At the back of the room the applause had been loud at the moment of the
kiss, real or counterfeit. The cause was partly owing to an exceptional
circumstance which had occurred in that quarter early in the play.
The people had all seated themselves, and the first act had begun,
when the tapestry that screened the door was lifted gently and a figure
appeared in the opening. The general attention was at this moment
absorbed by the newly disclosed stage, and scarcely a soul noticed the
stranger. Had any one of the audience turned his head, there would have
been sufficient in the countenance to detain his gaze, notwithstanding
the counter-attraction forward.
He was obviously a man who had come from afar. There was not a square
inch about him that had anything to do with modern English life. His
visage, which was of the colour of light porphyry, had little of its
original surface left; it was a face which had been the plaything of
strange fires or pestilences, that had moulded to whatever shape they
chose his originally supple skin, and left it pitted, puckered, and
seamed like a dried water-course. But though dire catastrophes or
the treacherous airs of remote climates had done their worst upon his
exterior, they seemed to have affected him but little within, to judge
from a certain robustness which showed itself in his manner of standing.
The face-marks had a meaning, for any one who could read them, beyond
the mere suggestion of their origin: they signified that this man
had either been the victim of some terrible necessity as regarded the
occupation to which he had devoted himself, or that he was a man of
dogged obstinacy, from sheer sang froid holding his ground amid malign
forces when others would have fled affrighted away.
As nobody noticed him, he dropped the door hangings after a while,
walked silently along the matted alley, and sat down in one of the back
chairs. His manner of entry was enough to show that the strength of
character which he seemed to possess had phlegm for its base and not
ardour. One might have said that perhaps the shocks he had passed
through had taken all his original warmth out of him. His beaver hat,
which he had retained on his head till this moment, he now placed under
the seat, where he sat absolutely motionless till the end of the first
act, as if he were indulging in a monologue which did not quite reach
his lips.
When Paula entered at the beginning of the second act he showed as much
excitement as was expressed by a slight movement of the eyes. When she
spoke he turned to his next neighbour, and asked him in cold level words
which had once been English, but which seemed to have lost the accent
of nationality: ‘Is that the young woman who is the possessor of this
castle--Power by name?’
His neighbour happened to be the landlord at Sleeping-Green, and he
informed the stranger that she was what he supposed.
‘And who is that gentleman whose line of business seems to be to make
love to Power?’
‘He’s Captain De Stancy, Sir William De Stancy’s son, who used to own
this property.’
‘Baronet or knight?’
‘Baronet--a very old-established family about here.’
The stranger nodded, and the play went on, no further word being spoken
till the fourth act was reached, when the stranger again said, without
taking his narrow black eyes from the stage: ‘There’s something in that
love-making between Stancy and Power that’s not all sham!’
‘Well,’ said the landlord, ‘I have heard different stories about that,
and wouldn’t be the man to zay what I couldn’t swear to. The story is
that Captain De Stancy, who is as poor as a gallicrow, is in full cry
a’ter her, and that his on’y chance lies in his being heir to a title
and the wold name. But she has not shown a genuine hanker for anybody
yet.’
‘If she finds the money, and this Stancy finds the name and blood,
‘twould be a very neat match between ‘em,--hey?’
‘That’s the argument.’
Nothing more was said again for a long time, but the stranger’s eyes
showed more interest in the passes between Paula and De Stancy than they
had shown before. At length the crisis came, as described in the last
chapter, De Stancy saluting her with that semblance of a kiss which gave
such umbrage to Somerset. The stranger’s thin lips lengthened a couple
of inches with satisfaction; he put his hand into his pocket, drew out
two half-crowns which he handed to the landlord, saying, ‘Just applaud
that, will you, and get your comrades to do the same.’
The landlord, though a little surprised, took the money, and began to
clap his hands as desired. The example was contagious, and spread all
over the room; for the audience, gentle and simple, though they might
not have followed the blank verse in all its bearings, could at least
appreciate a kiss. It was the unusual acclamation raised by this means
which had led Somerset to turn his head.
When the play had ended the stranger was the first to rise, and going
downstairs at the head of the crowd he passed out of doors, and was lost
to view. Some questions were asked by the landlord as to the stranger’s
individuality; but few had seen him; fewer had noticed him, singular as
he was; and none knew his name.
While these things had been going on in the quarter allotted to the
commonalty, Somerset in front had waited the fall of the curtain with
those sick and sorry feelings which should be combated by the aid of
philosophy and a good conscience, but which really are only subdued by
time and the abrading rush of affairs. He was, however, stoical enough,
when it was all over, to accept Mrs. Goodman’s invitation to accompany
her to the drawing-room, fully expecting to find there a large company,
including Captain De Stancy.
But none of the acting ladies and gentlemen had emerged from their
dressing-rooms as yet. Feeling that he did not care to meet any of them
that night, he bade farewell to Mrs. Goodman after a few minutes of
conversation, and left her. While he was passing along the corridor,
at the side of the gallery which had been used as the theatre, Paula
crossed it from the latter apartment towards an opposite door. She was
still in the dress of the Princess, and the diamond and pearl necklace
still hung over her bosom as placed there by Captain De Stancy.
