Molly Bawn Part 82

Pushing his way through the other pa.s.sengers, with a discontented expression upon his genial face that rather misbecomes it, he emerges into the open air, to find that a smart drizzle, unworthy the name of rain, is falling inhospitably upon him.

There is a fog,--not as thick as it might be, but a decided fog,--and everything is gloomy to the last degree.

Stumbling up against another tall young man, dressed almost to a tie the same as himself, he smothers the uncivil e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n that rises so naturally to his lips, and after a second glance changes it to one of greeting.

"Ah, Fenning, is it you?" he says. "This beastly fog prevented my recognizing you at first. How are you? It is ages since last we met."

"Is it indeed you, Luttrell?" says the new-comer, stopping short and altering his sour look to one of pleased astonishment. "You in the flesh? Let us look at you?" Drawing Luttrell into the neighborhood of an unhappy lamp that tries against its conscience to think it is showing light and grows every minute fainter and more depressed in its struggle against truth. "All the way from Paddyland, where he has spent four long months," says Mr. Fenning, "and he is still alive! It is inconceivable. Let me examine you. Sound, I protest,--sound in wind and limb; not a defacing mark! I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it. I am awful glad to see you, old boy. What are you going to do with yourself this evening?"

"I wish I knew. I am absolutely thrown upon the world. You will take me somewhere with you, if you have any charity about you."

"I'm engaged for this evening." With a groan. "Ain't I unlucky? Hang it all, something told me to refuse old Wiggins's emblazoned card, but I wouldn't be warned. Now, what can I do for you?"

"You can at least advise me how best to kill time to-night."

"The Alhambra has a good thing on," says young Fenning, brightening; "and the Argyll----"

"I'm used up, morally and physically," interrupts Luttrell, rather impatiently. "Suggest something calmer--musical, or that."

"Oh, musical! That _is_ mild. I have been educated in the belief that a sojourn in Ireland renders one savage for the remainder of his days. I blush for my ignorance. If it is first-cla.s.s music you want, go to hear Wynter sing. She does sing this evening, happily for you, and anything more delicious, both in face and voice, has not aroused London to madness for a considerable time. Go, hear her, but leave your heart at your hotel before going. The Grosvenor, is it, or the Langham? The Langham. Ah, I shall call to-morrow. By-bye, old man. Go and see Wynter, and you will be richly rewarded. She is tremendously lovely."

"I will," says Luttrell; and having dined and dressed himself, he goes and does it.

Feeling listless, and not in the slightest degree interested in the coming performance, he enters the concert room, to find himself decidedly late. Some one has evidently just finished singing, and the applause that followed the effort has not yet quite died away.

With all the air of a man who wonders vaguely within himself what in the world has brought him here, Luttrell makes his way to a vacant chair and seats himself beside an elderly, pleasant-faced man, too darkly-skinned and too bright-eyed to belong to this country.

"You are late,--late," says this stranger, in perfect English, and, with all the geniality of most foreigners, making room for him. "She has just sung."

"Has she?" Faintly amused. "Who?"

"Miss--Wynter. Ah! you have sustained a loss."

"I am unlucky," says Luttrell, feeling some slight disappointment,--very slight. Good singers can be heard again. "I came expressly to hear her. I have been told she sings well."

"Well--_well_!" Disdainfully. "Your informant was careful not to overstep the truth. It is marvelous--exquisite--her voice," says the Italian, with such unrepressed enthusiasm as makes Luttrell smile.

"These antediluvian attachments," thinks he, "are always severe."

"You make me more regretful every minute," he says, politely. "I feel as though I had lost something."

"So you have. But be consoled. She will sing again later on."

Leaning back, Luttrell takes a survey of the room. It is crowded to excess, and brilliant as lights and gay apparel can make it. Fans are flashing, so are jewels, so are gems of greater value still,--black eyes, blue and gray. Pretty dresses are melting into other pretty dresses, and there is a great deal of beauty everywhere for those who choose to look for it.

After a while his gaze, slowly traveling, falls on Cecil Stafford. She is showing even more than usually bonny and winsome in some _chef-d'oeuvre_ of Worth's, and is making herself very agreeable to a tall, lanky, eighteenth century sort of man who sits beside her, and is kindly allowing himself to be amused.

An intense desire to go to her and put the fifty questions that in an instant rise to his lips seizes Luttrell; but she is unhappily so situated that he cannot get at her. Unless he were to summon up fort.i.tude to crush past three grim dowagers, two elaborately-attired girls, and one sour old spinster, it cannot be done; and Tedcastle, at least, has not the sort of pluck necessary to carry him through with it.

