“Not very often,” returned Antonia, who had never been to the Opera.
“No? That is a pity. I am very fond of it. Do you prefer accapellago, or standard phrasing?”
“Oh, I do not like to choose one above the other!” returned Antonia, looking as if the idea appalled her. “They are both quite nice.”
“Yes,” said Freddy, grinning, “they are.”
Antonia saw his grin, and wishing to be upon more certain ground, ran on. “But tell me, cousin, I beg you—does not your aunt go out at all? When she was with us, she went everywhere! Hardly a day went by, when she did not make some new acquaintance, and accept some invitation or other! But for nearly a week, we have been as dull as possible. I suppose it is owing to the change which comes over one when traveling. It is so odd, that it should be so, but I have often observed it.”
“Yes,” returned Freddy, “it is certainly one of the perplexities of life. Aunt Winifred is—ah—she is a most perplexing woman! It is too bad that you have felt so confined, but now that I am aware of it, I shall endeavor to make up for her oversight. She is an old woman, you know—I suppose she does not understand that young ladies like yourselves might enjoy a bit more entertainment.”
Antonia looked properly grateful, and accepted this idea with equanimity. But before Freddy could propose any particular outing, she inquired, “I suppose we shall see your father and your brother fairly soon? I am in great hopes of meeting them!”
“My—my father and brother?” echoed Freddy, rather taken aback. What bad luck, to have got upon this subject!
“Yes, we have heard so much about them. Are they neither of them in town at present?”
“No!” exclaimed Freddy, rather relieved to find that he was telling at least half the truth. “No—er, that is, my father is not. I am not sure about St. John. But Papa never comes to town before the hunting is over. He is a great one for hunting.”
“So am I!” declared Antonia emphatically. “I dearly love to go riding, whatever the excuse. At home we have got several hunts, and they are all quite fine, but I should dearly love to see an English one!”
Freddy stared back at the young lady’s enthusiastic smile with a sinking feeling. I suppose, he thought, that she shall ask me now to get her an invitation to hunt with Papa. Well, it certainly should not suit anybody if I did!
“They are not done very well,” he remarked, as if admitting a great lack on his nation’s part. “I have often heard people say so, when compared with other countries. The Germans, for instance, are said to do it much better than we do.”
“The Germans? I never knew they hunted! But—are you sure, Mr. Howard? I have often heard that the English hunts are by far the best! In any case, I do not mind! I should love to see one!”
Freddy was spared the pain of replying, for just then a great clamor went up around them. Freddy, looking out to see what had happened, thought that he had better be wary of Miss Powell’s persistent, and sometimes devious, requests. But, if he dearly wished to stay far off the subject of his family, he was more than ever keen in his admiration for the young lady, who could fib so blithely, and appear so innocent all the while. It was plain she would not be an easy object of courtship—but then, Freddy had never placed easiness above ingenuity and energy in his estimations of ladies. It was clear Miss Antonia Powell was possessed of both qualities to a marked degree. Another cry went up, and Freddy peered through the darkness outside the carriage.
A cabriolet, endeavoring to gain a place in the knot of vehicles before the Opera House, had driven into a barouche and nearly overturned it. The yelling of coachmen and the sound of rending wood made all conversation impossible, and in a moment their own coachman had jumped down from his box and joined the fray. With a frown, Mr. Lytton-Smythe excused his man, saying, “He is incapable of observing any fight without joining in,” and then he, too, had climbed down to see what could be done.
It was some moments before order was restored, and in the process, all conversation ceased in the carriage, for the three remaining within were too much occupied with peering out the window and conjecturing upon the damage to the two other carriages, to speak of anything else. At last, however, the coachman was persuaded to regain his perch, Lytton-Smythe climbed up, and their carriage pressed forward to the entrance. Here the party was let down, and left to fight its way through the tangle of humanity gathered around the steps.
