CHAPTER XXXVII. — THE “PROMETHEUS.”
It took some time for Langhetti to make his preparations in London. September came before he had completed them. To his surprise these arrangements were much easier than he had supposed. People came to him of their own accord before he thought it possible that they could have heard of his project. What most surprised him was a call from the manager of Covent Garden Theatre, who offered to put it into his hands for a price so low as to surprise Langhetti more than any thing else that had occurred. Of course he accepted the offer gratefully and eagerly. The manager said that the building was on his hands, and he did not wish to use it for the present, for which reason he would be glad to turn it over to him. He remarked also that there was very much stock in the theatre that could be made use of, for which he would charge nothing whatever. Langhetti went to see it, and found a large number of magnificently painted scenes, which could be used in his piece. On asking the manager how scenes of this sort came to be there, he learned that some one had been representing the “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” or something of that sort.
Langhetti’s means were very limited, and as he had risked every thing on this experiment he was rejoiced to find events so very greatly in his favor.
Another circumstance which was equally in his favor, if not more so, was the kind consideration of the London papers. They announced his forthcoming work over and over again. Some of their writers came to see him so as to get the particulars, and what little he told them they described in the most attractive and effective manner.
A large number of people presented themselves to form his company, and he also received applications by letter from many whose eminence and fortunes placed them above the need of any such thing. It was simply incomprehensible to Langhetti, who thoroughly understood the ways of the musical world; yet since they offered he was only too happy to accept. On having interviews with these persons he was amazed to find that they were one and all totally indifferent about terms; they all assured him that they were ready to take any part whatever, and merely wished to assist in the representation of a piece so new and so original as his was said to be. They all named a price which was excessively low, and assured him that they did so only for form’s sake; positively refusing to accept any thing more, and leaving it to Langhetti either to take them on their own terms or to reject them. He, of course, could not reject aid so powerful and so unexpected.
At length, he had his rehearsal. After various trials he invited representatives of the London Press to be present at the last. They all came, and all without exception wrote the most glowing accounts for their respective journals.
“I don’t know how it is,” said he to Beatrice. “Every thing has come into my hands. I don’t understand it. It seems to me exactly as if there was some powerful, unseen hand assisting me; some one who secretly put every thing in my way, who paid these artists first and then sent them to me, and influenced all the journals in my favor. I should be sure of this if it were not a more incredible thing than the actual result itself. As it is I am simply perplexed and bewildered. It is a thing that is without parallel. I have a company such as no one has ever before gathered together on one stage. I have eminent prima donnas who are quite willing to sing second and third parts without caring what I pay them, or whether I pay them or not. I know the musical world. All I can say is that the thing is unexampled, and I can not comprehend it. I have tried to find out from some of them what it all means, but they give me no satisfaction. At any rate, my Bicina, you will make your debut under the most favorable circumstances. You saw how they admired your voice at the rehearsal. The world shall admire it still more at your first performance.”
Langhetti was puzzled, and, as he said, bewildered, but he did not slacken a single effort to make his opera successful. His exertions were as unremitting as though he were still struggling against difficulties. After all that had been done for him he knew very well that he was sure of a good house, yet he worked as hard as though his audience was very uncertain.
At length the appointed evening came. Langhetti had certainly expected a good house from those happy accidents which had given him the co-operation of the entire musical world and of the press. Yet when he looked out and saw the house that waited for the rising of the curtain he was overwhelmed.
When he thus looked out it was long before the time. A great murmur had attracted his attention. He saw the house crammed in every part. All the boxes were filled. In the pit was a vast congregation of gentlemen and ladies, the very galleries were thronged.
The wonder that had all along filled him was now greater than ever. He well knew under what circumstances even an ordinarily good house is collected together. There must either be undoubted fame in the prima donna, or else the most wide-spread and comprehensive efforts on the part of a skillful impresario. His efforts had been great, but not such as to insure any thing like this. To account for the prodigious crowd which filled every part of the large edifice was simply impossible.
He did not attempt to account for it. He accepted the situation, and prepared for the performance.
