A DEPARTURE.
There was but little sleep for Nina that night. She was sick at heart to
think that in return for the unceasing kindness Lionel had shown her
since her arrival in England, she should be the means of drawing him
into this foolish embroilment. She saw the situation of affairs clearly
enough. Miss Burgoyne was an exacting, irritable, jealous woman, who had
resented Nina's presence in the theatre almost from the beginning, and
who had been driven into a sudden fury by the sight of Lionel (he taking
no notice of her either) driving past with this interloping foreigner.
Moreover, Miss Burgoyne was inordinately vain: to have the popular young
baritone fight a duel on her account--to have their names coupled
together in common talk--what greater triumph could she desire than
that? But while Miss Burgoyne might be the ostensible cause of the
quarrel, Nina knew who was the real cause of it; and again and again she
asked herself why she had ever come to England, thus to bring trouble
upon her old ally and companion Leo.
And then in that world of visions that lies just outside the realm of
sleep--in which great things become small, and small things acquire a
fantastic and monstrous importance--she worried and fretted because
Lionel had laughingly complained on the previous evening that henceforth
there would be no more home-made lemonade for him. Well, now, if
she--that is to say, if Nina--were in her humble way to try what she
could do in that direction? It might not be so good as the lemonade that
Miss Burgoyne prepared; but perhaps Lionel would be a little generous
and make allowance? She would not challenge any comparison. She and Mrs.
Grey between them would do their best, and the result would be sent
anonymously to his rooms in Piccadilly; if he chose to accept it--well,
it was a timid little something by way of compensation. Nina forgot for
the moment that within the next few days an unlucky sword-thrust might
suddenly determine Lionel's interest in lemonade, as in all other
earthly things; these trivial matters grew large in this distorted land
of waking dreams; nay, she began to think that if she were to leave
England altogether, and go away back to Naples, and perhaps accept an
engagement in opera at Malta, then matters would be as before at the New
Theatre; and when Lionel and Miss Burgoyne met in the corridor, it would
be, "Good-evening, Miss Burgoyne!" and "Good-evening, Mr. Moore!" just
as it used to be. There would be no Italian girl interfering, and
bringing dissension and trouble.
But the next morning, when the actual facts of the case were before her
clearer vision, she had better reason for becoming anxious and restless
and miserable. As the day wore on, Mrs. Grey could hardly persuade her
to run down to the Crystal Palace for the opening of the Handel
Festival, though, as the little widow pointed out, Mr. Moore had
procured the tickets for them, and they were bound to go. Of course,
when once they were in the great transept of the Palace, in the presence
of this vast assemblage, and listening to the splendid orchestra and a
chorus of between three and four thousand voices dealing with the
massive and majestic strains of the "Messiah," the spell of the music
fell upon Nina and held absolute sway over her. She got into a curious
state of exaltation; she seemed breathless; sometimes, Mrs. Grey
thought, she shivered a little with the strain of emotion. And all the
time that Mr. Santley was singing "Why do the nations," she held her
hand tightly over her heart; and when he had finished--when the thrilled
multitude broke forth into an extraordinary thunder of enthusiasm--Nina
murmured to herself,
"It is--it is like to take my life-blood away."
But when they were in the train again, and on their way up to town, it
was evident to her companion that the girl had returned to her anxious
fears.
"Mrs. Grey," she said, suddenly, "I speak to Miss Burgoyne to-night."
"Oh, no, don't do that, Miss Nina!" said Mrs. Grey, with much concern,
for she knew something of the circumstances of the case. "I hope you
won't do that! You might simply make matters worse. Mr. Moore would not
have spoken to you if he thought you would interfere, depend upon that.
And if Miss Burgoyne is vexed or angry, what good would you do? I hear
she has a sharp tongue; don't _you_ try her temper, my dear," the little
woman pleaded.
But Nina did not answer these representations; and she was mostly silent
and thoughtful all the way to town. When they reached London, they had
some tea at the railway-station, and she went on at once to the theatre.
She was there early; Miss Burgoyne had not arrived; so Nina lingered
about the corridor, listening to Mlle. Girond's pretty chatter, but not
hearing very much.
