A PERILOUS PROTEGEE.
EVEN the icy December blast, which buffeted Mr. Desmond, as his hansom
descended the Islingtonian Mont Blanc, could not blow away his sense
of impotent indignation against the Nemesis who had presided over
the youth of Miss Alford. His slumbers were rendered restless by the
thought of her wrongs; and the picture of a desolate girl, travelling
alone through a bleak wintry landscape, was the first image that
presented itself to his mind when he awoke.
He disposed of his breakfast in about ten minutes, and from nine to
half-past eleven worked at his desk as even he rarely worked. For
scarcely any one but a helpless girl, whose sorrows had enlisted all
his sympathy, would the editor of the _Areopagus_ have sacrificed
the noon of a business day. He glanced with a guilty look at a pile of
proofs that lay unread amongst his chaos of papers, and then departed
to keep his appointment with Lucy.
He took her to the prison, and was present during the interview between
father and daughter. Lucy’s tenderness and sweetness touched him to
the heart. Never before had he seen such patience, such unselfish
affection; never had he imagined so perfect a type of womanhood.
“And she will go to that country theatre, utterly friendless and alone,
to sing the ‘Cat’s-meat Man,’ and to dance a cellar-flap breakdown,”
Mr. Desmond said to himself, as he stood in the background, watching
this Grecian Daughter of Ball’s Pond, who would have given her heart’s
best blood for the captive father, upon whose neck she hung so fondly.
“I would rather see her under the wheels of Juggernaut than dancing a
cellar-flap breakdown,” thought Mr. Desmond. And at this moment there
arose in Laurence Desmond’s mind a desperate resolution. He would do
something--he knew not what, but something--to prevent any further
dancing of cellar-flap breakdowns on the part of Miss Alford. During
that brief interview of the preceding night his quick eye had noted
a mysterious rose-coloured satin garment of the tunic family lying
on a table beside a shabby little workbox and a paper of spangles,
whereby he opined that Miss Alford had been sewing spangles upon
this rose-coloured garment, and that it was to be worn by her in the
character of Gennaro, together with a pair of little rose-coloured
silk boots, very much the worse for wear, but laboriously darned, and
renovated by spangles.
“She might surely be a nursery-governess--a companion to some kind
elderly lady; anything would be better than the ‘Cat’s-meat Man,’”
he said to himself; and, being prone to act with promptitude and
decision in all the affairs of life, he broke ground with Miss
Alford immediately after leaving the prison. They had travelled from
Islington in a cab; but as it was a fine clear day, and as Lucy seemed
to consider walking no hardship, he offered her his arm, and began
the homeward journey on foot. He wanted to talk seriously to her,
undistracted by the rattle of a cab.
“Are you very fond of acting?” he began.
“Oh yes, Mr. Desmond; I love it dearly, when I play my own
parts--Pauline and Julia--Juliet and Ophelia, you know.”
“Yes; but there is so much hardship, so many discouragements.”
“I do not mind either hardship or discouragement,” the girl answered,
bravely.
“Not now perhaps, while you are very young and very hopeful; but the
day must come when----”
“Oh don’t, please don’t!” cried Lucy, piteously. “You are talking
like Mrs. M’Grudder. ‘Wait till you’ve been in the profession as long
as I have, my dear,’ she says, ‘and then you’ll know what it is to
be an actress. Look at me, and see where I am, after five-and-twenty
years’ slavery; and _I_ had talent, when _I_ began;’ and she
lays such an insulting emphasis on the ‘I’ and makes me feel utterly
wretched for the rest of the evening, unless I get a little more
applause than usual to give me courage. There is a chimney-sweep, a
regular playgoer, at Market Deeping, who is said to be quite the king
of the gallery--all the other gallery people form their opinion by his,
you know; and I believe he likes me. He always gives me a reception.”
“A reception?”
“Yes; he applauds me when I first come on;--that is a reception, you
know; and a good reception puts one in spirits for the whole evening.
The sweep cries ‘Bravo,’ or ‘Brayvo’ as _he_ calls it, poor
fellow; and then they all applaud.”
Her face quite softened as she thought of the chimney-sweep, and
Laurence Desmond watched her with a smile, half pitying, half
amused--she seemed such a childish creature, in her ignorant
hopefulness, and dependence on the approbation of chimney-sweeps.
“I should be very sorry to seem as disagreeable to you, as Mrs.
