MISS FLORA FITZALLAN.
“Love in a hut--with water and a crust
Is, Love forgive us! Cinders--ashes--dust!”
A pretty little house, _parfaitement bien monté_, in Halfmoon Street.
Plenty of marqueterie and rococo about, heaps of china monstrosities,
heaps of nude statuary and glowing pictures, and shoals of devices in
the shape of soft armchairs and cushions and sofas, to contribute to the
well-being of man.
Altogether a charming little _ménage_, of which the presiding deity is
Miss Fitzallan, leading lady at the Bagatelle Theatre.
They have been playing “Hearts _versus_ Diamonds” at the theatre
to-night, a comedy in three long acts, with a lot of emotional acting,
which, when it goes on week after week, is, to say the least, a trifle
fatiguing.
The Prince and Princess, accompanied by a party of foreign royalties,
have been amongst the audience, and have been demonstrative in their
approval. Altogether the evening has been exciting, and the actors are
glad when it is over, and each one can drop down from his stilts of
artificial feeling to the level of real life.
Miss Fitzallan is tired too; her _rôle_ has been the most arduous of
all, perhaps, save that of the _jeune amoureux_, who has had to play the
handsome but rejected lover, with a passion he can simulate better than
he can feel. So the leading lady sinks back into her luxurious little
light blue brougham, with an enormous sensation of relief, and is driven
quickly to her bijou house, where a small but exquisite supper is laid
out.
The covers are for two.
Herself and the _jeune amoureux_.
Flora Fitzallan is past first youth, though she has never owned to more
than twenty-three for the last ten years; but dress and the skilful
touch of art completely conceal any ravages that time may have imprinted
on her face.
On a primary glance, she is beautiful as a dream. On a second and more
leisurely inspection, an acute and impartial observer may detect some
undeniable flaws in her physiognomy.
Her eyes are a great deal too wide apart, although they are of a velvety
brown, and melting in expression, and their brows and lashes are
perfect. The nose is a little too _retroussé_ or tip-tilted, according
to Tennysonian phraseology, and her mouth is large, though the lips are
red and tempting. She is a woman on a large scale, with a fulness of
form which promises to develop into unromantic fat; but, supper
finished, as she stands in a long, trailing white silk, with brilliants
sparkling on her hair and neck, and ears and arms, there is really so
much grace about her careless attitude, so much of imperial dignity
about her, that it is impossible to stop and analyse her defects when
her claims to admiration are so evident. She is clever, too, a sharp
cleverness with nothing _spirituelle_ about it, and, considering her
birth and position in the social world, she is ladylike and even
fastidious in her tastes. She is quite a woman of the people, with no
mysterious aristocracy hanging over her advent into the world. Her
father was a bookmaker, well known to every sporting man, and her mother
had been one of the ballet at the Alhambra, until years and obesity had
displaced her from that honourable berth.
A popular actress at one of the most fashionable London theatres, and a
woman about whom several men, from Mayfair to High Holborn, have gone
mad, she can have lovers at her feet every hour of the day, and
enumerate them by legion; but though Miss Fitzallan is a professional,
and attempts no display of prudery, and (this in an aside) very little
of morality, she is a woman, with a woman’s natural tendency to love one
man “_de cœur_” amongst the many aspirants to her favour. This man
is--Carlton Conway.
He lies now, extended at full length on quite a sumptuous sofa, with a
cigar between his lips, and his eyes closed. He has supped remarkably
well, off dainty little dishes and the very best wine, and feels
perfectly comfortable and satisfied physically, but his thoughts are not
pleasant, and are wandering far away from his luxurious blue satin nest,
within which he is enshrined as a deity, and installed in all the
dignity of lover A 1.
He is not thinking of Miss Fitzallan, or of her good looks and success,
although half the club men would willingly give some hundreds to fill
his place with this charming Aspasia.
He is thinking how coolly Zai Beranger bowled him over for Lord Delaval
at the Meredyths’ “At Home” two nights ago. He has loved Zai as much as
such a nature as his _can_ love, but it is a love that is subservient
to _amour propre_. He had meant to seek her, to dance with her, to take
her out on the lawn, to kiss her, and to believe that she was his, and
his only.
And all these intentions were frustrated by his jealous ire at seeing
Lord Delaval at her side. To pique her, he had devoted himself to
Crystal Meredyth, and the tables had been turned on himself. The haughty
little bend of Zai’s dainty head, as she passed him on the peer’s arm,
had railed him more than he has ever been railed in all these years of
unprecedented success amongst women, and, impassioned lover as he was of
hers, the blow she has given his vanity has loosened her hold entirely
upon him. He is not a man to waste his feelings on an unappreciative
being. Crystal Meredyth likes him--he knows it, and she has money, lots
of bank stock, and horses and diamonds--according to Lord Delaval--at
her back, but somehow, Crystal, with all her prettiness, her innocent
china-blue eyes, and her naïve conversation, has not caught his fancy,
and as he lies here, he is making up his mind to throw Zai’s sweet image
to the four winds, and to immolate himself and his handsome face and
figure on the altar of Moloch. Miss Fitzallan stands patiently watching
for a considerable length of time the reverie in which her lover--on and
off the stage--is indulging, either forgetful, or else utterly
regardless, of her very presence in the room.