At length the prima-donna appeared; and she would have passed Nina
without recognition, had not the latter went forward a step, and said,
somewhat timidly,
"Miss Burgoyne!"
"What?" said Miss Burgoyne, stopping short, and regarding the Italian
girl with a by-no-means-friendly stare.
"May I have a word with you?" Nina said, with a little hesitation.
"Yes; what is it?" the other demanded, abruptly.
"But--but in private?" Nina said again. "In your room?"
"Oh, very well, come in!" Miss Burgoyne said, with but scant courtesy;
and she led the way into her sitting-room, and also intimated to her
maid that she might retire into the inner apartment. Then she turned to
Nina.
"What is it you want?"
But the crisis found Nina quite unprepared. She had constructed no set
speech; she had formulated no demand. For a second or so she stood
tongue-tied--tongue-tied and helpless--unable to put her passionate
appeal into words; then, all of a sudden, she said,
"Miss Burgoyne, you will not allow it--this folly! It is madness that
they fight about--about nothing! You will not allow it!--what is it to
you?--you have enough fame, enough reputation as a prima-donna, as a
favorite with the public--what more? Why should you wish more--and at
such a dreadful risk?--"
"Oh, I don't know what you're talking about!" said Miss Burgoyne. "What
are you talking about?"
"The duel--" said Nina, breathlessly.
"What duel?"
Nina stared at her.
"Ah, you do not know, then?" she exclaimed.
"What don't I know?" Miss Burgoyne said, impatiently. "What are you
talking about! What duel? Is it something in the evening papers? Or have
you taken leave of your senses?"
Nina paid no heed to these taunts.
"You do not know, then," she asked, "that--that Mr. Moore is going to
fight a duel--with a young gentleman who is your friend? No?--you do not
know it?"
It was Miss Burgoyne's turn to stare in amazement.
"Mr. Moore?" she repeated, with her eyes (which were pretty and
coquettish enough, though they were not on the same plane) grown wide
and wondering. "A friend of mine? And you come to me--as if I had
anything to do with it? Oh, my goodness!" she suddenly exclaimed, and a
curious smile of intelligence began to dawn upon her face. "Has that
young donkey carried the matter so far as that?"
But she was not displeased; nay, she was rather inclined to laugh.
"Well, that would make a stir, wouldn't it? And how did you find it
out?--who told _you_? A duel? I thought he was talking rather
mysteriously yesterday morning--Conrad the Corsair kind of thing--glooms
and daggers--so it was a duel he was thinking of? But they are not
really going to fight, Miss Ross," continued Miss Burgoyne, who had
grown quite friendly. "You know people can't give up an engagement at a
theatre to go and fight a duel: it's only French gentlemen who have no
occupation who do that sort of thing. A duel?--a real, actual duel--do
you seriously mean it?"
The prospect seemed to afford her great satisfaction, if not even a
cause for merriment.
"Miss Burgoyne, you will not permit it!" Nina exclaimed.
"I?" said the other. "What have I to do with it? If two men want to
fight, why shouldn't they?" said she, with apparent carelessness.
"Ah, but you know well what you have to do with it," Nina said, with
some touch of scorn. "Yes, you pretend; but you know it well. The young
man he goes from you yesterday to provoke the duel--you have been
talking to him--and yet you pretend. You say, why should they not
fight? Then it is nothing to you that one friend or the other friend may
be killed?--that is nothing to you?--and you know you can prevent it if
you choose. You do not wish to interfere--it will be amusing to read in
the papers! Oh, very amusing! And if the one is killed?"
"But you know, Miss Ross, they don't go such lengths nowadays," said
Miss Burgoyne, with great good-humor. "No, no; it's only honor and glory
they go out for; it's only the name of the thing; they don't want to
kill each other. Besides, if two men mean to fight, how can a woman
interfere? What is she supposed to know of the cause of quarrel? These
things are not supposed to be known."
