 | CHAPTER III. This, that and the other |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
Six months after this, I woke up, one spring morning, and
found myself in London. I do not know how I got there;
that is, even to this day, I can hardly understand the perseverance
with which I, an unprotected child, walked the whole
distance, seeking food and lodging of whoever had charity
enough to shelter me. Providence must have guided me, and I
think so, more than ever, when I recall a singular incident which
befell me on my arrival.
It was afternoon when I entered the great whirlpool of London.
Half-frightened by the crowded streets, I had somehow
made my way to the Park, and, for almost the first time in my
life, I sat there crying. At last I was roused from my sorrowful
abstraction by a gentle touch and a kind voice; and, looking
up, I met the glance of a middle-aged gentleman, clad in a quiet
citizen's suit of black. There needed but one look at his
kindly face to assure me I could trust him; and his question,
“What is your name, my child, and why are you here alone?”
was immediately followed by my relating to him my whole history,
save only that portion which was connected with my love
for Frederic Hutton.
“So you 've come all alone to this far-off London, to learn
to be a ballet-dancer?” he said, kindly. “I must say it is
a very strange undertaking. The chances that you will succeed
are hardly one in ten thousand. However, you could
not have fallen upon a better friend. I am a theatre-manager
myself, and I 'll try you; and, if I find you can do anything, I
business, and you shall be educated for the stage.”
Thus it was, reader, that my first night in London was passed
in a respectable lodging-house; and I woke up in the morning
from peaceful dreams under the mighty shadow of St. Paul's.
My protector proceeded, soon after I arose, to put me through a
trial-course of calisthenics; and I suppose the result was satisfactory,
for a dress-maker was sent for, and requested to prepare
me for a journey to France, and a residence at l'école de
theatre.
Two years had passed; I was now fifteen. They had been
two of the happiest of my life. True, at first confinement had
been irksome. I had missed the wild, wailing, solitary sea, and
the free range of rocky shore. But my cherished purpose was
every day drawing nearer its accomplishment. My kind protector
had visited me several times, when business called him to
France; and it would have done your heart good to see his kind,
satisfied smile, when he received a favorable report of my progress.
It had been discovered, in the course of my instructions,
that I had a voice of unequalled power and pathos, and that I
should be able to succeed as a cantatrice with even less trouble
than as a danseuse; but I had marked out my own course. I
could not consecrate every gift to the insatiable spirit of the
stage. I must retain some power not thus prostituted, to make
beautiful my private life. However, I cultivated my voice most
assiduously, and was, in a short time, pronounced the best singer
in l'école.
There were, in the same institution, a large number of young
girls, more or less gifted, preparing for the stage; but among
them all, I had but one friend, — Inez Vaughan. She has, since
then, under another name, made the world's heart throb strangely.
She flashed, comet-like, upon the age, the very impersonation
of the genius of tragedy. The great world held its breath to
listen; but, comet-like, she was struck down suddenly, and the
Provence roses bloom upon her grave.
I could easily discern that there were no others whose acquaintance
would not rather retard the accomplishment of my
great end; but Inez and I became friends, in that word's truest
sense. We studied and read together, and she would sit beside
me, her dark eyes flashing like lighted coals, while I told her
strange, wild tales of the rocky shore, and the surging, restless
sea.
But, as I was saying, I was fifteen. My two years' study had
been completed, and the night was appointed on which I was to
make my début at the Royal Theatre. I had grown very beautiful;
no one who had known me as the romping child of
the fisherman's hut would have recognized me now. My hair
was long, and heavy, and luxuriant as ever; but now it was satin-smooth,
and from its wavy folds seemed to flash sparks of light.
My complexion, by proper care, had cleared up wonderfully;
now it was like the sunny side of a ripe peach, only deepening in
the cheeks to a richer crimson than peaches ever wore. The eyes
were the same, — large, black, and strangely lustrous, — and the
wan, thin figure of the child had rounded in the girl to a symmetry
as perfect as it was stately. Yes, I was very beautiful.
I arrayed myself for the occasion in a crimson satin, heavily
pearls and rubies, fantastically twisted together, fastened with
gold clasps, in which a single diamond flashed like a burning
star. Strings of the same jewels flashed among the heavy bands
of my braided hair, and I almost started back in wonder as I
glanced at my full-length reflection in the green-room mirror, it
seemed so like some old picture, with its strangely vivid lights
and shades.