What sort of an idea that audience may have had of the “Prometheus” of Langhetti need hardly be conjectured. They had heard of it as a novelty. They had heard that the company was the best ever collected at one time, and that the prima donna was a prodigy of genius. That was enough for them. They waited in a state of expectation which was so high-pitched that it would have proved disastrous in the extreme to any piece, or any singer who should have proved to be in the slightest degree inferior. Consummate excellence alone in every part could now save the piece from ruin. This Langhetti felt; but he was calm, for he had confidence in his work and in his company. Most of all, he had confidence in Beatrice.
At last the curtain rose.
The scene was such a one as had never before been represented. A blaze of dazzling light filled the stage, and before it stood seven forms, representing the seven archangels. They began one of the sublimest strains ever heard. Each of these singers had in some way won eminence. They had thrown themselves into this work. The music which had been given to them had produced an exalted effect upon their own hearts, and now they rendered forth that grand “Chorus of Angels” which those who heard the “Prometheus” have never forgotten. The words resembled, in some measure, the opening song in Goethe’s “Faust,” but the music was Langhetti’s.
The effect of this magnificent opening was wonderful. The audience sat spell-bound—hushed into stillness by those transcendent harmonies which seemed like the very song of the angels themselves; like that “new song” which is spoken of in Revelation. The grandeur of Handel’s stupendous chords was renewed, and every one present felt its power.
Then came the second scene. Prometheus lay suffering. The ocean nymphs were around him, sympathizing with his woes. The sufferer lay chained to a bleak rock in the summit of frosty Caucasus. Far and wide extended an expanse of ice. In the distance arose a vast world of snow-coveted peaks. In front was a mer de glace, which extended all along the stage.
Prometheus addressed all nature—“the divine ether, the swift-winged winds, Earth the All-mother, and the infinite laughter of the ocean waves.” The thoughts were those of Aeschylus, expressed by the music of Langhetti.
The ocean nymphs bewailed him in a song of mournful sweetness, whose indescribable pathos touched every heart. It was the intensity of sympathy—sympathy so profound that it became anguish, for the heart that felt it had identified itself with the heart of the sufferer.
Then followed an extraordinary strain. It was the Voice of Universal Nature, animate and inanimate, mourning over the agony of the God of Love. In that strain was heard the voice of man, the sighing of the winds, the moaning of the sea, the murmur of the trees, the wail of bird and beast, all blending in extraordinary unison, and all speaking of woe.
And now a third scene opened. It was Athene. Athene represented Wisdom or Human Understanding, by which the God of Vengeance is dethroned, and gives place to the eternal rule of the God of Love. To but few of those present could this idea of Langhetti’s be intelligible. The most of them merely regarded the fable and its music, without looking for any meaning beneath the surface.
To these, and to all, the appearance of Beatrice was like a new revelation. She came forward and stood in the costume which the Greek has given to Athene, but in her hand she held the olive—her emblem—instead of the spear. From beneath her helmet her dark locks flowed down and were wreathed in thick waves that clustered heavily about her head.
Here, as Athene, the pure classical contour of Beatrice’s features appeared in marvelous beauty—faultless in their perfect Grecian mould. Her large, dark eyes looked with a certain solemn meaning out upon the vast audience. Her whole face was refined and sublimed by the thought that was within her. In her artistic nature she had appropriated this character to herself so thoroughly, that, as she stood there, she felt herself to be in reality all that she represented. The spectators caught the same feeling from her. Yet so marvelous was her beauty, so astonishing was the perfection of her form and feature, so accurate was the living representation of the ideal goddess that the whole vast audience after one glance burst forth into pealing thunders of spontaneous and irresistible applause.
Beatrice had opened her mouth to begin, but as that thunder of admiration arose she fell back a pace. Was it the applause that had overawed her?
Her eyes were fixed on one spot at the extreme right of the pit. A face was there which enchained her. A face, pale, sad, mournful, with dark eyes fixed on hers in steadfast despair.
Beatrice faltered and fell back, but it was not at the roar of applause. It was that face—the one face among three thousand before her, the one, the only one that she saw. Ah, how in that moment all the past came rushing before her—the Indian Ocean, the Malay pirate, where that face first appeared, the Atlantic, the shipwreck, the long sail over the seas in the boat, the African isle!
She stood so long in silence that the spectators wondered.
