"It was scandalous," Saltinville said, "that she should accept it."
But she did: a handsome little carriage that came down from Long Acre,
and was sent round to the stables, where Cora Dean's ponies were put up
and kept now on a shorter allowance of corn.
The note was a simple one, written in a very large hand that was
decidedly shaky. There was a coronet on the top, and its owner, Lord
Carboro', begged Miss Dean's acceptance of the little gift, with his
sorrow that he was the cause of the mishap, and his congratulations that
she was not hurt.
This was all very refined and in accordance with etiquette. The
postscript looked crotchety.
"P.S.--Tell your people not to give them so much corn."
Cora did so, and said that she should drive out to show the people of
Saltinville that she was no coward.
"Then I'll go with you, Betsy," said Mrs Dean, "to show 'em I ain't,
too: and, you mark my words, this'll be the making of you in society."
So Cora took her drives as of old, found that she was very much noticed
by the gentlemen, very little by the ladies, but waited her time.
The Deans lodged at one of the best houses in the Parade--a large,
double-fronted place facing the sea, with spacious balcony and open hall
door, and porch ornamented with flowers.
The little groom sprang down and ran to the ponies' heads as his
mistress alighted, and after sweeping her rich dress aside, held out her
hand for her mother, who got out of the carriage slowly, and in what was
meant for a very stately style, her quick beady eyes having shown her
that the windows on either side of the front door were wide open, while
her sharp ears and her nose had already given her notice that the
lodgers were at home--a low buzzing mellow hum with a wild refrain in
high notes, announcing that old Mr Linnell was at work with his
violoncello to his son's violin, and a faint penetrating perfume--or
smell, according to taste--suggesting that Colonel Mellersh was
indulging in a cigar.
Mrs Dean's daughter was quite as quick in detecting these signs, and,
raising her head and half closing her eyes, she swept gracefully into
the house, unconscious of the fact that Richard Linnell drew back a
little from the window on one side of the door, and that Colonel
Mellersh showed his teeth as he lay back in his chair beside a small
table, on which was a dealt-out pack of cards.
"I should like to poison that old woman," said the Colonel, gathering
together the cards.
"I wish Mr Barclay had let the first floor to some one else, Richard,"
said a low pleasant voice from the back of the room. _P-r-r-rm, Pr-um_!
The speaker did not say _Pr-r-rm, Pr-um_! That sound was produced by an
up and down draw of the bow across the fourth string of the old
violoncello he held between his legs, letting the neck of the instrument
with its pegs fall directly after into the hollow of his arm, as he
picked up a cake of amber-hued transparent rosin from the edge of a
music stand, and began thoughtfully to rub it up and down the horse-hair
of the bow.
The speaker's was a pleasant handsome face of a man approaching sixty;
but though his hair was very grey, he was remarkably well-preserved.
His well-cut rather effeminate face showed but few lines, and there was
just a tinge of colour in his cheeks, such as good port wine might have
produced: but in this case it was a consequence of a calm, peaceful,
seaside life. He was evidently slight and tall, but bent, and in his
blue eyes there was a dreamy look, while a curious twitch came over his
face from time to time as if he suffered pain.
"It would have been better, father," said Richard Linnell, turning over
the leaves of a music-book with his violin bow, "but we can't pick and
choose whom one is to sit next in this world."
"No, no, we can't, my son."
"And I don't think that we ought to trouble ourselves about our
neighbours, so long as they behave themselves decorously here."
"No, no, my son," said Linnell, senior, thoughtfully. "There's a deal
of wickedness in this world, but I suppose we mustn't go about throwing
stones."
"I'm not going to, father, and I'm sure you wouldn't throw one at a mad
dog."
"Don't you think I would, Dick?" with a very sweet smile; and the eyes
brightened and looked pleased. "Well, perhaps you are right. Poor
brute! Why should I add to its agony?"
"So long as it didn't bite, eh, father?"
"To be sure, Dick; so long as it didn't bite. I should like to run
through that _adagio_ again, Dick, but not if you're tired, my boy, not
if you're tired."
"Tired? No!" cried the young man. "I could keep on all day."
"That's right. I'm glad I taught you. There's something so
soul-refreshing in a bit of music, especially when you are
low-spirited."
