ENTHUSIASMS.
She was seated alone, her arms on the table, her head bent down. There
was no red rose now in the white morning-dress, for she had given it to
him when he left. The frail November sunshine streamed into the room
and put a shimmer of gold on the soft brown of her hair.
It was a bold step she had taken, without counsel of any one. Her dream
was now to give up everything that she had hitherto cared about, and to
go away into private life to play the part of Lady Bountiful. And if
doubts about the strength of her own resolution occasionally crossed her
mind, could she not appeal for aid and courage to him who would always
be by her side? When she became a Macleod, she would have to accept the
motto of the Macleods. That motto is, _Hold Fast_.
She heard her sister come into the house, and she raised her head.
Presently Carry opened the door; and it was clear she was in high
spirits.
"Oh, Mopsy," said she--and this was a pet name she gave her sister Carry
when the latter was in great favor--"did you ever see such a morning in
November? Don't you think papa might take us to Kew Gardens?"
"I want to speak to you, Carry--come here," she said, gravely; and the
younger sister went and stood by the table. "You know you and I are
thrown very much on each other; and we ought to have no secrets from
each other; and we ought to be always quite sure of each other's
sympathy. Now, Carry, you must be patient, you must be kind: if I don't
get sympathy from you, from whom should I get it?"
Carry withdrew a step, and her manner instantly changed. Gertrude White
was a very clever actress; but she had never been able to impose on her
younger sister. This imploring look was all very fine; this appeal for
sympathy was pathetic enough; but both only awakened Carry's suspicions.
In their ordinary talk sisters rarely use such formal words as
"sympathy."
"What do you mean?" said she, sharply.
"There--already!" exclaimed the other, apparently in deep
disappointment. "Just when I most need your kindness and sympathy, you
show yourself most unfeeling--"
"I wish you would tell me what it is all about," Carry said,
impatiently.
The elder sister lowered her eyes, and her fingers began to work with a
paper-knife that was lying there. Perhaps this was only a bit of
stage-business: or perhaps she was really a little apprehensive about
the effect of her announcement.
"Carry," she said, in a low voice, "I have promised to marry Sir Keith
Macleod."
Carry uttered a slight cry of horror and surprise; but this too was only
a bit of stage effect, for she had fully anticipated the disclosure.
"Well, Gertrude White!" said she, apparently when she had recovered her
breath. "Well--I--I--I--never!"
Her language was not as imposing as her gestures; but then nobody had
written the part for her; whereas her very tolerable acting was nature's
own gift.
"Now, Carry, be reasonable--don't be angry: what is the use of being
vexed with what is past recalling? Any other sister would be very glad
at such a time--" These were the hurried and broken sentences with which
the culprit sought to stave off the coming wrath. But, oddly enough,
Miss Carry refrained from denunciations or any other stormy expression
of her anger and scorn. She suddenly assumed a cold and critical air.
"I suppose," said she, "before you allowed Sir Keith Macleod to ask you
to become his wife, you explained to him our circumstances."
"I don't understand you."
"You told him, of course, that you had a ne'er-do-well brother in
Australia, who might at any moment appear and disgrace the whole
family?"
"I told him nothing of the kind. I had no opportunity of getting into
family affairs. And if I had, what has Tom got to do with Sir Keith
Macleod? I had forgotten his very existence--no wonder, after eight
years of absolute silence."
But Carry, having fired this shot, was off after other ammunition.
"You told him you had sweethearts before?"
"No, I did not," said Miss Gertrude White, warmly, "because it isn't
true."
"What?--Mr. Howson?"
"The orchestra leader in a provincial theatre!"
"Oh yes! but you did not speak so contemptuously of him then. Why, you
made him believe he was another Mendelssohn!"
"You are talking nonsense."
"And Mr. Brook--you no doubt told him that Mr. Brook called on papa, and
asked him to go down to Doctors' Commons and see for himself what money
he would have--"
"And what then? How can I prevent any idiotic boy who chooses to turn
me into a heroine from going and making a fool of himself?"
"Oh, Gertrude White!" said Carry, solemnly. "Will you sit there and tell
me you gave him no encouragement?"
"This is mere folly!" the elder sister said, petulantly; as she rose and
proceeded to put straight a few of the things about the room. "I had
hoped better things of you, Carry. I tell you of an important step I
have taken in my life, and you bring out a lot of tattle and nonsense.
However, I can act for myself. It is true, I had imagined something
different. When I marry, of course, we shall be separated. I had looked
forward to the pleasure of showing you my new home."
"Where is it to be?"
"Wherever my husband wishes it to be," she answered, proudly; but there
was a conscious flush of color in her face as she uttered--for the first
time--that word.
"In the Highlands, I suppose, for he is not rich enough to have two
houses," said Carry; which showed that she had been pondering over this
matter before. "And he has already got his mother and his old-maid
sister, or whatever she is, in the house. You will make a pretty
family!"
