THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER.
A DROLL rogue of my acquaintance, whom (one tried to think) the force
of circumstance, rather than any natural disposition, had driven from
the pavement of integrity into the gutter, used to maintain that it was
better to confess one’s peccadilloes, with such colourable excuses as
might suggest themselves, than to conceal them. In the former case you
might, with a struggle, get out of the scrape and have done with it; in
the latter case you were never safe from discovery, and when it came
there was sure to be a catastrophe.
There was, it is true, no peccadillo in William Henry’s keeping that
appointment we wot of with those two charming ornaments of Drury Lane
Theatre, but since he had an impression that Margaret might not like
it, he ought, according to my friend’s philosophy, to have told her
all about it. After his interview with his Royal Highness (which could
not be concealed) he felt that this straightforward course was the
right one, and as he returned home in the hackney carriage with the
precious manuscripts, amused himself with the thoughts of the pleasure
Margaret would exhibit on hearing of the greatness that had been thrust
upon him. When her mind had been dazzled by visions of Royalty, he had
intended it to slip out in a casual way that he had been indebted for
his introduction to his Royal Highness to one of those professional
persons who had called in Norfolk Street the previous day on business,
and whom he had been compelled to receive in place of his father—a
Mrs. Jordan. The whole thing ran as smoothly and naturally in his own
mind as could be. It was like some well-oiled mechanical machine, which
the inventor (though of course it was no invention, only an adaptation)
feels confident will do all he expects of it, only somehow in practice
it doesn’t act. He found Margaret not in the least interested about
his Royal Highness, and very much excited about the lady who had been
the mere medium of his introduction, and whose part in the matter he
had taken, it must be confessed, some pains to minimise.
‘You have not been frank with me, William Henry,’ she said with some
severity.
He had it upon his lips to say that since he was William Henry he
could hardly be Frank, but he felt she was in no mood for banter; and,
moreover, with that name there naturally occurred to him the thought of
Frank Dennis, which made his heart stand still. It was not her anger
that he feared, nor even the diminution of her love, which had been
indicated very significantly by the mention of his double name (which
she had not used for months) instead of ‘Willie,’ but the possible
diversion of her love to another object. Perhaps she was already making
a comparison in her mind between himself and a certain other person
who, whatever his faults, would, she knew, never have deceived her.
It was not impossible that love could stray, for had it not done so
but a few hours ago, within his own experience, and with no such
provocation? It was very different, of course, in his case; there is a
certain latitude given to men, and the handsomest man on the stage, or
off it, would, he was well aware, not have caused Margaret to forget
her Willie even for an instant. But then women, when they are jealous,
are capable of anything, and from pique will not only ‘be off’ with
those they love, but sometimes ‘be on’ with another.
‘I am very sorry, Margaret,’ he stammered, ‘but I really don’t know
what you mean.’
‘Then your face belies your words,’ was the cold reply. ‘Why did you
not tell me yesterday that you were going to meet that woman at Drury
Lane this morning?’
‘There were two of them,’ said William Henry eagerly, urged, as he
felt, by some fortunate inspiration to tell the whole truth.
‘Oh, there were two, were there?’ Though she strove to keep her tone
the same, there was a relaxation in her severity that did not escape
him; the reflection that there was safety in numbers had no doubt
occurred to her. ‘You omitted that circumstance, sir, in your previous
narrative, with, no doubt, many others.’
‘Indeed, Margaret, I have told you all; that is, all that I thought
could have any interest for you. I ought to have said, of course, that
the invitation to the theatre came from both the ladies; they wanted to
have some alteration made in the play for them (which of course was out
of the question). Mrs. Powell was very angry about it; I should think
that she had a temper of her own.’
‘I don’t want to hear about Mrs. Powell.’
There was once a young gentleman who was endeavouring to make himself
agreeable as a _raconteur_ in the presence of Royalty. When he had done
his story the Royal lips let fall these terrible words: ‘We are not
amused.’ Poor William Henry found himself in much the same position.
His reminiscences of Mrs. Powell were, as it were, cut off at the
main. Margaret’s instinct had eliminated that factor from the sum of
the matter as insignificant; there was another person to talk about, it
was true, but he was averse to enter upon that subject. Unhappily it
was suggested to him as a topic.
‘Who, may I ask, is this Mrs. Jordan?’
‘Well, she was the other lady, of course, who called here,’ said
William Henry (he felt that he was turning a lively red, and it was so
important to him that he should keep his colour). ‘She is to perform
Flavia in the play.’
‘The person in man’s clothes?’ observed Margaret icily.
‘Well, she plays the Page; you can hardly expect her to play him in
petticoats. It was not a dress rehearsal,’ stammered the young man, ‘if
you mean that. They simply asked me—both of them—to step round to
the theatre this morning and render them some professional assistance,
which, as it happened, I am unable to do. I cannot for the life of me
see what harm there was in that.’
