"Mrs. Orme, now that you are comfortable in your wrapper and
slippers, let me take down your hair, and then I will bring you a cup
of tea; not the vile lukewarm stuff they give us here, but good
genuine tea made out of my own caddy, that has some strength, and
will build you up. Rehearsals don't often serve you so badly."
"Thank you, Mrs. Waul, but the tea would only make me more nervous,
and that is a risk I cannot afford to incur. Please raise both
windows, fresh air, even Parisian air, is better for me than anything
else."
"You have not seemed quite yourself since we came here, and I don't
understand at all why two nights in Paris serve you worse than a
week's acting elsewhere."
"Have I not told you that I dread above every other ordeal the
critical Parisian audience?"
"But you passed so successfully through it! Last night the
galleries absolutely thundered, and people seemed half wild with
delight. William says the papers are full of praise."
Mrs. Waul crossed the room to lay upon the bureau the steel pins she
had taken from her mistress's hair, and the latter muttered audibly:
"For me the 'ides of March' are come indeed, but not passed."
"Did you speak to me?"
"There comes your husband. I hear his slow, heavy step upon the
stairs. Open the door."
As an elderly white-haired man entered, Mrs. Orme put put her hand.
"Letters from home, Mr. Waul?"
"One from America, two from London, and a note from the American
minister."
"You saw the minister then? Did he give you the papers we shall
require?"
"He has been sick, I believe, but said he would be at the theatre
to-night, and would call and see you to-morrow."
"Hear this sentence, good people, from his note: 'Only indisposition
prevented my attendance at the theatre last night to witness the
brilliant triumph of my countrywomen. Since the palmy days of Rachel
I have not heard such extravagant eulogies, and as an American I
proudly and cordially congratulate you----'"
"Are you going to faint! Stand back, William, and let me bathe her
face with cologne. What is the matter, Mrs. Orme? You shake as if you
had an ague."
But her mistress sat with eyes fixed upon a line visible only to
herself: "Your countrymen here are very much elated, and to-night I
shall be accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Cuthbert Laurance, son of
General René Laurance, whose wealth and social eminence must have at
least rendered his name familiar to all Americans travelling in
Europe."
"Be quick, Phoebe, and get her a glass of wine. She has no more
colour in her lips than there is in my white beard."
"No--give me nothing. I only want rest--quiet."
She crushed the delicate satin paper in her hand, and rallied her
composure. After a moment she added:
"A slight faintness, that is all. Mr. Waul, before the curtain rises
to-night, I wish you to ascertain in what portion of the house the
American minister's box is located; write it on a slip of paper and
send it to the dressing-room by your wife. Just now I believe I have
no other commissions. If I do not ring my little bell, do not disturb
me until five o'clock, then bring me a cup of strong coffee. And,
Mrs. Waul, please baste a double row of swan's-down around the neck
and sleeves of the white silk I shall wear to-night. Let no one
disturb me; not even the manager."
As the husband and wife withdrew, she followed them to the door,
locked it on the inside, and returned to the easy chair. With a
whitening, hardening face she reread the note, and thrust it into one
of the silk pockets of her robe.
Although nine years had elapsed since we saw her first, in the mellow
lamplight of Mr. Hargrove's library, time had touched her so
daintily, so lovingly, that only two lines were discernible about the
mouth, where habitual compression has set its print; and it would
have been difficult to realize that she was twenty-eight, had not the
treacherous eyes betrayed the gloom, the bitterness, the ceaseless
heartache that filled them with shadows, which prematurely aged the
whole countenance.
The added years seemed only to have ripened and perfected her
exquisite beauty, but with the rounded smoothness, and the fresh,
pure colouring of youth was mingled a weird indescribable expression
of stern hopelessness, of solemn repose, as if she had deliberately
shaken hands for ever with all that makes life bright and precious,
and were fronting with calm smile and quiet pulses a grim and
desperate conflict, which she well knew could have an end only in
the peace of the pall, that long truce, whose signal is the knell and
the requiem.
Had she been reared amid the fatalistic influences of Arabia, she
could not have more completely adopted and exemplified the marble
motto: "Despair is a free man; Hope is a slave." For her the rosy
mist that usually hovers over futurity had been swept rudely aside,
the softening glow of the To-Come had been precipitated into a dull,
pitiless leaden ever present, at which she never raved nor railed,
but inflexibly fought on, expecting neither sunshine nor succour,
unappalled and patient as some stony figure of Fate, which chiselled
when the race was young, feels the shrouding sands of centuries
drifting around and over it, but makes no moan over the buried youth,
and watches the approaching night with the same calm, steadfast gaze
that looked upon the starry dawn, and the golden glory of the noon.
