"She is a great success--on which I congratulate myself, for I discovered her."
"You!" I could only exclaim.
"Yes, I. Is it so extraordinary? She and I are connected, so to speak; which makes it the more odd that she should never have mentioned you."
The eyes seemed now to be reading me as a book. I summoned all my courage and tried to return their steady stare. There was a pause, broken only by the light_ frou-frou_ of the fan, as it still waved slowly backwards and forwards. Among all the discoveries of this night, it was hard enough to summon reason, harder to utter speech.
"But you will be leaving me again if I do not explain why I sent for you. You are wondering now on my reasons. They are very simple-- professional even, in part. In the first place, I wished to have a good look at you. Do you wonder why an old woman should wish to look upon a comely youth? Do not blush; but listen to my other and professional reason. I should greatly like, if I may, to look upon your talisman--that golden buckle or whatever it was that brought such marvellous luck. Is it on you to-night?"
I wore it, as a matter of fact, in my waistcoat pocket, attached to one end of my chain; but I hesitated for a moment.
"You need not be afraid," she said, and there was a suspicion of mockery in her tone. "I will return it, as I returned it before.
But if you are reluctant to let me see it (and remember, I have seen it once), do not hesitate to refuse. I shall not be annoyed."
Reflecting that, after all, her curiosity was certain to be baffled, I handed her the Golden Clasp, with the chain, in silence.
"It is a curious relic," said she, as she slowly examined it and laid it on her lap for a moment. "If the question be allowed, how did you become possessed of it?"
"It belonged to my father," I answered.
"Excuse me," she said, deliberately, "that is hardly an answer to my question."
During the silence that followed, she took up the clasp again, and studied the writing. As she did so she used her right hand only; indeed, during the whole time, her left had been occupied with her tireless fan. I fancied, though I could not be certain, that it was waving slightly faster than before.
"The writing seems to be nonsense. What is this--"Moon end South--deep at point"? I can make no meaning of it. I suppose there is a meaning?"
"Not to my knowledge," said I, and immediately repented, for once more I seemed to catch that gleam in her eyes which had so baffled me when first she saw the Clasp. The curtain rose upon the third act of "Francesca," and we sat in silence, she with the Clasp lying upon her lap, I wondering by what possibility she could know anything about my father"s secret. She could not, I determined. The whole history of the Golden Clasp made it impossible. And yet I repented my rashness.
It was too late now, however; so, when the act was over I waited for her to speak.
"So this belonged to your father. Tell me, was he at all like you?"
"He was about my height, I should guess," said I, wondering at this new question; "but otherwise quite unlike. He was a fair man, I am dark."
"But your grandfather--was he not dark?"
"I believe so," I answered, "but really--"
"You wonder at my questions, of course. Never mind me; think me a witch, if you like. Do I not look a witch?"
Indeed she did, as she sat there. The diamonds flashed and gleamed, lighting up the awful colour of her skin until she seemed a very "Death-in-Life."
"I see that I puzzle you; but your looks, Mr. Trenoweth, are hardly complimentary. However, you are forgiven. Here, take your talisman, and guard it jealously; I thank you for showing it to me, but if I were you I should keep it secret. Shall I see you again? I suppose not. I am afraid I have made you miss some of the tragedy. You must pardon me for that, as I have waited long to see you. At any rate, there is the last act to come. Good-bye, and be careful of your talisman."
As she spoke, she shut her fan with a sharp click, and then it flashed upon me that it had never ceased its pendulous motion until that instant. It was a strange idea to strike me then, but a stranger yet succeeded. Was it that I heard a low mocking laugh within the box as I stepped out into the pa.s.sage? I cannot clearly tell; perhaps it is but a fancy conjured up by later reflection on that meeting and its consequences. I only know that as I bowed and left her, the vision that I bore away was not of the gleaming gems, the yellow face, the white hair, or waving fan, but of two coal-black and impenetrable eyes.
I sought my place, and dropped into the seat beside Tom. The fourth act was beginning, so that I had time to speculate upon my interview, but could find no hope of solution. Finally, I abandoned guessing, to admire Claire. As the play went on, her acting grew more and more transcendent. Lines which I had heard from Tom"s lips and scoffed at, were now fused with subtle meaning and pa.s.sion. Scenes which I had condemned as awkward and heavy, became instinct with exquisite pathos. There comes a point in acting at which criticism ceases, content to wonder; this point it was clear that my love had touched.
The new play was a triumphant success.