Suddenly the face which had so transfixed her sank down. He was gone, or he had hid himself. Was it because he knew that he was the cause of her silence?
The face disappeared, and the spell was broken. Langhetti stood at the side-scenes, watching with deep agitation the silence of Beatrice. He was on the point of taking the desperate step of going forward when he saw that she had regained her composure.
She regained it, and moved a step forward with such calm serenity that no one could have suspected her of having lost it. She began to sing. In an opera words are nothing—music is all in all. It is sufficient if the words express, even in a feeble and general way, the ideas which breathe and burn in the music. Thus it was with the words in the opening song of Beatrice.
But the music! What language can describe it?
Upon this all the richest stores of Langhetti’s genius had been lavished. Into this all the soul of Beatrice was thrown with sublime self-forgetfulness. She ceased to be herself. Before the audience she was Athene.
Her voice, always marvelously rich and full, was now grander and more capacious than ever. It poured forth a full stream of matchless harmony that carried all the audience captive. Strong, soaring, penetrating, it rose easily to the highest notes, and flung them forth with a lavish, and at the same time far-reaching power that penetrated every heart, and thrilled all who heard it. Roused to the highest enthusiasm by the sight of that vast assemblage, Beatrice gave herself up to the intoxication of the hour. She threw herself into the spirit of the piece; she took deep into her heart the thought of Langhetti, and uttered it forth to the listeners with harmonies that were almost divine—such harmonies as they had never before heard.
There was the silence of death as she sang. Her voice stilled all other sounds. Each listener seemed almost afraid to breathe. Some looked at one another in amazement, but most of them sat motionless, with their heads stretched forward, unconscious of any thing except that one voice.
{Illustration: “THE APPEARANCE OF BEATRICE WAS LIKE A NEW REVELATION."}
At last it ceased. For a moment there was a pause. Then there arose a deep, low thunder of applause that deepened and intensified itself every moment till at last it rose on high in one sublime outburst, a frenzy of acclamation, such as is heard not seldom, but, once heard, is never forgotten.
Beatrice was called out. She came, and retired. Again and again she was called. Flowers were showered down in heaps at her feet. The acclamations went on, and only ceased through the consciousness that more was yet to come. The piece went on. It was one long triumph. At last it ended. Beatrice had been loaded with honors. Langhetti was called out and welcomed with almost equal enthusiasm. His eyes filled with tears of joy as he received this well-merited tribute to his genius. He and Beatrice stood on the stage at the same time. Flowers were flung at him. He took them and laid them at the feet of Beatrice.
At this a louder roar of acclamation arose. It increased and deepened, and the two who stood there felt overwhelmed by the tremendous applause.
So ended the first representation of the “Prometheus!”
CHAPTER XXXVIII. — THE SECRET.
The triumph of Beatrice continued. The daily papers were filled with accounts of the new singer. She had come suddenly before them, and had at one bound reached the highest eminence. She had eclipsed all the popular favorites. Her sublime strains, her glorious enthusiasm, her marvelous voice, her perfect beauty, all kindled the popular heart. The people forgave her for not having an Italian name, since she had one which was so aristocratic. Her whole appearance showed that she was something very different from the common order of artistes, as different, in fact, as the “Prometheus” was from the common order of operas. For here in the “Prometheus” there were no endless iterations of the one theme of love, no perpetual repetitions of the same rhyme of amore and cuore, or amor’’ and cuor’’; but rather the effort of the soul after sublimer mysteries. The “Prometheus” sought to solve the problem of life and of human suffering. Its divine sentiments brought hope and consolation. The great singer rose to the altitude of a sibyl; she uttered inspirations; she herself was inspired.
As she stood with her grand Grecian beauty, her pure classic features, she looked as beautiful as a statue, and as ideal and passionless. In one sense she could never be a popular favorite. She had no archness or coquetry like some, no voluptuousness like others, no arts to win applause like others. Still she stood up and sang as one who believed that this was the highest mission of humanity, to utter divine truth to human ears. She sang loftily, thrillingly, as an angel might sing, and those who saw her revered her while they listened.
