IN ENGLAND.
Mr. Melton was overjoyed to see Annie Brunel in London again. He had
spent half his fortune in beautifying his theatre, in getting up
elaborate scenery for the new piece with which he was to welcome the
return to town of his patrons, and in providing costly properties. So
long as the heroine of the piece was wandering among the mountains of
the Schwarzwald, it was impossible that the manager's mind could be well
at ease.
"You shall come round now, and see what we have done for you, and give
us your opinion," said he, politely.
Indeed, he would like to have kissed her just then, in a fatherly way,
to show how delighted he was to have her back again. He saw pictures of
overflowing audiences before his mind as he looked on the quiet little
figure before him, on the dark face, and the large grave eyes.
It was about eleven o'clock in the forenoon. A tolerably clear light
fell upon the stage, a duskier twilight hung over the rows of empty
benches in the pit, and the gloomy darkness behind the galleries was
here and there lit up by a solitary lamp. One or two gilders were still
at work on the front of the dress-circle; overhead an echoing clang of
hammer and nail told that carpenters were busy; and a vague shouting
from the dusky region of the "flies" revealed the presence of human
beings in those dim Olympian heights. Everywhere, as usual, the smell
of escaped gas; here and there an odour of size or paint.
As they descended from the dark corridor behind the dress-circle into
the wings, a mass of millinery ran full-tilt against Mr. Melton, and
then started back with a slight cry and a giggle.
"God bless my soul!" said the manager, piously, although that was not
the part of his body which had suffered.
The next moment Miss Featherstone had thrown her arms around Annie
Brunel's neck, and was kissing her and calling her "My dear" with that
profusion of sentiment which most actresses love to scatter over the
object, _pro tem._, of their affection. Miss Featherstone was attired
in a green silk dress--in many a love-scene had _that_ rather dingy
piece of costume figured, on the stage and elsewhere--a blue cloth
jacket, a white hat with a scarlet feather, and yellow gloves. During
this outburst of emotion, Mr. Melton had caught sight of a young
gentleman--to whom he gave thirty shillings a week in order that he
might dress as a gentleman should, and always have a good hat to keep on
his head while walking about in a drawing-room--who had been in pursuit
of Miss Featherstone, and who now sneaked away in another direction.
"And so you've come back, my dear, and none of the German princes have
run away with you! And how well you look! I declare I'm quite ashamed
of myself when I see the colour in your cheeks; but what with
rehearsals, you know, my dear, and other troubles----"
She heaved a pretty and touching sigh. She intimated that these
quarrels with the young gentleman who escorted her to and from the
stage-door--quarrels which came off at a rate of about seven per
week--were disturbing the serenity of her mind so far as to compel her
to assist nature with violet-powder and rouge.
"Do you know, my dear," she said, in a whisper that sent Mr. Melton away
on his own business, "he swears he will forsake me for ever if I accept
a part in which I must wear tights. How can I help it, my dear? What
is a poor girl to do?"
"Wear trousers," said Annie Brunel, with a smile.
"Nothing will please him. He would have all my comic parts played in a
train half a mile long. At last I told him he had better go and help my
mother to cut my skirts and petticoats of a proper length; and he
pretended to be deeply hurt, and I haven't seen him since."
Then she tossed her wilful little head with an air of defiance.
"He will write to me before I write to him."
"It is too cruel of you," said her companion.
"Yes, my dear, you may laugh; but you have no burlesque parts to play.
And you have nobody sitting in the stalls watching your every movement,
and keeping you in a fright about what he is thinking of you."
"No," said Annie Brunel, rather absently, "I have nobody to watch me
like that. If I had, I should not be able to go upon the stage, I
think."
"And the bitter things he says about the profession--and particularly
about Mr. Gannet, and Mr. Marks, and Mr. Jobson--all because they are
young men, and he fancies they may be so polite as to lift a glove for
me if I let it fall. You know, my dear, that _I_ don't encourage them.
If there's any fun at rehearsal, you know that _I_ don't begin it."
"When we met you just now----"
"That was only some of Mr. Murphy's nonsense. Oh, I declare to you, no
one knows what I have suffered. The other evening, when he and I got
into a cab, he glared at the man who opened the door for us. And the
fuss he makes about cosmetique and bismuth is something dreadful."
"He must be a monster."
There now ensued a little fragment of thorough comedy. For a moment the
elderly young lady, who had been assuming throughout the tone of a
spoiled child, stood irresolute. There was a petulance on her face, and
she had half a mind to go away in high dudgeon from one who was
evidently laughing at her. Then through this petulance there broke a
sort of knowing smile, while a glimmer of mischievous intelligence
appeared in her eyes; and then, with an unaffected comical giggle, she
once more threw her arms round Annie Brunel's neck and kissed her.
"I'm very wicked, I know," she said, with a shrug of the shoulders, "but
I can't help it. What's bred in the bone, you know. And it's all the
men's fault, for they keep teasing one so. As for _him_, if he writes
to me, and makes an apology, and promises to be a good boy, I'll make
friends with him. And I'll be very good myself--for a week."
