to his eyes, but did not fall.
She was looking into his face, but she did not see that there were tears in his eyes. Her own tears had sprung, and they did not remain in her eyes; they were running down her face.
She could not speak. She could only hold his hands, and all the time she was making a pitiful attempt to smile, only he could not see this.
They stood there silently for a long time. At last he felt her hold upon his hands slacken. Still, there was a suddenness in her act of letting them drop finally. With a sound like that of a little sob, she turned away from him and stood before one of the windows looking out upon the street.
He did not say a word. What word was there for him to say? He had no thought of the clever, cynical things he had meant to say to her on the subject of marriage. He did not at that moment even remember that it had been his intention to say such words to her, so that he did notloathe himself until he had gone home and remembered what his intentions had been the previous day.
He stood silent in the middle of the room. Quite a long space of time had elapsed before she turned to him, and now he could see the smile that was upon her face.
“I knew you would come to see me, Dick,” she said; “for I know that there is no one in the world who would be gladder to see me happy than you, Dick. And you—you will be happy too—you will give me a chance some day of seeing you happy, will you not? It would make me so happy, Dick.”
He shook his head—that was his first impulse; but immediately afterwards he said:
“Oh yes; why should not I be happy—one day, Betsy? Oh, don’t take any thought for me, dear; I dare say that I shall be able to—to—— What is it that makes people happy, Betsy? Is it love—is it loving—is it being loved?”
“Oh, Dick, there are surely plenty of things in the world besides love!” said she.
“There are, but none of them is worth working for,” said he. “There is fame; you have that—you have enjoyed it for years——”
“Enjoyed it? Enjoyed—— Ah, Dick, I have promised to marry Mr. Long in order to escape from it. Now you know why I have given him my promise. It is because I cannot live the life that is imposed on me—because I feel that if I were to continue leading this life I must one day throw myself into the Avon, seeking for rest. I hate the fame which has put my name into the mouth of every one. Oh, Dick, if you could know how all these years my heart has been singing that one anthem, ‘Oh for the wings of a dove—the wings of a dove, to fly away and be at rest!’ I have heard the boys in the Abbey sing it, but they did not know what the words meant. I know what they mean, and my heart has been singing them all these years. My soul hasbeen so filled with that longing that there has been no room in it for any other thought—any other aspiration. You can understand me, Dick—I know that you can understand me. My father cannot. He loses patience with me; and Tom, from whom I hoped so much, he is worse than my father. He has no thought in life apart from his violin, and he is happy only when people are applauding him.”
“And Mr. Long—does he understand you?” asked Dick.
“Oh yes—yes; I feel that he does,” said the girl. “Mr. Long is so good—so kind—so considerate.”
“Oh yes; and you are still ready to do him the injustice of marrying him?” said Dick.
Her face flushed. She looked at him without speaking a word for some moments, then she turned away from him and faced the window, out of which she had been looking pensively.
He caught one of her hands from behind.
“Forgive me, dear Betsy, forgive me!” he cried passionately. “Oh, my Betsy, I did not come here to add to the burden which you have to bear; I did not mean to reproach you; only—you know—you know what is in my heart, dear—what has been in my heart all these years! I did not speak. What would have been the good of telling you? You knew it; you knew all that was in my heart!”
“I knew—I knew,” she said, and every word sounded like a sob.
He was still holding her hand, but she had not turned to him. He was behind her.
“And I knew that you knew, and that gave me hope,” he said. “I had hopes that one day—some day—— Oh, why did my father treat me as he did? Why did he take me from school and bring me here to spend my life in idleness? He would not consent to my learning anything that would be of use to me, that would have enabled me to earn bread for myself. Why could not he have givenme at least a chance of doing something—the chances that other boys are given?”
He had flung her hand away from him and had gone passionately to the farther end of the room, his hands clenched.
“What was the good of my hoping—dreaming—longing?” he continued, speaking across the room. “It seemed that every one was to have a chance except myself. But still, that did not prevent my loving you, Betsy—loving you as none of the more fortunate ones could love you. It was the one solace left to me, and you knew it; you knew that I loved you always; you knew——”
“Oh, Dick, Dick, do not be cruel!” she cried. “Let me implore of you. Oh, Dick, let us be to each other to-day as we used to be long ago when we were children together. You remember how frank we used to be to each other, telling each other everything? How could we be otherwise? We had not learned any language but that of frankness. Dear Dick, I know what was in your heart. You hoped, and I, too, hoped and hoped, until my life became unendurable.... Ah, can you blame me because when my chance of freedom came I accepted it? I promised to marry Mr. Long; but listen to me, Dick: I give you my word that if you tell me that I was wrong I will go to him and take back my promise.”