"Which you never are, now."
"N-no, not often, say not often, say not often. It makes me a little
low-spirited though about that woman and her mother, Dick."
"I don't see why it should."
"But it does. Such a noble-looking beautiful creature, and such a hard,
vulgar, worldly mother. Ah, Dick, beautiful women are to be pitied."
"No, no: to be admired," said Richard, laughing.
"Pitied, my boy, pitied," said the elder, making curves in the air with
his bow, while the fingers of his left hand--long, thin, white, delicate
fingers--stopped the strings, as if he were playing the bars of some
composition. "Your plain women scout their beautiful sisters, and
trample upon them, but it is in ignorance. They don't know the
temptations that assail one who is born to good looks."
"Why, father, this is quite a homily."
"Ah, yes, Dick," he said, laughing. "I ought to have been a preacher, I
think, I am always prosing. Poor things--poor things! A lovely face is
often a curse."
"Oh, don't say that."
"But I do say it, Dick. It is a curse to that woman upstairs. Never
marry a beautiful woman, Dick."
"But you did, father."
The old man started violently and changed colour, but recovered himself
on the instant.
"Yes, yes. She was very beautiful. And she died, Dick; she died."
He bent his head over his music, and Richard crossed and laid his hand
upon his shoulder.
"I am sorry I spoke so thoughtlessly."
"Oh, no, my boy; oh, no. It was quite right. She was a very beautiful
woman. That miniature does not do her justice. But--but don't marry a
beautiful woman, Dick," he continued, gazing wistfully into his son's
face. "Now that _adagio_. It is a favourite bit of mine."
Richard Linnell looked as if he would have liked to speak, and there was
a troubled expression on his face as he thought of Claire Denville's
sweet candid eyes; but he shrank from any avowal. For how dare he, when
she had given him but little thought, and--well, she was a beautiful
woman, one of those against whom he had been warned.
He looked up and found his father watching him keenly, when both assumed
ignorance of any other matter than the _adagio_ movement, the sweet
notes of which, produced by the thrilling strings, floated out through
the open window, and up and in that of the drawing-room floor overhead,
where on a luxurious couch Mrs Dean had thrown herself, while her
daughter was slowly pacing the room with the air of a tragedy queen.
"Buzz-buzz; boom-boom! Oh, those horrid fiddlers!" cried Mrs Dean,
bouncing up and crossing to the fireplace, where she caught up the
poker; but only to have her hand seized by her daughter, who took the
poker away, and replaced it in the fender.
"What are you going to do?"
"What am I going to do? Why thump on the floor to make them quiet. Do
you suppose I'm going to sit here and be driven mad with their scraping!
This isn't a playhouse!"
"You will do nothing of the sort, mother."
"Oh, won't I? Do you think I'm going to pay old Barclay all that money
for these rooms, and not have any peace? Pray who are you talking to?"
"To you, mother," said Cora sternly; and the stoutly-built,
brazen-looking virago shrank from her daughter's fierce gaze. "You must
not forget yourself here, among all these respectable people."
"And pray who's going to? But I don't know so much about your
respectability. That Colonel, with his queer looks like the devil in
`Dr Faustus,' is no better than he should be."
"The Colonel is a man of the world like the rest," said Cora coldly.
"Yes, and a nice man of the world, too. And that old Linnell's living
apart from his wife. I know though--"
"Silence!"
"Now look here, Betsy, I won't have you say _silence_ to me like that.
This here isn't the stage, and we aren't playing parts. Just you speak
to me proper, madam."
"Mother, I will not have you speak of Mr Linnell like that."
"Ho, indeed! And why not, pray? Now, look here, Betsy," she cried,
holding up a warning finger, "I won't have no nonsense there. I'm not a
fool. I know the world. I've seen you sighing and looking soft when
we've passed that young fellow downstairs."
Cora's eyes seemed to burn as she fixedly returned her mother's look.
"Oh, you may stare, madam; but I can see more than you think. Why, you
ought to be ashamed of yourself, making eyes at a poor, penniless
fiddler, when you might--"
"I--I don't want to quarrel, mother," cried Cora, "but if you dare to
speak to me again like that I'll not be answerable for myself."
