WONDER-LAND.
A cool evening in June, the club windows open, a clear twilight shining
over Pall Mall, and a _tete-a-tete_ dinner at a small, clean, bright
table--these are not the conditions in which a young man should show
impatience. And yet the cunning dishes which Mr. Ogilvie, who had a
certain pride in his club, though it was only one of the junior
institutions, had placed before his friend, met with but scanty
curiosity: Macleod would rather have handed questions of cookery over to
his cousin Janet. Nor did he pay much heed to his companion's sage
advice as to the sort of club he should have himself proposed at, with a
view to getting elected in a dozen or fifteen years. A young man is apt
to let his life at forty shift for itself.
"You seem very anxious to see Miss White again," said Mr. Ogilvie, with
a slight smile.
"I wish to make all the friends I can while I am in London," said
Macleod. "What shall I do in this howling wilderness when you go back to
Aldershot?"
"I don't think Miss Gertrude White will be of much use to you. Colonel
Ross may be. Or Lord Beauregard. But you cannot expect young ladies to
take you about."
"No?" said Macleod, gravely; "that is a great pity."
Mr. Ogilvie, who, with all his knowledge of the world, and of wines and
cookery, and women, and what not, had sometimes an uneasy consciousness
that his companion was laughing at him, here proposed that they should
have a cigar before walking up to the Piccadilly Theatre; but as it was
now ten minutes to eight, Macleod resolutely refused. He begged to be
considered a country person, anxious to see the piece from the
beginning. And so they put on their light top-coats over their evening
dress and walked up to the theatre.
A distant sound of music, an odor of escaped gas, a perilous descent of
a corkscrew staircase, a drawing aside of heavy curtains, and then a
blaze of yellow light shining within this circular building, on its red
satin and gilt plaster, and on the spacious picture of a blue Italian
lake, with peacocks on the wide stone terraces. The noise at first was
bewildering. The leader of the orchestra was sawing away at his violin
as savagely as if he were calling on his company to rush up and seize a
battery of guns. What was the melody that was being banged about by the
trombones, and blared aloud by the shrill cornets, and sawed across by
the infuriated violins? "When the heart of a man is oppressed with
care." The cure was never insisted on with such an angry vehemence.
Recovering from the first shock of this fierce noise, Macleod began to
look around this strange place, with its magical colors and its
profusion of gilding; but nowhere in the half-empty stalls or behind the
lace curtains of the boxes could he make out the visitor of whom he was
in search. Perhaps she was not coming, then? Had he sacrificed the
evening all for nothing? As regarded the theatre or the piece to be
played, he had not the slightest interest in either. The building was
very pretty, no doubt; but it was only, in effect, a superior sort of
booth; and as for the trivial amusement of watching a number of people
strut across a stage and declaim--or perhaps make fools of themselves to
raise a laugh--that was not at all to his liking. It would have been
different had he been able to talk to the girl who had shown such a
strange interest in the gloomy stories of the Northern seas; perhaps,
though he would scarcely have admitted this to himself, it might have
been different if only he had been allowed to see her at some distance.
But her being absent altogether? The more the seats in the stalls were
filled--reducing the chances of her coming--the more empty the theatre
seemed to become.
"At least we can go along to that house you mentioned," said he to his
companion.
"Oh, don't be disappointed yet," said Ogilvie; "I know she will be
here."
"With Mrs. Ross?"
"Mrs. Ross comes very often to this theatre. It is the correct thing to
do. It is high art. All the people are raving about the chief actress;
artists painting her portrait; poets writing sonnets about her different
characters--no end of a fuss. And Mrs. Ross is very proud that so
distinguished a person is her particular friend."
"Do you mean the actress?"
"Yes; and makes her the big feature of her parties at present; and
society is rather inclined to make a pet of her, too--patronizing high
art, don't you know. It's wonderful what you can do in that way. If a
duke wants a clown to make fellows laugh after a Derby dinner, he gets
him to his house and makes him dance; and if the papers find it out, it
is only raising the moral status of the pantomine. Of course it is
different with Mrs. Ross's friend: she is all right socially."