That night my triumph was complete. The whole house rang
with applause, and many of the bouquets thrown at my feet were
knotted with jewels. I welcomed this success, for it was one
stepping-stone the more toward my great end. O, how I wished
he had been there to see it! But never once had my eyes rested
on him since we parted in the sunshine on the desolate Cornwall
shore.
All that season I continued to draw crowded houses, and on
my last night the theatre was filled to overflowing. I had never
looked better. My costume was one just calculated to set off my
dark, oriental beauty, and it was in full glow. Half an hour
had passed, when a new arrival, in one of the front boxes, seemed
to create a sensation. I glanced that way, and my eyes met
the most perfect vision of feminine loveliness on which they had
ever rested.
Her style of beauty was totally different from mine; and I
looked on her, at first, with an artist's admiration, unmingled with
envy or jealousy. She wore a garnet-colored velvet cloak, lined
with ermine; but, as she entered the box, it fell from her neck,
revealing shoulders white as Caucasian snow-banks, and moulded
as purely as a Grecian statue. Her hair was of a bright gold tint,
of pearls, from which one or two stray tresses had escaped, and
floated down over her neck and bosom. Her robe was of azure
satin, frosted with pearls; and her fan was gorgeous with the
plumage of tropical birds. Her eyes were a deep, tranquil blue,
large, and strangely bright; and her fair complexion, pure and
clear as marble, was deepened in the cheeks with a just-perceptible
tint of rose.
My eye had taken in all this at one glance. She seemed to
me like the actual presence of one of those beautiful pictures before
which I had stood with filling eyes in the gallery of the
Louvre, and from my heart I blessed her for her loveliness, as
I turned to gaze upon her companion.
Saint Agnes! patron saint of mine! why was it that in that
instant a deep and bitter hatred for that beautiful being crept
into my heart? Her companion was Frederick Hutton! It was
his hand that so carefully adjusted the folds of her cloak, his
eye that watched so eagerly her every look.
I danced that night as I had never danced before. Deafening
roars of applause fairly shook the building to its centre: but, of
all that gorgeous crowd, I saw but one. It was a full half-hour
before he seemed even to notice me, and then he carelessly turned
his opera-glass toward the stage.
I danced to him, at him — what you will; at least, I danced
for his eyes only. And I had the satisfaction of seeing him perfectly
absorbed, entranced, and apparently quite forgetful of
the presence of his companion. That was my last opera in
the season, and a few months afterwards I was in London, pleasantly
established in fashionable apartments at the West End.
“Agnes,” said my guardian (for so I had learned to call my
fatherly protector), entering my room, one morning, “there are
yet six weeks before your first engagement here commences.
What do you say to a masquerade, in the mean time? I
have plenty of relatives among the West-End fashionables, and
I should find no difficulty in having you introduced as Miss Agnes
Lee, in circles where no one would ever dream of Viola the
ballet-dancer being admitted. Will you go?”
While he spoke, an intense longing took possession of my
heart to gaze face to face on that great world of which I had
heard so much. True, I had seen people enough. I had danced
to crowded audiences, — but of fashionable society I was as
ignorant as a child. But I presume very little of my enthusiasm
appeared in my manner, as I lifted my eyes, and said, quietly,
“Yes, guardian, I will go.”
“Well, I thought so; it 's so like girls to want to see the
world! So I 've made arrangements accordingly, and I 've two
invitations for you, from two very fashionable ladies, who are
under some obligations to me. Here is one from Mrs. Somerby,
to her estate, `The Grange,' a little out of town. You 'd meet
there a half-score of ladies, beside Simmons, and Falconbrace,
and a dozen other young men who would fall in love with you.
You 'd have to look out for your own heart, because their cards
would be played out as soon as they knew your true position.”
“Well, sir, where is the other one?”
“That? O, that 's further out of town — to the Heronry, the
estate of Mrs. Somerville Sikes, and you would n't find anybody
there to fall in love with. There 'll be one man of mark there,
though, — Fred Hutton; but Lady Clara Emerson will be there,
there must be something in it.”
Frederick Hutton! O, how the very mention of his name
thrilled me! Could it be? Was I indeed to see him, — to be
in the same house with him once more? My heart fluttered like
a caged bird, but my nerves were strong, and my self-command
perfect; so I answered, carelessly,
“Well, sir, I believe I 'll choose the Heronry; you know
there 's no knowing what might become of my heart at the other
place.”