The cautious repression which necessity had long ago rendered
habitual had crystallized into a mask, which even when alone she
rarely laid aside for an instant. In actual life, and among strong
positive natures, the deepest feelings find no vent in the
effervescence of passionate verbal outbreaks, and outside the charmed
precincts of the tragic stage, the world would not tolerate the
raving Hamlets and Othellos, the Macbeths and Medeas, that scowl and
storm and anathematize so successfully in the magic glow of the
footlights.
To-day, as Madame Odille Orme leaned back in her luxuriously
cushioned chair, she seemed quite as a statue, save the restless
movements of her slender fingers, which twined and intertwined
continually; while the concentrated gaze of the imperial eyes never
stirred from the open window, whence she saw--not Parisian monuments
of civic glory and martial splendour--only her own past, her haunting
skull and cross-bones of the Bygone. Her violet-coloured
dressing-gown was unbuttoned at the throat, exposing the graceful
turn of the neck, and the proud poise of the perfectly modelled head,
from which the shining hair fell like Danæ's shower, framing the face
and figure on a back ground as golden as that of some carefully
preserved Byzantine picture.
At last the heavily fringed lids quivered, drooped, the magnificent
eyes closed as if to shut out some vision too torturing even for
their brave penetrating gaze, and in her rigid whiteness she seemed
some unearthly creature, who had done for ever with feverish life and
the frail toys of time.
Raising her arms above her head, she rested her clasped hands upon
her brow, and in a low, strangely quiet tone her words dropped like
icicles.
"It was a groundless fear, that when the long-sought opportunity came
my weak womanish nature would betray me, and I should fail, break
down utterly under the crushing weight of tender memories, sacred
associations. What are they?
"Three dreamy weeks of delirious wifehood, balanced by thirteen years
of toil, aspersion, hatred, persecution; goaded by want, pursued
ceaselessly by the scorpion scourge whose slanderous lash coiled ever
after my name, my reputation. Three weeks a bride,--unrecognized
as such even then,--twelve years an outcast,--repudiated,
insulted,--mother and child, denied, derided,--cast off as a
serpent's skin!--Ah, memory! thou hast no charm to stir the blackened
ashes in a heart extinguished by the steady sleet of a husband's
repudiation. When love is dead, and regret is decently buried, and
the song of hope is hushed for ever, then revenge mounts the chariot
and gathers the reins in her hands of steel; and beyond the writhing
hearts whose blood dyes her rushing wheels sees only the goal. Some
wise anatomists of that frail yet invincible sphinx--woman's nature,
babble of one weighty fact, one conquering law,--that only the
mother-joy, the mother-love, fully unseals the slumbering sweetness
and latent tenderness of her being; for me, maternity opened the
sluices of a sea of hate and gall. Had I never felt the velvet touch
of tiny fingers on my cheek, a husband's base desertion might in time
have been forgiven, possibly at least, forgotten; but the first wail
from my baby's lips awoke the wolf in me. My wrongs might slumber
till that last assize, when the pitying eyes of Christ sum up the
record, but hers--have made a hungry panther of my soul. Come,
memory, unlock your treasure house, uncoil your spells, chant all
your witching strains, and let us see whether the towers of _Notre
Dame_ will not tremble and dissolve as soon as I?"
Bending to a trunk near her chair, she unlocked it, and taking out a
_papier-maché_ box, opened it with a small key that hung from her
watch chain, and placed it on the table before her, where she had
thrown the unread letters. Leaning forward, she crossed her arms upon
the marble, and looked down on the contents of the box,--her child's
letters,--her own unanswered appeals in behalf of her babe,--a
photograph of the latter,--and most prominent of all, a large square
ambrotype of a handsome boyish face, with a short curl of black hair
lying inside the case.
