Music.
"And pray, Mademoiselle Marlowe, in what part of the house is this so
wonderful room situated?" persisted the grave and reverend signor.
"Quite out of the question to describe to one who does not already know
the house," interposed Sir Jekyl. "It is next the six-sided
dressing-room, which opens from the hatchment gallery--that is its exact
situation; and I'm afraid I have failed to convey it," said Sir Jekyl,
with one of his playful chuckles.
The Druidic-looking Frenchman shrugged and lifted his fingers with a
piteous expression of perplexity, and shook his head.
"Is there not among these drawings a view of the side of the house where
this room lies?" he inquired.
"I was looking it out," said Beatrix.
"I'll find it, Trixie. Go you and sing us a song," said the Baronet.
"I've got them both, papa. Now, Monsieur Varbarriere, here they are.
This is the front view--this is the side."
"I am very much obliged," said Monsieur examining the drawings
curiously. "The room recedes. This large bow-window belongs to it. Is
it not so?--wide room?--how long? You see I want to understand
everything. Ah! yes, here is the side view. It projects from the side of
the older building, I see. How charming! And this is the work of the
Italian artist? The style is quite novel--a mixture partly
Florentine--really very elegant. Did he build anything more here?"
"Yes, a very fine row of stables, and a temple in the grounds," said Sir
Jekyl. "You shall see them to-morrow."
"The chamber green. Yes, very clever, very pretty;" and having eyed them
over again carefully, he said, laying them down--
"A curious as well as a handsome old house, no doubt. Ah! very curious,
I dare say," said the sage Monsieur Varbarriere. "Are there here the
ground plans?"
"We have them somewhere, I fancy, among the title-deeds, but none here,"
said Sir Jekyl, a little stiffly, as if it struck him that his visitor's
curiosity was a trifle less ceremonious than, all things considered, it
might be.
Pretty Beatrix was singing now to her own accompaniment; and Captain
Drayton, twisting the end of his light moustache, stood haughtily by her
side. The music in his ear was but a half-heard noise. Indeed, although
he had sat out operas innumerable, like other young gentlemen, who would
sit out as many hours of a knife-grinder's performance, or of a railway
whistle, if it were the fashion, had but an imperfect recollection of
the airs he had paid so handsomely to hear, and was no authority on
music of any sort.
Now Beatrix was pretty--more than pretty. Some people called her lovely.
She sang in that rich and plaintive contralto--so rare and so
inexplicably moving--the famous "Come Gentil," from Don Pasquale. When
she ceased, the gentleman at her other side, Guy Strangways, sighed--not
a complimentary--a real sigh.
"That is a wonderful song, the very spirit of a serenade. Such
distance--such gaiety--such sadness. Your Irish poet, Thomas Moore,
compares some spiritual music or kind voice to sunshine spoken. This is
_moonlight_--moonlight _sung_, and _so_ sung that I could dream away
half a life in listening, and yet sigh when it ceases."
Mr. Guy Strangway's strange, dark eyes looked full on her, as with an
admiring enthusiasm he said these words.
The young lady smiled, looking up for a moment from the music-stool, and
then with lowered eyes again, and that smile of gratification which is
so beautiful in a lovely girl's face.
"It is quite charming, really. I'm no musician, you know; but I enjoy
good music extravagantly, especially singing," said Captain Drayton. "I
don't aspire to talk sentiment and that kind of poetry." He was,
perhaps, near using a stronger term--"a mere John Bull; but it _is_,
honestly, charming."
He had his glass in his eye, and turned back the leaf of the song to the
title-page.
"Don Pasquale--yes. Sweet opera that. How often I have listened to
Mario in it! But never, Miss Marlowe, with more real pleasure than to
the charming performance I have just heard."
Captain Drayton was not making his compliment well, and felt it somehow.
It was clumsy--it was dull--it was meant to override the tribute offered
by Guy Strangways, whose presence he chose, in modern phrase, to ignore;
and yet he felt that he had, as he would have expressed it, rather "put
his foot in it;" and, with just a little flush in his cheek and rather
angry eyes, he stooped over the piano and read the Italian words half
aloud.
"By-the-bye," he said, suddenly recollecting a topic, "what a sweet
scene that is of Gryston Bridge? Have you ever been to see it before?"
"Once since we came, we rode there, papa and I," answered Miss Marlowe.
"It looked particularly well this evening--quite beautiful in the
moonlight."
"Is it possible, Miss Marlowe, that _you_ were there this evening? I and
my uncle stopped on our way here to admire the exquisite effect of the
steep old bridge, with a wonderful foreground of Druidic monuments, as
they seemed to me."
"Does your father preserve that river?" asked Captain Drayton, coolly
pretermitting Mr. Strangways altogether.
"I really don't know," she replied, in a slight and hurried way that
nettled the Captain; and, turning to Guy Strangways, she said, "Did you
see it _from_ the bridge?"
"No, Mademoiselle; from the mound in which those curious stones are
raised," answered Mr. Strangways.
Captain Drayton felt that Miss Marlowe's continuing to talk to Mr.
Strangways, while _he_ was present and willing to converse, was
extremely offensive, choosing to entertain a low opinion in all respects
of that person. He stooped a little forward, and stared at the stranger
with that ill-bred gaze of insolent surprise which is the peculiar
weapon of Englishmen, and which very distinctly expresses, "who the
devil are you?"
