THE NOTORIOUS BELLE YORKE
Miss Yorke was out, but the servant, whose dishevelled coiffure
indicated that she had been interrupted in the midst of her afternoon
toilette, thought that Miss Yorke would be in directly. Would the
gentleman like to step in and wait?
The gentleman accepted the invitation, giving his name as Hammond. He
found himself in one of those curious apartments characteristic of the
suburbs of London, and known as parlors, a word believed to be derived
from the French. Like the rooms of state in Buckingham Palace, the
parlor does not enter into the daily life of the household, but is
reserved for occasions of ceremony, and more particularly, as its name
indicates to the learned, for interviews with visitors. The parlor of
the notorious Belle Yorke was more old-fashioned in appearance than
most rooms of its class. The furniture was veneered in rosewood. There
was a round table in the centre, covered with a cloth over which the
deadly gift-book and the paralyzing parlor-game were disposed with a
carelessness which spoke of greater care. There was a sofa, attired
in a chintz dressing-gown. There were two easy-chairs flanking the
fireplace, one with arms for the gentleman, and one without for the
lady, as in old crinoline days, and there were six little chairs to
match, all irresistibly suggestive of one of those ancient tombs on
which the father and mother are represented kneeling opposite each
other, each with a row of children behind. There was a species of
disguised wash-stand, called a chiffonnier, ranged against one side of
the room, and a piano against another. The walls were hung with prints,
chiefly Scriptural subjects, among which the place of honor was taken
by an engraving representing the marriage of the Prince and Princess of
Wales. It was a scene of primeval simplicity and Nonconformist peace.
Hammond looked about him with a sense of intrusion, as he found himself
for the first time in Belle Yorke’s home. It was utterly unlike
anything he had expected to find. Belle Yorke lived in that part of
Hammersmith which had not yet succeeded in covering itself with flats
and calling itself West Kensington. The house outside was small and
unpretentious; but so are the outsides of many houses which are gay
enough within. Miss Yorke’s appearance on the boards was too recent
for her yet to have furnished a miniature palace and set up a brougham
on the proceeds of the public favor. But the domestic, old-fashioned
air which pervaded the whole place came on Hammond as a surprise and a
rebuke.
The servant who had just shown him in asked a question which further
opened his eyes.
“Would you like to see Mrs. Yorke, sir?”
Hammond started.
“Is that Miss Yorke’s mother?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does she live here?”
The servant opened her eyes.
“Lor’, yes, sir! This is ’er ’ouse!”
Hammond considered for a minute.
“Well, you can tell Mrs. Yorke I am here, if you like.”
The servant nodded and went out, leaving him to his reflections.
In love, as in war, there is an armed neutrality when the period
of friendship has passed away, but neither side is yet ready for a
declaration. Just such a stage had been reached in the joint history of
John Hammond and Belle Yorke.
He had met her in Bohemia, that pleasant country which the passing
tourist sees only in its brightest garb, when the trees are green
in the valleys and the vines are ripening in the warm sunshine. The
manners of Bohemia are freer than those of other lands, and among
that friendly folk the course of acquaintanceship between a man and a
woman is not curbed and governed and interpreted quite as it is in the
dominions of society.
So the millionaire had drifted into a friendship with the music-hall
singer without any after-thought; and when the after-thought had
gradually grown up of its own accord, he had found it the most
comfortable plan to shut his eyes to it and make believe it was not
there.
If he had been ten years younger, the Marchioness of Severn might have
despaired of her son-in-law. But he had come to that age when life
begins to change its aspect; when the white blossom of romance with
which it tempts the eye of youth begins to shed its petals, and the red
fruit of ambition is disclosed. John Hammond was still young enough to
love, but he was old enough to count the cost.
For some time he had been doing his best to convince himself that he
had not the slightest intention of marrying Belle Yorke. He had grown
more and more assured of this; and, naturally, the more confident he
became of his resolution to give her up, the more her charm for him
increased. He set up the old, old debtor-and-creditor account between
prudence and inclination. He did penance for his friendship with Belle
Yorke by his flirtation with Lady Victoria Mauleverer, and repaid
himself for his attentions to Lord Severn’s daughter with a smile from
the singer.
