His voice emerged with difficulty. "What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Offering my congratulations," she said. "It was a triumph for you. There will be nothing to rival it this season."
He stiffened in response to her words. "It is nothing," he answered.
"Will you not accept my compliments?" she asked. There was effort evident in her voice, keeping her emotions light. "They are not given without feeling. Quite the opposite, for they cost me great pains to deliver without burdening them with the past."
He had moved as if to avoid her; she remained in his path, preventing his escape. They were drawn close by this action, the distance between them but a hand's touch apart.
"It is all the same to the fashionable theater patron," he answered. "They hear all music alike."
"I would have known it to be yours, no matter where it was performed," she answered, her voice low.
He did not look into her eyes, his self-possession holding the cords of feeling tightly. He knew that her gaze was upon him, for he could feel it even as he sensed the warmth of her figure close to his own.
"That is because you have heard the song before," he answered. He could not last against this much longer, he knew. It was costing him everything to remain before her with any self-command of emotion, be it anger or something else which he felt.
"Scheimann! Do not tarry, but come!" Bochsa's lively command was close enough that Scheimann knew he was observed by his friend. He was no longer overpowered by longing or feeling; the spell which held him before Miss Harwick was rendered false trickery by another’s voice, enabling him to be free without even the courtesy of a bow.
"I had forgotten our evening's engagements," he murmured in apology to Bochsa, who had his mistress upon his arm and a crowd of friends gathered eagerly around him.
"No matter, there shall be champagne enough, even if we are a few minutes delayed," the music director laughed. "You were greatly engaged with your lovely patroness and would not wish to be parted."
"By what manner do you call her that?" asked Scheimann, with a faint smile.
"By her solicitor's," answered Bochsa. "I have seen her here once, you know. She contrived not to be seen on that occasion–you know how women are with their veils and the like. It was merely the penny's sham on her part to send a third party to see how rehearsals got on. Her solicitor paid the handsome capital for these splendid scenes; but it was she who signed the notes."
Scheimann's color was altered by these words, although he did not speak. He glanced towards the figure of Hetta, who was disappearing into the shadows as she made her departure.
"Your little patroness shall be pleased with the receipts–as Heaven knows, all the theater shall be," said Bochsa, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Now, shall we go to dinner?"
*****
"I wept, dear Scheimann, positively wept," said Mrs. Everton. "I do not know how to begin to tell you how splendid it was. I felt the Songmaid's plight very keenly, I assure you."
She poured him a second cup of tea, spilling a little of it into his saucer with her haste.
"I am honored, Madam," he answered. "You are a true lover of music; and so your heart is always touched by an artist's best efforts." He spoke more of the soprano than himself in this statement, although Mrs. Everton would not be dissuaded in her opinion that his genius alone carried the performance.
"Quite magnificent, really," said Mr. Everton. "I rather liked the grotesque effect of those ghastly points sticking about in the cave. A bit fanciful, perhaps, but rather effective for the little blind maid's attempts to wander through that place."
Scheimann had endured the fanfare of his opera's success for several days; and now, he was to have the reward of rest in the form of a week at the Everton's country house. Although it was not a season conducive to entertaining–or travel in particular–it was the good lady's insistence that he retreat from London for rest. As the villas of Italy were not possible at the moment, the leafless groves of Adenham must do.
"The Robertses and Lady Arlene will be there," said Mrs. Everton, "although the Hollingsworths have declined, for they have an engagement with the Earl of Highscome, I believe. But perhaps you will take a place yourself in the country this summer, now that you are celebrated in all London."
"It is not a fortune but a success which I have achieved," the composer answered. "That is the part I wished the most, so the rest will not matter. There are more operas to be written, more concertos and sonatas to divine. I shall be at work again soon." It would not do to waste the success of the opera, he knew; while the iron was hot, other, better works from his pen might find a foothold in the world of concerts and musicians.
"You see that you were wrong in saying the theater must leave out the flower song," said Mrs. Everton, with something of triumph in her tone, "for it was the best of all last night, except for the duet in the cave."
"I cannot agree, Madam," he answered. "But that is merely my feeling upon the matter." His attitude upon this subject had led to the general assumption that the theater's prima donna Allera had dissatisfied him with her performance of the song, somewhat piquing the gifted lady upon hearing this rumor.
The servant escorted him from the drawing room after tea. As he claimed his hat and walking-stick from the maid in the hall, the Evertons' valet addressed him.
"If you please, sir, come this way," he said. He was stationed before the doors of the music room, through which he escorted the composer before closing them again. It was here, in the midst of Mrs. Evertons' harp and pianoforte, that Scheimann had the misfortune of encountering Miss Harwick again.
"Mademoiselle," he said, coldly. It was evident that she had been waiting here for some length of time, her fingers turning the music open before the pianoforte's keys.
"I asked him to show you here," said Hetta. "The Evertons are not aware; they do not expect me for a half hour."
He spoke slowly. "Then I cannot understand what you are doing here."
"Waiting to speak to you," she answered. "I would call at your lodging, except I should be denied, I am sure."
