Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  When, therefore, she found herself perfectly alone, with the tempting instrument before her, and a large collection of music placed beside it, she eagerly applied her hand to try if it were open: it yielded to her touch, and in a moment her hands were running over the keys with that species of ecstasy which a young enthusiast in the science always feels after having been long deprived of the use of an instrument.

  Agnes played correctly, and with great taste and feeling, but she could by no means compete with Lucy Peters as an accomplished pianiste; she had enjoyed neither equal practice nor equal instruction. But there was one branch of the “gay science” in which she excelled her far beyond the reach of comparison, for Agnes had a voice but rarely equalled in any country. Of the pre-eminence of her power she was herself profoundly ignorant, and if she preferred hearing her own glorious notes to those of any other voice which had yet reached her, she truly believed it was because there was such a very great pleasure in hearing one’s-self sing, — an opinion that had been considerably strengthened by her observations on Lucy.

  It was with very great delight, unquestionably, that Agnes now listened to the sounds she made. The size of the room, the absence of the carpet, the excellence and the isolation of the instrument, were all advantages she had not enjoyed before, and her pleasure was almost childish in its ecstasy. She let her rich voice run, like the lark’s, into wanton playfulness of ornament, and felt her own power with equal joy and surprise.

  But when this first out-pouring of her youthful spirit was over, she more soberly turned to the volumes beside her; and hesitating a moment between the gratification of exploring new regions of harmony with an uncertain step, and that of going through, with all the advantages of her present accessaries, what had so often enchanted her without them, she chose the last; and fixing upon a volume of Handel, which had been the chief source from which the old-fashioned but classic taste of Mr. Wilmot had made her master draw her subjects of study, she more soberly set about indulging herself with one of his best-loved airs. The notes of “Angels ever bright and fair,” then swelled gloriously through the unpeopled room, and “Lord, remember David,” followed. After this she “changed her hand,” and the sparkling music of Comus seemed to make the air glad, as she carolled through its delicious melodies.

  Amidst all this luxury of sound, it is not surprising that the knocker or the bell should give signal either of the return of the family, or the approach of some visiter, without the fair minstrel’s being aware of it. This in fact occurred, and with a result that, had she been in the secret, would have converted the clear notes of her happy song into inarticulate “suspirations of forced breath.”

  Colonel Hubert had promised his friend Frederick, when they parted at the breakfast-table, to join him at Rodney Place, as he had often within the last few days done before, for the purpose of joining the party in their usual morning walk. But Frederick had arrived there so early, that he had handed Mrs. Peters and her daughters into their carriage when they set off for Bristol, and then turned from the door in despair of seeing Agnes for some hours.

  Having sought his friend Hubert, and missed him, he betook himself to a gallop on the downs by way of beguiling the time till two o’clock, when he intended to make another attempt to meet her, by joining the luncheon party on Mrs. Peters’s return. Colonel Hubert, meanwhile, knocked at that lady’s door exactly at the moment when the happy performer in the drawing-room was giving full license to her magnificent voice in a passage of which he had never before felt the power and majesty.

  Colonel Hubert stopped short in the midst of the message he was leaving; and the butler who opened the door to him, and who by this time knew him as one of the most honoured guests of the mansion, stepped back smiling into the hall, — a sort of invitation for him to enter, which he had no inclination to refuse. He accordingly stepped in, and the door was closed behind him.

  “Pray, who is it that is singing?” inquired the Colonel, as soon as the strain ended.

  “I think, sir, it must be Miss Willoughby, for I have let in nobody else since the ladies went,” replied the man.

  “Miss Willoughby!” repeated Colonel Hubert unconsciously; “Miss Willoughby!... Impossible!”

  “I think, sir, by the sound,” rejoined the servant, “that one of the drawing-room doors must be open; and if you would please to walk up, Colonel, you might hear it quite plain without disturbing her.”