And thus it was that the fame of this new singer went quickly through England, and foreign journals spoke of it half-wonderingly, half-cynically, as usual; for Continentals never have any faith in English art, or in the power which any Englishman may have to interpret art. The leading French journals conjectured that the “Prometheus” was of a religious character, and therefore Puritanical; and consequently for that reason was popular. They amused themselves with the idea of a Puritanical opera, declared that the English wished to Protestantize music, and suggested “Calvin” or “The Sabbath” as good subjects for this new and entirely English class of operas.
But soon the correspondents of some of the Continental papers began to write glowing accounts of the piece, and to put Langhetti in the same class with Handel. He was an Italian, they said, but in this case he united Italian grace and versatility with German solemnity and melancholy. They declared that he was the greatest of living composers, and promised for him a great reputation.
Night after night the representation of the “Prometheus” went on with undiminished success; and with a larger and profounder appreciation of its meaning among the better class of minds. Langhetti began to show a stronger and fuller confidence in the success of his piece than he had yet dared to evince. Yet now its success seemed assured. What more could he wish?
September came on, and every succeeding night only made the success more marked. One day Langhetti was with Beatrice at the theatre, and they were talking of many things. There seemed to be something on his mind, for he spoke in an abstracted manner. Beatrice noticed this at last, and mentioned it.
He was at first very mysterious. “It must be that secret of yours which you will not tell me,” said she. “You said once before that it was connected with me, and that you would tell it to me when the time came. Has not the time come yet?”
“Not yet,” answered Langhetti.
“When will it come?”
“I don’t know.”
“And will you keep it secret always?”
“Perhaps not.”
“You speak undecidedly.”
“I am undecided.”
“Why not decide now to tell it?” pleaded Beatrice. “Why should I not know it? Surely I have gone through enough suffering to bear this, even if it bring something additional.”
Langhetti looked at her long and doubtfully.
“You hesitate,” said she.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It is of too much importance.”
“That is all the more reason why I should know it. Would it crush me if I knew it?”
“I don’t know. It might.”
“Then let me be crushed.”
Langhetti sighed.
“Is it something that you know for certain, or is it only conjecture?”
“Neither,” said he, “but half-way between the two.”
Beatrice looked earnestly at him for some time. Then she put her head nearer to his and spoke in a solemn whisper.
“It is about my mother!”
Langhetti looked at her with a startled expression.
“Is it not?”
He bowed his head.
“It is—it is. And if so, I implore—I conjure you to tell me. Look—I am calm. Think—I am strong. I am not one who can be cast down merely by bad news.”
“I may tell you soon.”
“Say you will.”
“I will,” said Langhetti, after a struggle.
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Why not to-morrow?”
“That is too soon; you are impatient.”
“Of course I am,” said Beatrice. “Ought I not to be so? Have you not said that this concerns me? and is not all my imagination aroused in the endeavor to form a conjecture as to what it may be?”
She spoke so earnestly that Langhetti was moved, and looked still more undecided.
“When will you tell me?”
“Soon, perhaps,” he replied, with some hesitation.
“Why not now?”
“Oh no, I must assure myself first about some things.”
“To-morrow, then.”
He hesitated.
“Yes,” said she; “it must be to-morrow. If you do not, I shall think that you have little or no confidence in me. I shall expect it to-morrow.”
Langhetti was silent.
“I shall expect it to-morrow,” repeated Beatrice.
Langhetti still continued silent.
“Oh, very well; silence gives consent!” said she, in a lively tone.
“I have not consented.”
“Yes you have, by your silence.”
“I was deliberating.”
“I asked you twice, and you did not refuse; surely that means consent.”
“I do not say so,” said Langhetti, earnestly.
“But you will do so.”
“Do not be so certain.”
“Yes, I will be certain; and if you do not tell me you will very deeply disappoint me.”
“In telling you I could only give you sorrow.”
“Sorrow or joy, whatever it is, I can bear it so long as I know this. You will not suppose that I am actuated by simple feminine curiosity. You know me better. This secret is one which subjects me to the tortures of suspense, and I am anxious to have them removed.”
“The removal will be worse than the suspense.”
“That is impossible.”
“You would not say so if you knew what it was.”
“Tell me, then.”
“That is what I fear to do.”
“Do you fear for me, or for some other person?”
