WARS AND RUMORS.
Little could Lionel Moore have anticipated what was to come of his
introducing his old comrade Nina to the New Theatre. At first all went
well; and even the prima-donna herself was so good as to extend her
patronage to Lionel's _protégée_; insomuch that, arriving rather early
at the theatre one evening, and encountering Nina in the corridor, she
said to her,
"You come into my room, and I'll show you my make-up."
It was a friendly offer; and the young Italian girl, who was working
hard in every way to fit herself for the stage, was glad to be initiated
still further into these mysteries of the toilet. But when she had
followed Miss Burgoyne into the sacred inner room, and when the dresser
had been told she should not be wanted yet awhile, Nina, who was far
from being a stupid person, began to perceive what had prompted this
sudden invitation. For Miss Burgoyne, as she was throwing off her
things, and getting ready for her stage-transformation, kept plying her
guest with all sorts of cunning little questions about Mr.
Moore--questions which had no apparent motive, it is true, so carelessly
were they asked; but Nina, even as she answered, was shrewd enough to
understand.
"So you might call yourself quite an old friend of his," the prima-donna
continued, busying herself at the dressing-table. "Well, what do you
think of him now?"
"How, Miss Burgoyne?" Nina said.
"Why, you see the position he has attained here in London--very
different from what he had when he was studying in Naples, I suppose.
Don't you hear how all those women are spoiling him? What do you think
of that? If I were a friend of his--an intimate friend--I should warn
him. For what will the end be--he'll marry a rich woman, a woman of
fashion, and cease to be anybody. Fancy a man's ruining his
career--giving up his position, his reputation--becoming nobody at
all--in order to have splendid horses and give big dinner-parties! Of
course she'll have her doll, to drive by her side in the Park; but
she'll tire--and then? And he'll get sick-tired, too, and wish he was
back in the theatre; and just as likely as not he'll take to drinking,
or gambling, or something. Depend on it, my dear, a professional should
marry in the profession; that's the only safe thing; then there is a
community of interests, and they understand each other and are glad of
each other's success. Don't you think so yourself?"
Nina was startled by the sudden appeal; but she managed to intimate
that, on the whole, she agreed with Miss Burgoyne; and that young lady
proceeded to expand her little lecture and to cite general instances
that had come within her own knowledge of the disastrous effects of
theatrical people marrying outside their own set. As to any lesson in
the art of making-up, perhaps Miss Burgoyne had forgotten the pretext on
which she asked Nina to come to her room. Her maid was called in to help
her now. And at last it was time for Nina to go, for she also, in her
humble way, had to prepare herself for the performance.
But this friendliness on the part of the prima-donna towards the young
baritone's _protégée_ did not last very long. For one thing, Lionel did
not come to Miss Burgoyne's sitting-room as much as he used to do, to
have a cup of tea and a chat with one or two acquaintances; he preferred
standing in the wings with Nina, who was a most indefatigable student,
and giving her whispered criticisms and comments as to what was going
forward on the stage. When Miss Burgoyne came upon them so employed,
she passed them in cold disdain. And by degrees she took less and less
notice of Miss Ross (as Nina was now called), who, indeed, was only Miss
Girond's under-study and a person of no consequence in the theatre.
Finally, Miss Burgoyne ceased to recognize Miss Ross, even when they
happened to be going in by the stage-door of an evening; and Nina, not
knowing how she had offended, nevertheless accepted her fate meekly and
without protest, nor had she any thought of asking Lionel to intervene.
But worse was to befall. One day Lionel said to her,
"Nina, I never knew any one work harder than you are doing. Of course
it's very handy your having Mrs. Grey to coach you; and you can't do
better than stand opposite that long mirror and watch yourself doing
what she tells you to do. She's quite enthusiastic about you; perhaps
it's because you are so considerate--she says you never practise until
the other lodgers have gone out. By the way, that reading dialogue aloud
is capital; I can hear how your English is getting freer and freer; why,
in a little while you'll be able to take any part that is offered you.