"Then," said Nina, whose lips had grown still more indignant and
scornful, "this is what I say: if anything happens, it is your
conscience that will speak to you in after time. You wish them to fight,
yes, for your vanity to be pleased!--you wish it said that they fight
about you! And that is a trionf for you--something in the papers--and
you do not care what harm is done if you are talked about! That is your
friendship!--what do you care?--any one may be sacrificed to your
vanity--"
"I suppose if they were fighting about you, you wouldn't say a word
against it!" observed Miss Burgoyne, coolly. In fact the vehement
reproaches that Nina had addressed to her did not seem to have offended
her in the least; for she went on to say, in the best of tempers: "Well,
Miss Ross, I have to thank you for bringing me the news. But don't be
alarmed; these dreadful duels, even when they get into the newspapers,
seldom show much harm done. And in the meantime will you excuse
me?--Jane is grumbling in there, I know. Tell me anything you may hear
about it by and by--and meanwhile I am very much obliged to you." So
Nina found herself dismissed, neither her piteous appeal nor her
indignant protest having had apparently any effect whatever.
But Miss Burgoyne, while transforming herself into Grace Mainwaring, had
plenty of time to think over this startling position of affairs, and to
consider how she could best use it to her own advantage. She had a
nimble brain; and it may have occurred to her that here was a notable
chance for her to display the splendid magnanimity of her
disposition--to overwhelm Mr. Lionel Moore with her forgiveness and her
generous intervention on his behalf. At all events, in the first scene
in which these two met on the stage, Harry Thornhill became instantly
aware that the merry and mischievous Grace Mainwaring appeared bent on
being very friendly towards him--even while she looked curiously at him,
as if there were something in her mind. Moreover, she seemed in
excellent spirits; there was no perfunctory "drag" in her give-and-take
speeches with the adventurous young gentleman whom fate had thrown in
her way. He was very well pleased to find the scene going so well; he
sang his share in the parting duet with unusual _verve_; she responded
with equal animation; the crowded house gave them an enthusiastic
recall. But the public could not tell that, even in the midst of this
artistic triumph, the audacious young lover had his own thoughts in his
head; and that he was really saying to himself, "What the mischief is
she at now?"
He was to learn later on in the evening. Just as he got dressed for the
ball-room scene, a message was brought him that Miss Burgoyne would like
to see him for a minute or two as soon as he was ready. Forthwith he
went to her room, tapped at her door, entered, and found himself the
sole occupant; but the next moment the curtain concealing the
dressing-room was opened about five feet from the ground; and there (the
rest of her person being concealed) he beheld the smiling face of Grace
Mainwaring, with its sparkling eyes and rouge and patches, to say
nothing of the magnificent white wig with its nodding sprays of
brilliants.
"Just a moment, Mr. Moore," said she, "and I shall be with you
directly"--and therewith the vision was gone, and the crimson curtains
came together again.
Very shortly thereafter the Squire's Daughter came forth in all the
splendor of her white satin and pearls; and she lost no time in letting
him know why he had been summoned.
"You are a very bloodthirsty man," said she, in accents of grave
reproach (though her eyes were not so serious), "and I am ashamed of you
that you should think of harming that poor boy; but I am not going to
allow it--"
"Why, who told you anything about it?" he said; for he could not pretend
not to know what she meant.
"A little bird," she made answer, with much complacence. "And the idea
that you should really want to do such a thing!--how many voices like
yours are there wandering about in comedy-opera that you should consider
you have any right to run such a risk? I don't mean being killed--I mean
catching a cold! I suppose you have got to take your coat and waistcoat
off--on Calais sands--with a wind blowing in from the sea; that is a
nice thing for your chest and throat, isn't it? Well, I'm going to step
in and prevent it. I consider you have treated me very badly--pretending
you didn't see me, when you were so very particularly engaged; but never
mind; I never bear malice; and, as I say, I'm going to step in and
prevent this piece of folly."
"Very much obliged, I am sure," he said, politely. "When men propose to
fight, it is so extremely pleasant to find a woman appear to throw a
protecting arm over them!"
"Oh, I am not going to be repelled by any of your ferocious sentiments,"
said she, good-naturedly. "I am a friend of both of you--I hope; and I
won't have anything of the kind--I tell you I won't allow it--"
"I'm afraid your intervention has come too late," said he, quietly.
"Why?" she demanded.
