It was on the evening of the next day that Tom Linley entered the house
at Pierrepont Street, and ran upstairs and flung himself into the
music-room, where his father was giving Polly and Maria a lesson on a
part song. They had gone over the lines:
"Sigh no more, ladies:
Men were deceivers ever,
One foot on sea and one on land,
To one thing constant never."
"'Deceivers ever--deceivers ever,'" came Maria's pretty treble.
"'Sigh no more--sigh no more,'" whispered Polly in simple harmony, and
then their voices joined with Betsy's in the half-mocking bourdon--
"With a hey nonny, nonny--"
when Tom entered and threw himself on the sofa. The singers ceased
their song and stared at him. He held his violin laid across his knees,
and then a sudden horror came over the girls, paralysing them where
they stood, for they saw that the violin was broken. Its long neck was
severed close to the body of the instrument, and hung down, suspended
by the strings, from his knees. It was as if they were looking at a
strangled infant--the droop of the severed neck had about it all the
limpness of death. It was ludicrously ghastly, and Tom was gazing at
the wreck with unspeculative eyes.
"Heavens above us! What has happened?" cried Mr. Linley.
"I broke it--God forgive me--I broke it in my anger!" sobbed Tom. "What
does it matter?" he cried, recovering himself. "'Tis not alone the
fiddle that is broken; my heart is broken, and I shall never touch the
instrument again!"
He flung it away from him, but Betsy saw that he took good care that
it should alight on the cushion of the sofa. The moan that came from
the headless trunk striking the soft place was distractingly human.
Maria had lately been reading of a decapitated prince whose head, after
the operation, had rolled off the sawdust, so that all could see the
disdainful expression on the face; and here was the decapitated violin
moaning.
She shuddered.
"It can be mended," said Mr. Linley, examining the wreck.
"I shall never play again," moaned Tom. "My heart is broken."
"Thank Heaven!" murmured his father.
Betsy went to her brother's side, and put an arm about his neck.
"You have come back to us, dear Tom," she said; "and you will never
go away from us again. We all here love you, Tom. Ah, you know that
nothing can change our love for you."
[Illustration: "Curse Dick Sheridan! he has done it all!" [_page 313._]
"Delilah--Delilah--traitress!" murmured Tom. "O Betsy, there has been
no deception like mine since the days of Delilah! She told me plainly
that she was tired of me--that she had never thought of me except as
a nice boy--she actually called me a pretty boy! And my playing--she
said that it was dreary--it gave her the vapours; she asked me to play
a jig--an Irish jig, too--Irish! I told her that sooner than see my
instrument desecrated I would break it across my knee. 'Virginius, the
Roman father!' she cried, pointing a finger at me. I always thought
her fingers shapely; but I saw then that they were not fingers, but
talons--talons!... and I broke my violin before her, and yet she
laughed.... O Delilah--Delilah!... But I shall set the scene to music
that shall wring her heart, if she have one. I see clearly how it can
be dealt with by a small orchestra. Handel fell lamentably short of
the truth when he wrote the music to Delilah. I have the prelude in my
mind. This is how it will go."
He mechanically stretched across the sofa for the violin. Crash went
the pegs, drooping with the neck by the catgut strings, against the
hollow body of the instrument. He started up as if he had become aware
of the disaster for the first time. For some moments he stood handling
the wreck, and then he laid it down very gently on the sofa. He went
with the bowed head of a father in the death-chamber of his child, to
the door; but when he had opened it, and was in the act of departing,
he turned and stood up straight like a man; his hands were clenched,
his eyes were blazing, while he cried:
"Curse Dick Sheridan! he has done it all. Curse him! Curse him!"
He banged the door behind him, leaving the girls white and awed. They
had never before witnessed a really tragic scene ending up with a
curse, and they felt that it was very awful.
"Yes," said Mr. Linley quietly, "we can all join in his prayer and say,
'Bless Dick Sheridan! Bless Dick Sheridan!'--that will be poor Tom's
prayer in another month--perhaps another week."
"Oh, no, no! not another week," said Betsy. "I should be sorry to think
that Tom could be himself within a week. Tom has too deep feeling for
that."
"Let us return to our lesson," said her father. "Dwell lightly on
'deceivers ever,' Maria; and I think, Betsy, you might give full value
to the minim rest before 'Sigh no more,' after the 'hey nonny!' I think
I see the delicate humour of the composer's treatment of the song
better now than I did ten minutes ago."
But the girls were too unnerved to be able to return to their lesson
just then. They remonstrated with their father.
"Well, perhaps one lesson in the day is enough," said he, "and Tom has
just had his."