She understands Carlton Conway’s light, fickle and selfish character,
from the top of his head to the sole of his feet.
A man is never known so thoroughly in the domestic relations of life as
he is by a woman like this, whose lover he has been since almost the
first days of acting together.
With Miss Fitzallan, Carl throws off all restraint, and has no silence,
such as he would have to preserve with a woman who was his--wife.
It is at Miss Fitzallan’s house that he feels himself completely at
home--where he can fling himself _sans cérémonie_ with dusty boots on
satin sofas, smoke unrebuked the cigar interdicted in other
drawing-rooms, and order the dainty dishes he prefers. He has suffered
_ennui_ covertly in the presence of the _grande dames_, in whose
_salons_ he had been gratified to find himself, but he yawns
unreservedly in the very face of the Aspasia who belongs to him _pro
tem_.
To Miss Fitzallan he speaks openly--thinks audibly--and is exactly the
same before her as he is by himself. It is Balzac who says that if the
mirror of truth be found anywhere, it is probably within the boudoir of
Venus.
“Tell me, Carl, what you are thinking of? Is it of that doll of a thing
I saw you go and speak to the other night, between the acts? Is it the
money I hear she has or her silly face that runs in your head? And
yet--no, I don’t care to hear it is her face, for then I should be
jealous--jealous as a tiger-cat, Carl! and jealousy is an ugly sensation
to which I have not been subject, thanks to the goodness of an
appreciative public!”
And as she speaks, she walks up to the sofa, and bends over him with a
steady, keen look, adding in her tenderest, softest tone:
“Surely, Carl, you are not going to bowl me over for another woman?”
Carl gives a final puff to his nearly consumed cigar, and deliberately
removing it from his mouth, throws it negligently into a superb Dresden
casket that stands near him on a marble slab. Then he does not rise, but
quietly turns over to his side and faces her.
Not a gleam of liking for her could be traced on his handsome aquiline
features by the most adept of physiognomists. His eyes have a cold and
callous light in them as they meet the fine melting brown orbs that
search for a reciprocal look, and the tone of his voice is hard and
utterly passionless as he answers her.
“Whatever heart I have is, of course, yours, Flora, but one cannot
subsist on love, you see. No one knows this better than you do, judging
by all this splendour. You have said you were in love with me--and I
believe you are, but nevertheless, that love hasn’t been enough for you,
and the Duke of Beaudesert, Lord Lennerdale, etc., etc., have all been
tolerated when Cupid came, laden with marqueterie and Chelsea, and so
on. The ‘doll of a thing,’ as you are pleased to call Miss Meredyth, is
not such a magnificent piece of flesh and blood as yourself--but she is
_very respectable_!”
The colour flames up into the leading lady’s cheek, her eyes shoot
angrily, and for an instant she looks quite plain. His words sting like
nettles.
“Very respectable! Did you say that to insult me, Carl? For you know I
am not what prudes and fools call very respectable, and I don’t want to
be! Don’t you dare to taunt me, Carl! You will try to marry that Miss
Meredyth,” she goes on in a sharp voice, her rather ponderous foot
beating a tattoo on the velvet pile; “but it will be only for her money.
Oh, you cannot deceive me! I, who know each turn of your mind, who read
you like an open book! And for an excuse for your paltry, interested
motives, you lie there, and talk to me of her--_respectability_. Good
heavens! I begin to feel contempt for you--a contempt all fellows
deserve when they are ready to sell themselves to the highest bidder!”
A flush slowly mounts into the man’s pale cheeks, and he bites his lips
hard as he listens to her insolent tone, but he is too lazy by nature to
be roused quickly into recrimination, and he cares too little for her to
take much heed of her words or contemptuous gestures.
“Flora, you are going too far,” he says very quietly, with a callousness
that goes far to irritate her more. “You forget whom you are speaking
to. Your noble admirers may bow down to your tempers, but I won’t. I am
too proud to subject myself to them, and too indolent to retort, so, as
you are not too amiable, I will wish you good-night, and when we meet
again, I hope you will be more pleasant to look at, and to speak to.”
“You shan’t go, Carl! you and I have been together for three years, and
I _won’t_ have you marry that girl. I’ll forbid the banns, and make such
a scandal in the church that all London will ring with it.”
Carlton Conway looks up at her, and taps his well varnished boot with
his silver-headed cane.
“Pshaw, and why?” he asks with an accent of surprise.
Miss Fitzallan regards him fixedly and passionately, then throws herself
down tragically on her knees by his side.
“Because I love you, Carl.”
