The Master of the Ceremonies. Fenn George Manville
Linnell never sings, but he’s a regular Orpheus with his lute or pipe – I mean the fiddle and the flute.”
“Then perhaps he will charm us, and fancy he has come into the infernal regions for the nonce; only, ’fore gad, gentlemen, I am not the Pluto who has carried off his Eurydice.”
“Really, this is so unexpected,” said the young man, “and I have no instrument.”
“Oh, some of your bandsmen have stringed instruments, Rockley.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” cried the Major. “What is it to be, Mr Linnell? We can give you anything. Why not get up a quintette, and let Matt Bray there take the drum, and charming Sir Harry Payne the cymbals?”
“Play something, Dick,” said Colonel Mellersh quietly.
“Yes, of course,” said the young man. “Will you help me?”
“Oh, if you like,” said the Colonel. “Rockley, ask your men to lend us a couple of instruments.”
“Really, my dear fellow, we haven’t a lute in the regiment.”
“I suppose not,” said the Colonel dryly. “A couple of violins will do. Here, my man, ask for a violin and viola.”
The military servant saluted and went out, and to fill up the time Major Rockley proposed a toast.
“With bumpers, gentlemen. A toast that every man will drink. Are you ready?”
There was a jingle of glasses, the gurgle of wine, and then a scattered volley of “Yes!”
“Her bright eyes!” said the Major, closing his own and kissing his hand.
“Her bright eyes!” cried everyone but the Adjutant, who growled out a malediction on somebody’s eyes.
Then the toast was drunk with three times three, there was the usual clattering of glasses as the gentlemen resumed their seats, and some of those who had paid most attention to the port began with tears in their eyes to expatiate on the charms of some special reigning beauty, receiving confidences of a like nature. Just then, the two instruments were brought and handed to the Colonel and Richard Linnell, a sneering titter going round the table, and a whisper about “fiddlers” making the latter flush angrily.
“Yes, gentlemen, fiddlers,” said Colonel Mellersh quietly; “and it requires no little skill to play so grand and old an instrument. I’ll take my note from you, Dick.”
Flushing more deeply with annoyance, Richard Linnell drew his bow across the A string, bringing forth a sweet pure note that thrilled through the room, and made one of the glasses ring.
“That’s right,” said the Colonel. “I wish your father were here. What’s it to be?”
“What you like,” said Linnell, whose eyes were wandering about the table, as if in search of the man who would dare to laugh and call him “fiddler” again.
“Something simple that we know.”
Linnell nodded.
“Ready, gentlemen,” said the Major, with a sneering look at Sir Harry Payne. “Silence, please, ye demons of the nether world. ‘Hark, the lute!’ No: that’s the wrong quotation. Now, Colonel – Mr Linnell, we are all attention.”
Richard Linnell felt as if he would have liked to box the Major’s ears with the back of the violin he held; but, mastering his annoyance, he stood up, raised it to his shoulder, and drew the bow across the strings, playing in the most perfect time, and with the greatest expression, the first bars of a sweet old duet, the soft mellow viola taking up the seconds; and then, as the players forgot all present in the sweet harmony they were producing, the notes came pouring forth in trills, or sustained delicious, long-drawn passages from two fine instruments, handled by a couple of masters of their art.
As they played on sneers were changed for rapturous admiration, and at last, as the final notes rang through the room in a tremendous vibrating chord that it seemed could never have been produced by those few tightly-drawn strings, there was a furious burst of applause, glasses were broken, decanters hammered the table, and four men who had sunk beneath, suffering from too many bottles, roused up for the moment to shout ere they sank asleep again, while the Major excitedly stretched out his hand first to one and then to the other of the performers.
“Gentlemen,” he cried at last, hammering the table to obtain order, “I am going to ask a favour of our talented guests. This has come upon me like a revelation. Such music is too good for men.”
“Hear! hear! hear! hear!” came in chorus.
“It is fit only for the ears of those we love.”
“Hear! – hear! – hear! – hear!”
“We have drunk their health, to-night; each the health of the woman of his heart.”
“Hear! – hear! – hear! – hear!”
“And now, as we have such music, I am going to beg our guests to come with us and serenade a lady whose name I will not mention.”
“Hear! – hear! – hurrah!”
“It is the lady I am proud to toast, and I ask the favour of you, Colonel Mellersh, of you, Mr Linnell, to come and play that air once through beneath her window.”
“Oh, nonsense, Rockley. My dear fellow, no,” cried the Colonel.
“My dear Mellersh,” said the Major with half-tipsy gravity. “My dear friend; and you, my dear friend Linnell, I pray you hear me. It may mean much more than you can tell – the happiness of my life. Come, my dear fellow, you’ll not refuse.”
“What do you say, Linnell?” cried the Colonel good-humouredly.
“Oh, it is so absurd,” said Linnell warmly.
“No, no, not absurd,” said the Major sternly. “I beg you’ll not refuse.”
“Humour him, Dick,” said the Colonel in a whisper.
“You are telling him not to play,” said the Major fiercely.
“My dear fellow, no: I was asking him to consent. Humour him, Dick,” said the Colonel. “It’s nearly two, and there’ll be no one about. If we refuse it may mean a quarrel.”
“I’ll go if you wish it,” said Richard Linnell quietly.
“All right, Major; we’ll serenade your lady in good old Spanish style,” said the Colonel laughingly. “Quick, then, at once. How far is it?”
“Not far,” cried the Major. “Who will come? Bray, Payne, and half a dozen more. Will you be one, Burnett?”
“No, not I,” said the little, fair man with the sneering smile; “I shall stay;” and he gave effect to his words by sinking back in his chair and then gliding softly beneath the table.
“Just as you like,” said the Major, and the result was that a party of about a dozen sallied out of the barrack mess-room, crossed the yard, and were allowed to pass by the sentry on duty, carbine on arm.
It was a glorious night, and as they passed out into the fresh, pure air and came in sight of the golden-spangled sea, which broke amongst the shingle with a low, dull roar, the blood began to course more quickly through Linnell’s veins, the folly of the adventure was forgotten, and a secret wish that he and the Colonel were alone and about to play some sweet love ditty, beneath a certain window, crossed his brain.
For there was something in the time there, beneath the stars that were glitteringly reflected in the sea! Did she love him? Would she ever love him? he thought, and he walked on in a sweet dream of those waking moments, forgetful of the Major, and hearing nothing of the conversation of his companions, knowing nothing but the fact that he was a man of seven and twenty, whose thoughts went hourly forth to dwell upon one on whom they had long been fixed, although no words had passed, and he had told himself too often that he dare not hope.
“Who is the Major’s Gloriana, Dick?” asked the Colonel