Private theatricals as a rule need no description, but these in the
barn at Gleneira House merit at least so much attention, in that,
for the major part of the audience, they were the first attempt at
play-acting it had ever seen; since even in the British Isles culture
and civilisation have not harried the glens which are hidden away in
the hearts of the hills. To tell truth, not a few of the audience came
doubtfully with a fear lest they might be backsliders; but, as luck
would have it, the Free Church section, being in process of choosing a
new minister, felt it could afford, for once, to test the iniquity of
the stage by actual experience. Besides, if the laird led the way,
there were still sufficient of the clan to follow him even to the jaws
of hell. So they came and waited for the curtain to rise, with a
quaint trepidation lest they should really enjoy themselves, and so
give place to the devil.
But there was someone else besides the "_unco guid_" who felt vaguely
as if it would have been better she had not been there, as if she
wished that both the immediate past and the present had never come to
pass. And that was Marjory, as she stood at the far corner by the
door, whence she could escape easily when she was wanted behind the
scenes. Perhaps her face showed something of this, for Paul Macleod,
pausing beside her for a moment, said in a low tone:
"I've seen Mrs. Vane act in 'Her Bitterest Foe' before, and she alone
would carry it off. Then Bertie is splendid at the heavy parts, and
Dr. Kennedy, by all accounts, is almost professional. There is no
fear, I'm sure."
She turned to him quickly. "Do I look nervous? I think I am, chiefly
from the novelty. It is the first play I've ever seen, remember."
He knew that, and yet the idea struck him again with a certain regret
for her and for himself. For her that she should see one at all, for
himself that he should have seen so many. "After all," he parodied
lightly, "it is better sometimes never to have lived than to have
lived it all! There goes the prompter's bell, so keep your eyes open,
Miss Carmichael."
There was no need for the advice, since the first look filled the girl
with astonishment at the almost ridiculous reality which the glare of
the footlights gave to the shreds and patches of scenery she had
helped to put together. No wonder, therefore, if Mrs. Vane, in her
simple black dress, looked the _ingenue_ to perfection, and Major
Bertie's honest English face had quite a German cut about it. And how
well they acted! The ring of rough tenderness in the General's voice
was all that could be desired, while Mrs. Vane was faultlessly simple
and girlish. It could scarcely, Marjory told herself, be better; and
oh, how dreadful--how unbearable it would be if Tom fell below that
high standard! Another minute and his cue would come; so much she
knew, and a really hot regret rose up in her that she had not insisted
on invading the privacy of the rehearsals; then she would have known
what to expect. Yet what could he do with such a part? A part which
had always sounded to her so unreal, so unlike the man himself, so
unlike---- Then who was this hasty, hot-headed, imperious, impetuous
boy who burst upon the stage? She gave quite a little gasp of dismay,
and then forgot everything save that figure kneeling at its mistress's
feet, and pouring out its love, its grief, its remorse.
"Bravo!" said Paul, under his breath, then added, in a different tone,
"You see there is no need to be nervous--he does it _con amore_."
A sudden jealousy had leapt up in him at the thought that Marjory
might listen to such wooing, and as he moved away to the vacant place
left for him by Alice Woodward, he told himself, with resentful
cynicism, that it was not the first time Dr. Kennedy had played the
lover's part, and that even Marjory should be satisfied by the
plaudits which were sure to follow.
But she was not thinking of applause. She was too startled, too dazed
to think at all, for something new and hitherto undreamt of in her was
responding passionately to the passionate appeal to which she
listened, and her clasp on the chair behind which she stood slackened
in relief as the kiss of forgiveness was given. Oh, that was right!
Who, loving the man, would not forgive? Who could help it in such
case? And this--yes! this was love!
It seemed to her as if the play passed in a moment, and yet that it
had stolen the reality from all the rest of her life; nor did she
realise who the actors were until, amid the applause with which the
curtain came down, she heard two familiar voices from the row of
chairs in front of her.
"Bravo! Bravissimo!" said one. "That was well done. He has my
compliments."
