“Oh! you ought not to talk so,” remonstrated Rosalba, “for you know Mr. H—— invariably pronounces you to be his best scholar.”
“Your performance will prove how much his opinion is to be depended upon,” returned Matilda in the same graciously condescending tone; “and as I have gained the right to call upon you, I must beg leave to do so, however it may turn out to my own disadvantage.”
“There is nothing for you but to play, Rosalba,” said Wharton, who had stood by, listening to the dispute; “so come, I will fix the stool for you,” he added significantly turning the music-seat as he spoke, to raise it a little higher; “you are one of the lower class, you know, and we therefore must try to elevate you.” As he said this, his eye sought that of his friend Charles Lisle, who stood near, and who evidently understood it. Matilda, too, observed his look, and was as little at a loss to comprehend its meaning, and her bosom swelled almost to bursting.
Rosalba, finding that she was expected to play, took her seat at the instrument without any further hesitation, and selecting a beautiful, but far from difficult piece of music, began it in an easy and unaffected style. She was far from having the execution of which Matilda was mistress, but her touch was peculiarly sweet, and being keenly sensible of the charms of music herself, she touched the feelings, though she did not excite the wonder of those who listened to her. Edmund Wharton stood by her side, ready to turn over the leaves for her, and almost as much absorbed by the tones she drew forth as herself.
As she finished, and was about to rise, the words “Oh don’t leave the instrument yet!” “Do, pray, let us have some more!” “Oh, I wish you would play that piece over again!” resounded from those who were standing about her, and Edmund said with a look of exultation, “Miss Hamilton must feel proud at hearing her judgment so fully confirmed by the general voice.”
“I was sure that Miss Pearson knew how to take her hearers by surprise,” returned Matilda.
“She is indeed quite an artist,” said Edmund. “I had no expectation of finding her so much so.”
“You are not yet aware how great an artist she is,” replied the jealous girl, whose splenetic feelings had now got beyond her control; “for she possesses the art of not appearing to have any.”
Rosalba turned round to Matilda with a look of extreme surprise, at this ungenerous and unprovoked attack, and a flush of indignation reddened her cheek; but it disappeared the next instant, and with a gentle dignity that even Matilda could not be blind to, she put her arm through that of a young lady near her, and walked quietly to the further end of the room.
Matilda felt the humiliation that she had intended for another, recoil upon herself; but she tried to believe that it was either not observed, or not understood by Edmund, who, without making any comment upon what had passed, engaged himself in adjusting the stool, and fixing the music for other performers; and as several songs were sung, and sonatas played, by various individuals, though none of them had reached beyond a school-girl’s style of performance, Matilda had time to compose her angry and mortified feelings. She however very soon relapsed again, for on Isabella’s coming to say that she was sent by several of the company to beg that she would play once more for them, she found that she was allowed to screw the stool down for herself, though Edmund Wharton was standing close to her at the time. And even this was not all that she had to encounter, for having either by accident or design, let the piece of music drop from her fingers, just as she was about to place it on the desk, she was permitted to stoop to pick it up without any effort being made by him to prevent her. This, we are sorry to say, would not have been very extraordinary with many boys of Edward Wharton’s age, but with him it was an unequivocal mark of contempt; for he had ever been so remarkable for his polite attention to those about him, that when he failed in it, the circumstance could only be attributed to design. If Matilda, however, had entertained any doubt of that being the case, it would immediately have been dispelled when Charles Lisle said in a sort of whisper, but loud enough for her to hear, “Why, Wharton, how could you allow Miss Hamilton to pick her music up herself?”