Elegant though everyone looked, the women draped in luxuriant cloaks of satin and fur, the gentlemen in silk top hats and evening capes, magnificent though the spectacle was in the brilliantly lighted entrance to the hall, with light cascading down the marble steps and crowds of people already gathered within the doorway, Antonia could not help but smile at the commotion, which was as much like a market as anything she ever witnessed. Angry cries arose from the most distinguished-looking lips, and such a setting-to and shoving in order to gain one place in the line, was resorted to by one and all, that she instantly lost any traces of anxiety she might still have cherished, of being equal to the cream of London’s haut monde. As they were pushed along and shoved into the crowd, she lost sight for a moment of Serena and Mr. Lytton-Smythe. Glancing about in distress, she sought out their figures, and at last glimpsed them, over the heads of the others: Serena, looking anything but terrified, was smiling into her companion’s eyes, and his, in turn, seemed in danger of drowning in her own. Smiling to herself, Antonia gave herself up to the enjoyment of the commotion, the crowd, and the brilliant spectacle around her.
After some little effort, the party found their way to the balcony upon which their box was situated. Having seen the others safely ensconced, with the ladies seated at the front, in plain view of the stage, and Freddy directly behind them, Mr. Lytton-Smythe went in search of some refreshment. Returning with a waiter bearing a tray and several glasses of champagne, he was in time to hear Antonia exclaim, “Why, Rena—did you see that gentleman, just passing on the right? I do believe it was the one you were conversing with on shipboard! What a dreadful, conceited man he was! I saw him just the other day, too, when we were at Madame Violet’s. He stopped directly in front of the window, and stared at me, if you please! As if I had been a creature in a cage.”
“Did he?” inquired Serena mildly, raising her opera glass to follow her friend’s gaze. “How odd!”
“Odd!” Freddy fairly bellowed. “By Jove, where is he? I should like to meet the fellow who could behave in such a manner!” And, seizing another opera glass, he stared about the pit, till, with a very white face, he suddenly lowered it.
Seeing his expression, Cuffs approached him, and inquired what was the matter.
“Here,” said Freddy, in a low voice, “have a look, Cuffs—it is Blandford, and with my brother, the knave!”
Hearing this, Cuffs raised the glass to his eye, and searching about, beheld the two gentlemen referred to in turn inspecting their own box.
“Look, Rena!” Antonia was crying, in a voice which betrayed her angry amazement. “Did you ever see such impertinence? Ogling us again, if you please!”
It was at this moment that Cuffs realized she was referring to the same man he held in his eyeglass, and with a quick motion, he laid a restraining hand upon Freddy’s shoulder, for the latter had evidently just realized the same thing.
“Hush, old man,” he murmured, low enough so that the ladies could not hear him, “there is nothing to be gained by a quarrel at the Opera. Better ignore him, and stay out of view.”
“Ignore him!” hissed Freddy, whose face had become distorted with fury, “I shall kill him!”
“Calm down, old chap,” insisted Cuffs, leaning harder upon his friend’s shoulder, “there is no point in drawing attention to yourself.”
Freddy seemed at length to submit, and, much relieved, Cuffs took his place beside him, directly behind Serena. He was very glad to see that neither of the ladies had overheard them, and that they seemed to suspect nothing. Their attention, fortunately, had
been distracted by some activity in another part of the House, toward which they had turned their glasses. In another moment the music started, and the curtain following shortly afterward, their attention was fastened upon the stage.
Madame Oscuri was not in her first prime. She had been singing for nearly twenty years, but so much a favorite was she in her own land that she was continually being put into the principal part of every new opera. Indeed, she was not much less admired in England, and the enthusiasm, as she made her first entrance and commenced the opening aria, was boisterous. Even had she been singing a nursery ditty, it is doubtful whether she would have received any less applause. The entire house stood up, as if one body, and cheered, as she went into the first of many encores. Caught up in the general excitement, neither the Misses Powell nor their escorts seemed aware of anything but the spectacle upon the stage, and if Freddy, from time to time, allowed his glass to shift to the box across the way, and two tiers down, it was not noticed by the others.
