struck off at a heat, and after he had remarked at one of the last rehearsals, "Won't do, this; a want of go and rattle. The thing drags somehow." He then went home, and knocked off the little effects in question.

Talking of the likeness to real concerts, it was the more remarkable when the singing ladies and gentlemen came in a sort of procession, "exactly like the professionals," rustling in silks, and sat in a row. In this they were carefully drilled by Mendelssohn Jackson, who made them copy the precedent of the "Norwich Festival" concerts, where he had once assisted as "counter tenor." Thus it is, and by exercise of a little thought, that a sort of realism is imparted to what would otherwise be a loose and incoherent performance. Well might Mr. Jackson say afterwards, that "not for five times five guineas" would he go through the harassing wear and tear of soul and body undergone during that week.

That sneerer, Lord Robert, was almost ungentlemanly in his remarks on the large share which the director took in the performance. "He is the concert. Take it up and down, cross wise, any way, it is all one tune-Jackson." And indeed during the performance Jackson was everywhere; now beating time; now from the piano making a sudden dart at a piece of music; setting all going, setting all right. Next to this indefatigable actor came the Misses Malcolm, who laboured in the heats and dews, and "worked like horses." Amazing was it to see their self-possession before that audience, their boldness in standing up well to the front, their perfect coolness and aplomb. The courage of women is indeed truer courage than that of men. The two sisters came forward smiling, clad the same, each with a pink scarf garterwise across their chests, to sing their piquant Scotch duett. Who did not recal the words ?—

"The night is braw and bonnie,

The moon is shining clear,

And I gae forth sae gaily,

For my laddie is near,

For my laddie is near.

The arch way in which they nodded and looked over their shoulders was truly piquant, and led to a rapturous encore. The spirit, too, with which Miss Malcolm gave her dashing song, "Let me like a Soldier fall," at the end waving her music as if it was a sword, led to a deserved recal. As for Mendelssohn Jackson's own little "things," how he set down the music stand, threw open the piano, wheeled it to an angle, drew in his chair, looked up to the ceiling

a moment in thought, as if to recover lost inspiration; these tokens of genius were all noted and admired. But we all know how Mendelssohn Jackson and his brethren behave on such occasions. The first chord "dug" vigorously into the clay of the piano; the gay canter to the top; the pause; the gentle riding motion of the figure; the sweetly smiling and bowing in pleasant recognition to the back of the hands as they go through their labour; their leaps into the air; their clearing of each other, like clowns on all fours, who are fond of going over each other in this way: have we not seen this at a hundred concerts of more pretension than the Bindley one? But we are approaching the event of the night.

Pleased as they had been, that rustic audience had been instructed that the noble host had something in reserve with which he desired they should be far more pleased. "The new tenor!" how that sound

fluttered about.

"They are asking which is the new tenor; do point him out, and of course I did," said Mrs. Labouchere, coming up to him about five minutes before his song.

He was sitting in "the green room -so called-not nervous, but in a dreaming state of excitement.

"You will do it admirably, I see," she went on;

"and if you bring the house down, I shall claim some share in the credit. I think it

was I who urged you-urged you-well, on your wild career."

"Indeed, yes," said the Beauty, warmly. "But for you, I should not be here now."

A curious smile answered and encouraged him.

"You have been very kind and good, and taken much trouble with me. Indeed, Mrs. Labouchere, I shall not forget it."

At such and at kindred moments—as during amateur play-we can take the whole world to our bosom. Every one is " my dear boy" or girl, and a certain épanchement de cœur ispardonable. There was even a tremble in the Beauty's voice as he spoke. She looked majestic and splendid, in velvets and diamonds; haughty as Grisi in "Norma ;" despising the whole thing, save the one solitary portion in which she had interested herself.

"I have come from my room solely to hear you sing," she went on, "I feel such a restless interest in it. There, here comes that man to tell you all is ready. Now, courage. Think of me at your

first bar."

It was Mr. Jackson tramping in, "Where's Mr. Talbot? Where's your song? Audience is waiting. Come." And taking it up, he

led the way.

When the Bindley audience saw the soft features, the divided black hair, and the glossy, oiled moustache of the Beauty, his faultless and lady-like linen, and even inhaled the cloud of perfume that floated before him, they were filled with enthusiasm, and greeted the interesting performer with a round of enthusiastic applause. It was really the same as when after town profusely "billed" and newspaper-paragraphed, and a shower of puffs, and talk and whispers, and suggested disappointment, we have seen, and often seen, the well heralded artist enter on the platform. Then we see, as it were, bills and puffs and whispers all concentrated in the bowing figure before us, and it becomes heroic. So was it with the Beauty. He was the hero of the night.