  If Colonel Hubert had a weakness, it was his unbounded love for music, though even here he had proved his power of conquering inclination when he thought it right to do so. When quite a young man he had been tempted by this passion to give so much time to the study of the violin, as to interfere materially with all other pursuits. A friend, greatly his senior, and possessing his highest esteem, pointed out to him very strongly the probable effect of this upon his future career. The next time the beloved professor arrived to give Colonel Hubert a lesson, he made him a present of his violin, and gave up the pursuit for ever ... but not the love for it ... that Nature had implanted beyond the power of will to eradicate.

  In short, this invitation from Mrs. Peters’s butler was too tempting to be resisted, and nodding his approval of it to the man, he walked softly up the stairs, and found, as that sagacious person had foreseen, that the door of the back drawing-room was open. Colonel Hubert entered very cautiously, for the folding-doors between the two apartments were partly open also, but he was fortunate enough to glide unseen behind one of its large battants, the rising hinges of which were in such a position as to permit him, without any danger of being discovered, to see as well as hear the unsuspicious Agnes.

  Poor girl! could she have been conscious of this, her agitation would have amounted to agony; and yet no imaginable combination of circumstances could have been so favourable to the first, the dearest, the most secret wish of her heart ... which was, that when she lost sight of him, which she must soon do, — as she well believed, for ever, — he might not think her too young, too trifling, too contemptible, ever to recall her to his memory again.

  There was, perhaps, no great danger of this before; but now it could neither be hoped nor feared that Colonel Hubert should ever forget what he, during these short moments, heard and saw. There is perhaps no beautiful woman who sings well, who would not appear to greater advantage, if thus furtively looked at and listened to, than when performing, conscious of the observation of all around her. But to Agnes this advantage was in the present instance great indeed, for never before had he seen her beautiful countenance in the full play of bright intelligence and unrestrained enthusiasm, ... and never had he imagined that she could sing at all! She was lovely, radiant, inspired; and Colonel Hubert was in a fair way of forgetting equally that she was the chosen of his friend, the niece of Mrs. Barnaby, and that he was just twenty years her senior, when the house-door was assailed by the footman’s authoritative rap, and the moment after the ladies’ voices, as they ran up the stairs, effectually awakened him to the realities of his situation.

  He now for the first time felt conscious that this situation had been obtained by means not perfectly justifiable, and that an apology was certainly called for, and must be made. He therefore retraced his steps, but with less caution, through the still open door; and meeting Mrs. Peters just as she reached the top of the stairs, said in a voice, perhaps somewhat less steady than usual, —

  “Will you forgive me, Mrs. Peters, and plead for my forgiveness elsewhere, when I confess to you that I have stolen up stairs, and hid myself for at least half an hour in your back drawing-room, for the purpose of hearing Miss Willoughby sing?... She is herself quite ignorant of this délit; ... and when you pronounce to her my guilt, I hope, at the same time, you will recommend me to mercy.”

  “Miss Willoughby singing!” exclaimed Mrs. Peters; “surely you must be mistaken, Colonel Hubert.... Agnes never sang in her life.”

  “Agnes singing!... Oh no!...” cried Lucy; “that is quite impossible, I assure you.”<
br />
  “And what says the young lady herself?” replied Colonel Hubert, as Agnes came forward to meet her friends.

  But she was assailed with such a clamorous chorus of questions, that it was some time before she in the least understood what had happened. To the reiterated.... “Have you really been singing, Agnes?...” “Do you really sing?...” “How is it possible we never found it out?...” and the like; she answered quietly enough, ... “I sing a little, and I have been trying to amuse myself while waiting for you.” But when Mrs. Peters laughingly added, “And do you know, my dear, that Colonel Hubert has been listening to you from the back drawing-room all the time?” all semblance of composure vanished. She first coloured violently, and then turned deadly pale; and, totally unable to answer, sat down on the nearest chair instinctively, to prevent herself from falling, but with little or no consciousness of what she was about.

