STRANGE MEETINGS.
I charm thee from the agony
Which others feel or feign;
From anger, and from jealousy,
From doubt, and from disdain;
I bid thee wear the scorn of years
Upon the brow of youth,
And curl the lip at passion’s tears,
And shake the head at truth;
While there is bliss in revelry,
Forgetfulness in wine,
Be thou from every love as free
As every one from thine!—_Mrs. Hemans._
It was mid-winter when Orville Deville and his family reached New York
and established themselves in the best apartments of the most
fashionable hotel. He arrived at the time when public interest was
divided between two subjects. The first, and ultimately the most
important, was the first murmurings of discontent with the mother
country, that preceded the outbreaking of the Revolutionary War.
The other, infinitely less important, but for the moment more exciting
topic, was the advent of a great theatrical star—a wonderfully-endowed
young tragedienne, whose almost fabulous beauty, grace and genius,
conjoined with a reputation of exalted virtue and nearly supernatural
powers of fascination, had been the admiration and delight of London, as
it was now the attraction and wonder of New York.
“And who _is_ this most marvellous—this all-worshipped Melpomene?”
inquired Orville Deville of his friend, Colonel Bingham, as the two
smoked their Havanas together in the reading-room of the hotel, where,
as usual, the latest enchantments of the Circe were being discussed.
“Who is MELPOMENE?” repeated the Colonel, with a look of astonishment.
“Is it possible that you are in earnest in that question?”
“Certainly. I am a provincial—a rustic, you see, who should not be
supposed to know all your city celebrities,” said Deville, laughing.
“‘But not to know Melpomene argues yourself unknown’ with a
vengeance—or, rather, not to know _of_ her! for few, I imagine, really
know who she is, whence she came, or what her name! She is called
Melpomene; and if ever a tragedienne had a right to assume that awful
name of the tragic muse, this woman is the one!”
“All that I have heard before; but who _is_ she?”
“I repeat that I do not really know. No one does. Her origin and history
are involved in obscurity, that only gets a little clearer as it nears
the present time. Those who know _of_ her, scarcely deem her of human
kind! Her admirers think her angel-born—her enviers would have us
believe her a child of Satan! Her spells of fascination are certainly
supernatural!”
“And _that_, also, I have heard before. But is there nothing at all—no
clue, no gossip—nothing whatever to point out her possible origin?”
persisted Orville Deville, who felt a strange and unaccountable interest
in tracing the antecedents of this wonderful woman.
“Gossip? Oh, there is gossip enough! How could it be otherwise? A woman
endowed with the most wonderful beauty, genius, and power of
fascination—and, in addition to all these, possessing fame, wealth, and
favor of all men—must excite envy and provoke detraction. Yes, there is
plenty of gossip, if you will accept _that_ for authentic history.”
“Well, that gossip—in a great deal of chaff there may be a grain of
truth.”
“Not worth the trouble of seeking. But if you _will_ have it, you may.
But mind—so far from _indorsing_, I speak it under protest,” said
Colonel Bingham.
“Right,” admitted Mr. Deville.
“Well, then, thus saith Madam Rumor—that some ten or twelve years ago, a
young creature, scarce sixteen years old, and yet at that tender age,
not only orphaned, but widowed, and perfectly destitute, wandered in
search of service, to New York, where she arrived on foot, late at
night, in the midst of a snow-storm. Exhausted with fatigue, hunger and
cold, she sank, fainting, in the street. She was picked up by a
weak-minded old watchman, who instead of carrying her off to the
watch-house, pitied her condition and took her home to his own
dwelling.”
“But this houseless wanderer could not have been the great Melpomene!”
interrupted Mr. Deville.
“Wait a bit!—Rumor further saith, that this feeble-brained old watchman,
who carried forlorn women to his own house, ‘had a daughter,’ who was
employed as a ballet-girl at the City Theatre, and that eventually, the
young stranger being found unfit for every thing else under the sun,
went with her host’s daughter to the theatre, where her personal beauty
and grace, and her melodious voice, and ready intelligence, procured her
an humble engagement.”
“Ah!”
“Yes, you begin to see how this might have been. Well, as years passed,
and to her original gifts were added experience and knowledge of the
business, our young artist rose in her profession through the successive
stages of ballet dancer, singing grisette, walking lady, leader, etc.,
to her present position.”
