_Romeo_.--What lady's that, which doth enrich the hand
Of yonder Knight?
_Servant_.-- I know not, sir.
_Romeo_.--O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night,
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear:
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!
SHAKSPEARE.
So the winter passed on. Christmas might remind the orphans of a
custom which prevailed in the Cornwall of old times, and which may
possibly still survive in some localities, when the family of each
homestead bore a bowl of cider in jocund procession to their orchard,
and, selecting the most respectable apple-tree, splashed his trunk
with the bright liquor, and wished him good luck in the coming
season. "Would," exclaimed Cornelius Peach, with great unction, when
Helen told him the story, "would that I had been born in some strange,
half-barbarous land! These great towns kill all good customs. Even
what little carol-singing there is, is a mere trade."
Christmas passed, and the new year was destined to introduce Helen to
another order of singing. Thirty years ago the London season began
earlier than at present. January was not over, when a note from Mrs.
Winter invited the brother and sister to accompany her to the opera. A
vague excitement rose in Helen's breast, and sparkled in her eyes, as
she gave the note to Randolph. She felt that she should like to go,
but a certain shyness made her timid. She watched her brother's face
while he glanced over the invitation, and saw with some regret that he
did not partake her anticipations. But he said that it was very kind
of Mrs. Winter, and that of course they would go.
On the appointed evening the lawyer's carriage called for the orphans,
and they joined him and his wife. It was a gloomy ride. The night was
foggy and dark. The mist condensed on the windows, and permitted
nothing to be seen but the general glare of the lamps. This sort of
isolation, and the continuous rumble of the carriage, suited
Randolph's mood. He was haunted by forebodings of evil. He was angry
with himself for accepting the invitation. He felt an indefinite fear
of the crowd with which he was about to mingle. It was not as Morton
that he ought to appear in public. Yet should his selfish pride debar
Helen of the offered amusement? He leant back in his corner of the
carriage, abstracted and silent.
His sister on the other hand was gay and excited. She kept up a
lively conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Winter, and peered through the
window at what was to her an unknown world. So it was until the
carriage turned a corner, and entered a broader and better-lighted
thoroughfare than those it had traversed previously. Its speed abated:
it even stopped--were they there? No, it moves again: papers are
pressed against the glasses: another pause, and another advance: and
now Mr. Winter has lowered his window, the door is opened, the steps
let down, and before Helen has time to think, she finds herself
leaning upon his arm, and ascending a spacious staircase. She looks
round, and sees her brother and Mrs. Winter close behind.
A few minutes more, and she stood in the front of a box, and gazed on
a vast area, dimly lighted by a circle of small lustres immediately
beneath her, and an immense chandelier far above. They were very
early; but few boxes were occupied, the foot-lights were not raised,
and the orchestra was nearly empty. The dark green of the great
curtain seemed almost black in the gloom. Helen asked Mrs. Winter if
it were not very dark.
"Ah! wait a moment," said that lady.
And in fact, even as she spoke, a row of bright lamps rose in front of
the curtain, and a flood of splendour from the central chandelier
irradiated the whole house, displaying the occupants of the boxes, as
portraits set in frames of rich crimson. A rustle of conversation
murmured from the pit, but was soon lost in the confused sounds which
came from the orchestra, now rapidly filling. With a wild kind of
surprise Helen listened to those discordant tones, and noted how by
degrees they melted into harmony with the leader's long-drawn note. At
length there was silence; a gentleman with a small wand took his place
at a desk in front of the musicians, talking and laughing with those
near him; a little bell rang behind the curtain; and after three taps
of the wand, the orchestra whirled away into the overture to an opera
then new to a London audience, never to become antiquated.
The foot-lights sank, and the great green curtain rose. The stage was
nearly dark. A droll-looking personage came stealthily forward, bowing
in acknowledgment of the applause, or of the laughter, which greeted
his appearance. Helen laughed, without knowing why. She had a book,
but she was too much absorbed to consult it, and kept her eyes fixed
on the stage. The droll-looking man sang a whimsical complaint, and
retreated from approaching footsteps. There was a struggle between a
gentleman and a lady, interrupted by an old man in a night-cap. The
old man was killed. There was passionate lamentation over his body.