And in any case, you know, the English audiences rather like a touch of
foreign accent; oh, you needn't be afraid about that. Well, now, all
this hard work can't go on forever; you must have a little relaxation;
and I'm going to take you and Mrs. Grey for a drive down to Hampton
Court, and we'll dine there in the evening, in a room overlooking the
river--very pretty it is, I can tell you. What do you say? Will next
Friday do? Friday is the night of least consequence in a London theatre;
and if you can arrange it with Mrs. Grey, I'll arrange it with Lehmann;
my under-study is always glad of a chance of taking the part. You
persuade Mrs. Grey, and I'll manage Lehmann. Is it a bargain?"
So it came about that on a certain bright and sunny morning in June
Lionel was standing at the window of a private room in a hotel near the
top of Regent Street, where he proposed (for he was an extravagant young
man) to entertain his two guests at lunch before driving them down to
Hampton Court. He had ordered the wine and seen that the flowers on the
table were all right; and now he was looking down into the street,
vaguely noticing the passers-by. But this barouche that drove up?--there
was something familiar about it--wasn't it the carriage he had sent
down to Sloane Street?--then the next moment he was saying to himself,
"My goodness gracious! can that be Nina?"
And Nina it assuredly was; but not the Nina of the black dress and
crimson straw hat with which he had grown familiar. Oh, no; this young
lady who stepped down from the carriage, who waited a second for her
friend, and then crossed the pavement, was a kind of vision of light
summer coolness and prettiness; even his uninstructed intelligence told
him how charmingly she was dressed; though he had but a glimpse of the
tight-fitting gown of cream-white, with its silver girdle, the white
straw hat looped up on one side and adorned on the other with large
yellow roses, the pale-yellow gloves with silver bangles at the wrists,
the snow-white sunshade, with its yellow satin ribbons attached. The
vision of a moment--then it was gone; but only to reappear here at the
open door. And who could think of her costume at all when Nina herself
came forward, with the pretty, pale, foreign face so pleasantly smiling,
the liquid black eyes softly bespeaking kindness, the half-parted lips
showing a glimmer of milk-white teeth.
"Good-morning, Leo!"
"Good-morning, Nina! They say that ladies are never punctual; but here
you are to the moment!"
"Then you have to thank Mrs. Grey--and your own goodness in sending the
carriage for us. Ah, the delightful flowers!" said she, glancing at the
table, and her nostrils seemed to dilate a little, as if she would
welcome all their odors at once. "But the window, Leo--you will have the
window open? London, it is perfectly beautiful this morning!--the air is
sweet as of the country--oh, it is the gayest city in the world!"
"I never saw London fuller, anyway," said he, as he rang the bell, and
told the waiter to have luncheon produced forthwith.
Nina, seated at table in that cool summer costume, merely toyed with the
things put before her (except when they came to the strawberries); she
was chattering away, with her little dramatic gestures, about every
conceivable subject within her recent experience, until, as she happened
to say something about Naples, Lionel cruelly interrupted her by asking
her if she had heard lately from her sweetheart.
"Who?" she said, with a stare; and also the little widow in black looked
up from her plate and seemed to think it a strange question.
"Don't you pretend to have forgotten, Nina," Lionel said, reprovingly.
"Don't you look so innocent. If you have no memory, then I have."
"But who, Leo?" she demanded, with a touch of indignation.
"Who?--who?--who? What is it you mean?"
"Nina, don't you pretend you have forgotten poor Nicolo Ciana."
"Oh, Nicolo!" she exclaimed, with supreme contempt (but all the same
there was a faint flush on the clear olive complexion). "You laugh at
me, Leo! Nicolo! He was all, as they say here, sham--sham jewelry, sham
clothes, all pretence, except the oil for his hair--that was plenty and
substantial, yes. And a sham voice--he told lies to the _maestro_ about
his wonderful compass--"
"Now, now, Nina, don't be unjust," he said. "Mrs. Grey must hear the
truth. Mrs. Grey, this was a young Italian who wanted to be better
acquainted with Miss Nina here--I believe he used to write imploring
letters to her, and that she cruelly wouldn't answer them; and then he
wrote to Maestro Pandiani, describing the wonderful tenor voice he had,
and saying he wanted to study. I suppose he fancied that if the
_maestro_ would only believe in the mysterious qualities of this
wonderful organ of his he would try to bring them out; and in the
meantime the happy Nicolo would be meeting Nina continually. A lover's
stratagem--nothing worse than that! What is the harm of saying that you
could take the high C if you were in ordinary health, but that your
voice has been ill-used by a recent fever? It was Nina he was thinking
of. Don't I remember how I used to hear him coming along the
garden-paths in the Villa Reale--if there were few people about you
could hear his vile falsetto a mile off--and always it was:
'Antoniella, Antonià,
Antoniella, Antonià;
Votate, Nenna bella, votate ccà,
Vedimmo a pettenessa comme te stà.'"