“Only for you.”
“Do not fear for me, then, I beseech you; for it is not only my desire, but my prayer, that I may know this.”
Langhetti seemed to be in deep perplexity. Whatever this secret was with which he was so troubled he seemed afraid to tell it to Beatrice, either from fear that it might not be any thing in itself or result in any thing, or, as seemed more probable, lest it might too greatly affect her. This last was the motive which appeared to influence him most strongly. In either case, the secret of which he spoke must have been one of a highly important character, affecting most deeply the life and fortunes of Beatrice herself. She had formed her own ideas and her own expectations about it, and this made her all the more urgent, and even peremptory, in her demand. In fact, things had come to such a point that Langhetti found himself no longer able to refuse, and now only sought how to postpone his divulgence of his secret.
Yet even this Beatrice combated, and would listen to no later postponement than the morrow.
At length, after long resistance to her demand, Langhetti assented, and promised on the morrow to tell her what it was that he had meant by his secret.
For, as she gathered from his conversation, it was something that he had first discovered in Hong Kong, and had never since forgotten, but had tried to make it certain. His efforts had thus far been useless, and he did not wish to tell her till he could bring proof. That proof, unfortunately, he was not able to find, and he could only tell his conjectures.
It was for these, then, that Beatrice waited in anxious expectation.
CHAPTER XXXIX. — THE CAB.
That evening Beatrice’s performance had been greeted with louder applause than usual, and, what was more gratifying to one like her, the effective passages had been listened to with a stillness which spoke more loudly than the loudest applause of the deep interest of the audience.
Langhetti had almost always driven home with her, but on this occasion he had excused himself on account of some business in the theatre which required his attention.
On going out Beatrice could not find the cabman whom she had employed. After looking around for him a long time she found that he had gone. She was surprised and vexed. At the same time she could not account for this, but thought that perhaps he had been drinking and had forgotten all about her. On making this discovery she was on the point of going back and telling Langhetti, but a cabman followed her persistently, promising to take her wherever she wished, and she thought that it would be foolish to trouble Langhetti about so small a matter; so that at length she decided to employ the persevering cabman, thinking that he could take her to her lodgings as well as any body else.
The cabman started off at a rapid pace, and went on through street after street, while Beatrice sat thinking of the evening’s performance.
At last it seemed to her that she had been a much longer time than usual, and she began to fear that the cabman had lost his way. She looked out. They were going along the upper part of Oxford Street, a great distance from where she lived. She instantly tried to draw down the window so as to attract the cabman’s attention, but could not move it. She tried the other, but all were fast and would not stir. She rapped at the glass to make him hear, but he took no notice. Then she tried to open the door, but could not do so from the inside.
She sat down and thought. What could be the meaning of this? They were now going at a much faster rate than is common in the streets of London, but where she was going she could not conjecture.
She was not afraid. Her chief feeling was one of indignation. Either the cabman was drunk—or what? Could he have been hired to carry her off to her enemies? Was she betrayed?
This thought flashed like lightning through her mind.
She was not one who would sink down into inaction at the sudden onset of terror. Her chief feeling now was one of indignation at the audacity of such an attempt. Obeying the first impulse that seized her, she took the solid roll of music which she carried with her and dashed it against the front window so violently that she broke it in pieces. Then she caught the driver by the sleeve and ordered him to stop.
“All right,” said the driver, and, turning a corner, he whipped up his horses, and they galloped on faster than ever.
“If you don’t stop I’ll call for help!” cried Beatrice.
The driver’s only answer was a fresh application of the whip.
The street up which they turned was narrow, and as it had only dwelling-houses it was not so brightly lighted as Oxford Street. There were but few foot-passengers on the sidewalk. As it was now about midnight, most of the lights were out, and the gas-lamps were the chief means of illumination.
Yet there was a chance that the police might save her. With this hope she dashed her music scroll against the windows on each side of the cab and shivered them to atoms, calling at the top of her voice for help. The swift rush of the cab and the sound of a woman’s voice shouting for aid aroused the police. They started forward. But the horses were rushing so swiftly that no one dared to touch them. The driver seemed to them to have lost control. They thought that the horses were running away, and that those within the cab were frightened.
