Annie felt half inclined at first to request the manager, on the plea
of illness, to let his niece, who was her “understudy,” play her parts
for the week the company were to spend at Beckham, and take her chance
of his allowing her to rejoin them at the next town they visited. The
incompetent little niece was eager, as Annie knew, for such a chance,
and there would probably be little difficulty as far as that part of
the matter was concerned.
But, besides the fact that she could ill afford to lose even one week’s
salary and risk the canceling of the rest of her engagement, she felt
sure that there was one person whom the plea of illness would in no
way deceive. Aubrey Cooke’s attention had already been awakened to
her reluctance to visit Beckham, and he was far too sharp a young man
not to be dangerous if she were to give him involuntarily a clew to a
secret she did not want to trust him with.
And the secret of her marriage she wished to keep from all her present
associates. The miserable tie seemed to be less binding when all around
her were ignorant of it. For a long time she had almost forgotten it
in the unfettered life she had led since she left Garstone; but the
remembrance of it had begun lately to irritate her strangely. There
was now nothing on earth she dreaded so much as the possibility of her
husband’s finding her out, and in a fit of capricious obstinacy or
tyranny insisting on her return to him. The thought of being again at
the mercy of that ignorant, drunken boy filled her with a disgust which
was now not even mingled with pity. And she was to be brought against
her will to the very town which he and his brothers visited almost
daily.
But, after long reflection, she decided that the risk of her being
recognized in Beckham was not so great as she had pictured it to be in
her first terror at the thought of going thither. The families living
round about Beckham, as is usually the case with country towns, very
seldom visited the theater--the Braithwaites never. Upon William’s
authority, she was so much altered that, with the help of a veil and
other such simple disguises, she might pass unrecognized even by people
among whom she had lived. When the young men from the Grange came into
Beckham, they were almost always on horseback or driving, so that it
would be easy for any one on foot to avoid them; and, above all, she
was on the alert to escape them, while they had not the least suspicion
of her coming. In the town itself there was very little fear of her
being recognized by the inhabitants. She had not been in it much at
any time, and was very little known there. The mere change of name
would be enough to prevent their identification of “Miss Lane” or “Mrs.
Harold Braithwaite” with “Miss Langton.”
So, when the company arrived at Beckham, Annie was still with them. No
one noticed any difference in her manner from her usual rather stolid
composure, when she stepped with the rest on to the platform at the
station which had more than one moving memory for her, except Aubrey
Cooke, who watched her narrowly, and at once decided that she had been
there before. She was too wise to deny it when he asked her carelessly
whether she knew the place, and then she set herself to the task of
finding lodgings as near as possible to the theater. She succeeded in
engaging suitable rooms in a back street within a few minutes’ walk
of it; and she was growing secure in her _incognito_ when they had
played for two nights and she had seen no signs of the Mainwarings or
the Braithwaites, when an incident happened which brought her into
contact with the one she most dreaded to meet, with quite unforeseen
consequences.
Aubrey had not yet found the golden opportunity he sought, for Annie
declared that there was nothing in the least interesting to be seen in
Beckham or round about it; and, the weather being wet and cold, she
seized upon this excuse to decline walks with him. The third day of
their stay was the fifth of November, and a friend of the manager had
invited some of the members of the company to some simple festivities,
which included a bonfire and fireworks, after the performance. On
the same night, Miss West, the leading lady, had invited Aubrey to
supper, and, on his pleading a previous engagement, she said to him
with some pique and in no very subdued tones that she knew whose charms
outweighed those of any society she could offer him, and warned him
emphatically that the pleasures he preferred were far more dangerous
than those he rejected.
“Your little prude will throw you over some fine morning when you least
expect it. I know what those quiet little women do. And you won’t be
able to console yourself so quickly for her defection as I can myself
for yours.”
And Miss West marched away to bestow the charms of her racy speech and
artistic complexion where they were better appreciated. For indeed
Aubrey Cooke’s indifference to her rather overpowering fascinations had
become very marked since he had found metal more attractive in Miss
Langton, whose promised presence at the house he was going to visit
that night had more charm for him than fireworks.
The lady and gentleman who gave this entertainment were delighted
with the good nature of Mr. Cooke and the two brother-actors of his
who were present, when they took the rockets and catherine-wheels out
of the clumsy hands of the coachman and superintended the exhibition
themselves, to the great delight of the children, who had been put
to bed and then pulled out again, a few hours later to enjoy these
midnight festivities. But the young men certainly condescended to enjoy
themselves at least as much as the children, and Aubrey in particular
fired squibs and burned his fingers and his clothes with great spirit.
