The triumph of Beatrice continued. The daily papers were filled with accounts of the new singer. She had come suddenly before them, and had at one bound reached the highest eminence. She had eclipsed all the popular favorites. Her sublime strains, her glorious enthusiasm, her marvelous voice, her perfect beauty, all kindled the popular heart. The people forgave her for not having an Italian name, since she had one which was so aristocratic. Her whole appearance showed that she was something very different from the common order of artistes, as different, in fact, as the “Prometheus” was from the common order of operas. For here in the “Prometheus” there were no endless iterations of the one theme of love, no perpetual repetitions of the same rhyme of amore and cuore, or amor’’ and cuor’’; but rather the effort of the soul after sublimer mysteries. The “Prometheus” sought to solve the problem of life and of human suffering. Its divine sentiments brought hope 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. In one sense she could never be a popular favorite. She had no archness or coquetry like some, no voluptuousness like others, no arts to win applause like others. Still she stood up and sang as one who believed that this was the highest mission of humanity, to utter divine truth to human ears. She sang loftily, thrillingly, as an angel might sing, and those who saw her revered her while they listened.

And thus it was that the fame of this new singer went quickly through England, and foreign journals spoke of it half-wonderingly, half-cynically, as usual; for Continentals never have any faith in English art, or in the power which any Englishman may have to interpret art. The leading French journals conjectured that the “Prometheus” was of a religious character, and therefore Puritanical; and consequently for that reason was popular. They amused themselves with the idea of a Puritanical opera, declared that the English wished to Protestantize music, and suggested “Calvin” or “The Sabbath” as good subjects for this new and entirely English class of operas.

But soon the correspondents of some of the Continental papers began to write glowing accounts of the piece, and to put Langhetti in the same class with Handel. He was an Italian, they said, but in this case he united Italian grace and versatility with German solemnity and melancholy. 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 with undiminished success; and with a larger and profounder appreciation of its meaning among the better class of minds. Langhetti began to show a stronger and fuller confidence in the success of his piece than he had yet dared to evince. Yet now its success seemed assured. What more could he wish?

September came on, and every succeeding night only made the success more marked. One day Langhetti was with Beatrice at the theatre, and they were talking of many things. There seemed to be something on his mind, for he spoke in an abstracted manner. Beatrice noticed this at last, and mentioned it.

He was at first very mysterious. “It must be that secret of yours which you will not tell me,” said she. “You said once before that it was connected 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 not know it? Surely I have gone through enough suffering to bear this, even if 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 if I 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 head nearer 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—I am calm. Think—I am strong. I am not one who can be cast down merely by bad 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 not said that this concerns me? and is not all my imagination aroused in the endeavor to form a conjecture as to what it may be?”

She spoke so earnestly that Langhetti was moved, and looked still more undecided.

“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 shall think that you have little or no confidence in me. I shall expect it to-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 deeply disappoint 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 tortures of 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 with which he was so troubled he seemed afraid to tell it to Beatrice, either from fear that it might not be any thing in itself or result in any thing, or, as seemed more probable, lest it might too greatly affect her. This last was the motive which appeared to influence him most strongly. In either case, the secret of which he spoke must have been one of a highly important character, affecting most deeply the life and fortunes of Beatrice herself. She had formed her own ideas and her own expectations about it, and this made her all the more urgent, and even peremptory, in her demand. In fact, things had come to such a point that Langhetti found himself no longer able to refuse, and now only sought how to postpone his divulgence of his secret.

Yet even this Beatrice combated, and would listen to no later postponement than the morrow.

At length, after long resistance to her demand, Langhetti assented, and promised on the morrow to tell her what it was that he had meant by his secret.

For, as she gathered from his conversation, it was something that he had first discovered in Hong Kong, and had never since forgotten, but had tried to make it certain. His efforts had thus far been useless, and he 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 his conjectures.

It was for these, then, that Beatrice waited in anxious expectation.