Away they went through street after street, and Beatrice never ceased to call. The excitement which was created by the runaway horses did not abate, and at length when the driver stopped a policeman hurried up.
The house before which the cab stopped was a plain two-story one, in a quiet-looking street. A light shone from the front-parlor window. As the cab drew up the door opened and a man came out.
Beatrice saw the policeman.
“Help!” she cried; “I implore help. This wretch is carrying me away.”
“What’s this?” growled the policeman.
At this the man that had come out of the house hurried forward.
“Have you found her?” exclaimed a well-known voice. “Oh, my child! How could you leave your father’s roof!”
It was John Potts.
Beatrice was silent for a moment in utter amazement. Yet she made a violent effort against her despair.
“You have no control over me,” said she, bitterly. “I am of age. And you,” said she to the policeman, “I demand your help. I put myself under your protection, and order you either to take that man in charge or to let me go to my home.”
“Oh, my daughter!” cried Potts. “Will you still be relentless?”
“Help me!” cried Beatrice, and she opened the cab-door.
“The policeman can do nothing,” said Potts. “You are not of age. He will not dare to take you from me.”
“I implore you,” cried Beatrice, “save me from this man. Take me to the police-station—any where rather than leave me here!”
“You can not,” said Potts to the bewildered policeman. “Listen. She is my daughter and under age. She ran away with a strolling Italian vagabond, with whom she is leading an improper life. I have got her back.”
“It’s false!” cried Beatrice, vehemently. “I fled from this man’s house because I feared his violence.”
“That is an idle story,” said Potts.
“Save me!” cried Beatrice.
“I don’t know what to do—I suppose I’ve got to take you to the station, at any rate,” said the policeman, hesitatingly.
“Well,” said Potts to Beatrice, “if you do go to the station-house you’ll have to be handed back to me. You are under age.”
“It’s false!” cried Beatrice. “I am twenty.”
“No, you are not more than seventeen.”
“Langhetti can prove that I am twenty.”
“How? I have documents, and a father’s word will be believed before a paramour’s.”
This taunt stung Beatrice to the soul.
“As to your charge about my cruelty I can prove to the world that you lived in splendor in Brandon Hall. Every one of the servants can testify to this. Your morose disposition made you keep by yourself. You always treated your father with indifference, and finally ran away with a man who unfortunately had won your affections in Hong Kong.”
“You well know the reason why I left your roof,” replied Beatrice, with calm and severe dignity. “Your foul aspersions upon my character are unworthy of notice.”
“And what shall I say about your aspersions on my character?” cried Potts, in a loud, rude voice, hoping by a sort of vulgar self-assertion to brow-beat Beatrice. “Do you remember the names you called me and your threats against me? When all this is brought out in the police court, they will see what kind of a daughter you have been.”
“You will be the last one who will dare to let it be brought into a police court.”
“And why? Those absurd charges of yours are worthless. Have you any proof?” he continued, with a sneer, “or has your paramour any?”
“Take me away,” said Beatrice to the policeman.
“Wait!” exclaimed Potts; “you are going, and I will go to reclaim you. The law will give you back to me; for I will prove that you are under age, and I have never treated you with any thing except kindness. Now the law can do nothing since you are mine. But as you are so young and inexperienced I’ll tell you what will happen.
“The newspapers,” he continued, after a pause, “will be full of your story. They will print what I shall prove to be true—that you had an intractable disposition—that you had formed a guilty attachment for a drum-major at Hong Kong—that you ran away with him, lived for a while at Holby, and then went with your paramour to London. If you had only married him you would have been out of my power; but you don’t pretend to be married. You don’t call yourself Langhetti, but have taken another name, which the sharp newspaper reporters will hint was given you by some other one of your numerous favorites. They will declare that you love every man but your own father; and you—you who played the goddess on the stage and sang about Truth and Religion will be known all over England and all over Europe too as the vilest of the vile.”
{Illustration: “Oh, my daughter!” cried Potts, “will you still be relentless?"}
At this tremendous menace Beatrice’s resolution was shattered to pieces. That this would be so she well knew. To escape from Potts was to have herself made infamous publicly under the sanction of the law, and then, by that same law to be handed back to him. At least whether it was so or not, she thought so. There was no help—no friend.
