THE OLD LOVER.
"My dear Dick!" Molly ran into the dining-room of her dingy
boarding-house, which was also the reception-room for visitors. "At
last! I thought you were never coming to see me again."
"It has been a long summer. I only came home last night."
"Sit down, and let me look at you." She put him in a chair, and turned
his face to the light, familiarly holding it by the chin. "You look
very well, Dick. You are browned by the summer's sun, that's all."
She released his chin, and lightly boxed his ears. They had always
been on very friendly terms, these two.
"Well, Dick, tell me about your summer. Has it been prosperous? Have
you had adventures?" She laughed, because she knew very well the kind
of adventures that this young man desired.
"Adventures come to the adventurous, Molly."
"Oh, how I envied you that day when you turned up among the tombs,
covered all over with dust, looking so fit and going so free! If I
were only a man, to go off with you on the tramp!"
"I wish you were, Molly. We would go off together. I've often thought
of it. You should carry a mandoline; I would stick to the fiddle. We
would take a room at the inn, and have a little show. You should dance
and sing and twang the mandoline. I should play the fiddle and do the
patter. We should have a rare time, Molly."
"We should, oh, we should! Do you remember that time when daddy let me
go with him, and you came too?"
"I do. I remember how charming you looked, even then! You were about
fourteen; you wore a red flannel cap. You used to take off your shoes
and stockings whenever we came to a brook, and wade in it with your
pretty bare feet."
"And we rested on the trunks of trees in the woods, and had dinner in
the open. And you talked to all the gipsies in their own language.
And one night we sat round their fire, and had some of their stew
for supper. Oh! And we listened to the birds, and made nosegays of
honeysuckle. And the people came to the inn at night while you played
the fiddle, and daddy sang comic songs and did conjuring tricks. Oh,
what a time it was!"
"And you danced. Don't forget your dance, Molly. I taught you that
dance."
The girl laughed merrily. Then she threw herself into the attitude
common to all dancing-girls in all ages and all countries--the arms
held out and the foot pointed.
"I haven't forgotten it, Dicky. I only wish I could forget it." She
sighed. "It would be better for me if I could."
"If we _could_ go away together, Molly!" He took her hand and held it.
"Don't, Dick, don't! You make me feel a longing for the road and the
country."
"There's nothing like it, Molly darlin', nothing! When the summer
comes, I'm off. All the winter I live in a lonely flat, and am
respectable."
"As respectable as you can be, Dick."
"Well, I put on dress clothes and get engagements. I don't mind, so
that in summer I can be a tramp and a rogue and a vagabond."
"Not a rogue, Dick."
"I was born behind the scenes in a circus at St. Louis before my
worthy parent ran away from his wife. It's in the blood, I suppose. I
don't care, Molly, what they say." He sprang to his feet, and began to
walk about. "There is no life like it. We don't want money; we don't
try to be gentlefolk. We're not cooped up in cages. All we've got to
do is to amuse the people. We're not stupid; we're not dull. We're
not selfish; we are contented with a little. We're never tired of it.
We're always trying some new business. My poor Molly, you're out of
it. Pity, pity!" He sat down again, shaking his head. "And you born to
it--actually born to it!"
"Well, I'm to have the next best thing to it. I'm to be an actress, at
any rate."
"An actress! Well, that's something. Tell me about it, Molly."
"A serious actress--a tragic actress. It's all settled. I'm to show
the world the real inwardness of Shakespeare. I'm to be the light and
lamp of all other actresses. I'm to be another Siddons."
"You another Siddons? Oh, Molly!" He laughed, but not convincingly.
The part of the scoffer was new to him. "You, with that face, with
those lips, with those eyes? My child, you might be another Nelly
Farren, but never another Siddons."
The girl laughed too; but only for a moment. Then she became serious.
"It's got to be, Dick. Don't tempt me. Don't make me unhappy. It would
grieve Hilarie awfully if I failed or changed my mind--which is her
mind."
"My cousin Hilarie hasn't the complete disposal of your life, has she?"
"She ought to have, because she saved my life. What should I have
done, Dick, when daddy died and left me without a penny? There are
relations about, I dare say; but I don't know where. My only chance
was to get in somewhere. You were away. What could I do? Eighteenpence
a night to go on----"
"No, no; not with that crew, Molly."
