Nell, of Shorne Mills Part 69

Drake nodded, led the d.u.c.h.ess to a chair, and went slowly up the room toward the gallery stairs.

Nell, who had been watching him in a dull, vacant way, lost him for a moment or two; then she heard his voice near her, and saw him dimly standing in the gallery doorway.

She stifled a cry, and shrank back behind Mrs. Hawksley, so that the stout form of the old lady completely hid her.

"Mr. Falconer?" she heard the deep voice say gravely.

Falconer bowed, his violin under his arm, his pale, thin face perfectly composed. His music was still ringing in his ears, vibrating in his soul, too great to be stirred by the applause which had again broken out.

"I have come to thank you for the sonata, Mr. Falconer, and to ask you to be so kind as to play again," said Drake, in the simple, impa.s.sive manner of the Englishman.

"I shall be very pleased, my lord," said Falconer quietly; and he placed his violin in position.

Drake looked absently round the gallery. It was only dimly lit by the candles in the music stands, and the servants had respectfully drawn back, so that Nell was still hidden; but she trembled with the fear that those in front of her might move, and that he might see her; for she knew how keen those eyes of his could be.

Drake felt that the dim light was a pleasant contrast to the brilliance of the room below, and he lingered, leaning against the wall, his arms folded, his head drooped. He was so near Nell that she could almost have touched him--so near that she almost dreaded that he must hear the wild throbbings of her heart. Once, as the violin wailed out a pa.s.sionate, despairing, yet exquisitely sweet pa.s.sage of the Raff cavatina Falconer was playing, she heard Drake sigh.

The cavatina came to an end, the last notes--those wonderful notes!--floating lingeringly like a human voice, and yet more exquisite than any human voice. Falconer lowered his violin, the applause broke out again as vehemently and enthusiastically as if the crowd below were at an ordinary concert, and Drake made his way to the player. As he did so, he stumbled over a violin case, the servants with a little cry--for the stumble of an Earl of Angleford is a matter of importance--moved apart, and Drake, putting out his hand as he recovered himself, touched Mrs. Hawksley's arm.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "Ah! is it you, Mrs. Hawksley? You are so pleasantly dark up here."

His eyes wandered from her face to that of the girl who had been shrinking behind her, and he paused, as if smitten by some sudden thought or memory. But Nell rose quickly and hid herself in the group, and Drake went on to Falconer.

"Thank you again," he said. "I have never heard the cavatina--it was it, wasn't it?--better played. I am the bearer of a message from the d.u.c.h.ess of Cleavemere, Mr. Falconer. If you are not engaged, the d.u.c.h.ess would be very glad if you could play for her at Cleavemere Court on the ninth of next month. I ask you at once and so unceremoniously, because her grace is anxious to know. The ninth."

Falconer bowed.

"May I consider, my lord?" he began hesitatingly.

"Why, certainly," said Drake, in the frank, pleasant fas.h.i.+on which Nell knew so well. "Will you send me word? Thanks. That is a fine violin you have."

"It was my father's," said Falconer simply, and unconsciously pressing the instrument closer to him, as if it were a living thing, a well-beloved child.

He had often sold, p.a.w.ned his belongings for bread, and as often had forgotten his cold and hunger because his precious violin had remained in his possession; that he had never p.a.w.ned.

Drake nodded, as if he understood; then he looked round.

"Isn't there some supper going, Mrs. Hawksley?" he said pleasantly.

The old lady curtsied in stately fas.h.i.+on.

"Yes, my lord."

"Then it's high time Mr. Falconer--and the rest of us--were at it," he said; and, with a smile and a nod, he left the gallery.

He would have taken Falconer with him to the supper in the banquet room below, but he knew that, though none of the men or women there would have remarked, or cared about, the old velvet jacket, the musician would be conscious of it, and be embarra.s.sed by it.

