FRANK JONES HAS CEASED TO EXIST.
To tell the truth, Rachel had a thorough good cry before she went to
bed that night. Though there was something hard, fixed, imperious,
almost manlike about her manner, still she was as soft-hearted as
any other girl. We may best describe her by saying that she was an
American and an actress. It was impossible to doubt her. No one
who had once known her could believe her to be other than she had
declared herself. She was loyal, affectionate, and dutiful. But there
was missing to her a feminine weakness, which of all her gifts is
the most valuable to an English woman, till she makes the mistake of
bartering it away for women's rights. We can imagine, however, that
the stanchest woman's-right lady should cry for her lost lover. And
Rachel O'Mahony cried bitterly for hers. "It had to be done," she
said, jumping up at last in her bedroom, and clenching her fist as
she walked about the chamber. "It had to be done. A girl situated as
I am cannot look too close after herself. Father is more like my son
than my father; he has no idea that I want anything done for me. Nor
do I want much," she said, as she went on rapidly taking the short
course of the room. "No one could say a word about me till I brought
my lover forward and showed him to the theatre. I think they did
believe him to be a myth; but a myth in that direction does no harm
till he appears in the flesh. They think that I have made an empty
boast about my Mr. Jones. The ugliest girl that ever came out may do
the same thing, and nobody ever thinks anything of it. A lover in the
clouds never does any harm, and now my lover is in the clouds. I know
that he has gone, and will never come to earth again. How much better
I love him because he would not take my offer. Then there would have
been a little contempt. And how could I expect him to yield to me in
everything, with this brute Moss insulting me at every turn? I do not
think he had the courage to send me that message, but still! What
could I do but tell Frank? And then what could Frank do but come? I
would have come, let any girl have bade me to stay away!" Here she
had imagined herself to be the lover, and not the girl who was loved.
"But it only shows that we are better apart. He cannot marry me, and
I cannot marry him. The Squire is at his wits' end with grief." By
"the Squire" Mr. Jones had been signified. "It is better as it is.
Father and the Squire ought never to have been brought together,--nor
ought I and Frank. I suppose I must tell them all at the theatre that
Mr. Jones belongs to me no longer. Only if I did so, they would think
that I was holding out a lure to Mahomet M. There's papa. I'll go
down and tell him all that need be told about it." So saying she
ascended to their sitting-room.
"Well, my dear, what did you do with Frank?"
"He has gone back to Ireland under the name of Mr. Jones."
"Then there was a quarrel?"
"Oh dear yes! there was safe to be a quarrel."
"Does it suit your book upon the whole?"
"Not in the least. You see before you the most wretched heroine that
ever appeared on the boards of any theatre. You may laugh, but it's
true. I don't know what I've got to say to Mr. Moss now. If he comes
forward in a proper manner, and can prove to me that Madame Socani
is not Madame Mahomet M. Moss, I don't know what I can do but accept
him. The Adriatic is free to wed another." Then she walked about the
room, laughing to prevent her tears.
"Did you hear anything about Castle Morony?"
"Not a word."
"Or the boy Florian?"
"Not a syllable;--though I was most anxious to ask the question. When
you are intent upon any matter, it does not do to go away to other
things. I should have never made him believe that he was to leave me
in earnest, had I allowed him to talk about Florian and the girls.
He has gone now. Well;--good-night, father. You and I, father, are
all in all to each other now. Not but what somebody else will come,
I suppose."
"Do you wish that somebody else should come, as you say?"
"I suppose so. Do not look so surprised, father. Girls very seldom
have to say what they really wish. I have done with him now. I had
him because I really loved him,--like a fool as I was. I have got
to go in for being a singing girl. A singing woman is better than a
singing girl. If they don't have husbands, they are supposed to have
lovers. I hope to have one or the other, and I prefer the husband.
Mr. Jones has gone. Who knows but what the Marquis de Carabas may
come next."
"Could you change so soon?"
"Yes;--immediately. I don't say I should love the Marquis, but I
should treat him well. Don't look so shocked, dear father. I never
shall treat a man badly,--unless I stick a knife into Mahomet M.
Moss. It would be best perhaps to get a singing marquis, so that the
two of us might go walking about the world together, till we had got
money enough to buy a castle. I am beginning to believe M. Le Gros. I
think I can sing. Don't you think, father, that I can sing?"
"They all say so."
"It is very good to have one about me, like you, who are not
enthusiastic. But I can sing, and I am pretty too;--pretty enough
along with my singing to get some fool to care for me. Yes; you may
look astonished. Over there in Galway I was fool enough to fall in
love. What has come of it? The man tells me that he cannot marry me.
And it is true. If he were to marry me what would become of you?"
"Never mind me," said her father.
"And what would become of him; and what would become of me? And what
would become of the dreadful little impediments which might follow?
