While the public were busy discussing the merits and demerits of the
star which had shone forth so suddenly upon the theatrical horizon, the
lady herself was sitting in her dressing-room, apparently indifferent to
all that passed or was likely to come. Her theatrical splendour had
been cast off, and, enveloped now in a plain dark dress, she sat with
dishevelled hair and pale cheeks, gazing dreamily at her own reflection
in a mirror. Her maid, who was busily engaged in folding a delicate
robe, was suddenly interrupted in her work by a knock at the door.
She opened it and admitted White. He walked over to the dreamy girl, put
his arm round her shoulders, and kissed her fondly.
‘Well, here I am,’ he said quickly, with a glance at the busy, listening
maid. ‘Are you almost ready to come home?’
‘I am quite ready,’ returned Madeline, awakening from her dream.
She rose at once, coiled up her hair, put on her hat and cloak, and,
after giving a few directions to her maid, took White’s arm and left the
room.
The house had been emptied and darkened, and the curtain raised, but
confusion still prevailed upon the stage. Carpenters, scene-shifters,
property men, actors and actresses, bereft of their splendour, all
gathered according to their different grades around Abrahams, Hart, and
the acting manager, who were holding forth like the outer world upon the
merits of the heroine of the night.
Madeline, plainly dressed, thickly veiled, and clinging closely to
White’s arm, hoped to pass unseen through the crowd; but no sooner had
she reached the centre of the stage than the keen eye of the manager
fell upon her, and he advanced with outstretched hands.
‘My dear Miss Vere,’ he said, ‘allow me to congratulate you on a big
success. You’ve hit ’em right between the eyes, my dear. You have, by
Jove!
I always said you would. Didn’t I always say you would?’ And turning to
White, he added--
‘White, old man, dine with me to-morrow at five sharp. I’ve a lot to
talk over.’
Madeline received the homage quietly enough, and by a slight pressure
of her hand upon the arm of her delighted guardian hurried him along out
through the stage door.
It was a calm still night, the sky was studded with stars; not a breath
of air was stirring, but the noise in the streets was deafening, the
confusion bewildering. A crowd was gathered round the theatre door, cabs
rattled up and down, streams of people moved hither and thither, as if
in a feverish dream. Once in the open air, White paused to hail a cab,
but Madeline stopped him.
‘Let us walk,’ she said quickly. ‘I am so excited, and a breath of this
cool air will do me good.’
‘As you please, my dear,’ returned White, and, clasping her hand more
firmly upon his arm, he led her through the ever-moving crowd. What
a crowd it was! Men and women, old and young, rich and poor, mingling
together in one perpetual eddy; shivering, starving, half-clad children;
brazen street-walkers disporting in finery even more tawdry than that
which the actress had cast aside, and pale-faced outcasts glaring
ghastly beneath the gaslight, clutching at their rags, and forcing their
parched heated lips to offer up a curse to Him who had made them what
they were.
Still veiled, still clinging closely to White’s arms, Madeline passed
slowly on, watching the crowd surging up and down beside her, seeing the
faces pale, haggard, gaunt, and famine-stricken, flashing like phantoms.
Now and then, as some weary woman passed beneath the glare of the
gaslight, Madeline would pause and instinctively stretch forth her hand,
as if to offer succour; but White, tightening his hold upon her, soothed
the strange agitation which he knew to be rising, and firmly urged her
on. Thus they left the trouble and the turmoil behind them, and passing
into a sequestered square, with green trees around them, and the starlit
heaven above, paused for a moment.
Madeline raised her veil, and looked upward.
‘To think,’ she said, ‘that such a bright sky should shine upon so much
wickedness and sorrow! I wonder if any people are ever happy until they
die?’
‘Happy! Of course they are. But come, we are lingering too long. I mean
to drink a bottle of champagne to-night to celebrate your success, my
dear.’
Madeline said no more, but quietly suffered him to lead her home.
It was certainly not such a home as one would picture as the abode of
the queen of the night; for White, whose circumstances had never been
affluent, had been brought lower than ever of late through the demands
made upon him by Madeline, whom it had been necessary to fit out
superbly before she could be presented to the gaze of the world. Still,
poor as they were, the rooms were dear to Madeline, and as she entered
them she felt stealing over her a sense of security and peace which she
had not experienced all that evening before.
The good news had sped quickly, and the welcome given to the young
actress was in keeping with all the rest. The table was spread for
supper, the solitary bottle of champagne stood at the head, and poor
Madame de Berny, now very worn and much aged, stood upon the narrow,
dimly lighted stairs, with outstretched hands and quivering voice.
‘Ah, my dear,’ she said, as she drew Madeline into the bedroom, and
assisted her to remove her hat and cloak, ‘to think that only a few
years ago you stood at my poor dear Marie’s knee, and listened, with
open eyes and mouth, to the stories she used to tell about the theatre.
Now, you are a leading lady, and she--oh! my poor girl!’
‘Don’t cry, Madame,’ said Madeline gently. ‘I think Marie is happy.’