When at last the bonfire was lighted and the whole party jumped and
whooped round it, and even the most timid were excited to stir the
burning twigs with a pitchfork and then run screaming away, Aubrey had
time to sneak round to Miss Langton’s side and pay her the grateful
attention of putting into her hands an old garden-rake which he had
hunted out on purpose for her; and they tossed the blazing boughs
together; and, as the lurid light shone on her face, and she hopped
about over smoldering branches and expiring squibs with the help of
his friendly hand, he felt that the moment was come. In the excitement
and hurly-burly which were going on around them, nobody noticed the
tenderness with which he drew her back a few yards from the bonfire, on
the darker side of it, when her foot turned over on a glowing twig.
“Take care; you are getting tired. You must not play any more now,”
said he gently.
“Let me go back and give it just one more toss,” pleaded she earnestly
but meekly. Annie had the charm of always yielding to any assumption of
authority in small things very submissively.
“No, I cannot allow it. This jumping through the fire is a heathenish
custom highly unbecoming in an enlightened young lady of the nineteenth
century.”
“Oh, yes, it meant something, didn’t it?” cried she, interested. “The
Canaanitish children were passed through the fire to propitiate Moloch.
And I have heard of a lot of Irish and German superstitions about
bonfires.”
“Yes, they are all about luck and love. If you want to see whether your
love will be fortunate, you set a blazing hoop rolling down a hill,
and, if it reaches the bottom still alight and is not caught by any
obstacle, then you know she loves you back.”
“Where did you find out that? Have you ever tried it?” she asked
lightly.
“No,” said he, in a whisper; “I should not dare.”
They were both silent for a moment; the fire had fallen into mere smoke
and blackness on the side near where they stood, and they could not see
each other’s faces. But Annie heard the quick, loud breathing of the
man beside her, she could see him bending down over her with one hand
seeking hers, and a terrible fear leaped up suddenly in her heart, as
she moved quickly away from him with a low sound that was almost a cry
of pain.
Aubrey stood still, without attempting to follow or detain her. She
could not have misunderstood him, and she shrunk away; that was enough
for him. It was a very hard and very unexpected blow; he had by no
means felt over confident of his success with her, but at the worst
he had counted upon her giving him a hearing, and this abrupt repulse
stung him to the quick.
He did not stand there long watching the flickering light and shadow
cast by the burning pile in front of him. He sprung through the fire
into the middle of the group of howling, delighted children; and took
his place as the moving spirit of the throng with greater zeal than
ever.
And, when they had all grown weary, and had burned their clothes and
scorched themselves as much as they would, and the dying bonfire was
at last left to the men-servants to rake out, and, the children having
been sent to bed, the rest sat down to supper, Aubrey Cooke was the
wittiest there as he had been the most active outside, and he gave to
Annie’s watching eyes only this one sign that she had wounded him--he
did not look at her.
When they broke up, between two and three o’clock in the morning, the
two other actors and the other actress who had come left Miss Langton
as a matter of course to the care of Aubrey. But she slipped past
him and went on by herself. He did not attempt to overtake her, but
followed at a short distance, in case she should be frightened by a
stray drunken rough in going through the narrow streets which led to
her lodging.
She was just in front of the house where Miss West lodged, when the
door opened and two or three gentlemen came down the steps. The
foremost, who was walking very unsteadily, staggered against her as he
was turning round to speak to his companions. She gave a frightened
cry, and rushed past him in terror. As she heard first a laugh and
then a man’s footsteps behind her, she broke into a run, but stumbled
against the curbstone of the pavement as she went over a crossing, with
the man close upon her. He caught her when her foot slipped; and then,
as she turned round sharply, she suddenly gave a startled cry and clung
to his arms, sobbing out:
“You, Aubrey! Thank Heaven!”
“My dear child, who did you think it was?”
“I thought it was that tipsy man!” she whispered, shuddering.
“The clumsy brute didn’t hurt you, my darling, did he, when he ran up
against you? I would have punched his head----”
“No, no, no!” she cried, clinging to him again, in fear of his
returning. “He didn’t hurt me at all; he scarcely touched me. But I
thought it was he who was running after me, and I was frightened.”
“That is all because you were a silly girl and were too proud to let me
see you home. It is a ‘judgment.’ Why, you are shaking all over still!
I didn’t think you were such a little coward!”
