“THE VOICE OF THE CHARMER;” AND AN UNEXPECTED MEETING
It was a Sunday afternoon in November. Outside, a grey mist hung over
streets and squares, filling the air with unpleasant dampness; but
inside--in this particular St. John’s Wood drawing-room, at least--there
was warmth and comfort. The lamps under their crimson shades combined
with the crackling fire to generate a cheerful light and heat, the
pleasant effect of which was heightened by the clink of tea-cups and the
buzz of human voices.
A stranger had merely to glance casually around to know that this was
the apartment of one who was in some way connected with the drama. There
were portraits everywhere: on the walls, the mantelpiece, the boudoir
grand piano, and on both sides of a large screen; in fact, in every nook
where there was the smallest space. Most of them portrayed the charms of
well-known actors and actresses, some of them being the leading lights
of the dramatic profession in England, America, and France. Art and
music were also represented, although in a lesser degree; and each
portrait was signed by the autograph of the original, in some cases
supplemented by a friendly inscription.
The latest addition to this collection was a panel portrait of Celia
Franks, in the character of Galatea, which was the last part in which
she had performed at the Academy; and in close proximity to it sat Celia
herself, carelessly stirring her tea. She was talking to the famous and
marvellously beautiful actress, Mrs. Potter Wemyss, who, having at
Haviland’s request attended the dress rehearsal of the new play, was so
delighted with Celia’s acting as to wish to give her a few hints before
the important first night. This was a great honour, for Mrs. Potter
Wemyss did not usually trouble to give a novice the benefit of her
advice; so Celia, appreciating it as such, listened with eager
attention.
There were several other people in the room, including a little woman in
black, who poured out the tea and spoke to nobody--she was the
insignificant mistress of the house; Guy Haviland himself, genial as
ever; his sister Grace, who was talking to Mrs. Neville Williams; and
Lord Bexley, who sat silent in a far-off shadowy corner.
Bexley looked preoccupied as he absent-mindedly twirled his moustache.
He watched Celia Franks and Mrs. Potter Wemyss, and wondered which of
the two distinct types of beauty were the more perfect from the artistic
point of view. Mrs. Potter Wemyss was Irish, with typical Irish eyes,
and plump yet delicately moulded features. Celia, although her profile
reminded him of a Greek statue, had the advantage of her Semitic
descent; and with her red-gold hair would have made an excellent study
for the Madonna, the accepted ideal of Jewish virginal beauty.
Bexley admired lovely women, especially when they were women of
intelligence also, so that to gaze unobserved at these two afforded him
keen pleasure. Their every movement was a graceful pose--perhaps studied
in the case of the elder woman, but not so with the younger; and their
long clinging gowns served to enhance the beauty of their
well-proportioned forms.
“A pretty picture,” remarked Mrs. Neville Williams, in an undertone,
suddenly appearing beside his chair. “Age instructing youth in the way
of vice.”
She glanced towards the pair as she spoke. Her words jarred on Bexley in
his present mood.
“I do not know why you should think that,” he returned with warmth. “I
should say that Mrs. Potter Wemyss would be more likely to teach virtue
than vice.”
“Oh yes”--with a laugh that was half a sneer,--“I know she is very good.
Goes to church regularly, refuses to travel on Sunday, and won’t act
during Lent. But it’s just a fad, you know, which she, being at the top
of the ladder, can afford to indulge. It’s a good advertisement too. An
actress does not usually possess a reputation of that kind.”
Bexley wondered what it was that made Mrs. Neville Williams so
ungenerous to those of her own sex. Whenever he met her, which was very
frequently of late--more often, if the truth be known, than he
desired,--she always had something spiteful to say about one of their
mutual acquaintance. He did not admire this trait in her character, and
generally felt called upon to defend the lady who happened to be under
discussion.
“It is hardly fair to take it for granted that Mrs. Wemyss is guilty of
hypocrisy,” he said with a touch of asperity. “I consider it very
praiseworthy on her part to stick to her Christian principles even
though she is on the stage. Her example is one which might be followed
to advantage by the lesser luminaries of her profession.”
