A SOCIETY DRAMA.
In another half-hour the little playhouse was full to overflowing. Not a
seat was vacant, and scarcely an inch of space was left for the men of
the party to plant their feet upon. Gay and musical were the tones of
women's voices and laughter that rose and fell upon the scented air,
sustained and strengthened by the more manly bassos.
The theatre itself glowed in the soft effulgence of electric light, each
filament incased in a hanging crystal vase, subdued to a warm
palpitating softness by silk shades of roseate hue. Flowers bloomed
everywhere, piled in glowing masses along the walls and across the
miniature orchestra screen. The rose-houses had been stripped of their
loveliest exotics, and these rifled blossoms hung their gorgeous heads
amidst a quivering background of clinging green smilax.
On each rose-silk _fauteuil_ lay a bouquet of the golden-hued Maréchal
Niels, tied with long ribbons of palest amber, and a tiny satin
programme on which, amidst quaint device of scroll work, were inscribed
the characters and scenes of the coming drama.
The _lever de rideau_ was a masterpiece from the hand of an English
Academician, whose foreign name was better known in the two great
English-speaking countries than others boasting a more national ring.
The heavy folds of richest white silk bore testimony to the versatility
of his brain and brush, since here swept garlands of trailing roses
across a wonderful marble terrace, upon which were grouped in classic
attitudes the sisters of histrionic art, Melpomene, Thalia, and
Terpsichore.
The scene was one of luxury that had become a fine art, every detail
being in itself so faultless, it required but the completing touch of
contiguity to render it a rounded whole of perfection. The onlooker
might well pause and ask himself if the developments of wealth,
refinement, and culture, could reach a higher degree than was displayed
that evening within the walls of this miniature La Scala.
The curtain rose on the perennially new and refreshing _Box and Cox_, in
which Miss James again distinguished herself and scored her final points
to rounds of ringing laughter and spontaneous applause, which savoured
more of the "Surrey side," than of a languid _nil admirari_ audience of
this critical century. Between the farce and the serious work of the
evening music held sway, and La Diva's glorious voice captivated all
hearts and brains in Owen Meredith's "Aux Italiens," its final appealing
line rounding each verse with the pathetic cry,
"Non ti scorda di me, non ti scorda di me!"
It was during this interval that Mr. Tremain, making his appearance in
the Greenroom, found Miss Hildreth already there awaiting her first
call. She was alone for the moment, and was standing with bent head and
clasped hands, leaning against the tall carved chimney-screen that
shielded the low burning logs on the hearth.
The long folds of her first costume, a _négligée_ of Wörth's conception,
fell about her in a clinging amber sheen, across which the flots and
draperies of _duchesse_ lace fell in filmy cascades. Philip stopped
involuntarily for a moment, and looked at her. Her marvellous loveliness
struck him afresh, as, indeed, it had a habit of doing whenever he came
upon her unawares. This attribute was indeed one of Miss Hildreth's
chief charms; you forgot her actual loveliness when away from her, and
were apt to criticise not only it, but her. It was a criticism, however,
that fell to pieces at the first contact with her, and which left you
only conscious of her beauty and her fascination. You could not analyse
her when she smiled, or when her deep, tender, dark blue eyes looked
full into your own.
Miss Hildreth had not heard Philip's entrance; and he thus had an
opportunity of watching her undisturbed and unconscious. Despite the
make-up of rouge and bismuth, put on so delicately as to be almost
imperceptible, the face was at that moment a sad one. All the fire, and
life, and spirit, had gone out of it, and in their places an expression
of weariness and despondency had crept about the mouth and eyes, which
was strangely pathetic because so at variance with Miss Hildreth's usual
bearing. Even the attitude, half-listless, half-weary, bespoke a state
of mental depression and dejection.
Philip, as he watched her, recalled Miss James's unequivocal
suggestions, and almost against his will found himself speculating as to
which episode out of those ten unknown years of her life she was
lamenting at that moment. He had not been present at the tea hour, and
therefore had missed Rosalie's well-turned opportunity; but even without
that, Miss James had contrived to sow the seeds of distrust and
suspicion in his mind.
He could not look upon Patricia now without the record of those long ten
years arising between him and her; across whose closed pages what
experiences might not be written! Even her beauty became a source of
like animadversion; could any woman possessing such a face and form
count thirty years off life's score and not have drunk deep, even to
satiety, of the wine of passion, that turns even as one's lips touch the
cup's brim into the waters of Lethe? Miss James was right; those ten
years wherein Patricia had grown from girlhood to womanhood must hold
some hidden memories, into which for his peace of mind it were best he
did not look, and from whose influence, as from her personality, it were
wisest for him to detach himself at once.
He would end his visit at the Folly in a day or so, and when he left it
so would he leave behind all recollection and all knowledge of Patricia.
He desired to know nothing of her immediate past, he would refuse to be
interested in her present or her future. Only, before he bid a long
good-bye to the Folly and its inmates, he must once more see Adèle
Lamien; there was something to be said to her, and he must say it.
He moved slightly forward, and as he did so Patricia turned and looked
up. In an instant the softer and sadder shadows passed from her face,
her eyes regained their fire and light, the smile came back to her lips
and chased away the dimples in cheek and chin, the soft evanescent bloom
stole upward and renewed her youth and freshness as colour and contrast
can alone do.
Mr. Tremain came towards her grave and unsmiling, and with something of
the old dark anger on his face, that ten years ago had frightened her
and deterred her from uttering the few words of reconciliation hovering
on her lips; this anger was all the more pronounced because of his
character costume of light livery. One does not naturally associate
buckskin tops and a striped waistcoat with a countenance of gloomy
disapproval.