M’Grudder does,” he said, presently; “but I am very deeply interested
in your career--for auld lang syne, you know--and I want to discuss
your prospects seriously. I do not think the stage, as it is at present
constituted, offers a brilliant prospect for any woman. Of course there
are exceptional circumstances, and there is exceptional talent; but,
unhappily, exceptional talent does not always win its reward unless
favoured by exceptional circumstances. Your surroundings are against
you, my dear Miss Alford. Your father’s ignorance of the dramatic
world, your own inexperience of any world except the world of books,
must tell against you when you fight for precedence with people who
have been born and bred at the side-scenes of a theatre. The prizes
in the dramatic profession are very few, and the blanks are the most
worthless of all ciphers. And for the chance of winning one of these
rare prizes you must stake so much. Even in these enlightened days,
there are prejudiced people who hold in abhorrence the profession
of Garrick and the Kembles, of Mrs. Pritchard and Mrs. Kean; and by
and by, when you have failed, perhaps, to realize one of the bright
hopes that sustain you now, and have entered upon some other career,
malicious people will reproach you with your dramatic associations, and
discredit the truth and purity of your nature, because you tried to
support your father by the patient exercise of your talents and your
industry. You see _I_ know what the world is, Lucy, and know that
it can be a very hard and bitter world; above all things, bitter for a
woman whose youth is unguarded by any natural protector.”
Miss Alford looked at him wonderingly. “I have papa,” she said. “What
other protector can I want?”
“Your papa loves you very fondly, I have no doubt; but his
circumstances do not enable him to----”
“You mean that he is poor?” Lucy interposed, a little wounded.
“No, it is not of his poverty I am thinking, but of his inexperience.
In all matters relating to the profession you have chosen, your father
is as inexperienced as yourself. He cannot help you, as other girls who
aspire for dramatic success are helped by those about them.”
“Yes, that is quite true,” answered the girl, rather sadly; “but I
hope to succeed in spite of that. And by and by, when I get a London
engagement, and have a salary of three or four pounds a week, papa and
I can live in nice lodgings, and be very happy.”
“And you really like your theatrical life, with all its difficulties;
even with its Mrs. M’Grudders?”
“I like it so much, that neither Mrs. M’Grudder nor you can discourage
me,” answered Lucy. “I know that you speak very kindly, and that you
are the best and most generous of friends; but I cannot tell you how it
pains me to hear you run down the profession.”
This was a difficulty which Mr. Desmond had never contemplated. In a
moment of generous feeling, he had resolved to rescue this fair young
flower from the foul atmosphere in which her freshness was fading,
and, behold! the fair young flower rejoiced in that unwholesome
atmosphere, and refused to be restored to loftier and purer regions.
He would have snatched this brand from the burning, but the brand
preferred to remain in Tophet. For the first time in his life, Mr.
Desmond understood the nature of that midsummer madness which affects
the ignorant aspirant for dramatic fame; for the first time he beheld
what it was to be “stage-struck.” If he had been talking to a young
actress, familiar from the cradle with the mysteries of her art, she
would have heartily coincided with his abuse of “the profession;” but
Lucy Alford was fresh from the little parlour at Henley, where she
had rehearsed Shakspeare, Sheridan Knowles, and Bulwer Lytton, before
the looking-glass, in a fever of poetic feeling, and she had all the
amateur’s fond, ignorant love of her art.
She knew that Mr. Desmond meant kindly by her, but she was cruelly
affected by the tenor of his advice. “_Et tu, Brute_,” she said to
herself, sadly. So many people had tortured and tormented her by their
dismal croakings about the career she had chosen; and now he, even he,
the friend who had promised to help her, went over to the enemy, and
spoke to her in the accents of M’Grudder. She had been very happy that
morning as they drove to Whitecross Street--yes, actually happy--though
the father she loved was languishing in captivity; but her heart sank
with a new despondency as she walked by Mr. Desmond’s side after this
serious conversation.
Was it all true that people had told her? she asked herself; was there
no such thing as success possible for her, let her study never so
diligently, and labour never so industriously? And then she thought of
Mrs. Siddons, who appeared in London, young, beautiful, gifted, only
to fail ignominiously, and then went quietly back to her provincial
drudgery, and plodded on with inimitable patience, to return in due
time and take the town by storm. It was from the consideration of this
little history she was wont to obtain consolation when depressed by the
advice of her acquaintance; but even this failed to console her to-day.
Discouragement from Laurence Desmond seemed more depressing than from
any one else. Was he not her kindest--nay, indeed, her only--friend,
and could she doubt the sincerity of his counsel?