Of course to me Frank Jones is the best of men. I can't have him;
and that is just all about it. I am not going to give up the world
because Frank Jones is lost. Love is not to be lord of all with me.
I shall steer my little boat among the shiny waters of the London
theatres, and may perhaps venture among the waves of Paris and
New York; but I shall do so always with my eyes open. Gas is the
atmosphere in which I am destined to glitter; and if a Marquis comes
in the way,--why, I shall do the best I can with the Marquis. I won't
bring you to trouble if I can help it, or anyone else with whom I
have to do. So good-night, father." Then she kissed his forehead,
and went up to bed leaving him to wonder at the intricacies of his
position.
He had that night been specially eloquent and awfully indignant as
to the wrongs done to Ireland by England. He had dealt with millions
of which Great Britain was supposed by him to have robbed her poor
sister. He was not a good financier, but he did in truth believe in
the millions. He had not much capacity for looking into questions of
political economy, but he had great capacity for arguing about them
and for believing his own arguments. The British Parliament was to
him an abomination. He read the papers daily, and he saw that the
number of votes on his side fell from sixty to forty, and thirty, and
twenty; and he found also that the twenty were men despised by their
own countrymen as well as Englishmen; that they were men trained to
play a false game in order to achieve their objects;--and yet he
believed in the twenty against all the world, and threw in his lot
without a scruple and without a doubt. Nor did he understand at all
the strength of his own words. He had been silenced in Ireland and
had rigorously obeyed the pledge that he had given. For he was a
man to whom personally his word was a bond. Now he had come over to
London, and being under no promise, had begun again to use the words
which came to him without an effort. As he would sweep back his long
hair from his brows, and send sparks of fire out of his eyes, he
would look to be the spirit of patriotic indignation; but he did not
know that he was thus powerful. To tell the truth,--and as he had
said,--to earn a few shillings was the object of his ambition. But
now, on this evening, three London policemen in their full police
uniform, with their fearful police helmets on, had appeared in the
room in which his dramatic associates had on this evening given way
to Gerald O'Mahony's eloquence. Nothing had been said to him; but as
he came home he was aware that two policemen had watched him. And he
was aware also that his words had been taken down in shorthand. Then
he had encountered his daughter, and all her love troubles. He had
heard her expound her views as to life, and had listened as she
had expressed her desire to meet with some Marquis de Carabas. She
had said nothing with which he could find fault; but her whole
views of life were absolutely different from his. According to his
ideas, there should be no Marquises, no singing girls making huge
fortunes--only singing girls in receipt of modest sums of money; and
that when dire necessity compelled them. There should be no gorgeous
theatres flaring with gas, and certainly no policemen to take down
men's words. Everything in the world was wrong,--except those twenty
Members of Parliament.
Three or four days after this, Rachel found that a report was abroad
at the theatre that she had dissolved her engagement with Mr. Jones.
At this time the three policemen had already expressed their opinion
about Mr. O'Mahony; but they, for the present, may be left in
obscurity. "_Est-il vrai que M. Jones n'existe plus?_" These words
were whispered to her, as she was dressing, by Madame Socani, while
Mr. O'Mahony had gone out to say a word to a police detective,
who had called to see him at the theatre. As Madame Socani was an
American woman, there was no reason why she should not have asked the
question in English--were it not that as it referred to an affair of
love it may be thought that French was the proper language.
"Mr. Jones isn't any more, as far as I am concerned," said Rachel,
passing on.
"Oh, he has gone!" said Madame Socani, following her into the slips.
They were both going on to the stage, but two minutes were allowed
to them, while Mahomet M. Moss declared, in piteous accents, the
woe which awaited him because Alberta,--who was personated by
Rachel,--had preferred the rustic Trullo to him who was by birth a
Prince of the Empire.
"Yes, Mr. Jones has gone, Madame,--as you are so anxious to know."
"But why? Can it be that there was no Mr. Jones?" Then Rachel flashed
round upon the woman. "I suppose there was no Mr. Jones?"
"_O, mio tesor._" These last three words were sung in a delicious
contralto voice by Elmira,--the Madame Socani of the occasion,--and
were addressed to the Prince of the Empire, who, for the last six
weeks, had been neglecting her charms. Rachel was furious at the
attack made upon her, but in the midst of her fury she rushed on to
the stage, and kneeling at the feet of Elmira, declared her purpose
of surrendering the Prince altogether. The rustic Trullo was quite
sufficient for her. "Go, fond girl. Trullo is there, tying up the
odoriferous rose." Then they all four broke out into that grand
quartette, in the performance of which M. Le Gros had formed that
opinion which had induced him to hold out such golden hopes to
Rachel. Rachel looked up during one of her grand shakes and saw Frank
Jones seated far back among the boxes. "Oh, he hasn't left London
yet," she said to herself, as she prepared for another shake.