“That sounds very nice,” Mrs. Williams replied with a shrug. “But I am
afraid that I do not believe in such goodness. The world--especially the
theatrical world--is too full of sham and make-believe.”
“And yet there is plenty of unaffected sincerity too, if we only know
where to look for it,” the peer returned musingly, his eyes still on
Celia and Mrs. Potter Wemyss. “Do you know, I used to think that when a
human being ceased to believe in goodness, and in God as the Author of
all goodness, he--or she--was no longer fit to live. Sometimes I think
so now.”
Mrs. Neville Williams bit her lip, although it was not Bexley’s fault if
she chose to apply the remark to herself.
“That is rather a strong expression,” she said, her small foot tapping
the ground.
“Yes, one feels strongly sometimes,” he rejoined; then turned to
Haviland’s little girl, who had just come into the room.
Mrs. Williams moved away wondering what had occurred to vex his
lordship, for that he had been put out about something was evident. It
was a question whether she would have been pleased, had she known.
That very morning Lord Bexley had proposed marriage to Celia Franks,
and, to his sorrow, had been refused. She liked and respected him
immensely, she said, and felt honoured that he should desire to marry
her; but she did not love him, and, having once experienced an
engagement without love, she was anxious to avoid a repetition of the
mistake. It was no wonder, therefore, that he was not in the happiest of
moods. He had known all along that, having given up her own fortune for
the sake of her belief, his rank and wealth were not likely to carry
much weight; but such knowledge did not make his disappointment any the
less keen.
“I think I shall join my sister in the South,” he said, when, Mrs.
Potter Wemyss having taken her departure, he was able to speak to Celia.
“London seems suddenly to have become cold and grey. It will be a relief
to see sunny Italy once more.”
Celia turned to him with an expression of regret. “You make me feel that
I am sending you away,” she said, with a touch of self-reproach. “I am
so sorry, Lord Bexley, sorry that I have had to hurt you, I mean.”
“Never mind, it was my own fault,” he rejoined, not wishing her to feel
that she was in any way to blame. “It was foolish of me to imagine that
you could fall in love with an old stager like myself. Oh, that’s all
right”--as the girl was about to remonstrate,--“I am getting old, you
know. Well, well, we will not say any more about it; only I do hope that
when Mr. Right comes along, he will be worthy of you, Cely. You are a
dear girl, you deserve to be made happy, and I sincerely trust that some
good man will make you so.”
There was a suspicious moisture in Celia’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said
simply, with one of her wonderful smiles. “It is very kind and generous
of you to wish me all that; I hope, though, you won’t go away before
Thursday,” raising her voice slightly, for Miss Haviland’s eyes were
upon them. “I made sure that Lady Marjorie would be present at the
theatre on the first night. I shall be dreadfully disappointed if you
are away too.”
“Then I will stay,” he hastened to rejoin. “It is very kind of you to
express such a desire.”
Thus ended Lord Bexley’s love affair, the only one he ever had.
The important Thursday came in due course, as every long-anticipated day
comes, whether its advent be hailed with delight or dread. Celia was
excited one moment, calm the next, and all the time cherished a secret
fear lest she should be overcome with stage-fright at the crucial
moment.
Late in the afternoon a large floral horse-shoe arrived from Mrs. Potter
Wemyss. Haviland had it hung up in Celia’s dressing-room at the theatre,
for luck. Accompanying the emblem was a note from the great actress
wishing the author and his heroine a huge success. She was unable to
attend the performance herself, having a professional engagement of her
own to fulfil, but hoped to join them later at the Carlton, where
Haviland was giving a supper in honour of the occasion.
Her good wishes were, happily, gratified. “The Voice of the Charmer” was
a decided success. From the first ring-up to the final fall of the
curtain, it went without a hitch. Beautiful scenery and costumes, good
acting, a whimsical but fascinating plot--all these things were in its
favour; and the audience being enthusiastic, ready to applaud on the
slightest provocation, the good fortune of the play was thus ensured.