There were scenes, of which Helen scarcely knew whether they were
comic or serious. Then came a rural festival which raised her spirits;
the gentleman she had seen at first, now courted one of the country
girls; hand in hand they quitted the stage, amidst a hurricane of
applause. But Helen was unconscious of the enthusiasm around her, so
strongly was she impressed by the music. She had heard Ambrogetti and
Fodor sing _La ci darem_.
The duet was repeated with nearly the same effect. And for the
novices, for Randolph as well as Helen, this was the great stage
sensation of the night. Other portions of the opera, Zerlina's
touching remonstrance with her jealous lover, the prayer, the
whirlwind of passion in which the first act terminates, the
semi-grotesque marvels of the second with their wonderful music, all
excited more or less emotion; but none so fresh and absorbing as that
induced by the immortal duet between the peasant-girl and the
profligate.
And a particular circumstance distracted Randolph's attention during
the second act. In the interval which followed the first, Mrs. Winter
called her young friends' notice to the house, then very well filled,
instructed them in its technicalities, and pointed out a few notable
personages among the audience, whom she happened to know by sight.
While in this manner she was directing Randolph's eye along the tier
of boxes level with her own, his regard fell upon a young lady of so
remarkable an aspect, that after mechanically following Mrs. Winter's
instruction, he turned hastily to look once more at his fair
neighbour. Never in his life, he thought, had he seen so attractive an
object. She was evidently engaged in an animated conversation with
some one in the back of the box whom he could not see. Playfulness
sparkled in her otherwise soft eyes, archness curved her brows, and
Randolph almost imagined he could hear the silvery laugh which parted
her lips. He tried to obtain a glimpse of the happy person to whom she
was talking, but the attempt was vain. He could only discover that
with her there was an elderly lady, whose back was turned towards him.
It was not to her that the sallies of the young one were addressed.
Randolph began to construct a romance, still gazing on the interesting
box. Suddenly he caught his charmer's eye. It was but for a moment; he
could not see that the expression of her face varied in the most
trifling particular; yet he felt that he blushed like fire, and he
perceived that the elder lady leant forward, and looked towards him.
What, thought he, lowering his eyes for an instant, and pursuing his
romance, is she so quick in detecting a glance? It must be the mother.
The thought passed, and he looked up. He encountered the supposed
mother's gaze fixed full upon his face. Had he not seen those features
before? Ideas raced through his mind with a dream-like rapidity. Some
theorists say that the visions of a night are contained in the moment
of falling asleep. Surely equally swift was the flight of that lady's
thoughts; or why, after a look of a single second, did her countenance
assume that expression of scorn or defiance? An expression quite apart
from any which might have rebuked the intrusive stare of a stranger;
which even attracted the notice of her companion, who glanced again at
Randolph, and then at his sister.
From that time, Randolph's attention was almost entirely engrossed by
his fascinating neighbour. He missed the statue's nod, and lost his
share of the laugh at Naldi's comic terror. His sister observed the
cause of his abstraction, and looked in the same direction, at a
moment when the elder lady happened to turn towards her.
"Surely," Helen exclaimed, "I have seen that face before! Yet how can
it be?"
Randolph knew right well, but he was silent.
"Do you know those ladies, Mrs. Winter?" Helen asked.
"No, Miss Morton. It is really a beautiful girl."
"Beautiful!" Randolph thought; "beautiful! Ay, she is more than
beautiful."
And the presentiment he had felt before came gloomily back upon his
heart.
But the fair stranger was not the only damsel who attracted admiration
in the opera-house that night.
"Who is that, Melcomb?" asked a portly, good-humoured personage,
leaning on the rail of the orchestra, and looking towards Mrs.
Winter's box. "A new face, is it not?"
"The girl with the bird of paradise in her hair?" answered Melcomb.
