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A Nest of Linnets




[_Frontispiece_: "Dick--Dick," she gasped, "a dreadful thing has
happened!"                                         [_page_ 350.]




    A Nest of Linnets

    BY FRANK FRANKFORT MOORE
    AUTHOR OF "I FORBID THE
    BANNS," "THE JESSAMY BRIDE,"
    "THE FATAL GIFT," "ACCORDING
    TO PLATO," ETC., ETC.

    WITH 16 ILLUSTRATIONS
    BY J. JELLICOE

    _London_: HUTCHINSON & CO
    PATERNOSTER ROW      1901

    PRINTED BY
    HAZELL, WATSON, AND VINEY, LD.
    LONDON AND AYLESBURY.




A NEST OF LINNETS




CHAPTER I


"This will never do, Betsy," said Mr. Linley, shaking his head. "Sir
Joshua calls you Saint Cecilia, but 'twere a misnomer if you do not
sing the phrase better than you have just sung it. 'She drew an angel
down': let that be in your mind, my dear. There is no celestial being
that would move a pinion to help a maiden who implored its aid in so
half-hearted a way. Let us try again. One, two, three----"

    "'Angels, ever bright and fair,'"

sang Miss Linley.

Her father sprang from the harpsichord.

"Gracious powers, madam! the angels are not in the next room--they are
not even in Pierrepont Street, take my word for it; they are in heaven,
and heaven, let me tell you, is a very long way from Bath!" he cried.
"Give forth the 'Angels' as if you meant to storm the ears of heaven
with your cry. Think of it, girl--think that you are lost, eternally
lost, unless you can obtain help that is not of earth. Stun their ears,
madam, with the suddenness of your imploration, and let the voice come
from your heart. Betsy, that smile is not in the music. If Maestro
Handel had meant a smile to illuminate the part, take my word for it
he would have signified it by a bar of demi-semi-quavers, followed by
semi-quavers and quavers. Good heavens, madam! do you hope to improve
upon Handel?"

"Ah, father, do not ask too much of me to-night; I am tired--anxious.
Why, only last week a highwayman----"

Miss Linley glanced, eagerly listening, toward the window, as if she
fully expected to see the mask of a highwayman peering between the
blinds.

"Betsy, I am ashamed of you!" said her father. "What stuff is this? Is
there any highwayman fool enough to collect fiddles? Do you fancy that
a boy with a fiddle tucked under his arm is in any peril of a bullet?"

"But they may affright the child."

"Child? Child? Who is the child? What! Do you think that because you
have not seen your brother since he was fourteen, the four years that
have passed can have made no impression on him?"

"I suppose he will have grown."

"You may be sure that he will be able to defend himself without drawing
either his sword or his fiddle. To your singing, Betsy. Go back to the
recitative."

"It would be a terrible thing to find that he had outgrown his
affection for us. I have heard that in Italy----"

"Still harping on my daughter's brother! Come, Miss Linnet, you shall
have your chance. You shall fancy that your prayer is uttered on behalf
of your brother.

    'Angels, ever bright and fair,
    Take, oh, take _him_ to your care.'

Now shall the angels hear for certain. Come, child; one, two----"

    "'Angels----'"

sang Miss Linley.

"Brava!" cried her father _sotto voce_, as the sound thrilled through
the room and there was a suggestion of an answering vibration from the
voice of the harpsichord.

    "'Angels, ever bright and fair,
    Take, oh, take me----'"

The harpsichord jingled alone. The girl's voice failed. She threw
herself into a chair, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into
a passion of sobbing.

"Oh, if he does not arrive after all--if some accident has
happened--if--if----"

The apprehensions which she was too much overcome to name were
emphasised in the glance that she cast at her father. Her eyes, the
most marvellous wells of deep tenderness that ever woman possessed, at
all times suggested a certain pathetic emotion of fear, causing every
man who looked into their depths to seek to be her protector from the
danger they seemed to foresee; but at this moment they appeared to look
straight into the face of disaster.

"If I could translate that expression of your face into music, I should
be the greatest musician alive," said her father.

In a second the girl was on her feet, uttering a little sound of
contempt. She began pacing the floor excitedly, her long white muslin
dress flowing from her high waist in waves.