"Your papa desires me to say with his kindest love, that he has had
to leave the theatre." This came from Mr. Moss when the piece was
ended.
He was dressed as princes of the empire generally do dress on the
stage, and she as the daughter of the keeper of the king's garden.
"So they tell me; very well. I will go home. I suppose he has had
business."
"A policeman I fear. Some little pecuniary embarrassment." A rumour
had got about the theatre that Mr. O'Mahony was overwhelmed with
money difficulties. Mr. Moss had probably overheard the rumour.
"I don't believe that at all. It's something political, more likely."
"Very likely, I don't know, I will see you to your house." And
Mahomet M. looked as though he were going to jump into the brougham
in the garments of the imperial prince.
"Mr. Moss, I can go very well alone;" and she turned round upon him
and stood in the doorway so as to oppose his coming out, and frowned
upon him with that look of anger which she knew so well how to
assume.
"I have that to say to you which has to be said at once."
"You drive about London with me in that dress? It would be absurd.
You are painted all round your eyes. I wouldn't get into a carriage
with you on any account."
"In five minutes I will have dressed myself."
"Whether dressed or undressed it does not signify. You know very
well that I would on no account get into a carriage with you. You
are taking advantage of me because my father is not here. If you
accompany me I will call for a policeman directly we get into the
street."
"Ah, you do not know," said Mr. Moss. And he looked at her exactly as
he had looked about an hour ago, when he was making love to her as
Trullo's betrothed.
"Here is my father," she said; for at that moment Mr. O'Mahony
appeared within the theatre, having made his way up from the door in
time to take his daughter home.
"Mr. O'Mahony," said Mr. Moss, "I shall do myself the honour of
calling to-morrow and seeing your daughter at her apartments in Gower
Street."
"You will see father too," said Rachel.
"I shall be delighted," said Moss. "It will give me the greatest
pleasure on earth to see Mr. O'Mahony on this occasion." So saying
the imperial prince made a low bow, paint and all, and allowed the
two to go down into the street, and get into the brougham.
Mr. O'Mahony at once began with his own story. The policeman who had
called for him had led him away round the corner into Scotland Yard,
and had there treated him with the utmost deference. Nothing could
be more civil to him than had been the officer. But the officer had
suggested to him that he had been the man who had said some rough
words about the Queen, in Galway, and had promised to abstain in
future from lecturing. "To this I replied," said he, "that I had
said nothing rough about the Queen. I had said that the Queen was as
nearly an angel on earth as a woman could be. I had merely doubted
whether there should be Queens. Thereupon the policeman shook his
head and declared that he could not admit any doubt on that question.
'But you wouldn't expect me to allow it in New York,' said I. 'You've
got to allow it here,' said he. 'But my pledge was made as to
Ireland,' said I. 'It is all written down in some magistrate's book,
and you'll find it if you send over there.' Then I told him that I
wouldn't break my word for him or his Queen either. Upon that he
thanked me very much for my civility, and told me that if I would
hurry back to the theatre I should be in time to take you home. If
it was necessary he would let me hear from him again. 'You will know
where to find me,' said I, and I gave him our address in Farringdon
Street, and told him I should be there to-morrow at half-past eight.
He shook hands with me as though I had been his brother;--and so here
I am."
Then she began to tell her story, but there did not seem to be much
of interest in it. "I suppose he'll come?" said Mr. O'Mahony.
"Oh, yes, he'll come."
"It's something about M. Le Gros," said he. "You'll find that he'll
abuse that poor Frenchman."
"He may save himself the trouble," said Rachel. Then they reached
Gower Street, and went to bed, having eaten two mutton-chops apiece.
On the next morning at eleven o'clock tidings were brought up
to Rachel in her bedroom that Mr. Moss was in the sitting-room
downstairs.
"Father is there?" exclaimed Rachel.
Then the girl, who had learned to understand that Mr. Moss was not
regarded as a welcome visitor, assured her that he was at the moment
entertained by Mr. O'Mahony. "He's a-telling of what the perlice said
to him in the City, but I don't think as the Jew gentleman minds
him much." From which it may be gathered that Rachel had not been
discreet in speaking of her admirer before the lodging-house servant.