‘Then why did you not tell me you were going?’
It was the same dreadful question over again. Of course he ought to
have told her, and if he had had any idea that she would have come to
know of it he certainly would have done so. He looked so sorry (not to
say silly) that Margaret’s heart melted a little.
‘You know how I hate anything clandestine and underhand, William Henry.’
‘I know it,’ he answered, with a deep sigh. His face was one of such
abject misery, that one would have said, whatever he had done, he was
sufficiently punished for it. Her heart melted more and more; he went
on penitently:
‘Of course I ought to have told you, Margaret, but I did not conceal
it because there was anything to be ashamed of. Only I knew you would
not like it, that you would think there was harm in it—as you do,
it seems—where there is no harm. It was surely a great piece of
goodnature on their part, after I had disappointed them about the
play, to offer to do their best for it, and to get the Duke——’
‘Did they both go with you to St. James’s Palace?’ she put in drily.
He was on the point of saying that there had been only room for two in
the coach, but fortunately he was a young gentleman who thought before
he spoke. It would certainly not have been a satisfactory explanation,
and the very idea that he had been about to make it turned him scarlet.
‘No wonder you are ashamed of yourself, sir,’ said she, perceiving his
confusion. ‘Why do you talk to me about “they“ and “them,” when you
know that only one of these women had anything to do with the matter?’
‘Well, naturally, my dear, Mrs. Jordan was the person to introduce me
to his Royal Highness, since she has been privately married to him.’
‘I don’t believe one word of it.’
‘I can only say she told me so,’ said William Henry simply.
Margaret did not give much credit to the assertion of this lady, but
she believed what William Henry said. After all, the poor young fellow
had probably meant no harm, nor even dreamt of the meshes into which
this designing female would have drawn him. He had only been indiscreet
and a little surreptitious, and had been rated enough.
‘You don’t know what these actresses are, Willie,’ she said gravely,
‘nor what pleasure they take in making misery and estrangements between
honest people. Nothing this woman would like better, I’m sure of it,
than to come between you and me.’
‘My dear Margaret, how can you say such things? If you had only seen
her!’
‘I don’t want to see her,’ interpolated Margaret quickly.
‘A person entirely devoted to her profession, in which she is justly
held in the highest esteem.’
‘I don’t deny that she is a good actress,’ returned Margaret
significantly; ‘indeed I have no doubt of it.’
‘And she spoke of you so kindly.’
‘Of me? How dared she speak of me?’ cried Margaret with flashing eye.
‘What does she know of me?’
‘Well, she saw you just for a moment when you looked in by accident
yesterday, and she said how beautiful and kind you looked, and
congratulated me——’
‘It was shameful of you to tell those women of our engagement,’ she put
in.
‘Why not? What was there to be ashamed of? Am I not proud of it? Why
should I not have told them?’
His simplicity was very touching. If there had been such a thing as a
male _ingénue_ upon the stage, the speaker would have been the very man
to play it.
‘How they must have laughed at you in their sleeves, my poor Willie!’
she answered pityingly.
He did not think it necessary to state that they _had_ laughed at him,
and by no means in their sleeves.
‘I will never see them again if you don’t wish it,’ said William
Henry, still sticking to the plural number. ‘Only I suppose when the
“Vortigern“ comes to be acted it will be necessary to do so just for a
night or two.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind your seeing them at the play, Willie. We shall, of
course, be there together.’
He had meant that his assistance would probably be required behind
the scenes. Indeed Mrs. Jordan had taken it for granted that he
would be a constant visitor at the theatre while the play was in
preparation, and he had very willingly acquiesced in that arrangement,
but he had not the courage to say so. He was only too thankful that
Margaret’s suspicions were at last set at rest. He knew that she was
of a jealous disposition, and also that she abhorred deceit, and he
loved her none the less on either account, but there were reasons why
her manifestation of such excessive displeasure on so small a matter
alarmed him, and made his heart heavy within him. However, in a month
or two they would be married. He would then be her very own, and she
would have no misgivings about him; and as to deceit, there would be
no further cause for it, and what was past and gone would surely be
forgiven. But still his heart was heavy.
