by experience that he would most likely get no answers, unless the
information was volunteered. So settling in his own mind that it was the
debut of some protegee of Falkenstein's, he followed him to the door of
a private box. Waldemar opened it, and entered. In it sat two women:
one, a middle-aged lady-like-looking person; the other a young one, in
whom, as she turned round with a radiant smile, and gave Falkenstein her
hand, Bevan recognised Valerie L'Estrange. "Keep up your courage,"
whispered Waldemar, as he took the seat behind her, and leaned forward
with a smile. Tom stared at them both. It was high Dutch to him; but
being endowed with very little curiosity, and a lion's share of British
immovability, he waited without any impatience for the elucidation of
the mystery, and seeing the Count and Valerie absorbed in earnest and
low-toned conversation, he first studied the house, and finding not a
single decent-looking woman, he dropped his glass and studied the
play-bill. The bill announced the new piece as "Scarlet and White."
"Queer title," thought Bevan, a little consoled for his self-immolation
by seeing that Rosalie Rivers, a very pretty little brunette, was to
fill the soubrette role. The curtain drew up. Tom, looking at Valerie
instead of the stage, fancied she looked very pale, and her eyes were
fixed, not on the actors, but on Falkenstein. The first act passed off
in ominous silence. An audience is often afraid to compromise itself by
applauding a new piece too quickly. Then the story began to develop
itself--wit and passion, badinage and pathos, were well intermingled. It
turned on the love of a Catholic girl, a fille d'honneur to Catherine de
Medicis, for a Huguenot, Vicomte de Valere, a friend of Conde and
Coligny. The despairing love of the woman, the fierce struggle of her
lover between his passion and his faith, the intrigues of the court, the
cruelty and weakness of Charles Neuf, were all strikingly and forcibly
written. The actors, being warmly applauded as the plot thickened and
the audience became interested, played with energy and spirit; and when
the curtain fell the success of "Scarlet and White" was proclaimed
through the house.
"Very good play--very good indeed," said Tom, approvingly. "I hope
you've been pleased, Miss L'Estrange." Valerie did not hear him; she was
trembling and breathless, her blue eyes almost black with excitement,
while Falkenstein bent over her, his face more full of animation and
pleasure than Bevan had seen it for many a day. "Well," thought Tom,
"Forester _did_ say little Val was original. I should think that was a
polite term for insane. I suppose Falkenstein's keeper."
At that minute the applause redoubled. Pomps and Vanities had announced
"Scarlet and White" for repetition, and from the pit to the gods there
was a cry for the author. Falkenstein bent his head till his lips
touched her hair, and whispered a few words. She looked up in his face.
"Do you wish me?"
"Certainly."
His word was law. She rose and went to the front of the box, a burning
color in her cheeks, smiles on her lips, and tears lying under her
lashes.
"The devil, Waldemar! Do you mean that--that little thing?" began Bevan.
Falkenstein nodded, and Tom, for once in his life astonished, forgot to
finish his sentence in staring at the author! Probably the audience also
shared his surprise, in seeing her young face and girlish form, in lieu
of the anticipated member of the Garrick or new Bourcicault, with
inspiration drawn from Cavendish and Cognac; for there was a moment's
silence, and then they received her with such a welcome as had not
sounded through the house for years.
She bowed two or three times to thank them; then Falkenstein, knowing
that though she had no shyness, she was extremely excitable, drew her
gently back to her seat behind the curtain. "Your success is too much
for you," he said, softly.
"No, no," said Valerie, passionately, utterly forgetful that any one
else was near her; "but I am so glad that I owe it all to you. It would
be nothing to me, as you know, unless it pleased you; and it came to me
through your hands."
Falkenstein gave a short, quick sigh, and moved restlessly.
"You would like to go home now, wouldn't you?" he said after a pause.
She assented, and he led her out of the box, poor victimised Tom
following with her duenna, who was the daily governess at No. 133.
As their cab drove away, Valerie leaned out of the window, and watched
Falkenstein as long as she could see him. He waved his hand to her, and
walked on into Regent Street in silence.
"Hallo, Waldemar!" began Bevan, at length, "so your protegee's turning
out a star. Do you mean that she really wrote that play?"
Falkenstein nodded.
"Well, it's more than I could do. But what the deuce have you got to do
with it? For a man who says he won't entangle himself with another love
affair, you seem pretty tolerably _au mieux_ with her. How did it all
come about?"
