BETWEEN THE ACTS.
"In all the humours, whether grave or mellow,
Thou's such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow,
Hast so much wit and mirth, and spleen about thee
That there's no living with thee or without thee."
ADDISON (_Spectator_).
"The way is as plain as way to parish church."--_As You Like It._
In all London there were no two happier girls than Waveney and Mollie
Ward that Wednesday evening; nevertheless, Mollie's cup of bliss lacked
one ingredient to make it perfect. If only Waveney were there!
If she had only known that at that very moment Waveney was peeping at
her from the back of the box opposite! "There is my dear Mollie," she
whispered, excitedly; then Althea, much perplexed, swept the boxes with
her opera-glass.
She could not see the girl anywhere; but just opposite them, standing
quite alone in the front of a box, there was a young lady in a white
silk cloak, and a pink shower bouquet in her hand, and she had the
sweetest and most beautiful face that Althea had ever seen.
"What a lovely girl!" she said to herself; and she was not surprised to
see that opera-glasses from all parts of the house were levelled in that
direction; but the next moment she started--for surely she recognized
that dark, foreign-looking man who had just entered the box.
"Moritz!" she ejaculated. "Good heavens, could that exquisite young
creature be Mollie Ward!" and then Althea's colour changed as a slight,
fair man joined them, followed by a tall, aristocratic-looking youth
with _pince-nez_.
"Father and Noel," whispered Waveney, in a voice of suppressed ecstasy;
but only Doreen heard her. Althea's lips were white and trembling; the
lights were flickering before her eyes; the tuning up of the instruments
in the orchestra sounded harsh and discordant.
No, she had not expected this!--to find him so unchanged. It was
twenty-one years since they had met, and yet it seemed to her that it
was the same Everard Ward whom she remembered so well; he even wore the
same white stephanotis in his coat.
He was a little older, perhaps, a trifle thinner, but it was the same
perfect face. Distance and the electric light softened down defects.
Althea could not see how shiny and worn Everard's dress-coat was any
more than she could see the lines on his forehead and round his eyes, or
the threatened baldness; she only noticed that he stood in his old
attitude, his head raised, and one hand lightly twirling his moustache.
Althea stifled a sigh. Well, she was glad to have seen him again, very
glad. When ghosts were troublesome it was well to lay them. And then,
though her woman's heart failed her, and she vaguely felt that Doreen
had been wiser and more prudent than she, she determined to pluck up
spirit and play her little drama to the bitter end.
The curtain had now drawn up, and they were at liberty to seat
themselves comfortably in the front of the box. Mollie's and Waveney's
eyes were fixed on the stage, but Mr. Ingram, who had seen the play
before, was not so engrossed. He had just discovered a picturesque
little girl in a sapphire blue cloak, and a curly babyish-looking head
who reminded him of his little Samaritan; he wanted to take another look
at her, but he could only see her profile. And then Althea's long, pale
face and reddish hair came into view, and beside her Doreen's
dark-complexioned features.
"Now what on earth has put it into my cousins' heads to come here
to-night?" he said to himself, in a vexed voice. "It is not like Althea
to spoil sport in this fashion. And they have brought little Miss Ward,
too," and then he frowned and twisted his moustache fiercely, and
growled under his breath, "Confound those women!" in quite irate
fashion.
Any one who knew Mr. Ingram well--his mother, if he had one, or his
sister--for there was certainly no wife _en evidence_--would have seen
that he was greatly chagrined and perplexed; but, being a humourist and
one of the most good-natured men living, he worked off his wrath
harmlessly by parodying the well-known verse, and muttering it softly
for his own refreshment:
"Oh, woman in our hour of ease
A giddy flirt, a flippant tease,
As aggravating as the shade
By blind Venetian ever made.
When pain and anguish wring the brow
A veritable humbug thou."
And lo and behold! he was so pleased with his own cleverness that his
exasperation died a natural death.
The first act was over before Mollie caught sight of Waveney, and then
her delight and excitement were so great that her father had to gently
admonish her that they were surrounded by strangers; and Noel, in a
melodramatic whisper, threatened to take strong measures unless she
behaved properly and left off kissing her hand like a crazy infant.
The next moment Mr. Ingram left his seat, and Althea, who guessed that
he was coming across to them, went to the back of the box to receive
him.
He looked at her gravely. "_Et tu Brute!_" he said, reproachfully, as he
took her hand.
Althea laughed. "Oh, I was not spying on you, my lord," she returned,
playfully; but he exclaimed,--
"Hush, for pity's sake!" in such an agonised tone that Althea nearly
laughed again.
"That child does not hear us," she said, soothingly. "Shall we take a
turn in the corridor?" And as he nodded assent, they went out together.
Waveney had not even seen him enter the box; she was busily telegraphing
to Mollie.