"Leo," she said, with proud lips, "he never called me '_Nenna
mia_'--never! He dared not!"
In another instant, he could see, there would have been protesting tears
in her eyes; and even Mrs. Grey, who did not know the meaning of the
familiar Neapolitan phrase,[1] noticed the tremulous indignation in the
girl's voice.
[Footnote 1: _Nenna mia_ or _Nenna bella_ is the pet phrase used by
the Neapolitan young man in addressing his sweetheart. _Nenna_ has
nothing to do with _Nina_, which is a contraction of Antonia.]
"Of course not, Nina," he said, at once; "I was only joking--but you
know he did use to sing that confounded 'Antoniella, Antonià,' and it
was always you he was thinking of."
"I did not think of _him_, then!" said she, almost instantly recovering
her self-control. "Him? No! When I go out--when I was going out in the
_Santa Lucia_, I looked at the English gentlemen--all so simple and
honest in their dress--perhaps a steel watch-chain to a gold watch--not
a sham gold chain to no watch! Then they looked so clean and
wholesome--is it right, wholesome?--not their hair dripping with grease,
as the peasant-girls love it. And then," she added, with a laugh, for
her face had quickly resumed its usual happy brightness of expression,
"then I grow sentimental. I say to myself, 'These are English
people--they are going away back to England, where Leo is--can they take
him a message?--can they tell him they were going over to Capri, and
they met on the ship--on the steamer--an Italian girl, who liked to look
at the English, and liked to hear the English speak?' And then I say 'No;
what is the use; what would any message do; Leo has forgotten me.'"
"Oh, yes," said he, lightly, "you must have been quite certain that I
had forgotten my old comrade Nina!"
They got a beautiful, warm, sunny afternoon for their drive down to
Hampton Court; nor was it fated to be without incident either. They had
passed along Oxford Street and were just turning out of the crowded
thoroughfare to enter Hyde Park--and Lionel, as a man will, was watching
how his coachman would take the horses through the Marble Arch--when
Nina said, in a low voice,
"Leo!"
"Well?" said he, turning to her.
"Did you not see?"
"See what?"
"The carriage that went past." Nina said, looking a little concerned.
"Miss Burgoyne was in it--she bowed to you--"
"Did she? I didn't see her--I'll have to apologize to her to-morrow,"
said he, carelessly. "Perhaps the compliment was meant for you, Nina."
"For me? Ah, no. Miss Burgoyne speaks no more to me."
"She doesn't speak to you? Why?" he asked, in some amazement.
The young Italian lady made a little gesture of indifference.
"How do I know? But I am not sorry. I do not like her--no! she is
not--she is not--straightforward, is it right?--she is cunning--and she
has a dreadful temper--oh! I have heard;--I have heard such stories!
Again, she is not an artist--I said that to you from the beginning,
Leo--no, not an artist: why does she talk to you from behind her fan,
when she should regard the others on the stage? Why does she talk always
and always to you, when she has nothing to say?"
"Oh, but she finds plenty to say!" he observed.
"Yes," said Nina, contemptuously, "she has always plenty to say to you
on the stage, if she has not a word the moment the scene is over. Why?
