Those first few sentences, spoken in the midst of a curious little crowd
of strangers, seemed to John, when he thought of his long waiting,
almost piteously inadequate. Louise, recognizing the difficulty of the
situation, swiftly recovered her composure. She was both tactful and
gracious.
"Do tell me how you got in here," she said. "No one is allowed to pass
the stage door at rehearsal times. Mr. Faraday, to whom I will introduce
you in a moment, is a perfect autocrat; and Mr. Mullins, our stage
manager, is even worse."
"I just asked for you," John explained. "The doorkeeper told me that you
were engaged, but I persuaded him to let me come in."
She shook her head.
"Bribery!" she declared accusingly.
"I heard your voice, and after that it was hard to go away. I'm afraid I
ought to have waited outside."
Louise turned to Miles Faraday, who was looking a little annoyed.
"Mr. Faraday," she said appealingly, "Mr. Strangewey comes from the
country--he is, in fact, the most complete countryman I have ever met in
my life. He comes from Cumberland, and he once--well, very nearly saved
my life. He knows nothing about theaters, and he hasn't the least idea
of the importance of a rehearsal. You won't mind if we put him
somewhere out of the way till we have finished, will you?"
"After such an introduction," Faraday said in a tone of resignation,
"Mr. Strangewey would be welcome at any time."
"There's a dear man!" Louise exclaimed. "Let me introduce him quickly.
Mr. John Strangewey--Mr. Miles Faraday, M. Graillot, Miss Sophy Gerard,
my particular little friend. The prince you already know, although you
may not recognize him trying to balance himself on that absurd stool."
John bowed in various directions, and Faraday, taking him good-naturedly
by the arm, led him to a garden-seat at the back of the stage.
"There!" he said. "You are one of the most privileged persons in London.
You shall hear the finish of our rehearsal. There isn't a press man in
London I'd have near the place."
"Very kind of you, I'm sure," John replied. "Is this, may I ask, the
play that you are soon going to produce?"
"Three weeks from next Monday, I hope," Faraday told him. "Don't attempt
to judge by anything you hear this afternoon. We are just deciding upon
some cuts. See you later. You may smoke, if you like."
Twenty-four hours away from his silent hills, John looked out with
puzzled eyes from his dusty seat among ropes and pulleys and leaning
fragments of scenery. What he saw and heard seemed to him, for the most
part, a meaningless tangle of gestures and phrases. The men and women in
fashionable clothes, moving about before that gloomy space of empty
auditorium, looked more like marionettes than creatures of flesh and
blood, drawn this way and that at the bidding of the stout, masterly
Frenchman, who was continually muttering exclamations and banging the
manuscript upon his hand.
He kept his eyes fixed upon Louise. He told himself that he was in her
presence at last. As the moments passed, it became more and more
difficult for him to realize the actuality of the scene upon which he
was looking. It seemed like a dream-picture, with unreal men and women
moving about aimlessly, saying strange words.
Then there came a moment which brought a tingle into his blood, which
plunged his senses into hot confusion. He rose to his feet. Faraday was
sitting down, and Louise was resting both her hands upon his shoulders.
"Is there nothing I can be to you, then, Edmund?" she asked, her voice
vibrating with a passion which he found it hard to believe was not real.
Faraday turned slowly in his chair. He held out his arms.
"One thing," he murmured.
John had moved half a step forward when he felt the prince's eyes fixed
upon him, and was conscious of a sudden sense of ignorance, almost of
uncouthness. It was a play which they were rehearsing, of course! It was
a damnable thing to see Louise taken into that cold and obviously unreal
embrace, but it was only a play. It was part of her work.
John resumed his seat and folded his arms. With the embrace had fallen
an imaginary curtain, and the rehearsal was over. They were all crowded
together, talking, in the center of the stage. The prince, who had
stepped across the footlights, made his way to where John was sitting.
"So you have deserted Cumberland for a time?" he courteously inquired.
"I came up last night," John replied.
"You are making a long stay?"
John hesitated. He felt that no one knew less of his movements than he
himself. His eyes had wandered to where Louise and Graillot were
talking.
"I can scarcely tell yet. I have made no plans."
"London, at this season of the year," the prince observed, "is scarcely
at its best."
John smiled.
"I am afraid," he said, "that I am not critical. It is eight years since
I was here last, on my way down from Oxford."
"You have been abroad, perhaps?" the prince inquired.
"I have not been out of Cumberland during the whole of that time," John
confessed.
The prince, after a moment's incredulous stare, laughed softly to
himself.
"You are a very wonderful person, Mr. Strangewey," he declared. "I have
heard of your good fortune. If I can be of any service to you during
your stay in town," he added politely, "please command me."
"You are very kind," John replied gratefully.
Louise broke away from the little group and came across toward them.
"Free at last!" she exclaimed. "Now let us go out and have some tea."
They made their way down the little passage and out into the sudden
blaze of the sunlit streets. Two cars were drawn up outside the stage
door.