"Simply enough," answered Falkenstein. "Of course I haven't known her
all these months without finding out her talents. She has a passion for
writing, and writes well, as I saw at once by those New Year's Night's
Proverbs. She has no money, as you know; she wants to turn her talents
to account, and didn't know how to set about it. She'd several
conversations with me on the subject, so I took her play, looked it
over, and gave it to Pomps and Vanities. He read it to oblige me, and
put it on the stage to oblige himself, as he wanted something new for
the season, and was pretty sure it would make a hit."
"Do the Cashrangers know of it?"
"No; that is why she asked the governess to come with her to-night. That
stingy old Pomps wouldn't pay her much, but she thinks it an El Dorado,
and I shall take care she commands her own price next time. I count on a
treat on enlightening Miss Bella."
"Yes, she'll cut up rough. By George! I quite envy you your young
genius."
"She isn't _mine_," said Falkenstein, bitterly.
"She might be if you chose."
"Poor little thing!--yes. But love is too expensive a luxury for a
ruined man, even if---- The devil take this key, why won't it unlock?
You're off to half a dozen parties I suppose, Tom?"
"And where are you going?"
"Nowhere."
"What! going to bed at half-past ten?"
"There is no particular sin in going to bed at half-past ten, is there?"
said Waldemar, impatiently. "I haven't the stuff in me for balls and
such things. I'm sick of them. Good-night, old fellow."
He went up-stairs to his room, threw himself on his bed, and, lighting
his pipe, lay smoking and thinking while the Abbey clock tolled the
hours one after another. The _longs yeux bleus_ haunted him, for
Waldemar had already too many chains upon him not to shrink from adding
to them the Golden Fetters of a fresh passion, and marriage, unless a
rich one, was certain to bring about him all his entanglements. He
resolved to seek her no more, to check the demonstrative affection
which, like Esmeralda, "a la fois naive et passionnee," she had no
thought of concealing from him, and which, as Falkenstein's conscience
told him, he had done everything to foster. "What is a man worth if he
hasn't strength of will?" he muttered, as he tossed on his bed. "And
yet, poor little Valerie---- Pshaw! all women learn quickly enough to
forget!"
Some ten days after he was calling in Lowndes Square. True as yet to his
resolution, he had avoided the tete-a-tete walks in the Gardens; and
Valerie keenly felt the change in his manner, though in what he did for
her he was as kind as ever. The successful run of "Scarlet and White,"
the praises of its talents, its promises of future triumphs--all the
admiration which, despite Bella's efforts to keep her back, the _yeux
bleus_ excited--all were valueless, if, as she vaguely feared, she had
lost "Count Waldemar." The play had made a great sensation, and the
Cashrangers had taken a box the night before, as they made a point of
following the lead and seeing everything, though they generally forswore
theatres as not quite _ton_. Pah! these people, "qui se couchent
roturiers et se levent nobles," they paint their lilies with such
superabundant coloring, that we see, at a glance, the flowers come not
out of a conservatory but out of an atelier.
They were out, as it chanced, and Valerie was alone. She received him
joyously, for unhappy as she was in his absence, the mere sight of his
face recalled her old spirits, and Falkenstein, in all probability,
never guessed a tithe she suffered, because she had always a smile for
him.
"Oh! Count Waldemar," she cried, "why have you never been to the
Gardens this week? If you only knew how I miss you----"
"I have had no time," he answered, coldly.
"You could make time if you wished," said Valerie, passionately. "You
are so cold, so unkind to me lately. Have I vexed you at all?"
"Vexed me, Miss L'Estrange? Certainly not."
She was silent, chilled, despite herself.
"Why do you call me Miss L'Estrange?" she said, suddenly. "You know I
cannot bear it from _you_."
"What should I call you?"
"Valerie," she answered, softly.
He got up and walked to the hearth-rug, playing with Spit and Puppet
with his foot, and for once hailed, as a relief, the entrance of Bella,
in an extensive morning toilet, fresh from "shopping." She looked
rapidly and angrily from him to Valerie, and attacked him at once.
Seeing her cousin's vivacity told, she went in for the same stakes, with
but slight success, being a young lady of the heavy artillery stamp,
with no light action about her.
"Oh! Mr. Falkenstein," she began, "that exquisite play--you've seen it,
of course? Captain Boville told me I should be delighted with it, and so
I was. Don't you think it enchanting?"