The tears gathered slowly in her downcast eyes as she walked silently
by his side, thinking thus; but she contrived to brush those unbidden
tears away, almost unseen by her companion. Almost, but not quite
unseen. Laurence saw that she was depressed, and he had a faint
suspicion that she had been crying; and immediately his heart smote
him, and he was angry with himself for the recklessness with which his
rude hand had smitten down her airy castle.
“Poor little girl!” he said to himself, very sadly; “and she really
thinks that she will be a great actress some day, and win her reward
for all the patient drudgery of the present. Well, she must keep her
day-dream, since it is so dear. Mine shall not be the hand to let in
the common light of reason on her dream-world. But I am very sorry for
her, notwithstanding.”
And hereupon Mr. Desmond tried to cheer his companion with much
pleasant and hopeful talk; and the innocent young face brightened, and
the shy, blue eyes glanced up at him with a grateful look which went
straight to his heart, whither, indeed, all this girl’s unsophisticated
words and looks seemed to go.
“She is born to melt the hearts of men,” he said to himself; “a tender,
Wordsworthian creature--plaintive, and grateful, and confiding. She
will make a very sweet Juliet, if she ever acquire dramatic tact and
power; but I cannot endure the preliminary ordeal of the ‘Cat’s-meat
Man.’ Free-trade in the drama is no doubt a supreme good, but there are
times when one sighs for the days of the patent theatres, when every
provincial manager kept a Shakspearian school, and would have shrunk
appalled from the idea of street-boy dances and street-boy songs.”
Mr. Desmond and the young actress walked all the way from Whitecross
Street to Paul’s Terrace, and it seemed to Laurence quite a natural
occurrence to be walking with the girl’s shabby little glove upon his
arm. He was quite conscious that she was poorly dressed, that her shawl
would have been despised by the tawdry factory-girls they met near the
Old Street Road; but he knew that she looked like a lady, in spite of
her well-worn shawl, and he had no sense of shame in the companionship.
He had never felt a more unselfish regard than he felt for this girl;
and during the visit to the prison he had decided upon taking a step,
the desperation whereof he was by no means inclined to underrate. He
had determined to obtain Emily Jerningham’s friendship for Lucy Alford,
if sympathy for any human creature could be awakened in that lady’s
heart and mind.
“I have never yet asked her a favour,” he said to himself. “I will
ask her to interest herself in this poor girl’s fate. My friendship
can serve Lucy Alford very little; but the friendship of a woman, an
accomplished woman like Emily, who is in every way independent, may
help to shape her future, and rescue her at once from ‘cellar-flap
breakdowns’ and ‘cat’s-meat men.’ Emily is always bewailing the
emptiness of her life. It might be at once an amusement and a
consolation to her to befriend this girl. I know it is a generous heart
to which I shall make my appeal. The only question is, whether I can
contrive to touch that heart with Lucy Alford’s story.”
Mr. Desmond only apprehended one difficulty in the matter, but that was
rather a serious one. Might not Mrs. Jerningham--of late the victim
of such morbid fancies, such frivolous suspicions--take it into her
head to be jealous of this girl? and in that case there was an end to
all hope for Lucy. Let the green-eyed monster show but the tip of his
forked tail, and friendship between Mrs. Jerningham and Miss Alford
would be an impossibility.
Reasoning upon the matter within himself, as he walked by Lucy’s side,
Laurence Desmond decided that jealousy in this case must needs be out
of the question.
“No, no; she has been foolish and absurd enough in her fancies, Heaven
knows; but here it is impossible. The girl is nearly twenty years
younger than I am, and has nothing in common with me, or the world I
live in.”
After arguing with himself thus, Mr. Desmond decided that there was no
possibility of any such feeling as jealousy upon Emily Jerningham’s
part; and yet it seemed to him that it would be a desperate and awful
thing to address the lady of River Lawn on the subject of Lucy Alford.
They arrived at Paul’s Terrace while the editor was still meditating
upon the young lady’s future, and, indeed, before he had altogether
decided upon what was best to be done on her behalf. An unexpected
difficulty had arisen, in the girl’s enthusiastic regard for her
profession. It was quite out of the question that Mr. Desmond should
introduce Lucy to Mrs. Jerningham while the girl still hankered
after the triumphs of Market Deeping. All thought of “cellar-flap
breakdowns,” and “cat’s-meat men,” must be put away before Lucy could
approach the wife of Harold Jerningham.
In this perplexity of mind, Mr. Desmond could not bring himself to bid
Lucy Alford good-bye upon the threshold of No. 20, Paul’s Terrace, as
she evidently expected him to do. He lingered doubtfully for a minute
or two, and then went into the parlour with her.
