“‘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.