“Go,” said Potts; “leave me now and you become covered with infamy. Who would believe your story?”
Beatrice was silent, her slender frame was rent by emotion.
“O God!” she groaned—but in her deep despair she could not find thoughts even for prayers.
“You may go, policeman,” said Potts; “my daughter will come with me.”
“Faith and I’m glad! It’s the best thing for her;” and the policeman, much relieved, returned to his beat.
“Some of you’ll have to pay for them winders,” said the cabman.
“All right,” answered Potts, quietly.
“There is your home for to-night, at any rate,” said Potts, pointing to the house. “I don’t think you have any chance left. You had better go in.”
His tone was one full of bitter taunt. Scarce conscious, with her brain reeling, and her limbs trembling, Beatrice entered the house.
CHAPTER XL. — DISCOVERIES.
The next morning after Beatrice’s last performance Langhetti determined to fulfill his promise and tell her that secret which she had been so anxious to know. On entering into his parlor he saw a letter lying on the table addressed to him. It bore no postage stamp, or post-office mark.
He opened it and read the following:
“London, September 5,1849.
“SIGNORE,—Cigole, the betrayer and intended assassin of your late father, is now in London. You can find out about him by inquiring of Giovanni Cavallo, 16 Red Lion Street. As a traitor to the Carbonari, you will know that it is your duty to punish him, even if your filial piety is not strong enough to avenge a father’s wrongs.
“CARBONARO.”
Langhetti read this several times. Then he called for his landlord.
“Who left this letter?” he asked.
“A young man.”
“Do you know his name?”
“No.”
“What did he look like?”
“He looked like a counting-house clerk more than any thing.”
“When was it left?”
“About six o’clock this morning.”
Langhetti read it over and over. The news that it contained filled his mind. It was not yet ten o’clock. He would not take any breakfast, but went out at once, jumped into a cab, and drove off to Red Lion Street.
Giovanni Cavallo’s office was in a low, dingy building, with a dark, narrow doorway. It was one of those numerous establishments conducted and supported by foreigners whose particular business it is not easy to conjecture. The building was full of offices, but this was on the ground-floor.
Langhetti entered, and found the interior as dingy as the exterior. There was a table in the middle of the room. Beyond this was a door which opened into a back-room.
Only one person was here—a small, bright-eyed man, with thick Vandyke beard and sinewy though small frame. Langhetti took off his hat and bowed.
“I wish to see Signore Cavallo,” said he, in Italian.
“I am Signore Cavallo,” answered the other, blandly.
Langhetti made a peculiar motion with his left arm. The keen eye of the other noticed it in an instant. He returned a gesture of a similar character. Langhetti and he then exchanged some more secret signs. At last Langhetti made one which caused the other to start, and to bow with deep respect.
“I did not know,” said he, in a low voice, “that any of the Interior Council ever came to London.... But come in here,” and he led the way into the inner room, the door of which he locked very mysteriously.
A long conference followed, the details of which would only be tedious. At the close Cavallo said, “There is some life in us yet, and what life we have left shall be spent in trapping that miscreant. Italy shall be avenged on one of her traitors, at any rate.”
“You will write as I told you, and let me know?”
“Most faithfully.”
Langhetti departed, satisfied with the result of this interview. What surprised him most was the letter. The writer must have been one who had been acquainted with his past life. He was amazed to find any one denouncing Cigole to him, but finally concluded that it must be some old Carbonaro, exiled through the afflictions which had befallen that famous society, and cherishing in his exile the bitter resentment which only exiles can feel.
Cavallo himself had known Cigole for years, but had no idea whatever of his early career. Cigole had no suspicion that Cavallo had any thing to do with the Carbonari. His firm were general agents, who did business of a miscellaneous character, now commission, now banking, and now shipping; and in various ways they had had dealings with this man, and kept up an irregular correspondence with him.
This letter had excited afresh within his ardent and impetuous nature all the remembrances of early wrongs. Gentle though he was, and pure in heart, and elevated in all his aspirations, he yet was in all respects a true child of the South, and his passionate nature was roused to a storm by this prospect of just retaliation. All the lofty doctrines with which he might console others were of no avail here in giving him calm. He had never voluntarily pursued Cigole; but now, since this villain had been presented to him, he could not turn aside from what he considered the holy duty of avenging a father’s wrongs.