You don't understand! You don't reflect! I will tell you, Leo, if you
are so simple. You think she does not know that the public can see she
talks to you? She knows it well; and that is why she talks. It is to
boast of her friendship with you, her alliance with you. She says to the
ladies in the stalls, 'See here, I can talk to him when I please--you
are away--you are outside.' It is her vanity. She says to them, 'You can
buy his portrait out of the shop-window perhaps--you can ask him to your
house perhaps--and he goes for an hour, among strangers--but see
here--every night I am talking to him'--"
"Yes, and see here, Nina," he said, with a laugh, "how about my
vanity?--don't you think of that? Who could have imagined I was so
important a person! But the truth is, Nina, they've lengthened out that
comic scene inordinately with all that gagging, and Miss Burgoyne has
nothing to do in it; if she hides her talking behind her fan--"
"Hides?" said Nina, with just a trace of scorn. "No; she shows! It is
display! It is vanity! And you think a true artist would so forget her
part--would wish to show the people that she talks privately--"
"Miss Nina is quite right, you know, Mr. Moore," said the little widow
in black, and she was entitled to speak with authority. "I didn't think
it looked well myself. A ballet-girl would catch it if she went on the
same way."
"What would you have her do?" he said--for he was a very tolerant and
good-natured person. "Sit and look on at that idiotic comic gag?"
"Certainly," said the little dame, with decision. "She is in the scene.
She is not Miss Burgoyne; she is Grace Mainwaring; and she ought to
appear interested in everything around her."
"Oh, well, perhaps I have been to blame," he said, rather uneasily. "I
dare say I encouraged her. But really I had no idea the audience could
have noticed it."
"It was meant for them to notice it," Nina said, vindictively; and then,
as she would have nothing more to say on this wretched subject, she
turned to look at the gay lilacs and laburnums in the neighborhood of
the Serpentine, at the shimmering blue of the wide stretch of water, and
at the fleet of pleasure-boats with their wet oars gleaming in the
golden sunlight.
Her equanimity was soon restored; she would have nothing further to say
of Miss Burgoyne on such a gracious afternoon; and, indeed, when they
had crossed the Thames at Putney, and got into the opener country down
by Barnes and East Sheen and Richmond, she was chattering away in her
delight over everything they encountered--the wide commons, the
luxuriant gardens, the spacious mansions, the magnificent elms, the
hawthorn-trees, red and white, that sweetened all the soft summer air.
Of course when they arrived at the top of Richmond Hill they halted for
a minute or two at the Star and Garter to water the horses, while they
themselves had a stroll along the terrace, a cup of tea, and a look
abroad over the wide, hazy, dream-like landscape stretching far out into
the west. Then they crossed the river again at Richmond Bridge; they
bowled along by Twickenham and Teddington; finally they drove through
the magnificent chestnut-avenues of Bushey Park, which were just now in
their finest blossom. When they stopped at the Mitre, it was not to go
in; Nina was to be shown the gardens of Hampton Court Palace; there
would be plenty of time for a pleasant saunter before dinner.
Miss Burgoyne, indeed! Nina had forgotten all about Miss Burgoyne as the
little party of three passed through the cool gray courtyard of the
palace and entered into the golden glow of the gardens--for now the
westering sun was rich and warm on the tall elms and limes and threw
deep shadows on the greensward under the short black yews. They walked
down towards the river, and stood for a long time watching the irregular
procession of boats--many of them pulled by young girls in light summer
dresses that lent some variety of color to this sufficiently pretty
picture. It was altogether an attractive scene--the placid waters, the
soft green landscape, the swift, glancing boats, from which from time to
time came a ripple of youthful laughter or song. And indeed Nina was
regarding rather wistfully those maidens in palest blue or palest pink
who went swinging down with the stream.
"Those young ladies," she said, in an absent kind of way, to the little
widow, who was standing beside her, "it is a pleasant life they live. It
is all amusement. They have no hard work; no anxieties; no troubles;
everything is made gentle for them by their friends; it is one
enjoyment, and again and again; they have no care."
"Don't be so sure of that, Miss Nina," Mrs. Grey said, with a quiet
smile. "I dare say many a one of those girls has worked as hard at her
music as ever you have done, and has very little to show for it. I dare
say many a one of them would be glad to change her position for yours--I
mean, for the position you will have ere long. Do you know, Mr. Moore,"
she said, turning to Nina's other companion, "that I am quite sure of
this--if Miss Burgoyne's under-study was drafted into a travelling
company, I am quite sure Miss Nina here could take her place with
perfect confidence."