“Then, as every step of this tragedienne, from obscurity to fame, seems
to have passed before the eyes of this public, I do not see how you can
call this story mere gossip, and assert that her true history is
unknown,” said Mr. Deville.
“And yet I _do_ assert it. Every step is _not_ accounted for. There is a
long gap. It is said that about the time this young actress had reached
the rank of ‘walking lady’ at this theatre, that a part of the company
returned to England to play in the provinces, and that Nora Norl
accompanied them. While there, this beautiful young creature attracted
the attention of the celebrated Mrs. Bracegirdle, who, then at the
zenith of her fame, was making a tour of the northern counties. The
great actress, never dreaming of future rivalry, became the patroness of
the friendless young aspirant, gave her instructions and brought her
forward. From that auspicious time, the star of the young artist arose.
And she, who nine years ago left the shores of her native country as the
humble, obscure Nora Norl, returned as the great Melpomene.”
“A probable story. I do not see why it should be questioned.”
“Yet it _is_. Nine years changes the character of a community as well as
the appearance of a young female. And there are those who can trace no
resemblance between the thin, undeveloped girl of seventeen, and the
magnificent woman of twenty-six; and others who totally deny the
identity between the obscure Nora Norl and the illustrious Melpomene.”
“I must see this world’s wonder. She plays to-night?”
“Yes, and not again for a week. This queen of tragedy, like other
queens, is jealous of her royal presence, and no inducement can bring
her to appear more than once a week.”
“And—let us see—what is her _role_ to-night?”
“Roxalana, in the ‘Rival Queens.’ I have seen Mesdames Bracegirdle and
Oldfield in that part, but I have never seen this Melpomene, who is
said, in that particular impersonation of the outraged wife and queen,
to surpass, not only all others, but even her own self.”
“Then, shall we go together to test her merits this evening?”
“With pleasure, especially if the beauteous Lady Adelaide is to be of
the party,” said the gallant Colonel.
“Lady Adelaide never goes to the theatre,” replied Mr. Deville.
“Ah, conscientiously opposed to it?”
“Sincerely so—yes.”
“By the way, Melpomene has apartments in this very house.”
“Impossible!”
“True, however! though she might as well be in Kamtschatka for any thing
we see of her here.”
“Why, how is that?”
“She has not only her private _suite_ of apartments, but also a private
street-entrance to them, and private attendance. So that there is no
possibility of seeing her without intrusion; and—she receives no
visitors.”
“Except professionally—at the theatre.”
“Except at the theatre, whither we will go this evening.”
“Agreed.”
And thus the friends parted. Colonel Bingham to go to the table d’hote,
Mr. Deville to ascend to Lady Adelaide’s private parlor, where their
meals were served. Here he found no one except young Donald Lorne, who
sat within the window seat, reading.
“Ho, Donald, my boy, always at your studies. Come, what say you to an
evening at the theatre?” said Mr. Deville, with an affectation of gayety
that was far from his heart.
The youth arose, and with a respectful bow to his guardian, answered
gravely:
“Lady Adelaide disapproves of the theatre, sir, and I would not like to
displease her.”
“Tut, boy! women are making a perfect Miss Molly of you!”
Instead of replying, the youth drew himself up with that air of
self-respect, not to say haughtiness, that sometimes procured for him
the name of “the young Don.”
Deville laughed. And before another word could be said, the door flew
open and a lightsome figure of a dark-eyed girl danced into the room.
Scarcely could any human creature be more beautiful than Perdita was,
now, in the twelfth year of her age. She was tall for her age, and with
a form of perfect symmetry and a head of classic elegance, covered with
luxuriant hair that fell in many long, rich, jet black ringlets down
each side her crimson cheeks, and upon her ivory bosom and shoulders.
Her large, black eyes, dark as night, and brilliant as stars, could melt
or blaze, as love or anger inspired them. They were vailed by long,
black lashes, and over-arched by slender black brows. Full crimson lips,
a thought too plump, gave the finishing character to a style of beauty
at once too fierce, voluptuous and impassioned to promise much of good
or happiness to the possessor. Well might the Lady Adelaide fear and
pray and study for this child!
She came now dancing into the room and humming a gay tune, that was
instantly arrested on her lips as she saw Mr. Deville, and exclaimed—
“Papa! you here? I thought you were in the reading room.”
“Well, my dear, and that in an instant the song should be arrested on
your lips? Am I a kill-joy?”
“Oh, no, sir!”