Her eye caught Somerset’s, and she stopped. Probably there was something
in his face which told his mind, for she invited him by a smile into the
room she was entering.
‘I congratulate you on your performance,’ he said mechanically, when she
pushed to the door.
‘Do you really think it was well done?’ She drew near him with a
sociable air.
‘It was startlingly done--the part from “Romeo and Juliet” pre-eminently
so.’
‘Do you think I knew he was going to introduce it, or do you think I
didn’t know?’ she said, with that gentle sauciness which shows itself in
the loved one’s manner when she has had a triumphant evening without the
lover’s assistance.
‘I think you may have known.’
‘No,’ she averred, decisively shaking her head. ‘It took me as much by
surprise as it probably did you. But why should I have told!’
Without answering that question Somerset went on. ‘Then what he did at
the end of his gag was of course a surprise also.’
‘He didn’t really do what he seemed to do,’ she serenely answered.
‘Well, I have no right to make observations--your actions are not
subject to my surveillance; you float above my plane,’ said the young
man with some bitterness. ‘But to speak plainly, surely he--kissed you?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He only kissed the air in front of me--ever so far
off.’
‘Was it six inches off?’
‘No, not six inches.’
‘Nor three.’
‘It was quite one,’ she said with an ingenuous air.
‘I don’t call that very far.’
‘A miss is as good as a mile, says the time-honoured proverb; and it is
not for us modern mortals to question its truth.’
‘How can you be so off-hand?’ broke out Somerset. ‘I love you wildly and
desperately, Paula, and you know it well!’
‘I have never denied knowing it,’ she said softly.
‘Then why do you, with such knowledge, adopt an air of levity at such a
moment as this! You keep me at arm’s-length, and won’t say whether you
care for me one bit, or no. I have owned all to you; yet never once have
you owned anything to me!’
‘I have owned much. And you do me wrong if you consider that I show
levity. But even if I had not owned everything, and you all, it is not
altogether such a grievous thing.’
‘You mean to say that it is not grievous, even if a man does love a
woman, and suffers all the pain of feeling he loves in vain? Well, I say
it is quite the reverse, and I have grounds for knowing.’
‘Now, don’t fume so, George Somerset, but hear me. My not owning all
may not have the dreadful meaning you think, and therefore it may not
be really such a grievous thing. There are genuine reasons for women’s
conduct in these matters as well as for men’s, though it is sometimes
supposed to be regulated entirely by caprice. And if I do not give way
to every feeling--I mean demonstration--it is because I don’t want to.
There now, you know what that implies; and be content.’
‘Very well,’ said Somerset, with repressed sadness, ‘I will not expect
you to say more. But you do like me a little, Paula?’
‘Now!’ she said, shaking her head with symptoms of tenderness and
looking into his eyes. ‘What have you just promised? Perhaps I like you
a little more than a little, which is much too much! Yes,--Shakespeare
says so, and he is always right. Do you still doubt me? Ah, I see you
do!’
‘Because somebody has stood nearer to you to-night than I.’
‘A fogy like him!--half as old again as either of us! How can you mind
him? What shall I do to show you that I do not for a moment let him come
between me and you?’
‘It is not for me to suggest what you should do. Though what you should
permit ME to do is obvious enough.’
She dropped her voice: ‘You mean, permit you to do really and in earnest
what he only seemed to do in the play.’
Somerset signified by a look that such had been his thought.
Paula was silent. ‘No,’ she murmured at last. ‘That cannot be. He did
not, nor must you.’
It was said none the less decidedly for being spoken low.
‘You quite resent such a suggestion: you have a right to. I beg your
pardon, not for speaking of it, but for thinking it.’
‘I don’t resent it at all, and I am not offended one bit. But I am not
the less of opinion that it is possible to be premature in some things;
and to do this just now would be premature. I know what you would
say--that you would not have asked it, but for that unfortunate
improvisation of it in the play. But that I was not responsible for, and
therefore owe no reparation to you now.... Listen!’
‘Paula--Paula! Where in the world are you?’ was heard resounding along
the corridor in the voice of her aunt. ‘Our friends are all ready to
leave, and you will surely bid them good-night!’
‘I must be gone--I won’t ring for you to be shown out--come this way.’
‘But how will you get on in repeating the play tomorrow evening if that
interpolation is against your wish?’ he asked, looking her hard in the
face.
‘I’ll think it over during the night. Come to-morrow morning to help me
settle. But,’ she added, with coy yet genial independence, ‘listen to
me. Not a word more about a--what you asked for, mind! I don’t want to
go so far, and I will not--not just yet anyhow--I mean perhaps never.
You must promise that, or I cannot see you again alone.’
‘It shall be as you request.’
‘Very well. And not a word of this to a soul. My aunt suspects: but she
is a good aunt and will say nothing. Now that is clearly understood, I
should be glad to consult with you tomorrow early. I will come to you in
the studio or Pleasance as soon as I am disengaged.’
She took him to a little chamfered doorway in the corner, which opened
into a descending turret; and Somerset went down. When he had unfastened
the door at the bottom, and stepped into the lower corridor, she asked,
‘Are you down?’ And on receiving an affirmative reply she closed the top
door.