"And why should you wish to do that?" He felt irritable and trapped in this moment, wishing himself free again. "You have not enjoyed my conversation in the past, Miss Harwick."
She stepped closer to him. "Would you forgive me, I wonder," she said. "If I could have you believe that I was sorry for my words those many years ago?"
"I would endeavor to forgive," he said. "It would not matter; for there is no reason for us to revisit those scenes. We cannot change them; and it does not change our current paths."
"But it might," she answered.
"It cannot, Miss Harwick." His tone was gentle, but firm.
For the first time, he detected something akin to emotion in her perfect features: a twist of the flesh around her mouth, a sense that tears gathered, perhaps, beneath those long lashes.
"The song ‘The Flower's Dance,’" she said. "Why did you choose it for the opera?"
"Because it was untouched," he said. "It was an impulse–I had it removed, but they insisted upon it. To them it was a fancy–a–a song which the audience would find charming."
"Was it how you wished it to be?" Her voice was greatly altered beneath the weight of feeling.
His fingers toyed with the handle on his cane. "It was," he answered, brusquely. "Except that I would wish a better voice. It was meant for better. As you know."
She met his glance with this remark. "Do you regret what once was?" she asked. "You have had a great many students. Many that were more promising than the daughters of wealthy men."
"I regret nothing except that it was wasted," he answered.
Her eyes filled with tears which were visible clearly in the drawing room's white sunlight. "I was very young," she began, after a moment's time, her face turned away from him so only her profile was visible. "I was afraid. I was spoiled and there were a great many things I thought I wanted. I did not see until later–w
ith time, those things were less important to me. There were no true friends to comfort me, for I had not made any."
"I am certain that you have a great many friends," he answered.
"Friends who would flatter my vanity," said Hetta. "But those who would not have all gone from me." She turned towards him again, with a look which he could not mistake. Fifteen years before, the softness of her countenance had appeared the same before him in the darkness on the stairs, her soul in the bitter grip of truth. Such a look had penetrated his heart long ago–he did not know until now how deeply.
"We were young, then, it is true," he said, "but we always have been made for different things. You would not give up your beauty for music, would you? The life of the blind songmaiden–you could not have been content as she was, to be humble and have something greater dwell within that could not be seen from without."
"Then your forgiveness does not come with hope for more," she answered, with difficulty.
"You are beautiful, Miss Harwick," he said, softly. "I have thought so since I was foolish enough to notice." His hand moved, fingers almost reaching out as if to touch her, although the space between them was too wide for such an endeavor to meet success.
He turned to go; she spoke to him again.
"I did not come for your thanks," she said. "I came only that we might be friends again. That you might see me as–as less willful than I once was." She struggled with her words, her manner growing hesitant the longer she continued to speak.
"You have my thanks," he answered. "And perhaps you will have my friendship again, if there is ever need of it."
His manner, although not harsh, seemed cold even to his own perception. She had looked away from him, the tracks of her tears visible upon her cheek as she gazed out the window.
"My heart was once yours," he said. "You twisted it in your grip as you have many others; and I cannot bear that pain again." He put his hand on the doorknob. "Goodbye, Miss Harwick."
She did not bid him farewell; she did not even turn to acknowledge his leaving. The belief that her tears continued to come, that her breath took the form of sobs, came vividly to his mind with each step of departure, to the wonder of a man who had freed himself of his worst pain as the door closed behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mrs. Allgood was buried on a Thursday in the cemetery beside the Beiberry village church. Distant relatives had reputedly paid for an expensive monument to be carved, no doubt with the belief that her wealth would come to them. Until its arrival, a bed of frozen ground marked her resting place, a wreath of flowers placed atop it with petals brown and softened.
"The poor woman," sighed Mrs. Servennia. "She was quite in her right mind at the last, which is the only consolation for her sufferings." She motioned for the carriage to draw away from the frozen churchyard where she had laid a wreath upon her neighbor's grave.
"'Tis a tragedy," sighed Mr. Hooker, who was among the mourners present upon the day of burial. "If the poor woman had sent for aid, her life may have been prolonged." He walked beside Mrs. Thompkins, whose widow's bonnet was marked with black ribbons for the occasion.
"She would not have anyone come," said Mrs. Thompkins. "The serving girl offered to walk through the storm to fetch aid, poor waif! She would have frozen in the attempt and if the surgeon had been away, it would have been two deaths for one." She tucked her gloved hands more deeply beneath her cape as she shivered.
The Littlewoods had come to the burial, keeping a respectable distance from the gentle villagers of whom their relative had approved. There were black armbands upon Mr. Littlewood and his two eldest sons, while Mrs. Littlewood appeared in her most somber attire with little Jack pressed close to her.
Kitty observed them there as she stood by; then she, like the rest, moved slowly away from the scene of mourning and homewards. Her despondent attitude had not lifted, nor her quiet and reclusive state at Marebrooke Manor.
In due time, Mr. Hooker the barrister made known the contents of Mrs. Allgood's will. This was done in an official manner, then in the form of a most unofficial confidentiality which involved the good lady's friend Mrs. Thompkins, for Mrs. Allgood had entrusted another at the last with an arrangement most peculiar to her wishes.