"Idolatrous? Yes all women are, embryo pagans, and the only comfort
is, that when the idol crumbles into clay, mocking our prayers and
offerings, we still worship at the same old shrine, having dusted and
garnished and set thereon--maybe the Furies, which bid fair to
survive the wreck of gods, of creeds, and of time. Like Oenone, we
are all betrayed sooner or later by our rose-lipped Paris,--
'Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris,'
and after the inevitable foolish tears of vain regret we dry our
eyes, and hunt Cassandra, to listen to the muttering of the thunder
that is gathering to avenge us--in Troy. Bride and bridegroom, face
to face-- Cuthbert! So you looked, when we parted, when you strained
me to your heart, and swore that before a fortnight passed you would
hold 'darling Minnie in your arms once more!' Did you mean it even
then? No, no, already the hounds of slander were snuffing in my path,
and the toils were spread for my unwary feet. Here, look back at me,
my husband, with those fond peerless eyes, as on that day when I saw
you last--all mine! To-night--across the gulf of separation, and of
shameful wrong--we shall look into each other's faces once more,
while another woman wears my name, fills my place at your side. Fair
treacherous face of my first and only love,--handsome as a
god!--false as Apollyon!"
She had lifted the ambrotype and held it close to her eyes, then her
hand sank until the picture dropped back into its place, and the
lonely desolate woman buried her face in her palms. The pretty guilt
clock on the mantle ticked monotonously, and the hum of life, and the
busy roll of vehicles in the vast city, was borne in through the
window, like the faint roar of yet distant Niagara; and after awhile
when the sharp stroke of the clock announced four the bowed figure
raised herself.
Sweeping back the blinding veil of hair, her brilliant brown eyes
shone calm and dry, dimmed by no tears of fond womanly regret, and as
they fell upon the photograph of Regina, a smile of indescribable
bitterness curled the lovely lips that might have served as model for
Psyche's.
"'The trail of the serpent is over all.' Can there be pardon for the
man who makes me shrink shudderingly at times from her whose little
veins were fed from mine, whose pulses are but a throb from my heart,
my baby! My own baby, who, when I snatch her in my arms, smiles at me
with his wonderful eyes of blue; and wellnigh maddens me with the
very echo of a voice whose wily sweetness won my love, to make an
hour's pastime, a cheap toy, soon worn out, worthless and trodden
under foot after three weeks' sport! Stooping over my baby, when she
stretched her little hands and coaxed me to lift her on my lap, I
have started back from the sight of her innocent face, as if a hooded
viper fawned upon me; for the curse of her father's image has smitten
my only darling, my beautiful, proud child! O God! that we had both
died in that dim damp ward of the Hospital, where she first opened
her eyes, unwelcomed by the father, whose features she bears!"
But beneath this Marah tide that was surging so fiercely over her
long-suffering heart, bubbled the pure, sweet, incorruptible fount of
mother-love, and while she studied the fair childish face her own
softened, as that of some snow image whose features gradually melt as
the sunlight creeps across it. It was a picture taken after Regina's
removal to the parsonage, and represented her with the white rabbits
nestling in her arms.
"My proud little Regina! my pure sensitive darling! How much longer
must we be separated? Will the time ever come when the only earthly
rest that remains for me can be taken in her soft clinging arms?
Patience--patience. If it were not for her--for my baby--I might
falter even now,--but she must, she shall be righted--at any
sacrifice, at every cost; and may the widow's and the orphan's God be
pitiful--be pitiful--at last."
She raised her child's picture in her clasped hands, as if appealing
indeed to the justice of Him who "never slumbers, nor sleeps," and
the tremor of her lips and voice told how passionate was the
affection for her daughter, how powerful the motives that sustained
her in the prolonged and torturing ordeal.
Restoring the portraits to their hiding-place, she locked the trunk,
and as she resumed her seat seemed suddenly to recollect the letters
lying on the table.
One was a brief note, from the manager of the London theatre where
she had recently been engaged; the second from a celebrated
money-lender, which bore only the signature, "Simon," and was as
follows:
"DEAR MADAME,--Since our last conversation relative to the
purchase of a certain mortgage, I have ascertained that you can
secure it, by adding one hundred pounds to the amount specified by
the holder. Should you still desire me to effect the transfer,
delay might thwart your negotiation, and I respectfully solicit
prompt instructions."
Twice she read these lines, then slowly tore the paper into strips,
shredded and threw them toward the grate, while a stony expression
settled once more upon her features. The remaining letter was
post-marked New York, and addressed, in a bold, round, mercantile
hand, but when the envelope had been removed, the formal angular
chirography of a schoolgirl displayed itself, and as the sheet was
opened there issued thence a delicate perfume that gushed like a
breath of spring over the heart of the lonely mother.