Considering Margaret’s youth and her middle-class position in life,
the irritation and annoyance she had exhibited may seem unnatural as
well as uncalled for. Young women of her age and rank are not nowadays
supposed to know so much about the temptations of the stage, but in
her time matters were different. The charms of this and that popular
actress, and even their mode of life, were topics of common talk, and
there was none of them more talked about than Mrs. Jordan. It is not,
therefore, to be wondered at that Margaret regarded her as a syren
attracted by the notoriety (not to mention the innocence and beauty) of
her Willie, who designed to wile him from the quiet harbour of domestic
love into the stormy seas of passion. Moreover, it must be said for
Margaret that her jealousy was not like that of some people who, while
resenting the interference of others with their private property, do
not lavish on it any especial kindness of their own. She had always
been the friend and defender of William Henry, even before he became
her lover, and had long-established claims on his fidelity, and it
galled her that one glimpse of a pretty face should have so worked with
him as to induce him to renew acquaintance with it, under what seemed
to her such suspicious circumstances, and especially in so secret
and clandestine a fashion. It had always been a complaint of hers in
the old days that William Henry was inclined to deception. It was in
relation, however, to Mr. Erin only that she had observed it, and in
that case there had been, certainly, excuses for the young man; but
that he should have deceived _her_—if, at least, concealment could be
called deception—she justly considered to be less pardonable. However,
she had now said her say, and with a vigour that the circumstances
scarcely called for; indeed, she felt that she had been somewhat hard
upon him. However wrong he had been to try to hoodwink her, that had
been the extent of his offending. He could hardly have declined to
go to the theatre; and, indeed, she confessed to herself that while
the play was in progress it was not reasonable to expect him to hold
no communication with those who were to perform in it. The matter
interested him very much, nor did she forget that it was mainly on her
own account, for did not her uncle’s consent to their union depend upon
the play’s success?
When Mr. Erin presently announced the first rehearsal at the theatre,
and suggested that William Henry should be present to witness it,
Margaret made no opposition; her objections, in short, to the young
man’s renewing his acquaintance with the fair Flavia were tacitly
withdrawn. She acknowledged to herself that things could scarcely be
otherwise, and that, after all, there could be no possible harm in the
matter; and from that moment, whenever her Willie was out of her sight,
she was more tormented with the fires of jealousy than ever.
She knew that he saw Mrs. Jordan constantly, and was yet compelled to
ignore it; she burned to know what passed between them, yet scorned to
inquire. The news William Henry brought back with him of the prospects
of the play seemed hardly of any consequence to her compared with
matters on which he never spoke at all. What was it to her that Kemble
was unsympathetic, dogged, and studiously apathetic in his rendering
of Vortigern; that Phillimore as Horsus was more like a buffoon than
a hero? What was it to her, on the other hand, that Mrs. Powell as
Edmunda surpassed Mrs. Siddons herself? What she wished to know, and
could not ask, was how that hussey Mrs. Jordan was behaving herself,
not as Flavia in tights (though that idea was far from consolatory),
but in her own proper person. Of one thing she felt convinced, that not
content with seeing her Willie every day, this woman corresponded with
him; that he received letters from her under that very roof. Else how
was it that when the post now brought him missives in a hand that was
strange to her, he would slip them into his pocket without a word of
comment, and with an air of indifference that did not impose upon her
for an instant? William Henry had now a little sitting-room of his
own, and she noticed that when these letters arrived he remained in it
longer alone than usual; reading them, no doubt, over and over, perhaps
replying to them in the same fervid style in which (she felt sure)
they were written, and possibly (for Margaret, though no poet like her
Willie, had a lively imagination of her own) even kissing them.
One morning the Epilogue to ‘Vortigern and Rowena’ arrived from Mr.
Merry, and was discussed at breakfast-time word by word, as befitted so
important a document. An hour afterwards, when William Henry had gone
out, as Margaret was only too well convinced, to Drury Lane, Mr. Erin
returned to the subject.
‘I don’t much like those concluding lines in the first part,’ he said—
The scattered flowers he left, benignly save,
Posthumous flowers; the garland of the grave.
‘It ran “benignly save,“ did it not, Madge?’
‘I am not sure, uncle.’
‘Then just go and get the thing out of Samuel’s room.’
Margaret went and looked about her for the manuscript in question. It
was nowhere to be found. But in her researches she came upon another
document spread out in the half-opened drawer of the writing-table; it
was written in a delicate hand on large letter-paper, and it was almost
impossible that she could avoid reading the commencement of it.
‘My dear W. H.,’ it began, and then followed a mass of heterogeneous
words without sense or meaning, as if they had been taken at random out
of some dictionary. It is probable that Margaret had never heard of a
cryptogram, but she had heard of communications written in cypher, and
it flashed upon her mind at once that she was looking at some letter
of that nature. It was bad enough that this abandoned hussey of Drury
Lane, who dwelt but a mile away from them, and saw her Willie five days
out of six, should nevertheless have the audacity to correspond with
him; but that she should write such things as could not bear the light
and had to be concealed in cypher was indeed intolerable. Granting her
premises, there was certainly ample cause for the indignation that
mantled to her very forehead, and the bitterness that took possession
of her very soul.
As she stood with one hand on the table, for her limbs trembled with
the agitation that shook her mind, she heard the front door softly
closed, and a hurried footstep in the passage. It was William Henry,
who had remembered no doubt—too late—that he had left the letter
exposed to view, and had returned to place it in some safer receptacle.
The next moment he was face to face with her.