"I don't see why not," he said, as if it were a matter of course.
"Then you know what would happen," Mrs. Grey continued, turning again to
the young lady, in whose future she seemed greatly interested. "Miss
Burgoyne would want a holiday, or her doctor would order her to give her
voice a fortnight's rest, or she might catch a bad cold--and then comes
your chance! You know the music thoroughly? you know every bit of Miss
Burgoyne's 'business;' and Mr. Moore would be on the stage, or in the
wings, to guide you as to your entrances and exits. That will be a proud
night for me, my dear; for I'll be there--oh, yes, I'll be there; and if
I have any stage experience at all, I tell you it will be a splendid
triumph--with such a voice as yours--and there won't be any more talk of
keeping you as under-study to Miss Girond. No," she added, with a shrewd
smile, "but there will be something else. Miss Burgoyne won't like it;
she doesn't like rivals near the throne, from what I can hear. She'll
try to get you drafted off into one of the country companies--mark my
words."
"The country?" said Nina, rather aghast. "To go away into the country?"
"But look at the chance, my dear," said the little ex-actress, eagerly.
"Look at the practice--the experience! And then, if you only take care
of your voice, and don't strain it by overwork, then you'll be able to
come back to London and just command any engagement you may want."
"To come back to London after a long time?" she said, thoughtfully; and
she was somewhat grave and reserved as they strolled idly back through
the gardens, and through the Palace buildings, to the riverside hotel.
But no far-reaching possibilities of that kind were allowed to interfere
with Nina's perfect enjoyment of this little dinner-party that had been
got up in her honor. They had a room all to themselves on an upper
floor; the windows were thrown wide open; even as they sat at table they
could look abroad on the spacious landscape whose meadows and hedges and
woods stretched away into distant heights crowned by a solitary
windmill. Indeed, the young lady was so rude as to leave the table more
than once, and go and stand at the open window; there was a charm in the
dying-out of the day--in the beautiful colors now encircling the
world--in the hushed sounds coming up from the stream--that she could
not withstand. The evening glow was warm on the rose-hued front of the
palace and on the masses of sunny green foliage surrounding it; on the
still, blue river the boats were of a lustrous bronze; while the oars
seemed to be oars of shining gold as they dipped and flashed. By and by,
indeed, the glory faded away; the stream became gray and ghostly; there
were no more ripples of laughter or calls from this side to that; and
Nina resumed her place more contentedly at the table, which was all lit
up now. She made her small apologies; she said she did not know that
England was such a beautiful place. Lionel, who in no way resented her
thus withdrawing herself from time to time, had been leisurely talking
to Mrs. Grey of theatrical things in general; and, now that coffee was
coming in, he begged permission to light a cigarette. Altogether it was
a simple, friendly, unpretentious evening, that did not seem to involve
any serious consequences. As night fell, they set out on their homeward
drive; and through the silent country they went, under the stars. Lionel
left his two friends at their door in Sloane Street; and as he was
driving home to his lodgings, if he thought of the matter at all, he no
doubt hoped that he had given his friends a pleasant little treat.
But there was more to come of it than that. On the following evening
Lionel got down to the theatre rather later than usual, and had to set
to work at once to get ready, so that he had no opportunity of seeing
Miss Burgoyne until he actually met her on the stage. Now, those of the
public who had seen this piece before could not have perceived any
difference of manner on the part of the coquettish Grace Mainwaring
towards the young gentleman who had so unexpectedly fallen in her
way--to wit, Harry Thornhill; but Lionel instantly became aware of it;
and while he was endeavoring, after the fashion of the young stage
gallant, to convey to Miss Grace Mainwaring the knowledge that she had
suddenly captured his fancy and made him her slave for life, he was
inwardly reflecting that he should have come down earlier to the
theatre, and apologized to Miss Burgoyne for the unintentional slight of
the previous day. As soon as the scene was over and they were both in
the wings, he hastened to her (they had left the stage by opposite
sides) and said,
"Oh, Miss Burgoyne, something very awkward happened yesterday--I am so
sorry--I want to apologize--"
"I hope you will do nothing of the kind," said she, haughtily, "it is
quite unnecessary."
