Godfrey Percy went in the morning to inquire after the health of his fair partner: this was only a common civility. On his way thither he overtook and joined a party of gentlemen, who were also going to Clermont-park. They entered into conversation, and talked of the preceding night—one of the gentlemen, an elderly man, who had not been at the ball, happened to be acquainted with Miss Hauton, and with her family. Godfrey heard from him all the particulars respecting Lady Anne Hauton, and was thrown into a melancholy reverie by learning that Miss Hauton had been educated by this mother, and had always lived with her till her ladyship’s death, which happened about two years before this time.—After receiving this intelligence, Godfrey heard little more of the conversation that passed till he reached Clermont-park.—A number of young people were assembled in the music-room practising for a concert.—Miss Hauton was at the piano-forte when he entered the room: she was sitting with her back to the door, surrounded by a crowd of amateurs; she did not see him—he stood behind listening to her singing. Her voice was delightful; but he was surprised, and not pleased, by the choice of her songs: she was singing, with some other high-bred young ladies, songs which, to use the gentlest expression, were rather too anacreontic—songs which, though sanctioned by fashion, were not such as a young lady of taste would prefer, or such as a man of delicacy would like to hear from his sister or his wife. They were nevertheless highly applauded by all the audience, except by Godfrey, who remained silent behind the young lady. In the fluctuation of the crowd he was pressed nearer and nearer to her chair. As she finished singing a fashionable air, she heard a sigh from the person behind her.
“That’s your favourite, I think?” said she, turning round, and looking up. “Mr. Percy! I—I thought it was Mr. Falconer.” Face, neck, hands, suddenly blushed: she stooped for a music-book, and searched for some time in that attitude for she knew not what, whilst all the gentlemen officiously offered their services, and begged only to know for what book she was looking.
“Come, come, Maria,” cried Colonel Hauton, “what the d—— are you about?—Can’t you give us another of these? You can’t be better. Come, you’re keeping Miss Drakelow.”
“Go on, Miss Drakelow, if you please, without me.”
“Impossible. Come, come, Maria, what the deuce are you at?”
Miss Hauton, afraid to refuse her brother, afraid to provoke the comments of the company, began to sing, or rather to attempt to sing—her voice faltered; she cleared her throat, and began again—worse still, she was out of tune: she affected to laugh. Then, pushing back her chair, she rose, drew her veil over her face, and said, “I have sung till I have no voice left.—Does nobody walk this morning?”
“No, no,” said Colonel Hauton; “who the deuce would be bored with being broiled at this time of day? Miss Drakelow—Miss Chatterton, give us some more music, I beseech you; for I like music better in a morning than at night—the mornings, when one can’t go out, are so confoundedly long and heavy.”
The young ladies played, and Miss Hauton seated herself apart from the group of musicians, upon a bergère, leaning on her hand, in a melancholy attitude. Buckhurst Falconer followed and sat down beside her, endeavouring to entertain her with some witty anecdote.
She smiled with effort, listened with painful attention, and the moment the anecdote was ended, her eyes wandered out of the window. Buckhurst rose, vacated his seat, and before any of the other gentlemen who had gathered round could avail themselves of that envied place, Miss Hauton, complaining of the intolerable heat, removed nearer to the window, to an ottoman, one half of which was already so fully occupied by a large dog of her brother’s, that she was in no danger from any other intruder. Some of the gentlemen, who were not blessed with much sagacity, followed, to talk to her of the beauty of the dog which she was stroking; but to an eulogium upon its long ears, and even to a quotation from Shakspeare about dewlaps, she listened with so vacant an air, that her followers gave up the point, and successively retired, leaving her to her meditations. Godfrey, who had kept aloof, had in the mean time been looking at some books that lay on a reading table.—Maria Hauton was written in the first page of several of them.—All were novels—some French, and some German, of a sort which he did not like.
“What have you there, Mr. Percy?” said Miss Hauton.—“Nothing worth your notice, I am afraid. I dare say you do not like novels.”