Mendelssohn Jackson, after a few careless chords, struck into the symphony, playing the air with intense expression, only drawing it out to a degree that made the Beauty uncomfortable. Then the Beauty began, faltering a little at first, but getting courage. His voice was clear and tender, though, like that of conscience, "a still, small one." The teaching and tutoring of Mendelssohn Jackson, half contemptuous, had not been thrown away. He really gave a gentlemanlike, inoffensive, and in parts, effective rendering of the famous ballad; and when, after hovering suspended over the edge, for the prescribed time

he finally leaped and lighted on his feet, in the word "SMILE," on which he "died off" softly and sadly, down came a volley of applause, with an irresistible demand for an encore; for which, indeed, the signal came from his lordship, who was seen smiling, pleased, and delighted, and heard to whisper to his neighbour, "I knew he'd do!" Club friends in town wondered afterwards as they heard Bindley laying down the law on musical matters, with a very critical air; a person who up to that had about as much music in him as "a carpenter's saw in good work." It was a sweet and most delightful moment!- paradisal!- something to have dreams of, something that might never come back again.

So it seemed to him that night when the concert was over, when he was receiving the gentle spray of compliments showered on him, figure succeeding figure. "Such a treat, Mr. Talbot." "Such a charming voice." One such note kept pouring into his ear.

"I cannot tell you the effect produced; everybody is talking of it. They should give me a testimonial, surely. Ah, if I had only known you long ago! What time wasted, what glories lost! Here

you are a public man.

you have been leading.

A change, indeed, from the hermit-like life.
How many years now?"

"Indeed, it is a long, long time," said the Beauty.

"I often think how many men of genius are thus forced to live a mole-like existence-underground, as it were. It is not right-it should not be-it is wasting the precious blessings of heaven. Be a monk, if you please; but then do it regularly: choose your convent, and get professed. But do not act after this lay fashion."

Strange thoughts were flitting through the Beauty's mind. Yes, he had led a curious, unsatisfactory life. How was it that he was so misunderstood at home? Here, the very first opportunity of his enlargement, he was raised to the pinnacle of social celebrity.

Now comes up Lord Bindley, rather excited.

"My dear Talbot, a word with you; we must not let this drop. Having found a mine-ha, ha!--I am not going to let it go unworked. I have a royalty in you, my dear fellow-ha, ha! See, we are going to repeat this concert; it has been really such a great success, and you are re-engaged for Wednesday. So no thoughts of going home."

The Beauty's cheeks flushed with pleasure.

"See what it is to become a public man,” said Mrs. Labouchere. "Publicity has its duties as well as its rights. There will be no escaping from this."

The Beauty began excuses, but they would not be listened to. It was charming-delightful-too exquisite. Kindly faces on all sides. crowding round; all pressing, entreating-imploring, was it?—that he should remain. What could he do, a public man? In his place, what would any one do? It was wrung from him he would see in the morning. He would do what he could. Sweet, sweet night!

CHAPTER VIII.

UNDECIDED.

It drew on

A WEARY day, though, for the two ladies far away. heavily from morn till midday, from midday till dusk, still with hopes that he would at last return. They clung to that hope, as everyone does in that wonderful way for which there is no analogy-from the sentenced criminal downwards. At last it grew dark, and drew on to the hour when the concert was beginning. They did not reckon on the step of sending the carriage to the station, for they knew a porter could be sent up to the house for it. But the long

night dragged on; all Livy's little shifts and devices in the way of excuse or defence of the culprit, broke down.

"You don't think," said her mother, almost passionately, "that I mind his staying a day, or days even, at any country house? I am not such a foolish creature. But I know what this means-what it is the certain beginning of. His poor head has been turned by some girl's praise. You see how he spoke of his song."

"Indeed, no," said Livy, warmly; "he will tell the whole thing to us to-morrow morning. You will see, dear. Oh, it is a trifle-not worth thinking of; fifty gentlemen would do the same."

"When he comes in the morning?"

"Come! Oh, yes, he must come in the morning. But who knows?"

Livy looked a little wild at this supposition, and it attended her to her room that night, and waited on her during the night, like an ugly sight. What if he should not come in the morning?

This may all seem ludicrous enough—a social puddle in a storm; but from these two hearts proceeded two fibres that joined the Beauty's noble figure, and which any motion of his caused to vibrate, and almost to jangle.

In the morning-a Sunday morning-there was but the one train by which he could arrive, about noon. It was an uneasy church time, and when it was over Livy's ponies were got out, and trotted her down to the station. But the train came, and the Beauty, as we know, was not in it. From her seat, with fluttering heart, she saw the doors open and flap, and give up their passenger or two, and the train move on. She saw it was not the Beauty that was left, and her soul sank. This was alarming; and, half terrified, she turned her ponies away from the house, for she had not courage to face her mother. On the road she saw her lover and worshipper coming gaily along. His face fell also.

"I was certain he would come to-day. What can be over him?" (He, too, had been drawn into the little microcosm.)

"But what are we to do?" she cried. "I cannot go back with this news."

The young man paused a few seconds.

"I was going to propose something, only he might not like it. Here is rather an important letter come in for my father, which he ought to see at once. I was about sending a special messenger;

but—"

"O, if you would-the very thing!" she cried his meaning. "Do go quick, and speak to him. VOL. IV., N. S. 1870.

eagerly, leaping to

Tell him he must

R