Ellen Percy; or, The Memoirs of an Actress — page 39: what you’re looking at

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a i ee ~~ EE eee ee 26 ballet. ELLEN PERCY; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF AN ACTRESS, Mr. and Mrs. Norman had their eyes; ward as if contemplating his polished boot— riveted with the most justifiable admiration upon | though there was really no tinge of foppery in his —composition—he said, “It is not always those with their tall, handsome, exquisitely made daughter, as she was most rapturously poetising, so to speak, that art in which she excelled. She was, as usual, putting forth all her efforts, though without any visible strain, to that effect,—because Lord Frede- rick Ravenscliffe was in a stage-box, contemplating her with looks full of love and admiration. As I happened to glance around, I perceived Edwin St. Clair seated at the side of the stage, and appa- rently gazing with fixed looks on the dancers. I had not seen him enter—I knew not how long he had been there; and the moment my eyes fell upon him, I averted my countenance, for fear he should notice that I glanced towards him and should think that E was anything more than ut- terly indifferent as to his presence. That portion of the rehearsing ballet was speedily finished: there was a pause on the part of the dancers: Mr. and Mrs. Norman advanced towards their daughter to say something to her. I remained alone on the spot where they had left me, when a well-known voice came stealing as if were upon my ear in the soft richness of its harmony; and I gave an involuntary staré. “Your friend Miss Norman is a most accom- plished danseuse, Miss Percy,” said St. Clair, who, totally unpereeived by me, had passed round from his seat in such a way that he came upon me from bebind. . “ Yes, Captain St. Clair,’ I answered coldly; “my friend Miss Norman has achieved perfec- tion.” I was then about fo move away, when it in- stantaneously struck me that if I did so my con- duct would have the air of a studied resentment on account of his own behaviour towards me; and, my pride coming to my relief—or rather to my guidance—would not permit me to afford this indication that he had ever succeeded in anuoying me. “Yes, Miss Norman is an accomplished artiste,” continued St. Clair, lounging with an elegant air of fashionable indolence against a piece of scenery. “You, Miss Percy, are intended for the stage, I believe? When do you think of making your debut 2?” | “ Nothing is as yet positively settled on that point, Captain St, Clair,” I answered, with what I may flatter myself was a lady-like coldness and reserve. “T am sorry that you are so uncertain in that respect,’ he remarked. I gave no reply: and there was a silence of nearly a minute. FS, “Yes—I am sorry,” continued St. Clair—and methought that there was a slight tincture of vexa- tion in his tone, as if he had expected that his previous observation would lead to a question on my part, and that he was annoyed that it had not :— “yes, I am sorry, because my own engagements will compel me to leave London shortly for a few weeks ; and I had promised myself the pleasure of being present at your debut.” I was amazed at this speech: indeed it so took me by surprise that I had not sufficient control over myself to prevent the betrayal of that won- derment in my looks. St. Clair glanced at me for an instant; and then bending his eyes down- whom one laughs the loudest and to whom one assumes the gayest demeanour, that one feels the most interest in. Doubtless, Miss Perey, you have thought my conduct towards you exceed- ingly strange ?” He looked up suddenly in my face as he thus spoke; and as the effect of the first surprise had not worn off, it now received another impulse. It was astonishment succeeding astonishment. * Perhaps you have deemed my bebaviour more than extraordivary,” continued Edwin St. Clair: “you may have regarded it as rude, unwarrantable —even cruel and cowardly especially, Miss Percy,” he added in the softest-tones of his har- monious voice, “as I have been told that you are an orphan—that you have no other friends in the world than those whom your own goodness has made for you—that you are amiable, kind, and of an ex- cellent disposition.” St. Clair had the art of throwing the most melft- ing pathos into bis language when he chose; and he was doing it now. There was something so irres sistibly touching in the manner in which he had lowered his voice so that ita cadence might suit the words “ you are an orphan,” that my suddenly_ excited emotions swelled up imto my very throat and tears gushed from my eyes. “A thousand pardons, Miss Percy,” said St. Clair, with earnestness in his tone and his look,— “a thousand pardons,” he repeated, “ that I should have made you weep! I would no& have done it for worlds! For heaven’s sake dry these tears! Those who have already seen with what marked and studied ness I have treated you, will think that I am now bringing my cowardly conduct t crisis, and that I am heaping the last cro) sult upon you.” I did wipe away my tears; and I mi ment to leave the spot where this sing was taking plaee quite at the back of the stag in the shade of some scenery. But Capte Clair, without absolutely retaining me, just touched my arm gently with his gloved hand fvr an instant —and said, “Remain, Miss Percy. You have borne all my seeming cold cruelty towards you: you must now listen to the explanation and the cause.” J I felt as if under some spell-like influence, and I became riveted to the spot. There was a kind of fascinating power investing this man: the simplest assertion of his will, however delicately conveyed, appeared to be sufficient to ensure obedience on the part of all who came in contact with him. I longed to go—and yet I could not. “Porhop he felt his own power, and at that instant triumphed in it; for I caught that peculiar sinister expression flitting over his countenance. The next instant if was gone; and in the most harmonious tones of his penetrating voice, he proceeded to address me in the following manner :— “You must bear with me, Miss Percy, some- what—because I ama being different from the rest of the world. Iam to be judged by the rule of contraries. When I seem gayest, I am really saddest; and when I appear pensive, my imazgina- tion may in reality be revelling in the paradise which its own power conjures up. In the same Gomichbook ¢om —_