SOCIETY.
But Rachel did not join the party either in their drives, their walks,
or their conversations. She was not to be seen during the whole day,
either out of doors or in, and did not even make her appearance at the
dinner-table; and Agnes could not so much as hear any allusion made to
her except once, when Mrs Edgerley promised a new arrival, “some really
good music,” and launched forth in praise of an extraordinary little
genius, whom nothing could excuse for concealing her gift from the
world. But if Rachel did not appear, Sir Langham did, following Marian
with his eyes when he could not follow in person, and hovering about the
young beauty like a man bewitched. The homage of such a cavalier was not
to be despised; in spite of herself, the smile and the blush brightened
upon the sweet face of Marian--she was pleased--she was amused--she was
grateful to Sir Langham--and besides had a certain mischievous pleasure
in her power over him, and loved to exercise the sway of despotism.
Marian new little about coquetry, though she had read with attention Mrs
Edgerley’s novel on the subject; but, notwithstanding, had “a way” of
her own, and some little practice in tantalising poor Harry Oswald, who
was by no means so superb a plaything as the handsome guardsman. The
excitement and novelty of her position--the attentions paid to her--the
pretty things around her--even her own dress, which never before had
been so handsome, brightened, with a variable and sweet illumination,
the beauty which needed no aggravating circumstance. Poor Sir Langham
gave himself up helpless and unresisting, and already, in his honest but
somewhat slow imagination, made formal declarations to the
supposititious Banburyshire Squire.
Agnes meanwhile sat by Marian’s side, rather silent, eagerly watching
for the appearance of Rachel--for now it was evening, and the really
good music could not be long deferred, if it was to come to-night. Agnes
was not neglected, though she had no Sir Langham to watch her movements.
Mrs Edgerley herself came to the young genius now and then to introduce
some one who was “dying to know the author of _Hope Hazlewood_;” and
half disconcerted, half amused, Agnes began to feel herself entering
upon the enjoyment of her reputation. No one could possibly suppose
anything more different from the fanciful and delicate fame which
charms the young poetic mind with imaginary glories, than these
drawing-room compliments and protestations of interest and delight, to
which, at first with a deep blush and overpowering embarrassment, and
by-and-by with an uneasy consciousness of something ridiculous, the
young author sat still and listened. The two sisters kept always close
together, and had not courage enough to move from the corner in which
they had first established themselves. Agnes, for the moment, had become
the reigning whim in the brain of Mrs Edgerley. She came to her side now
and then to whisper a few words of caressing encouragement, or to point
out to her somebody of note; and when she left her young guest, Mrs
Edgerley flew at once to the aforesaid somebody to call his or her
attention to the pair of sisters, one of whom had _such_ genius, and the
other _such_ beauty. Marian, occupied with her own concerns, took all
this very quietly. Agnes grew annoyed, uneasy, displeased; she did not
remember that she had once been mortified at the neglect of her pretty
hostess, nor that Mrs Edgerley’s admiration was as evanescent as her
neglect. She began to think everybody was laughing at her claims to
distinction, and that she amused the people, sitting here uneasily
receiving compliments, immovable in her chair--and she was extremely
grateful to Mr Agar, her former acquaintance, when he came, looking
amused and paying no compliments, to talk to her, and to screen her from
observation. Mr Agar had been watching her uneasiness, her
embarrassment, her self-annoyance. He was quite pleased with the
“study;” it pleased him as much as a _Watteau_, or a cabinet of old
china; and what could connoisseur say more?
“You must confide your annoyance to me. I am your oldest acquaintance,”
said Mr Agar. “What has happened? Has your pretty sister been
naughty--eh? or are all the people _so_ much delighted with your book?”
“Yes,” said Agnes, holding down her head a little, with a momentary
shame that her two troubles should have been so easily found out.
“And why should they not be delighted?” said the ancient beau. “You
would have liked me a great deal better had I been the same, when I
first saw you; do you not like it now?”
“No,” said Agnes.
“Yes; no. Your eyes do not talk in monosyllables,” said the old
gentleman, “eh? What has poor Sir Langham done to merit that flash of
dissatisfaction? and I wonder what is the meaning of all these anxious
glances towards the door?”
“I was looking for--for the young lady they call Rachel,” said Agnes.
“Do you know who she is, sir?--can you tell me? I am afraid she thought
we were rude this morning, when we met her; and I wish very much to see
her to-night.”
“Ah! I know nothing of the young lady, but a good deal of the voice,”
said Mr Agar; “a fine soprano,--a good deal of expression, and plenty of
fire. Yes, she needs nothing but cultivation to make a great success.”
“I think, sir,” said Agnes, suddenly breaking in upon this speech, “if
you would speak to Mrs Edgerley for her, perhaps they would not teaze
her about being a singer. She hates it. I know she does; and it would be
very good of you to help her, for she has no friends.”
Mr Agar looked at the young pleader with a smile of surprised amusement.
“And why should I interfere on her behalf? and why should she not be a
singer? and how do you suppose I could persuade myself to do such an
injury to Art?”
“She dislikes it very much,” said Agnes. “She is a woman--a girl--a
delicate mind; it would be very cruel to bring her before the world; and
indeed I am sure if you would speak to Mrs Edgerley--”
“My dear young lady,” cried Mr Agar, with a momentary shrug of his
eyebrows, and look of comic distress, “you entirely mistake my _rôle_. I
am not a knight-errant for the rescue of distressed princesses. I am a
humble servant of the beautiful; and a young lady’s tremors are really
not cause enough to induce me to resign a fine soprano. No. I bow before
my fair enslavers,” said the ancient Corydon, with a reverential
obeisance, which belonged, like his words, to another century; “but my
true and only mistress is Art.”