"Ah, always this art--always this art!" she cried. "Always the
imitation--always the pitiful attempt to arouse an artificial emotion
in others, and never to have an hour of true emotion oneself, never an
hour of real life, never an hour apart from the artifices of Art,--that
is the life which you would have me to lead. I hate it! I hate it! Oh,
better a day--an hour--a minute of true tenderness than a long lifetime
spent in shamming emotion!"

"Shamming? Shamming? Oh, my Elizabeth!" said the musician in a voice
full of reproach.

"Shamming! Shamming!" she cried. "I think that there is no greater
sham than music. The art of singing is the art of shamming. I try to
awaken pity in the breast of my hearers by pretending that I am at the
point of death and anxious for the angels to carry me off, yet all the
time I care nothing for the angels, but a good deal for my brother Tom,
who is coming home to-night. Oh, father, father, do not try to teach
me any more of this tricking of people into tears by the sound of my
voice. Dear father, let me have this one evening to myself--to live in
my own world--my own world of true tears, of true feeling, of true joy.
Let me live until to-morrow the real life of the people about us, who
have not been cursed by Heaven with expressive voices and a knowledge
of the trick of drawing tears by a combination of notes."

She had flung herself down at his knees and was pressing one of his
hands to her face, kissing it.

"Betsy, you are not yourself this evening," he said in a voice that was
faltering on the threshold of a sob.

"Nay, nay; 'tis just this evening that I am myself," she cried. "Let me
continue to be myself just for one evening, dear father. Let me---- Ah!"

She had given a little start, then there was a breathless pause, then,
with a little cry of delight, she sprang to her feet and rushed to the
window.

Her father had rushed to the second window with just such another cry.

Hearing it she turned to him in amazement, with the edge of the blind
that she was in the act of raising still in her hand. She gave a laugh,
pointing a finger of her other hand at him, while she cried:

"Ah, you are a father after all!"

His head was within the blind, and he was shutting off with his hands
the light of the candles of the room while he peered into the darkness,
so that the reproach passed unheeded.

Before she had put her face to the pane her father had dropped the
blind that he was holding back.

"Good lud! how the lad has grown!" he said in an astonished whisper.

"Tom! 'tis Tom himself!" cried Betsy, turning from the window and
making for the door.

There was a sound of merry voices and many shouts of children's welcome
downstairs--a stamping of feet on the stairs, a stream of questions in
various tones of voice, a quiet answer or two, a children's quarrel in
the passage as a boy tried to run in front of a girl. Betsy flung wide
the door, crying:

"Tom, brother Tom!"

In another second he was in her arms, kissing her face and being kissed
by her without the exchange of a word.

The other members of the family of Linley stood by, the father slightly
nervous, fingering an invisible harpsichord, the brothers and sisters
callous only when they were not nudging one another lest any detail
of the pathetic scene of the meeting of the eldest brother and sister
should pass unnoticed.

"Hasn't he grown!" remarked Mrs. Linley. Some of the flour of the
pie which she had been making was on the front of her dress and one
of the sleeves. She had transferred a speck or two to her son's
travelling-cloak.

"He hasn't shaken hands with father yet," said Master Oziah with the
frankness of observant childhood.

"He doesn't mind; he's too big for father to thwack!" whispered Master
Willie.

"Oh, Tom!--but it was my fault--all my fault!" cried Betsy, releasing
her brother, and passing him on to their father almost with the air of
introducing the two.

For a moment the musician felt the aloofness of the artist.

"Father--_caro padre_!" said the boy, who had just returned from Italy.

"Son Tom," said the father, giving his cheek to be kissed, while he
pressed the hand that the boy held out to him.

"What has he brought us, I wonder?" remarked little Oziah to Willie in
a moderately low tone.

"Nothing that's useful, I hope," said Willie. "People have no business
bringing home useful presents."

"I can't believe that these big girls are the little sisters I left at
home when I set out on my travels," said Tom, when he had thrown off
his travelling-cloak. "Polly? Oh, she is very pretty--yes, in her own
way; and I daresay she is as pert as ever."

"And she needs all her pertness to keep her head above water in such a
household!" said Polly.