* * * * *
It was altogether very amusing and quite infamous, Bath said. Heavens!
the way in which that woman pursued her course, being on with a new
love quite two days before she was off with the old, was absolutely
shameless.
"A female comet with an ardent train--no fixed star in the firmament,"
said Mr. Walpole, when it was found that Mrs. Abington had discarded
Tom Linley and had taken on Dick Sheridan. It was found that she had
done so within an hour of Tom's dismissal.
"The comet has in all ages been looked on as a portent of disaster,"
said George Selwyn. "I wonder what does this particular heavenly body
portend?"
"I am no astrologer, but I dare swear that Mr. Cumberland's new comedy
will be damned," said Walpole.
"My dear Horry, the obvious needs no portent! 'Twould be a ridiculous
waste of fuel to send a comet flaring through the sky merely to let the
world know that Sir Joshua's macaw will lose his tail-feathers in the
moulting season," said Selwyn. "Mrs. Abington has not come to Bath for
a whole month solely to give Nan Cattley a chance of making the damning
of Cumberland's play a certainty."
"Nay, but her acting might save it if she were to return to town," said
Walpole.
"Then it must be our duty to keep her here," said Selwyn.
"'Tis two days since she found young Sheridan attractive," said
Walpole; "so that she is not the fickle creature some people have
called her."
"With economy she may be faithful to Dick Sheridan till the end of the
week," said Selwyn. "Can Bath furnish another swain with ruddy cheeks
and a glib tongue to follow him?"
The cynical pleasantries of the Walpole circle, dealing with the case
of Mrs. Abington and young Sheridan, were echoed by the inferior wits
of the Pump Room--for the flare of a comet affects other systems
besides the solar. Dick Sheridan was in as active attendance upon the
lady as Tom Linley had been even in the early days of his attachment
to her. He did not play the violin to her, and this fact, some people
declared, should not be lost sight of by those who were venturing to
assign a duration of just one week to this new caprice on the part of
the actress. There was no predicting the length of time that she might
remain faithful to a good-looking youth, provided that he refrained
from playing the violin to her--her constancy might even last out the
fortnight.
But these were the optimists.
Dick Sheridan knew perfectly well what the people were saying when they
shrugged their shoulders and smiled significantly as he went by with
Mrs. Abington; but he too shrugged his shoulders, and his smile also
had a significance of its own. He went everywhere with the lady, even
to her own house; but this was when she entertained some of her friends
to supper.
Once when by the side of Mrs. Abington in Spring Gardens he caught
sight of Betsy Linley in the distance. She was looking toward him
across the green lawn, and their eyes met. He fancied that there was
something of gratitude in the smile which she sent to him--he knew that
there was something of sadness in it; and then--he could not doubt
that the expression on her face was one of reproach--reproach and
indignation.
For a moment he omitted to reply to a casual question put to him by his
gay companion, and she quickly followed the direction of his eyes. She
saw Betsy and gave a laugh. She accepted the reproachful look in the
girl's eyes as a tribute to her own powers. She was not astute enough
to keep her satisfaction to herself.
"Lud!" she cried, "that young woman has strange notions of the duty of
a censorship. She is e'en reproving you, Dick, for being in my company.
That is like enough a woman to serve you for a lesson, my dear. A woman
has no sense of gratitude for a favour done to her by a man whom she
loves and whom she has discarded."
"Madam," said Dick, "it is not for such as we are to judge Miss Linley
by our standards: we are only men and women."
"That is all, praise Heaven!" cried the actress. "I claim to be nothing
more than a woman, and I don't know that one can be much better--ay, or
worse, Dick. God made me a woman, and I don't believe that He will be
hard on a woman for being womanly. If He had meant me to be an angel,
He would have given me wings, and then I should be angelic--and to be
angelic is to be insipid. But take my word for it, Miss Linley, though
she judge us from the standpoint of an angel, is just as much a woman
as the best of us--ay, or the worst of us. She is just as jealous of
me, thank God, as I am of her at this moment; and that's the last word
that you and I will have about Miss Linley."
Dick resolved that, so far as he was concerned, there should be no
need for another word on the subject of Miss Linley to pass between
them; and when he came to think over the matter, he was glad that so
much had already passed between them regarding Betsy. He had been
warned, from what Mrs. Abington had said, that she was under no
delusion respecting Betsy and himself. That same astuteness which she
had shown in reading the secret of his love for Betsy, had enabled her
to perceive that the fact of his having entered into an agreement with
herself did not in a moment cause him to forget Betsy Linley.
And thus, day by day, he was in attendance upon Mrs. Abington,
appearing by her side in all public places, and at many private suppers
and card-tables, so that a good many people looked on him as an
extremely fortunate young man.
