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Updated: June 17, 2025
Linley's pretty little daughter, they would have seen the stone walls of Kitty's bed-chamber snugly covered with velvet hangings which kept out the cold; they would have trod on a doubly-laid carpet, which set the chilly influences of the pavement beneath it at defiance; they would have looked at a bright little bed, of the last new pattern, worthy of a child's delicious sleep; and they would only have discovered that the room was three hundred years old when they had drawn aside the window curtains, and had revealed the adamantine solidity of the outer walls.
Presty viewed it, a crisis in domestic history. Conscience, with its customary elasticity, adapted itself to the emergency, and Linley's mother-in-law stole information behind the curtain in Linley's best interests, it is quite needless to say. The talk of the two ladies went on, without a suspicion on either side that it was overheard by a third person. Sydney explained herself.
The facts were there to speak for themselves: he was an altered man; anxiety, sorrow, remorse one or the other seemed to have got possession of him. Judging by Mrs. Linley's gayety of manner, his wife could not possibly have been taken into his confidence. What did it mean? Oh, the useless, hopeless question! And yet, again and again she asked herself: what did it mean?
Presty led her out to meet Kitty in the garden; waited until she saw them together; and returned to the breakfast-room. Herbert Linley's letter lay on the floor; his discreet mother-in-law picked it up. It could do no more harm now, and there might be reasons for keeping the husband's proposal. "Unless I am very much mistaken," Mrs.
She was little and dark and would have been pretty, if she had not looked ill and out of spirits. What would he have said, what would he have done, if he had known that those two strangers were Randal Linley's brother and Roderick Westerfield's daughter? Mr. and Mrs. Herbert. The stealthy influence of distrust fastens its hold on the mind by slow degrees.
A long walk for an old woman but I can assure you that he does really go to the farm." Implicitly trusting her husband and rightly trusting him Linley's wife replied by a look which Mrs. Presty received in silent indignation. She summoned her dignity and marched out of the room. Five minutes afterward, Mrs.
Linley's stout figure of former times had fallen away, as if he had suffered under long illness; his healthy color had faded; he made an effort to assume the hearty manner that had once been natural to him which was simply pitiable to see. "After sacrificing all that makes life truly decent and truly enjoyable for a woman, he has got nothing, not even false happiness, in return!"
Linley's long delay, and, indeed, I think the latter much to blame in this respect. I did intend to give you some account of myself since my arrival here, but you cannot conceive how I have been hurried, even much pressed for time at this present writing.
In the event of the answer being Yes, he would ask for a few minutes' conversation with Mrs. Linley, at her earliest convenience. That was all. The reply was returned in a form which left Yes to be inferred: "I will receive you as soon as you have finished your breakfast." Having read Mrs. Linley's answer, Mr.
Linley's career was prematurely closed, for at the age of twenty-two he was drowned through the capsizing of a pleasure-boat. This completes the list of English violinists of note who were born previous to the nineteenth century.
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