“Who is it that wears flowers in his button-hole?” said the Signor. He wore them himself, and he was curious and slightly excited, wondering if any gossip could by any chance have got up about himself. The idea of such a thing kindled him into interest; his right hand dropped off from the piano, though with the other hand he kept softly sounding notes in the bass, and he turned towards his old servant with a look of animation altogether new. What interest is there like that with which one anticipates hearing something about oneself?
But at this moment Purcell’s steps were heard coming quickly along the passage, and he came in with his head erect, and his eyes gleaming, and pushed old Pick out of his way. “That will do, Pick,” he said, with a glimmer of impatience, “that will do! I will set things right for the master, myself.”
“What is the matter, boy?”
“Matter or no matter, if you think I’ll leave it to the first that comes to look after my master—” said old Pick, standing his ground. He would not yield; he was very friendly in general to Mr. John, and ready to do what he ordered, but there are limits to everything. He stood his ground steadily, arranging and re-arranging the papers on the table, while young Purcell went forward to the Signor. The young fellow put himself behind the musician, between him and the window, and stooped to whisper in his ear. His glowing eyes, his eager aspect, made a great impression on the Signor, who was very impressionable. He was possessed by some new thought. “Master,” he said, breathless, “I have a hundred things to say to you. I have heard something new. I want your advice, I want your help.” He was breathless, as if he had been running a race, though all he had really done had been to come along a few yards of passage. The Signor was easily moved by the sight of emotion, and he was fond of his protégé. “Go, Pick,” he said immediately, “and bring us some tea.”
“Tea, sir!” said the old man in consternation. “You never takes it. If it’s nothing but to get rid of old Pick, I’ll go. I’ll go; never fear but I’ll go.”
“I want some tea,” said the Signor authoritatively; “foolish old man, would you spoil my new song for want of a cup of tea? Go to Mrs. Purcell, and tell her, with my compliments, I want some of her special brew—the very best, as she used to make it for me when I had headaches. Quick, my head threatens to ache now. Well! what is it, boy? Has the Queen sent for you to be the head of her orchestra, or is the Dean coming to pay us a visit? It must be something very important to judge by your face.”
“Oh, sir,” cried young Purcell, “what a heart you have! making up a headache and a whole story to save old Pick’s feelings—and me that am really no better than he is, pushing him out of the way!”
“Nobody is any better than any other,” said the Signor in his measured tones. “I have tried to teach you so all your life. But I will allow that some are worse than others,” he added, with a smile. His disciple was too much occupied, however, with the urgency of his own case to notice what he said.
“Master,” said the young man, “I have hurried back to tell you I have changed my mind; I will take the organ at Sturminster after all.”
An almost imperceptible change came over the Signor’s face—that slight stiffening of the muscles of the mouth—continuance of the easy and genial smile of real satisfaction into the forced and uncomfortable one of pretended equanimity—which is the sign above all others of disappointment and displeasure, became visible in his face. “Well——” he said slowly; “why not—if you think it will be more to your advantage? After all, that is the grand test.”