The garrulous boy was stopped by the sudden cessation of the music; and
then the Italian lake and the peacocks disappeared into unknown regions
above; and behold! in their place a spacious hall was revealed--not the
bare and simple hall at Castle Dare with which Macleod was familiar, but
a grand apartment, filled with old armor, and pictures, and cabinets,
and showing glimpses of a balcony and fair gardens beyond. There were
two figures in this hall, and they spoke--in the high and curious
falsetto of the stage. Macleod paid no more heed to them than if they
had been marionettes. For one thing, he could not follow their speech
very well; but, in any case, what interest could he have in listening to
this old lawyer explaining to the stout lady that the family affairs
were grievously involved? He was still intently watching the new-comers
who straggled in, singly or in pairs, to the stalls. When a slight
motion of the white curtains showed that some one was entering one of
the boxes, the corner of the box was regarded with as earnest a gaze as
ever followed the movements of a herd of red deer in the misty chasms of
Ben-an-Sloich. What concern had he in the troubles of this over-dressed
and stout lady, who was bewailing her misfortunes and wringing her
bejewelled hands?
Suddenly his heart seemed to stand still altogether. It was a light,
glad laugh--the sound of a voice he knew--that seemed to have pierced
him as with a rifle-ball; and at the same moment from the green shimmer
of foliage in the balcony there stepped into the glare of the hall a
young girl with life, and laughter, and a merry carelessness in her face
and eyes. She threw her arms around her mother's neck and kissed her.
She bowed to the legal person. She flung her garden hat on to a couch,
and got up on a chair to get fresh seed put in for her canary. It was
all done so simply, and naturally, and gracefully that in an instant a
fire of life and reality sprang into the whole of this sham thing. The
woman was no longer a marionette, but the anguish-stricken mother of
this gay and heedless girl. And when the daughter jumped down from the
chair again--her canary on her finger--and when she came forward to pet,
and caress, and remonstrate with her mother, and when the glare of the
lights flashed on the merry eyes, and on the white teeth and laughing
lips, there was no longer any doubt possible. Macleod's face was quite
pale. He took the programme from Ogilvie's hand, and for a minute or two
stared mechanically at the name of Miss Gertrude White, printed on the
pink-tinted paper. He gave it him back without a word. Ogilvie only
smiled; he was proud of the surprise he had planned.
And now the fancies and recollections that came rushing into Macleod's
head were of a sufficiently chaotic and bewildering character. He tried
to separate that grave, and gentle, and sensitive girl he had met at
Prince's Gate from this gay madcap, and he could not at all succeed. His
heart laughed with the laughter of this wild creature; he enjoyed the
discomfiture and despair of the old lawyer as she stood before him
twirling her garden hat by a solitary ribbon; and when the small, white
fingers raised the canary to be kissed by the pouting lips, the action
was more graceful than anything he had ever seen in the world. But where
was the silent and serious girl who had listened with such rapt
attention to his tales of passion and revenge, who seemed to have some
mysterious longing for those gloomy shores he came from, who had sung
with such exquisite pathos "A wee bird cam' to our ha' door?" Her cheek
had turned white when she heard of the fate of the son of Maclean:
surely that sensitive and vivid imagination could not belong to this
audacious girl, with her laughing, and teasings, and demure coquetry?
Society had not been talking about the art of Mrs. Ross's _protegee_ for
nothing; and that art soon made short work of Keith Macleod's doubts.
The fair stranger he had met at Prince's Gate vanished into mist. Here
was the real woman; and all the trumpery business of the theatre, that
he would otherwise have regarded with indifference or contempt, became a
real and living thing, insomuch that he followed the fortunes of this
spoiled child with a breathless interest and a beating heart. The spell
was on him. Oh, why should she be so proud to this poor lover, who stood
so meekly before her? "Coquette, coquette" (Macleod could have cried to
her), "the days are not always full of sunshine; life is not all youth,
and beauty, and high spirits; you may come to repent of your pride and
your cruelty." He had no jealousy against the poor youth who took his
leave; he pitied him, but it was for her sake; he seemed to know that
evil days were coming, when she would long for the solace of an honest
man's love. And when the trouble came--as it speedily did--and when she
stood bravely up at first to meet her fate, and when she broke down for
a time, and buried her face in her hands, and cried with bitter sobs,
the tears were running down his face. Could the merciful heavens see
such grief, and let the wicked triumph? And why was there no man to
succor her? Surely some times arise in which the old law is the good
law, and a man will trust to his own right arm to put things straight
in the world? To look at her!--could any man refuse? And now she rises
and goes away, and all the glad summer-time and the sunshine have gone,
and the cold wind shivers through the trees, and it breathes only of
farewell. Farewell, O miserable one! the way is dark before you, and you
are alone. Alone, and no man near to help.