"Oh, but look here, I'm really very sorry," he was endeavoring to say,
when she again interrupted him:
"If you choose to go driving through London with chorus-girls," said
she, in measured and bitter tones, "I suppose your attention must be
fully occupied."
And therewith she marched proudly away from him; nor could he follow her
to protest or explain, for he was wanted on the stage in about a second.
He felt inclined to be angry and resentful; but he was helpless; he had
to attend to this immediate scene.
Meanwhile Miss Burgoyne did not long preserve that lofty demeanor of
hers; the moment she left him her rage got the better of her, for here
was the Italian girl most inopportunely coming along the corridor; and
just as poor Nina came up Miss Burgoyne turned to her maid, who was
holding open the dressing-room door for her, and said aloud, so that
every one could overhear,
"Oh, we don't want foreigners in English opera; why don't they take a
barrel-organ through the streets, or a couple of canaries in a cage?"
Nor was that all; for here was Mlle. Girond; and the smart little
boy-officer, as she came along the passage, was gayly singing to
herself,
"Le rôti, la salade,
L'amour, la promenade
À deux dans les
Dans les
Deux dans les
À deux dans les bluets!"
"Oh, there's another of the foreign chimpanzees!" exclaimed Miss
Burgoyne, in her fury; and she dashed into her room, and slammed the
door behind her.
Mlle. Girond stood staring at the door; then she turned to look at Nina;
then she burst out laughing.
"Quel ouragan, grand Dieu!" she cried. "Ma pauvre enfant, qu'allez vous
faire maintenant?" She turned to the door and laughed again. "Elle a la
tête près du bonnet, n'est-ce pas?--mon Dieu, elle s'enflamme comme de
la poudre!"
But Nina did not stay to make any explanation; somewhat paler than
usual, and quite silent and reserved, she took up her position in the
wings; nor had she a word to say to Lionel when he came off the stage
and passed her--with a nod and a smile of greeting--on his way to his
room.
Then things went from bad to worse, and swiftly. On the very next
afternoon, which was a Sunday, Lionel was about to walk down to Sloane
Street, to have a chat and a cup of tea with Mrs. Grey and Nina; but
before going he thought he would just have time to scribble a piece of
music in an album that Lady Rosamund Bourne had sent him and affix his
name thereto. He brought his writing materials to the table and opened
the big volume; and he was glancing over the pages (Lady Rosamund had
laid some very distinguished people, mostly artists, under contribution,
and there were some interesting sketches) when the house-porter came up
and presented a card. Lionel glanced at the name--Mr. Percival
Miles--and wondered who the stranger might be; then he recollected that
surely this was the name of a young gentleman who was a devoted admirer
of Miss Burgoyne. Miss Burgoyne had, indeed, on one occasion introduced
the young man to him; but he had paid little heed; most likely he
regarded him with the sort of half-humorous contempt with which the
professional actor is apt to look upon the moon-struck youths who bring
bouquets into the stalls and languish about stage-doors. However, he
told the house-porter to ask the gentleman to step up-stairs.
But he was hardly prepared for what followed. The young gentleman who
now came into the room--he was a pretty boy, of the fair-haired English
type, with a little yellow moustache and clear, gray eyes--seemed almost
incapable of speech, and his lips were quite pale.
"In--in what I have to say to you, Mr. Moore," he said, in a breathless
kind of way, "I hope there will be no need to mention any lady's name.
But you know whom I mean. That--that lady has placed her interests in my
hands--she has appealed to me--I am here to demand reparation--in the
usual way--"
"Reparation--for what?" Lionel asked, staring at the young man as if he
were an escaped lunatic.
"Your attentions," said the hapless boy, striving hard to preserve a
calm demeanor, "your attentions are odious and objectionable--she will
not submit to them any longer--"
"My attentions?" Lionel said. "If you mean Miss Burgoyne, I never paid
her any--you must be out of your senses!"