“_What_ did you say? But enough of this, let us finish this folly at
once, Flora! You appear strangely to misunderstand the nature of our
relations to one another. If so, you had better rectify your ideas on
the subject as soon as possible. The relations that may have existed
between us yesterday are not forced to exist to-day. It is the old
story, my dear Flora, acted in every part of the world, in every phase
of society from the Royalties down to the costermongers, and yet you,
sharp as you are, don’t seem to comprehend it. It is that in this world
there are two sorts of women--one sort, charming like you, lawless like
you, to whom a man gives either an hour or a year of his life, according
to his own free will--a sort that please him one day, and disgust him
the next, who ought not to expect from him anything, but attention
sometimes, caprice and changeability always. A sort he takes up without
any reality of feeling, and puts down without compunction or remorse.
The other sort is like Miss Meredyth, brought up properly, with decent
notions and respectable ways. To them a fellow naturally gives his life,
his love, his respect, his name, and for these he abandons such
as--Flora Fitzallan. You were born to be a plaything for a time; Miss
Meredyth was born to be a guardian angel. You have insulted me, my dear
Flora, you have credited me with vile interested motives, and forced me
to place the above truisms before you, and now, perhaps, you _will_ let
me go.”
He rises slowly, takes his hat, and drawing on his gloves lounges to the
door.
Miss Fitzallan looks round, and tries to find in his face some signs of
indecision, but fails, and she notices that there is no perceptible
lingering in his step.
Frantic jealousy and anger, mingled with love for him, possess her. He
is really the only man she has loved, and whose companionship has given
her any genuine happiness in her tinsel existence of stage spangles and
hypocrisy; without him she thoroughly believes she cannot live.
“Carl, come back, don’t leave me like this,” she cries pitifully. “If my
love for you has made me say one word to vex you, see, I ask your pardon
on my knees, for Carl, you know how I love you, worship you, that there
is nothing in the whole world that I would not sacrifice for you and
your good except the sight of you, Carl, and that I _must_ have or die!
Come back, and give me a kiss of forgiveness, and if you say anything
horrid I will be mum.”
Miss Fitzallan has assumed a pose that would bring down the house if she
were on the stage at this moment. It is so fine, so artistic, and she
has called up all the emotional fire she knows into her big brown eyes,
exerting herself as much to chain and enchant this man as though she was
the cynosure of all London. It seems to her at this moment that there is
but only one thing worth striving for, or existing for, and that is
Carlton Conway’s devotion.
Her nature is perverse like other women’s, coveting what seems
difficult to gain, undervaluing what is willingly offered.
“My dear Flora, now you are yourself again,” he says carelessly, just
sweeping his moustache across her brow, and then sinking into the arms
of a capacious _fauteuil_, “and I don’t mind confiding to you the
lamentable fact that I am deuced hard up. What with garments for the
stage, and off the stage, button-holes for the Park and the balls
(Hooper in Oxford Street had the impudence to charge me
three-and-sixpence for a gardenia the other day), I am just at the end
of my tether. I want a new hat, new gloves, a new kit altogether, and
devil a bit do I know who to squeeze the tin out of. I _must_ sacrifice
myself to a fortune, you see.”
“Oh, Carl, but it’s hateful the thought of your marrying anyone else.
If it wasn’t for some silly prejudice you might marry me; I have got
heaps of money you know.”
Yes, he does know, and that how the money was got is a fact that it is
better not to enquire into. Marry her? marry the leading lady of the
Bagatelle Theatre? when he is a regular swell himself, in spite of his
being an actor! The shade of his uncle, the Marquis of Eversleigh,
forbid it!
He stares at her incredulously, and seeing she is in earnest bursts into
a loud laugh.
The next moment he asks her pardon for his rudeness, for Carl is a
gentleman born.
“You are cruel to me, very cruel,” she sobs, always with a due regard to
the artistic, “but you will promise me one thing, won’t you, Carl? It
is that, once married, and the fortune secured, I shall see you again as
often as I do now.”
“All right, Flora, but that will be on one condition. It is that you
won’t bother me with letters or anything. Letters are so deuced
dangerous, you know, especially if one’s wife gets hold of them, and
grows close-fisted with the pocket-money. If I marry Crystal Meredyth,”
he adds to himself, “she’ll have to fork out pretty considerably to make
up for the amount of insipid talk that falls from her lips. Now if it
was Zai! Ah! I’d take her with nothing, and work like a slave to keep my
dainty little girl clothed like a princess, but she has thrown me over
for that lardy-dardy swell, and joy go with her.”
“Good-night, Flora,” he says, rising lazily, “and mind and keep my
counsel. If father and mother Meredyth, who are the properest couple
alive, were to hear one whisper about you, they would send me flying.”
“I’ll keep your counsel, Carl; I wouldn’t injure a hair of your head,
not to save my life.”
“Well, perhaps you wouldn’t, little woman, or perhaps you would, _cela
selon_. I never had much faith in mankind, or womankind either to say
the truth, and I am too old in worldly wisdom to begin now--ta-ta.”
END OF VOLUME I.
PRINTED BY
KELLY AND CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS,
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