"Oh, it isn't worth speaking about," said he. "The young gentleman went
a little too far--he has got to be taught a lesson, that is all--"
"Oh, listen to him!--listen to his bloodthirstiness!" she exclaimed, in
affected horror; and then she suddenly altered her tone. "Come, now, Mr.
Moore, you're not seriously going to try to harm that poor boy! He is a
very nice boy, as honest and simple-minded as you could wish. And such a
pretty boy, too--no, no, it is quite absurd--"
"You are right there," said he. "It is quite absurd. The whole thing is
absurd. But it has gone too far."
Here Miss Burgoyne was called.
"Will you leave it in my hands?" she said, leisurely rising from her
chair, and tucking up her long train so that she might safely pass into
the wings.
"Certainly not," said he. "You have no right to know anything about it.
The quarrel was forced upon me; I had no wish to harm your pretty boy,
nor have I much now--except in trying to keep myself from being harmed.
But that is all over now; and this thing has to be seen through to the
end now."
He held open the door for her; and then he accompanied her along the
passage and up the steps, until they were both ready for their entrance
on the stage.
"Men are so obstinate," said she, with an air of vexation; "so obstinate
and foolish. But I don't care; I'll see if I can't get something done; I
won't allow two dear friends of mine to do anything so stupid if I can
help it. Why, the idea!--getting into a quarrel with a harmless young
fellow like that! You ought to have been kind to him for my sake--for he
really is such a dear boy--so simple and good-natured--"
"_But where is Grace?_" said a voice out there in the wide ball-room;
and as this was Miss Burgoyne's cue, she tripped lightly on to the stage
with her smiling answer: "_One kiss, papa, before the guests arrive._"
And, as it turned out, there was no further opportunity of talk that
night between Miss Burgoyne and Mr. Lionel Moore.
But two days thereafter, and just as Lionel was about to go out for his
morning ride, the house-porter brought him a card. It was Mr. Percival
Miles who was below.
"Ask the gentleman to come up."
Here were the preliminaries of battle, then. Lionel had a vague kind of
notion that the fire-eating youth ought not to have appeared in
person--that he ought to have been represented by a friend; however, it
was not of much consequence. He only hoped that there would be no
further altercation or throwing of ink-bottles; otherwise he considered
it probable that this interview would terminate in a more English manner
than the last.
The young gentleman came in, hat in hand. He was apparently very calm
and dignified.
"Mr. Moore," said he, slowly, as if he were repeating words already
carefully chosen, "I am about to take an unusual course. I have been
asked to do so--I have been constrained to do so--by the one person
whose wish in such a matter must be respected. I have come to apologize
to you for my conduct of the other day."
"Oh, very well," said Lionel, but somewhat coldly; he did not seem well
satisfied that this young man should get off so easily, after his
unheard-of insolence. Indeed, Lionel was very much in the position of
the irate old Scotchwoman whose toes were trodden upon by a man in a
crowd. "I beg your pardon," said the culprit. "Begging my paurdon 'll no
dae," was the retort, "I'm gaun to gie ye a skelp o' the lug!"
"I hope you will accept my apology," the pale-faced young gentleman
continued in the same stiff and embarrassed manner. "I don't know
whether it is worth while my offering any excuse for what I did--except
that it was done under a misapprehension. The--the lady in question
seemed annoyed--perhaps I mistook the meaning of certain phrases she
used--and certainly I must have been entirely in error in guessing as to
what she wished me to do. I take the whole blame on myself. I acted
hastily--on the spur of the moment; and now I am exceedingly sorry; and
I ask your pardon."
"Oh, very well," Lionel said, though somewhat ungraciously. "But you see
you are getting rather the best of this performance. You come here with
a ridiculous cock-and-bull story, you threaten and vapor and kick up
mock-heroics, you throw a bottle of ink over a book belonging to a
friend of mine--and then you are to get off by saying two or three words
of apology!"
"What can I do more?" said the humble penitent. "I have tried to
explain. I--I was as ready to fight as you could be; but--but now I obey
the person who has the best right to say what shall be done in such an
affair. I have made every apology and explanation I could; and I ask
your pardon."
