She shook her head.
"No, no."
"Why?"
"Because that is impossible--really. I shall see you there, and you will see me. Is not that enough?"
"If you say so, it must be," I answered sadly. "But--"
""But me no buts,"" she quoted. "See, it is getting late; we must be going."
A most strange silence fell upon us on the way back to Streatley.
Claire"s face had not yet wholly regained its colour, and she seemed disinclined to talk. So I had to solace myself by drinking in long draughts of her loveliness, and by whispering to my soul how poorly Tom"s Queen of Tragedy would show beside my sweetheart.
O fool and blind!
Presently my love asked musingly--
"Jasper, do you think that you could cease to love me?"
"Claire, how can you ask it?"
"You are quite sure? You remember what mother said?"
"Claire, love is strong as death. How does the text run?
"Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it: if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be contemned." Claire, you must believe that!"
""Strong as death,"" she murmured. "Yes, I believe it. What a lovely text that is!"
The boat touched sh.o.r.e at Streatley, and we stepped out.
"Jasper," she said again at parting that night, "you have no doubt, no grain of doubt, about my question, and the answer?
"Strong as death," you are sure?"
For answer I strained her to my heart.
O fool and blind! O fool and blind!
The night that was big with Tom"s fate had come. The Coliseum was crowded as we entered. In those days the theatre had no stalls, so we sat in the front row of the dress circle, Tom having in his modesty refused a box. He was behind the scenes until some five minutes before the play began, so that before he joined me I had ample time to study the house and look about for some sign of Claire.
Certainly, the sedulous manner in which the new tragedy had been advertised was not without result. To me, unused as I was to theatre-going, the host of people, the hot air, the glare of the gas-lights were intoxicating. In a flutter of anxiety for Tom"s success, of sweet perturbation at the prospect of meeting Claire, at first I could grasp but a confused image of the scene. By degrees, however, I began to look about me, and then to scan the audience narrowly for sight of my love.
Surely I should note her at once among thousands. Yet my first glance was fruitless. I looked again, examined the house slowly face by face, and again was baffled. I could see all but a small portion of the pit, the upper boxes and gallery. Pit and gallery were out of the question. She might, though it was hardly likely, be in the tier just above, and I determined to satisfy myself after the end of Act I. Meantime I scanned the boxes. There were twelve on either side of the house, and all were full. By degrees I satisfied myself that strangers occupied all of them, except the box nearest the stage on the right of the tier where I was sitting. The occupants of this were out of sight. Only a large yellow and black fan was swaying slowly backwards and forwards to tell me that somebody sat there.
Somehow, the slow, ceaseless motion of this p.r.i.c.ked my curiosity.
Its pace, as it waved to and fro, was unaltered; the hand that moved it seemingly tireless; but even the hand was hidden. Not a finger could I gain a glimpse of. By some silly freak of fancy I was positively burning with eagerness to see the fan"s owner, when Tom returned and took his seat beside me.
"It begins in five minutes; everything is ready," said he, and his voice had a nervous tremor which he sought in vain to hide.
"Courage!" I said; "at least the numbers here should flatter you."
"They frighten me! What shall I do if it fails?"
The overture was drawing to its close. Tom looked anxiously around the house.
"Yes," he said, "it is crowded, indeed. By the way, was not Claire to have been here? Point her out to me."
"She was; but I cannot see her anywhere. Perhaps she is late."
"If so, I cannot see where she is to find a place. Hush! they are ending."
As he spoke, the last strains of the orchestra died slowly and mournfully away, and the curtain rose upon "Francesca: a Tragedy."
This play has since gained such a name, not only from its own merits (which are considerable), but in consequence also of certain circ.u.mstances which this story will relate, that it would be not only tedious but unnecessary to follow its action in detail. For the benefit, however, of those who did not see it at the Coliseum, I here subjoin a short sketch of the plot, which the better-informed reader may omit.