While at least half the audience was composed of music lovers, however, a not inconsiderable portion of the multitude had come, not to see the opera, but to inspect their fellow men. While cries of “Bis!” and “Encore!” roared out between every scene, a good many of the opera glasses in the theater were directed, not at the stage, but at the audience. This was made up of so many fashionable figures, both male and female, all turned out in their best finery, that the spectacle there was not much less than that within the proscenium. The view of the boxes, moreover, was aided by a lamp above each, which illuminated the first row of its occupants nearly as clearly as footlights. Even at the end of the Season, when every member of the ton would have had just cause for wishing to avoid another glimpse of his fellows, this view was much appreciated; but this being the very commencement of the winter, and most of the audience having been deprived for several months of the pleasure of examining their intimates at a distance, the illumination of the boxes was much enjoyed.
Neither Serena nor her cousin were aware that while they stared spellbound at the actors, a good many in the house were staring equally steadfastly at them. By the end of the first act, when they turned to each other with smiles and nods, and rose from their chairs, they would have been amazed to find that they had inspired as much conjecture, among that part of the audience devoted to gossip, as the new piece had inspired among the devotees of opera.
“What a marvelous thing this is!” exclaimed Antonia with great enthusiasm. “What a voice she has, and what exquisite timing! I heartily wish we had more opera at home; but then, I never have heard anything like this before!”
“It is wonderful, isn’t it?” agreed Serena, her eyes glowing. “She transforms mere notes of music into something absolutely magical! I never felt so gay as I did in the first scene!”
“Nor I, so low as I did by the last!” exclaimed Freddy humorously. “I thought she would wail forever, and I had much rather hear your opinions of her, than the original.”
“Is he always so comical?” inquired Serena of Mr. Lytton-Smythe, as he offered her his arm to walk out to the passage.
“Oh, Freddy? Yes, always; unless he is in love, and then he is twice as comical as usual.”
“Does he fall in love so often, then?”
“About twice a day!” replied his friend. “But no—that is not fair. Freddy is devilishly fond of the ladies, and they of him. He is one of those men who is never really happy, unless he is being made miserable by some woman or other. But that in itself is a kind of game, and I do not suppose he has yet met his match. Your cousin seems to be the sort of young lady who could feed him a sufficiently large dose of his own medicine to bring him back to reality. But she, perhaps, has already got some inamorato, or other?”
“Oh, no!” returned Serena, a little taken aback at the term “inamorato,” which implied to her mind such kinds of European adventures as were frowned upon at home. “She is only twenty. But Antonia is used to a great deal of admiration at home. Her papa is the most respected man in Philadelphia, and she, the most sought-after young lady. She has never ‘been in love,’ and I do not think has met her match, either! But I did think, when I saw Mr. Howard, that he was very nice. I like his eyes—he looks trustworthy!”
“Yes,” said Lytton-Smythe, “he is that. He is a dreadful flirt, but I suppose it does no one any real harm. And your cousin, is she fond of breaking hearts?”
Serena flushed. “Oh, no! She is always the object of men’s admiration, and she enjoys it—”
“As I think her cousin must, Miss Powell,” put in Cuffs, with an arched brow. “I suppose she can have nothing like the admiration accorded you.”
Serena flushed, and looked steadfastly at her hands, murmuring, “That is too kind of you, sir—but, indeed, it is not true!”
“I will not believe that, Miss Powell. It is true that your cousin possesses everything which some men require in a lady—beauty, high spirits, a certain mischievous charm—but I am an admirer of other qualities. Are not you going to ask me what they are?”
Serena, looking innocently up into her escort’s face, did so obediently, which made Cuffs burst out laughing.
“Why, for one thing, a perfectly ingenuous mind! And, for another,” he continued, “a true graciousness and dignity of spirit—something which, perhaps, would not be so admirable, were it not accompanied by so astonishing a degree of beauty. You beg to demur—but I shall not let you. Modesty is admirable, but not to a degree where it begs the listener to contradict too much. So much modesty must be called a different kind of vanity, and vanity I will not accord you.”