“I should like to have a few minutes’ chat before I bid you good-bye,”
he said. “I suppose you really must go to-morrow?”
“Yes, to-morrow is the latest. It seems very dreadful to leave papa in
that horrible dingy place; but he says it will be only for a few days.
I ought to have been at Market Deeping on Monday, for the rehearsals.
Mr. Bungrave is very particular.”
“What time do you start?”
“At a quarter-past five.”
“In the afternoon, I suppose?”
“Oh no, in the morning.”
“At a quarter-past five on a December morning!” cried Laurence, with a
shudder. “Isn’t that a very inconvenient hour?”
“Yes, it is rather disagreeable to start before it is light, because
cabmen are always so ill-tempered at that time in the morning. But the
train goes at a quarter past five, and I must contrive to be at the
station at five.”
“_The_ train?” repeated Laurence. “There must be several trains
for Lincolnshire in the course of the day.”
“Oh yes, there are other trains; but, you see, that is the
parliamentary train, and in the profession, people generally travel
by the parliamentary train, because it is so much cheaper, you know,
and it comes to the same thing in the end. One meets most respectable
people, generally with large families of children and canary-birds;
and sometimes people even play cards, if one can get something flat--a
tea-tray, or a picture--to play on. One has to hide the cards, of
course, when the guard comes round, unless he happens to be a very
good-natured guard, who pretends not to see them. Oh, I assure you, it
is not at all disagreeable to travel by the parliamentary train.”
“Well, I can fancy there _might_ be a combination of circumstances
under which a journey to--say the Land’s End--in the slowest of
parliamentaries would be delightful,” said the editor, looking at the
girl’s innocent, animated face with a very tender smile. “But I think
I could willingly forego the children and the canaries, and even the
card-playing on a tea-tray. Suppose you go by the mid-day express,
Lucy, upon this occasion, as the weather is cold, and you will he
travelling alone? I will meet you at the station, and see to your
ticket, and all that sort of thing; and then, when I have placed you in
the care of the most indulgent guard who ever ignored card-playing on a
tea-tray, I can go to Whitecross Street, and assure your father of your
comfortable departure.”
“You are too kind. I cannot accept so much kindness,” murmured Lucy, to
whom it was a very new thing to receive such evidence of disinterested
friendship.
As she faltered her grateful acknowledgments, with a confusion of
manner that was not without its charm, her eyes wandered to the
chimney-piece, where there was a letter, directed in a sprawling,
masculine hand.
“It is from the manager,” she said, as she took the letter. “Perhaps to
scold me for not being at the theatre last Monday. Will you excuse me
if I read it, Mr. Desmond?”
“I would excuse you if you read all the epistles of Pliny,” said
Laurence; and in the next moment would have cut his tongue out.
Lucy tore open her letter with nervous haste. The change in her
countenance as she read, told Mr. Desmond that the missive brought her
no good tidings.
“Is there anything amiss?” he asked.
“Oh, it is cruel, it is shameful!” cried the girl, indignantly. “Mr.
Bungrave has given Gennaro to another lady, because I was not there for
the rehearsal yesterday. Papa wrote to him to say when we were coming;
and if he had telegraphed to say I must positively be there, I should
have gone. And now I have lost my engagement, after studying my part so
carefully, and altering my dress, and----”
Here the young lady stopped abruptly, and Laurence saw that it cost her
no small effort to keep back her tears. She was very young, and the
fever of the amateur, the devotee of a beloved art, was strong upon
her. Laurence perceived also her regretful glance in the direction of
a little old-fashioned sofa, on which there lay, neatly folded, the
rose-coloured satin garment he had seen the night before; and he felt
that to be disappointed of the glory of appearing in this costume was a
grief to her.
“I must confess that I am not sorry for this, Lucy,” he said,
earnestly. “I do not think there could have been any lasting triumph
won by the ‘Cat’s-meat Man.’”
Miss St. Albans could not be brought all at once to see that the
‘Cat’s-meat Man’ was an abomination.
“Gennaro is a beau-beau-tiful part,” she said, struggling with her
emotion; “it is full of good puns, and the parodies are splendid,
and----. If I had a regular written engagement, Mr. Bungrave couldn’t
treat me so; but there was only a verbal understanding between him
and papa. I dare say it is all Mr. de Mortemar’s doing, because of my
leaving the Oxford Road Theatre. Mr. de Mortemar can do anything at
Market Deeping; he is such an immense favourite.”