While Drake had been absent, Lady Luce had stood, apparently listening with profound attention and sympathy, but the movement of her fan almost gave her away, for it grew rapid now and again, and when Lord Turfleigh came up beside her, his hawklike eyes glancing sharply, like those of a bird of prey, from their fat rims, she shot an angry and unfilial glance at him.

"Where's Drake?" he asked, lowering his thick voice.

"Up there in that gallery somewhere; gone to pay compliments to that fiddler fellow who is playing now."

"Gad!" said his lords.h.i.+p, with a stare of contempt at the rapt audience.

"What the devil does he want with the 'Dead March in Saul,' or whatever it is, in the middle of a dance. Always thought he was mad! Has he spoken, said anything?"

He lowered his voice still more, and eyed her eagerly.

She shook her head slightly by way of answer, and the coa.r.s.e face reddened.

"Curse me, if I can understand it--or you," he said, his hand tugging at his dyed mustache. "You told me, G.o.d knows how long ago, that he was 'on' again; then he bolts--disappears."

"Do you want all these people to hear you?" she asked, her eyes hidden by her slowly moving fan.

Her father had been several times to the refreshment buffet, and had "lowered"--as he would have put it--the best part of a bottle of champagne, and was a little off the guard which he usually maintained so carefully.

"They can't hear. I'm not shouting. And you always evade me. You're not behaving well, Luce. Dash it all! I've reason to be anxious! This match means a good deal to me in the present state of our finances!"

"Hus.h.!.+" she whispered warningly. "I can't explain now. I don't understand it myself; but I've seen enough to know that I should only lose him altogether if I tried to force him. You know him, or ought to do so! Did you ever get anything from Drake by driving him? He had no opportunity of speaking, of explaining."

"By gad! I don't understand it!" he muttered. "Either you're engaged to him or you're not. You led me to believe that the match was on again----"

The fan closed with a snap, and her blue eyes flashed at him with bitter scorn.

"Hadn't you better leave me to play the game?" she asked. "Or perhaps you think you can play it better than I can? If so----The man has stopped; Drake will be down again. I don't want him to see us talking.

Go--and get some more champagne."

Lord Turfleigh swore behind the hand that still fumbled at his mustache, and walked away with the jerky, jaunty gait of the old man who still affects youth, and Lady Luce composed her lovely face into a look of emotional ecstacy.

"Oh, how beautiful, Drake!" she said. "Do you know that I have been very nearly crying? And yet it was so sweet, so--so soothing! Who is he? And what are we going to do now?" she asked, without waiting for an answer to her first question, about which she was more than indifferent.

Drake looked round for the d.u.c.h.ess.

"I must take the d.u.c.h.ess in to supper," he said apologetically. "I will find some one for you--or perhaps you will wait until I will come for you?"

"I will wait, of course," she said, with a tender emphasis on the "of course."

Those who had been listening followed Drake and the d.u.c.h.ess to the supper room, talking of the wonderful violin playing as they went; and Lady Luce seated herself in a recess and waited. Several men came to her and offered to take her to supper, but she made some excuse for refusing, and presently Drake returned.

She rose and took his arm, and glanced up at him, not for the first time that evening, curiously. The easy-going, indolent Drake of old seemed to have disappeared, and left in his place this grave and almost stern-mannered man. She had always been just a little afraid of him, with the fear which is always felt by the false and s.h.i.+fty in the presence of the true and strong; and to-night she was painfully conscious of that vague and wholesome dread.

He found a place for her at a small table, and a footman brought them things to eat and drink; but though she affected a blythe and joyous mood, tapping her satin-clad foot to the music which had begun again, she was too excited, too anxious, to enjoy the costly delicacies before her.

"I have so much to tell you, Drake!" she said, in a low voice, after one or two remarks about the ball and its success. "It seems years, ages, since I saw you! Why--why did you go away for so long, Drake? And why did you not write to me?"

He looked at her with his grave eyes, and her own fell.

"I wrote to no one; I was never much of a hand at letter writing," he said.