Serena, torn by this pretty speech, which was the more so as it came straight from the heart, and was spoken with an elegance of mind, as well as of tongue, did not know how to reply. She was engulfed in confusion, but not so much that she was insensible to the gentleman’s flattery. Had she not been struck, the instant she first saw his face and looked into his eyes, by the intensity of feeling evident there, she would have said nothing, but let him think what he liked of her. But something in her could not let him be deceived; not because she did not like the praise, which was effusive, nor because she did not feel the prick to her vanity, but because deceiving him, after only an hour or two of knowing him, was as bad, or worse, than deceiving herself would have been. She therefore tried to contradict him yet again, but he would not listen.
At last she said, in a soft voice, “You are flattering, sir. But even if I accept your flattery, false as it may be, and based upon the most flimsy knowledge of me, how am I to believe that you can think my spirit ‘true and gracious,’ when you have hardly conversed with me half an hour?”
“Because it proves my desire to be dissuaded, Miss Powell—by conversing with you an hundred more!”
Serena was as unaccustomed to hearing such speeches as Cuffs was to giving them, and they were both silent for awhile; one, from the effect of listening, and the other from hearing himself speak. For a moment they looked elsewhere, and avoided each other’s eyes, till Serena exclaimed, “There is that gentleman again!”
Mr. Lytton-Smythe followed her gaze without much attention, but suddenly his indifferent look sharpened, and he demanded, “Do you know him?”
“Only from speaking to him on the vessel!” Serena replied, startled by the sharpness of his tone. “He said something about the disadvantage of being anchored beneath London Bridge, and I agreed. He was rather haughty, but I expect—”
“Yes?” Cuffs demanded. “What did you expect?”
“Oh—nothing. I thought perhaps he disliked conversing with his fellow passengers. Why, do you know him?”
Her companion had turned abruptly away from the man in question, who was lingering outside one of the boxes, talking to a group of fashionable men and ladies. Beside him stood a heavy-set fellow, the same one, had Serena known, who had accompanied his friend that day outside Madame Violet’s.
“To my misfortune, I do,” was all Lytton-Smythe’s reply.
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br /> “You looked just then as if you hated him!”
“Not quite: but on account of Freddy, I ought. What I particularly dislike him for, is the keeping of such company.”
Serena, startled, looked at the group of people, still, evidently, hanging upon the gentleman’s words.
“I know so little about London,” she remarked, “that I cannot judge for myself. What sort of people is he speaking to?”
“They are all conceited, and vain, and idle, but I cannot accuse them of worse. His chief companion, however—as I suppose you must know—is your own relation, and Freddy’s brother, the Viscount Rollins.”
Now Serena looked with real interest at the group, and was forced to surmise, from the eager nods and pats which the heavy man was giving to the handsome one, that the former was the Viscount Rollins.
“Do you mean—the Viscount Rollins who is heir to the Earl of Cumberford?” inquired Serena. “How astonishing! He is so unlike his brother!”
“Do you mean you did not recognize him?” demanded Cuffs.
Serena shook her head. “I have seen none of my English relations, save Lady Pendleton and Mr. Howard. How very odd it is! But ought I not to speak to him?”
Cuffs gave her a deep look, and, seeming to consider for a while, said at length, “No—it is his place to speak to you.”
Serena flushed. “I had forgot about your Aristocracy, Mr. Lytton-Smythe! In America, the lady always speaks first to the gentleman. If she does not, he mayn’t speak to her! Oh, dear—I do feel at sea!”
“Never mind,” said Cuffs, and with a neat maneuver, he had guided her out of view of the group, past a crowd of others, and toward their own box. But Serena, in passing, had not been able to keep her eyes away, and had noticed with some astonishment that both the handsome gentleman she had spoken to upon the ship, and the Viscount Rollins, had watched her cross with obvious admiration in their eyes. It seemed to her that both gentlemen had opened their mouths, as if to speak to Mr. Lytton-Smythe, and that when they saw him pass without a word or glance at themselves, had shut their mouths angrily. How very odd it all was! Not to be able to speak to one’s own cousin, in his own country! But Serena, who always depended upon the judgment of others before her own, was certainly not going to defy Mr. Lytton-Smythe. She felt his arm beneath her hand, slender and muscular, like a boon: never had she felt better cared for!
Contrary Cousins Page 11