“Indeed!” said Laurence, on whose editorial ear the “immense favourite”
grated unpleasantly; “and it is my fault that you offended Mr. de
Mortemar--my fault, my very great fault. But do you know, Lucy, that
I cannot bring myself to be sufficiently sorry for what I have done.
You see I feel a very real interest in your career; and I do not think
your Market Deeping experience could be of any actual benefit to you.
I admit that you must arrive at Drury Lane and Juliet by easy stages;
but I cannot see why you should begin by dancing silly dances, and
singing still more silly songs. In March Mr. Hartstone will give you an
engagement at the Pall Mall; and in the meantime your father will get
through his difficulties, and you will have leisure for the study of
your beloved art.”
“Yes,” answered Lucy, consoled but not elated, “I shall study with all
my might. Oh, Mr. Desmond, what would become of us if your kindness
had not secured me a London engagement!”
She was thinking sadly enough of the bitter shifts to which she and
her father must needs be driven for want of the pittance that would
have rewarded her labours at the little country theatre; and then, at
Market Deeping lodgings and provisions were very cheap, and in London
everything was so dear. The kindness and generosity of Mr. Desmond
seemed boundless; but there must be some limit to their acceptance of
such help. They could not go on living upon this gentleman’s charity.
Laurence saw her despondency, and had some idea of the cares that
troubled her. He could find no way of telling her that the dread
spectre Poverty was a shadow she need fear no longer, since he was
ready to place his purse at her disposal until--until when? Well, she
would have a salary from the lessee of the Pall Mall in March; and
then, of course, he need be Tristram Alford’s banker no longer; and,
in the meantime, what would his kindness cost him?--a ten-pound note
now and then--a ten-pound note, which would be better bestowed thus
than lost at a club-house whist-table, or squandered at a sale of books
or bric-à-brac.
“You must try to make yourself happy while your father is under a
cloud, Lucy,” he said, cheerily. “Rely upon it he will weather the
storm, and right himself speedily. I will answer for that. In the
interim, it will be rather dreary for you in these lodgings, I dare
say; and I should much like to introduce you to a lady, a friend of
mine.”
“I--I am sure you are very kind,” faltered Lucy; “and I shall be
pleased to know any lady whom you like. Is she a relation of yours, Mr.
Desmond?”
“No, not a relation, but a friend of many years’ standing. Her father
and my father were very intimate; in fact, I have known her a long
time. I think she was as young as you, Lucy, when I first knew her.”
His thoughts went back to the little garden at Passy, the white wall,
and scarlet blossoms bright against the deep blue sky, and Emily
Jerningham in all the glory of her girlhood. Well, those days were
gone, and, unhappily, the Emily and Laurence of those days had vanished
with them.
“She is not young now, then, the lady?” Lucy asked, with an interest
that was a little warmer than the occasion warranted.
“Well, she is not what you would call young. I believe she is nearly
thirty; and that to a young lady of eighteen seems a venerable
age, no doubt. She is a very agreeable woman, generous-minded, and
refined”--Laurence felt a little twinge of conscience as he remembered
certain occasions upon which the lady in question had not shown herself
so very generous-minded--“and I am sure her friendship would be a
source of happiness for you.”
“It is very good of you to think of this. It will be a pleasure to me
to know any friend of yours; but--but--I am so unused to society; and
while poor papa is in that dreadful place, I think I would rather not
see any stranger, please, Mr. Desmond.”
“Very well, we will see about it. If Mrs. Jerningham should call upon
you some morning, you will not refuse to see her?”
“Mrs. Jerningham!” repeated Lucy; “she is a married lady, then?”
“Yes, she is married. Her husband is rather an eccentric person--a
great traveller; so she lives by herself, in a very charming house near
Hampton Court.”
“Indeed!” said Lucy, with a little sigh that sounded rather like a sigh
of relief; and then she repeated her protestations of gratitude, which
this time seemed less constrained.
After this, Mr. Desmond had nothing more to do than to say good-bye.
“I should recommend you not to go to Whitecross Street again,” he said,
at parting. “It is an unpleasant place for you to visit alone; and
your father will soon get his release. If my time were less engaged,
I should be happy to take you there again; but I am too busy for
friendship. Good-bye. I dare say you will see Mrs. Jerningham before
long. You can be as frank with her as you are with me; but I am sure
there is no occasion to tell you that, for it is your nature to be
truthful and confiding. Once more, good-bye.”
He pressed the little hand kindly, and departed. He felt that he had
conducted himself in an eminently paternal manner, and it seemed to
him that the sentiment of paternal regard had a strange sweetness--a
sweetness that was not all sweet.