"And mine," quoth the other, solemnly jocose. "But to think of it? Oh,
Thomas, my lad, _quod medicorum est promettant medice_, but this is no
healing o' hearts, man! Eh! Father Macdonald, but we will have at the
learned impostor; we will!"
"_Amor al cor gentil ralto s'apprende_," put in the gentler voice, in
the same jocose strain; and then they both laughed.
Marjory stepped back involuntarily as if to avoid hearing more; but
she had heard enough, for there, as she raised her eyes, stood Dr.
Kennedy and Mrs. Vane, bowing their acknowledgments of the recall. The
old life had come back again, but with a strange new thrill in it
which made her heart beat, yet left her dazed and weary.
"If I could always act with Tom Kennedy," said Mrs. Vane, jubilant
over the success, when Marjory went behind the scenes to aid in the
coming tableaux, "I should make my fortune. He is the only amateur I
ever saw who knows how to make love!"
"He did it very well," assented Marjory, coldly. She felt glad that he
was too busy with the scenery for her to have speech with him; she
would not have known what to say--for she had liked it--she had
understood--and yet!---- It was bad enough to listen for a moment to
Paul's approval when he came round, escorting Alice Woodward, who was
wanted for the statue in "Winter's Tale."
"You should be satisfied," he said with intent. "Personally I never
saw it better done, on--or off the stage."
But then a look at the girl's face drove him back quick as thought to
the old Arcadian days when they had been so friendly.
"I wish the whole business were over," he said sharply. "It's an awful
nuisance, and you will all be dead tired to-morrow."
"But Lord George will have his towel-horse again!" she answered,
lightly turning to a current jest as a shelter from the sense of his
thoughtfulness for her. "And there are but three more tableaux."
"Three," he echoed; "there are only two on the programme."
"But the other is Mrs. Vane's _bon-bouche_ to the house party. She
said they deserved a surprise; but I believe she would just as soon
let it slide--for she is very tired, Captain Macleod. Only it would be
hard on Mr. Gillespie, who is full of his part; besides it really
should be the prettiest of all--Mrs. Vane took so much trouble over
it."
"Are you in it--and Dr. Kennedy?" he asked quickly.
"No, only I--and Mr. Gillespie, of course. You see it was for the
house party."
And Paul, as he went off to do host, wondered angrily what Violet
could mean; she always meant something--at least that was his
experience of her. The wonder lingered as he sate decorously between
Mrs. Woodward and Lady Hooker in the front row, listening between the
scenes to the account the latter gave of some tableaux she had got up
when they rented the Marquis of Tweedie's place in Peebleshire, and
whispering to the former, when the curtain rose finally on Alice as
Joan of Arc at the stake, that he hoped it was the last time her
daughter would suffer martyrdom in his house. For Paul invariably said
the right thing, if it paid him to do so, no matter what his real
feelings were at the moment; at the present time they were somewhat
mixed; the preponderant one being irritation at the whole round world.
And now, that being the last tableau on the programme, the guests were
manifestly becoming filled with uneasy wonder as to whether they were
expected to make the move or not, when the tinkle of the bell warned
them of something more, and after a minute's pause the lights went out
suddenly. Then from the darkness came Wagner's "March of the Gods to
Walhalla," and the curtain, rising slowly, showed a scene which well
deserved the murmur of recognition which ran round the more critical
part of the audience.
"Shouldn't have thought towel-horses could have done it--but she is a
deuced clever little soul," murmured Lord George to his neighbour, and
in truth, considering the resources at Mrs. Vane's command, the effect
was well-nigh marvellous. In the distance lay a stretch of sea and sky
lit by the light of a dying sunset which gained an almost real
radiance from the darkness of the foreground, where, with its back to
the audience, its foot upon the brink, a mailed figure, sword in hand,
bent, as if meditating a leap over the shadowy gulf which lay between
it and a low platform of rock overhanging the misty blue depths of the
distant sea. And on the rock, her silver helmet laid aside, her head
pillowed on her white arm, slept a warrior-maiden with her face turned
to the sunsetting. She was clad in soft, filmy, white draperies, but
the corselet of silver she wore above them rose and fell evenly with
her calm breathing; while round about her--so close that it seemed to
touch her wavy hair and silver, wing-shod feet--flickered and flamed a
mystic circle of fire.