Cecil, seeing him, starts and colors, and then nods and smiles gayly at him in pleased surprise. A moment afterward her expression changes, and something so like dismay as to cause Luttrell astonishment covers her face.

Then the business of the evening proceeds, and she turns her attention to the singers, and he has no more time to wonder at her sudden change of countenance.

A very small young lady, hidden away in countless yards of pink silk, delights them with one of the ballads of the day. Her voice is far the biggest part of her, and awakens in one's mind a curious craving to know where it comes from.

Then a wonderfully ugly man, with a delightful face, plays on the violin something that reminds one of all the sweetest birds that sing, and is sufficiently ravishing to call forth at intervals the exclamation, "Good, good!" from Luttrell's neighbor.

Then a very large woman warbles a French _chansonnette_ in the tiniest, most flute-like of voices; and then----

_Who_ is it that comes with such grave and simple dignity across the boards, with her small head proudly but gracefully upheld, her large eyes calm and sweet and steady?

For a moment Luttrell disbelieves his senses. Then a mist rises before him, a choking sensation comes into his throat. Laying his hand upon the back of the chair nearest him, he fortunately manages to retain his composure, while heart, and mind, and eyes, are centred on Molly Bawn.

An instantaneous hush falls upon the a.s.sembly; the very fans drop silently into their owners' laps; not a whisper can be heard. The opening chords are played by some one, and then Molly begins to sing.

It is some new, exquisite rendering of Kingsley's exquisite words she has chosen:

"Oh, that we two were maying!--"

and she sings it with all the pathos, the genius, of which she is capable.

She has no thought for all the gay crowd that stays entranced upon her tones. She looks far above them, her serene face--pale, but full of gentle self-possession--more sweet than any poem. She is singing with all her heart for her beloved,--for Let.i.tia, and Lovat, and the children, and John in heaven.

A pa.s.sionate longing to be near her--to touch her--to speak--to be answered back again--seizes Luttrell. He takes in hungrily all the minutiae of her clothing, her manner, her expression. He sees the soft, gleaming bunches of snow-drops at her bosom and in her hair. Her hands, lightly crossed before her, are innocent of rings. Her simple black gown of some clinging, transparent material--barely opened at the neck--makes even more fair the milk-white of her throat (that is scarcely less white than the snowy flowers).

Her hair is drawn back into its old loose knot behind, in the simple style that suits her. She has a tiny band of black velvet round her neck. How fair she is,--how sweet, yet full of a tender melancholy! He is glad in his heart for that little pensive shade, and thinks, though more fragile, she never looked so lovely in her life.

She has commenced the last verse:

"Oh, that we two lay sleeping In our nest in the church-yard sod, With our limbs at rest On the quiet earth's breast, And our souls at home with G.o.d!"

She is almost safely through it. There is such a deadly silence as ever presages a storm, when by some luckless chance her eyes, that seldom wander, fall full on Luttrell's upturned, agitated face.

His fascinated, burning gaze compels her to return it. Oh, that he should see her here, singing before all these people! For the first time a terrible sense of shame overpowers her; a longing to escape the eyes that from all parts of the hall appear to stare at her and criticise her voice--herself!

She turns a little faint, wavers slightly, and then breaks down.

Covering her face with her hands, and with a gesture of pa.s.sion and regret, she falls hurriedly into the background and is gone.

Immediately kindly applause bursts forth. What has happened to the favorite? Is she ill, or faint, or has some lost dead chord of her life suddenly sounded again? Every one is at a loss, and every one is curious. It is interesting,--perhaps the most interesting part of the whole performance,--and to-morrow will tell them all about it.

Tedcastle starts to his feet, half mad with agitation, his face ashen white. There is no knowing what he might not have done in this moment of excitement had not his foreign neighbor, laying hands upon him, gently forced him back again into his seat.

"My friend, consider _her_," he whispers, in a firm but soft voice. Then, after a moment's pause, "Come with me," he says, and, leading the way, beckons to Luttrell, who rises mechanically and follows him.

Into a small private apartment that opens off the hall the Italian takes him, and, pushing toward him a chair, sinks into another himself.

"She is the woman you love?" he asks, presently, in such a kindly tone as carries away all suspicion of impertinence.

"Yes," answers Luttrell, simply.