"The Carlton or Rumpelmayer's?" asked the prince, who had overtaken them
upon the pavement.
"The Carlton, I think," Louise decided. "We can get a quiet table there
inside the restaurant. You bring Sophy, will you, Eugene? I am going to
take possession of Mr. Strangewey."
The prince, with a little bow, pointed to the door of his limousine,
which a footman was holding open. Louise led John to a smaller car which
was waiting in the rear.
"The Carlton," she told the man, as he arranged the rugs. "And now," she
added, turning to John, "why have you come to London? How long are you
going to stay? What are you going to do? And--most important of all--in
what spirit have you come?"
John breathed a little sigh of contentment. They were moving slowly down
a back street to take their place in the tide of traffic which flooded
the main thoroughfares.
"That sounds so like you," he said. "I came up last night, suddenly. I
have no idea how long I am going to stay; I have no idea what I am going
to do. As for the spirit in which I have come--well, I should call it an
inquiring one."
"A very good start," Louise murmured approvingly, "but still a little
vague!"
"Then I will do away with all vagueness. I came to see you," John
confessed bluntly.
"Dear me!" she exclaimed, looking at him with a little smile. "How
downright you are!"
"Country methods," he reminded her.
"Don't overdo it," she begged.
"The truth--" he began.
"Has to be handled very carefully," she said, interrupting him. "The
truth is either beautiful or crude, and the people who meddle with such
a wonderful thing need a great deal of tact. You have come to see me,
you say. Very well, then, I will be just as frank. I have been hoping
that you would come!"
"You can't imagine how good it is to hear you say that," he declared.
"Mind," she went on, "I have been hoping it for more reasons than one.
You have come to realize, I hope, that it is your duty to try to see a
little more of life than you possibly can leading a patriarchal
existence among your flocks and herds."
"That may be so," John assented. "I have often thought of our
conversation. I don't know, even now, whether you were right or wrong. I
only know that since you went away I have felt something of the unrest
with which you threatened me. I want to settle the matter one way or the
other. I want to try, for a little time, what it is like to live in the
crowded places, to be near you, to see, if I may, more of you and your
way of living."
They were silent for several moments.
"I thought you would come," Louise said at last; "and I am glad, but
even in these first few minutes I want to say something to you. If you
wish to succeed in your object, and really understand the people you
meet here and the life they lead, don't be like your brother--too quick
to judge. Do not hug your prejudices too tightly. You will come across
many problems, many situations which will seem strange to you. Do not
make up your mind about anything in a hurry."
"I will remember that," he promised. "You must remember, though, that I
don't expect ever to become a convert. I believe I am a countryman, bred
and born. Still, there are some things that I want to understand, if I
can, and, more than anything else--I want to see you!"
She faced his direct speech this time with more deliberation.
"Tell me exactly why."
"If I could tell you that," he replied simply, "I should be able to
answer for myself the riddle which has kept me awake at night for weeks
and months, which has puzzled me more than anything else in life has
ever done."
"You really have thought of me, then?"
"Didn't you always know that I should?"
"Perhaps," she admitted. "Anyhow, I always felt that we should meet
again, that you would come to London. The problem is," she added,
smiling, "what to do with you now you are here."
"I haven't come to be a nuisance," he assured her. "I just want a little
help from you."
She became indiscreet. She looked at him with a little smile at the
corners of her lips.
"Nothing else?" she asked, almost under her breath.
"At the end of it all, yes," he answered simply. "I want to understand
because it is your world. I want to feel myself nearer to you. I want--"
She gripped at his arm suddenly. She knew well enough that she had
deliberately provoked his words, but there was a look in her face almost
of fear.
"Don't let us be too serious all at once," she begged quickly. "If you
have one fault, my dear big friend from the country," she went on, with
a swiftly assumed gaiety, "it is that you are too serious for your
years. Sophy and I between us must try to cure you of that! You see, we
have arrived."
He handed her out, followed her across the pavement, and found himself
plunged into what seemed to him to be an absolute vortex of human
beings, all dressed in very much the same fashion, all laughing and
talking together very much in the same note, all criticising every fresh
group of arrivals with very much the same eyes and manner. The
palm-court was crowded with little parties seated at the various round
tables, partaking languidly of the most indolent meal of the day. Even
the broad passageway was full of men and women, standing about talking
or looking for tables. One could scarcely hear the music of the
orchestra for the babel of voices.
The Prince of Seyre beckoned to them from the steps. He seemed to have
been awaiting their arrival there--a cold, immaculate, and, considering
his lack of height, a curiously distinguished-looking figure.
"I have a table inside," he told them as they approached. "It is better
for conversation. The rest of the place is like a beer-garden. I am not
sure if they will dance here to-day, but if they do, they will come also
into the restaurant."
"Wise man!" Louise declared. "I, too, hate the babel outside."