This was a cruel thrust. When Macleod had spoken of the far home
overlooking the Northern seas, what could be more beautiful than his
picture of the noble and silver-haired dame, and of the gentle and
loving cousin who was the friend and counsellor of the poor people
around? And when he had suggested that some day or other Mr. White might
bring his daughter to these remote regions to see all the wonders and
the splendors of them, he told her how the beautiful mother would take
her to this place and to that place, and how that Janet Macleod would
pet and befriend her, and perhaps teach her a few words of the Gaelic,
that she might have a kindly phrase for the passer-by. But this picture
of Carry's!--a houseful of wrangling women!
If she had had her will just then, she would instantly have recalled
Macleod, and placed his courage and careless confidence between her and
this cruel criticism. She had never, in truth, thought of these things.
His pertinacity would not allow her. He had kept insisting that the only
point for her to consider was whether she had sufficient love for him to
enable her to answer his great love for her with the one word "Yes."
Thereafter, according to his showing, everything else was a mere trifle.
Obstacles, troubles, delays?--he would hear of nothing of the sort. And
although, while he was present, she had been inspired by something of
this confident feeling, now when she was attacked in his absence she
felt herself defenceless.
"You may be as disagreeable as you like, Carry," said she, almost
wearily. "I cannot help it. I never could understand your dislike to Sir
Keith Macleod."
"Cannot you understand," said the younger sister, with some show of
indignation, "that if you are to marry at all, I should like to see you
marry an Englishman, instead of a great Highland savage who thinks about
nothing but beasts' skins. And why should you marry at all, Gertrude
White? I suppose he will make you leave the theatre; and instead of
being a famous woman whom everybody admires and talks about, you will be
plain Mrs. Nobody, hidden away in some place, and no one will ever hear
of you again! Do you know what you are doing? Did you ever hear of any
woman making such a fool of herself before?"
So far from being annoyed by this strong language, the elder sister
seemed quite pleased.
"Do you know, Carry, I like to hear you talk like that," she said, with
a smile. "You almost persuade me that I am not asking him for too great
a sacrifice, after all--"
"A sacrifice! On his part!" exclaimed the younger sister; and then she
added, with decision: "but it shan't be, Gertrude White! I will go to
papa."
"Pardon me," said the elder sister, who was nearer the door, "you need
not trouble yourself: I am going now."
She went into the small room which was called her father's study, but
which was in reality a sort of museum. She closed the door behind her.
"I have just had the pleasure of an interview with Carry, papa," she
said, with a certain bitterness of tone, "and she has tried hard to make
me as miserable as I can be. If I am to have another dose of it from
you, papa, I may as well have it at once. I have promised to marry Sir
Keith Macleod."
She sank down in an easy-chair. There was a look on her face which
plainly said, "Now do your worst; I cannot be more wretched than I am."
"You have promised to marry Sir Keith Macleod?" he repeated, slowly, and
fixing his eyes on her face.
He did not break into any rage, and accuse Macleod of treachery or her
of filial disobedience. He knew that she was familiar with that kind of
thing. What he had to deal with was the immediate future, not the past.
"Yes," she answered.
"Well," he said, with the same deliberation of tone, "I suppose you have
not come to me for advice, since you have, acted so far for yourself. If
I were to give you advice, however, it would be to break your promise as
soon as you decently can, both for his sake and for your own."
"I thought you would say so," she said, with a sort of desperate mirth.
"I came to have all my wretchedness heaped on me at once. It is a very
pleasing sensation. I wonder if I could express it on the stage. That
would be making use of my new experiences--as you have taught me--"
But here she burst into tears; and then got up and walked impatiently
about the room; and finally dried her eyes, with shame and mortification
visible on her face.
"What have _you_ to say to me, papa? I am a fool to mind what a
schoolgirl says."
"I don't know that I have anything to say," he observed, calmly. "You
know your own feelings best."
And then he regarded her attentively.
"I suppose when you marry you will give up the stage."
"I suppose so," she said, in a low voice.
"I should doubt," he said, with quite a dispassionate air, "your being
able to play one part for a lifetime. You might get tired--and that
would be awkward for your husband and yourself. I don't say anything
about your giving up all your prospects, although I had great pride in
you and a still greater hope. That is for your own consideration. If you
think you will be happier--if you are sure you will have no regret--if,
as I say, you think you can play the one part for a lifetime--well and
good."
"And you are right," she said, bitterly, "to speak of me as an actress,
and not as a human being. I must be playing a part to the end, I
suppose. Perhaps so. Well, I hope I shall please my smaller audience as
well as I seem to have pleased the bigger one."
Then she altered her tone.
"I told you, papa, the other day of my having seen that child run over
and brought back to the woman who was standing on the pavement."
"Yes," said he; but wondering why this incident should be referred to at
such a moment.
"I did not tell you the truth--at least the whole truth. When I walked
away, what was I thinking of? I caught myself trying to recall the way
in which the woman threw her arms up when she saw the dead body of her
child, and I was wondering whether I could repeat it. And then I began
to wonder whether I was a devil--or a woman."
"Bah!" said he. "That is a craze you have at present. You have had fifty
others before. What I am afraid of is that, at the instigation of some
such temporary fad, you will take a step that you will find irrevocable.
Just think it over, Gerty. If you leave the stage, you will destroy many
a hope I had formed; but that doesn't matter. Whatever is most for your
happiness--that is the only point."