Celia’s cue did not occur until the latter part of the first act. She
was heard singing in the distance until, after a melodious cadenza, she
herself appeared. From the first moment of her entrance she held the
stage. Opera glasses were immediately levelled and focussed, as with
almost breathless interest the audience took in the beauty of her face
and form, the profusion of bright hair falling over robes of filmy
white; and then, the marvellous sweetness of her voice. Slightly nervous
at first, she soon gained confidence; and, taking no heed of the
audience, lost herself in the identity of Mallida, the hypnotist’s
daughter, who, living in an old-world German town, lures men and women
on by the magic power of her voice, until, arriving on her father’s
domain, they are forced to submit to his evil machinations.
It was a curious play, recalling “Dr. Faustus” in the mystic
impossibility of its first act, but becoming more plausible as it
proceeded. The first scene was a secret cave in the heart of the Hartz
mountains, where the hypnotist hid the spoil he had plundered from his
victims; the last act represented, in striking contrast, a modern London
ball-room; Haviland having run the whole gamut from the romantic to the
commonplace.
The theatre was crowded in every part. Celia could not have desired a
better reception than the one which was accorded her. Many of the people
in the stalls and boxes had met her, when, like a meteor, she had
flashed upon society under the chaperonage of Lady Marjorie Stonor.
Claiming personal acquaintance, therefore, they were particularly
interested, and vied with pit and gallery in thundering their applause.
Sitting far back in the stage-box sat Herbert Karne, who had arrived
from Durlston the preceding day. Although he was naturally gratified at
his sister’s success, he felt strangely unattuned to the spirit of the
performance, and was not as elated as he should have been. The
depression which had accompanied his convalescence seemed to have
settled upon him with deeper gloom. Try as he would, he could not
reclaim that buoyancy of disposition which had been his aforetime. The
sudden departure of Lady Marjorie had affected him more deeply than he
would have thought possible. Not only did he miss her cheering visits,
her dainty attentions, her vivacious ways, but he also felt that, in
spite of extenuating circumstances, he had treated her badly. A hundred
times a day her face rose up before his mental vision--her face as it
had been after he had told her of his past. And, however hopeless it
might be, he loved her. Waking or sleeping, she was continually in his
mind.
When the lights were switched on after the end of the second act, he
recognized Lord Bexley, but avoided a direct glance. He was, perhaps,
hyper-sensitive, but--although he might have been sure that Lady
Marjorie would not tell even her brother of what had occurred--he felt
that if Bexley were to approach him with a horsewhip, he would have no
right to display resentment.
The peer was in an opposite box with friends. One of them, a lady, sat
sideways, apparently studying her programme. There was something
curiously familiar to Herbert Karne in the contour of her face. He was
not able to regard her for long, however, for at that moment Guy
Haviland appeared at the door of his box, offering to take him to the
vicinity of the stage. He stayed there for the remainder of the
performance, being much interested in the working behind the scenes.
Haviland and Celia received quite an ovation when the curtain fell for
the last time, the author insisting in sharing the honours with his
heroine. As soon as Celia had got rid of her make-up and changed into
conventional evening dress, they all drove to the Carlton, where the
flowers which had been presented during the evening were already
displayed on the tables reserved for their party. Herbert Karne was
allotted the place next to Mrs. Potter Wemyss, who had arrived with her
husband a few minutes earlier. The two seats on his right were still
vacant, but he was so absorbed in studying the radiant beauty of Mrs.
Wemyss, that he did not particularly notice the fact.
“Good evening, Karne. Glad to see you again. How is the arm?” said a
voice behind him; and, rising, the artist was confronted by Lord Bexley.
With averted eyes he shook hands, and uttered a commonplace greeting;
then started suddenly, scarcely able to restrain an exclamation of
surprise.
A lady was standing by the side of the peer, the same he had seen in the
theatre. Although dressed entirely in black, her appearance was by no
means sombre, for her corsage, neck, and arms blazed with diamonds; the
same jewels gleaming from amongst the unnatural brightness of her hair.
Tall and erect, she towered above Herbert with an expression of calm
triumph on her face; then, as Lord Bexley introduced him, held out her
hand.
“I think we have met before,” she said with her peculiarly crisp accent,
half French, half Scotch. “Perhaps Mr. Karne does not remember? It was
in the Quartier Latin a few years ago.”