"Shuffling will do you no good," said this fierce warrior, who seemed to
be always trying to swallow something--perhaps his wrath. "The lady has
placed her interests in my hands; I demand the only reparation that is
possible between gentlemen."
"Look here, my young friend," Lionel said, in a very cool sort of
fashion, "do you want to go on the stage? Is that a specimen of what you
can do? For it isn't bad, you know--for burlesque."
"You won't fight?" said the young man, getting paler and more breathless
than ever.
"No, I will not fight--about nothing," Lionel said, with perfect
good-humor. "I am not such an ass. If Miss Burgoyne is annoyed because I
passed her on Friday without recognizing her, that was simply a mistake
for which I have already apologized to her. As for any cock-and-bull
story about my having persecuted her with odious attentions, that's all
moonshine; she never put that into your head; that's your own
imagination--"
"By heavens, you shall fight!" broke in this infuriate young fool, and
the next moment he had snatched up the ink-bottle from the table before
him and tossed it into his enemy's face. That is to say, it did not
quite reach its aim; for Lionel had instinctively raised his hand, and
the missile fell harmlessly on to the table again--not altogether
harmlessly, either, for in falling the lid had opened and the ink was
now flowing over Lady Rosamund's open album. At sight of this mishap,
Lionel sprang to his feet, his eyes afire.
"I've a mind to take you and knock your idiotic brains against that
wall," he said to the panting, white-faced youth. "But I won't. I will
teach you a lesson instead. Yes, I will fight. Make what arrangements
you please; I'll be there. Now get out."
He held the door open; the young man said, as he passed,
"You shall hear from me."
And then Lionel went back to Lady Rosamund's ill-fated album, and began
to sponge it with blotting-paper, while with many a qualm he considered
how he was to apologize to her and make some kind of plausible
explanation. Fortunately the damage turned out to be less serious than
at first sight appeared. The open page, which contained a very charming
little sketch in water-color by Mr. Mellord, was of course hopelessly
ruined; but elsewhere the ink had not penetrated very far; a number of
new mounts would soon put that right. Then he thought he would go to Mr.
Mellord and lay the whole affair before him, and humbly beg for another
sketch (artists always being provided with such things); so that, as
regarded the album, no great harm had been done.
But as he was sitting in Mrs. Grey's little parlor, at tea, Nina fancied
he looked a little preoccupied and was not talking as blithely as usual,
and she made bold to ask him if anything were the matter.
"Yes," said he, "something is the matter. I'm afraid I've made a fool of
myself." And then he added, with a smile, "Nina, I'm going to fight a
duel."
"A duel, Leo?" she said, faintly.
"Yes; and what I fear about it is the ridicule that may follow. But
don't be alarmed, Nina," he said, cheerfully, "I don't think I'm going
to fall on the deadly field of battle; I can take care of myself. The
trouble is that the whole thing is so preposterous--so absolutely
ridiculous! The fact is, what the young gentleman really wants is a
thorough good caning, and there's nobody to give it him. Very well, he
must have something else; and I propose to teach him a wholesome lesson.
I'm not going to take the trouble of crossing over to France or
Belgium--I dare say that will be the programme--for nothing. Then
there's another thing, Nina: I am the challenged party; I ought to have
the choice of weapons. Well, now, I am not a very good shot; but I'm
considered a very fair fencer; and I suppose you would say that I should
be magnanimous and choose pistols? Oh, no; I'm not going to do anything
of the kind. There might be a very awkward accident with pistols--that
is to say, if our bloodthirsty seconds put in more than half a charge of
powder. But with swords I fancy I shall be rather master of the
situation; and perhaps a little prod or a scratch, just to show him the
color of his own blood, will do him a world of good. It may turn out the
other way, no doubt; I've heard of bad fencers breaking through one's
guard just by pure ignorance and accident; but the betting is against
that kind of thing."
"But what is it all about, Leo?" Nina exclaimed; she was far more
concerned about this mad project than he appeared to be.
"Oh, I can't tell you that," said he, lightly, "without telling you the
name of the lady--for of course there is a lady in it--and that is never
allowed."