"There Hilarie found me. And she thinks she is doing the best thing in
the world for me when she gets me taught to be a tragedy queen."
"You shall be a great actress, Molly. You shall rake in fifty pounds a
week, and you shall wear long chains of diamonds, if you like."
"I've got ambition enough, if that counts for anything. I like that
part of it where the great actress sweeps across the stage, with all
the people shouting and clapping. Why, when daddy took me to the
pit, and I used to watch the leading lady marching majestically--like
this--with her long train, sweeping it back--so--I resolved to be an
actress. And when she spoke the lines, I didn't care twopence about
the sense, if they had any; I was thinking all the time how grand she
looked, and how splendid it must be to have all the world in love with
you."
"You shall have it, Molly--if you like, that is. You were always ready
to think about fellows being in love with you, were you not?"
"Why not? The stories and the plays and the songs are all about love.
A girl can't help wanting all the world to be in love with her. At the
theatre I used to see love and admiration on every man's face. The
women's faces were not so full of love, I noticed."
"Oh, you noticed that, did you? At so early an age? Wonderful!"
"And now, Dick, now, you see, I've found out that it means work; and
after all the work it may mean failure. Sometimes I think--Dick, I
don't mind saying everything to you--girls who are beautiful--like me,
in my way--were never intended to work; they were to be rewarded for
their good looks by--you know--the prince, Dick."
"Sometimes it comes off," Dick replied thoughtfully. "There was
Claribel Winthrop--Jane Perks her real name was--in one of my country
companies; she married a young lord. But she worked desperately hard
for it. All of us looked on and backed her up. It might come off that
way; but I should be sorry, Molly. You're born for better things; you
ought to have an empty purse."
"What should you say, Dick, if it was to come off that way?"
"Is there a young lord, then? Already?" He changed colour.
"He isn't a lord, but he is not far off, Dick; and I can have him if I
like."
"What sort of a fellow, Molly? Oh, be very careful. It is the devil
and all if he isn't the right sort. Do you like him?" His face twisted
as if he could not find it in his heart to like him.
"He's a baronet. He's young. He wants to conceal things. His mother
doesn't like show folk. He thinks most people are cads. He's rich."
"You don't mean to say it's that cousin of mine--not Sir Humphrey?"
She nodded her head. "You don't like him, I know. I'm afraid he's got
a temper, and I don't know if I shall be able to put up with him."
"You haven't promised, have you?"
"He says I have. But I haven't, really. I am always reminding him that
there is still time to draw back. But, Dick, think! To have plenty of
money! To be independent!"
Dick groaned. "It's the greatest temptation in the world. Eve's apple
was made of gold, and after she'd got it she couldn't eat it. You
think of that, Molly. You can't eat a golden apple. Now, I could give
you a real delicious Ribstone pippin." He sat down beside her, and
took her hand again. "It's very serious, my dear." It is the manner
of the stage to address the ladies so. It means nothing. Whether it
is also the manner to take their hands, I know not. "You must be very
careful, Molly. Will my other cousin, Hilarie, advise?"
"It's a secret, so far. But don't think about it, Dick. I've got to
please Hilarie first. The young man will have to be considered next."
"Well, if there's nothing fixed---- Molly, I don't like the fellow, I
own. I don't like any of the lot who talk about outsiders and cads, as
if they were a different order. Still, if it makes you happy--Molly,
I swear there's nothing I wouldn't consent to if it would make you
happy." The tears stood in his eyes.
"My dear Dick," she said. "There's nobody cares for me so much as
you." And the tears stood in her eyes as well.
The young man let go her hand, and stood up. "That's enough, Molly--so
long as we understand. Now tell me about the studies. Are you really
working?"
"Really working. But, oh, Dick, my trouble is that the harder I work
the more I feel as if it isn't there. I do exactly what I am told to
do, and it doesn't come off."
"But when you used to sing and dance----"
"Oh, anybody could make people laugh."
The actor groaned. "She says--anybody! And she can do it! And they put
her into tragedy!"
"Whenever I try to feel the emotion myself, it vanishes, and I can
only feel myself in white satin, with a long train sweeping to the
back of the stage, and all the house in love with me."
"This is bad; this is very bad, Molly."
"See, here, Dick, I'm telling you all my troubles. I am studying the
part of Desdemona--you know, Desdemona who married a black man. How
could she?--and of course he was jealous. I've got to show all kinds
of emotion before that beast of a husband kills me."