He turned to her, and his hands instinctively clasped themselves.
“Oh, Betsy—my Betsy!” he cried; and then he was silent.
There was a long pause before she said, in a low but firm voice:
“Tell me what I am to do, Dick, and I will do it. I have given you my word.”
“Oh, my beloved!” he said. His hands were clasped. He was gazing at her standing there before him in all thepathos of her beauty. He knew that if he were to speak the word to her she would keep her promise to him, and the word was trembling on his lips. The temptation to speak it—to bring her back to him—almost overcame him. He looked at her—he faltered—then, with a cry, he put up his hands to his face, shutting her out from his sight, and flung himself into a chair with his head bent and his hands still upon his face.
“God help me! God help me!” he cried through his tears.
“And me too, Dick; God help me!” she said. “Oh, I knew that I could trust you, my Dick! I knew that you were noble—that you were equal to that act of self-sacrifice: a greater act of self-sacrifice than mine. You will not say the word; I knew that you would not say it.”
She was kneeling beside his chair, and she had put an arm across his shoulders—it was almost round his neck.
Still he sat there with his face down upon his hands.
“Dear Dick, the noblest life is that which is made up of self-sacrifice,” said she. “Yours is the strong and the noble life. But mine—— Oh, I feel that if I were strong I would be able to submit to my fate without murmuring. I would not seek to free myself from the life which I have led—the life which I abhor. But I am weak—I know it—I own it, and I feel that I cannot endure it any longer. The last time that I sang in public must be my last time to sing. I made up my mind that anything—death—would be preferable to such an ordeal. Oh, Dick, can you blame me greatly if, when Mr. Long came to me, I welcomed him as a slave welcomes the one who sets him free? I felt that he had come to stand between me and death.”
He put up his hand and took the hand which was resting on his shoulder, her arm crossing his neck. He held it in all tenderness for some time, his eyes looking into hers.Their faces were close together, but he did not kiss her face. Their breath came with the sound of a sigh.
“Dear child,” he said at last, “dear child—dear Betsy, I was selfish even to say so much as I did to you—to say so much as even suggested a reproach. But, thank God, I am strong enough to resist the temptation which you put before me. I dare not ask you to change anything that has happened. It has been decreed by Heaven that we are to walk in different ways, and I hope with all my heart that you will have happiness. I asked you just now whence happiness sprang to any one. Dear Betsy, that question has been answered since I heard you speak. Happiness comes by self-sacrifice. Happiness comes to those who seek not their own good, but the good of others. That is why I can hope that you will be happy, my dear one.”
“Indeed, that is what is in my heart, Dick,” she said. “I feel that I can now do something for the ones I love—for my sisters—for my brothers. Mr. Long is kind and generous. He will, I am assured, help us all. Poor father is obliged to work so hard, and mother is a drudge. I think that little Maria has a nature like mine, and I shall be able to save her from all that I have gone through. And then, and then—well, there is something else to take into account. You can guess what it is, Dick?”
“Yes, I think I know what is on your mind, Betsy,” he said. “You have been pestered by suitors, and now you hope that you will have at least a respite.”
“A respite!” she cried. “Oh, Dick, I shall be safe for evermore. You do not know what I have suffered. It would seem as if every man who ever heard me sing considered that he had a right to send letters to me—letters full of compliments—and every compliment was an insult to me.”
“Why did you not tell me?” he cried, starting up with clenched hands. “Why did you not give me a hint of this?You know that I would have made every rascal among them answer to me with his life for every insult offered to you.”
“I know that—that was why I kept everything a secret from you,” she said. “The thought that you would be in danger on my account—— Ah, I know that blood has been shed already, and even now I do not feel safe. Captain Mathews—he was the most persistent of my persecutors, and even yet ... he uttered the most terrible threats against me only yesterday. I do not feel secure.”
“I will kill him—I swear to you that you have only to hold up your finger, and I will kill him.”
