The Master of the Ceremonies Part 27

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, d.i.c.k?" 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, d.i.c.k; so long as it didn't bite. I should like to run through that _adagio_ again, d.i.c.k, 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-refres.h.i.+ng 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, d.i.c.k."

"I don't see why it should."

"But it does. Such a n.o.ble-looking beautiful creature, and such a hard, vulgar, worldly mother. Ah, d.i.c.k, 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 a.s.sail one who is born to good looks."

"Why, father, this is quite a homily."

"Ah, yes, d.i.c.k," 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, d.i.c.k. It is a curse to that woman upstairs. Never marry a beautiful woman, d.i.c.k."

"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, d.i.c.k; 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, d.i.c.k," 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 a.s.sumed 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 sc.r.a.ping!

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 pa.s.sed 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 grat.i.tude!"

"Grat.i.tude? Where should I have been but for Mr Linnell's bravery, and which of the wretched dressed-up and t.i.tled 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.