He soothed her tenderly, with a very happy remembrance of her delight
in recognizing him, and of the impulsive closing of the little hands
on his arm. He began to think that repulse of a few hours before might
be differently construed; she could not have smiled up more than
gratefully into his face as she was doing now if he had been repugnant
to her. Other women might, but not Annie Langton.
And Aubrey was right. She had felt just what her face expressed, that
the one person in the world whose presence inspired her with perfect
confidence had suddenly appeared at the very moment when she dreaded
the approach of the person she most feared to meet.
For, in the half tipsy man who had staggered down from Miss West’s door
and reeled against her, Annie had instantly recognized her husband.
He had not known her, he had scarcely seen her, for the little figure
had flown past almost before he had recovered his balance; but in the
first moment of terror, Annie imagined that he had seen, known, and was
pursuing her.
She walked on with Aubrey very quietly, very silently, her hand on his
arm and his hand on hers, listening to his gentle, playful scolding
with a little laugh now and then, but without speaking much, satisfied
that she was safe with him, and that she need not talk to show him
that she felt so. When they came to her door, she disengaged her hand
and held it out while bidding him “Good-night” with a smile that made
Aubrey bold. He took her hand in his, passed his other arm round her,
saying, in a quick, jerky whisper:
“Annie, you do--you will trust yourself to me, won’t you?”
There was no eloquence in his speech; but for once his light eyes
spoke very plainly, his voice broke into tenderness. Annie trembled.
Her eyes, as they met his, shone with a light he had never seen in
them before. But before he could speak again, before he could draw her
into his arms, the light had faded. She gave him one look so wildly,
unutterably sad that he never forgot it; then, with bent head, she
slipped gently out of the grasp of his arm and turned to the door. She
could not see the lock, for the tears were gathering in her eyes. After
a few moments, Aubrey, who had stood behind her without speaking, took
the key from her shaking hand and opened the door for her.
“Thank you, Aubrey. Good-night,” said she, in a quavering voice,
without looking up.
“Good-night, darling!” he whispered back, managing to give one last
despairing squeeze to the little fingers before she shut the door.
He went home to his lodgings utterly bewildered, but resolved to get
from her the next day some explanation of her extraordinary treatment
of his advances. She had certainly understood him. She had at first
repelled, then encouraged him. He had seen in her eyes the very look he
had wished to call up in them, and the next minute it had changed to an
expression of plaintive misery and regret which had chilled his hopes
even as they rose.
But the next day, when he called upon her, he was told Miss Langton was
not well, and could not see any one. He knew very well that she was
only putting him off, and he made up his mind that at night she should
not escape him. She took care however not to be caught alone, and her
share in the performance was nearly over before Aubrey, always on the
watch, saw Miss Montrose, who had been standing at the side with her,
go upon the scene at her cue and leave Annie by herself at last. Then
she heard his voice behind her; she could not escape now, for before
long she would hear her own cue, and must be on the watch for it.
“Good-evening, Miss Langton.”
“Oh, good-evening, Mr. Cooke!” She gave him her hand; it was trembling
a little, and she did not look up into his face.
“I have not had an opportunity of speaking to you before. You will let
me see you home?”
“Not to-night; I have promised to go to supper with Miss Norris.”
“You are putting me off, I see. Is it fair, Annie? Is it right? Am I
not worth an answer?”
“An answer to what?”
“To what I said to you last night. You can’t have forgotten so soon.
If I were a stranger, if I were the most contemptible wretch living,
if you had always treated me with open dislike, you could not have
misunderstood or forgotten what I said to you last night.”
Annie turned and looked up at him, pale under her _rouge_.
“I have not forgotten, nor understood--at least, I think not. I thought
you too would have understood--that I tried to avoid you, because I
feared, I knew my answer, if I must answer, would give you pain.”
“Then you don’t like me?”
A ray of vehement passion flashed from her dark eyes.
“Don’t torture me! You know I like you; but I can’t--I can’t do more! I
don’t know whether I have done wrong--I never meant to lead you to feel
like this. How could I go on avoiding you when I was lonely and you
were kind?”
“Why should you avoid me? Why should you not love me?”
She did not answer; but there was no mistaking the misery on her face
for coquetry or caprice.
“Are you bound by some other engagement, Annie?”
She shuddered. Before he could speak again, she turned quickly to him.
“Don’t ask me any more; believe what I say, that I am suffering more
than you can, and it is my own fault. I am bound by an engagement in
which love is out of the question, and always must be. What love is to
most women ambition is to me.”