"It is very clever," answered Falkenstein, gravely.
"Val missed a great treat," continued Bella; "nothing would make her go
last night; however, she never likes anything I like. I should love to
know who wrote it; some people say a woman, but I would never believe
it."
"The witty raillery and unselfish devotion of the heroine might be
dictated by a woman's head and heart, but the passion, and vigor, and
knowledge of human nature indicate a masculine genius," replied
Waldemar.
Valerie gave him such a grateful, rapturous glance, that, had Bella been
looking, might have disclosed the secret; but she was studying her
dainty gloves, and went on:
"Could it be Westland Marston--Sterling Coyne?"
Falkenstein shook his head. "If it were, they would put their name on
the play-bills."
"You naughty man! I do believe you could tell me if you chose. _Are_ you
not, now, in the author's confidence?"
The corner of Falkenstein's mouth went up in an irresistible smile as he
telegraphed a glance at "the author." "Well, perhaps I am."
Bella clapped her hands with enchanting gaiety. "Then, tell me this
moment; I am in agonies to know!"
"It is no great mystery," smiled Falkenstein. "I fancy you are
acquainted with the unknown."
"You don't mean it!" cried Bella, in a state of ecstasy. "Have you
written it, then?"
"I'm afraid I can't lay claim to the honor."
"Who can it be? Oh, do tell me! How enchanting!" cried Miss Cashranger;
"I am wild to hear. Somebody I know, you say? Is it--is it Captain
Tweed?"
"No, it isn't," laughed Falkenstein. Elliot Tweed--Idiot Tweed, as they
all call him--who was hanging after Bella, abhorred all caligraphy, and
wrote his own name with one _e_.
"Mr. Dashaway, then?"
"Dash never scrawled anything but I. O. U.s."
"Lord Flippertygibbett, perhaps?"
"Wrong again. Flip took up a pen once too often, when he signed his
marriage register, to have any leanings to goose quills."
"Charlie Montmorency, then?"
"Reads nothing but his betting-book and _Bell's Life_."
"Dear me! how tiresome. Who can it be? Wait a moment. Let me see. Is it
Major Powell?"
"Guess again. He wouldn't write, save in Indian fashion, with his
tomahawk on his enemies' scalps."
"How provoking!" cried Bella, exasperated. "Stop: is it Mr. Beauchamp?"
"No; he scribbles for six-and-eightpences too perseveringly to have time
for anything, except ruining his clients."
"Dr. Montressor, then?"
"Try once more. His prescriptions bring him too many guineas for him to
waste ink on any other purpose."
"How stupid I am! Perhaps--perhaps---- Yet no, it can't be, because he's
at the Cape, and most likely killed, poor fellow. Could it be Cecil
Green?"
Falkenstein laughed. "You needn't go so far as Kaffirland; try a little
nearer home. Think over the _ladies_ you know."
"The ladies! Then it _is_ a woman!" cried Bella. "Well, I should never
have believed it. Who can she be? How I shall admire her, and envy her!
A lady! Can it be darling Flora?"
"No. If your pet friend can get through an invitation-note of four
lines, the exertion costs her at least a dram of sal volatile."
"How wicked you are," murmured Miss Cashranger, delighted, after the
custom of women, to hear her friend pulled to pieces. "Is it Mrs.
Lushington, then?"
"Wrong again. The Lushington has so much business on hand, inditing
rose-hued notes to twenty men at once, and wording them differently, for
fear they may ever be compared, that she's no time for other
composition."
"Lady Mechlin, perhaps--she is a charming creature?"
Falkenstein shook his head. "Never could learn the simplest rule of
grammar. When she was engaged to Mechlin, she wrote her love-letters out
of 'Henrietta Temple,' and flattered him immensely by their pathos."
"Was there ever such a sarcastic creature!" cried Bella, reprovingly;
her interest rather flagged, since no man was the incognito author.
"Well, let me see: there is Rosa Temple--she is immensely intellectual."
"But immensely orthodox. Every minute of her life is spent in working
slippers and Bible markers for interesting curates. It is to be hoped
one of them may reward her some day, though, I believe, till they _do_
propose, she is in the habit of advocating priestly celibacy, by way of
assertion of her disinterestedness. No! Miss Cashranger, the talented
writer of 'Scarlet and White,' is not only of your acquaintance, but
your family."