"Fie! Winesour. Have you forgotten Cressy?--Though, to be sure, the
gentle Cressida may have a new face to-night, or any night."
"Pooh! you know who I mean," Winesour persisted; "in the tier below."
"The pallid thing in black?" said Melcomb. "It's in a state of
willowhood. You see through a glass of Chambertin."
"May I never drink another," cried Winesour, with a quaint twinkle of
his small grey eye, "if she ever saw an opera before. Think you I have
no eyes? _Vorrei e non vorrei_. She followed Fodor's notes with her
lips apart, and tears in her eyes. She cried, Melcomb."
"Winesour turned enthusiastic for a pale-cheeked girl!" said Melcomb.
"What next? But I love not rhapsody, so--adieu!"
But while he chose to speak of Helen's appearance in these disparaging
terms, Melcomb had really observed her with admiration, and determined
to ascertain who she might be. He was one of those handsome, careless,
profligate fellows, who are too well regarded by the men, and too
easily pardoned by the women. One murder, it has been rather absurdly
said, makes a villain; ten thousand, a hero. But it may with some
truth be remarked, that the number of hearts a Melcomb breaks rather
adds to his fame than diminishes his reputation. He rises upon ruin.
Melcomb, however, was at last positively thinking of marriage, and had
become the slave professed of Mildred Pendarrel. But he sped not in
his wooing as he conceived he had a right to expect. Now, it is an
annoying thing for one accustomed to carry the citadel by storm, to
be obliged to sit down and proceed according to the slow routine of a
siege; and still more disagreeable to be unable to make any impression
on the enemy's works. This was Melcomb's present position. He was
favoured by the mother, he was foiled by the daughter. It was a case
quite out of his experience. Mildred rode with him, danced with him,
flirted with him; but she never let him utter more than one serious
word. The instant he assumed an air of gravity, she prevented his
speech with a jest. His courtship was a perpetual laugh. It grew quite
fatiguing. Love was pleasant enough, except to make. Melcomb sometimes
thought of retiring from the field. He was not stimulated by
difficulty, and he was afraid of rejection. Melcomb refused! What a
disgrace! Yet he felt morally certain that this would be his fate, if
he now ventured to drive Mildred to Yes or No. At the same time, he
was unwilling to withdraw. The match would be decidedly advantageous
to him, and the lady correctly ornamental. So he bore with her frolic
humour as best he might. When accosted by Winesour in the pit, he had
sought refuge there from Mildred's sallies; and had been struck by the
strange beauty, whose earnest interest in the music seemed, indeed, to
distinguish a novice, and excited a languid curiosity in the used-up
coxcomb. He now returned to Mrs. Pendarrel's box, to obtain a nearer
view of the fair unknown, and not without some notion of provoking
Mildred's jealousy. But her mother anticipated him.
"Can you tell me," she asked, "who those ladies are, Mr. Melcomb? You
know everybody."
"My knowledge is at fault," he answered. "Shall I inquire?"
"I should like to know," Mrs. Pendarrel continued; "but they are
going, and so shall I."
Mrs. Winter's party, unconscious of the interest they excited, were
waiting, clustered together, for the announcement of their carriage,
when Mrs. Pendarrel's was declared to stop the way. At the sound of
the name, Randolph and Helen involuntarily turned, and found
themselves face to face with the lady who had before attracted their
observation. She swept haughtily past them, without seeming to be
aware of their surprise, and was followed by Mildred, leaning on the
arm of Melcomb.
"It was the miniature," Helen whispered to her brother, who had become
suddenly pale.
In a few moments Melcomb returned to the crush room, and observed the
strangers with a well-bred stare. Randolph frowned, and the coxcomb
smiled. Mrs. Winter's carriage was called. Melcomb noted the name, and
learnt the destination. For the present it was enough. The beau had
become too idle and indifferent to be very mischievous. He accepted a
sensation if it fell in his path, but he would not go out of his way
to seek one. "Hampstead's a great distance," he muttered, and drove to
the Argyll Rooms.