for Christie Bayle stopped.
He went on again, angry, he knew not why, and the next minute was being introduced on the lawn to a thin, careworn, middle-aged man, and a tall, bony, aquiline lady, as Mr and Mrs Trampleasure, Mrs Luttrell’s pleasant, sociable voice being drowned almost the next moment by that of the bony dame, who in tones resembling those emitted by a brazen instrument, said very slowly:
“How do you do? I saw you last Sunday. Don’t you think it is getting too late to stop out on the grass?”
“Yes, yes,” said Mrs Luttrell hastily, “the grass is growing damp. Milly, dear, take Mr Hallam into the drawing-room.”
The pleasant flower-decked room, with its candles and old-fashioned oil lamp, seemed truly delightful to Christie Bayle, for the next hour. He was very young, and he was the new arrival in King’s Castor, and consequently felt flattered by the many attentions he received. The doctor was friendly, and disposed to be jocose with allusions to gardening. Mr Trampleasure, thin and languid, made his advances, but his questions were puzzling, as they related to rates of exchange and other monetary matters, regarding which the curate’s mind was a blank.
“Not a well-informed young man, my dear,” said Mr Trampleasure to his wife; whereupon that lady looked at him, and Mr Trampleasure seemed to wither away, or rather to shrink into a corner, where Millicent, who looked slightly flushed, but very quiet and self-possessed, was turning over some music, every piece of which had a strip of ribbon sewn with many stitches all up its back.
“Not a well-informed young man, this new curate, Millicent,” said Mr Trampleasure, trying to sow his discordant seed on more genial soil.
“Not well-informed, uncle?” said the daughter of the house, looking up wide-eyed and amused, “why, I thought him most interesting.”
“Oh! dear me, no, my dear. Quite ignorant of the most everyday matters. I just asked him – ”
“Are you going to give us some music, Miss Luttrell?” said a deep, rich voice behind them, and Millicent turned round smiling.
“I was looking out two of your songs, Mr Hallam. You will sing something?”
“If you wish it,” he said quietly, and there was nothing impressive in his manner.
“Oh, we should all be glad. Mamma is so fond of your songs.”
“I must make the regular stipulation,” said Mr Hallam smiling. “Banking people are very exacting: they do nothing without being paid.”
“You mean that I must sing as well,” said Millicent.
“Oh, certainly. And,” she added eagerly, “Mr Bayle is musical. I will ask him to sing.”
“Yes, do,” said Hallam, with a shade of eagerness in his voice. “He cannot refuse you.”
She did not know why, but as Millicent Luttrell heard these words, something like regret at her proposal crossed her mind, and she glanced at where Bayle was seated, listening to Mrs Trampleasure, who was talking to him loudly – so loudly that her voice reached their ears.
“I should be very glad indeed, Mr Bayle, if, when you call upon us, you would look through Edgar and Edmund’s Latin exercises. I’m quite sure that the head master at the grammar school does not pay the attention to the boys that he should.”
To wait until Mrs Trampleasure came to the end of a conversational chapter, would have been to give up the singing, so Millicent sat down to the little old-fashioned square piano, running her hands skilfully over the keys, and bringing forth harmonious sounds. But they were the aigue wiry tones of the modern zither, and Christie Bayle bent forward as if attracted by the sweet face thrown up by the candles, and turned slightly towards Hallam, dark, handsome, and self-possessed, standing with one hand resting on the instrument.
“I don’t like music!” said Mrs Trampleasure, in a very slightly subdued voice.
“Indeed!” said Bayle starting, for his thoughts were wandering, and an unpleasant, indefinable feeling was stealing over him.
“I think it a great waste of time,” continued Mrs Trampleasure. “Do you like it, Mr Bayle?”
“Well, I must confess I am very fond of it,” he replied.
“But you don’t play anything,” said the lady with quite a look of horror.
“I – I play the flute – a little,” faltered the curate.
“Well,” said Mrs Trampleasure austerely, “we learn a great many habits when we are young, Mr Bayle, that we leave off when we grow older. You are youngs Mr Bayle.”
He looked up in her face as if she had wounded him, her words went so deeply home, and he replied softly:
“Yes, I’m afraid I am very young.”
Just then the doctor came and laid his hand upon Mrs Trampleasure’s lips.
“Silence! One tablespoonful to be taken directly. Hush, softly, not a word;” and he stood over his sister – with a warning index finger held up, while in a deep, thrilling baritone voice Mr Hallam from the bank sang “Treasures of the Deep.”
A dead silence was preserved, and the sweet rich notes seemed to fill the room and float out where the dewy flowers were exhaling their odours on the soft night air. The words were poetical, the pianoforte accompaniment was skilfully played, and, though perhaps but slightly cultivated, the voice of the singer was modulated by that dramatic feeling which is given but to few, so that the expression was natural, and, without troubling the composer’s marks, the song appealed to the feelings of the listeners, though in different ways.
“Bravo! bravo!” cried Mr Trampleasure, crossing to the singer.
“He has a very fine voice,” said Dr Luttrell in a quiet, subdued way; and his handsome face wrinkled a little as he glanced towards the piano.
“Yes, yes, it’s very beautiful,” said Mrs Luttrell, fingering a bracelet round and round, “but I wish he wouldn’t, dear; I declare it always makes me feel as if I wanted to cry. Ah! here’s Sir Gordon.”
Pleasant, sweet-faced Mrs Luttrell crossed the room to welcome a new arrival in the person of a remarkably well-preserved elderly gentleman, dressed with a care that told of his personal appearance being one of the important questions of his life. There was a suspicion of the curling tongs about his hair, which was of a glossy black that was not more natural in hue than that of his carefully-arranged full whiskers. There was a little black patch, too, beneath the nether lip that matched his eyebrows, which seemed more regular and dark than those of gentlemen as a rule at his time of life. The lines in his face were not deep, but they were many, and, in short, he looked, from the curl on the top of his head, down past his high black satin stock, well-padded coat, pinched waist, and carefully strapped down trousers over his painfully small patent leather boots, like one who had taken up the challenge of Time, and meant to fight him to the death.
“Good evening, Mrs Luttrell. Ah! how do, doctor? My dear Miss Luttrell, I’ve been seeing your fingers in the dark as I waited outside.”
“Seeing my fingers, Sir Gordon?”
“Yes; an idea – a fancy of mine,” said the newcomer, bending over the hand he took with courtly old-fashioned grace. “I heard the music, and the sounds brought the producers before my