Nina sprang to her feet and stretched out her hands towards him.
"I know--I know!" she said, in a breathless sort of way. "Leo, you will
not deny it to me--it is Miss Burgoyne! Ah, do I not know!--she is a
serpent!--a cat!--a devil!--"
"Nina," he said, almost angrily, "what are you talking about? Do you
suppose Miss Burgoyne would want a duel fought just because I happened
to pass her, by accident, without raising my hat?--it's absurd."
"Ah, there is more than that, Leo!" Nina cried, eagerly; and then she
paused, in some hesitation and embarrassment. "Yes, there is more than
that," she repeated, as if with an effort, and there was a slight flush
in the pretty, pale face. "Why should I not say it to you? You are too
simple, Leo. You do not understand. She wishes to have the reputation to
be allied with you--in the theatre--out of the theatre. Then she sees
that you drive with me in an open carriage; she hates me--what more
natural? And she is angry with you--"
"Now, Nina," said he, "do you think any woman could be so mad as to want
to have a duel fought simply because she saw me driving past in a
carriage with Mrs. Grey and you--is it reasonable?"
"Leo, you did not see her last night," Nina said, but still with a
little embarrassment, "when she meets me in the corridor--oh, such a
furious woman!--her face white, her eyes burning. As for her insulting
me, what may I care? I am a foreigner, yes; if one says so, I am not
wounded. Perhaps the foreigners have better manners a little?--but that
is not of importance; no, what I say is, she will be overjoyed to have
you fight a duel about her--why, it is glory for her!--every one will
talk--your names will be joined in newspapers--when the people see you
on the stage they will say, 'Ah, ah, he is back from fighting the duel;
he must be mad in love with Miss Burgoyne.' A duel--yes, so unusual in
England--every one will talk--ah, that will be the sweetest music for
Miss Burgoyne's ears in the whole world--prouder than a queen she will
be when the public have your name and her name rumored together. And you
do not understand it, Leo!"
He had been listening in silence, with something of vexation deepening
upon his features.
"What you say only makes matters worse and worse!" he exclaimed,
presently. "If that were true, Nina--just supposing that were the true
state of the case--why, I should be fighting a duel over a woman I don't
care twopence about, and with a young jackass whom I could kick across
the street! That is what I ought to have done!--why didn't I throw him
down-stairs? But the mischief of it is that the thing is now inevitable;
I can't back out? I declare I never was in such a quandary in my life
before!"
"And you will go and put yourself in danger, Leo," Nina said,
indignantly, "that a deceitful woman has the pride to hear the public
talk! Have you the right to do it? You say there are sometimes
accidents--both with swords as pistols--yes, every one knows it. And you
put your life in danger--for what? You care nothing for your friends,
then?--you think they will not heed much if--if an accident happens? You
think it is a light matter--nothing--a trifle done to please a boy and a
wicked-minded woman? Leo, I say you have no right to do it! You should
have the spirit, the courage, to say 'no!' You should go to that woman
and say, 'You think I will make sport for you?--no, I will not!' And as
for the foolish boy, if he comes near to you, then you take your
riding-whip, Leo, and thrash him!--thrash him--thrash him!" Nina
exclaimed, with her teeth set hard; indeed, her bosom was heaving so
with indignation that Mrs. Grey put her hand gently on the girl's
shoulder, and reminded her that Lionel was in sufficient perplexity, and
wanted wise counsel rather than whirling words.
As for Lionel himself, he had to leave those good friends very shortly;
for he was going out to dinner, and he had to get home to dress. And as
he was walking along Piccadilly, ruminating over this matter, the more
he thought of it the less he liked the look of it: not that he had been
much influenced by Nina's apprehensions of personal harm, but that he
most distinctly feared the absurdity of the whole affair. Indeed, the
longer he pondered over it, the more morose and resentful he became that
he should ever have been placed in such an awkward position; and when he
was going up-stairs to his room, he was saying to himself, with gloomy
significance:
"Well, if that young fool persists, I'd advise him to look out; I'm not
going over the water for nothing."