Herbert grasped the back of the chair; the whole room seemed to spin.
“Yes, I remember,” he answered thickly. “It would be impossible to
forget----”
The lady prepared to take her place on his left. “How charming of you to
say so,” she said, as she sat down. “We shall be able to talk over old
times. To recall pleasant reminiscences is quite a favourite pastime of
mine.”
It was a merry little supper-party. Guy Haviland kept the table going
with his clever wit; he was a past-master in the art of entertaining.
Although the evening had been a trying one, Celia did not seem to be
fatigued. She enjoyed being made much of--what girl does not?--and her
face glowed with happy excitement as she responded to the
congratulations of her admirers.
Her brother felt like the death’s-head at the feast. Had Celia been less
excited, she could not have failed to notice his unwonted moodiness.
Mrs. Potter Wemyss made several efforts to sustain a conversation, but
finally despairing of eliciting any but monosyllabic answers, left him
to himself. His brain was in a whirl; he could not eat, nor could he
speak. All he could do was to stare straight in front of him and marvel
at the irony of fate. He had not caught the name of the woman to whom
he had been reintroduced; he did not know in what guise she posed or how
she came to be an honoured guest at Haviland’s table. It was enough for
him that she was there; and being there, claimed recognition.
She confined her conversation principally to her partner, with whom she
seemed to be on terms of intimacy. Several times, however, she turned
towards the artist with a “Do you remember such and such a thing in
Paris?” or, “We had delightful times in those old student-days, didn’t
we, Mr. Karne?”
Herbert was amazed at her coolness, being unaware that on her part the
meeting with himself had been anticipated. He was completely staggered,
too, at the metamorphosis which had taken place in her. He had always
credited her with being arrogantly clever, but how in those twelve years
she had managed to transform herself from a rank Bohemian into a
conventional society lady was more than even he could understand.
Judging by the smiling bows of recognition which passed between herself
and others who were supping at the Carlton, she was well known: that she
had been in the company of Lord Bexley all the evening was in itself
sufficient guarantee as to her social standing.
Not until the guests were dispersing did he get an opportunity of
speaking to her alone; and then it was only for a second. She was
standing in the vestibule, having just said good night to some friends
whilst her cavalier went to see after her carriage. Herbert approached,
and, with a gesture, drew her aside.
“Ninette!” he exclaimed; and then again, “Ninette!”
She smiled the slow tortuous smile he knew so well of old.
“Not ‘Ninette’ in England,” was her laconic answer.
“I must speak to you,” he said hurriedly, noticing that in spite of the
difference in her age and position she was little changed. “Where can I
see you, and at what hour? I must have an explanation.”
She drew herself up with dignity. “There is no ‘must’ where I am
concerned,” she replied haughtily. “But if you care to call and see me
to-morrow, I shall be at home. Here is my card.”
He took it hastily and placed it in his card-case. “At what time?” he
asked again. “Ten o’clock?”
“You surely do not expect me to be up at that unearthly hour of the
morning?” she answered in an aggrieved tone. “You can come at twelve.”
At that moment Lord Bexley reappeared, and, with a bow, the artist moved
away. Then, when he had taken leave of Celia and was on his way to his
hotel, he paused under a street lamp to examine the card.
“MRS. NEVILLE WILLIAMS,
_150 Cromwell Mansions,
South Kensington, S.W._”
Such was its inscription.
Herbert read it aloud. “_Mrs. Neville Williams._” The name seemed to
have a familiar ring about it. Where had he heard it before? Suddenly he
recollected. It was the name of the Vicar of Durlston’s brother-in-law,
the late Dr. Neville Williams of Harley Street. Good Heavens! Could
Ninette have had the audacity to pose as the doctor’s wife?--or of what
had she been guilty?
A cold sweat broke out upon his brow as he thought of it. In whatever
way she had disgraced him, she was still his wife; and now that she had
suddenly crossed his path again, there could be no more ignoring of the
fact.
What would society say if the scandal were exposed? he wondered dully.
What would Marjorie say?
There was no sleep for Herbert Karne that night.