Francesca is the daughter of Sebastian, at one time Duke of Bologna, but deposed and driven from his palace by the intrigues of his younger brother Charles. At the time when the action begins, Sebastian is chief of a band of brigands, the remains of his faithful adherents, whom he has taken with him to the fastnesses of the Apennines. Charles, who has already usurped the duchy for some sixteen years, is travelling with his son Valentine, a youth of twenty, near the haunt of his injured brother. Separated from their escort, they are wandering up a pa.s.s, when Valentine stops to admire the view, promising his father to join him at the summit. While thus occupied, he is startled by the entrance of Francesca, and, struck with her beauty, accosts her. She, sympathising for so n.o.ble a youth, warns him of the banditti, and he hastens on only to find his father lying at the foot of a precipitous rock, dead. He supposes him to have fallen, has the body conveyed back to Bologna, and having by this time fallen deeply in love with Francesca, prevails on her to leave her father and come with him. She consents, and flies with him, but after some time finds that he is deserting her for Julia, daughter of the Duke of Ferrara. Slighted and driven to desperation, she makes her way back to her father, is forgiven, and learns that Charles" death was due to no accident, but to her father"s hand.
No sooner is this discovery made than Valentine and Julia are brought in by the banditti, who have surprised and captured them, but do not know their rank. The deposed duke, Sebastian, does not recognise Valentine, and consigns him, with his wife, to a cave, under guard of the brigands. It is settled by Sebastian that on the morrow Valentine is to go and fetch a ransom, leaving his wife behind.
Francesca, having plied the guards with drink, enters by night into the cave where they lie captive, is recognised by them, and offers to change dresses with Julia in order that husband and wife may escape.
A fine scene follows of insistence and self-reproach, but ultimately Francesca prevails. Valentine and Julia pa.s.s out in the grey dawn, and Francesca, left alone, stabs herself. The play concludes as her father enters the cave and discovers his daughter"s corpse.
The first scene (which is placed at the court of Bologna) pa.s.sed without disaster, and the curtain fell for a moment before it rose upon the mountain pa.s.s. Hitherto the audience had been chilly.
They did not hiss, but neither did they applaud; and I could feel, without being able to give any definite reason for the impression, that so far the play had failed. Tom saw it too. I did not dare to look in his face, but could tell his agony by his short and laboured breathing. Luckily his torture did not last long, for the curtain quickly rose for Scene 2.
The scene was beautifully painted and awakened a momentary enthusiasm in the audience. It died away, however, as Sebastian and Valentine entered. The dialogue between them was short, and Valentine was very soon left alone to a rather dull soliloquy (since shortened) which began to weary the audience most unmistakably. I caught the sound of a faint hiss, saw one or two people yawning; and then--
Stealing, rising, swelling, gathering as it thrilled the ear all graces and delights of perfect sound; sweeping the awed heart with touch that set the strings quivering to an ecstasy that was almost pain; breathing through them in pa.s.sionate whispering; hovering, swaying, soaring upward to the very roof, then shivering down again in celestial shower of silver--there came a voice that trod all conceptions, all comparisons, all dreams to scorn; a voice beyond hope, beyond belief; a voice that in its unimaginable beauty seemed to compel the very heaven to listen.
And yet--surely I knew--surely it could not be--
I must be dreaming--mad! The bare notion was incredible--and even as my heart spoke the words, the theatre grew dim and shadowy; the vast sea of faces heaved, melted, swam in confusion; all sound came dull and hoa.r.s.e upon my ear; while there--there--
There, in the blaze of light, radiant, lovely, a glorified and triumphant queen, stepped forward before the eyes of that vast mult.i.tude--my love, my Claire!
CHAPTER VI.
TELLS HOW THE BLACK AND YELLOW FAN SENT A MESSAGE; AND HOW I SAW A FACE IN THE FOG.
As I sat stupefied our eyes met. It was but for an instant, but in that instant I saw that she recognised me and mutely challenged my verdict. Then she turned to Valentine.
The theatre rang with tumultuous plaudits as her song ended. I could feel Tom"s grasp at my elbow, but I could neither echo the applause nor answer him. It was all so wildly, grotesquely improbable.
This then was my love, this the Claire whom I had wooed and won in the shy covert of Pangbourne Woods--this deified and transfigured being before whom thousands were hushed in awe. Those were the lips that had faltered in sweet confession--those before which the breath of thousands came and went in agitated wonder. It was incredible.
And then, as Tom"s hand was laid upon my arm, it flashed upon me that the woman he loved was my plighted bride--and he knew nothing of it.