CHAPTER III.
NIGHT after night found Beauchampe at his post, gazing up at that curtained box with the adoration of an idolater to his divinity ! Sometimes its unknown occupant was absent, and at other times she remained perversely invisible. But still the impassioned lover was more than once rewarded by a sight of that fair, lustrous face-and the glimpse, though it lasted but for a moment, afforded food for the thoughts and dreams of a week. Beauchampe no longer went in company with the gay De Burgh, but sought a secluded seat whence he might gaze unnoticed, and drink in the surpassing beauty of that face in selfish silence .
Thus passed a fortnight, and still all the efforts of Beauchampe to discover who the fair stranger was, had proved unavailing. More than once he had endeavored to follow her carriage home, but the vehicle had been as often lost in the press of equipages. He no longer thought of returning to America- at least not for the present. He was resolved first to discover who the mysterious beauty was, that had thus moved his heart for the first time to love. and engrossed every other feeling of his soul into one all absorbing passion. The opera was about to close, for the prima donna had an engagement in Paris. Yet Beauchampe had made no approach to an acquaintance with the unknown beauty-indeed he was no further advanced toward it than on the first evening he saw her, since he did not even know her name or residence. He determined to make a final effort to trace her. He had just reached the carriage walk, on the last night of the opera, when he saw the manager approach- | ing, with a lady on each arm, and, though the figures of both were closely shawled, Beauchampe's heart told him | that the form of the slighter one was that of the fair stranger. This was the first time that he had succeeded in beholding her before she reached her carriage, and he fancied that he could see that her figure, shrouded as it was, was one of the most exquisite proportions. He saw her, however, only for a moment, ere she stepped into her carriage with her companion, when the manager bowed and the vehicle drove off. Hastily calling a hackney coach, Beauchampe sprang in and ordered the driver to follow the other carriage, but a distance sufficiently great to conceal his object. The carriage of which they were in pursuit, however, drove off so rapidly that it was with difficulty they could keep it in sight, in the devious course it pursued. But this velocity which , more than once, put the pursuers almost at fault, proved in the end a happy occurrence for the lover, since, in rapidly turning a corner the wheels of the carriage struck against a pile of stones and the vehicle was upset. Beauchampe, at this juncture, was but a short distance in the rear, and soon reached the shattered
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coach, from which he was the first person to extricate the sufferers. Both were much frightened, and the companion of the fair stranger, an elderly lady, had an arm broken. The young lady was, however, uninjured. Beauchampe proffered his services at once, sent the coachman for a surgeon, and handed the ladies into his own carriage, soothing and assisting the sufferer during the remainder of the ride, which happily for the injured lady was a short one. But to Beauchampe it was one of bewildering joy. He breathed the same air with her whom he had so long worshipped, and much as he had admired her beauty at a distance, he now admired her even more for the tenderness which she displayed toward the sufferer. Beauchampe had the tact when they reached the house, to remain just so long as his services could be of value, and then to retire. The eloquent look of thanks with which the young lady rewarded him, filled him with a joy such only as a lover can appreciate. The next morning he called to enquire after the suf ferer, and if he had been charmed by the few words which the fair stranger had uttered the night before, in terror and grief, how much more was he delighted by her conversation now that the smiles had resumed their place on her countenance, and all danger to her aunt had disappeared. Beauchampe sat entranced, until it suddenly occurred to him that he was protracting his visit beyond all etiquette. With a thousand good wishes for her aunt's recovery, therefore, he rose to take his leave. "My aunt has charged me to return you her thanks for your timely assistance and kindness last night," said the young lady, with a sweetness that Beauchampe had never seen equalled, " and she hopes in a few days to be able to express her gratitude in person. I need not say,” she continued with a bewitching frankness, and Beauchampe fancied her cheeks grew a shade more crimson as she spoke, " how glad we shall be to see you at any time !" The lover left the house that day feeling as if he trod, not on earth , but air. That sunny countenance, those soft grateful eyes, the melodious accents of that voice filled his memory throughout the livelong day, and haunted his visions at night. He was irretrievably in love. The divinity whom he had worshipped at a distance had not disappointed him when he met her, but his chains were , if possible, tightened. He had left his own card with the ladies on the night of the accident, but amid the confusion and alarm they had forgotten to acquaint him with their names. He had gathered, however, from the landlady- for the ladies were transient boarders-that the name of the elder was Mrs. Wareham. On his second visit he had learned that the younger one was a neice to the sufferer, and that she bore the same name. They were on a visit to
