"Sigh no more, ladies: Men were deceivers ever, One foot on sea and one on land, To one thing constant never."
"'Deceivers ever--deceivers ever,'" came Maria's pretty treble.
"'Sigh no more--sigh no more,'" whispered Polly in simple harmony, and then their voices joined with Betsy's in the half-mocking bourdon--
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.
"It can be mended," said Mr. Linley, examining the wreck.
"I shall never play again," moaned Tom. "My heart is broken."
Betsy went to her brother's side, and put an arm about his neck.
"You have come back to us, dear Tom," she said; "and you will never go away from us again. We all here love you, Tom. Ah, you know that nothing can change our love for you."
[Illustration: "Curse Dick Sheridan! he has done it all!" [_page 313._]
"Delilah--Delilah--traitress!" murmured Tom. "O Betsy, there has been no deception like mine since the days of Delilah! She told me plainly that she was tired of me--that she had never thought of me except as a nice boy--she actually called me a pretty boy! And my playing--she said that it was dreary--it gave her the vapours; she asked me to play a jig--an Irish jig, too--Irish! I told her that sooner than see my instrument desecrated I would break it across my knee. 'Virginius, the Roman father!' she cried, pointing a finger at me. I always thought her fingers shapely; but I saw then that they were not fingers, but talons--talons!... and I broke my violin before her, and yet she laughed.... O Delilah--Delilah!... But I shall set the scene to music that shall wring her heart, if she have one. I see clearly how it can be dealt with by a small orchestra. Handel fell lamentably short of the truth when he wrote the music to Delilah. I have the prelude in my mind. This is how it will go."