Chapter XVI: The Fatal Spell

Lady Horatia then made the move for the ladies to go upstairs, and when we reached the drawing-room I found myself near the little, short-sighted old lady, Lady Charlotte Crofton, who began talking very kindly to me, and asked particularly what kind of person my cousin was, whose unexpected existence had deprived me of my inheritance.

I could tell her nothing at all about him, for no one with whom I was acquainted had yet seen him, except my guardian.

“That is very strange,” she said; “I should have thought his first object would have been to see you, and express the regret he ought to feel at depriving you of your property. He cannot be like his father, for I well remember he was the best-bred as well as the handsomest man I ever saw.”

“Ah, that fatal passion for gambling!” she added, after a pause; and then she seemed to be scanning me very minutely. “That fatal vice! my dear young lady, remember, whatever you do, don’t marry a gambler. They are often so fatally fascinating; and I often think that the handsome baronet who dines here will have the same fate as your poor uncle; for, you know, he ruined himself, and diminished by three-fourths your grandfather’s splendid property.”

“Do you mean Sir Alfred Rivers?” I inquired, while I tried to look as composed and indifferent as possible.

“Yes, he has already lost very large sums, and a few evenings ago--” she was interrupted by the arrival of some guests, who were so delighted to find her that they diverted her attention till the gentlemen came up.

The first to enter the room was Sir Alfred, and I was the first person he addressed. He asked me more with eyes than speech whether I had tried the music. I mean that the expression of his eyes, and the tone of his voice, said more than his words. He seemed to cast a spell over me, and in spite of Lady Horatia’s and other warnings, I seemed drawn with him, by some magic power, to the farther end of the next room, where the piano was.

Then he looked over the music, talking of many other things too, till Lord Lorrington came, who said Lady Horatia sent him to beg that Sir Alfred would sing a solo. Then he sang that song of Rubini’s, “Nel furor delle tempeste,” which I had never heard before; and I was so entranced by his voice that I quite shrank from singing even with him, lest it should spoil my enjoyment of listening; so he sang “Vivi tu,” while the room gradually became quite full, for there was an evening party, and everyone was anxious to hear the best amateur of the day.

“Now will you sing ‘Amor possente nome,’ with me?--or shall I come to-morrow morning, and we will have a delightful rehearsal of all these?”

He said this very low, and evidently did not wish that anyone should hear him.

“To-morrow,” I said, when a joyous blush most provokingly tinged my cheeks, and made me feel quite guilty. But it was evident that I must sing that night, for the good-natured little blundering Lord Lorrington asked Lady Horatia to make me sing; and he even pointed out the duet Sir Alfred held in his hand, and said that he particularly wished us to sing that--his great favourite. Lady Horatia seemed annoyed, but still she begged I would sing it, if I thought I knew it sufficiently, adding “that it was a great risk to sing it at sight before a large audience.”

“You can sing it, I am sure,” said Sir Alfred; and added, in the same whisper, “you are the only person in the whole world I would risk singing it with in public without a rehearsal. But you will do it splendidly,” he added, with a look of such encouraging admiration, that I felt quite re-assured.

He played the accompaniment, and I suppose it went well, for the applause at the end was most enthusiastic, and even Lady Horatia complimented me on my wonderful success, and Lord Lorrington said the public were indebted to him for their pleasure, as he had made me sing it.

“Ah! now we must have this one,” he added, as he placed “Ah, nati e ver” on the piano desk. This went even better, I believe, and I felt more confident, and gave a fuller meaning to the words. And the applause that was given, the clapping of hands, the rush of people who wished to be introduced to me, was quite bewildering.

“She is _not_ a professor,” I heard Lady Horatia telling some of the people who had come after dinner. “She is not the new opera-singer,” she said, in rather an angry tone; and then she whispered to me, “You ought _not_ to have sung; you ought to have known that I could not help asking you when Lord Lorrington pressed it. Well, never mind now, but this must never happen again.”

The pale poet, too, came up to me with a look of half reproach and half admiration, and said,

“Such music as that covers a multitude of sins. It makes me forgive even your disobedience; but beware,” he added, in a lower tone, “you are like a moth singeing its wings in that brilliant light, and will not leave it till you are burnt to death. Here comes our friend the great wit, Mr. Baynard, to congratulate you on the end of your singing. Look, he is bursting with suppressed conversation; his brilliant flash of silence has lasted so long!”

Then people began to talk, and a large group surrounded the wit, Mr. Baynard; but the person with whom he chiefly conversed was Lady Charlotte Crofton, the little short-sighted lady, who had raised her warning voice to me before the music began. Sir Alfred remained near me, and told me who the different people were, but he also joined in the general conversation. It seemed as if he did not wish others to perceive the marked attention which I felt he was showing me.