"Oh, very well," Lionel said again.
"Will you give me your hand, then?" Mr. Percival Miles asked; and he
somewhat timidly advanced a step, with outstretched palm.
"That isn't necessary," said Lionel, making no other response.
The fair-haired young warrior seemed greatly embarrassed.
"I--I was told--" he stammered; but Lionel, who was now inclined to
laugh, broke in on his confusion.
"Did Miss Burgoyne say you weren't to come away without shaking hands
with me--is that it?" he asked, with a smile.
"Y--yes," answered the young gentleman, blushing furiously.
"Oh, very well, there's no trouble about that," Lionel said, and he
gave him his hand for a second; after which the love-lorn youth somewhat
hastily withdrew, and no doubt was glad to lose himself in the busy
crowd of Piccadilly.
That same afternoon Lionel drove down to Sloane Street. He was always
glad to go along and have a friendly little chat about musical affairs
with the eagerly enthusiastic Nina; and, as this particular evening was
exceedingly fine and pleasant, he thought he might induce her to walk in
to the theatre by way of Belgrave Square and the Green Park. But hardly
had they left the house when Nina discovered that it was not about
professional matters that Lionel wanted to talk to her on this occasion.
"Nina," said he, with befitting solemnity, "I have great news for you. I
am saved. Yes, my life has been saved. And by whom, think you? Why, by
Miss Burgoyne! Miss Burgoyne is the protecting goddess who has snatched
me away in a cloud just as my enemy was about to pin me to the earth
with his javelin."
"There is to be no duel, Leo?" she said, quickly.
"There is not," he continued. "Miss Burgoyne has forbidden it. She has
come between me and my deadly foe and held up a protecting hand. I don't
know that it is quite a dignified position for me to find myself in, but
one must recognize her friendly intentions, anyway. And not only that,
Nina, but she sent me a bottle of lemonade yesterday! Just think of it!
to save your life is something, but to send you lemonade as well--that
is almost too much goodness."
Poor Nina! If this careless young man had only looked at the address on
the wrapper of the bottle he could easily have guessed whose was the
handwriting--especially recognizable in the foreign-looking _L_ and _M_.
That timidly proffered little gift was Nina's humble effort at
compensation; and now he was bringing it forward as a proof of Miss
Burgoyne's great good-nature! And it was Miss Burgoyne who had
intervened to prevent this absurd duel--Miss Burgoyne, who knew nothing
at all about it until Nina told her! Nina, as they now walked along
towards Constitution Hill, was too proud to make any explanation; only
she thought he might have looked at the address on the wrapper.
"Seriously," he said to his companion, "seriously, Nina, she has put me
under a very great obligation and shown herself very magnanimous as
well. There is no doubt she was offended with me about something or
other; and she had the generosity to put all that aside the moment she
found I was embroiled in this stupid affair. And, mind you, I'm very
glad to be out of it. It would have looked ridiculous in the papers; and
everything gets into the papers nowadays. Of course that young idiot had
no right to go and tell her about the duel; but I suppose he wanted to
figure as a hero in her eyes--poor devil! he seems pretty bad about her.
Well, now that her intervention has got me out of this awkward scrape,
how am I to show my gratitude to her? what do you say, Nina?"
But Nina had nothing to say.
"There's one thing I can do for her," he continued. "You know how fond
actors and actresses are of titled folks. Well, Miss Burgoyne is going
down to Henley Regatta with a lot of other professionals, and I am going
too, with another party--Lady Adela Cunyngham has got a house-boat
there. Very well, if I can find out where Miss Burgoyne is--and I dare
say she will be conspicuous enough, though she's not very tall--I will
take Lord Rockminster to pay his respects to her and leave him with her;
won't that do! They have already been introduced at the theatre; and if
Rockminster doesn't say much, I have no doubt she will chatter enough
for both. And Miss Burgoyne will be quite pleased to have a lord all to
herself."
"Leo," said Nina, gently, "do you not think you yourself have too much
liking for--for that fine company?"
"Perhaps I have," said he, with perfect good-humor. "What then? Are you
going to lecture me, too? Is Saul among the prophets? Has Maurice Mangan
been coaching you as well?"
