Marion Fenwick’s songs and the alluring softness of her guitar, seemed the most fitting accompaniment to the warm summer night, whose breath stirred gently the curtains by the open window, at the far end of the room.
Lady Engleton was delighted with the success of her efforts. Mrs. Temperley had not looked so brilliant, so full of life, since her mother’s illness. Only yesterday, when she met her returning from the Cottage, her eyes were like those of a dying woman, and now——!
“People say ill-natured things about Mrs. Temperley,” she confided to an intimate friend, “but that is because they don’t understand her.”
People might have been forgiven for not understanding her, as perhaps her hostess felt, noticing Hadria’s animation, and the extraordinary power that she was wielding over everyone in the room, young and old. That power seemed to burn in the deep eyes, whose expression changed from moment to moment. Hadria’s cheeks, for once, had a faint tinge of colour. The mysterious character of her beauty became more marked. Professor Theobald followed her, with admiring and studious gaze. Whether she had felt remorseful for her somewhat unfriendly greeting at the beginning of the evening, or from some other cause, her manner to him had changed. It was softer, less mocking. He perceived it instantly, and pursued his advantage. The party still centred eagerly round the piano. Hadria was under the influence of music; therefore less careful and guarded than usual, more ready to sway on the waves of emotion. And beyond all these influences, tending in the same direction, was the underlying spirit of rebellion against the everlasting “Thou shalt not” that met a woman at every point, and turned her back from all paths save one. And following that one (so ran Hadria’s insurrectionary thoughts), the obedient creature had to give up every weapon of her womanhood; every grace, every power; tramping along that crowded highway, whereon wayworn sisters toil forward, with bandaged eyes, and bleeding feet; and as their charm fades, in the pursuing of their dusty pilgrimage, the shouts, and taunts, and insults, and laughter of their taskmasters follow them, while still they stumble on to the darkening land that awaits them, at the journey’s end: Old Age, the vestibule of Death.
Hadria’s eyes gleamed strangely.
“They shall not have their way with me too easily. I can at least give my pastors and masters a little trouble. I can at least fight for it, losing battle though it be.”
The only person who seemed to resist Hadria’s influence to-night, was Mrs. Jordan, the mother of Marion Fenwick.
“My dear madam,” said Professor Theobald, bending over the portly form of Mrs. Jordan, “a woman’s first duty is to be charming.”
“Oh, that comes naturally, Professor,” said Hadria, “though it is rather for you than for me to say that. You are always missing opportunities.”
“Believe me, I will miss them no more,” he said emphatically.