It was with a cold inward shiver that Annie Brunel stepped out upon the
stage and looked round the empty theatre. She tried to imagine it full
of people, and yellow light, and stir, and she knew within herself she
dared not venture before them. Even without that solitary pair of eyes
watching her movements, and without the consciousness that she might be
producing a strong impression, for good or evil, on one particular
person whose estimation she desired, she trembled to think of the full
house, and the rows of faces, and her own individual weakness.
"What do you think of the decorations, Miss Brunel?" said Mr. Melton,
coming up.
"They are very pretty," she said, mechanically.
"With your 'Rosalind,' the theatre should draw all London to it."
"It is 'Rosalind' you mean to play?" she asked, scarcely knowing what
she said.
"Certainly," replied the manager, with astonishment. "Don't you remember
our agreement? If you turn round, you will see the new forest-scene Mr.
Gannet has painted; perhaps it may remind you of something in the Black
Forest."
For a moment or two she glanced over the great breadth of canvas,
covered with gnarled oaks, impossible brushwood, and a broad, smooth
stream. With a short "No, it is not like the Black Forest," she turned
away again.
"Miss Featherstone will play 'Celia;' and you know there is not a
'Touchstone' in the world to come near Bromley's. Mrs. Wilkes refuses
to play 'Audrey,' luckily, and Miss Alford will play it a deal better.
I have had several rehearsals, everybody is declared letter-perfect; and
we only you to put the keystone to the arch, as one might say."
She turned quickly round and said to him--
"If I were at the last moment prevented from playing in the piece, could
Miss Featherstone take 'Rosalind,' and some one else play 'Celia?'"
"What do you mean, my dear Miss Brunel?" said the manager, aghast. "You
frighten me, I assure you. I calculated upon you; and after all this
expense, and your agreement, and----"
"Don't misunderstand me, Mr. Melton," she said, quietly. "I mean to
play the part so as to give every satisfaction both to you and myself,
if I can. I only asked in the event of any accident."
"Come," said he, kindly, "I can't have you talk in that strain, with
such a prospect before us. Why, we are going to set all London, as well
as the Thames, on fire, and have the prices of the stalls going at a
hundred per cent. premium. An accident! Bah! I wish Count Schoenstein
were here to laugh the notion out of your head."
So it was, therefore, that the play was put in full rehearsal for
several days, and Mr. Melton looked forward hopefully to the success of
his new venture. Sometimes he was a little disquieted by the remembrance
of Miss Brunel's singular question; but he strove to banish it from his
mind. He relied upon his new scenery and decorations, and upon Annie
Brunel; the former were safe, and he would take care to secure the
latter.
The gentlemen of the press had been good enough to mention the proposed
revival in terms of generous anticipation. Altogether, Mr. Melton had
every reason to hope for the best.
Occasionally he observed an unusual constraint in the manner of his
chief favourite, and sometimes a listless indifference to what was going
on around her. One or twice he had caught her standing idly behind the
foot-lights, gazing into the empty theatre with a vague earnestness
which revealed some inward purpose. He still trusted that all would go
well; and yet he confessed to himself that there was something about the
young actress's manner that he had never noticed before, and which he
could not at all understand.
Mrs. Christmas seemed to share with him this uneasy feeling. He knew
that the old lady was now in the habit of lecturing her pupil in a
derisive way, as if trying to banish some absurd notion from her mind;
and whenever he approached, Mrs. Christmas became silent.
For the first time during their long companionship Mrs. Christmas found
her young friend incomprehensibly obstinate, not to say intractable.
Night and day she strove to convince her that in anticipating
nervousness and failure, she was rendering both inevitable; and yet she
could not, by all her arguments and entreaties, remove this gloomy
apprehension.
"I cannot explain the feeling," was the constant reply. "I only know it
is there."
"But you, of all people, Miss Annie! Girls who have suddenly come to
try the stage get fits of stage-fright naturally: but people who are
born and bred to it, who have been on the stage since their
childhood----"
"Why should you vex yourself, mother? I have no dread of stage-fright.
I shall be as cool as I am now. Don't expect that I shall blunder in my
part, or make mistakes otherwise--that is not what I mean. What I fear
is, that the moment I go upon the stage, and see the men and women all
around me, I shall feel that I am just like one of them, only a little
lower in having to amuse them. I shall feel as if I ought to be ashamed
of myself in imitating the real emotions of life."
"You never had any of those fantastic notions before. Didn't you use to
pride yourself on your indifference to the people?"
"I _used_ to."
"What has changed you?"
"My growing older," she replied, with a sad smile. "I begin to feel as
if those things that make up acting had become part of my own life now,
and that I had no business to burlesque them any more on the stage. I
begin to wonder what the people will think of my lending myself to a
series of tricks."
And here she fell into a reverie, which Mrs. Christmas saw it was
useless to interrupt. The worthy old woman was sorely puzzled and
grieved by the apostacy of her most promising pupil, and ceased not to
speculate on what subtle poison had been allowed to creep into her mind.
Meanwhile the opening night had arrived. People had come back from the
moors and Mont Blanc, and every place in the theatre had been taken. Mr.
Melton already enjoyed his triumph by anticipation, and tried every
means of keeping up Annie Brunel's spirits. She was bound to achieve
the most brilliant of all her successes, as he confidently told her.