CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE SECRET.
The triumph of Beatrice continued. The daily papers were filled withaccounts of the new singer. She had come suddenly before them, and hadat one bound reached the highest eminence. She had eclipsed all thepopular favorites. Her sublime strains, her glorious enthusiasm, hermarvelous voice, her perfect beauty, all kindled the popular heart. Thepeople forgave her for not having an Italian name, since she had onewhich was so aristocratic. Her whole appearance showed that shewas something very different from the common order of artistes, asdifferent, in fact, as the "Prometheus" was from the common order ofoperas. For here in the "Prometheus" there were no endless iterationsof the one theme of love, no perpetual repetitions of the same rhyme of_amore_ and _cuore_, or _amor'_ and _cuor'_; but rather the effort ofthe soul after sublimer mysteries. The "Prometheus" sought to solve theproblem of life and of human suffering. Its divine sentiments broughthope 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. Inone sense she could never be a popular favorite. She had no archnessor coquetry like some, no voluptuousness like others, no arts to winapplause like others. Still she stood up and sang as one who believedthat this was the highest mission of humanity, to utter divine truth tohuman ears. She sang loftily, thrillingly, as an angel might sing, andthose who saw her revered her while they listened.
And thus it was that the fame of this new singer went quicklythrough England, and foreign journals spoke of it half-wonderingly,half-cynically, as usual; for Continentals never have any faith inEnglish art, or in the power which any Englishman may have to interpretart. The leading French journals conjectured that the "Prometheus" wasof a religious character, and therefore Puritanical; and consequentlyfor that reason was popular. They amused themselves with the idea ofa Puritanical opera, declared that the English wished to Protestantizemusic, and suggested "Calvin" or "The Sabbath" as good subjects for thisnew and entirely English class of operas.
But soon the correspondents of some of the Continental papers began towrite glowing accounts of the piece, and to put Langhetti in the sameclass with Handel. He was an Italian, they said, but in this casehe united Italian grace and versatility with German solemnity andmelancholy. 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 withundiminished success; and with a larger and profounder appreciation ofits meaning among the better class of minds. Langhetti began to show astronger and fuller confidence in the success of his piece than he hadyet dared to evince. Yet now its success seemed assured. What more couldhe wish?
September came on, and every succeeding night only made the success moremarked. One day Langhetti was with Beatrice at the theatre, and theywere talking of many things. There seemed to be something on his mind,for he spoke in an abstracted manner. Beatrice noticed this at last, andmentioned it.
He was at first very mysterious. "It must be that secret of yours whichyou will not tell me," said she. "You said once before that it wasconnected 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 notknow it? Surely I have gone through enough suffering to bear this, evenif 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 ifI 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 headnearer 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--Iam calm. Think--I am strong. I am not one who can be cast down merely bybad 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 notsaid that this concerns me? and is not all my imagination aroused in theendeavor to form a conjecture as to what it may be?"
She spoke so earnestly that Langhetti was moved, and looked still moreundecided.
"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 shallthink that you have little or no confidence in me. I shall expect itto-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 deeplydisappoint 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 torturesof 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 withwhich he was so troubled he seemed afraid to tell it to Beatrice, eitherfrom fear that it might not be any thing in itself or result in anything, or, as seemed more probable, lest it might too greatly affecther. This last was the motive which appeared to influence him moststrongly. In either case, the secret of which he spoke must have beenone of a highly important character, affecting most deeply the life andfortunes of Beatrice herself. She had formed her own ideas and her ownexpectations about it, and this made her all the more urgent, and evenperemptory, in her demand. In fact, things had come to such a point thatLanghetti found himself no longer able to refuse, and now only soughthow to postpone his divulgence of his secret.
Yet even this Beatrice combated, and would listen to no laterpostponement than the morrow.
At length, after long resistance to her demand, Langhetti assented, andpromised on th
e morrow to tell her what it was that he had meant by hissecret.
For, as she gathered from his conversation, it was something that he hadfirst discovered in Hong Kong, and had never since forgotten, but hadtried to make it certain. His efforts had thus far been useless, andhe 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 hisconjectures.
It was for these, then, that Beatrice waited in anxious expectation.