“I beg your pardon, papa. I did not mean it,” I stammered.
“No, I do not suppose you did mean us to overhear you,” he replied sternly. “But I have no doubt that you had resolved to be intensely disagreeable, and I tell you plainly that I will not have it. You see, my love,” he said, turning to his wife, “you will have a little temper and self-will to deal with, but I am sure you will know how to compel it to keep within due bounds.”
What could I do or say after that? Nothing, of course, and I sat miserably through the whole meal, while all but Jerry laughed and talked as if quite unconscious of my presence. I would fain have escaped to my own room when the dinner was over. But my father had taken it into his head that I merely wanted to be obstinate and disagreeable, and suggested that I should spend an hour in the drawing-room. I accordingly took refuge at the piano. But my music was so melancholy that I am not surprised that I was asked to desist, for, when you come to think of it, “Killigrew’s Lament,” and “The Dead March in Saul,” haven’t a very bridal sound about them.
So far Lady Elizabeth had not spoken directly to me, and whenever my eyes wandered in her direction, I could see that her glance was very critical, but I could not be sure that it was quite so disapproving as I had expected. Yet, although I neither spoke, nor was spoken to, there was no constraint between the others, for my father and Lady Courtney were both good conversationalists, and Belle could chatter by the hour, provided the talk was kept at a suitably frivolous level. Jerry, after being petted and praised a little, had been sent to bed primed with a quartet of kisses, and jubilant in the possession of a bright sovereign which papa had given to him in honor of the advent of a new mistress at Courtney Grange.
“Belle, dear, suppose you play us one of your pretty pieces,” said my father. Whereupon I vacated the music-stool, and took refuge near the big oriel window which overlooked the orchard, and which was my especial delight. For it was like a small room in itself, and I did not feel quite so lost among its cozy, faded draperies as I did in any other part of our drawing-room, which always seemed to me to be much too large for the furniture that was in it. Belle, after a great deal of fidgeting and looking round at herself, to make sure that her dress was falling in graceful folds, struck a few chords on what had been a very fine piano in its day, but which even I, who was partial to all that had belonged to my mother, was compelled to admit was getting out of date.
“I really don’t like to let you hear me for the first time on an old instrument like this, Lady Elizabeth,” said Belle. “If my music strikes you disagreeably, pray make all due allowance for the difficulties under which I labor.”
“Pray don’t apologize, my dear,” answered Lady Elizabeth. “I know how to separate the faults of the instrument from those of the player, and the quality of the piano need not trouble you long, as in all probability a grand of my own will be here in a day or two.”
“How delightful!” exclaimed Belle, and then she proceeded to give us a specimen of the skill which, times without number, I had been advised to emulate. She played “The Rippling Cascade” in a style that was faultless as regards time and precision, following it up with “The Musical Box.” But her playing was utterly devoid of expression. Pathos, tenderness, power, fire, were all unknown musical quantities to her, as they are, alas! to numbers of other conventional players; and whether it was “Home, Sweet Home,” or “The Soldier’s Chorus,” each and everything was played with the same clock-work insensibility to all the laws of expression. I watched Lady Elizabeth narrowly, as she listened to Belle’s efforts in the musical line, and (shall I own it?) I was maliciously glad to notice a distinctly bored expression steal across her features. There was one thing in which I could excel my usually all-conquering sister, of which the lady whom we both desired to please was evidently a judge, and I could not help rejoicing in the fact that I was not quite weaponless in the fight for favor, though I had certainly done anything but shine so far.
“What do you think of Belle’s performance?” asked my father, either forgetful of my presence, or not caring whether I overheard the conversation or not. Lady Elizabeth’s reply, though given in a low tone, and under cover of the music, reached my ears quite distinctly.
“She is just a trifle disappointing there, Gerald. I should imagine your younger daughter, Dora, to be much the better artist of the two. She seems to be a trifle wild and ungovernable, but would, I think, be amenable to reason, with judicious handling.”