"And so you have given me your congratulations, papa," she said, rising.
"I have been so thoroughly trained to be an actress that, when I marry,
I shall only go from one stage to another."
"That was only a figure of speech," said he.
"At all events," she said, "I shall not be vexed by petty jealousies of
other actresses, and I shall cease to be worried and humiliated by what
they say about me in the provincial newspapers."
"As for the newspapers," he retorted, "you have little to complain of.
They have treated _you_ very well. And even if they annoyed you by a
phrase here or there, surely the remedy is simple. You need not read
them. You don't require any recommendation to the public now. As for
your jealousy of other actresses--that was always an unreasonable
vexation on your part--"
"Yes, and that only made it the more humiliating to myself," said she,
quickly.
"But think of this," said he. "You are married. You have been long away
from the scene of your former triumphs. Some day you go to the theatre;
and you find as the favorite of the public a woman who, you can see,
cannot come near to what you used to do. And I suppose you won't be
jealous of her, and anxious to defeat her on the old ground."
"I can do with that as you suggested about the newspapers: I need not go
to the theatre."
"Very well, Gerty. I hope all will be for the best. But do not be in a
hurry; take time and consider."
She saw clearly enough that this calm acquiescence was all the
congratulation or advice she was likely to get; and she went to the
door.
"Papa," said she, diffidently, "Sir Keith Macleod is coming up to-morrow
morning--to go to church with us."
"Yes?" said he, indifferently.
"He may speak to you before we go."
"Very well. Of course I have nothing to say in the matter. You are
mistress of your own actions."
She went to her own room, and locked herself in, feeling very lonely,
and disheartened, and miserable. There was more to alarm her in her
father's faintly expressed doubts than in all Carry's vehement
opposition and taunts. Why had Macleod left her alone?--if only she
could see him laugh, her courage would be reassured.
Then she bethought her that this was not a fit mood for one who had
promised to be the wife of a Macleod. She went to the mirror and
regarded herself; and almost unconsciously an expression of pride and
resolve appeared about the lines of her mouth. And she would show to
herself that she had still a woman's feelings by going out and doing
some actual work of charity; she would prove to herself that the
constant simulation of noble emotions had not deadened them in her own
nature. She put on her hat and shawl, and went downstairs, and went out
into the free air and the sunlight--without a word to either Carry or
her father. She was trying to imagine herself as having already left the
stage and all its fictitious allurements. She was now Lady Bountiful:
having looked after the simple cares of her household she was now ready
to cast her eyes abroad, and relieve in so far as she might the distress
around her. The first object of charity she encountered was an old
crossing-sweeper. She addressed him in a matter-of-fact way which was
intended to conceal her fluttering self-consciousness. She inquired
whether he had a wife; whether he had any children; whether they were
not rather poor. And having been answered in the affirmative on all
these points, she surprised the old man by giving him five shillings and
telling him to go home and get a good warm dinner for his family. She
passed on, and did not observe that, as soon as her back was turned, the
old wretch made straight for the nearest public-house.
But her heart was happy; and her courage rose. It was not for nothing,
then, that she had entertained the bold resolve of casting aside forever
the one great ambition of her life--with all its intoxicating successes,
and hopes, and struggles--for the homely and simple duties of an
ordinary woman's existence. It was not in vain that she had read and
dreamed of the far romantic land, and had ventured to think of herself
as the proud wife of Macleod of Dare. Those fierce deeds of valor and
vengeance that had terrified and thrilled her would now become part of
her own inheritance: why, she could tell her friends, when they came to
see her, of all the old legends and fairy stories that belonged to her
own home. And the part of Lady Bountiful--surely, if she must play some
part that was the one she would most dearly like to play. And the years
would go by; and she would grow silver-haired too; and when she lay on
her deathbed she would take her husband's hand and say, "Have I lived
the life you wished me to live?" Her cheerfulness grew apace; and the
walking, and the sunshine, and the fresh air brought a fine light and
color to her eyes and cheeks. There was a song singing through her head;
and it was all about the brave Glenogie who rode up the king's ha'.
But as she turned the corner of a street, her eye rested on a huge
colored placard--rested but for a moment, for she would not look on the
great, gaudy thing. Just at this time a noble lord had shown his
interest in the British drama by spending an enormous amount of money in
producing, at a theatre of his own building, a spectacular burlesque,
the gorgeousness of which surpassed anything that had ever been done in
that way. And the lady who appeared to be playing (in silence mostly)
the chief part in this hash of glaring color and roaring music and
clashing armor had gained a great celebrity by reason of her handsome
figure, and the splendor of her costume, and the magnificence of the
real diamonds that she wore. All London was talking of her; and the vast
theatre--even in November--was nightly crammed to overflowing. As
Gertrude White walked back to her home her heart was filled with
bitterness. She had caught sight of the ostentatious placard; and she
knew that the photograph of the creature who was figuring there was in
every stationer's shop in the Strand. And that which galled her was not
that the theatre should be so taken and so used, but that the stage
heroine of the hour should be a woman who could act no more than any
baboon in the Zoological Gardens.