“I cannot play by ear,” said the restless young lady, angrily.
“If you will sing ‘Coal black Rose’ instead, Marian, I can accompany you on the banjo, and back you up in the chorus. The Wandsworthers — if they survive the concertinas — will applaud the change as one man.”
“It is so unkind to joke about it,” said the beautiful young lady. “What shall I do? If somebody will vamp an accompaniment, I can get on very well without any music. But if I try to play for myself I shall break down.”
Conolly here stepped aside, and beckoned to the clergyman.
“That young man wants to speak to you,” whispered Mrs. Fairfax.
“Oh, indeed. Thank you,” said the Rev. Mr. Lind, stiffly. “I suppose I had better see what he requires.”
“I suppose you had,” said Mrs. Fairfax, with some impatience.
“I dont wish to intrude where I have no business,” said Conolly quietly to the clergyman; “but I can play that lady’s accompaniment, if she will allow me.”
The clergyman was too much afraid of Conolly by this time — he did not know why — to demur. “I am sure she will not object,” he said, pretending to be relieved by the offer. “Your services will be most acceptable. Excuse me for one moment, whilst I inform Miss Lind.”
He crossed the room to the lady, and said in a lower tone, “I think I have succeeded in arranging the matter, Marian. That man says he will play for you.”
“I hope he can play,” said Marian doubtfully. “Who is he?”
“It is Conolly. Jasper’s man.”
Miss Lind’s eyes lighted. “Is that he?” she whispered, glancing curiously across the room at him. “Bring him and introduce him to us.”
“Is that necessary?” said the tall man, without lowering his voice sufficiently to prevent Conolly from hearing him. The clergyman hesitated.
“It is quite necessary: I do not know what he must think of us already,” said Marian, ashamed, and looking apprehensively at Conolly. He was staring with a policemanlike expression at the tall man, who, after a vain attempt to ignore him, had eventually to turn away. The Rev. Mr. Lind then led the electrician forward, and avoided a formal presentation by saying with a simper: “Here is Mr. Conolly, who will extricate us from all our difficulties.”
Miss McQuinch nodded. Miss Lind bowed. Marmaduke shook hands goodnaturedly, and retired somewhat abashed, thrumming his banjo. Just then a faint sound of clapping was followed by the return of the quartet party, upon which Miss Lind rose and moved hesitatingly toward the platform. The tall man offered his hand.
“Nonsense, Sholto,” said she, laughing. “They will expect you to do something if you appear with me.”
“Allow me, Marian,” said the clergyman, as the tall man, offended, bowed and stood aside. She, pretending not to notice her brother, turned toward Conolly, who at once passed the Rev. George, and led her to the platform.
“The original key?” he enquired, as they mounted the steps.
“I dont know,” she said, alarmed.
For a moment he was taken aback. Then he said, “What is the highest note you can sing?”
“I can sing A sometimes — only when I am alone. I dare not attempt it before people.”
Conolly sat down, knowing now that Miss Lind was a commonplace amateur. He had been contrasting her with his sister, greatly to the disparagement of his home life; and he was disappointed to find the lady break down where the actress would have succeeded so well. Consoling himself with the reflexion that if Miss Lind could not rap out a B flat like Susanna, neither could she rap out an oath, he played the accompaniment much better than Marian sang the song. Meanwhile, Miss McQuinch, listening jealously in the greenroom, hated herself for her inferior skill.
“Cool, and reserved, is the modern Benjamin Franklin,” observed
Marmaduke to her.
“Better a reserved man who can do something than a sulky one who can do nothing,” she said, glancing at the tall man, with whom the clergyman was nervously striving to converse.
“Exquisite melody, is it not, Mr. Douglas?” said Mrs. Fairfax, coming to the clergyman’s rescue.
“I do not care for music,” said Douglas. “I lack the maudlin disposition in which the taste usually thrives.”
Miss McQuinch gave an expressive snap, but said nothing; and the conversation dropped until Miss Lind had sung her song, and received a round of respectful but not enthusiastic applause.
“Thank you, Mr. Conolly,” she said, as she left the platform. “I am afraid that Spohr’s music is too good for the people here. Dont you think so?”
“Not a bit of it,” replied Conolly. “There is nothing so very particular in Spohr. But he requires very good singing — better than he is worth.”
Miss Lind colored, and returned in silence to her seat beside Miss McQuinch, feeling that she had exposed herself to a remark that no gentleman would have made.
“Now then, Nelly,” said Marmaduke: “the parson is going to call time.
Keep up your courage. Come, get up, get up.”
“Do not be so boisterous, Duke,” said Marian. “It is bad enough to have to face an audience without being ridiculed beforehand.”
“Marian,” said Marmaduke, “if you think Nelly will hammer a love of music into the British workman, you err. Lots of them get their living by hammering, and they will most likely resent feminine competition. Bang! There she goes. Pity the sorrows of a poor old piano, and let us hope its trembling limbs wont come through the floor.”
“Really, Marmaduke,” said Marian, impatiently, “you are excessively foolish. You are like a boy fresh from school.”
Marmaduke, taken aback by her sharp tone, gave a long whispered whistle, and pretended to hide under the table. He had a certain gift of drollery which made it difficult not to laugh even at his most foolish antics, and Marian was giving way in spite of herself when she found Douglas bending over her and saying, in a low voice:
“You are tired of this place. The room is very draughty: I fear it will give you cold. Let me drive you home now. An apology can be made for whatever else you are supposed to do for these people. Let me get your cloak and call a cab.”
Marian laughed. “Thank you, Sholto,” she said; “but I assure you I am quite happy. Pray do not look offended because I am not so uncomfortable as you think I ought to be.”
“I am glad you are happy,” said Douglas in his former cold tone. “Perhaps my presence is rather a drawback to your enjoyment than otherwise.”
“I told you not to come, Sholto; but you would. Why not adapt yourself to the circumstances, and be agreeable?”
“I am not conscious of being disagreeable.”
“I did not mean that. Only I do not like to see you making an enemy of every one in the room, and forcing me to say things that I know must hurt you.”
“To the enmity of your new associates I am supremely indifferent, Marian. To that of your old friends I am accustomed. I am not in the mood to be lectured on my behavior at present; besides, the subject is hardly worth pursuing. May I gather from your remarks that I shall gratify you by withdrawing?”
“Yes,” said Marian, flushing slightly, and looking steadily at him. Then, controlling her voice with an effort, she added, “Do not try again to browbeat me into telling you a falsehood, Sholto.”
Douglas