She dressed herself, not in a very great hurry. Her father, she knew,
had no other occupation at this hour in the morning, and she did not
in the least regard how Mr. Moss might waste his time. And she had to
think of many things before she could go down to meet him. Meditating
upon it all, she was inclined to think that the interview was
intended as hostile to M. Le Gros. M. Le Gros would be represented,
no doubt, as a Jew twice more Jewish than Mr. Moss himself. But
Rachel had a strong idea that M. Le Gros was a very nice old French
gentleman. When he had uttered all those "ve-rys," one after another
with still increasing emphasis, Rachel had no doubt believed them
all. And she was taking great trouble with herself, practising every
day for two hours together, with a looking-glass before her on the
pianoforte, as Mr. Moss had made her quite understand that the
opening of her mouth wide was the chief qualification necessary to
her, beyond that which nature had done for her. Rachel did think it
possible that she might become the undoubted prima donna of the day,
as M. Le Gros had called her; and she thought it much more probable
that she should do so under the auspices of M. Le Gros, than those of
Mr. Moss. When, therefore, she went down at last to the sitting-room,
she did so, determined to oppose Mr. Moss, as bidding for her voice,
rather than as a candidate for her love. When she entered the room,
she could not help beginning with something of an apology, in that
she had kept the man waiting; but Mr. Moss soon stopped her. "It
does not signify the least in the world," he said, laying his hand
upon his waistcoat. "If only I can get this opportunity of speaking
to you while your father is present." Then, when she looked at the
brilliance of his garments, and heard the tones of his voice, she was
sure that the attack on this occasion was not to be made on M. Le
Gros. She remained silent, and sat square on her chair, looking at
him. A man must be well-versed in feminine wiles, who could decipher
under Rachel's manners her determination to look as ugly as possible
on the occasion. In a moment she had flattened every jaunty twist
and turn out of her habiliments, and had given to herself an air of
absolute dowdyism. Her father sat by without saying a word. "Miss
O'Mahony, if I may venture to ask a question, I trust you may not be
offended."
"I suppose not as my father is present," she replied.
"Am I right in believing the engagement to be over which bound you to
Mr.--Jones?"
"You are," said Rachel, quite out loud, giving another quite
unnecessary twist to her gown.
"That obstacle is then removed?"
"Mr. Jones is removed, and has gone to Ireland." Then Mr. Moss sighed
deeply. "I can manage my singing very well without Mr.--Jones."
"Not a doubt. Not a doubt. And I have heard that you have made an
engagement in all respects beneficial with M. Le Gros, of Covent
Garden. M. Le Gros is a gentleman for whom I have a most profound
respect."
"So have I."
"Had I been at your elbow, it is possible that something better might
have been done; but two months;--they run by--oh, so quickly!"
"Quite so. If I can do any good I shall quickly get another
engagement."
"You will no doubt do a great deal of good. But Mr. Jones is now at
an end."
"Mr. Jones is at an end," said Rachel, with another blow at her gown.
"A singing girl like me does better without a lover,--especially if
she has got a father to look after her."
"That's as may be," said Mr. O'Mahony.
"That's as may be," said Mr. Moss, again laying his hand upon his
heart. The tone in which Mr. Moss repeated Mr. O'Mahony's words was
indicative of the feeling and poetry within him. "If you had a lover
such as is your faithful Moss," the words seemed to say, "no father
could look after you half so well."
"I believe I could do very well with no one to look after me."
"Of course you and I have misunderstood each other hitherto."
"Not at all," said Rachel.
"I was unaware at first that Mr. Jones was an absolute reality. You
must excuse me, but the name misled me."
"Why shouldn't a girl be engaged to a man named Jones? Jones is as
good a name as Moss, at any rate; and a deal more--" She had been
going to remark that Jones was the more Christian of the two, but
stopped herself.
"At any rate you are now free?" he said.
"No, I am not. Yes, I am. I am free, and I mean to remain so. Why
don't you tell him, father?"
"I have got nothing to tell him, my dear. You are so much better able
to tell him everything yourself."
"If you would only listen to me, Miss O'Mahony."
"You had better listen to him, Rachel."
"Very well; I will listen. Now go on." Then she again thumped
herself. And she had thumped her hair, and thumped herself all round
till she was as limp and dowdy as the elder sister of a Low Church
clergyman of forty.
"I wish you to believe, Miss O'Mahony, that my attachment to you is
most devoted." She pursed her lips together and looked straight out
of her eyes at the wall opposite. "We belong to the same class of
life, and our careers lie in the same groove." Hereupon she crossed
her hands before her on her lap, while her father sat speculating
whether she might not have done better to come out on the comic
stage. "I wish you to believe that I am quite sincere in the
expression which I make of a most ardent affection." Here again he
slapped his waistcoat and threw himself into an attitude. He was by
no means an ill-looking man, and though he was forty years old, he
did not appear to be so much. He had been a public singer all his
life, and was known by Rachel to have been connected for many years
with theatres both in London and New York. She had heard many stories
as to his amorous adventures, but knew nothing against his character
in money matters. He had, in truth, always behaved well to her in
whatever pecuniary transactions there had been between them. But he
had ventured to make love to her, and had done so in a manner which
had altogether disgusted her. She now waited till he paused for a
moment in his eloquence, and then she spoke a word.
"What about Madame Socani?"