“I know it, dear Dick—I know it. But do you think that I would consent to your running into danger for me? Oh, I would submit to anything sooner than that you should be put in jeopardy of your life. But I have told you all this that you may the more readily understand why I should be filled with longing to go away and hide myself in some place where there is calm and quiet—some place that has always been in my dreams. It must have come to me with the hearing of the anthem, ‘The Lord is my Shepherd.’ Oh, the vision of the green pastures beside the still waters! Now you know all that there is to be known, and you will not judge me too harshly, Dick?”
He saw the appealing look upon her face, and he knew that he had never seen so pitiful an expression before. Her fear was that he might judge her hastily and harshly. Ah, how could she have such an apprehension so far as he was concerned? He forgot while he looked into her face that there had ever been in his heart any thought of bitterness against her. It was impossible that he could even for a moment have entertained a thought except of sympathy in regard to her.
Did there exist in all the world a girl with so gentle—so sensitive—a nature as was hers? It would, he knew, have been impossible to make most people in the world in which they lived—the shallow, cynical, artificial world of fashion—understand how this girl should shrink from everything that young women in their world hoped to achieve. He knew that Elizabeth Linley was envied even by duchesses. There was no woman too exalted to be incapable of looking on her with envy. Dick Sheridan had heard from time to time the remarks which were made upon her by thegrandes dameswho frequented the Pump Room. The Duchess of Argyll, who twenty years before, had taken St. James’s by storm, when she was only the younger of the two Miss Gunnings—she had now become Mistress of the Robes and had been made a Peeress in her own right—he heard this great lady say that Miss Linley was the most beautifulyoung woman in England, and almost equal in this respect to what her own sister, the Countess of Coventry, had been at her age.
And the Duchess of Devonshire—he had heard her say that she was quite content to come to Bath to hear Miss Linley sing once only.
This was the verdict of the two greatest ladies in England, and he knew that what the duchesses thought one day all England thought the next. (The commendation which Miss Linley had received from the king himself when she had sung to his Majesty and the Queen at Buckingham House was not worth considering alongside that of the two great duchesses.)
Could any one believe that such a girl, envied as she was by all the rest of womankind, should shrink from the applause which greeted her every time that she sang—from the admiration which the most distinguished people in England offered to her? Could any one but himself understand the shrinking of that pure soul of hers from the fame that was hers—the adulation of the fastidious? Could any one believe that with all the world at her feet, her dearest wish—her most earnest longing—was for the seclusion of the green pastures, for the quiet that was to be found beside the still waters.
He looked at her, and felt a better man for looking at her. She was one of those rare women who carry with them the power of making their influence for good felt by all with whom they come in contact. No one could be in her presence and remain the same. She was a garden of roses. Dick Sheridan had come to her with his heart full of bitterness—he had been treasuring up hard words to say to her—treasuring up words of keen steel as though they were soft gold; and yet before he had even come into her presence—while he was still standing leaning up against the doorway, listening to her singing—every hard word,every harsh thought had vanished. And now he was standing before her wondering how he could ever have had a thought of her except of tenderness and unselfish devotion. In her presence he had ceased to think of himself. Her happiness—that was what he thought of. He was quite content to take no account of himself in the world in which her happiness was centred. And yet she suggested that there was a possibility of his judging her harshly.
“What you have suffered!” he cried. “Is it the decree of Heaven that those who are more than half divine should have more than double the human capacity for suffering? That is the price which such as you have to pay for a nature such as yours. And you ask me not to judge you too harshly. Ah, my Betsy, you are judging me too harshly if you fancy it possible that I could have any thought about you that was not one of tenderness and affection. Tell me how I can serve you, tell me how I can stand between you and the world—the world that can never understand such a nature as yours. The world is human, and you are half divine.”
“Ah, no!” she cried. “If mine were such a nature, I should be strong enough to endure the worst that could come to me. Alas! I am very human.”
“Show me some one who is very human, and I will show you some one who is very nearly divine,” said he. “What Bishop O’Beirne said about you long ago is the truth; you are more than half an angel. That is why people fail to understand you. I do not think that even I, who have known you so long, have quite understood all the sweet unselfishness of your nature until now. We are being divided now, dear Betsy. We are like ships that meet and then sail separate ways; but whatever may happen, I pray of you to think of me as one who understood you. I pray of you to call for me at any time that you may stand in need of some one to help you.You know that I will come from the farthest ends of the earth to help you.”