Several leaves of lemon-verbena and a few violets fell from the folds
of the paper, and, picking them up, Mrs. Orme spread them on her
palm. Only a few withered leaves and faded petals that had crossed
the Atlantic to whisper fragrant messages of love, from the trusting
brave young soul whose inexperienced hand had stiffly traced at the
top of the page--"My darling mother."
Ah! what a yearning tenderness glorified the woman's frozen face, as
the flowers in her hand babbled of the blue eyes that had looked last
upon them, of the childish fingers that brushed the dew from their
purple velvet, of the dainty, almost infantile, lips that had fondly
pressed them, of the holy prayer breathed over them, that ere the
time of violets came again mother and child might be reunited.
Just now she dared not read the letter, dared not surrender to the
softening influences that might melt the rigid purpose of her soul,
and, kissing the flowers reverently, the mother laid them aside until
a more convenient season, and began to walk slowly to and fro....
The play that night was "Kenilworth," and had been cast to admit some
alterations made in the dramatization by Madame Orme, who frequently
introduced startling innovations in her rendering of her parts, and
in almost all her favourite _rôles_ refused rigid adherence to the
written text. The reputation of her beauty and former triumphs, the
success achieved on the previous nights, and certain tart criticisms
upon the freedom of her interpretation of Scott's lovely
heroine--Leicester's wife--combined to draw a crowded house; and ere
the curtain rose every box was occupied save one on the second tier
near the stage.
As the crash of the orchestra died away, and the play opened with the
interview between Lambourn and Foster, followed by Tressilian, and
the encounter with Varney, the door of the box opened, and the
American minister entered, accompanied by a lady and gentleman, who,
after seating themselves and gathering back the folds of the box
curtains, proceeded to scan the audience.
As they disposed themselves comfortably a white-haired man, watching
through a crevice in the side scene, scribbled on a piece of paper
which was handed into the dressing-room: "Second box, second tier,
right-hand side. Two gentlemen, and a lady wearing a scarlet cloak."
Sitting between the minister and her husband, Mrs. Laurance with her
brilliant wrappings was the most prominent of the group, and in the
blaze of the gaslight looked at least thirty-five; a woman of large
proportions compactly built, with broad shoulders that sustained a
rather short thick neck, now exposed in extreme _décolleté_ style, as
if to aid the unsuccessful elongation of nature. Her sallow
complexion was dark, almost bistre, and the strongly marked irregular
features were only redeemed from positive plainness by the large
fiery black eyes, whose beauty was somewhat marred by the intrusive
boldness of their expression. Bowing to some one opposite, her very
full lips parted smilingly over a set of sound strong teeth, rather
uneven in outline, and of the yellowish cast often observed in
persons of humble birth and arduous life. Her dusky hair, belonging
to the family of neutral-brown, was elaborately puffed and frizzed,
and in her ears hung large solitaire diamonds that glowed like globes
of fire, and scattered rays that were reflected in the circlet around
her throat.
Beside her sat her husband, leaning back with negligent grace, and
carelessly stroking his silky black moustache with one gloved hand,
while the other toyed with a jewelled opera glass. Although only two
years her junior, she bore the appearance of much greater seniority,
and the proud patrician cast of his handsome face contrasted as
vividly with the coarser lower type of hers, as though in ancient
Roman era he had veritably worn the _clavus_ and the _bulla_, while
she trudged in lowly guise among the hard-handed heroines of the
_proletarii_.
Over his dreamy violet eyes arched the peculiarly fine jet brows that
Mr. Palma had found so distinctive in Regina's face, and his glossy
hair and beard possessed that purplish black tint so rarely combined
with the transparent white complexion, which now gleamed
conspicuously in his broad, full, untanned forehead.
The indolent _insouciance_ of his bearing was quite in accord with
his social record, as a proud high-born man of cultivated elegant
tastes, and unmistakably dissipated tendencies, which doubtless would
long ago have fructified in thoroughly demoralized habits had not his
wife vigorously exerted her exigeant guardianship.
"Have you heard the last joke at Count T----'s expense?" said Mrs.
Laurance, tapping the arm of the minister with her gilded fan.
"Do you refer to the _contretemps_ of the masks at the Grand Ball?"
