Volume One—Chapter Ten.
“That Stupid Song.”
Amid the golden gifts which heaven
Has left like portions of its light on earth,
None hath such influence as music hath.
I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
Merchant of Venice.
When the gentlemen came into the drawing-room, music was proposed.
“Come, Addie, my dear, let me see you at the piano,” said her father, laying his hand caressingly on the girl’s fair head. “Not that it is quite my place to propose it, by-the-bye; but you see, my dear Mrs Eyrecourt, how thoroughly at home you have already made us all feel ourselves. I want you to hear Addie play.”
“Don’t you sing?” inquired Gertrude, as Miss Chancellor rose, in accordance with her father’s request.
“No, she doesn’t sing,” said Mrs Chancellor, answering for her—“at least, very little. But she plays!”
“If she does play,” thought Roma, “it will double her chances with Beauchamp.” Then there came a little pause of rather solemn expectation.
Captain Chancellor, as in duty bound, conducted Mademoiselle to the piano, gravely taking up his place behind her, near enough to perform the task of turning over the leaves, for Adelaide was one of those young ladies who are nowhere without their “notes.” Roma, watching the pair closely, thoroughly took in the position. There was no fluster about Adelaide. She drew off her gloves quietly, and selected her piece of music with perfect composure, well satisfied evidently with the impression she was about to make on her audience, Captain Chancellor standing with ceremonious deference, stiff and silent, in his place.