"But Betsy--oh, what an English sound Betsy has--far sweeter than
Bettina, I'll swear! Oh, _Bacco_, Betsy is our beauty," said Tom,
looking critically at the blushing girl before him.

"Psha! everybody knows that," said Polly. "We don't stand in need of a
traveller's opinion on so plain a matter."

"You, Tom, are as like Betsy now as two--two roses that have grown on
the same stem," said Mr. Linley.

"Then I cannot without boasting say another word about her beauty,"
laughed Tom, making a very Italian bow to the sister whom he loved.

He undoubtedly bore a striking resemblance to her. His complexion
was just as exquisitely transparent as hers, and his eyes had the
same expression, the same timorous look, that suggested the eyes of a
beautiful startled animal--the most wonderful eyes that had ever been
painted by Gainsborough.

"And her voice--has it also improved?" asked Tom, turning to their
father with the air of an impresario making an inquiry of a trusted
critic.

"Look at her face, boy; look in her eyes, and then you will know what
I mean when I say that her voice is no more than the expression of her
face made audible," said Mr. Linley. "Look well at her this evening, my
son; you will appreciate her beauty now that it is still fresh in your
eyes; to-morrow you will have begun to get used to it. Brothers cease
to be impressed with the beauty of their sisters almost as quickly as
husbands do with the beauty of their wives."

"Tom is so like Betsy, there is no danger of his forgetting that she is
beautiful," said Polly.

Tom gave a little frown, then a little laugh. His laugh was just as
sweet as Betsy's: both suggested a campanile.

"You have made her a great singer, I hear, sir," he remarked, when he
had kissed her again--this time on the hand.

"She was born a great singer: I have only made her a great artist,"
said the father. Then noticing her frown, he cried in quite another
tone: "But how is't with you, my fine fellow? Have you proved yourself
to be a genius or only an artist?"

"Ah, you remember how I replied to the bishop who had heard Betsy sing,
and thought it only civil to inquire if I was musical also: 'Yes, sir,
we are all geniuses'?"

"It has become the household jest," said Polly. "But my own belief is,
that mother is the only genius among us; you shall taste one of her
pies before you are an hour older. If you say that you tasted a better
one in all Italy, you will prove yourself no judge of cookery."

"I should eat that pie even if it should contain not four-and-twenty
blackbirds, but as many nightingales--or linnets. Ah, you remember,
Betsy, how the name 'Miss Linnet' remained with you? Who was it that
first called you Miss Linnet?"

"That were a question for the Society of Antiquaries," said Betsy,
"and the bird we are all thinking of is a pie. Hurry to your room, Tom,
or I vow there will not be left so much as a clove for you. You knew
Polly's appetite; well, it has improved to the extent of an octave and
a half since."

"_Corpo di Bacco!_ I have no inclination to play second fiddle to an
appetite of such compass!" cried Tom, hurrying from the room.

"I sing as Miss Cormorant in the bills when Betsy appears as Miss
Linnet," cried Polly from the lobby.

And then they all talked of Tom--all except the mother, who had gone
downstairs to the kitchen. How Tom had grown! How good it was of him to
remember through all the stress of foreign travel and foreign study,
the household characteristics of the Linleys, of 5, Pierrepont Street,
Bath! It seemed so strange--just as strange as if a stranger had come
into the house showing himself acquainted with the old family jests.
And he had not even forgotten that Polly was pert! Polly held her head
high at the thought that he had not forgotten her pertness. How noble
it was of him! And yet he must have had a great many more important
details to keep in his head.

Maria was thinking of the possibility of a brooch being among the
luggage of her newly returned brother--a real Italian brooch, with
perhaps a genuine yellow topaz in it, or perhaps a fascinating design
done in mosaic, or a shell cameo of the head of Diana, or some other
foreign goddess. Little Maria had been thinking of this brooch for some
weeks. At times she could scarcely hope that so great a treasure should
ever escape the notice of those lines of banditti, who, according to
reports that had reached her, contested the passage of any article of
value across the Italian frontier. But even admitting the possibility
of its safe arrival in England, would not the news of its coming be
passed round from highwayman to highwayman until the last chance of its
reaching her had fled? Then there were the perils of innkeepers, of
inquisitive postboys, of dishonest porters. She had heard of them all,
and thus was for weeks in a condition of nervousness quite unusual to
her. And now the dreadful thought came to her: "_Perhaps he has brought
the brooch to Polly, and only a book to me!_"

She looked with eager, searching eyes at Polly, and felt sure that she
detected on her sister's face the expression of a girl who has secret
intelligence that a brooch is about to be presented to her. She hoped
that she would be strong enough to resist the temptation to pinch
Polly. She had no confidence in Polly's self-control, however, should
the book fall to Polly's lot.