"No, something connected with Madame Orme. It seems the Count saw her
in London, became infatuated, as men always are about pretty
actresses, and the first night she played here he was almost frantic;
wrote a note between the acts, and sent it to her twisted in that
costly antique scarf-ring he is so fond of telling people once
belonged to the Duke of Orleans. Before the play ended it was
returned, with the note torn into several strips and bound around it.
Fancy his chagrin! Colonel Thorpe was in the box with him, and told
it next day, when we met at dinner. When I asked T---- his opinion of
Madame, he answered:
"She is perfectly divine! But alas! only an inspired icicle. She
should be called '_Sulitelma_,' which I believe means--Cuthbert, what
did you tell me it meant?"
"Queen of Snows. Abbie, do lower your voice a trifle." He answered
without even glancing at her, and she continued:
"I wanted to see her last night in 'Medea,' but Cuthbert had an opera
engagement, and beside, little Maud had the croup----"
A storm of applause cut short the nursery budget, and all turned to
the stage where Amy Robsart entered, followed by Janet and by Varney.
Advancing with queenly grace and dignity to a pile of cushions in the
centre of the drawing-room at Cumnor Place, she stood a moment with
downcast eyes, till the acclamation ceased, and Varney renewed his
appeal.
Her satin dress was of that exquisite tint which in felicitous French
phraseology is termed _de couleur de fleur de pécher_, and swept down
from her slender figure in statuesque folds that ended in a long
court train, particularly becoming in the pose she had selected. The
Elizabethan ruff, with an edge of filmy lace, softened the effect of
the bodice cut squares across the breast, and revealed the string of
pearls--Leicester's last gift--that shone so fair upon his countess's
snowy neck. From the mass of hair heaped high upon her head soft
tendrils clustered to the edge of her brow, and here and there a long
curl strayed over her shoulder, and glittered like burnished gold in
the glare of the quivering footlights. The lovely arms and hands were
unburdened by jewels, and save the pearls around her throat and the
aigrette of brilliants in the upper bandeau of her hair, she wore no
ornaments. The perfect impersonation of a beautiful, innocent, happy
bride, impatiently expectant of her husband's entrance, she stood
listening to his messenger, a tender smile parting her rosy lips.
The chair of state chanced to be placed in the direction of the
minister's box, and only a few feet distant, and when Varney
attempted to place her upon it, she waved him back, and, raising her
right hand toward it, said in that calm, deep, pure voice which had
such thrilling emphasis in its lowest cadences:
"No good, Master Richard Varney, I take not my place _there_, until
my lord himself conducts me. I am for the present a disguised
countess, and will not take dignity upon me, until authorized by him,
from whom I derived it."
In that brief sentence she knew her opportunity and seized it, for
her glance followed her uplifted hand, mounted into the box, and,
sweeping across the minister, dwelt for some seconds on the dark
womanly countenance beside him, and then fastened upon the face of
Mr. Laurance.
Some whose seats were on that side of the house, and who chanced to
have their lorgnettes levelled at her just then, saw a long shiver
creep over her, as if a blast of cold air had blown down through the
side scene, and a sudden spark blazed up in the dilating eyes, as a
mirror flashes when a candle flame smites its cold dark surface; but
not a muscle quivered in the fair proud face, and only the Varney at
her side noticed that when the slight hand fell back it sought its
mate with a quick groping motion, and the delicate fingers clutched
each other till the nails grew purple.
For fully a moment that burning gaze rested on the features that
seemed to possess some subtle fascination for her, and wandering back
to the wife, a shadowy smile hovered around the lips that were soon
turned, away to answer Varney. As she moved in the direction of a
window, to listen for the clatter of horse's hoofs, Mrs. Laurance
whispered:
"Is not she the loveliest creature you ever beheld? I never saw such
superb eyes, they absolutely seemed to lighten just now. Cuthbert,
did you only notice how she looked right at me? I daresay my
solitaires attracted her attention--and no wonder, they are the
largest in the house, and these actresses always have an eye to the
very best jewellery. Of course it must have been my diamonds."