"What is it? What is it meant to be?" came eagerly from many of the
audience. And Paul knew--knew all too well--but he sate silent,
crushing down his anger at the skill of the thrust.
"What is it?" echoed Alice Woodward, who, with an opera cloak thrown
over her last costume, had returned to her rôle of spectator. "Why,
Brynhild, of course, mamma! The Nibelungen, you know--we heard that
German tenor in it, if you remember. Mrs. Vane has staged it
beautifully, hasn't she, Captain Macleod; and how well the dress suits
Miss Carmichael's style. That is Mr. Gillespie, of course; he looks
taller in armour. You know, mamma, it is a sort of allegory. Sigurd
has to leap----" She paused abruptly to look at her companion. He had
started to his feet, and a quick cry of "Take care! Take care!" rose
from various parts of the house, for a breath of wind, coming from
some opening door, had bent the flames perilously near to those filmy
draperies.
"Look out, Gillespie! for God's sake look out!" he shouted; but the
mailed figure, failing to understand, turned to the audience, and the
next instant Paul, tearing off his coat the while, had leapt over the
footlights, and scattering the circle in his hurry was on his knees
beside Marjory crushing out the fire which had caught her dress. The
heated spirit spilt on the floor blazed up fiercely, almost hiding
those two, and rousing a shriek of dismay from the ladies.
"Down with the curtain and keep the draught out!" shouted Paul; "and
run back the carpet some of you. Lie still a moment, please--it is
beyond you."
As a matter of fact the sudden burst of flame was nearer to the mailed
figure, who, being penned in between it and the falling curtain, chose
the footlights and landed in Mrs. Woodward's arms a second before Dr.
Kennedy's voice rang out reassuringly to say it was all right.
"You might bring a blanket, Kennedy," said Paul, still with his arms
round Marjory. "If you will excuse me a moment longer, Miss
Carmichael, it will be wiser--muslin is so apt to flare. Tell me if I
am hurting you."
Perhaps he did not mean--being a gentleman in most ways--to lower his
voice in the least, and yet he did lower it. He could scarcely help
himself with that touch thrilling through him, and at the sound of the
tenderness in his own tones something in him seemed to cast itself
loose from all anchorage and, spreading white wings over the tempest
of emotion that arose in him, to bear him swiftly to a haven of
perfect content.
"I'm not hurt at all," she said; yet she looked at his face so close
to hers with startled eyes, and gave a little shiver; then went on
hastily. "But you--your shirt sleeve is all burnt--it is smouldering
still. Tom! come quick! No! No!--not for me. There was a spark still,
Captain Macleod--I saw it----"
"It is out now at any rate--be still for one more second, please.
Thanks, Kennedy--just slip it under while I lift. So--a perfect
roly-poly! That is well over!"
He spoke lightly again, but he had grown very pale, and much to his
annoyance found himself in the doctor's hands for a scorch on his arm.
However, as his sister said plaintively, that and the unfortunate
break-up of Lord George's lamented towel-horse in the hurry was the
only mischief done. It might have been much worse, and though of
course it was really quite a lovely tableau--for which Mrs. Vane
deserved the highest praise--still it was a dangerous experiment. It
generally was dangerous to play with fire, remarked Paul, impatiently,
and had not his sister better make some diversion among the guests, or
they would be leaving with a sense of judgment on their souls. A reel
or two would hearten them up, while a glass of whiskey, and some weak
negus for the ladies before they went away, would finish the business.
Of course there was no piper, but Miss Carmichael could play "The
de'il amang them" to perfection, and would do that much to help
Gleneira, he felt sure.
