“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.