From the moment when Amy Robsart entered, Cuthbert Laurance felt a
strange magnetic thrill dart through every fibre of his frame; his
sluggish pulse stirred, and as her mesmeric brown eyes, luminous,
overmastering, met his, he drew his breath in quick gasps, and his
heart in its rapid throbbing seemed to pour liquid fire into the
bounding arteries. Some vague bewildering reminiscence danced through
the clouded chambers of his brain, pointing like a mocking fiend now
this way, then in an opposite direction; one instant assuring him
that they had somewhere met before, the next torturing him with the
triumphant taunt that he had hitherto never known any one half so
lovely. Was it merely some lucky accident that had so unexpectedly
brought them during that long flattering gaze thoroughly _en
rapport?_
He no more heard his wife's hoarse whisper, than if a cyclone had
whirled between them, and, leaning forward to catch the measured
melody that floated from the countess's lips, a crimson glow fired
his cheek as he caught the lofty words.
"I know a cure for jealousy. It is to speak truth to my lord at all
times; to hold up my mind, my thoughts, before him as pure as that
polished mirror, so that when he looks into my heart he shall see
only his own features reflected there.[*] _Can he who took my little
hands and made them wifely, laying therein the precious burden of his
honour, afford to doubt the palms are clean?_"
[Footnote: * Mrs. Orme's interpolations are all italicized.]
No wonder Varney stared, and the prompter anathematized the sudden
flicker of the gas jet that caused him to lose his place; there was
no such written sentence as the last, and the rehearsal proved no
sure index of all the countess uttered that night, but the play
rolled on, and when the folding doors flew open and Amy sprang to
meet her noble husband, the house began to warm into an earnest
sympathy.
In the scene that followed she sat with childlike simplicity and
grace on the footstool at Leicester's feet, while he exhibited the
jewelled decorations of his princely garb, and explained the
significance of the various orders; and in the face upturned to him
who filled the chair of state there was a wealth of loving tenderness
that might have moved colder natures than that which now kindled in
the deep violent eyes that watched her from the minister's box.
Gradually the curious, timid, admiring bride is merged in the wife,
with ambition budding in her heart, and exacting pride pleading for
recognition and wifely dignities, and in this transformation the
power of the woman asserted itself.
Bending toward Leicester, until from the low seat she sank
unintentionally upon her knees, she prayed with passionate fervour:
"But shall not your wife, my love, one day soon be surrounded with
the honour which arises neither from the toils of the mechanic who
decks her apartment, nor from the silks and jewels with which your
generosity adorns her, but which is attached to her place among the
matronage, as the avowed wife of England's noblest earl? _'Tis not
the dazzling splendour of your title that I covet, but the richer,
nobler, dearer coronet of your beloved name, the precious privilege
of fronting the world as your acknowledged wife_."
Again, in answer to his flattering evasive sophistries, she asked in
a voice whose marvellous modulations in the midst of intense feeling
seemed to penetrate every nook of that vast building:
"But why can it not be? Why can it not immediately take place, this
more perfect uninterrupted union, for which you say you wish, and
which the laws of God and man alike command? _Think you my unshod
feet would shrink from glowing ploughshares, if crossing them I found
the sacred shelter of my husband's name? Ah, husband! dost blanch
before the storm of condemnation, which has no terrors for a wife's
brave heart? It would seem but scant and tardy justice to own thy
wedded wife!_"
The earl had led her behind the scenes, and the minister had twice
addressed him ere Mr. Laurance recovered himself sufficiently to
perceive that his companions were smiling at his complete absorption.
"Why--Cuthbert--wake up. You look like some one walking open-eyed in
sleep. Has Madame's beauty dazed you as utterly as poor Count T----?"
His wife pinched his arm, but without heeding her he looked quite
past her into the laughing eyes of the minister, and asked:
"Do you know her? Is her husband living?"
"I shall call by appointment to-morrow, but this is the first time I
have seen her. Of her history I know nothing, but rumour pronounces
her a widow."
"Which generally means that these pretty actresses have drunken,
worthless husbands, paid comfortable salaries to shut their eyes and
keep out of the way," added Mrs. Laurance, lengthening the range of
her opera glass, and levelling it at a group where the shimmer of
jewels attracted her attention.
How the words grated on her husband's ear, grown strangely sensitive
within an hour?