"There!--there!--there! There's gratitude!"
"Gratitude? Where should I have been but for Mr Linnell's bravery, and
which of the wretched dressed-up and titled dandies stirred to save me
the other day? Richard Linnell is a brave, true-hearted man, too good
to marry an actress."
"She's mad--she's mad--she's mad! There's grace; and to her mother,
too, who's thought of nothing but getting her on in the world, and
brought her forward, so that now she can live on the best of everything,
in the handsomest of rooms, and keep her carriage. She flies in her
poor mother's face, and wants to get rid of her, I suppose. Oho--oho--
oh!"
Mrs Dean plumped herself down into a gilded chair, and began to howl
very softly.
"Don't be a fool, mother," said Cora. "I don't want to quarrel, I tell
you, so hold your tongue."
"After the way I've brought her up, too," howled Mrs Dean--softly, so
that the sound should not be heard downstairs.
"After the way you've brought me up!" cried Cora fiercely. "Yes;
brought me up to be sneered at by every lady I meet--brought me up so
that I hate myself, and long sometimes to be one of the poor women we
see knitting stockings on the beach."
"Don't be a fool, Cory, my handsome, beautiful gal," cried Mrs Dean,
suddenly starting up in her seat, dry-eyed and forgetful of her grief.
"How can you be so stupid!"
"Stupid!" cried Cora bitterly. "Is it stupid to wish myself a woman
that some true-hearted man could love, instead of looking forward to a
life of acting."
"Oh, how you do go on to be sure. I am surprised at you, Cory. I know
what you'd say about the life as them leads as ar'n't in the profession,
but don't you be a fool, Betsy. `Your face is your fortune, sir, she
said,' as the song says; working your fingers to the bone won't keep you
out of the workus. Don't tell me. I know. I've known them as has
tried it. Let them work as likes. I like a cutlet and a glass of fine
sherry, and some well-made coffee with a noo-laid egg in it, and it
ain't to be got by folks as works their fingers to the bone."
"And who wants to work their fingers to the bone, mother?" cried Cora,
tearing off and flinging down her handsome feathered hat. "In every
face I see there's the look--`You're only one of the stage-players--a
rogue and a vagabond.' I want to lead some life for which I need not
blush."
"As she needn't blush for! Oh, dear, oh, dear! When her father trod
the boards and her mother was born on 'em! What a gal you are, Betsy,"
said Mrs Dean, who professed high good humour now, and she rocked
herself to and fro, and pressed her hands on her knees as she laughed.
"Oh, I say, Cory, you are a one. You will act the injured fine lady in
private life, my dear. Why, what a silly thing you are. Look at that
hat you've chucked down. Didn't it cost five guineas?"
"Yes, mother, it cost five guineas," said Cora wearily.
"And you can have whatever you like. Oh, I say, my lovely gal, for you
really are, you know, don't get into these silly fits. It's such stuff.
Why, who knows what may happen? You may be right up atop of the tree
yet, and how about yon folks as passes you by now? Why, they'll all be
as civil and friendly as can be. There, there, come and kiss me, ducky,
we mustn't quarrel, must we? I've got my eyes open for you, so don't,
don't, there's a dear. I know what these things means--don't go
chucking yourself at that young Linnell's head."
"Let Mr Linnell alone, mother."
"But I can't, my luvvy; I know too well what these things mean. Why,
there was Julia Jennings as was at the Lane--it was just afore you was
born. There was a dook and a couple of lords, and carridges and horses,
and livery suvvants, and as many jewels and dymonds and dresses as she
liked to order; and if she didn't kick 'em all over and marry a shopman,
and lived poor ever after. Now do, my luvvy, be advised by me. I know
what the world is, and--Gracious goodness! there's somebody coming up
the stairs."
Mrs Dean threw herself into an attitude meant to be easy, and Cora
smoothed her knitted brows as there was a knock at the door, and, after
a loud "Come in," a neat-looking maid entered.
"Mr Barclay, please, ma'am."
"Show him up, Jane," said Mrs Dean sharply; and then, as the door
closed, "The old rip's come after his rent. How precious sharp he is."
"Morning, ladies," said Barclay. "I heard you were in. Glad to see you
are no worse for your accident the other day."