“I know it, Dick,” she cried,—“I know it. A day may come when I shall have only that thought to sustain me.”
There was a silence between them. It lasted for some time, each looking into the face of the other, and seeing there a very pale face—each holding the hand of the other, and finding it very cold.
Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of voices downstairs—the voices and the laughter of children. Their feet sounded on the stairs.
In a quick impulse of the moment not to be resisted, the girl threw herself into his arms and kissed him on each cheek—rapidly—almost passionately. He held her close to him and kissed her on the lips. In another instant they had separated; the door of the room was flung wide, and the boys rushed in, followed scarcely less leisurely by Maria and Polly. They all talked together, giving some of the more striking details of the Dancing-Master’s Assembly.
Polly, who was burning to make Dick acquainted with the opportunities of the newest minuet, was unceremoniously elbowed aside by one of the boys, who had a good deal to say on the subject of the refreshments. The buns might certainly have been fresher, he asserted; and Dick freely admitted his right to speak as one of the cognoscenti on the subject of the bun. But the critic was in turn pulled aside by little Maria, who had been presented with a cup of ice for the first time in her life, and was (paradoxically) burning to record her impressions on the subject of ice as a comestible. She admitted being startled at first, but she indignantly denied the impeachment of one of her frank brothers to the effect that she had been too frightened to swallowthe first spoonful, but had, without a voice, borrowed a hasty handkerchief—— No, she had swallowed it, she declared, with a vehemence that carried suspicion to all hearers—she had swallowed it, and if she had not taken a second it was not because she was afraid, but because she was not greedy, like—she was in no doubt as to the identity of the greedy one of the party—the one who had eaten three slices of plum cake, and had not refused, as would have been polite, the fourth tumbler of lemonade. It was Master Oziah who accused himself by excusing himself in respect of this transaction.
The boys rushed inThe door of the room was flung wide, and the boys rushed in.[page152.
The door of the room was flung wide, and the boys rushed in.
[page152.
Only three of the group were talking together, their voices becoming somewhat shrill, when Tom entered, and in a moment silence dropped on all. Tom had, since his return, given them to understand, upon many occasions, that he would not overlook any boisterousness on their part. He talked of nerves, and the young ones had stared at him. They had never heard the word before, and at once jumped to the conclusion that it was some foreign malady—perhaps Italian, and not unlikely to be a variant on the plague or the black death—terrors which had now and again been used by a nurse as a deterrent to their boisterousness.
Silence followed the entrance of Tom—silence and a nudge or two passed faithfully round the group from rib to rib. Tom, on entering the room, had suggestively left the door open—quite wide enough to allow of the exit of all the youngsters in couples without inconveniencing themselves.
He glanced significantly at the opening, and the hint was not lost upon the children.
Only Polly remained in the room. Tom could, no doubt, have dispensed with the society even of Polly; but that young lady had no intention of being in any senseput out by her brother, though her father had hitherto taken his part in any domestic difference, on the plea that Tom was a genius.
She threw herself in a chair, displaying all her finery, and hoping Dick would notice at least some portion of it.
“Tom has been visiting Mrs. Abington these three hours,” said she, with a nod to Dick.
“She took quite a fancy to Tom last night,” said Dick. “But I had great trouble inducing Tom to let me present him to her. I think I showed some tact in excusing him by letting the lady know that he had buried his heart under the bridge of his fiddle.”
“You did not tell me that she is devoted to music—to the fiddle,” said Tom.
“’Tis the first I heard of it,” said Dick. “I have heard of some of her devotions, but the fiddle was not among the number.”
“You probably never took the trouble to find out, and she is not the sort of lady to obtrude her talents on an unwilling ear,” said Tom.
“Oh!” remarked Dick.
“She is not such a lady,” continued Tom. “But the truth is that she possesses a fine and elevated judgment on musical matters.”
“That means that she praised your playing up to the skies,” suggested Polly. “I have not lived in the house with musicians all these years to no purpose.”
Betsy and Dick laughed; but Tom ignored their laughter as well as Polly’s rudeness.
“I knew what a mind she had when she gave me her opinion on Handel last night,” said he. “‘Handel spent all his life building cathedrals,’ were her words.”
“And somebody else’s words, I daresay, before they descended to her,” remarked Polly. “But they are not true; at least, I never heard of Handel’s building anycathedral. Let us count all the cathedrals in England, and you’ll very soon see——”
Tom gave a contemptuous laugh.