"Ah, Leo," said she, "I should wish to see you give it all up--yes--all
the popularity--and your fine company--and that you go away back to
Pandiani--"
"Pandiani!" he exclaimed. "Here's romance, indeed! You want us both to
become students again, and to have the old days at Naples back again--"
"No, no, no!" she said, shaking her head. "It is the future I think of.
I wish to hear you in grand opera or in oratorio--I wish to see you a
great artist--that is something noble, something ambitious, something to
work for day and night. Ah, Leo, when I hear Mr. Santley sing 'Why do
the nations'--when I see the thousands and thousands of people sitting
entranced, then I say to myself, 'There is something grand and noble to
speak to all these people--to lift them above themselves, to give them
this pure emotion, surely that is a great thing--it is high, like
religion--it is a purification--it is--'" But here she stopped, with a
little gesture of despair. "No, no, Leo, I cannot tell you--I have not
enough English."
"It's all very well," said he, "for you to talk about Santley; but where
will you get another voice like his?"
"Leo, you can sing finer music than 'The Starry Night,'" she said. "You
have the capacity. Ah, but you enjoy too much; you are petted and
spoiled, yes? you have not a great ambition--"
"I'll tell you what I seem to have, though, Nina," said he. "I seem to
have a faculty of impressing my friends with the notion that I could do
something tremendous if only I tried; whereas I know that this belief of
theirs is only a delusion."
"But you do not try, Leo," said this persistent counsellor. "No? life is
too pleasant for you; you have not enthusiasm; why, your talk is always
_persiflage_--it is the talk of the fashionable world. And you an
artist!"
However, at this moment Lionel suddenly discovered that this leisurely
stroll was likely to make them late in getting to the theatre; so that
perforce they had to leave these peaceful glades of the Green Park and
get into Piccadilly, where they jumped into a hansom-cab and were
rapidly whirled away eastward.
But if Lionel was to be reproached for his lack of ambition, that was a
charge which could not be brought against certain of those fashionable
friends of his at whom Nina (in unconscious collusion with Maurice
Mangan) seemed inclined to look askance. At the very height of the
London season Lady Adela Cunyngham and her sisters, Lady Sybil and Lady
Rosamund Bourne, had taken the town by storm; and it seemed probable
that, before they departed for Scotland, they would leave quite a trail
of glory behind them in the social firmament. The afternoon production
of "The Chaplet," in the gardens of Sir Hugh's house on Campden Hill,
had been a most notable festivity, doubtless; but then it was a
combination affair; for Miss Georgie Lestrange had shared in the honors
of the occasion; moreover, they had professional assistance given them
by Mr. Lionel Moore. It was when the three sisters attacked their own
particular pursuits that their individual genius shone, and marked
success had attended their separate efforts. His royal highness, the
commander-in-chief, it is true, had not as yet invited the colonels of
the British army to recommend Lady Sybil's "Soldiers' Marching Song" to
the band-masters of the various regiments, but, in default of that, this
composition was performed nightly, as the concluding ceremony, at the
international exhibition then open in London; and as the piece was
played by the combined bands of the Royal Marines, with the drums of the
1st Battalion Grenadier Guards, the Highland Pipers of the 2d Battalion
Scots Guards, and the drums of the 2d Battalion Grenadier Guards, the
resultant noise was surely sufficient to satisfy the hungriest vanity of
any composer, professional or amateur, who ever lived. Then not only had
Lady Rosamund exhibited a large picture at the Lansdowne Gallery (a
decorative work this was, representing the manumission of a slave, with
the legend underneath, "_Hunc hominem liberum esse volo_"), but also the
proprietors of an illustrated weekly newspaper had published in their
summer number, as a colored supplement, what she had ventured to call
"An All-the-year-round Valentine." She had taken the following rhyme (or
perhaps some one had found it for her)--
"In these fair violets of the veins,
The verdure of the spring remains;
Ripe cherries on thy lips display
The lustre of the summer day;
If I for autumn were to seek,
I'd view the apples on thy cheek;
There's nought could give me pain in thee,
But winter in thy heart to see."