To a man in such a state of self-deception Despencer’s poison came as
a tonic. His wrath at hearing her attacked, and the necessity he felt
of being able to rebut the accusation, were the measure of his love for
the woman he had resolved never to love.
It was twenty-four hours since the little episode at the Marchioness of
Severn’s. Hammond’s blunt contradiction had glided harmless off the
imperturbable Despencer, who had murmured some vague apology and made
his escape, leaving his sting behind. There was no wisdom in rubbing it
in then. It was better to let it rankle during the interval before the
concert. It was then that Despencer intended to play out his winning
cards.
Despencer’s words had been the first intimation to Hammond of the
existence of any such ill report. Promptly as he had spurned it, the
incident had served to remind him roughly of how little he really knew
of this girl who had come to hold such a large place in his life. He
had seen much of her in Bohemia, enough for those lookers-on who always
see our motives and aims so much more clearly than we do ourselves to
write him down her lover. But then no one lives altogether in Bohemia.
Even the oldest inhabitants are only migratory; like the swallows,
they have their seasons of coming and of flight, and who knows in
what strange lands they spend the other periods of their existence!
Intimate as they were in that sunlit region, Hammond felt that there
were reserves in the singer’s life. One of those reserves was her home,
which she had steadily avoided showing him. He knew as little of her
private life, indeed, as any stranger in the stalls who heard her sing.
He had come away from the house in Berkeley Square resolving to dismiss
the slander from his mind. He spent the next night and morning in the
vain effort, and in the afternoon he came to Belle Yorke’s house. It
was not till he found himself waiting alone in the little parlor,
surrounded by the Scriptural prints and parlor games, that Hammond
began to ask himself what madness had brought him to such a place with
any thought of evil in his heart.
He was not left alone for very long. He heard steps outside, and the
sound of the door-handle turning in the lock. He rose to his feet,
expecting to see Belle Yorke’s mother. Instead there entered a small
boy in knickerbockers, apparently about twelve or thirteen years of age.
The boy seemed to be quite as much surprised to see Hammond as Hammond
was to see him. He stood in the doorway, frankly staring at the
visitor. Hammond had time to notice that he wore a black cloth band on
the sleeve of his plain homespun jacket.
“Come in, my boy; don’t be afraid,” he said, with that awkward
patronage by which grown-up people render themselves so supremely
ridiculous to the intelligent modern child.
“I’m not afraid,” the boy replied, boldly, advancing into the room.
“Why should I be afraid of you?”
It was not a question which the man found it easy to reply to. He
smiled, and then asked, rather lamely:
“And what might your name be?”
The justly offended youth retorted mercilessly:
“It might be Napoleon Bonaparte, but, as it happens, it’s Robert
Mainwaring Yorke.”
Hammond felt that he had put himself in the wrong. He tried to address
the boy like one on his own level.
“I called here to see Miss Belle Yorke. She is your sister, I suppose?”
Robert Mainwaring Yorke had not yet lost his sense of irritation.
“Well, you don’t think she’s my mother, do you?” he replied, with
severity. “She’s my eldest sister,” he condescended to explain.
“Oh, then there are several of you?” said Hammond, wonderingly. It was
the first time he had ever heard of Belle Yorke’s family.
“What do you think?” returned the boy. “There’s Lizzie--that’s
my second sister; and Arthur--he’s a year younger than me; and
Reggie--he’s a year younger; and the kid--he’s only four. Anything else
you’d like to know?”
“And who is Mr. Yorke?” asked Hammond.
“I’m Mr. Yorke.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Hammond began, and then, catching
sight of the black band, stopped, as though he had bitten his tongue.
“Father’s dead,” Mr. Yorke explained, unconcernedly. “He died last
winter, and I’m the head of the family.”
“I didn’t know; I beg your pardon. Your sister is not in mourning.”