Agnes was silenced in a moment; but whether by this declaration, or by
the entrance of Rachel, who suddenly appeared, gliding in at a
side-door, could not be determined. Rachel came in, so quickly, and with
such a gliding motion, that anybody less intently on the watch could not
have discovered the moment of her appearance. She was soon at the piano,
and heard immediately; but she came there in a miraculous manner to all
the other observers, as if she had dropped from heaven.
And while the connoisseur stood apart to listen undisturbed, and Mrs
Edgerley’s guests were suddenly stayed in their flutter of talk and
mutual criticism by the “really good music” which their hostess had
promised them, Agnes sat listening, moved and anxious,--not to the song,
but to the singer. She thought the music--pathetic, complaining, and
resentful--instead of being a renowned _chef-d’œuvre_ of a famous
composer, was the natural outcry of this lonely girl. She thought she
could hear the solitary heart, the neglected life, making its appeal
indignant and sorrowful to some higher ear than all these careless
listeners. She bent unconsciously towards the singer, forgetting all her
mother’s rules of manners, and, leaning forward, supported her rapt and
earnest face with her hand. Mrs Edgerley paused to point out to some one
the sweet enthusiasm, the delightful impressionable nature of her
charming young friend; but to tell the truth, Agnes was not thinking at
all of the music. It seemed to her a strange impassioned monologue,--a
thing of which she was the sole hearer,--an irrepressible burst of
confidence, addressed to the only one here present who cared to receive
the same.
When it was over she raised herself almost painfully from her listening
posture; _she_ did not join in any of the warm expressions of delight
which burst from her neighbours; and with extreme impatience Agnes
listened to the cool criticism of Mr Agar, who was delivering his
opinion very near her. Her heart ached as she saw the musician turn
haughtily aside, and heard her say, “I am here when you want me again;”
and Rachel withdrew to a sofa in a corner, and, shading her delicate
small face entirely with her hand, took up a book and read, or pretended
to read. Agnes looked on with eager interest, while several people, one
after another, approached the singer to offer her some of the usual
compliments, and retreated immediately, disconcerted by their reception.
Leaning back in her corner, with her book held obstinately before her,
and the small pale hand shading the delicate face, it was impossible to
intrude upon Rachel. Agnes sat watching her, quite absorbed and
sad--thinking in her own quick creative mind, many a proud thought for
Rachel--and fancying she could read in that unvarying and statue-like
attitude a world of tumultuous feelings. She was so much occupied that
she took no notice of Sir Langham; and even Marian, though she appealed
to her twenty times, did not get more than a single word in reply.
“Is she not the most wonderful little genius?” cried Mrs Edgerley,
making one of her sudden descents upon Agnes. “I tell everybody she is
next to you--quite next to you in talent. I expect she will make quite a
_furor_ next season when she makes her _début_.”
“But she dislikes it so much,” said Agnes.
“What, music? Oh, you mean coming out: poor child, she does not know
what is for her own advantage,” said Mrs Edgerley. “My love, in _her_
circumstances, people have no right to consult their feelings; and a
successful singer may live quite a fairy life. Music is so
entrancing--these sort of people make fortunes immediately, and then, of
course, she could retire, and be as private as she pleased. Oh, yes, I
am sure she will be delighted to gratify you, Mr Agar: she will sing
again.”
It scarcely required a word from Mrs Edgerley--scarcely a sign. Rachel
seemed to know by intuition when she was wanted, and, putting down her
book, went to the piano again;--perhaps Agnes was not so attentive this
time, for she felt herself suddenly roused a few minutes after by a
sudden tremor in the magnificent voice--a sudden shake and tremble,
having the same effect upon the singing which a start would have upon
the frame. Agnes looked round eagerly to see the cause--there was no
cause apparent--and no change whatever in the company, save for the pale
spasmodic face of Lord Winterbourne, newly arrived, and saluting his
daughter at the door.
Was it this? Agnes could not wait to inquire, for immediately the music
rose and swelled into such a magnificent burst and overflow that every
one held his breath. To the excited ear of Agnes, it sounded like a
glorious challenge and defiance, irrestrainable and involuntary; and ere
the listeners had ceased to wonder, the music was over, and the singer
gone.
“A sudden effect--our young performer is not without dramatic talent,”
said Mr Agar. Agnes said nothing; but she searched in the corner of the
sofa with her eyes, watched the side-door, and stole sidelong looks at
Lord Winterbourne. He never seemed at his ease, this uncomfortable
nobleman; he had a discomfited look to-night, like a man defeated, and
Agnes could not help thinking of Charlie, with his sudden enmity, and
the old acquaintance of her father, and all the chances connected with
Aunt Bridget’s bequest; for the time, in her momentary impulse of
dislike and repulsion, she thought her noble neighbour, ex-minister and
peer of the realm as he was, was not a match for the big boy.
“Agnes, somebody says Lord Winterbourne is her father--Rachel’s
father--and she cannot bear him. Was that what Mrs Edgerley meant?”
whispered Marian in her ear with a look of sorrow. “Did you hear her
voice tremble--did you see how she went away? They say she is his
daughter--oh, Agnes, can it be true?”
But Agnes did not know, and could not answer: if it was true, then it
was very certain that Rachel must be right; and that there were depths
and mysteries and miseries of life, of which, in spite of all their
innocent acquaintance with sorrow, these simple girls had scarcely
heard, and never knew.