“I said Diana.”
“Of course,” he answered, beating his forehead; “the child of”--
After all, it was a long lapse of time. I told him my mother’s name.
“She was my one real love,” he said, shedding tears. “I recall her
among the peats of Killarney as if it were to-day. When she died (she
is dead, isn’t she?) I buried my heart in her grave. I have never
known a moment’s happiness since. Speak to me of her, Dinorah.”
He followed me up a little later, when Patty was sitting with me, and
peeped round the door.
“May I--daughter Di?” he said. I believe he had really in the interval
been looking among his notes, or letters, and with such benefit to his
memory that he felt secure, at least, in that monosyllabic compromise.
Blame my fond heart, thou _fripon_. I was softened even in my
desperate disillusionment by this half recognition. With a father,
fashionable and well-connected, possibly rich, to safeguard my
interests, I need no longer fear the light.
Receiving no answer, he sidled himself into the room, and to a sofa,
on which he sat down. Patty, dropping her work, looked at him with all
her might of astonishment.
“And is this dear child your sister?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered; “from the very first.”
“Twins?” he exclaimed. “I am very sure there is no such entry.”
He sat frowning at the carpet for a little. Then, “Wait,” he said. “It
is my misfortune to serve small beer.” And with these enigmatic words
laid himself down and fell asleep.
With his first snore, Patty flew over to me.
“Who is it?” she whispered, frantic.
“_It_ is a wise father that knows his own child.”
“_Father_?” she said.
“Hush!” I answered; “yes.” And would say no more till he woke.
He came to himself presently, in a properer sense of the word. During
the interval I had been curiously observing his condition. It was very
different in seeming from that of the spark of eleven years since. It
showed an assumption of finery, it is true; but the trappings were
tawdry and soiled, and the materials cheap.
He sat up with a prodigious yawn, his face, in the midst, lapsing into
a watery, paternal smile. But it was evident at once that something of
the thread of memory was restored in him; and he began questioning me
much more shrewdly and to the point.
“Why, ecod,” said he presently, “was it a fact that the sweep had
stole you? If I’d only learnt the truth before Charlie Buckster put a
bullet in himself. I’d a double pony on it with the man.”
Then we got on famously. He cried much over his poor lost love, and
was so tender with me that he completely won me from my reserve, and I
ended by recounting to him the whole tale of my fortunes, even up to
the present moment.
“That Herring!” he said: “a fine guardian to my girl! I knew the stoat
well in my time. Let him beware, now that she has found her natural
protector.”
He swelled with indignation, as I with pleasure.
“You have gifts, presents from him, no doubt,” he said fiercely. “What
do you say to my taking them all back, and throwing them in his face?”
“I say, certainly not,” I answered.
“Ah well!” he said, “you have got them, anyhow; and the thought will
wring his covetous soul.”
At this moment a great voice roared, “Johnson, you devil!” down below
somewhere.
My father got quickly to his feet.
“Ay,” he answered, to my look; “’tis me, Di--the pseudonym I go by.
Fact is, child, I’m temporarily under a financial cloud, and forced to
eke out a living, while awaiting the moment of my complete restoration
to fortune, by service--that is to say, by taking it, hem!”
“By taking service?”
“Exactly. A sort of elegant cicerone and social introducer to a damned
old parvenu curmudgeon, who wants to learn at what lowest outlay to
himself he can pose as a gentleman. ’Tis tiresome, though in its way
amusing; but I really think I shall have to cut the old rascal on his
taste in liquor. For a palate like mine, you know--small beer and blue
ruin, faugh! You haven’t change for a guinea, my angelic?”
“Johnson!” roared the voice again.
“Coming, sir, coming!” cried my papa; and, seeing me unresponsive,
skipped out of the room.
He was with us continually during the fortnight after our arrival; and
I had no least idea of the consequences awaiting me, when one
afternoon a hastily scribbled note, dated “_en route_ for the
Continent,” was delivered at the house door by a porter, and sent up
to me. I read it, shrieked, and sank half fainting into a chair.
“I have taken, dear daughter,” it said, “the entire responsibility for
our monetary affairs upon my own shoulders. To live on one’s capital
is, like the self-eating pelican, to devour the substance of the
unborn generations. Seeing how you appeared quite unaccountably
callous to the natural claims of your prospective family (for, with
your attractions, you cannot hope to escape one), I, as its
prospective grandfather, have asserted my prerogative by appropriating
our principal to its properest uses of investment. The stocking you
will find still reposing in its secret _cache_ behind the hangings of
your dressing-table; but you will find it empty. Do not blame me, but
console yourself with the conviction that in a few weeks I shall be in
a position to return you your principal _at least trebled_. In the
meanwhile, accept the assurances of my love and protection.”
Half dazed with the shock, I tottered, with Patty’s assistance, into
our bedroom. It was too true. The desperate wretch, seizing his
opportunity by night while we slept, had robbed us of everything. He
had left us not a sixpence. We were ruined.
I tore my hair. I uttered cries and imprecations. I cursed Heaven, my
own fond gullibility, the cruelty of the fate that would not let me
live and be honest. Patty, poor fool, tried to calm me. I drove her
away with blows, and, in a reaction to fury, rushed downstairs and
into the room of the remaining lodger.
“Where is my money, where are my jewels?” I shrieked. “You are his
accomplice. I will swear an information against you unless you tell.”
He was a gross, coarse man, of a violent complexion.
“Ho-ho!” he bellowed; “blackmail is it? Wait, while I call a witness.”