Lord Lorrington was also near, and though I saw he admired me, did not seem to be jealous of Sir Alfred, which confirmed me in the opinion the poet had expressed of his amiability. But Sir Alfred was not equally tolerant or amiable, which was very delightful. Indeed, he said, in a low voice,

“It’s no use my staying here now, I shall have no more conversation with you; but may I come to-morrow morning, and have a rehearsal of those other duets?”

“I--no--I think not. Lady Horatia--”

“I understand. She has cautioned you against me. I thought it would be so,” he added, with a most touching, melancholy tone and look. “I see I must not come; but, of course, I shall meet you at Lady Dalton’s ball to-morrow night?”

“I believe so.”

He said no more, but gave me a look which seemed to express a whole world of hope and bliss, and then went away.

It was a great joy to have received that look; but why did he go so suddenly, and before any of the company went? The old poet, Mr. ----, whom I had not seen since the end of the singing, came up to me at that moment, and, as if he knew my thoughts, said,

“Ah, he is gone to Crockford’s, my dear young lady. You see that even your beauty and attraction cannot keep him away from that fatal gambling.”

“He said there was no use in staying now, because he should have no more conversation with me,” I replied, with a kind of proud eagerness to defend Sir Alfred.

“Oh, it has gone so far as that, has it?” and he raised his pale thin hand with a gesture of disapproval. “You _will_ be the moth, and you _will_ burn yourself to death.”

He then began to talk to Mr. Mordaunt, who had just come back from his club, where he had been dining, to avoid the “stiff dinner,” as he called it, and was now very angry at finding the rooms full of people, as he did not know that an evening party was expected.

The old poet was amused at his crossness, and rather increased it by asking him about Langdale Priory and its new owner, and expressing great surprise that Mr. Mordaunt had not yet seen my new cousin.

“You ought to go there, my good friend,” he said; “go and see with your own eyes what kind of youth it is. And never mind intruding--you ought to intrude in such a case. Why can’t you make the excuse that you have left something behind in some drawer--some important paper, or a favourite old pair of boots. Go there at once;” and then he said something in a lower tone, of which the only word that reached my ears were “those scoundrel Jews.”

“Ha, then I will go,” exclaimed Mr. Mordaunt, with loud anger; “confound the boy!”

“Hush! there’s Mr. Baynard, he will think you are some wild animal of an original; he’s always on the look-out for characters, and you are not acquainted with him, I think.”

“Yes, I will go there indeed, by the first train to-morrow--this morning,” said Mr. Mordaunt, as he looked at the clock, which showed it was nearly one. “I will, for by--, it will be too bad if the girl is ousted out of her home for a confounded spendthrift.”

“Not so loud, my good friend, you will attract everybody’s attention, for I see you are a man of one idea, and I have fatally set you going, and can’t make you discreet and cautious.”

“Ah, young lady, be discreet and cautious.”

“I’ll do nothing in a hurry,” said Mr. Mordaunt, while he gave the lie to his own words by leaving the room in such violent haste that he nearly knocked down several people on his way to the door.

I could not help feeling glad that the dear old poet had stirred up Mr. Mordaunt’s energies.

“That worthy man,” continued he, “can do nothing unless his anger is excited, I know, but I wish he had spared Mrs. Lawrence’s wig. See, he has actually contrived to turn it awry, and the poor lady is making violent efforts to put it right; can’t you get quietly behind her and help to set it right without appearing to do so, for the stupid dandies are laughing at her, as if they never expected to grow old themselves.”

Guided by him, I endeavoured to move quietly near the poor lady, but she was leaving the room as we approached, in despair probably of being able to put her wig and head-dress to rights. We followed her into the next room, which was less crowded; and the poet, without seeming to know that anything had happened, quietly introduced me, and then I offered to settle a feather in her hair which I said was displaced. I contrived to turn the wig round in so doing, and put all her headgear to rights, and she expressed her grateful thanks.

“You must come and see my grandchildren next Friday--we are going to have a juvenile ball; and Lady Horatia has promised to bring her little Letitia. I did not intend to have any grown-up young ladies, but I shall like to have you. And they are going to make up a little concert. Indeed, Sir Alfred Rivers is so kind as to superintend it. By-the-by, were you the young lady who had just been singing with him when I came in?”

“Yes, she was,” said the poet; “but I don’t advise you to make her sing on Friday, for she is worse than a professor, and will totally eclipse all your young ones.”

“Ah! that would be a pity,” said this matter-of-fact old lady.

“Now, mind you don’t, though,” said he, after she was gone. “And it would show very bad taste and feeling if you do; and I am sure Lady Horatia will not like it.”

“Of course I will not,” said I, somewhat nettled at the idea, and provoked that everything and everybody seemed to combine to prevent us from singing together.