There is no greater test of the quality of a man's fibre than the way
in which he stands the goad of mental pain. Paul Macleod, smarting
under the sting which the certain knowledge that he loved Marjory
Carmichael as he had never loved any woman before and yet that she was
beyond his reach brought to him, showed this indubitably. All his
reckless self-will, all his wild resentment against controlling
circumstance, rose up in him, and only the fact that he had no
possible opportunity of so doing, prevented him from then and there
making his proposal to Alice Woodward. This may seem a strange
sequence to the discovery that you love another woman, but it was just
this discovery which set him in arms against himself. For this love
was a new emotion--a love which suited the girl with her clear eyes--a
love such as he had hitherto scouted as a dream fit only for
passionless, sexless idealists.
And the result of this deliberate choice of lower levels was in its
way stranger still. For Alice Woodward, whose emotion under any
circumstances could never have risen to a higher point than calm
affection, felt more content than she had ever done over the future,
and actually lingered in her mother's room--a most unusual event in
that reserved family--to remark that Gleneira was really delightful in
the fine weather when the house was full of people.
"Captain Macleod showed immense presence of mind, too," assented Mrs.
Woodward, contributing her quota to the general satisfaction.
"Very!" admitted Alice, colouring a little, "and he behaved so nicely
afterwards. In such good spirits, you know, though of course he must
have been in pain."
So they retired to bed, well content with the state of affairs. Not so
Mrs. Vane, who, long after the others were asleep, sate waiting for a
well-known footstep to pass her door, on its way to the laird's own
room, which lay, quaintly apart from the others, with a little further
flight of stairs all to itself. And none came, though from below she
heard the voices of the menkind dispersing when their smoke was over,
and from above Lord George's stealthy tread as he passed the nursery.
And yet she had made up her mind that she must say a word to
Paul--must make certain of the truth--before she slept. She had not
been deceived; he was angry with her. Nay, worse! he was unhappy, yet
in a mood to make that unhappiness permanent. That must be prevented
somehow; so after a time she stole out into the passages, dark save
for the master's light--that light which has brought home the pang of
widowhood to so many a woman's heart, as she pauses on her way
upstairs to put it out. If she knew anything of Paul's nature, he
would not be in the smoking-room; once the necessity for restraint was
over, he would have taken the earliest opportunity of escaping from
the eyes of others. The business-room most likely, where he was secure
from most interruptions; but not from hers, though as he started to
his feet as she came in, he looked as though he had expected
otherwise.
"I waited for you upstairs," she said boldly, "for I must speak to you
to-night"--then she paused, startled; for she had expected anger, and
Paul had sunk wearily into his chair again, resting his head on his
hand.
"Can't you let me be--surely you have done mischief enough already?"
he said; and then he turned to look at her, and think, even in his
resentment, that she had always liked him, always been good to him. "I
don't understand why you brought this about--not the accident, of
course; that no one could have foreseen, but all the other part. For
you did bring it about. Why? Do you want me to marry----_her?_ You
know you don't. Then why should you have schemed to give me pain?"
He spoke with a concentrated bitterness which told her that his
patience was far spent. When she had left her room to seek him she had
been prepared to speak the truth, if need be, to a certain extent, but
now her quick wit showed her that she must risk all.
"No!" she answered quietly. "I do not wish you to marry Marjory
Carmichael; but neither do I wish you to marry that iceberg of a
girl, and be miserable. Let me have my say, Paul, for the sake of old
times. She does not love you, my poor Paul--I doubt if she can love
anything--and you do not love her, you do not even admire her. But you
did love the other, and when I saw you pretending that you did not, I
said to myself, 'He shall know the difference.'"
"That is a kind of knowledge a man can generally find out for
himself," broke in Paul, cynically. "But, still, I don't see--what
possible use?----" He paused, and turned from her again to his old
attitude.
"What use!" she echoed, laying her hand on his shoulder. "Listen! and
I will tell you the truth--tell it you utterly. You are very dear to
me, Paul, and come what may I am your friend. Do you think, then, that
I could stand by and see you bring misery into your life needlessly;
quite needlessly, for you could do better for yourself than that. Long
ago, Paul, so long ago that the folly of it is over for you, and so I
can speak of it--you loved me; and I----" she paused, but went on
steadily. "I loved you--don't start, my friend, it is true; see! to
your face I say it is true. I loved you. But I kept the secret then,
Paul, for the sake of your future, as I tell it now for the sake of
your future, so that you may believe that I am a friend indeed; for a
woman will not stand by and see another woman sacrifice the happiness
of a man for whom she once sacrificed her own. That is why I say you
must not marry Alice Woodward--you must not, Paul! Give her up!"