--and she had drawn four pretty little landscapes, which, when
reproduced on one sheet by chromo-lithography, looked very neat and
elegant, while the fair artist was much gratified to observe her name
figuring on the placards at railway-stations or on the boards in front
of stationers' shops, as she drove along Kensington High Street.
But, of course, the crowning achievement of the gifted family was Lady
Adela Cunyngham's novel. If it was not quite the success of the season,
as far as the outer world was concerned, it certainly was the
most-talked-of book among Lady Adela's own set. Every character in it
was identified as somebody or another; and although Lady Adela, as a
true artist, maintained that she did not draw individuals, but types,
she could not stem the tide of this harmless curiosity, and had to
submit to the half-humorous inquiries and flattering insinuations of her
friends. As for the outer world, if it remained indifferent, that only
showed its lack of gratitude; for here, there, and everywhere, among the
evening and weekly papers (the morning papers were, perhaps, too busy
with politics at the time), attention was drawn to Lady Arthur
Castletown's charming and witty romance of modern life. Alp called to
Alp, and deep to deep, throughout Satan's invisible world; "Kathleen's
Sweethearts" was dragged in (apparently with ten men pushing behind) for
casual allusion in "Our Weekly Note-book;" Lady Arthur's smart sayings
were quoted in the gossip attached to this or that monthly magazine; the
correspondent of a country journal would hasten to say that it was not
necessary to inform _his_ readers that Lady Arthur Castletown was, in
reality, Lady Adela Cunyngham, the wife of the well-known breeder of
polled cattle, Sir Hugh Cunyngham of the Braes. In the midst of all this
Lionel went to his friend Maurice Mangan.
"Look here, Maurice," said he, "that book can't be as bad as you tried
to make out."
"It is the most insensate trash that was ever put between boards," was
the prompt reply.
"But how can that be? Look at what the papers say!"
"The papers--what papers? That isn't what the papers say--that is what
the small band of log-rollers say, calling industriously to one another,
like frogs in a pond. Didn't I tell you what would happen if you got
hold of Octavius Quirk, or any one of them? How many dinners did your
swell friends expend on Quirk?"
"Oh, I don't know. He is pretty often at the house."
"He is pretty often at the house, is he?" Mangan repeated.
"I hope they won't ask him to Scotland," Lionel said, ruefully. "I can't
bear the fellow; it's just as you say, he's always in a whirlwind of
insistence--about nothing; and he doesn't grin through a horse-collar,
he roars and guffaws through it. But then, you see, he has been very
kind about this book; and, of course, a new author, like Lady Adela, is
grateful. I admit what you say is right enough--perhaps the family are a
little anxious for notoriety; but so are a good many other people; and
there's no great harm in writing or painting or composing music as well
as you can. Mind, I think there's a little professional jealousy about
you, Maurice," continued this sage Mentor. "You don't like a woman of
fashion to come into your literary circles. But why shouldn't she? I'm
sure I don't object when any one of them tries to produce a little
dramatic or musical piece; on the contrary, I would rather help. And
look at Mellord--the busiest painter of the day--look at the trouble he
takes in advising Lady Rosamund; she has the free _entrée_ into his
studio, no matter who is sitting to him. I think, for amateurs, the work
of all the three sisters is very creditable to them; and I don't see why
they shouldn't like to have the appreciation of the public, just as
other people like it."
"My dear fellow," Mangan said, but with obvious indifference, "do you
think I resent the fact of your friend Lady Arthur or Lady Adela writing
a foolish novel? Far from it. You asked my opinion of it, and I told
you; if you don't see for yourself that the book is absolute trash--but
harmless trash, as I think--then you are in a happy condition of mind,
for you must be easily pleased. Come, let's talk of something worth
talking about. Have you been down to Winstead lately?"
"No--never since that Sunday."
"Do you know, your people were awfully good to me," this long, lank,
lazy-looking man went on--but now he seemed more interested than when
talking about Lady Adela's novel. "I never spent a more delightful
evening--never. I wonder they did not turn me out, though; for I stayed
and stayed, and never noticed how late it was getting. Missed the last
train, of course, and walked all the way up to London; not a bit sorry,
either, for the night was cool, and there was plenty of starlight; I'd
walk twice as far to spend another such evening. I--I'm thinking of
going down there next Sunday," he added, with a little hesitation.