They were ushered to a round table directly before the entrance, and a
couple of attentive waiters stood behind their chairs.
"We are faced," said the prince, as he took up the menu, "with our daily
problem. What can I order for you?"
"A cup of chocolate," Louise replied.
"And Miss Sophy?"
"Tea, please."
John, too, preferred tea; the prince ordered absinth.
"A polyglot meal, isn't it, Mr. Strangewey?" said Louise, as the order
was executed; "not in the least; what that wonderful old butler of yours
would understand by tea. We become depraved in our appetites, as well as
in our sensations. We are always seeking for something new. Sophy, put
your hat on straight if you want to make a good impression on Mr.
Strangewey. I am hoping that you two will be great friends."
Sophy turned toward John with a little grimace.
"Louise is so tactless!" she said. "I am sure any idea you might have
had of liking me will have gone already. Has it, Mr. Strangewey?"
"On the contrary," he replied, a little stiffly, but without hesitation,
"I was thinking that Miss Maurel could scarcely have set me a more
pleasant task."
The girl looked reproachfully across at her friend.
"You told me he came from the wilds and was quite unsophisticated!" she
exclaimed.
"The truth," John assured them, looking with dismay at his little china
cup, "comes very easily to us. We are brought up on it in Cumberland."
"Positively nourished on it," Louise agreed. "My dear Sophy, what he
says is quite true. Up there a man would tell you that he didn't like
the cut of your new blouse or the droop of your hat. It's a wonderful
atmosphere, and very austere. You ought to meet Mr. Strangewey's
brother, if you want to know the truth about yourself. Do go on looking
about you, Mr. Strangewey; and when you have finished, tell us just what
you are thinking."
"Well, just at that moment," he replied, "I was thinking that I ought
not to have come here in these clothes."
The girl by his side laughed reassuringly.
"As a matter of fact, you couldn't have done anything more successful,"
she declared. "The one thing up here that every one would like to do if
he dared is to be different from his fellows; but very few have the
necessary courage. Besides, at heart we are all so frightfully,
hatefully imitative. The last great success was the prince, when he wore
a black stock with a dinner-coat; but, alas, next evening there were
forty or fifty of them! If you come here to tea to-morrow afternoon, I
dare say you will find dozens of men wearing gray tweed clothes, colored
shirts, and brown boots. I am sure they are most becoming!"
"Don't chatter too much, child," Louise said benignly. "I want to hear
some more of Mr. Strangewey's impressions. This is--well, if not quite a
fashionable crowd, yet very nearly so. What do you think of it--the
women, for instance?"
"Well, to me," John confessed candidly, "they all look like dolls or
manikins. Their dresses and their hats overshadow their faces. They seem
all the time to be wanting to show, not themselves, but what they have
on."
They all laughed. Even the prince's lips were parted by the flicker of a
smile. Sophy leaned across the table with a sigh.
"Louise," she pleaded, "you will lend him to me sometimes, won't you?
You won't keep him altogether to yourself? There are such a lot of
places I want to take him to!"
"I was never greedy," Louise remarked, with an air of self-satisfaction.
"If you succeed in making a favorable impression upon him, I promise you
your share."
"Tell us some more of your impressions, Mr. Strangewey," Sophy begged.
"You want to laugh at me," John protested good-humoredly.
"On the contrary," the prince assured him, as he fitted a cigarette into
a long, amber tube, "they want to laugh with you. You ought to realize
your value as a companion in these days. You are the only person who can
see the truth. Eyes and tastes blurred with custom perceive so little.
You are quite right when you say that these women are like manikins;
that their bodies and faces are lost; but one does not notice it until
it is pointed out."
"We will revert," Louise decided, "to a more primitive life. You and I
will inaugurate a missionary enterprise, Mr. Strangewey. We will judge
the world afresh. We will reclothe and rehabilitate it."
The prince flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette.
"Morally as well as sartorially?" he asked.
There was a moment's rather queer silence. The music rose above the
hubbub of voices and died away again. Louise rose to her feet.
"Quite an intelligent person, really," she said, moving her head in the
direction of the prince. "His little attacks of cynicism come only with
indigestion or after absinth. Now, if you like, you shall escort me
home, Mr. Strangewey. I want to show him exactly where I live," she
explained, addressing the others, "so that he will have no excuse for
not coming to pay his respects to me to-morrow afternoon."
The prince, with a skilful maneuver, made his way to her side as they
left the restaurant.
"To-morrow afternoon, I think you said?" he repeated quietly. "You will
be in town then?"
"Yes, I think so."
"You have changed your mind, then, about--"
"M. Graillot will not listen to my leaving London," she interrupted
rapidly. "He declares that it is too near the production of the play. My
own part may be perfect, but he needs me for the sake of the others. He
puts it like a Frenchman, of course."
They had reached the outer door, which was being held open for them by a
bowing commissionnaire. John and Sophy were waiting upon the pavement.
The prince drew a little back.
"I understand!" he murmured.