“Do you mean that you will marry for ambition? You, Annie? Wait, wait a
little for me; I will get on--I can--I’m not a fool----”
“Hush!” said Annie sharply. “It is impossible; I can never marry you!
You are only torturing me, and all to no end. I cannot marry you; I
cannot love you!”
“You could if you would, Annie. I could make you love me; you are
always happy when you are with me.”
His words moved her, and she stopped him abruptly.
“Happy? Yes, for the time. We have been good friends, that is all. But
there is something more in life than you can give me.”
“What is there?”
“Fame, position, the means of getting on.”
“Is that what you care for most?”
“What if it is?”
“It is not; but, if it were, I would get those for you easily enough.”
She laughed, but not merrily.
“I think you overestimate your powers.”
Aubrey’s face looked in that moment as if carved in wood, save for the
steady shining of his light eyes. He said, quietly:
“Oh, I do, do I? Well, you shall see.”
They were both silent for a few moments, and then Annie heard her cue
and went on.
This conversation took place on a Thursday evening, and during the
next two days Annie avoided Aubrey still, and he did not again seek an
interview with her, but contented himself with simple greetings, and
with watching her quite unobtrusively. She missed his companionship
keenly, far too keenly. She did not dare to leave the house all day,
fearing as much to meet him as to meet any of the Braithwaites, yet
holding her breath when there was a knock at the front door, in the
hope that he at least had come to ask after her. But he did not come.
On Saturday night, as she was leaving the theater, Aubrey came out,
followed by a boy carrying his portmanteau. For the first time for
three days, he ran after her.
“Good-bye, Miss Langton; I am going to town.”
Annie started.
“What! You are going away?”
“Only till Monday. I am going on business. You will wish me good luck?”
“With all my heart!”
He wrung her hand and ran on without a word. They could not trust
themselves to speak again. The next day Annie left Beckham with the
rest of the company.
On Monday night they met once more at the theater. Aubrey was looking
paler and plainer than usual, and gave as a reason for his altered
appearance that he had not been to bed for the last two nights.
“May I see you home to-night, Miss Langton?” asked he, as soon as
he found a chance of speaking to Annie. “I will not say a word that
could offend you. I will not touch upon the--the forbidden topic,” he
whispered, earnestly.
Annie could not refuse; but it was hard work for her to hide her
agitation--and her pleasure--when she once more found him waiting for
her that night at the stage-door, and slipped her hand falteringly
within his proffered arm. She had no need to be afraid; his manner was
as cool and composed as if she had been his grandmother, and piqued her
into similar calmness.
“I thought you would like to know how I got on in town,” said he at
once, in the most matter-of-fact tone. “I went up about a London
engagement--at the Regent’s Theater--and I’ve got it!”
“I’m so glad,” said Annie, coolly.
“Well, that is not all. I’ve got an offer of an engagement there for
you too.”
“Not really?”
“I have, though. I knew there was a part in the piece they are going to
play which would suit you down to the ground, so I mentioned that there
was a lady of remarkable promise in the company I was in, and said just
what I knew would attract attention about you; and it happens that the
manager wants some one for the part I have in my eye, and I think you
are pretty sure to get it if you write.”
“Oh, Mr. Cooke, I don’t know how to thank you!” said Annie, in wild
delight, for more than one reason.
“Don’t mention it, Miss Langton,” said Aubrey, in his old, deferential
manner; then he turned the conversation. “I met an old favorite of
yours last night--Gibson--at Mrs. Falconer’s.”
“Oh! How is the beauty?”
“Well, she affects great distress about one of her brothers, who is
ill, and not expected to live. It appears he fell down as he was
getting into a dog-cart, awfully tight, last Wednesday night. But I
don’t think she is as much afflicted as she would be if mourning didn’t
suit her complexion. And, though she mentioned that he was quite alone,
she did not suggest going to nurse him.”
“Did she mention the name of the brother?” asked Annie, quite quietly.
“Yes; she called him ‘poor Harry.’”
Annie heard without giving one sign that the news moved her. For the
rest of the walk she spoke little, and with an effort. At her door
he was struck by the marked constraint of her manner as she bade him
good-bye. When she had unlocked the door and he had turned away, she
said:
“Whatever you hear of me, remember I am not ungrateful.”
When Aubrey got to the theater on the following evening, he found that
the manager’s niece was to play Miss Langton’s part, and learned that
the latter had thrown up her engagement and had already left town.