“Of course, every one must know that she was alluding to the oratorios of Handel,” said he. “Has anything finer or more apt been said about the oratorios, Dick?”
“The phrase is very apt—indeed, it is striking,” acquiesced Dick.
This degree of praise by no means satisfied Tom. He gave an exclamation that sounded almost derisive.
“Apt—striking—almost striking!” he cried. “Cielo!have you no appreciation of perfection? I tell you that nothing finer—nothing more beautiful was ever said in the world.”
“Oh, she must have been impressed by your playing,” said Polly.
“Don’t be a goose, Polly,” said Betsy. Then she turned to her brother. “Yes, dear Tom, any one who knows anything of Handel’s methods will allow that to suggest a parallel between one of his great oratorios and a cathedral is—is—well, all that you say it is.”
“Only one who is devoted to music and who understands its mysteries could have so sublime a thought,” said Tom. “I felt it to be a great privilege to be permitted to play to such an audience this afternoon.”
“For three mortal hours,” whispered Polly.
“Three hours—immortal hours,” said Tom. “But the time was all too short.”
“I am afraid that I shall never be a musician,” said Polly, with a stage sigh.
“What did you play for Mrs. Abington, Tom?” asked Betsy.
“I took some rolls of music with me,” replied Tom; “but I found that there was no need to have gone to such trouble. She wished to have it explained to her how—how—never mind, ’twas a theory of mine—we talked together about it—she and I—last night in the Long Room. Mr. Walpole came up—Mr. Selwyn—Mr. Williams—they had fresh-made epigrams—pleasantries taken from the French. They wearied her, but she was too polite to yawn in their faces.”
“No; she would not yawn in their faces,” said Dick. “And what was the subject of your theory, Tom? And how did it come that you had no need for the rolls of music you took with you to her lodgings?”
“‘Love and its Interpretation by Music’—that was the point upon which she expressed the liveliest interest,” said Tom.
“Oh, this is no place for me; I am too young,” cried Polly demurely, as she rose from her chair and went to the door.
“Polly has become insufferable,” said Tom in a tone of irritation. “Of course, any one who has studied music knows that it is a science.”
“It is assuredly a science. Language is a science, I have often heard my father assert; and since music can interpret the language of love into phrases that can be easily understood, it must be granted a place among the sciences,” said Dick. “But is’t possible that Mrs. Abington would not listen to your demonstration of this science on your violin?”
“Cielo!Why do you suggest that she would not listen?” cried Tom.
“Why, man, have you not just said that you had no need of the rolls of music which you carried with you?” said Dick.
“Oh, I had no need for the printed music. I improvised for her,” replied Tom.
“In the Italian fashion?” inquired Dick. “Well, I am certain that you had a most sympathetic listener to yourphrases of interpretation. She is, as you say, devoted to—to—science.”
“She was more than sympathetic,” cried Tom. “Oh, it is a better instruction for one to play to such a listener than to receive a lesson from a Maestro.”
“Mrs. Abington is undoubtedly fully qualified to give lessons,” said Dick. “I am sure you will learn much from her, Tom, if you give her your attention.”
And then Mr. Linley entered the room.
Dick stayed to supper with the Linley family; and in spite of the thought that this was probably the last of many delightful suppers at the house in Pierrepont Street—the reflection came to him often in the course of the evening after a burst of merriment from the children, in which Betsy and he joined, Tom being the only one to remain grave—he felt quite happy. To be sure his happiness was tinged with melancholy; but this fact did not cause it to be diminished—nay, his gentle melancholy seemed only to have the qualities of a tender summer mist at sunset, which makes the sun seem larger and gives it colour. The gentle sadness of his reflections only impressed him more deeply with a sense of his happiness—his happiness which arose from a sense of self-sacrifice. In the presence of Betsy he had lost sight of himself, as it were. He gave no thought to the certainty of his own lonely future. He could only think of the possibility of happiness which awaited his dear Betsy.
