Smith, looking at himself in the glass with a thorough consciousness that that vision would by no means rank as a common event in their lives. As soon as he had breakfasted—that is about noon the next day—Hugo Rossini Smith applied for admittance at 4, Hampton Place.
“Sir John sees no one,” replied the servant, “but I believe my lady is at home,” with a stress on the believe called forth, not by doubts as to his mistress's presence, but as to the respectability of the very dirty and extraordinary-looking visitor.
However, he was shown into Lady Beauchamp's drawing-room, where he prepared for her reception. He threw himself in a lounging attitude on the sofa, pulled his neck-tie into a knot still more négligé, fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and drew his fingers through his lanky locks, till the wildness of his appearance was beyond measure ludicrous. Some minutes passed, and Smith grew tired of posing, and curiosity strongly prompted him to look round the room. The furniture was costly, but it was not refined; the walls were covered with a few good oil-paintings interspersed with very poor lithographic representations of the Rev. Josiah Pitchitin; the Rev. Josiah Pitchitin's chapel at Kennington; the Rev. Samuel Wheedler, evening lecturer at the Old Road Tabernacle, and other worthies of various features, save in one respect, that they had all heavy fleshy mouths and chins, and very much the tournure of shoemakers in their Sunday clothes, who would appreciate a good dinner with more than even the ordinary gusto of mankind. He looked at the books on the table, all beautifully gilt and bound—presentation copy of the “Saint's Feast;” the “Aroma of Piety,” presented with the utmost respect to Lady Beauchamp by Josiah Pitchitin; “Illustrated Hymns used at Salem Chapel.” Smith felt dreadfully out of his element, and turned despairingly to the card-basket; but just as he had taken up the first visiting-card, he became miserably conscious of the presence of a tall, frigid, grandly-dressed lady, who stood just within the door watching him with stony glance. O most provoking chance! he had looked, he knew he had, so distingué in his reverie on the sofa; and, after all, to be detected prying with mundane curiosity into the card-basket. He recovered himself as he could.
“Have I the honour of addressing Lady Beauchamp?”—a very slight inclination of the head—“and can her ladyship spare a quarter of an hour to an artist who has for once travelled out of his sphere to restore a brilliant star to hers?”
The lady seated herself, motioned him to a chair, and placing her jewelled watch on the table, “I have, sir,” she said, “exactly ten minutes to give you; state your case as concisely as you can.”
“My dearest lady! it is not my case, but that of one much nearer to you.”
A slight anxious flush rose to the lady's cheek, but she waited patiently for the end.
“You may have heard of me, madam; 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; yet thus weakened, she is the sole support of her children, for her husband has forsaken her. I must not omit to state, that I am taking this step entirely without her knowledge.”
“And why apply to me in favour of this abandoned woman?”
“Abandoned! Good heavens, banish such an idea, she is an angel! a divine creature! pure, lovely! But why I appeal to you, or rather to your husband is, because this unfortunate and most-gifted lady is, I have just ascertained, the daughter of Sir John Beauchamp!”
The lady's face whitened, and her teeth clenched; it was a deadly look of hatred that distorted those features, which she strove evidently to conceal.
“Sir!” she hissed out at length, through her closed teeth, “go back to that vile woman, and tell her to pursue her infamous course as she has hitherto done—silently.”
“For heaven's sake, madam consider, this virtuous lady is deeply afflicted—she—.”
“Then, sir,” interrupted Lady Beauchamp, “tell her to regard her visitation as the justice of Heaven, and may the punishment work repentance in her. 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. I have now listened to you for more than ten minutes; allow me to bid you good morning.”
Several times during the interview, Smith had noticed a slight movement of the door behind the chair of Lady Beauchamp, and as he mentioned the name of the successful singer, he had distinctly seen the outline of an old man's head start forward, and as quickly retire. He had from that time raised his voice under the impression that it might be Sir John. As he slowly left the room at the command of the imperious lady, he glanced about in hopes of seeing the supposed father, but nought was visible, save a black sheep stealing softly up the stair-case, whom he rightly guessed to be the Rev. Josiah Pitchitin. Even when the smart footman had closed the door on him, he lingered on the steps, hoping he would be followed and recalled by the old shadow, who must have heard his conversation with his wife. Yet no—he might be deaf—he might be imbecile—he might be as merciless as his partner. He was obliged to acknowledge to the eagerly-expectant Crowe, the entire failure of his mission. He did not communicate his doubts to Crowe, but in his own mind he attributed much of his ill-success to his own impatience in having prematurely abandoned his poetic attitude on the sofa, which could not but impress ever so hardened a woman.
However, he did not long brood over his misadventure, but sought and found consolation by