He pulled the bell down, summoning our landlady. When she came, there
was an outrageous scene. Quite cowed in the end, I retreated to our
apartments, where, however, I was not to be left in peace. Within an
hour the harridan appeared with her bill, an extravagant one, which of
course I was unable to settle. The next morning, driven forth with
contumely, we were arrested at her suit, and carried to a
sponging-house. Thence, quite self-collected now in my desperation, I
despatched a note to Mr. Roper, who, without delay, good creature,
waited upon us. I told him the whole unreserved truth.
“Very well,” he said, “I will quit you of this, child; and, for the
rest, find accommodation for you in humbler quarters till you can help
yourself. With your genius, that should not be long. You know my
circumstances, and that I cannot afford luxuries.”
“I will work my fingers to the bone,” I said, with tears in my eyes.
“Not quite so bad as that,” he answered. “Bones ain’t negotiable
assets. Have you ever thought on the stage, now, for a living?”
“I believe, without much study, I could make an actress,” I said.
“With none at all,” said he confidently. “I have a friend in Westley
of Drury Lane, and will see if he can put you in the way to a part. I
should fear the publicity, i’ faith, but that my lord has taken his
grievances to the Continent for an airing, and in the interval we are
safe to act.”
Good loyal friend! He found us pretty snug quarters over a little shop
in Long Acre, where, keeping to our pseudonym of the Misses Rush, we
bided while he negotiated terms for me. He was successful, when once I
had been interviewed by the management; and, to cut short this
melancholy story, I made my first appearance on the boards as the
fairy Primrose in the Christmas masque of the _Dragon of Wantley_. I
had a little song to sing about a butterfly, which never failed to
bring down the house; and altogether, I was growing not unhappy in the
novelty of the venture, when that, with almost my life, was ended at a
blow.
But first I must relate of the most surprising _contretemps_ that ever
I was to experience, and which had the strangest and most immediate
bearing on my destinies.
I had noticed frequently that the hind legs of the dragon would linger
unaccountably, when the absurd monster, on his way off the stage,
happened to pass me standing in the wings. This would lead to much
muffled recrimination from the forequarters, which, exhausted by their
antics, aimed only at getting to their beer; the consequence being
that one eventful night, what between the haulings and contortions,
the back seam of the creature split, and out there rolled before my
eyes--Gogo.
He picked himself up immediately, and stood regarding me silently,
with a most doleful visage. My dear, I cannot describe what emotions
swept my soul in a little storm of laughter--the astonishment, the
pity, the bewilderment! In the midst, too confounded to arrange my
thoughts, I turned away, affecting not to recognise him; seeing which,
he uttered one enormous sigh, and stumped off to face the battery of
the stage-manager’s indignation.
I must have put a world of feeling that night into my little song
about the poor butterfly, that was stripped of its wings by a cruel
boy, and so prevented from keeping its assignation with the rose,
insomuch that it moved a very beautiful lady, who was present in a
private box, to send for me that she might thank me in person.
We had all of us, of course, heard of, and some of us remembered,
perhaps, chucking under the chin, the ravishing Mrs. Hart, who, from
pulling mugs of beer to the pinks of Drury Lane, had risen to be
_chère amie_ to his excellency the British Ambassador at Naples, and,
quite recently, his lady. She had lately come to London, _à travers
tous les obstacles_, to be made an honest woman of, and it was she who
craved the introduction, to which you may be sure I responded with as
much alacrity as curiosity. I could have no doubt of her the moment I
entered the box, and made, with becoming naïveté, my little curtsey.
She was certainly very handsome, in spite of her twenty-seven years
and her large feet, though, I thought, lacking in grace. But her face
was beautifully formed, with a complexion of apple-blossoms, and red
lips a little swollen with kissing, and, to crown everything, a great
glory of chestnut hair. There were tears in her fine eyes as she
turned impulsively to address me--
“La, you little darling, you’ve made me cry with your butterflies and
things. Come here while I buss you.”
There was a gentleman sitting by her, foremost of two or three that
were in the box, and he made room for me with an indulgent smile. He
was a genial, precise-looking person, with a star on his right breast,
and the queue of his wig reaching down his back in long curls that
were gathered into a ribbon. I took him, rightly, to be Sir William,
the husband, and made him my demure bow as I passed. His lady gave me
a great kiss, in full view of the house, and taking a little jewel
from her bosom, pinned it into mine.
“There,” she said, “wear this for Lady Hamilton, in token of the only
reel feeling she has come across in your beastly city.”
Sir William put his hand on her arm.
“My dear,” he said.
She fanned herself boisterously. She had been disappointed, everyone
knew, in her designs to be received at court, and was to leave England
in a few days missing the coveted honour. Somehow she reminded me of
the “bouncing chit” that our gentlemen call a champagne bottle--she so
gushed and sparkled, and was a little large and loud.
I made my acknowledgments quite prettily, and left the box; and, once
got outside, leaned for a moment against the wall, with a feeling of
mortal sickness come over me. For, as I retreated, I had come face to
face with those seated at the back--_and one of them was the Earl of
Herring_.
Had he recognised me? He had not appeared to lift his eyes, even, as
he sat at discussion with his neighbour. And that might be the most
deadly sign of all.
I don’t know how I got through the rest of my part. But that night I
clung to Patty as if she were my only support in a failing world.
Morning brought some reassurance; and so, for a further evening or
two, finding myself still unmolested, I struggled to convince myself
that he had not seen, or that I was forgotten, and my fault passed
over. But all the time the terror lay at my heart.
On the third evening, as I was entering the theatre, I encountered a
poor creature standing by the stage door. I went to him; I almost fell
upon his breast in my agitation.
“Gogo!” I said, “Gogo!” and stood dumb and shame-stricken before him.
He threw up his hands with that odd familiar gesture, with that
tempestuous sigh which found such an immediate response in my soul.
“Are you not coming in?” I faltered.
He shook his head.
“You are dismissed?”
“I spoiled their dragon for them.”