Miss Hildreth took in the situation at a glance, and laughed out at him,
one of her cold light mocking laughs, that angered Philip with its ring
of insincerity.
"Well, my Knight of the Rueful Countenance," she exclaimed, "you look
not only bored, but in a rage! Ah, my dear Philip, when will you learn
how foolish and _banale_ a thing it is to expend your reserve emotions
on trifles? We Americans are accused of being a race incapable of
experiencing any grand passion, either in conception or realisation.
Perhaps it is because after cultivating our sensibilities to the highest
pitch we are content to expend them on trivialities. I remember a clever
Englishman once telling me that we as a nation have no measurable idea
of passion save in the abstract; we appreciate wit and humour, subtle
argument, keen incisive reasoning, but as to the heights and depths of
one terrible all-mastering, all-absorbing emotion, it is as a dead
letter to us. Our highest expression of nervous force results in an
exaggerated friendship, or a marriage of convenience; we are simply
incapable of what the French call _une grande passion_."
She stopped with another little laugh, but Mr. Tremain made no reply, so
with the slightest possible shrug of her shoulders she continued:
"For example--and pardon my using you as a peg upon which to hang my
argument--to look at you at this moment one would declare that nothing
less than a complete collapse of the entire social system could account
for such an expression of abject wretchedness. How can one be supposed
to know that it is the result of nothing more tragic than an
ill-starched necktie, or a poor-fitting coat?"
Again she laughed, and Philip felt the blood surge up to his face at her
taunting raillery.
"I should feel honoured at being considered worthy your mockery," he
said, quickly, "only that this time I cannot plead guilty to the
impeachment; my costume, even to its insignificant details, is, I beg to
state, beyond reproach. I cannot complain even of a rumpled tie, or an
uncomfortable coat."
She shrugged her shoulders indifferently. "You are fortunate and to be
congratulated. Does not Madame de Rémusat tell us of the annoyance
caused the great Napoleon by too tight arm-holes, and of Josephine's
tears over the loss of one Cashmere, out of her two or three score? You
see, my dear Philip, even the heroes of our immediate past were not
above acknowledging their little weaknesses. Such items are the crumpled
rose-leaves and parched peas of greatness. Dare we of a lesser mould
scoff at them?"
She turned away from him as she spoke, leaving him with a decided
feeling of having been taken at a disadvantage. His call followed almost
immediately, so he had no time to reply; but the remembrance of her
mockery remained with him, and added a touch of bitterness and reality
to the situations of the play, in which he and she bore reversed
relations to those of real life.
The drama selected by Esther Newbold, _The Ladies' Battle_, is too
well-known and too great a favourite to require description. Perhaps of
all drawing-room comedies it is the most pleasing and the most
comprehensive. Those who have seen the foremost actresses of our day
personate the young and beautiful Countess d'Autreval--who is not
ashamed, though fully conscious, of her love for Henri de Flavigneul,
and who bravely relinquishes it in favour of her girlish niece, Léonie
de Villegontier--will remember what scope can be shown in the
development of that character, whose fundamental attributes seem at
first sight to be those of impulse and self-gratification.
The scenes moved on with magic smoothness and completeness, and
gradually, as the interest grew and deepened, the audience began to
realise that it was upon Miss Hildreth as the Countess, and Mr. Tremain
as Henri, that the chief influence and importance of the play
culminated. The undercurrent of suppressed antagonism that existed
between them communicated itself to the onlookers with a subtle, yet
potent power; while to those who could read the writing between the
lines, the situations assumed a potential gravity and significance.
From the moment of the Countess's soliloquy, "Now to be more than
woman," when, recognising her growing love for the young soldier, she
consults her looking-glass as the oracle which is to encourage or
dissuade her from entering the lists against Léonie, and then lays it
down with the significant line, "Ah, it has deceived so many!" to her
final act of renunciation, Patricia carried the house with her, and
left no loophole for any anti-interest or climax.
Baby Leonard made a charming Léonie. Her innocent face and
unsophisticated manner were a capital study and a clever following of
nature; but it was on Patricia Hildreth that the sympathy and sentiment
centred, and there arose almost a cry of disappointment when the curtain
dropped finally upon Léonie's happiness, at the price of the nobler
nature's self-sacrifice. Even her fellow actors felt her potency, and
Philip most of all.
He caught her hand in his as she left the flies, and detained her one
moment.
"Patty," he cried, "Patty, once more let me plead with you. Is it true,
dear--are your words something more than allegory:
'Beneath the wreath and robe, the heart unseen
Oft throbs with anguish.'
Are they true of _your_ heart, Patty, Patty?"
But she checked him with her old impatient gesture, drawing away her
hand from his close clasp, and laughing lightly, ironically.
"My dear Philip, too much simulating of passion has overturned your
habitual self-control. Fancy quoting a couplet out of a modern drama by
way of asking a question! But let me follow your lead and answer you
from the epilogue:
'Men conquer all, but women conquer men.'"
Then she passed by him still laughing, and the echo of her laughter came
back to him long after the last gleam of her silks and laces had
disappeared from sight.
A grand ball completed the celebration of George Newbold's birthday, and
those who were perforce the wall-flowers of the occasion noticed, not
without comment, that Mr. Tremain kept sedulously away from Miss
Hildreth, and that Patricia danced more often with the dark Russian
stranger than with any other of Mrs. Newbold's black-coated contingent.
Or, as the men put it afterwards in the smoking-room, that conceited,
distinguished, red-ribboned foreigner devoted himself exclusively to the
most beautiful woman of the evening, with occasional relapses to the
plainest girl.
It was thus that Miss Hildreth and Rosalie James divided the honours, if
such they could be called, of Count Vladimir Mellikoff's attentions.