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 looked at her in surprise. Before he could answer, Miss McQuinch reappeared.
“Well, Nelly,” said Marmaduke: “is there any piano left?”
“Not much,” she replied, with a sullen laugh. “I never played worse in my life.”
“Wrong notes? or deficiency in the sacred fire?”
“Both.”
“I believe your song comes next,” said the clergyman to Conolly, who had been standing apart, listening to Miss McQuinch’s performance.
“Who is to accompany me, sir?”
“Oh — ah — Miss McQuinch will, I am sure,” replied the Rev. Mr. Lind, smiling nervously. Conolly looked grave. The young lady referred to closed her lips; frowned; said nothing. Marmaduke chuckled.
“Perhaps you would rather play your own accompaniment,” said the clergyman, weakly.
Conolly shook his head decisively, and said, “I can do only one thing at a time, sir.”
“Oh, they are not very critical: they are only workmen,” said the clergyman, and then reddened deeply as Marmaduke gave him a very perceptible nudge.
“I’ll not take advantage of that, as I am only a workman myself,” said
Conolly. “I had rather leave the song out than accompany myself.”
“Pray dont suppose that I wish to be disagreeable, Mr. Lind,” said Miss McQuinch, as the company looked doubtfully at her; “but I have disgraced myself too completely to trust my fingers again. I should spoil the song if I played the accompaniment.”
“I think you might try, Nell,” said Marmaduke, reproachfully.
“I might,” retorted Miss McQuinch; “but I wont.”
“If somebody doesnt go out and do something, there will be a shindy,” said Marmaduke.
Marian hesitated a moment and then rose. “I am a very indifferent player,” she said; “but since no better is to be had, I will venture — if Mr. Conolly will trust me.”
Conolly bowed.
“If you would rather not,” said Miss McQuinch, shamed into remorse, “I will try the accompaniment. But I am sure to play it all wrong.”
“I think Miss McQuinch had better play,” said Douglas.
Conolly looked at Marian; received a reassuring glance; and went to the platform with her without further ado. She was not a sympathetic accompanist; but, not knowing this, she was not at all put out by it. She felt too that she was, as became a lady, giving the workman a lesson in courtesy which might stand him in stead when he next accompanied “Rose, softly blooming.” She was a little taken aback on finding that he not only had a rich baritone voice, but was, as far as she could judge, an accomplished singer.
“Really,” she said as they left the platform, “you sing most beautifully.”
“One would hardly have expected it,” he said, with a smile.
Marian, annoyed at having this side of her compliment exposed, did not return the smile, and went to her chair in the greenroom without taking any further notice of him.
“I congratulate you,” said Mrs. Leith Fairfax to Conolly, looking at him, like all the rest except Douglas, with a marked access of interest. “Ah! what wonderful depth there is in Gounod’s music!”
He assented politely with a movement of his head.
“I know nothing at all about music,” said Mrs. Fairfax.
“Very few people do.”
“I mean technically, of course,” she said, not quite pleased.
“Of course.”
A tremendous burst of applause here followed the conclusion of the first verse of “Uncle Ned.”
“Do come and listen, Nelly,” said Marian, returning to the door. Mrs. Fairfax and Conolly presently went to the door too.
“Would you not like to help in the chorus, Nelly?” said Marian in a low voice, as the audience began to join uproariously in the refrain.
“Not particularly,” said Miss McQuinch.
“Sholto,” said Marian, “come and share our vulgar joy. We want you to join in the chorus.”
“Thank you,” said Douglas, “I fear I am too indifferent a vocalist to do justice to the occasion.”
“Sing with Mr. Conolly and you cannot go wrong,” said Miss McQuinch.
“Hush,” said Marian, interposing quickly lest Douglas should retort.
“There is the chorus. Shall we really join?”
Conolly struck up the refrain without further hesitation. Marian sang with him. Mrs. Fairfax and the clergyman looked furtively at one another, but forbore to swell the chorus. Miss McQuinch sang a few words in a piercing contralto voice, and then stopped with a gesture of impatience, feeling that she was out of