"I know what it is!" said the Count. "There aren"t enough people returned to town to fill the theatre, and she has been disheartened."
And he already had some recklessly extravagant idea of filling the house with "paper" at his own expense.
"But there you read that the theatre was crammed," said Will.
"True," said the Count, gravely. "I hope there"s n.o.body whom she has refused to see, or something like that, has been bribing all the papers out of spite?"
"They do that only in French plays," said Will. "I should think it more likely that the girl has been put out of sorts by some private affliction. We shall see when we get home."
Then he reflected with a bitter pang that now he was debarred from ever approaching that too dear friend of his and asking about her welfare.
Whatever she might be suffering, through private sorrow or public neglect, he could no longer go forward and offer a comforting hand and a comforting word. When he thought that this privilege was now monopolised by the big, well-meaning, blundering Count, he was like to break his own resolve and vow to go straight to her the moment his feet touched English soil.
They crossed the Channel during the day; when they arrived in London, towards the evening, Will drove straight to his chambers, and the Count went home.
"You won"t go down to St. Mary-Kirby," the latter had said, "to see that charming little Dove? what a devilish fine woman she"ll make!-you ought to consider yourself a happy fellow."
"It is too late," said Will, "to go down to-night. Besides, they don"t expect me until to-morrow."
So he went to his lodgings; and there, having changed his dress, he found himself with the evening before him. He walked round to his club, read one or two letters that awaited him, went up to the smoking-room and found not a human being in the place-nothing but empty easy-chairs, chess-board tables, dishevelled magazines, and a prevailing odour of stale cigars-and then he went out and proceeded in the direction of the theatre in which Annie Brunel was at that moment playing. That goal had been uppermost in his thoughts ever since he left Calais pier in the morning.
The tall, pale, muscular man-and people noticed that he had his right arm in a sling-who now paid his four or five shillings, walked upstairs, and slunk into the back seat of the dress-circle, was as nervous and as much afraid of being seen as a schoolboy thieving fruit. Perhaps it was the dread of seeing, as much as the fear of being seen, that made his heart beat; perhaps it was only expectation; but he bethought himself that in the twilight of the back seats of the circle his figure would be too dusky to be recognised, especially by one who had to look-if she looked at all-over the strong glare of the footlights.
The act drop was down when he entered-the orchestra playing the last instalment of Offenbach"s confectionery music. The whole house was in the act of regarding two young ladies, dressed as little as possible in white silk, with wonderful complexions, towers of golden hair on their heads, and on their faces an a.s.sumed unconsciousness of being stared at, who occupied a box by themselves. The elder of them had really beautiful features of an old French type-the forehead low and narrow, the eyelids heavy, the eyes large, languid, melancholy, the nose thin and a little _retroussee_, the mouth small, the lips thin and rather sad, the cheeks blanched and a trifle sunken, the line of the chin and neck magnificent. The beautiful, sad woman sate and stared wistfully at the glare of the gas; sometimes smiling, in a cold way, to her companion, a plump, commonplace beauty of a coa.r.s.e English type, who had far too much white on her forehead and neck. Together, however, they seemed to make a sufficiently pretty picture to provoke that stolid British gaze which has something of the idiot but more of the animal in it.
When the curtain rose again the spectators found themselves in Arden forest, with the Duke and his lords before them; and they listened to the talk of these poor actors as though they heard some creatures out of the other world converse. But from Will Anerley all the possibility of this generous delusion had fled. He shrank back, lest some of the men might have recognised him, and might carry the intelligence of his presence to Annie Brunel. Perhaps the Duke had just spoken to her; perhaps she was then looking on the scene from the wings. It was no longer Arden forest to him. The perspective of the stream and of the avenues of the trees vanished, and he saw only a stained breadth of canvas that hid _her_ from his sight. Was she walking behind that screen? Could the actors on the stage see her in one of the entrances?
And was it not a monstrous and inconceivable thing that these poor, wretched, unambitious, and not very clean-shaven men were breathing the same atmosphere with her, that they sometimes touched her dress in pa.s.sing, that her soft dark eyes regarded them?
You know that "Rosalind" comes into this forest of Arden weary, dispirited, almost broken-hearted, in company with the gentle "Celia"
and the friendly "Touchstone." As the moment approached for her entrance, Anerley"s breath came and went all the quicker. Was she not now just behind that board or screen? What was the expression of her face; and how had she borne up against the dull welcome that awaited her in England? He thought he should see only "Rosalind" when she came upon the stage-that Annie Brunel might now be standing in the wings, but that "Rosalind" only would appear before him.