  Colonel Hubert watched her with an eye which seemed bent upon reading every secret of the heart that so involuntarily betrayed its own agitation; but what he saw, or thought he saw there, seemed infectious, for he, too, lost all presence of mind; and quickly approaching her with heightened colour, and a voice trembling from irrepressible feeling, he said, —

  “Have I offended you?... Forgive me, oh! forgive me!”

  There was a world of eloquence in the look with which she met his eyes; innocent, unpractised, unconscious as it was, it raised a tumult in the noble soldier’s breast which it cost many a day’s hard struggle afterwards to bring to order. But nobody saw it — nobody guessed it. The whole bevy of kind-hearted ladies were filled, from the “crown to the toe,” with the hope and belief that Frederick Stephenson and Agnes Willoughby were born for each other, and they explained all the agitation they now witnessed by saying, —

  “Did any one ever see so shy a creature!”— “How foolish you are to be frightened about it, Agnes;” and ... “Come, my dear child, get the better of this foolish terror; and if you can sing, let us have the pleasure of hearing you.”

  “That’s right, mamma!” said Lucy laughing; “make her sing one song before we go down to luncheon.... It is not at all fair that Colonel Hubert should be the only person in the secret.”

  “Sing us a song at once — there’s a dear girl!” said Mrs. Peters, seating herself upon a sofa.

  “Indeed, indeed, ma’am, I cannot sing!” replied Agnes, clasping her hands as if begging for her life.

  “Upon my word, this is a very pretty mystery,” said Mary. “The gentleman declares that he has been listening to her singing this half hour, and the lady protests that she cannot sing at all. Permit me, mamma, to examine the parties face to face. If I understand you rightly, Colonel Hubert, you stated positively that you heard Miss Willoughby sing. Will you give me leave to ask you in what sort of manner she sang?”

  “In a manner, Miss Peters,” replied Colonel Hubert, endeavouring to recover his composure, “that I have seldom or never heard equalled in any country.... She sings most admirably.”

  “Good, very good,” said Mary; “a perfectly clear and decisive evidence. And now, Miss Willoughby, give me leave to question you. If I mistake not, you told us about five minutes ago that you possessed not the power of singing in any manner at all?”

  “Not at this moment, Mary, certainly,” replied Agnes rallying, and infinitely relieved by perceiving that the overwhelming emotion under which she had very nearly fainted, had neither been understood nor even remarked by any one.

  “Then will you promise,” said Lucy with tant soit peu of new-born rivalry, “will you promise to sing for us to-night?”

  “You do not mean at your concert, do you, Lucy?” replied Agnes, laughing.

  “And why not?” said Lucy. “Colonel Hubert declares that you sing admirably.”

  “Colonel Hubert is very kind to say so,” answered Agnes, while rather more than her usual delicate bloom returned to her cheeks; “but he would probably change his opinion were he to hear me sing before a large party.”

  “I am too hungry to battle the point now, Agnes,” said Mrs. Peters, “so let us come down to luncheon; but remember, my dear, if you really can sing, if it be only some easy trifling ballad, I shall not take it well of you if you refuse, for I am sorry to say there is a terrible falling off among our performers. I find three excuses sent since I went out; and I met Miss Roberts just now, our prima donna, after Lucy, who says she is so hoarse that she doubts if she shall be able to sing a note.”

  This was said as the party descended the stairs, so that Agnes escaped without being obliged to answer; at which she greatly rejoiced, as refusal or acquiescence seemed alike impossible.

  Colonel Hubert stopped at the door of the dining-room, wished the party good morning, and persisted in making his retreat, though much urged by Mrs. Peters to join their meal. But he was in no mood for it — he wanted to be alone — he wanted in solitude to question, and, if possible, to understand his own feelings; and with one short look at Agnes he left them, slipped a crown into the hand of the butler who opened the door for him, and set off for a long walk over Durdham Downs, taking, as it happened, exactly the same path as that in which he had met Agnes a fortnight before.