Mr. Long was not present at this supper: he had gone to his friends, the Lambtons, at the Circus, Mr. Linley explained; and Dick fancied that he saw a new light in Betsy’s face when her father had presented Mr. Long’s apologies. But he did not mistake the meaning of what he saw; he knew that whatever satisfaction she felt at that moment was due solely to her reflection that he, Dick,would not now be subjected to the restraint which Mr. Long’s presence could scarcely fail to put on him. He perceived that she was anxious that this farewell supper should include no element that would interfere with his happiness. And he gave her to understand that in this respect she need have no misgivings. The children, who had always made a great friend of him, had never before found him so merry—so full of stories: he had not really met an ogre since he had last seen them; but he was in correspondence with one, and hoped, upon the next occasion of his coming to Pierrepont Street, to be able to let them know what his views were on many topics of interest. And perhaps at the same time he might be able to tell them something of the professional career of a pirate whom he knew, and who was making quite a name for himself by his many acts of cold-blooded barbarity in the Channel. Meantime he gave them a circumstantial account of the night’s work of a certain Irish fairy, who had attained some amount of popularity in the old days, when the only industrious section of the inhabitants were the fairies.
The children, consulting together in a corner of the room after supper, came to Dick and communicated to him the result of a plebiscite as to whether he or Mr. Garrick was the more entertaining; and they were happy to let him know that, while opinion was divided as to which of them could make the funniest faces when telling a story, there was perfect unanimity on the question of the quality of the stories, those told by Dick being far in advance of Mr. Garrick’s, on account of their seriousness. Mr. Garrick’s stories were, Maria asserted, as the mouthpiece of the group, far too ridiculous to be believed. But Dick’s, it appeared, were well up to the level of the nursery, being perfectly plausible, especially those dealing with the Irish fairies.
Mrs. Linley was the only one of the party who was ina mood to regret the absence of Mr. Long. She had taken special care that the pastry should be of that type which appeals to gentlemen who are as a general rule not partial to pastry. Mr. Long, she told Dick, had never avoided her pastry—no, not even when it came in such a questionable shape as an open tartlet, which Mr. Linley had often said might well make the boldest tremble.
The good woman questioned very much if Mr. Long would partake at the Lambtons’ of any more wholesome fare than would have been at his service had he returned to Pierrepont Street; for though it was understood that the Lambtons had a French cook, who had once been in the employment of Lord Durham, yet for her part she did not believe that a Frenchman could cook a supper for an English palate,—palate was not the word she made use of, but in gastronomy politeness ignores precision.
After supper Betsy sang one song, her father smoked his pipe outside the music-room, and, refraining from criticism, suffered her to sing it after her own heart. He recognised the fact that she had now passed out of the sphere of serious criticism: she had become an amateur, and an amateur is one who sings for one’s own satisfaction, regardless of the feelings of others. Tom was not in the room either: he had gone to his bedroom immediately after supper, and was playing on a muted violin; so that Betsy was permitted to sing without the restraint of any musical presence.
It was getting late when Dick took his leave of those members of the family who remained out of bed, and he found that only for himself and Betsy this leave-taking had any significance. They all begged him to come back again soon—all except Betsy. She took his hand and was silent. She did not even say “good-bye.” He said “good-night” to every one but Betsy. To her he said “good-bye.”
He found that although the street was in darkness, therewas a suggestion of moonlight on the rims of the hills toward the east. The moon was some days past the full and did not rise till within an hour of midnight. Pierrepont Street was lighted by only one lamp, and was quite silent. In the distance he could see the flaring links of a few belated chairs. From another direction there came to his ears the sounds of the singing of some revellers returning from supper and probably on their way to the lodgings of one of their number, where there would be a card-table.
Before these sounds had passed away into the distance he heard the music that was being played in one of the houses in the South Parade, where a dance was taking place. All the windows were lighted, and, looking up, he saw a shadow or two on the blinds—shadows moving to music—a graceful swaying with arched arms to and fro, and then the sudden sweep of the courtesy and the swing of the bow with the gold-laced hat skimming the floor. All the grace, the allurement, of that lost poem of the eighteenth century—the Minuet—came before his eyes with the motion of those shadows with the subdued blaze of a hundred candles behind them.
“Shadows,” he said, “these things are all shadows: there is no substance in all this life; shadows fluttering for an hour in the light of the candles, and then passing away to the land of shadows whence they came.”
He was in the true mood of the moralist. A gentle melancholy was upon him; and he was outside the room with the dancers. The moralist is the man who has not been asked to join in the dance. He walked on, and before he had quite gone out of hearing of the fiddles, the moon had risen above the edge of the hill and was moving among the fleecy clouds that covered the sky, making irises along their edges.
