“Nothing—oh, nothing!” he cried, and she allowed him to kiss her hand. “’Tis nothing. Have not I proved it by refraining from attending a single practice of the instruments, thereby making my father furious?”
“Then if the concert be nothing to you, am I something less than nothing?” she cried.
“Ah, you are everything—everything, only—— Heavens, if I were to absent myself my prospects would be ruined!”
“Ah, ’tis the old story!” sighed the lady,—there was more indignation in her sigh than Mr. Burke could incorporate in one of his speeches on the Marriage Act,—“the old story: a man’s ambition against a woman’s affection! Go to your concert, sir, but never let me see your face again.”
“Dear child!” he cried,—he sometimes called her “dear child,” because she was not (he thought) more than two years older than himself,—“cannot you see that when my name is printed——”
“Do you presume to instruct me on these points, sir?” she cried. “Does not all the world know that my name is down in every playbill that Mr. Colman prints, as a member of his company? and yet—— But you have taught me my duty. I shall go back to London to-morrow. I thank you, sir, for having given me a lesson. O man, man! always cruel!—always ready to slight the poor, trustful creature who gives up all for your sake.”
She dissolved into tears, and he was kneeling by her side, trying to catch the hand which she withheld from him, and all the time swearing that she was everything to him—his life, his soul, his hope, his future....
And so the pieces in which Tom Linley was to take part at the concert were omitted from the performance, and the manager assured Mr. Linley that his son’s career, so far as Bath was concerned, was at an end.