  As soon as he was gone, another rather clamorous assault was made on Agnes upon the subject of her having so long kept her power of singing a secret from them all.

  “I cannot forgive you for not having at least told me of it,” said Mary.

  “And what was there to tell, my dearest Mary? You that are used to such playing as that of Elizabeth and Lucy, would have had fair cause to laugh at me, had I volunteered to amuse you in their stead.”

  “I don’t know how that may be,” said Lucy; “what Colonel Hubert talked about was your singing. Do you think you can sing as well as me?”

  “It is a difficult question to answer, Lucy,” replied Agnes with the most ingenuous innocence; “but perhaps I might, one of these days, if I were as well instructed as you are.”

  “Well, my dear, that is confessing something, at any rate,” said Lucy, slightly colouring. “I am sure I should be very happy to have you in a duet with me, only I suppose you have not been taught to take a second.”

  “Oh yes!... I think I could sing second,” replied Agnes with great simplicity; “but I have not been much used to it, because in all our duets Miss Wilmot always took the second part.”

  “And who is Miss Wilmot, my dear?” said Mrs. Peters.

  “The daughter of the clergyman, mamma, where Agnes was educated,” replied Mary.

  “Here comes Mr. Stephenson,” exclaimed Mrs. Peters gaily. “Now, Agnes, you positively must go up stairs again, and let us hear what you can do. I shall be quite delighted for Mr. Stephenson to hear you sing, if you really have a voice, for I have repeatedly heard him speak with delight of his sister, Lady Stephenson’s, singing.”

  “Then I am sure that is a reason for never letting him hear mine,” said Agnes, who was beginning to feel very restless, and longing as ardently for the solitude of her closet, in order to take a review of all the events of the morning, as Colonel Hubert for the freedom of the Downs. But the friends around her were much too kind and much too dear for any whims or wishes of her own to interfere with what they desired; and when, upon the entrance of Frederick, they all joined in beseeching her to give them one song, she yielded, and followed meekly and obediently to the pianoforte.

  She certainly did not sing now as she had done before; the fervour, the enthusiasm was passed; yet, nevertheless, the astonishment and delight of her auditors were unbounded. Praises and reproaches were blended with the thanks of her female friends, who, forgetting that they had never invited her performance, seemed to think her having so long concealed her talent a positive injury and injustice. But in the raptures of Frederick Stephenson there was no mixture of reproach; he seemed rapt in an ecstasy of admiration and love, the exact amount of which was pretty fairly appreciated by every one who listened to him except herself. A knavish speech sleeps no
t so surely in a foolish ear, as a passionate rhapsody in one that is indifferent. Our Agnes was by no means dull of apprehension on most occasions; but the incapacity she shewed for understanding the real meaning of nineteen speeches out of every twenty addressed to her by Frederick, was remarkable. It is probable, indeed, that indifference alone would hardly have sufficed to constitute a defence so effectual against all the efforts he made to render his feelings both intelligible and acceptable; pre-occupation of heart and intellect may account for it better. But whatever the cause of this insensibility, it certainly existed, and in such a degree as to render this enforced exhibition, and all the vehement praises that followed it, most exceedingly irksome. A greater proof of this could hardly be given than by her putting a stop to it at last by saying, —

  “If you really wish me to sing a song to-night, my dear Mrs. Peters, you must please to let me go now, or I think I shall be so hoarse as to make it impossible.”

  This little stratagem answered perfectly, and at once brought her near to the solitude for which she was pining.

  “Wish you to sing to-night, petite?...” said Mrs. Peters, clapping her little hands with delight ... “I rather think I shall.... I have had the terror of Mrs. Armstrong before my eyes for the last fortnight, and I think, Mary, that we have a novelty here that may save us from the faint praise usually accorded by her connoisseur-ship....”