He had intended to go home, but the night was congenialwith his mood; the moonlight had a touch of his melancholy: it was not garish, but tenderly softened by the swimming clouds; so, feeling as if he had a sympathetic companion, he strolled on for a couple of miles on the Gloucester road, and then turned into a lane that led up the hill. Arriving at the highest point, he seated himself on a low bank, whence he could look down upon the lovely city bathed in that milk-white moonlight.
In the moonlight it seemed to his eyes like the city of a dream. All the enchantment of the first sweet sleep of night permeated it. It was surely like a silver city of a mirage—a wonder of the desert, with towers mingling with minarets and shadowy spires.
He did not feel unhappy. How could any one feel unhappy looking down upon such a scene? And there beneath his eyes the mystery and the magic of it all was added to, for the delicate veil of vapour which had been hanging over the windings of the river began to crawl up the banks, and, under the influence of the gentlest of breezes, to spread itself abroad over the city. Looking down upon it, it seemed to be a silent sea—the sea of a dream that comes without sound and floods the visionary landscape, and then swims into the dreamy moonlight. Tower and spire remained above the surface of the river mist—silver islands rising out of a silver sea.
What was this mystery of moonlight that was spread abroad before his eyes? he asked himself. What did it mean to him? Why had he been led forth on this night to be a witness of its wonders?
Was he to learn on this night of nights something of the mystery of life? Was he to learn that the destiny of man is worked out in many phases unfamiliar to man?
One mystery of life had already been revealed to him this night: the happiness of self-abnegation. She had taught him this—the one girl who came into his life, andwho would, he felt sure, ever remain a part of his life, though it might be that he and she would never meet again as they had been accustomed to meet during the previous two years—she had taught him this, at least, and he felt that his life was not the same since he had learned that lesson. He was conscious of the change. His life was better. It was purified; he was living it, not for the joy of life, not for the ambitions which he hitherto sought to realise, but for the spiritual gain; and he was content even though that gain could only be achieved at the sacrifice of all that he had once held most dear.
And all the time that he was reflecting upon the change that had come to him, the scene was changing under his eyes. The breeze that had lifted the mist from the river and spread it abroad through the by-ways of Bath, strengthened and swept those airy billows away into nothingness, and the still fleecy clouds that had been floating motionless about the moon began to feel the breath that came from the west, bringing up somewhat denser, but still fleecy, masses. The moon began to climb among the clouds, and now and again its disc was hidden as it laboured upward.
He rose from his seat on the green bank, and began to make his way down the lane to the London road. The night was very silent. The striking of the clocks of the city was less clear than that of a bell in the far distance. The barking of a dog came from one of the farms on the opposite slope of the river. The bleating of sheep came fitfully and faintly through the trees that concealed the meadow beyond the upward curve of the road.
He reached the road and made some haste homeward. Hitherto he had seen no wayfarer; but before he had gone more than a mile, he heard the rumble of a vehicle in the distance, and a few minutes after, one of the coaches came up and galloped past in a whirl of dust. Dick turned asideto avoid the dust, and stood for a few minutes in the cover of a small shrubbery. When he resumed his walk the coach was not only out of sight, it was out of hearing as well.
But before he had gone on more than a hundred yards he was startled by hearing another sound—the sound of a man’s shout as if for help. It came from the distance of the road in front of him, and it was repeated more than once.
Dick stopped at the first cry, faint though it sounded, and listened closely. After all, he thought, the sound might only come from a shepherd driving his sheep from one pasturage to another; but the next time it came his doubt vanished. He was running at the top of his speed round where the road curved, and before he had gone far he saw three men furiously lunging—the moonlight flashed on their blades—at what seemed to him to be the iron gate between the carriage drive of a house and the road. When he got closer to them, however, he saw that there was a man behind the bars of the gate, and that while he was holding the latch fast with his left hand, with the sword which he held in his right he was cleverly parrying the thrusts of the others.
Without thinking of the likelihood of the men turning upon him if he interfered with them—his Irish blood, which was now pretty hot in his veins, prevented his entertaining the thought of danger to himself—he whisked out his sword, and, with a shout to encourage the man behind the gate, made for his antagonists. He never reached them. At the sound of his voice they contented themselves with a vicious thrust or two between the bars, and then turned and ran.