Helen Downes

“ You have had many griefs, Mrs. Neville; but they are drawing to a close; can you bear happiness as you have borne sorrow?”
“Alas! it was the happiness of success which made me so ill; but I think I can bear anything you may have in store for me;” and she smiled, expecting to hear of a new pupil, or something equally exciting.
Crowe hesitated as to his next step, when a new idea struck him.
“I want to take you to your happiness,” he said; “half an hour’s ride will bring you to a great joy.” ”

“ But he left behind him his hitherto faithful Crowe, who hung on Smith from the time that he found the musician pretty constant in his attentions to Mrs. Neville: for Smith could not utterly abandon the woman he had admired so warmly—that respect he had felt for her, as she repulsed his suit, by the sight of her sleeping children, continued still, for the virtues which had called it forth were not dimmed like the brightness of her intellect. ”

“ Letter-boxes and card-racks were filled to overflowing; a bouquet of exotics, fading for want of fresh water, exhaled its dying sweetness amidst rolls of music, printed or copied, a large receptacle for cigars and a smaller one for their ashes. Each article was costly, yet the ensemble was dirty and disorderly. Several musical instruments scattered about might have led to the belief that the owner was an artist, had not something in the man himself contradicted this first impression. ”

“ She was a dark elegant woman, not very young nor very pretty, and after a glance of curiosity the great composer subsided into a reverie, still puffing his cigar, and watching in profound abstraction the curling wreaths of smoke. The manager, not being a genius, could afford to be civil, so threw the remainder of his cigar into the fire, and placed a comfortable seat for the lady, as far as possible from the smoker. ”

“ Driven to the stage by poverty? Ill, her mind affected? Can my daughter have suffered so much, and I in ignorance of it?”
“Come and judge for yourself. I will take you to her this very hour, if you will. Your presence might cure her: who knows?”
“But is not her husband there?” asked the old man, slowly, as if each word cost him a pang of pain. “I cannot see him; I cannot, indeed—the brute!”
“You will not. I know nothing of him; but he is never there. He went to Australia years ago. They suppose he must be dead, I believe. But Mrs. Neville—come to her, so sweet a lady! ”

“ It was no longer an actress, a singer, it was the Maid herself; her dark eyes beaming with inspiration, her slight form glowing with courage, her whole person noble and exalted. From that moment all comments were hushed. The audience followed her, as in a trance, through all the scenes, listening only to her: when she knelt reverentially before the holy visions ”

“ Yes; Mr. Smith was a genius. “Our great English composer” was his ordinary cognomen. The great Englishman’s melodies reminded you of Auber; but his own playing of his own compositions had the effect of some prodigious steam mechanism (at least to the uninitiated) —buzz—whizz—up and down—ease her—back her—let her go—crescendo—accelerando to the very last chord, when it ended in a sudden explosion, with apparently no object at all for all that fuss. You draw a long breath at finding that you are not literally blown up ”

“ Mrs. Neville herself recovered gradually her former health, now the pressure of cares and anxiety was removed from her mind, but the remembrance of her one night on the stage influenced her whole life, as many an artist, worn out, or unfortunate, or destitute can testify. And the poor, neglected Crowe found at last a genial, happy home, where still his ears were indulged with the beautiful singing of the “prima donna” of the house.
As for Smith, the fickle public, after pampering him for years, came to the conclusion that the genius was a humbug! ”

“ Here we have it, Sir John Beauchamp, 4, Hampton Place. You know it leads into Eaton Square; call up your scattered wits and endeavour to obtain, quietly, some information regarding the habits of the family—if there is Lady B., children and so on; if they are musical, intellectual, fashionable, charitable, or what? If you can sound the key-note for me to-night, I will play the overture to-morrow.” The youth was departing forthwith. “Stay, Crowe, I declare you look quite radiant; what is it that fascinates you so entirely in poor Mrs. Neville, and thus rouses all your faculties?” ”

“ And he drew from his pocket a silver-mounted travelling-flask full of whiskey. “No; no supper, Smith, thank you; have not yet digested my dinner; just a biscuit and a taste of the cratur! That’s right, Crowe, hand the glasses. Bless me, Crowe, how fast you look. I declare you grow quite handsome. There, taste that, Smith.”
“Excellent and as soft as milk.”
It may have been very mild, but certainly the appearance of the gentlemen’s eyes would not have led you to imagine that milk was the beverage they had been quaffing. ”

“ The opera promised to be highly successful, the cognoscenti admitted to the rehearsals raved about Joan of Arc. It is true that the plan of the work reminded them of a well-known modern French drama, and that there was scarcely a movement of which they could not say, “I think I have heard that before,” but then if not original it was not ugly; there were some startling orchestral effects, the scenery and costumes were superb, and, above all, there was Maude Percy, the new English prima donna. ”

“ She had joined a religious sect, and confined herself to the society of a few of its ministers, because she hoped amongst them to escape detection, and yet to command a certain amount of worship and admiration which was necessary to her happiness, but she looked eagerly forward to a day when she should be set at liberty to fly with her ill-gotten, yet hardly-earned, gain to a climate and habits more congenial to her tastes. ”

“ I am Hugo Rossini Smith, the composer of Joan of Arc, an opera which will yet claim immortality, though at present cruelly obscured. You may have witnessed its brilliant début.”
The lady drew herself up with an air of mingled surprise and disdain, which said plainer than words could have done: I know nought of such wicked places.
Smith pursued his tale—“The heroine was represented by the most wonderful singer, a genius, a heaven-inspired creature, but for one night only; the excitement of that first performance was too much for her; it produced brain-fever, which has impaired her intellect ”

“ Rossi lifted up his body, Crowe gently took the legs, and they carried him back to his own house. There was clearly no other course to take. Through the hall they passed (for the door was open and the carriage still waiting) , followed by the astonished footman. They laid his master on the first sofa they met with, and ordered the servant to run quickly for the family surgeon. He disappeared, and Lady Beauchamp, who had merely returned for her purse, entered the room. ”

“ I must have something good to keep up the house, for there is old Barber to do the Dauphin—enough to empty it any night, except just of a few old fogies who remember him sixty years ago, and still swear by him. To engage a foreigner would be too flagrant after all my promises. ”

“ Smith felt much the same towards her, but in a less degree; he was too much taken up with himself to be capable of genuine enthusiasm.
The musician and his secretary did not meet again till the former returned from the musical soirée where he had been acting the lion greatly to his own satisfaction, as usual. Crowe followed him at once to his room:
“I have not learnt much, they are very shut-up people it seems; could hear nothing about Sir John, but there is a Lady Beauchamp much younger than the baronet, and no children. I can’t hear that they do anything but go to chapel, or see anybody.” ”

“ At length the great night arrived: the little pursy manager bustled to and fro behind the scenes in a very mingled condition of pleasure, anxiety, and excitement. The composer, got up for the occasion in the most romantic style, in vain endeavoured to conceal his agitation, and to keep up the poetical abstracted reverie in which he feigned to live, careless alike of the world's praise or censure.
“A capital house, Smith, capital house! boxes filling fast, and not standing room in the pit ”

“ I can hold no communication with a stage-player, and her poor father is in no condition to attend to business. I doubt not but that she is well provided with friends of her own stamp, or you, sir, would not now be here begging for her. ”