Carelessly glancing over the sea of faces beneath and around him, the
minister continued:
"English critics contend that Madame Orme's 'Amy Robsart' is so far
from being Scott's ideal creation, that he would fail to recognize it
were he alive; still where she alters the text, and intensifies the
type, they admit that the dramatic effect is heightened. She appears
to have concentrated all her talent upon the passionate impersonation
of one peculiar phrase of feminine suffering and endurance--that of
the outraged and neglected wife; and her favourite _rôles_ are
'Katherine' from Henry VIII., 'Hermione,' and 'Medea,' though she is
said to excel in 'Deborah.' My brother who saw her last night as
'Medea' pronounced her fully equal to Rachel, and said that in that
scene where she attempted to remove her children from the side of the
new wife, the despairing fury of her eyes literally raised the few
thin hairs that still faithfully cling to the top of his head.
Ah--the parting with Leicester--how marvellously beautiful is she!"
Leaning against a dressing-table loaded with toilet trifles and
_bijouterie_, Amy stood, arrayed in the costume which displayed to
greatest advantage the perfect symmetry of form and the dazzling
purity of her complexion.
The cymar of white silk bordered with swan's-down exposed the
gleaming dimpled shoulders, and from beneath the pretty lace coif the
unbound glory of her long hair swept around her like a cataract of
gold, touching the hem of her silken gown, where, to complete the
witchery, one slippered foot was visible. When her husband entered to
bid her adieu, and the final petition for public acknowledgment was
once more sternly denied, the long-pent agony in the woman's heart
burst all barriers, overflowed every dictate of wounded pride, and
with an utter _abandon_ of genuine poignant grief, she gave way to a
storm that shook her frame with convulsive sobs, and deluged her
cheeks with tears. Despite her desperate efforts to maintain her
self-control, the sight of her husband's magnetic handsome face,
after thirteen weary years of waiting, unnerved, overwhelmed her.
There in the temple of Art, where critical eyes were bent searchingly
upon her, Nature triumphantly asserted itself, and she who wept
passionately from the bitter realisation of her own accumulated
wrongs, was wildly applauded as the queen of actresses, who so
successfully simulated imaginary woes.
By what infallible criterion shall criticdom decide the boundaries of
the Actual and the Ideal? Who shall compute the expenditure of
literal heartache that builds up the popularly successful Desdemonas,
Camilles, and Marie Stuarts; the scalding tears that gradually
crystallize into the classic repose essential to the severe
simplicity of the old Greek tragedies?
The curtain fell upon a bowed and sobbing woman, and the tempest of
applause that shook the building was prolonged until after a time Amy
Robsart, with tears still glistening on her cheeks, came forward to
acknowledge the tribute, and her silken garments were pelted with
bouquets. Among the number that embroidered the stage lay a pyramid
of violets edged with rose geranium leaves, and raising it she bent
her lovely head to the audience and kissed the violets, in memory (?)
of her far-off child--whose withered floral tribute was more precious
to the woman's heart than all the laudatry chaplets of the great
city, which did homage to her genuine tears.
Some time elapsed while the play shifted to the court, recounting the
feuds of Leicester and Sussex, and when Amy Robsart appeared again it
was in the stormy interview where Varney endeavours to enforce the
earl's command that she shall journey to Kenilworth as Varney's wife.
The trembling submissiveness of earlier scenes was thrown away for
ever, and, as if metamorphosed into a Fury, she rose, towered above
him, every feature quivering with hatred, scorn, and defiance.
"Look at him, Janet! that I should go with him to Kenilworth, and
before the Queen and nobles, and in presence of my own wedded lord,
that I should acknowledge him,--him there, that very cloak-brushing,
shoe-cleaning fellow,--him there, my lord's lackey, for my liege
lord and husband! I would I were a man but for five minutes!--but go!
begone!"
She paused panting, then threw back her haughty head, rose on tiptoe,
and, shaking her hand in prophetic wrath and deathless defiance,
almost hissed into the box beneath which Varney stood:
"Go, tell thy master that when I, like him, can forget my plighted
troth, _turn craven, bury honour, and forswear my marriage vows,
then, oh then! I promise him, I will give him a rival, something
worthy of the name!_"
Was the avenging lash of conscience uncoiled at last in Cuthbert
Laurance's hardened soul that the blood so suddenly ebbed from his
lips, and he drew his breath like one overshadowed by a vampire?
Only once had he caught the full gleam of her indignant eyes, but
that long look had awakened torture's that would never entirely
slumber again, until the solemn hush of the shroud and the cemetery
was his portion. No suspicion of the truth crossed his mind, even
for an instant,--for what resemblance could be traced between that
regal woman, and the shy, awkward, dark-haired little rustic, who
thirteen years before had frolicked like a spaniel about him,--loving
but lowly?