"And, then?"
Her eyes met his unflinchingly.
"Yes, Paul! think what you like; I do not care. As for that, I should
make you a better wife than Alice Woodward, for there would be the
memory of a past love between us, at any rate--a fair, honest love."
He had risen from his chair, and stood looking down on the brave,
spirited little figure before him with irrepressible admiration. What
pluck, what address she had! How skilfully she had steered her way
through dangers that would have wrecked another woman's self-esteem!
And with the memory of the past surging up in him he could not deny
her right to speak.
"I am no fool, Paul," she went on, holding up her hand to check some
half-hesitating words upon his lips. "I know what I say. I know, too,
what most men would say if a woman spoke to them as I have spoken to
you to-night. Well! I risk all that. I never lacked courage in your
cause, Paul, and if I gave up my love in those old passionate days for
your sake, do you think I would let its shadow come between you and
happiness? You are marrying the girl for her money. Well, others have
money also. I have it now, if it comes to that. I do not ask you to
marry me, Paul," she added, with a sudden, hard little laugh. "I have
not needed Leap Year in my calendar of life, but I do ask you to
think. There are rich girls whom you might love."
"That is so like a woman! Have you forgotten your own handiwork
already? You would have me forget now that I am in love, but I shall
never forget."
"Never is a long word," she answered, resuming her ordinary manner,
"and you forget so easily, my poor Paul!"
"You have no right to say that, Violet," he broke in, hotly. "Have I
forgotten you? Have I forgotten your kindness? Do you think I would
let any other soul alive speak to me as you have done to-night?"
She swept him a swift, gracious little curtsey. "_Dieu mercie,
Monsieur!_" she laughed, "the temptation would be too great, I
suppose? But I will tell you, if you like, why you have not forgotten.
Because I have kept myself _en evidence_; that is why. You say that I
see clearly, my friend. It is true. I see so clearly that the glamour
goes even from my own actions. You are the captive of my bow and
spear, Paul, but you would have escaped if you could. And Alice
Woodward cannot spin webs as I do; she will never be able to keep you,
and then----? Good-night." She held out her hand suddenly, but Paul
stood irresolute.
"You are clear sighted, indeed. God knows you read me like a book
sometimes." He hesitated, then went on hurriedly, "I wonder if--if
Miss Carmichael----"
Violet Vane shook her head with a smile. "That is the kind of
knowledge a man can generally find out for himself, my friend!
Personally, I think she will marry Tom Kennedy if she is left alone."
"Thank you. You certainly have courage, Violet."
"The courage of a surgeon who sees the knife is kindest in the end. I
have told you that you would be miserable with the woman you do not
love. I now tell you that you would not be happy with the woman you do
love."
"And why?"
"Because you have not the making of an archangel in you; that is why.
Do you think you have, Paul?" She stood for a moment at the door to
look up at him, as if she were making quite an ordinary remark. "But
there is the earth in the middle between the heavens above and the
waters beneath. Don't forget that, _my friend_."
When she had left him he lit another cigar out of sheer inability to
think of doing anything more decided, anything which in any way
affected his future, even to the extent of taking a night's repose;
that feeling of uncertainty being largely a result of sheer surprise
that he should have allowed Violet Vane's man[oe]uvring to pass
unreproved. And this, in its turn, convinced him, as nothing else
would have done, that she understood him as no one else could do.
And she? When he, coming up to his room, turned out the lamp on the
stair, he left the house in darkness, save for the candle he carried.
Yet Mrs. Vane was not even undressed. She was face down on her bed
trying to forget everything; above all, that old Peggy Duncan
possessed a secret which might--which might----
For her own reference to the past had brought that other past back
upon her, and, as she buried her hot face in the pillow, she told
herself that she had not, after all, spoken the truth. She had said
that his happiness was her motive, when it was her own. And wherefore
not?