“With a hey nonny, nonny—”
when Tom entered and threw himself on the sofa. The singers ceased their song and stared at him. He held his violin laid across his knees, and then a sudden horror came over the girls, paralysing them where they stood, for they saw that the violin was broken. Its long neck was severed close to the body of the instrument, and hung down, suspended by the strings, from his knees. It was as if they were looking at a strangled infant—the droop of the severed neck had about it all the limpness of death. It was ludicrously ghastly, and Tom was gazing at the wreck with unspeculative eyes.
“Heavens above us! What has happened?” cried Mr. Linley.
“I broke it—God forgive me—I broke it in my anger!” sobbed Tom. “What does it matter?” he cried, recovering himself. “’Tis not alone the fiddle that is broken; my heart is broken, and I shall never touch the instrument again!”
He flung it away from him, but Betsy saw that he took good care that it should alight on the cushion of the sofa. The moan that came from the headless trunk striking the soft place was distractingly human. Maria had lately been reading of a decapitated prince whose head, after the operation, had rolled off the sawdust, so that all could see the disdainful expression on the face; and here was the decapitated violin moaning.
She shuddered.
“It can be mended,” said Mr. Linley, examining the wreck.
“I shall never play again,” moaned Tom. “My heart is broken.”
“Thank Heaven!” murmured his father.
Betsy went to her brother’s side, and put an arm about his neck.