"My family!" almost screamed Bella. "Good gracious, Mr. Falkenstein, is
it dear papa, or--or Augustus?"
The idea of the brewer, fat, and round, and innocent of literature as
one of his own teams, or of his son just plucked for his "smalls" at
Cambridge, for spelling Caesar, Sesar, sitting down to indite the pathos
and poetry of "Scarlet and White," was so exquisitely absurd that
Waldemar, forgetting courtesy, lay back in his arm-chair and laughed
aloud. The contagion of his ringing laugh was irresistible; Valerie
followed his example, and their united merriment rang in the astonished
ears of Miss Cashranger, who looked from one to the other in wrathful
surprise. As soon as he could control himself, Falkenstein turned
towards her with his most courteous smile.
"You will forgive our laughter, I am sure, when I tell you what I am
certain _must_ give you great pleasure, that the play you so warmly and
justly admire was written by your cousin."
Bella stared at him, her face scarlet, all the envy and reasonless spite
within her flaming up at the idea of her cousin's success.
"Valerie--Valerie," she stammered, "is it true? I had no idea she ever
thought of----"
"No," said Falkenstein, roused in his protegee's defence; "I dare say
you are astonished, as every one else would be, that any one so young,
and, comparatively speaking, so inexperienced as your cousin, should
have developed such extraordinary talent and power."
"Oh, of course--to be sure--yes," said Bella, her lips twitching
nervously, "mamma will be astonished to hear of these new laurels for
the family. I congratulate you, Valerie; I never knew you dreamt of
writing, much less of making so public a debut."
"Nor should I ever have been able to do so unless my way had been
pioneered for me," said Valerie, resting her eyes fondly on Waldemar.
He stayed ten minutes longer, chatting on indifferent subjects, then
left, making poor little Val happy with a touch of his hand, and a smile
as "kind" as of old.
"You horrid, deceitful little thing!" began Bella, bursting with fury,
as the door closed on him, "never to mention what you were doing. I
can't bear such sly people I hate----"
"My dear Bella, don't disturb yourself," said Valerie, quietly; "if you
had testified any interest in my doings, you might have known them; as
it was, I was glad to find warmer and kinder friends."
"In Waldemar Falkenstein, I suppose," sneered Bella, white with rage. "A
nice friend you have, certainly; a man whom everybody knows may go to
prison for debt any day."
"Leave him alone," said Valerie haughtily; "unless you speak well of
him, in my presence, you shall not speak at all."
"Oh, indeed," laughed Bella, nervously; "how very much interested you
are in him! more than he is in you, I'm afraid, dear. He's famed for
loving and leaving. Pray how long has this romantic affair been on the
tapis?"
"He's met her every day in the Gardens," cried Julius Adolphus, just
come in with that fatal apropos of "enfans terribles," much oftener the
result of mechancete than of innocence; "he's met her every day, Bella,
while I fed the ducks."
Bella rose, inflated with fury, and summoning all her dignity:
"I suppose, Valerie, you know the sort of reputation you will get
through these morning assignations."
Valerie bent over Spit with a smile.
"Of course, it is nothing to _me_," continued Bella, spitefully; "but I
shall consider it my duty to inform mamma."
Valerie fairly laughed out.
"Do your duty, by all means."
"And," continued Bella, a third time, "I dare say she will find some
means to put a stop to this absurd friendship with an unmarried and
unprincipled man."
Valerie was roused; she lifted her head like a little Pythoness, and her
blue eyes flashed angry scorn.
"Tell your mamma what you please, but--listen to me, Bella--if you
venture to harm him in any way with your pitiful venom, I, girl as I am,
will never let you go till I have revenged myself and him."
Bella, like most bullies, was a terrible coward. There was an
earnestness in Valerie's words, and a dangerous light in her eyes, that
frightened her, and she left the room in silence, while Valerie leaned
her forehead on Spit's silky back, and cried bitterly, tears that for
her life she wouldn't have shed while her cousin was there.
The next time Falkenstein called at Lowndes Square, the footman told
him, "Not at home," and Waldemar swore, mentally, as he turned from the
door, for though he could keep himself from seeking her, it was
something new not to find her when he wished.
"She's like all the rest," he thought bitterly; "She's used me, and now
she's gone to newer friends. I was a fool to suppose any woman would do
otherwise. They'll tell her I can't marry; of course she'll go over to
D'Orwood, or some of those confounded fools that are dangling after
her."