“He wasn’t her father. Belle’s only my half-sister. Her father died
when she was a kid.”
“I see. And I suppose your mother married again?”
“I suppose so, or I shouldn’t be here.”
A fresh thought occurred to Hammond. If what the boy said was true,
he did not even know Belle Yorke’s real name. He was on the point of
putting a question to the boy, but restrained himself. He had no right
to seek that information from any one but Belle Yorke herself.
Mr. Yorke seized the opportunity to put in a word for the absent.
“Mind you, I look on Belle as just as good as a whole sister,” he
remarked. “I don’t make any difference.”
Hammond smiled.
“She is kind to you, then?” At least he might have the pleasure of
listening to Belle Yorke’s praise.
“Well, I don’t know that you can call it kind,” said the boy, with
another touch of resentment at the implied inferiority. “She’s just
like any other sister. She knits my stockings for me, and does whatever
I want her to. She’s not a bad sort.”
“She must be fond of you,” observed the man, gazing at the ungrateful
little wretch with wondering amusement.
“Yes, oh, she’s fond of me! When I had the chicken-pox she took me to
Brighton for a fortnight, all at her own expense, and stayed with me
all the time, and wouldn’t go out anywhere, though she had lots of
invitations. Belle’s very good in that way.”
The man felt a strong inclination to shake Belle Yorke’s callous
brother, as he thus grudgingly praised her. It was with an uneasy,
self-reproachful feeling that he put the next question:
“Your sister must make a good many friends by her singing?”
Mr. Yorke nodded superciliously.
“Yes; but she doesn’t care much for that lot; they’re not very
respectable, we think. We don’t like her going on the stage at all; but
she wanted to do something to earn her living. As soon as ever I’m a
man, and get rich, I’m going to take her out of that and have her live
with me.”
Hammond looked up, pleased.
“Why, the little chap’s a brick, after all!” he mentally ejaculated.
“She’ll make a very good housekeeper,” concluded Mr. Yorke.
Hammond started to his feet.
“I can’t question this child,” he said to himself. And turning to the
boy, he said, abruptly: “Will you ask your mother if I can see her?”
Mr. Yorke instantly responded to the tone of authority and became
respectful.
“Yes, sir,” he answered, and promptly went out of the room.
“By Heaven, I have a great mind to bolt!” exclaimed Hammond as the door
closed. “I feel like a miserable spy.”
Before he could act on his impulse the door opened again, and Belle
Yorke’s mother came in.
Hammond rose. He saw before him a woman who had once been eminently
handsome. She was dressed in the deep mourning of a widow, and to this
fact, perhaps, was due the impression of melancholy produced by her
appearance. She looked at him with large, apprehensive eyes, as she
murmured the conventional expressions which people exchange when they
meet. But she did not offer him her hand.
As soon as both were seated, Mrs. Yorke said:
“I understand you have called to see my daughter?”
“Yes. Perhaps she has mentioned my name to you some time?”
“She has. She has often spoken of you. But she didn’t tell me that you
were coming here.”
Hammond bit his lip.
“You mean, she told you that I was not coming--that she had discouraged
me from visiting her?”
“No, no; I didn’t mean that,” Mrs. Yorke stammered. “I am sure that
there is no one whom my daughter would be more pleased to see here than
you, if she received any visitors at all outside our friends in the
neighborhood. But she has made it a fixed rule not to invite any of the
acquaintances she makes on the stage to come here.”
Hammond listened to this explanation with a feeling of relief. It
was something to find that if he were excluded the exclusion was not
personal to him.
“Please deal frankly with me, Mrs. Yorke,” he said. “If you think Miss
Yorke would consider my visit an intrusion, tell me so, and I will go
away before she comes.”
“Not an intrusion; that is scarcely the word. But I am afraid she will
be disturbed at finding you here.”
“But why? Surely there is no harm in a friend like myself calling on
her beneath her own mother’s roof?”
Mrs. Yorke gave a questioning glance at him.
“I hardly know what to say to you, Mr. Hammond. You call yourself my
daughter’s friend, but what do you really know about her?”