"Well, Moritz?" demanded Althea, in an amused tone, "you may as well
make a clean breast of it. Why have you forgotten your poor old cousins
at the Red House, and why are you masquerading in this mysterious
fashion? They call you Mr. Ingram, these children, but you are not Mr.
Ingram now; and though I am not curious--oh, not the least bit in the
world!" as he smiled, provokingly; "I should like to know what it all
means."
"What it means. Upon my word, Althea, you have asked a difficult
question. One cannot always tell the meaning of things." And then Moritz
pulled his moustache in a perplexed way. "Haven't you watched some boy
throw a stone in a pond? It may be a mere pebble, but the circles widen
and widen until the whole surface of the water is covered with
intersecting circles?"
"Why, yes," she returned, coolly, "but we are not throwing stones just
now, are we?"
"No, it was only a parable; I deal in parables sometimes. I was just
flinging my little pebble for mere sport and idleness, when I called
myself by my old name. I wanted to be incognito, to have no gaudy tag or
bobtail attached to my hum-drum personality; only, you see, the play has
lasted longer than usual."
"But why?" she persisted--but her tone was a little anxious. "Moritz,
please do not think me disagreeable,--you were always a whimsical being,
and only Gwen knows the extent of your eccentricities; but I am
interested in these people." Here she caught her breath a little. "When
Mr. Ward knows, he might not be pleased."
"Oh, I will take my chance of that," he returned, obstinately. But
Althea had not finished all she had to say.
"We used to know him so well in the old days; he was constantly at
Kitlands. No, I know you and Gwen never saw him there. You were living
abroad those two years. But Thorold Chaytor knew him. I was thinking
that all this masquerading might lead to awkward complications by and
by."
"Nonsense!" he returned, quickly. "What makes you so faint-hearted? My
dear cousin, there will be no complications at all." But Althea shook
her head almost sadly.
"Listen to me," he went on, with increased animation. "It is a pretty
little comedy in real life, and full of dramatic situations. I am
enjoying my incognito immensely; it is the best bit of fun I have had
since poor old Ralston died. In Cleveland Terrace I am Monsieur Blackie;
I adore the name--it suits me down to the ground." Then, as Althea
laughed, he took hold of her arm in a coaxing fashion.
"Althea, you are a good creature--you must promise to keep my secret for
a little while. I have made all my plans and prepared my _dénouement_,
and I shall want your help in carrying it out. No hints to Gwen, no
treasonable correspondence! Gwen is a good girl, but her honesty is
almost clumsy--it is yea, yea, and nay, nay, with her and Jack too. My
masquerading, as you call it, would simply shock her. Now I have
promised Miss Mollie to bring her sister to our box, and I must keep my
word."
Perhaps Moritz's voice changed as he said this, but Althea looked at him
rather earnestly.
"She is beautiful as an angel," she said, in a low voice. "Take care of
yourself, Moritz." But only a flash of his eyes answered her. Certainly
Althea looked very grave when she re-entered the box.
Mr. Ingram had warned Mollie that there must be no stage embrace, so she
had to content herself by squeezing Waveney's hand at intervals.
The second act had already commenced, and until it had ended there could
be no conversation between the sisters. But when the curtain fell for
the second time Mollie dried her eyes--for she had been shedding a
deluge of tears--sniffed daintily at her flowers, and then asked
Waveney, in a loud whisper, if Miss Althea had given her that pretty
cloak.
Waveney nodded. "Yes. Is it not sweet of her? She says I am to keep it.
But, Mollie, dear, yours is almost too lovely. Do you know, Miss Althea
would not believe you were Mollie Ward, because you were so beautifully
dressed. Cinderella is turned into a princess to-night." And then she
put her lips to Mollie's ear. "Did you find out anything from the Black
Prince?"
"Yes--no--oh, please hush," returned Mollie, with a distracting blush,
and a timid glance at Ingram. "No, dear, he will not own to it; but, of
course, I know. There! the curtain is going up again, and we shall hear
if that dear girl is really dead."
Mollie had made her little attempt while she was waiting for her father
and Noel. Mr. Ingram had come early, but Mollie was already dressed, and
limping up and down the room; for she was far too restless to sit still.
"I have brought you some flowers," he said, simply, as he handed her the
magnificent bouquet. Then, as Mollie blushed and thanked him, she
carefully rehearsed the little speech that she had prepared beforehand.
He was looking at her cloak, admiring it. Yes, his eyes certainly
expressed decided approbation.
"Mr. Ingram," she stammered--for tact and _finesse_ were not strong
points with Mollie, "do you know I have had a great surprise. I have had
such a beautiful present. It came the other night, and there was no name
and no address. And I do so want to thank the kind friend who sent it."
Mr. Ingram was arranging the flowers in his buttonhole. A leaf was awry,
and he was the soul of neatness. Perhaps this was why he did not look at
Mollie.
"Dear me," he said, quietly. "An anonymous gift! This sounds
interesting. A little mystery always enhances the value of a thing."