So in his skeptical haste judged Falkenstein, on the strength of a
single "Not at home," due to Cashranger malice, and the fierce throbs
the mere suspicion gave him showed him that he loved Valerie too much to
be able to deceive himself any longer with the assurance that his
feelings towards his protegee was simple "friendship." He knew it, but
he was loth to give way to it. He had long held as a doctrine that a man
could forget if he chose. He had been wearied of so many, been
disappointed in so much, he had had idols of the hour, in which, their
first gloss off, he had found no beauty, he could not tell; it might not
be the same with Valerie. Warm and passionate as a Southern, haughty and
reserved as a Northern, he held many a bitter conflict in his solitary
vigils at night over his pipe, after evenings spent in society which no
longer amused him, or excitement with which he vainly sought to drown
his cares. When he did meet Valerie out, which was rarely, as he
refused most invitations now, his struggle against his ill-timed passion
made his manner so cold and capricious, that Valerie, who could not
divine the workings of his heart, began, despite her vehement faith in
him, and conviction that he was not wholly indifferent to her, to dread
that Bella might be right, and that as he had left others so would he
leave her. He gave her no opportunity of questioning him as to his
sudden change, for when he did call in Lowndes Square, Bella and her
aunt always stationed themselves as a sort of detective police, and
Falkenstein now never sought a tete-a-tete.
One evening she met him at a dinner-party. With undisguised delight she
watched his entrance, and Waldemar, seeing her radiant face, thought in
his haste, "She is happy enough, what does she care for me?" If he had
looked at her after he had shaken hands carelessly with her, and turned
away to talk to another woman, he would have discovered his mistake. But
when do we ever discover half our errors before it is too late? She
signed to him to come to her under pretext of looking at some croquis,
and whispered hurriedly,
"Count Waldemar, what have I done--why do you never come to see me? You
are so changed, so altered----"
"I was not aware of it."
"But I never see you in the Gardens now. You never talk to me, you never
call on me."
"I have other engagements."
Valerie breathed hard between her set teeth.
"That are more agreeable to you, I suppose. You should not have
accustomed me to what you intended to withdraw when it ceased to amuse
you. _I_ am not so capricious. Your kindness about my play----"
"It was no kindness; I would have done the same for any one."
She looked at him fixedly.
"General kindness is no kindness," said Valerie, passionately. "If you
would do for a mere acquaintance what you would do for your friend, what
value attaches to your friendship?"
"I attach none to it," said the Count, coldly.
Valerie's little hands clenched hard. She did not speak, lest her
self-possession should give way, and just then D'Orwood came to give her
his arm in to dinner; and at dinner Valerie, demonstrative and candid as
she was, was gay and animated, for she could wear a mask in the bal
d'Opera of life as well as he; and though she could not believe the
coldness he testified was really meant, she felt bitterly the neglect of
his manner before others, at sight of which Bella's small eyes sparkled
with malicious satisfaction.
IV.
SOME GOLDEN FETTERS ARE SHAKEN OFF AND OTHERS ARE PUT ON.
"Mrs. Boville told me last night that Waldemar Falkenstein is so
dreadfully in debt, that she thinks he'll have to go into court--don't
they call it?" lisped Bella, the next morning; "be arrested, or
bankrupt, or something dreadful. Should you think it is true?"
"I know it's true," said Idiot Tweed, who was there, having a little
music before luncheon. "He's confoundedly hard up, poor devil."
"But I thought he was in such a good position--so well off?" said Bella,
observing with secret delight that her cousin's head was raised, and
that the pen with which she was writing had stopped in its rapid gallop.
"Ah! so one thinks of a good many fellows," answered the Guardsman;
"or, at least, you ladies do, who don't look at a man's ins and outs,
and the fifty hundred things there are to bother him. Lots of
people--householders, and all that sort of thing--that one would fancy
worth no end, go smash when nobody's expecting it."
"And Mr. Falkenstein really is embarrassed?"
The Guardsman laughed outright. "That is a mild term, Miss Cashranger. I
heard down at Windsor yesterday, from a man that knows his family very
well, that if he don't pay his debts this week, Amadeus Levi will arrest
him. I dare say he will. Jews do when they can't bleed you any longer,
and think your family will come down handsomely. But they say the old
Count won't give Falkenstein a rap, so most likely he'll cut the
country."