"It's a fine part--none finer. Once I saw it played magnificently.
She was in a travelling company, and she died of typhoid, poor thing!
Yes, I can see her now." He acted as he spoke. "She was full of
forebodings; her husband was cold; her distress of mind was shown in
the way she took up trifles, and put them down again; she spoke she
knew not what, and sang snatches of song; in her eyes stood tears; her
voice trembled; she moved about uneasily; she clutched at her dress in
agitation.
"'The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow.'"
"Why," cried the girl, "you make me feel it--you--only with talking
about it! And I--alas! Have I any feeling in me at all, Dick?"
"Oh yes, it's there--it's there all right. There's tragedy in the most
unpromising materials, if you know how to get at it. I think a woman's
got to be in love first. It's a very fine thing for an actress to fall
in love--the real thing, I mean. Then comes jealousy, of course. And
after that, all the real tragedy emotions."
"Oh, love!" the girl repeated with scorn.
"Try again now; you know the words."
Molly began to repeat the lines--
"My mother had a maid called Barbara;
She was in love, and he she loved proved mad,
And forsook her; she had a song of 'Willow.'"
She declaimed these lines with certain gestures which had been taught
her. She broke off, leaving the rest unfinished.
The effect was wooden. There was no pity, no sorrow, no foreboding in
the lines at all. Dick shook his head.
"What am I to say to Hilarie?" she asked.
Dick passed his fingers through his hair. Then he sat down again, and
began to laugh--laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.
"You a tragedy queen!" he said. "Not even if you were over head and
ears in love. Now, on the other hand, if I had my fiddle in my hand,
and were to play--so--that air which you remember"--he put out his
legs straight and sat upright, and pretended the conduct of a fiddle
and bow--"could you dance, do you think, as you used to dance two
years ago?"
She stood before him, seeming to listen. Then she gently moved her
head as if touched by the music. Then she raised her arms and began to
dance, with such ease and grace and lightness as can only belong to
the dancer born.
"Thank you, Molly." He stood up as if the music was over. "We shall
confer further upon this point--and other points. When may I come
again to visit Miss Molly Pennefather?"
He caught her head in his hands and kissed her gaily on her
forehead--after all, he had no more manners than can be expected of a
tramp--and vanished.
"If Dick could only play 'Desdemona'!" she murmured, looking after him
at the closed door. "Why, he actually _looked_ the part. I suppose
he has been in love. If I could only do it so!" She imitated his
gestures, and broke out into singing--
"The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow."
"No," she said; "it won't do. I don't feel a bit like Desdemona. I
am only myself, and I am filled with the most unholy longing for
money--for riches, for filthy lucre, which we are told to despise."
Her eyes fell upon a newspaper, folded and lying on the floor. It had
probably dropped out of Dick's pocket. She took it up mechanically,
and opened it, expecting nothing. The sheet was one of the gossipy
papers of the day, full of personal paragraphs. She glanced at it,
thinking of the paragraphs about herself and her grand success, which
would probably never appear, unless she could transform herself.
Presently her eye caught the word "millionaire," and she read--
"Among the _nouveaux riches_--the millionaires of the
West--we must not, as Englishmen, forget to enumerate Mr.
John Haveril, who has made his money partly by transactions
in silver-mines, and partly by the sudden creation of a
town on his own lands. He is said to be worth no more than
two or three millions sterling, so that he is not in the
very front rank of American rich men. Still, there is a
good deal of spending, even in so moderate a fortune. Mr.
Haveril is by birth an Englishman and a Yorkshireman. He
was born about sixty years ago, and emigrated about the
year '55. His wife is also of English origin, having been
born at Hackney. Her maiden name was Alice Pennefather."
Molly looked up in bewilderment. "There can't be two people of that
name!" she said. She went on with the paper--
"They have no children to inherit their wealth. They have
arrived in London, and have taken rooms at the Hôtel
Métropole."
That was all. She put the paper on the table. "Alice Pennefather!
Why, she must be the Alice who disappeared--Dad's first cousin! But
Alice married an actor named Anthony; Dad gave her away. He often
wondered what had become of her. This Mr. Haveril is a second husband,
I suppose. And now she's a millionairess! I think I might go and call
upon her at the Hôtel Métropole. I will."