Macleod was awakened from his trance. The act drop was let down; there
was a stir throughout the theatre; young Ogilvie turned to him,--
"Don't you see who has come into that corner box up there?"
If he had told that Miss White, just come up from Prince's Gate, in her
plain black dress and blue beads, had just arrived and was seated there,
he would scarcely have been surprised. As it was, he looked up and saw
Colonel Ross taking his seat, while the figure of a lady was partially
visible behind the lace curtain.
"I wonder how often Mrs. Ross has seen this piece?" Ogilvie said. "And I
think Colonel Ross is as profound a believer in Miss White as his wife
is. Will you go up and see them now?"
"No," Macleod said, absently.
"I shall tell them," said the facetious boy as he rose and got hold of
his crush hat, "that you are meditating a leap on to the stage to rescue
the distressed damsel."
And then his conscience smote him.
"Mind you," said he, "I think it is awfully good myself. I can't pump up
any enthusiasm for most things that people rave about, but I do think
this girl is uncommonly clever. And then she always dresses like a
lady."
With this high commendation, Lieutenant Ogilvie left, and made his way
upstairs to Mrs. Ross's box. Apparently he was well received there, for
he did not make his appearance again at the beginning of the next act,
nor, indeed, until it was nearly over.
The dream-world opens again; and now it is a beautiful garden, close by
the ruins of an old abbey, and fine ladies are walking about there. But
what does he care for these marionettes uttering meaningless phrases?
They have no more interest for him than the sham ruins, so long as that
one bright, speaking, pathetic face is absent; and the story they are
carrying forward is for him no story at all, for he takes no heed of its
details in his anxious watching for her appearance. The sides of this
garden are mysteriously divided: by which avenue shall she approach?
Suddenly he hears the low voice--she comes nearer. Now let the world
laugh again! But, alas! when she does appear, it is in the company of
her lover, and it is only to bid him good-by. Why does the coward hind
take her at her word? A stick, a stone, a wave of the cold sea, would be
more responsive to that deep and tremulous voice, which has now no
longer any of the art of a wilful coquetry about it, but is altogether
as self-revealing as the generous abandonment of her eyes. The poor
cipher! he is not the man to woo and win and carry off this noble woman,
the unutterable soul surrender of whose look has the courage of despair
in it. He bids her farewell. The tailor's dummy retires. And she? in her
agony, is there no one to comfort her? They have demanded his sacrifice
in the name of duty, and she has consented: ought not that to be enough
to comfort her? then other people appear from other parts of the garden,
and there is a Babel of tongues. He hears nothing; but he follows that
sad face, until he could imagine that he listened to the throbbing of
her aching heart.
And then, as the phantasms of the stage come and go, and fortune plays
many pranks with these puppets, the piece draws near to an end. And now
as it appears, everything is reversed, and it is the poor lover who is
in grievous trouble, while she is restored to the proud position of her
coquetries and wilful graces again, with all her friends smiling around
her, and life lying fair before her. She meets him by accident.
Suffering gives him a certain sort of dignity: but how is one to retain
patience with the blindness of this insufferable ass? Don't you see,
man--don't you see that she is waiting to throw herself into your arms?
and you, you poor ninny, are giving yourself airs, and doing the grand
heroic! And then the shy coquetry comes in again. The pathetic eyes are
full of a grave compassion, if he must really never see her more. The
cat plays with the poor mouse, and pretends that really the tender thing
is gone away at last. He will take this half of a broken sixpence back:
it was given in happier times. If ever he should marry, he will know
that one far away prays for his happiness. And if--if these unwomanly
tears--And suddenly the crass idiot discovers that she is laughing at
him, and that she has secured him and bound him as completely as a fly
fifty times wound round by a spider. The crash of applause that
accompanied the lowering of the curtain stunned Macleod, who had not
quite come back from dreamland. And then, amidst a confused roar the
curtain was drawn a bit back, and she was led--timidly smiling, so that
her eyes seemed to take in all the theatre at once--across the stage by
that same poor fool of a lover; and she had two or three bouquets thrown
her, notably one from Mrs. Ross's box. Then she disappeared, and the
lights were lowered, and there was a dull shuffling of people getting
their cloaks and hats and going away.
"Mrs. Ross wants to see you for a minute," Ogilvie said.
"Yes," Macleod answered, absently.
"And we have time yet, if you like, to get into a hansom and drive along
to Lady Beauregard's."