"Oh, do you think so?" returned Mollie, rather nonplussed by his tone.
"I suppose, being a girl, I think differently about that. I am sure that
I should enjoy wearing my beautiful cloak a hundred times more if I
could thank the giver."
"There now," observed Ingram, in a voice of supreme satisfaction, "I did
not like to ask the question for fear you should think me inquisitive.
And it is really that cloak that becomes you so well--that is the
mysterious present--I congratulate you, Miss Mollie, I do indeed, for I
never saw you look better in my life. Upon my word, if I were ordering
an evening cloak for Gwen I would choose her just such another."
Poor Mollie. All this glib talk bewildered her, but she was far too
grateful, and too much in earnest, to give up her point, so she only
raised her lovely eyes to Ingram and said, very wistfully,--
"You could not help me to find out. I do so want to know." But Ingram
only shrugged his shoulders: he even looked a trifle bored.
"You may ask me anything else, Miss Mollie, but I assure you I should
make a bad detective. Why," he continued, airily, "I find it difficult
enough to keep my own secrets, without finding out other people's. Oh,
here comes our friend the humourist. And now may I beg to inform you
that Monsieur Blackie's carriage stops the way."
Waveney did not return to her friends' box, and at the conclusion of the
play they all met in the lobby. Waveney was hanging on her father's arm,
but he disengaged himself hastily when he saw the sisters.
Althea, who had been nerving herself for this moment all the evening,
was only a little paler than usual as she held out her hand to him.
"It is a great many years since we met, Mr. Ward," she said, with a
grave smile.
"Yes," he returned, looking at her with equal gravity; but his eyes were
sad. "More than twenty years, I think;" and then he shook hands with
Doreen rather stiffly, while Althea spoke to Mollie and Noel.
"I should like you to come and see me, my dear," she said to the
delighted girl. "Would next Tuesday suit you? Waveney shall come over in
the carriage and fetch you. And perhaps your brother would join you, and
take you back in the evening," And Mollie accepted this invitation with
great readiness.
Everard, who had overheard this, came a step nearer.
"I must take this opportunity of thanking you for your kindness to my
dear child," he said, with strong feeling in his voice. "It was hard to
part with her, but you make her so happy that Mollie and I try to be
resigned to her loss."
"You do not owe me any thanks," returned Althea, her lips paling with
evident emotion, "for we love her for her own sake, and she is a great
comfort to me. Ah, I see my cousin is beckoning to you, so I will wish
you good-night."
Everard shook hands with her rather absently; but a moment later he came
back to her side.
"Miss Harford, pardon me, but did you say, just now, that Ingram was
your cousin."
Then Althea looked a trifle confused. How incautious she had been!
"Yes," she returned, guardedly, "Moritz is certainly our cousin--once
removed. When we were at Kitlands, his father, Colonel Ingram, lived
abroad, so that is why you never met him. Did you not ever hear us speak
of Moritz and Gwendoline."
"I think not--I am sure not." But Everard's eyes were downcast as he
spoke. Then, without another word, he lifted his hat and turned away;
the mention of Kitlands had been like a stab. Even Althea hardly guessed
how this meeting had tried him, and how cruelly his pride had suffered.
Althea was very silent all the way home. She was tired, she said, and
Doreen and Waveney must discuss the play without her; but as she leant
back in her corner of the carriage, very little of the conversation
reached her ears. Ah, she had noted all the changes now. The shiny
dress-coat, the lines, the slight baldness, had all been apparent under
the flaring gaslights in the lobby. She could see now that Everard was
aged and altered.
The spring and brightness of youth had gone, and care and disappointment
and ceaseless drudgery had given him the stoop of age. Already his
shoulders seemed bowed, as though some heavy load lay on them; but the
face, grave and careworn as it was, was the face of her old lover. The
features were as finely chiselled as ever. No sorrow, no failure, no
wearing sense of humiliation, would ever rob Everard Ward of his man's
beauty, though perhaps an artist would no longer desire to paint him as
Ithuriel.
"I am glad to have seen him again," thought Althea; but a dry sob rose
in her throat as she said it. How coldly, how gravely he had accosted
her! He had expressed no pleasure in meeting his old friends, had asked
no single question about their welfare. A few stiff words of thanks for
her kindness to Waveney, but nothing more, nothing more; and Althea's
eyes grew misty with unshed tears in the darkness.
There were some lines by Miss Murdoch that Everard had once written in
her album. She had read them so often that she knew them by heart; they
were haunting her now.
"Forgotten! no, we never do forget;
We let the years go; wash them clean with tears,
Leave them to bleach out in the open day
Or lock them careful by, like dead friends' clothes,
Till we shall dare unfold them without pain;
But we forget not, never can forget."
"It is my nature to be faithful," Althea had once touchingly said to her
sister; and to forget was certainly not possible to her!