‘Ah, Miss Madeline, how can I help grieving when I think of all my child
has lost? To think that when she was rising so rapidly she could throw
herself away upon a man who only betrayed her; that she should cause
her father to die of a broken heart, and bring me to this!’ As Madeline
listened she sank into a chair, and let her weary head rest upon her
hands. Her face was paler than it had been before, and Madame de Berny
looking at her saw that a look of terrible sadness, which she had often
noticed before, was creeping again into her eyes.
‘Madeline, my dear,’ she said, ‘_you_ at least ought to be happy.’
The girl raised her head and smiled, and the smile was even more pitiful
to behold than the look of sadness had been.
‘Yes, you are right, Madame de Berny,’ she said, ‘I ought to be happy,
so I will try to be from this night forth;’ and as if to avoid further
conversation she passed out into the sitting-room, where she found White
awaiting her with a look of contented happiness in his face.
Puzzled and thoughtful, the old lady saw her go. What was the matter
with the girl? She could not tell. Some few months before that day,
when, in answer to an appeal from her, White had offered her a home,
with himself and ward, she had come full of her own troubles, expecting
to find a bright-eyed vivacious beautiful girl to soothe and cheer her.
But instead of being the comforted she became the comforter. The
first sight of the girl rent her heartstrings. Could this be Madeline
Hazelmere? Could this be the lissome blue-eyed child, who had been the
very impersonation of happy impulse and joy? This woman with the
pale cheeks and strange, sad eyes? Madame de Berny paused before her
shattered vision, gave one prolonged look, and burst into tears.
‘Do not cry, dear Madame,’ Madeline had said, kindly taking her old
friend affectionately in her arms; ‘the poor chevalier has gone from a
world in which it is more terrible to live than to leave. I hope he has
no memory of it--that at least he is at peace.’
Strange words, to come from a girl scarcely twenty years of age. They
affected the Frenchwoman curiously at the time, and set her pondering
afterwards.
The longer she remained with White the more she became impressed with
the painful change that had taken place in Madeline. It was not that
the child had become a woman, and had learnt to subdue her spirits to
a sadder, more womanly tone; her soul was haunted by a memory which
poisoned every pleasure which was lifted to her lips, and converted the
world into a tomb. What the memory was, Madame could not understand, but
she knew, whenever the girl’s prospects seemed brightest, it haunted
her the most, and that on that night when she had shone forth upon the
world, and made hundreds envy her, it seemed to loom before her eyes
more terribly than ever.
For several days after that night when she had achieved her great
theatrical triumph, Madeline was too much occupied with business to give
much thought to herself. She seemed to be lifted on a whirlwind, and
carried along in tumult--forgetting the past, thinking nothing of the
future, and scarcely conscious even of the bewildering present.
On the third morning, however, a note arrived which dispelled the dream
that enveloped her, and brought her to herself again. The note had been
placed among many others upon the breakfast table. She looked twice
or thrice at the handwriting, then opened the envelope, and read as
follows--
_My dear Ophelia,--For the last few days I have been looking every hour,
nay, every minute, for a visit from you. Am I to be again honoured by a
visit from you in my studio, or may I take the liberty of waiting upon
you? I have been putting one or two finishing touches to my work, but
without the presence of the original I cannot bring it to completion.
Accept my friendly homage, which must be to you like a drop of water to
the ocean._
_Blanco Serena._
Having perused the note, Madeline laid it down again upon the table and
looked round the room. How poverty-stricken it looked; how opposed to
everything in the house of the successful painter who wrote that letter!
She turned to White, who sat near her with his head buried in the folds
of the ‘Times.’
‘Mr. Serena thinks that success has turned my head,’ she said quietly.
‘I must undeceive him by giving him my last sitting for “Ophelia”
to-day.’
Accordingly, as soon as the breakfast was over, White retired to his
studio, and Madeline went on her way.
On arriving at the house of Mr. Blanco Serena, she was made to feel her
new greatness more than ever she had done before. The servant in livery
looked at her with unusual respect, as he led her solemnly through long
corridors to the studio, and ushered her into the presence of the great
man himself.
Mr. Blanco Serena sat among his pictures. He wore an Eastern
dressing-gown, and smoked a fantastically twisted meerschaum pipe. His
eyes were fixed with rapt attention on the walls where his own handiwork
was displayed; but when Madeline came in, he withdrew his gaze,
collected his thoughts, and gave her a kindly welcome. To all his
congratulations Madeline listened quietly, then she took her place
before the painter, and, as he painted, her thoughts wandered to the
past.
‘Ah, those eyes, those eyes,’ thought Serena to himself as he painted
rapidly. ‘I cannot put them on canvas. The critics will rave about my
“Ophelia,” but their praise will never satisfy me. If I could only paint
the expression of that face I should think myself the genius they call
me, not the poor impostor I know myself to be.’
Nevertheless, he tried and tried again, while Madeline sat patiently.
Presently the studio door was opened, and with much ceremony, but no
announcement, a stranger was shown in.