He never saw "Rosalind" at all. He suddenly became conscious that Annie Brunel-the intimate companion who had sate beside him in long railway-journeys, who had taken breakfast with him, and played cards with him in the evening-had come out before all these people to amuse or interest them; and that the coa.r.s.e, and stupid, and vicious, and offensive faces that had been staring a few minutes ago at the two creatures in white silk were now staring in the same manner at her-at her who was his near friend. A wonderful new throb went through his heart at that thought-a throb that reddened his pale cheek. He saw no more of "Rosalind," nor of Annie Brunel either. He watched only the people"s faces-watched them with eyes that had no pleasant light in them. Who were these people, that they dared to examine her critically, that they presumed to look on her with interest, that they had the unfathomable audacity to look at all? He could not see the costermongers in the gallery; but he saw the dress-coated publicans and grocers around him, and he regarded their stupidly delighted features with a savage scorn. This spasm of ungovernable hatred for the stolid, good-hearted, incomprehensible British tradesman was not the result of intellectual pride; but the consequence of a far more powerful pa.s.sion.
How many years was it since Harry Ormond had sate in his box, and glared with a bitter fury upon the people who dared to admire and applaud Annie Brunel"s mother?
In especial there were two men, occupying a box by themselves, against whom he was particularly vengeful. As he afterwards learned from Mr.
Melton, they were the promoters of a company which sold the best port, sherry, champagne, hock, burgundy, and claret at a uniform rate of ten shillings a dozen; and, in respect of their long advertis.e.m.e.nts, occasionally got a box for nothing through this or that newspaper. They were never known to drink their own wines; but they were partial to the gin of the refreshment-room; and, after having drunk a sufficient quant.i.ty of that delicious and cooling beverage, they grew rather demonstrative. Your honest cad watches a play attentively; the histrionic cad a.s.sumes the part of those florid-faced gentlemen-mostly officers-who come down to a theatre after dinner and laugh and joke during the progress of the piece, with their backs turned on the performers. A gentleman who has little brains, much loquacity, and an extra bottle of claret, is bad enough; but the half-tipsy cad who imitates him is immeasurably worse. The two men in question, wishing to be considered "d-d aristocratic," talked so as to be heard across the theatre, ogled the women with their borrowed opera-gla.s.ses instead of looking at the play, and burst forth with laughter at the "sentimental"
parts. It was altogether an inspiriting exhibition, which one never sees out of England.
And the gentle "Rosalind," too, was conscious that these men were looking at her. How could it be Arden forest to her-how could she be "Rosalind" at all-if she was aware of the presence of such people, if she feared their inattention, and shrank from their laugh?
"What the papers have said about her is right," said Will to himself.
"Something must have happened to dispirit her or upset her, and she seems not to care much about the part."
The charm of her acting was there-one could sit and watch with an extreme delight the artistic manipulation of those means which are obviously at the actor"s hand-but there was a subtle something wanting in the play. It was pretty and interesting while it lasted; but one could have permitted it to drop at any moment without regret.
There is, as everybody knows, a charming scene in the drama, in which "Rosalind," disguised as a youth, coaxes "Orlando" to reveal all his love for her. There is in it every variety of coy bashfulness, and wayward fun, and half-suggested tenderness which an author could conceive or the most accomplished actress desire to represent. When "Orlando" wishes he could convince this untoward page of his extreme love for "Rosalind," the disguised "Rosalind" says merrily, "Me believe it? You may as soon make her that you love believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do, than to confess she does: that is one of the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences.
But, in good sooth," she adds, suddenly changing her tone into tender, trustful entreaty, "are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein "Rosalind" is so admired?" And then again she asks, "But _are_ you so much in love as your rhymes speak?"
"Rosalind" turned the side of her face to her lover, as if her ear wished to drink in the sweet a.s.surance; and her eyes, which fronted the audience, stared vacantly before her, as if they too were only interested in listening; while a light, happy smile dawned upon her lips. Suddenly the eyes, vacantly gazing into the deep theatre, seemed to start into a faint surprise, and a deadly pallor overspread her face.
She tried to collect herself-"Orlando" had already answered-she stumbled, looked half-wildly at him for a moment, and then burst into tears. The house was astonished, and then struck with a fit of admiration which expressed itself in rounds of applause. To them it was no hysterical climax to a long series of sad and solitary reveries, but a transcendant piece of stage effect. It was the over-excited "Rosalind" who had just then burst into tears of joy on learning how much her lover loved her.
"Orlando" was for the moment taken aback; but the applause of the people gave him time to recover himself, and he took her hand, and went on with the part as if nothing had happened. He and the people in the stage-boxes saw that her tears were real, and that she could scarcely continue the part for a sort of half-hysterical sobbing; but the majority of those in the theatre were convinced that Annie Brunel was the greatest actress they had ever seen, and wondered why the newspapers had spoken so coldly of her performance.