"Why not?" Lionel said, cordially enough.
"You see," Mangan continued, still rather hesitatingly, "the fact
is--I'm rather in the way of getting illustrated papers--and--and summer
numbers--and children's books--I mean, when I want them, I can get
them--for lots of these things come to the newspaper offices, and
they're not much use to anybody; so I thought I would just make up a
parcel and send it down to Miss Frances, don't you understand, for her
sick children--"
"I dare say you went and spent a lot of money." Lionel said, with a
laugh.
"And she was good enough to write back that it was just what she wanted;
for several of the children--most of them, I should say--couldn't read,
but they liked looking at pictures. And then she was kind enough to add
that if I went down next Sunday, she would take me to see how the things
had been distributed--the pictures hung up on walls, and so
forth--and--and that's why I think I may go down."
"Oh, yes, certainly," Lionel said, though he did not understand why any
such excuse was necessary.
"Couldn't you come down, too, Linn?" Mangan suggested.
"Oh, no, I couldn't, I'm so busy," was the immediate reply. "I'm going
to Scotland the first or second week in August. The doctor advises me to
give my voice a long rest; and the Cunynghams have asked me to their
place in Ross-shire. Besides, I don't care about singing in London when
there's nobody but country cousins, and none too many of them. Of course
I'll have to go down and bid the old folks good-bye before starting for
Scotland, and Francie, too. Mind you tell that wicked Francie that I am
very angry with her for not having come up to see 'The Squire's
Daughter.'"
"Linn," said his friend, after a second, "why don't you take the old
people over to Aix or some such place for a month? They're so awfully
proud of you; and you might take Miss Frances as well; she seems to work
so hard--she deserves a rest. Wouldn't that be as sensible as going to
Scotland?"
"My good chap, I would do that in a moment--I should be delighted," said
he--for he was really a most generously disposed young man, especially
as regarded money; time was of greater consideration with him. "But it's
no use thinking of such a thing. The old folks are much too content with
home; they won't travel. And Francie--she wouldn't come away from those
precious babes. Well, I'm off. Mind you scold Francie for me!"
"Perhaps," said Mangan, as he accompanied his friend to the door.
So it was that on a certain evening in August, Lionel Moore drove up to
Euston Station and secured a sleeping-berth in the train going north;
and no doubt the consciousness that after a long spell of hard work he
was entering upon a well-earned holiday was a very welcome and
comfortable thing. If only he had been a little more reflective, he
might have set to work (here in the railway-carriage, as he lit his
cigar, and proceeded to fix up his reading-lamp) and gone on to consider
how entirely satisfactory all his circumstances were at this moment.
Prince Fortunatus, indeed! Was ever any one more happily situated? Here
he was, young, full of health and high spirits, excellent-tempered, and
sufficiently good-looking; he had acquired a liberal measure of fame and
popularity; he had many friends; he had ample means, for he did not know
the difference between a backer and a layer, nor yet the difference
between a broker and a jobber--in fact, gambling, either in stocks or on
the turf, had never even occurred to him as a thing worth thinking
about. But there was something further than all this for which he ought
to have been profoundly grateful. As the long train thundered away into
the night, there was no dull misery of farewell weighing heavily upon
him; there were no longing fancies wandering wistfully back to a certain
house, a certain figure, a pair of too-eloquent eyes. He dragged no
lengthening chain with him on this journey north. For, notwithstanding
his pleasant companionship with Nina, and her constant sympathy with him
and her interest in his professional career; notwithstanding the
affectionate regard of his cousin Francie, which was none the less
sincere that it remained unspoken and only to be guessed at;
notwithstanding the somewhat jealous favor which the prima-donna of the
New Theatre seemed inclined to bestow on him; notwithstanding the pert
coquetries and fascinations of Miss Georgie Lestrange, to say nothing of
the blandishments and pettings showered upon him by crowds of ladies of
exalted rank, this fortunate young man (so far at least as he was
himself aware) was going away to Scotland quite heart-whole.