Hammond was silenced. He recalled the discovery that he had just made,
that he did not even know the true name of the girl whom he had come
to question, and he began to feel vaguely uncomfortable. He answered,
rather lamely:
“I can only say that it is my greatest ambition that you and your
daughter should include me among your friends.”
Mrs. Yorke shook her head with a resolution that had a certain sadness
in it.
“How can you be our friend? What is there in common between you and us?
It would have been better if you had not come here, Mr. Hammond.”
“Why do you say that?” he protested. “Why should you think it necessary
to keep me at arm’s length like this?”
“Surely you must see that for yourself. You know well enough what the
world thinks of such friendships between a gentleman in your position
and a singer on the music-hall stage. What impression would it make on
your mind, if you found my daughter receiving the visits of one of
your society friends?”
Hammond was staggered by this unconscious reference to his own doubts.
He could only reply:
“That would depend on many things--for instance, whether I believed him
to be actuated by the same motives as myself.”
“I do not see what difference his motives could make. It is impossible
for me to look upon attentions from one in your position as likely to
lead to any good result.”
“But why not?” Hammond pleaded, earnestly. “It is true that, as you
say, I know but little of Miss Yorke. But that little has been enough
to make me wish to know more. Is there any reason why I should not? I
will be plain with you, on condition that you will be plain with me. Is
there any reason why you should not allow me to visit your house on the
footing of one who means to ask you for your daughter’s hand?”
Mrs. Yorke recoiled. Instead of showing common surprise at the
question, or that gratification which the ordinary mother feels when
such words are addressed to her by a man far her child’s superior in
wealth and station, an anxious, frightened look came into her eyes.
“No, you must not think of that!” she exclaimed, hastily; and then
added, in a calmer tone: “Such a marriage would be impossible. The
difference between her and you is too great.”
“It has been crossed before now,” returned Hammond. “If you have no
better reason for your refusal than that, I shall stay.” And he settled
himself firmly in his chair.
Mrs. Yorke wrung her hands.
“Why do you compel me like this? I have another reason--don’t ask me
what it is!--for telling you that this cannot be.”
Hammond started, and gazed at her with a new apprehension, not less
than her own. He could scarcely muster up courage to put his next
question.
“I must ask you. You have gone too far, and I have gone too far, to
draw back now.”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Then I shall ask your daughter herself.”
“No, anything but that!” She rose to her feet, trembling. “I beg you, I
ask you as a gentleman, to go, and leave us.”
Hammond rose dismayed. He had taken two steps towards the door when it
was thrown open and Belle Yorke stood revealed on the threshold.
The notorious Belle Yorke did not look the part. People said it was her
air of bright, girlish innocence, so foreign to the footlights, which
was the secret of her success. When she tripped on to the stage from
behind the painted side scenes, looking as if she had just come out
of some rustic cottage in that far-off land called “the country,” and
began singing one of her simple ballads, in a voice clear and fresh as
the tinkle of a brook among the hills, they said it was the contrast
with all her surroundings which caused such a thrill of emotion to go
through the jaded audience. Of course no one believed that it was real
innocence and real freshness. Belle Yorke was simply a little more
clever than her professional sisters, and had thought out a “turn”
which had the advantage of novelty; that was all. But it was very well
done, so well that some quite hardened men of the world were ashamed
afterwards to recall how far they had yielded to the spell. They
declared that she made up better than any other woman on the stage, and
that hers was the art which conceals art, except, of course, from such
complete judges as themselves.
Those who had met her off the stage found, to their surprise, perhaps
to their disappointment, that Belle Yorke seen close at hand was
very much like Belle Yorke upon the boards. She was not to be found
drinking brandy in the bar while she was waiting for her turn to go
on. She did not go from the music-hall to a fashionable restaurant,
and sit in public with a group of male admirers round her. She was
generally seen slipping out quietly and going off on foot, or, if she
found herself threatened with companionship, she took refuge in a cab.
There was clearly some mystery underneath such conduct, and the mystery
could be of only one kind.