"We must tell her, of course," said Mrs. Jenner, at length, who had been consulted on the matter after both parties made her privy to the whole affair. "There is nothing for it. Those are the wishes of our neighbor and must not be neglected, whatever finer feelings may be hurt in the bargain."
"But it is such a delicate matter," pleaded Mrs. Thompkins. "She would surely not wish it to seem an insult to be told such a thing–"
"The wishes of the dead are never an insult," declared her companion, "only the feelings of the living have that power."
"Then the matter is settled," said Mr. Hooker. "It shall be done directly, as Shakespeare himself might have said." Neither lady rebuked him for such a flippant remark on this solemn matter, for their feelings were greatly diverted with other concerns.
Mr. Hooker carried out the duties of his office with regards to the pressing legal side of this matter. His carriage and horses were sent for after breakfast and the coachmen was directed onwards to Marebrook Manor, where its presence greatly surprised the squire and his wife.
The footman admitted the lawyer and his two female neighbors to the main hall. "I've no wish to see the lady of the house on this occasion, my man," declared Mr. Hooker, "unless she be in the presence of her sister."
"This way, if you please." The footman escorted three guests into the parlor, then summoned Miss Phillips to their presence. She was greatly astonished by the request, but obeyed, with politeness and a sense of curiosity regarding their presence.
"Good afternoon sir," she said, with a curtsey for Mr. Hooker and for the village ladies now seated upon the sofa. "I am told you wish to see me?"
"Indeed," said the barrister. "I am here upon a business matter–but one of these ladies has been given particular charge on that subject." He seated himself in the seat nearest the fire, conveniently further away from the conversation at hand. Miss Phillips seated herself across from the two ladies.
"Mrs. Allgood had a particular set of wishes to be looked after when she died," began Mrs. Jenner. "She'd a great concern for her cousins, as you know, and left them most of her money and the piece of property on which her cottage stands."
"She left a goodly sum to her companion also," piped up Mrs. Thompkins. "Poor Mrs. Josephs is to have four thousand pounds and a very handsome tea set, she has informed me."
This was all very well, although to Kitty's mind it had little point with regards to any business which might concern her, unless it was to help pack the tea set on behalf of Mrs. Allgood's former companion. Something in the ladies' manner, however, checked her reply with a presentment of something more. In the brief silence between them all, there was an air of restless and hesitant energy present in her companions.
"She was greatly taken with you also, Miss Phillips," said Mrs. Jenner, resuming her speech. "So much so, that she took pains to leave you a gift also. A sum of seven hundred pounds." With this statement of shocking revelation, she leaned back in her seat.
"Seven hundred pounds?" Kitty repeated. "But why?" In her surprise, she could not fathom any reason, for there was none which would explain such a gift.
"She took a great fancy to you," said Mrs. Jenner. "She felt that you were a proper lady and that your presence lent her respectability in her last days. She sent for Mr. Hooker but two months ago to alter her will for this purpose.”
“But why?” repeated Kitty. A feeling of dismay was gradually creeping over her in the presence of these solemn and kindly neighbors.
“That you might have enough in your possession to take a small cottage of your own in the countryside and have independent means." These last words were spoken with an air of delicacy which Mrs. Jenner seldom saw fit to employ.
"I see,” said Kitty. Whose voic
e had grown fainter with this response.
"She felt concern that you might be forced into an–an imprudent state," said Mrs. Thompkins, hesitantly. "Mrs. Allgood did not wish you to choose a lesser means of respectability."
She twisted the handkerchief in her hands as she spoke, as if it pained her slightly to speak this aloud. It was her charge, after all, to speak to Miss Phillips, by the deceased’s own bidding; although Mrs. Jenner’s quick tongue had supplied most of the truth.
Kitty, who now understood–and knew that the room's other occupants did also–felt her hands grow cold upon her lap.
At this point, Mr. Hooker cleared his throat with a rumbling sound and produced a folded paper from his coat pocket.
"She has left a letter for you also," he said, placing it in Kitty's hand. "It t'was given into Mrs. Thompkins's charge when the will was altered. Mrs. Thompkins 'erself will attest to it."
"I was privy to its being written." Mrs. Thompkins spoke up again. "I wrote the letter with my own hand on that day as she wished it, for hers was too weak to do more than sign it."
Without speaking, Kitty unfolded the sheet of paper. A faint, almost illegible handwriting covered it in a delicate script which seemed an elegance fallen into disuse. At the bottom, the signature of Mrs. Allgood, a penmanship peculiar, perhaps, to a generation long past Kitty's own.
Miss Catherine Phillips,
You are a lady greatly esteemed in the village of Beiberry Mile and, no doubt, in your home in London. Such accomplishments as are given to you should not be treated lightly, nor scorned for more worldly pursuits in this Life.
I, too, was once a lady of some means and importance in the world. I was content with my fortune and my position, but I was granted that happiest of states for women we are told; and the power to act as I would when it was deprived of me by God's will. I did not wish to marry again, for it would have seemed a sin in my eyes, but it was only by Providence's great blessing that I was not forced to the brink of poverty by choosing His will.
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