"So," said Tom, before the last act, "Claire carries a yellow fan, does she? I looked everywhere for you at first, and only caught sight of you for an instant by the merest chance. You behaved rather shabbily in giving me no chance of criticism, for I never caught a glimpse of her. I hope she admired--Hallo! she"s gone!"
I followed his gaze, and saw that Box No. 7 was no longer occupied by the fan.
"I suppose you saw her off? Well, I do not admire your taste, I must confess--nor Claire"s--to go when Francesca was beginning to touch her grandest height. Whew! you lovers make me blush for you."
"Tom." I said, anxious to lead him from all mention of Claire, "you must forgive me for having laughed at your play."
"Forgive you! I will forgive you if you weep during the next act; only on that condition."
How shall I describe the last act? Those who read "Francesca" in its published form can form no adequate idea of the enthusiasm in the Coliseum that night. To them it is a skeleton; then it was clothed with pa.s.sionate flesh and blood, breathed, sobbed and wept in purest pathos; to me, even now, as I read it again, it is charged with the inspiration of that wonderful art, so true, so tender, that made its last act a miracle. I saw old men sob, and young men bow their heads to hide the emotion which they could not check. I saw that audience which had come to criticise, tremble and break into tumultuous weeping. Beside me, a greyheaded man was crying as any child.
Yet why do I go on? No one who saw Clarissa Lambert can ever forget--no one who saw her not can ever imagine.
Tom had bowed his acknowledgments, the last flower had been flung, the last cheer had died away as we stepped out into the Strand together. The street was wrapped in the densest of November fogs.
So thick was it that the lamps, the shop windows, came into sight, stared at us in ghostly weakness for a moment, and then were gone, leaving us in Egyptian gloom. I could not hope to see Claire to-night, and Tom was too modest to offer his congratulations until the morning. Both he and I were too shaken by the scene just past for many words, and outside the black fog caught and held us by the throat.
Even in the pitchy gloom I could feel that Tom"s step was buoyant.
He was treading already in imagination the path of love and fame.
How should I have the heart to tell him? How wither the chaplet that already seemed to bind his brow?
Tom was the first to break the silence which had fallen upon us.
"Jasper, did you ever see or hear the like? Can a man help worshipping her? But for her, "Francesca" would have been hissed.
I know it, I could see it, and now, I suppose, I shall be famous.
"Famous!" continued he, soliloquising. "Three months ago I would have given the last drop of my blood for fame; and now, without Clarissa, fame will be a mockery. Do you think I might have any chance, the least chance?"
How could I answer him? The fog caught my breath as I tried to stammer a reply, and Tom, misinterpreting my want of words, read his condemnation.
"You do not? Of course, you do not; and you are right. Success has intoxicated me, I suppose. I am not used to the drink!" and he laughed a joyless laugh.
Then, with a change of mood, he caught my hat from off my head, and set his own in its place.
"We will change characters for the nonce," he said, "after the fashion of Falstaff and Prince Hal, and I will read myself a chastening discourse on the vanity of human wishes. "Do thou stand for me, and I"ll play my father." Eh, Jasper?"
""Well, here I am set,"" quoted I, content to humour him.
"Well, then, I know thee; thou art Thomas Loveday, a beggarly Grub Street author, i" faith, a man of literature, and wouldst set eyes upon one to whom princes fling bouquets; a low Endymion puffing a scrannel pipe, and wouldst call therewith a queen to be thy bride.
Out upon thee for such monstrous folly!"
In his voice, as it came to me through the dense gloom, there rang, for all its summoned gaiety, a desperate mockery hideous to hear.
"Behold, success hath turned thy weak brain. But an hour agone enfranchised from Grub Street, thou must sing "I"d be a b.u.t.terfly."
Thou art vanity absolute, conceit beyond measure, and presumption out of all whooping. Yea, and but as a fool Pygmalion, not content with loving thine own handiwork, thou must needs fall in love with the G.o.ddess that breathed life into its stiff limbs; must yearn, not for Galatea, but for Aphrodite; not for Francesca, but for--Ah!"
What was that? I saw a figure start up as if from below our feet, and Tom"s hand go up to his breast. There was a scuffle, a curse, and as I dashed forward, a dull, dim gleam--and Tom, with a groan, sank back into my arms.
That was all. A moment, and all had happened. Yet not all; for as I caught the body of my friend, and saw his face turn ashy white in the gloom, I saw also, saw unmistakably framed for an instant in the blackness of the fog, a face I knew; a face I should know until death robbed my eyes of sight and my brain of remembrance--the face of Simon Colliver.
A moment, and before I could pursue, before I could even shout or utter its name, it had faded into the darkness, and was gone.