The Mysteries of London (Vol. 1-4). George W. M. Reynolds
left the house.
Her occupation was now once more gone; and she resolved to pay another visit to the old hag.
Accordingly, in a few days she again sought the miserable court in Golden Lane.
It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, when the young lady entered the apartment in which the old hag dwelt. The wrinkled wretch was seated at the table, working. She had bought herself a new gown with a portion of the money which she had received from Ellen on the occasion of recommending the latter to the Mesmerist; and the old woman's looks were joyful—as joyful as so hideous an expression of countenance would allow them to be—for she thought of being smart once more, even in her old age. Vanity only ceases with the extinction of life itself.
"Well, my child," said the old woman, gaily; "you have come back to me again. Surely you have not already finished with your Mesmerist?"
"Yes," replied Ellen. "The bubble has burst; and I am once more in search of employment."
"And in such search, miss, will you ever be, until you choose to settle yourself in a manner suitable to your beauty, your accomplishments, and your merits," said the old woman.
"In what way could I thus settle myself?"
"Do you ask me so simple a question? May you not have a handsome house, a carriage, servants, money, rich garments, jewels, and a box at the Opera, for the mere asking?"
"I do not require so much," answered Ellen, with a smile. "If I can earn a guinea or two a week, I shall be contented."
"And do you not feel anxious to set off your charms to the greatest advantage?" demanded the old woman. "How well would pearls become your soft and shining hair! how dazzling would your polished arms appear when clasped by costly bracelets! how lovely would be your little ears with brilliant pendants! how elegant would be your figure when clad in rustling silk or rich satin! how the whiteness of your bosom would eclipse that of the finest lace! Ah! miss, you are your own enemy—you are your own enemy!"
"You forget that I have a father," said Ellen—"a father who loves me, and whom I love—a father who would die if he knew of his daughter's disgrace."
"Fathers do not die so easily," cried the old hag. "They habituate themselves to every thing, as well as other people. And then—think of the luxuries and comforts with which you could surround the old man."
"We will not talk any more upon that subject," said Ellen firmly. "I well understand your meaning; and I am not prudish nor false enough to affect a virtue which I do not possess. But I have my interests to consult; and it does not suit my ideas of happiness to accept the proposal implied by your language. In a word, can you find me any more employment?"
"I know no more Mesmerists," answered the old hag, in a surly tone.
"Then you can do nothing for me?"
"I did not say that—I did not say that," cried the hag. "It is true I can get you upon the stage; but perhaps that pursuit will not please you."
"Upon the stage!" ejaculated Ellen. "In what capacity?"
"As a figurante, or dancer in the ballet, at a great theatre," replied the old woman.
"But I should be known—I should be recognised," said Ellen.
"There is no chance of that," returned the hag. "Dressed like a sylph, with rouge upon your cheeks, and surrounded by a blaze of light, you would be altogether a different being. Ah! it seems that I already behold you upon the stage—the point of admiration for a thousand looks—the object of envy and desire, and of every passion which can possibly gratify female vanity."
For some moments Ellen remained lost in thought. The old woman's offer pleased her: she was vain of her beauty and she contemplated with delight the opportunity thus presented to her of displaying it with brilliant effect. She already dreamt of success, applause, and showers of nosegays; and her countenance gradually expended into a smile of pleasure.
"I accept your proposal," she said; "but—"
"Why do you hesitate?" demanded the old woman.
"Oh! I was only thinking that the introduction would be better——"
"If it did not come from me?" added the old woman, her wrinkled face becoming more wrinkled still with a sardonic grin. "Well, make yourself easy upon that score. I am only aware that a celebrated manager has a vacancy in his establishment for a figurante, and you may apply for it."
"But I am ignorant of the modes of dancing practised upon the stage," said Ellen.
"You will soon learn," answered the old woman. "Your beauty will prove your principal recommendation."
"And what shall I give you for your suggestion?" asked Ellen, taking out her purse.
When a bailiff makes a seizure in a house, he assures himself with a glance around, whether there be sufficient property to pay at least his expenses;—when a debtor calls upon his creditor to ask for time, the latter surveys the former for a moment, to ascertain by his countenance if he can be trusted;—the wholesale dealer always "takes stock," as it were, of the petty detailer who applies to him for credit;—and thus was it that the old woman scrutinized with a single look the capacity of Ellen's purse, so that she might thereby regulate her demand. And all the while she appeared intent only on her work.
"You can give me a couple of guineas now," the old woman at length said; "and if your engagement proves a good one, you can bring or send me three more in the course of the month."
This arrangement was immediately complied with, and Ellen took leave of the old hag, with the fervent hope that she should never require her aid any more.
On the following day Miss Monroe called upon the manager of the great national theatre where a figurante was required.
She was ushered into the presence of the theatrical monarch, who received her with much urbanity and kindness; and he was evidently pleased with her address, appearance, and manners, as she explained to him the nature of her business.
"Dancing in a ball-room, and dancing upon the stage, are two very different things," said the manager. "You will have to undergo a course of training, the length of which will depend upon your skill and your application. I have known young ladies become proficient in a month—others in a year—many never, in spite of all their exertions. Most of the figurantes have been brought up to their avocation from childhood; but I see no reason why you should not learn to acquit yourself well in a very short time."
"I shall exert myself to the utmost, at all events," observed Ellen.
"How are you circumstanced?" inquired the manager. "Excuse the question; but my object is to ascertain if you can support yourself during your apprenticeship, as we may term the process of study and initiation?"
"I have a comfortable home, and am not without resources for my present wants," answered Ellen.
"So far, so good," said the manager. "I do not seek to pry into your secrets. You know best what motives induce you to adopt the stage: my business is to secure the services of young, handsome, and elegant ladies, to form my corps de ballet. It is no compliment to you to say that you will answer my purpose, provided your studies are successful."
"With whom am I to study, sir?"
"My ballet-master will instruct you," replied the manager. "You can attend his class. If you will come to the theatre to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, you can take your first lesson."
Ellen assented to the proposal, and took leave of the manager. They were mutually satisfied with this interview: the manager was pleased with the idea of securing the services of a young lady of great beauty, perfect figure, and exquisite grace;—and, on her side, Ellen was cheered with the prospect of embracing an avocation which, she hoped, would render her independent of the bounty of others.
And now her training commenced. In the first place her feet were placed in a groove-box, heel to heel,