And thus they all trooped downstairs to supper, and the moment they had
seated themselves there arose one septet of joyful exclamations, for
between the knife and fork of every one lay a neat parcel wrapped up in
cotton-wool and silken paper.

And Maria's was a brooch--a beautiful mosaic design of the Pillar of
Trajan.

And nobody had received anything that could possibly be called useful,
so every one was happy.

And when Tom entered, after a dramatic interval, he was assailed on
all sides by exclamations of gratitude. But he put his fingers in his
ears for a few moments, and only removed them to be able more freely
to repel the attacks made upon him by the girls. He could only receive
one kiss at a time, though he did make a masterful attempt to take the
two elders as a _concerto allegro_ movement; the others he treated as a
_scherzo_. He had the lordly air of the patron who flings his guineas
about: the Italian jewellery had made a deep inroad upon a lira; but
he was a generous man, and he loved his family. But his mother, being
a thrifty soul--Mr. Foote thought her miserly--shook her head. She
felt that he had been too lavish, not knowing anything about Italian
jewellery.




CHAPTER II


"'The greatest singer in England.' Yes, that is what I heard," said
Tom, patting Betsy's hand, which he held affectionately in his own. He
had made quite an art of fondling hands, having been for four years in
Italy. The family had returned to the drawing-room after supper, but
as Mr. Linley and his son had begun to talk about music, the younger
members had escaped to another apartment, the better to push on a
nursery quarrel as to the respective value of their presents. The
novelty of a newly returned elder brother was beginning to decline;
he had eaten of the pie just as they had eaten of it, and now he was
beginning to talk quite easily of music, when they had fully expected
him to tell them some thrilling stories of Italian brigands full of
bloodshed.

"She has sung better than any singer in England," said the father;
"but that does not make her the greatest singer."

"Pacchierotti is the best critic in the world, and he told a company in
my hearing three months ago that there is no singer in England who can
compare with Miss Linley," said Tom. "Why, the great Agujari herself
allowed that in oratorio she could never produce the same impression as
our Miss Linnet."

"She spoke the truth, then, though she is an Italian," said Mr. Linley.

"Ah, let us talk about something else," cried Betsy. "Why should we
talk of music within the first hour of Tom's return to us? Surely we
might have one evening of pleasure."

Tom ceased fondling her hand and looked seriously into her face. And
now the expression in their eyes was not the same. The soft, beseeching
look that she cast at him was very different from the serious
glance--it had something of reproach in it--with which he regarded her.

"We talk of music because there is nothing else worth talking about in
the world," said he, and she saw with dismay the strange light that
burned in the depths of his eyes, while his glance passed suddenly
beyond her face--passed away from her face, from the room, from the
world altogether. She knew what that light meant, and she shuddered.
She had seen it in Mr. Garrick's face when he was playing in _Hamlet_;
she had seen it in Mr. Gainsborough's face when he was painting the
picture of her and her brother; she had seen it in the plain face of
little Dr. Goldsmith when he had repeated in her hearing the opening
lines of his sublime poem, "The Traveller"; she had seen it in the face
of Mr. Burke when he was making a speech. She knew what it meant--she
knew that that light was the light which men call genius, and she
shuddered. She knew that to have genius is only to have a greater
capacity for suffering than other men. What she did not know was that
people saw the same light in her eyes when she was singing, "I know
that my Redeemer liveth."

"What do you say?" cried the father, springing from his chair with a
hand upraised. "What do you say, my son?"

"I say, sir, that we talk of music because there is nothing else in the
world worth talking about," said Tom stoutly.

With a cry of delight the father threw himself into his son's arms.

"Thank God for that--thank God for that!" he murmured. "You have not
worked in vain, my boy; I have not prayed