In vain he sought to arrest her attention; the actress had only once
looked at the group, and it was not until the close that he succeeded
in catching her glance.
After her escape from Varney, Amy Robsart reached in disguise the
confines of Kenilworth, and standing there, travel-worn, weary,
dejected, in sight of the princely castle, with its stately towers
and battlements, she first saw the home whose shelter was denied her,
the palatial home where Leicester bowed in homage before Elizabeth.
As a neglected, repudiated wife, creeping stealthily to the hearth
where it was her right to reign, Amy turned her wan, woeful face to
the audience, and, fixing her gaze with strange mournful intentness
upon the eyes that watched her from the box, she seemed to throw her
whole soul into the finest passage of the play.
"I have given him all that woman has to give. Name and fame, heart
and hand, have I given the lord of all this magnificence--at the
altar, and England's Queen could give him no more. He is my husband;
I am his wife. I will be bold in claiming my right; even the bolder,
that I come thus unexpected and forlorn. Whom God hath joined, man
cannot sunder."
The irresistible pathos of look and tone electrified that wide
assemblage, and in the midst of such plaudits as only Paris bestows
she allowed her eyes to wander almost dreamily over the surging sea
of human heads, and as if she were in truth some hunted, hopeless,
homeless waif appealing for sympathy, she shrouded her pallid face in
the blue folds of her travelling cloak, and disappeared.
"She must certainly recognize her countrymen, for that splendid
passage seemed almost thrown to us, as a tribute to our nationality.
What a wonderful voice! And yet--she is so tender, so fragile," said
the minister.
"Did you observe how pale she grew toward the last, and so
hollow-eyed, as if utterly worn out in the passionate struggle?"
asked Mrs. Laurance.
"The passion of the remaining parts belongs rather to Leicester and
the Queen. By the way, this is quite a handsome earl, and the whole
cast is decidedly strong and successful. Look, Laurance! were you an
artist, would you desire a finer model for an Egeria? If Madame had
been reared in Canova's studio she could not possibly have
accomplished a more elegant felicitous pose. I should like her
photograph at this moment."
In the grotto scene, Amy was attired in pale sea-green silk, and her
streaming hair braided it with yellow light, as she shrank back from
the haughty visage of the Queen.
Rapidly the end approached, courtiers and maids of honour crowded
upon the stage, and thither Elizabeth dragged the unhappy wife, into
the presence of the earl, crying in thunder tones: "My Lord of
Leicester! knowest thou this woman?"
The craven silence of the husband, the desperate rally of the
suffering wife to shield him from the impending wrath, until at last
she was borne away insensible in Hunsdon's strong arms, all followed
in quick succession, and Amy's ill-starred career approached its
close, in the last interview with her husband.
When Cuthbert Laurance was a grey-haired man, trembling upon the
brink of eternity, there came a vision in the solemn hours of night,
and the form of Amy, wan as some marble statue, breathed again in his
ear the last words she uttered that night.
"Take your ill-fated wife by the hand, lead her to the footstool of
Elizabeth's throne; say that 'in a moment of infatuation moved by
supposed beauty, of which none perhaps can now trace even the
remains, I gave my hand to this poor Amy Robsart.' You will then have
done justice to me, and to your own honour; and should law or power
require you to part from me, I will offer no opposition, since I may
then with honour hide a grieved and broken heart in those shades,
from which your love withdrew me. Then--have but a little
patience--and Amy's life will not long darken your brighter
prospects."
The fatal hour arrived; the gorgeous pomp and ceremonial of the
court-pageant had passed away, and in a dim light the treacherous
balcony at Cumnor Place was visible. In the hush that pervaded the
theatre, the minister heard the ticking of his watch, and Mrs.
Laurance the laboured breathing of her husband.
Upon the profound silence broke the tramp of a horse's hoofs in the
neighbouring courtyard, then Varney's whistle in imitation of the
earl's signal when visiting the countess.
Instantly the door of her chamber swung open, and, standing a moment
upon the threshold, Amy in her fleecy-white drapery wavered like a
drifting cloud, then moved forward upon the balcony; the trapdoor
fell, and the lovely marble face with its lustrous brown eyes sank
into the darkness of death.