Perhaps it was fortunate for the harmony of the party that just at this
moment, and before Captain Drayton could say anything specially
impertinent, Sir Jekyl touched Drayton on the shoulder, saying--
"Are you for whist?"
"No, thanks--I'm no player."
"Oh! Mr. Strangways--I did not see--do _you_ play?"
Mr. Strangways smiled, bowed, and shook his head.
"Drayton, did I present you to Mr. Strangways?" and the Baronet made the
two young gentlemen technically known to one another--though, of course,
each knew the other already.
They bowed rather low, and a little haughtily, neither smiling. I
suppose Sir Jekyl saw something a little dangerous in the countenance of
one at least of the gentlemen as he approached, and chose to remind
them, in that agreeable way, that he was present, and wished them
acquainted, and of course friendly.
He had now secured old Colonel Doocey to make up his party--the sober
old Frenchman and Sir Paul Blunket making the supplementary two; and
before they had taken their chairs round the card-table, Captain Drayton
said, with a kind of inclination rather insolent than polite--
"You are of the Dilbury family, of course? I never knew a Strangways
yet--I mean, of course, a Strangways such as one would be likely to
meet, you know--who was not."
"You know one now, sir; for I am not connected ever so remotely with
that distinguished family. My family are quite another Strangways."
"No doubt quite as respectable," said Captain Drayton, with a bow, a
look, and a tone that would have passed for deferential with many; but
which, nevertheless, had the subtle flavour of an irony in it.
"Perhaps more so; my ancestors are the Strangways of Lynton; you are
aware they had a peerage down to the reign of George II."
Captain Drayton was not as deep as so fashionable and moneyed a man
ought to have been in extinct peerages, and therefore he made a little
short supercilious bow, and no answer. He looked drowsily toward the
ceiling, and then--
"The Strangways of Lynton are on the Continent or something--one does
not hear of them," said Captain Drayton, slightly but grandly. "We are
the Draytons of Drayton Forest, in the same county."
"Oh! then my uncle is misinformed. He thought that family was extinct,
and lamented over it when we saw the house and place at a distance."
Captain Drayton coloured a little above his light yellow moustache. He
was no Drayton, but a remotely collateral Smithers, with a queen's
letter constituting him a Drayton.
"Aw--yes--it is a fine old place--quite misinformed. I can show you our
descent if you wish it."
If Drayton had collected his ideas a little first he would not have made
this condescension.
"Your descent is high and pure--_very_ high, I assume--mine is only
respectable--presentable, as you say, but by no means so high as to
warrant my inquiring into that of other people."
"Inquiry! of course. I did not say inquiry," and with an effort Captain
Drayton almost laughed.
"Nothing more dull," acquiesced Mr. Strangways slightly.
Both gentlemen paused--each seemed to expect something from the
other--each seemed rather angrily listening for it. The ostensible
attack had all been on the part of the gallant Captain, who certainly
had not been particularly well bred. The Captain, nevertheless, felt
that Mr. Strangways knew perfectly all about Smithers, and that Smithers
really had not one drop of the Drayton blood in his veins; and he felt
in the sore and secret centre of his soul that the polished, handsome
young gentleman, so easy, so graceful, with that suspicion of a foreign
accent and of foreign gesture, had the best of the unavowed battle. He
had never spoken a word or looked a look in the course of this little
dialogue which could have suggested an idea of altercation, or any kind
of mutual unpleasantness, to the beautiful young girl; who, with one
hand on the keys of the piano, touched them so lightly with her fingers
as to call forth a dream of an air rather than the air itself.
To her Guy Strangways turned, with his peculiar smile--so winning, yet
so deep--an enigmatic smile that had in it a latent sadness and
fierceness, and by its very ambiguousness interested one.
"I upbraid myself for losing these precious moments while you sit here,
and might, perhaps, be persuaded to charm us with another song."
So she was persuaded; Captain Drayton still keeping guard, and
applauding, though with no special goodwill toward the unoffending
stranger.
The party broke up early. The ladies trooped to their bed-room candles
and ascended the great staircase, chatting harmoniously, and bidding
mutual sweet goodnights as in succession they reached their doors. The
gentlemen, having sat for awhile lazily about the fire, or gathered
round the tray whereon stood sherry and seltzer water, repaired also to
the cluster of bedchamber candlesticks without, and helped themselves,
talking together in like sociable manner.
"Would you like to come to my room and have a cigar, Monsieur
Varbarriere?" asked the Baronet in French.
Monsieur was much obliged, and bowed very suavely, but declined.
"And you, Mr. Strangways?"
He also, with many thanks, a smile and a bow, declined.
"My quarters are quite out of reach of the inhabited part of the
house--not very far from two hundred feet from this spot, by Jove! right
in the rear. You must really come to me there some night; you'll be
amused at my deal furniture and rustic barbarism; we often make a party
there and smoke for half an hour."
So, as they were not to be persuaded, the Baronet hospitably accompanied
them to their rooms, at the common dressing-room door of which stood
little Jacque Duval with his thin, bronzed face, candle in hand, bowing,
to receive his master.