As for Dick himself, he began to feel that he was indeed fortunate. Had
he not been able to do a great service to the only one whom he loved,
at a sacrifice of himself? He was proving his love to Betsy Linley by
marrying Mrs. Abington. Yes, he felt that he was fortunate.
But all these days he failed to call upon Mr. Long. The truth was that
it now and again occurred to him that Mr. Long might not understand
without more explanation than he was inclined to offer, the position
which he had taken up. He shrank from the duty--if he might call it a
duty--of making it plain to Mr. Long that he was marrying Mrs. Abington
in order that Betsy Linley might get back her brother. But there came
a day when he learned that Mr. Long was waiting on him, and he found
himself in the presence of that gentleman in the room in which he had
received Mrs. Abington a short time before.
Mr. Long greeted him cordially.
"You will pardon my obtruding upon you at this time, Mr. Sheridan,"
said he; "but I must confess that I thought it strange that we should
separate good friends a fortnight ago and then remain apart. Surely our
friendship promised better things than this, sir!"
Dick made up his mind to be bold. He smiled, examined the tips of his
fingers, and then said:
"I assure you, sir, that I retain all the liveliest sentiments of
regard for you. Dear sir, you have been kindness itself to me, and I
should be most ungrateful if I were to fail in my duty to you. But the
fact is, Mr. Long, that--that---- Ah well, sir, you will understand
my seeming neglect when I inform you that I have been successful
in engaging the affections of a lady to whom I have been devoted
for--for--some time. When I tell you the lady's name, sir, I know I
shall be the more easily excused."
"Do not tell me that the lady's name is Mrs. Abington," said Mr. Long
gravely.
"I am sorry--I mean I am glad--yes, I am glad, sir, that it is not in
my power to obey you in this matter," said Dick, still smiling, but
with more than a little self-consciousness. He was beginning to feel
uneasy beneath the grave, searching look of his visitor. "Yes, dear
sir, we are to be married very shortly, so that you will understand, I
am sure, that, just now, I do not count my time my own."
"You are to marry Mrs. Abington, the actress--the actress?" said Mr.
Long.
"Ah, sir, there is only one Mrs. Abington in the world, and--my father
is an actor," said Dick.
"And you expect to be happy with her as your wife?" said Mr. Long.
"If I am not, sir, it will be because I am not easily made happy;
'twill not be the lady's fault."
"Then I wish you every happiness, Mr. Sheridan."
Mr. Long rose from his chair and took up his hat.
"There is a forlorn hopefulness in your tone, sir, that has a chilling
effect upon me," said Dick. "May I ask why it should appear ridiculous
to expect that I should be happy--at least as happy as most wedded
folks are?"
"You have disappointed me, Dick, that is all I can say to you--you
have grievously disappointed me. That one who had ever loved Elizabeth
Linley could bring himself to marry---- I ask your pardon, sir; I
exceed my privileges as a friend. I have no right to express myself in
such terms. I have the honour to wish you a very good day, sir."
"Mr. Long," said Dick, "I seek for your good opinion more than that of
any man living. I pray of you to think the best of me--not the worst."
"And what is the best that you would have me think?" cried Mr. Long.
"Just state with some show of reason what you wish me to think of you,
and I promise that I will be influenced by what you say. You talked to
me of loving Elizabeth Linley."
"Nay, sir, 'twas you who talked to me of it. 'Twas you strange to
say--you, to whom Miss Linley has given her promise--'twas you who
talked to me of my love for her."
"I allow it. Alas! I believed--in my ignorance of men and of their
motives--in my ignorance of how men regard love--I prayed of you to
allow your love for her--her love for you--to urge you to achieve
something noble in life. I flattered myself that I had impressed upon
you the true nature of love--the sentiment that exalts, that ennobles,
that leads a man into deeds of self-sacrifice and devotion to duty; and
yet--you are ready to marry Mrs. Abington."
For a moment Dick was stung with a sense of the injustice that was
being done to him.
"I am ready to marry Mrs. Abington," he cried, "and you, sir, are ready
to marry Elizabeth Linley."
"You fool!" said Mr. Long, "I have no hope of marrying her. I knew too
well that she loved you, and--as I fancied--that you loved her, ever to
think of marrying her. My only hope was to see her happy--to look at
her happiness through another man's eyes--through your eyes, Dick--your
eyes. But now--alas! alas!"
He spoke rapidly, almost passionately, facing Dick. His breaking off
was abrupt; it seemed as if he had a great deal more to say, but that
words failed him unexpectedly. His lips were parted, his hand was
upraised, but he stopped short, saying:
"Alas! Alas!"
Then he turned quickly and walked out of the room.
Dick dropped into a chair.