Part 23 (1/2)
”Am I right in believing the engagement to be over which bound you to Mr.--Jones?”
”You are,” said Rachel, quite out loud, giving another quite unnecessary twist to her gown.
”That obstacle is then removed?”
”Mr. Jones is removed, and has gone to Ireland.” Then Mr. Moss sighed deeply. ”I can manage my singing very well without Mr.--Jones.”
”Not a doubt. Not a doubt. And I have heard that you have made an engagement in all respects beneficial with M. Le Gros, of Covent Garden. M. Le Gros is a gentleman for whom I have a most profound respect.”
”So have I.”
”Had I been at your elbow, it is possible that something better might have been done; but two months;--they run by--oh, so quickly!”
”Quite so. If I can do any good I shall quickly get another engagement.”
”You will no doubt do a great deal of good. But Mr. Jones is now at an end.”
”Mr. Jones is at an end,” said Rachel, with another blow at her gown.
”A singing girl like me does better without a lover,--especially if she has got a father to look after her.”
”That's as may be,” said Mr. O'Mahony.
”That's as may be,” said Mr. Moss, again laying his hand upon his heart. The tone in which Mr. Moss repeated Mr. O'Mahony's words was indicative of the feeling and poetry within him. ”If you had a lover such as is your faithful Moss,” the words seemed to say, ”no father could look after you half so well.”
”I believe I could do very well with no one to look after me.”
”Of course you and I have misunderstood each other hitherto.”
”Not at all,” said Rachel.
”I was unaware at first that Mr. Jones was an absolute reality. You must excuse me, but the name misled me.”
”Why shouldn't a girl be engaged to a man named Jones? Jones is as good a name as Moss, at any rate; and a deal more--” She had been going to remark that Jones was the more Christian of the two, but stopped herself.
”At any rate you are now free?” he said.
”No, I am not. Yes, I am. I am free, and I mean to remain so. Why don't you tell him, father?”
”I have got nothing to tell him, my dear. You are so much better able to tell him everything yourself.”
”If you would only listen to me, Miss O'Mahony.”
”You had better listen to him, Rachel.”
”Very well; I will listen. Now go on.” Then she again thumped herself. And she had thumped her hair, and thumped herself all round till she was as limp and dowdy as the elder sister of a Low Church clergyman of forty.
”I wish you to believe, Miss O'Mahony, that my attachment to you is most devoted.” She pursed her lips together and looked straight out of her eyes at the wall opposite. ”We belong to the same cla.s.s of life, and our careers lie in the same groove.” Hereupon she crossed her hands before her on her lap, while her father sat speculating whether she might not have done better to come out on the comic stage. ”I wish you to believe that I am quite sincere in the expression which I make of a most ardent affection.” Here again he slapped his waistcoat and threw himself into an att.i.tude. He was by no means an ill-looking man, and though he was forty years old, he did not appear to be so much. He had been a public singer all his life, and was known by Rachel to have been connected for many years with theatres both in London and New York. She had heard many stories as to his amorous adventures, but knew nothing against his character in money matters. He had, in truth, always behaved well to her in whatever pecuniary transactions there had been between them. But he had ventured to make love to her, and had done so in a manner which had altogether disgusted her. She now waited till he paused for a moment in his eloquence, and then she spoke a word.
”What about Madame Socani?”