Belle Yorke was friendly but not familiar with her stage associates.
Perhaps there is no course which gives more offence than that. It is
much easier to forgive downright rudeness than the perfect courtesy
which makes others keep their distance. Some of the affronted ones were
women, and the charity of women for women, as a rule, is not of the
kind which covereth a multitude of sins. The eyes that began to watch
Belle Yorke were robbed of sleep by jealousy. Something like a throb
of exultation went through the ranks of those to whom Belle Yorke’s
innocence was a stumbling-block when it was discovered that Belle Yorke
had a friend.
Mr. Despencer, to do him justice, had not invented, nor had he
originated, the report which he had mentioned to the marchioness, and
repeated to Hammond. It goes without saying that he believed it to be
true. Such reports are like Euclid’s axioms: no one requires to have
them demonstrated. It had not even occurred to him that he was doing
an injury to Belle Yorke in repeating it; nor did it injure her in the
eyes of the public, nor in those of the managers of the music-halls.
What a woman loses in reputation she gains in celebrity. As soon as
Belle Yorke’s manager heard that she was protected by the Marquis of
Severn he rubbed his hands and silently raised her salary.
When Belle Yorke opened the door and saw who was in her mother’s parlor
she stood still, betrayed into a stifled cry and a blush that would not
be stifled. Then she stepped in slowly, and laid down on the table
some paper bags which she was carrying in her hands.
A pang of compunction shot through Hammond’s breast as she raised her
eyes to his. There was something in Belle Yorke’s eyes which touched
most people. They were always laughing, and yet somehow it always
seemed as though they were laughing in order to keep themselves from
tears. Looking into their clear depths, the man felt ashamed of his
errand, and ashamed of his presence there, and he stood before her
unable to speak.
It was she who found words first.
“This is too bad of you, Mr. Hammond! You had no business to come here.
You know I don’t allow it.”
But there was something in the voice that undid the reproach of the
words. Hammond’s courage came back to him again.
“I have no defence to make,” he answered, in the same light vein. “The
temptation was too strong for me, and I yielded to it. I plead the
First Offenders’ Act.”
Belle turned gayly to her mother, who had concealed, by a strong
effort, all traces of her recent agitation.
“What punishment shall we give him? I think, sir, you shall be
sentenced to stay to tea.”
She opened the paper bags, and produced a store of those fearful and
wonderful delicacies variously named crumpets, or pikelets, and said to
have been invented by a member of the medical profession.
“You see you are in luck. To-day is Bobby’s birthday, and we are going
to have a cake and all sorts of luxuries.”
Hammond began to feel like a man in a dream. He had walked straight
out of tragedy into comedy. He had come to Hammersmith in search of an
answer to the most terrible question which can present itself to a man
who loves a woman, and he found himself in the midst of a children’s
tea-party. Perhaps this was the answer, the best of answers, to the
doubt which had striven to effect a lodgment in his mind. Sitting
there, in the midst of Belle Yorke’s little brothers and sisters, as
they trooped into the feast, watching her feed the hungry swarm, he
found his dark thoughts dying away of themselves. Such an atmosphere
was fatal to them; they could not live in it.
So the millionaire forgot his millions and his marchionesses and his
ambitions, and threw himself into the spirit of the festival with such
cordiality that he won the children’s hearts. Mr. Yorke, forgetting
his former animosity, cut him the biggest slice of the birthday-cake
with his own hands, and edified him with a full, true, and particular
account of his exploits on the football field in that famous match
between the Hammersmith Juniors and the Brook Green Stars, which is now
matter of history. Master Reginald Yorke insisted on sitting on the
stranger’s knee, and sharing with him the contents of a paper of brown
sweetmeats, highly flavored with peppermint, which he called bull’s
eyes. Belle’s grateful looks repaid him for his submission to these
outrages, and when he rose reluctantly to go away he felt there was a
new tie between them, stronger than there had been before.
“May I come to tea again, some time?” he pleaded, as she went with him
to the door.
“When you are asked,” said Belle.