My guardian laughed, and, patting my cheek pleasantly, went
out to hunt me up a dressing-maid, and provide me with a suitable
wardrobe.
The next day, at three in the afternoon, I was whirled up the
spacious carriage-drive of the Heronry, and introduced to the
stately Mrs. Somerville Sikes. She was a lady of, I should
think, about forty, extremely well preserved, and very elegantly
dressed. There was an air of patrician ease and gracefulness
about her, such as I had never before observed in any lady with
whom I had been thrown in contact.
She welcomed me cordially, and went up stairs with me to
my own room; then, kissing me, she remarked, “I will send your
maid to you, my dear; you will have just time to dress for
dinner.” O, what would I not have given to have dared to
inquire if Frederick Hutton had arrived! But I could not trust
myself to mention his name, and I threw myself in an easy-chair,
and sent my thoughts backward with memory, while my maid
unbound the long tresses of my hair.
When, at last, its arrangement was completed, I arrayed myself,
Nothing could have exceeded the simplicity of my attire. The
white dress was without ornament, and I wore not a single jewel,
with only a sprig of cape-jasmine in the dark folds of my hair.
I turned to the mirror, as I was drawing on my gloves, and saw
that, though I had many times been more dazzlingly brilliant, I
had never looked more beautiful; and yet my step faltered as I
entered the drawing-room.
Mrs. Sikes advanced to meet me, and I was formally presented
to the company; but my eye took in but two faces, my ear
caught but two names. Clara Emerson was there, with her face
so strangely fair in its quiet beauty, and her slender figure robed
in azure silk. A wreath of white buds nestled in her golden
curls, and she looked even more lovely than when I had first
seen her. Beside her sat Frederick Hutton. His was truly the
handsomest face my eyes ever rested on. He was, indeed,
as my guardian had said, a man of mark; with his Apollo
Belvidere figure, his hyacinthine locks, and his laughing dark-blue
eyes. The Lady Clara looked up, smiled, and spoke
very sweetly; but Frederick seemed so intent on his conversation
with her, that he merely noticed me by a bow. A moment after,
however, as Mrs. Sikes repeated my name, “Miss Agnes Lee,”
he paused in his conversation, and I knew, by his puzzled face,
he was remembering that he had heard that name before; but he
could not recall the time, and I felt relieved. But, even if he
had, he would hardly have associated the fisher-girl of the Corn-wall
lee-shore with the very different looking young lady presented
to him in Mrs. Sikes' drawing-room.
He sat opposite to me at dinner, but his attention was wholly
at me, and then I heard him remarking to Lady Clara that
“Miss Lee was magnificently handsome;” and then he added,
“but her style is so different from yours, ma belle Clara,” in a
tone which left the listener little room for conjecture as to which
style he preferred.
During the evening I had been making painful efforts to be
agreeable to some dowager countesses, until I was tired; when,
much to my delight, my task was interrupted by a call for music,
and the Lady Clara Emerson was led to the piano. Her performance
was mediocre, perhaps a trifle better than that of
boarding-school misses in general. She affected opera airs, for
the most part, and, though Frederick Hutton leaned over her, and
turned her music, I could see he was neither interested nor animated;
and yet I knew that music was his passion. At last
Lady Clara arose from the instrument.
“Perhaps Miss Lee will favor us,” suggested Mrs. Sikes; and
Frederick Hutton came to my side, to lead me to the instrument.
His hand just touched mine as I took my seat, and, strong as
my nerves were, it thrilled me strangely. I sang an old Scotch
ballad of hopeless love, — a song that required power and pathos,
— and I sang it well.
I dared not glance at Frederick, but I could hear his quickened
breathing, I could almost seem to feel his attitude of rapt
attention; and I knew he recognized my power. For a week
after that he scarcely spoke to me. His attention was still
absorbed by the beautiful Clara; and yet, sometimes, when he
was sitting by her side, I would raise my eyes from my embroidery,
and meet a glance from the distant corner where they were
lashes. When I sang, Frederick never came near me; but
I knew he listened, and that, let him struggle as he would, one
day my purpose would meet its accomplishment.
| CHAPTER III. This, that and the other | |