Will knew that she had seen him; he had caught that swift, electric glance. But, not knowing any reason why the seeing him should produce such profound emotion, he, too, fancied that her bursting into tears was a novel and pretty piece of acting. However, for his own sake, he did not wish to sit longer there; and so he rose and left.
But the streets outside were so cold and dark compared with Arden! The chill night air, the gloomy shadows of the broad thoroughfare, the glare of gas-lamps on the pavement, and the chatter of cabmen, were altogether too great a change from "Rosalind" and the poetry-haunted forest. Nor could he bear the thought of leaving her there among those happy faces, in the warm and joyous atmosphere of romance, while he walked solitarily home to his solitary chambers. He craved for her society, and was content to share it with hundreds of strangers. Merely to look upon her face was such a delight to him that he yielded himself to it irrespective of consequences. So he walked round to another entrance, and stole into a corner of the pit.
Was the delight or the torture the greater? He was now within view of the rows of well-dressed men and women in the stalls, who seemed so pleased with "Rosalind." It is one of the profound paradoxes of lore, that while making selfish men unselfish and generous to a degree, it begets in the most unselfish of men an unreasoning and brutal self-regard. He hated them for their admiration. He hated them the more especially that their admiration was worth having. He hated them because their admiration was likely to please Annie Brunel.
It might have been imagined that his anger would have been directed chiefly against those idiotic drapers" a.s.sistants and clerks who sate and burlesqued the piece, and sneered at the actress. But no; it was the admiration of the intelligent and accomplished part of the audience he feared; was it not sufficient to interpose between him and her a subtle barrier? He could have wished that the whole theatre was hissing her, that so his homage and tenderness and respect might be accounted as of some worth. He fancied she was in love with the theatre, and he hated all those attractions of the theatre which caused her love with a profound and jealous hatred.
At length the play came to an end, and there was no longer an excuse for his remaining, as Annie Brunel, of course, did not play in the short piece which followed. So he went outside, and in getting into the street he found himself behind the two wine-merchants who had been in the box.
"Why not?" said the one to the other, gaily.
"If she gets into a rage, so much the better fun. "Rosalind" must be d-d pretty in a fury."
"All right," said the other, with a hiccup.
Will had heard the words distinctly; and the mere suspicion they suggested caused his blood to boil. When the two men turned into the narrow lane leading round to the stage-door of the theatre, he followed them with his mouth hard and firm, and his eyes not looking particularly amiable.
At the entrance to the lane stood Miss Brunel"s cab. He recognised the face of the venerable jarvie who was accustomed to wait for her every evening.
He pa.s.sed up the lane; the two men had paused in front of the small wooden door, and were trying to decipher, by the aid of the lamp overhead, the features of whomsoever pa.s.sed in or out.
"She won"t be here for an hour," said one of them.
"Shouldn"t wonder if she went home in Rosalind"s dress," said the other, with another hiccup.
"She"ll "it you, "Arry, if you speak to her."
"Let her. I"d rather like it, "pon my soul."
The stage-door was continually being swung to and fro by some one pa.s.sing in or out, but as yet there was no sign of Annie Brunel. At length, however, some of the people who had been engaged in the play came out, and Will knew that she would soon follow.
"Was she likely to be alone? Would they dare to speak to her?" He glanced down at the sling which supported his right arm. Deprive an Englishman of the use of his right arm, and he feels himself utterly helpless. There was one happy thought, however: even if she were alone she would be closely veiled; and how were these half-tipsy cads to recognise her?
She came out; she was alone, and veiled, but Will knew the graceful figure, and the carriage of the queenly head.
By some demoniac inspiration the two men seemed also to take it for granted that the veiled face was that of Annie Brunel. The less tipsy of the two went forward, overtook her as she was going down the lane, and said to her-
"I beg your pardon, Miss-Miss Brunel--"
She turned her head, and in the gaslight Anerley saw that there was a quick, frightened look of interrogation in her eyes. She turned away again, and had hurried on almost to the open street, when the man caught her arm with his hand.
"Not so fast, my dear. Won"t you look at my card--"
"Out of the way, idiot!" was the next thing she heard, in a voice that made her heart beat; and in a moment the man had been sent reeling against the opposite wall.
That was the work of an instant. Inflamed with rage and fury, he recovered himself, and was about to aim a blow at his a.s.sailant"s face, when Anerley"s left arm so successfully did duty without the aid of the wounded right one, that the man went down like a log, and lay there.
His companion, stupefied, neither stirred nor spoke.