He saw that for the present every thing would have to give way to this. He determined at once to suspend the representation of the “Prometheus,” even though it was at the height of its popularity and in the full tide of its success. He determined to send Beatrice under his sister’s care, and to devote himself now altogether to the pursuit of Cigole, even if he had to follow him to the world’s end. The search after him might not be long after all, for Cavallo felt sanguine of speedy success, and assured him that the traitor was in his power, and that the Carbonari in London were sufficiently numerous to seize him and send him to whatever punishment might be deemed most fitting.
With such plans and purposes Langhetti went to visit Beatrice, wondering how she would receive the intelligence of his new purpose.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon before he reached her lodgings. On going up he rapped. A servant came, and on seeing him looked frightened.
{Illustration: “WHAT LIFE WE HAVE LEFT SHALL BE SPENT IN TRAPPING THAT MISCREANT."}
“Is Miss Despard in?”
The servant said nothing, but ran off. Langhetti stood waiting in surprise; but in a short time the landlady came. She had a troubled look, and did not even return his salutation.
“Is Miss Despard in?”
“She is not here, Sir.”
“Not here!”
“No, Sir. I’m frightened. There was a man here early this morning, too.”
“A man here. What for?”
“Why, to ask after her.”
“And did he see her?”
“She wasn’t here.”
“Wasn’t here! What do you mean?”
“She didn’t come home at all last night. I waited up for her till four.”
“Didn’t come home!” cried Langhetti, as an awful fear came over him.
“No, Sir.”
“Do you mean to tell me that she didn’t come home at her usual hour?”
“No, Sir—not at all; and as I was saying, I sat up nearly all night.”
“Heavens!” cried Langhetti, in bewilderment. “What is the meaning of this? But take me to her room. Let me see with my own eyes.”
The landlady led the way up, and Langhetti followed anxiously. The room were empty. Every thing remained just as she had left it. Her music was lying loosely around. The landlady said that she had touched nothing.
Langhetti asked about the man who had called in the morning. The landlady could tell nothing about him, except that he was a gentleman with dark hair, and very stern eyes that terrified her. He seemed to be very angry or very terrible in some way about Beatrice.
Who could this be? thought Langhetti. The landlady did not know his name. Some one was certainly interesting herself very singularly about Cigole, and some one else, or else the same person, was very much interested about Beatrice. For a moment he thought it might be Despard. This, however, did not seem probable, as Despard would have written him if he were coming to town.
Deeply perplexed, and almost in despair, Langhetti left the house and drove home, thinking on the way what ought to be done. He thought he would wait till evening, and perhaps she would appear. He did thus wait, and in a fever of excitement and suspense, but on going to the lodging-house again there was nothing more known about her.
Leaving this he drove to the police-office. It seemed to him now that she must have been foully dealt with in some way. He could think of no one but Potts; yet how Potts could manage it was a mystery. That mystery he himself could not hope to unravel. The police might. With that confidence in the police which is common to all Continentals he went and made known his troubles. The officials at once promised to make inquiries, and told him to call on the following evening.
The next evening he went there. The policeman was present who had been at the place when Potts met Beatrice. He told the whole story—the horses running furiously, the screams from the cab, and the appeal of Beatrice for help, together with her final acquiescence in the will of her father.
Langhetti was overwhelmed. The officials evidently believed that Potts was an injured father, and showed some coldness to Langhetti.
“He is her father; what better could she do?” asked one.
“Any thing would be better,” said Langhetti, mournfully. “He is a villain so remorseless that she had to fly. Some friends received her. She went to get her own living since she is of age. Can nothing be done to rescue her?”
“Well, she might begin a lawsuit; if she really is of age he can not hold her. But she had much better stay with him.”
Such were the opinions of the officials. They courteously granted permission to Langhetti to take the policeman to the house.
On knocking an old woman came to the door. In answer to his inquiries she stated that a gentleman had been living there three weeks, but that on the arrival of his daughter he had gone home.
“When did he leave?”
“Yesterday morning.”