“Then doubtless it was the presence of this sanctimonious young
gentleman that sobered you!” said Mr. Deville, pointing to Donald.
“Who, _Donald_! why he is my constant provocative to laughter! No, sir!
neither your nor your ward have that honor! My song was finished!”
exclaimed Perdita, with a merry glance from one to the other.
“Well, my dear! I have a treat in store for you! You never saw a play I
believe?”
“Oh, no, papa! and I do so _long_ to see one!—Donald, don’t you turn and
look at me with your great solemn dark eyes! I tell you I _do_ want to
see a play! Yes, papa! I _do_.”
“Then you shall be gratified, my dear! You shall go with me this evening
to see Melpomene!”
“Oh, papa! Oh, papa! that will be delightful!” exclaimed Perdita,
clapping her hands in ecstasy. Then, with one of her sudden transitions
from gayety to gloom, she murmured—“But _mamma_.”
“Lady Adelaide will not object, when she finds my wishes co-incide with
yours.”
“Oh! my dear, handsome papa! persuade mamma to consent! You can persuade
her to any thing!” exclaimed the young girl, springing to his bosom,
throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him.
“Little flatterer! well, we will try our powers in your favor,” said Mr.
Deville, returning with interest the caresses of the beautiful girl.
At this moment the Lady Adelaide softly entered the parlor. Gentle and
sweet, loving and lovely as an angel looked Lady Adelaide at
twenty-five. She wore a pale-blue cashmere morning-dress, open over a
white swiss muslin skirt. Her pale gold hair fell in shining ringlets
down each side her delicate, roseate cheeks, and was twisted up behind
under a little lace cap of cobweb texture. She came floating into the
room as softly as a cloud through the summer sky, as sweetly as a strain
of sacred music. Her presence diffused over the scene a holy spell.
Truly, sorrow had sanctified this pure spirit.
Donald arose and drew forward her easy chair. With a smile she thanked
him and seated herself.
“Lady Adelaide, I wish to take this young lady to see Melpomene
to-night. You will oblige me by seeing that she is properly dressed.”
Lady Adelaide raised her mild, beseeching blue eyes, and fixed them on
his face. That was her only appeal! Not for worlds would she have put
her objection in words before the young people, to depreciate _his_
judgment in their opinion. But he chose to disregard the silent
supplication of those imploring eyes, and continued—
“The doors open at half-past seven; the performance commences at eight.
I should be pleased if you would have Perdita ready by a quarter to
eight.”
Slowly and gravely Lady Adelaide bowed. Then turning to her adopted
child, she said—
“Perdita, love, it is time to take your daily ride. Go and get ready.
Donald will order the horses and escort you.”
Both the young people left the room at her bidding. And, when they were
gone, she turned a deprecating gaze at her husband’s face, and said—
“Mr. Deville, please grant me a favor.”
“I anticipate your request. You wish me to yield my purpose of taking
Perdita to see Melpomene this evening.”
“Yes, I do, Mr. Deville.”
“And why, pray?”
“Mr. Deville, the theatre, injurious to all young persons, is especially
so for Perdita. She is already too ardent, too impassioned, too
excitable! Her heart, and fancy, and imagination are too impressible,
too impetuous, too enthusiastic! They need repressing, not stimulating!
Oh, Mr. Deville, if you love the girl, do not take her to the
theatre,—especially to see this woman who has turned the heads of half
mankind!”
“Lady Adelaide, you are a—an angel! and, being an angel, you are too
much exalted for this sublunary sphere! But, nevertheless, my sweet
Adelaide, you will be pleased to adorn Perdita for the occasion!”
The lady said no more. The habit of obedience was strong upon her, and
she bowed her head in silent acquiescence. It was not the first or the
last time that a good, wise woman has been forced from her better
judgment by a foolish, bad and tyrannical man.
Indeed, before there was much opportunity for further discussion, the
young people came into the room equipped for their ride, to say good-by,
for an hour or two.
They looked so bright, and handsome and happy, that Lady Adelaide could
but smile upon them even while praying secretly for their preservation
from the evils of the world.
They took their leave, hurried down-stairs, and two minutes afterwards
Lady Adelaide, from her front windows, saw them ride gaily forth in the
direction of the Battery.
“They would make a handsome pair,” was the secret thought of the lady,
as she retired from the window.
They returned, as they had promised, in good time to rest and dress
before dinner. And the afternoon was spent in thinking and talking and
preparing for the evening’s amusement.