CHAPTER VI.
It was two days later. Sir John Chetwynd sat in his big easy chair with an open letter before him. "We are surprised to have seen and heard nothing of you," wrote the Duchess; "more especially as after the few words we had in private upon a certain important matter, I fully anticipated an early visit from you. But such a busy man as yourself and one so much in request, both socially and professionally, must not be judged by the rules which govern the common herd, I suppose; at the same time (although I assure you she has not said a word upon the subject) I can say that dear Ethel feels herself a wee bit neglected. You must have been professionally engaged last night, I presume, since we were obliged to dine without you and go to see Sarah Bernhardt alone."
He had spent the whole evening in his consulting rooms, totally forgetting his promise to escort his fiancée and her mother to the theatre.
Well, he would see them both on the morrow and make his peace, and then—he dropped his head on his hands and fairly groaned. It was useless to argue with himself, to bring commonsense to bear upon the point, to count up the advantages to be derived from this union with Lady Ethel; look at it which way he would, the fact remained the same, that he had no longer the remotest desire to marry again.
The knowledge had certainly come tardily, but not the less surely.
He did not, he told himself, love Lady Ethel as a man should love the wife of his bosom. Middle-aged, worn, and unemotional though he might be, he knew that he was yet capable of a much deeper feeling than she had evoked and he had wakened to a realisation of this since he had again seen Bella.
He was no fool; he was, on the contrary, a shrewd, clever, quick-witted man of the world and it was impossible to shut his eyes to the trouble. He thought of Bella as she was when he had first married her; he recalled their courtship, her pretty half shy, half tender ways—the girlish prettiness which time had turned into shame.
She had left a scrap of lace on his table for her throat or her veil—Heaven knew what—and his eyes grew blurred and dim as he gazed at it. He repeated mentally phrases which had fallen from her, piecing them together and trying to weave the pattern of her life out of the fragments.
She had changed pathetically. She had acquired the manner that her sister used to have, and which he had so strenuously objected to—the slangy, devil-may-care tone, the total absence of which in the old days had made his little sweetheart so conspicuously different from her environment. She wore now the impress of evil, from her Regent Street hat to her Paris gown. Manifestly she had risen in her vocation, but he knew that her salary alone had never supplied the costume or the rings, and his heart ached.
That night he sat at the Duchess of Huddersfield's table facing his fiancée, and for the first time he wondered if sang-froid or perfect equanimity were all that a man such as himself might desire. She was, as Bella had put it, "One of his own class—a lady," which she had never been, poor Bella! but he did wonder just a little how much of real heart beat under the dainty laces that shrouded Lady Ethel's bosom. He had reflected once and not so long ago that that portion of a woman's anatomy was superfluous, but he wavered in his belief now. He could stake his professional honour, his hopes of eternity—of—everything—on the absolute purity of this girl; nothing would ever tempt Lady Ethel to swerve ever so little from the path of rectitude and decorum. The cold, proud patrician face spoke for itself, and yet—he was in a brown study when the voice of his prospective mother-in-law brought him out of the clouds.
"And now," she said in a significant tone and with a glance full of meaning, "now I suppose you young people have lots to talk about, and will forgive me if I run away."
And the silken draperies swept themselves across the floor and the door closed softly upon her Grace.
Ethel lay back in a low, lounging chair with a big ostrich feather fan in her hand, and she looked up expectantly into her lover's face. There was nothing else for it, and he took the plunge valiantly—and with precisely the correct amount of maidenly hesitancy, Lady Ethel named a day for their marriage. And then—somehow there seemed nothing more to be said; each sat silent.
Sir John felt rather than saw his companion yawn behind her fan, and realised desperately that he must break the silence.
"Ethel," he said gently; "I am old compared with yourself, and grave and sad even beyond my years; are you sure I can make your future happy?"
She looked at him with a good deal of surprise, and a frown puckered her smooth brow.
"Why not? Why should we wish for rhapsodies and commonplace love-making? We can leave all that to the Chloes and Daphnes of a by-gone age. It would be boring to the last degree. One must take pleasure just as much as sorrow, with a certain amount of equanimity. If there is one thing more than another that I hate, it is to be ruffled. Emotion of any sort ages a girl so terribly."
The sword would never wear out the scabbard so far as Lady Ethel was concerned! He doubted if she were capable of any great depth of feeling. But he did not say now as he would have done a week ago—"So much the better;" he no longer felt that it was altogether desirable.
He looked at her more scrutinisingly than he had ever done before, and for the first time he told himself that the beautifully moulded mouth was hard and unloving, and that the chin spoke of self-will and an amount of resolution unusual in such a young girl.
He hastened to change the subject.
"You would like to visit Switzerland or Italy?" he asked.
"No; I don't care for scenery much, or nature! I like human nature best; it is much more interesting, I consider. I should prefer Paris or Vienna."
"Then Paris or Vienna let it be, by all means," he hastened to reply, and Lady Ethel smiled, well pleased.
"Mamma," said Sir John's fiancée an hour or two later, when mother and daughter were alone. "Do you know who Mrs. Chetwynd was?"
"My dear Ethel, it is much better that subject should not be discussed."
"I don't agree with you. Since I am going to marry John it can only be right and proper that I should be made aware of every detail connected with his former marriage."
When Lady Ethel adopted that tone, her mother knew by past experience that it was a saving of time and temper to yield.
"I only know that she was beneath him in position—a dancer, I believe, and she ran away with someone else. Really providential, I consider; it must have been a happy release for poor Sir John."
"He was plain Mr. Chetwynd."
"Yes; but already very popular. It was exceedingly fortunate that he did not get his baronetcy earlier, for had he done so, she would probably have refused to be faithless."
"I wonder if he felt her desertion much?"
"The world says not; they had lived unhappily for some time before, and the general impression was that he did not care in the least."
"But you spoke of her to him when he asked your consent to our marriage?"
"Yes, Ethel, I did; I referred to it as delicately as possible, of course. I believe I said, 'your early misfortune,' or something to that effect."
"And what did he say?"
"Well, he spoke very nicely; he said he was aware that it added to the disparity between a man in his position and my daughter."
"And you?"
"I believe I replied that because a bad woman had caused him misery and suffering in the past, it was no reason why he should not win and hold the love of a good girl, and that because of the sorrow he had endured, I felt the more assured in trusting my child's happiness into his keeping."
"That was sweet of you, mother; but did it not occur to you that there was just—a little risk?"
"How?"
"I don't think that John is a man who would forget easily."
"Good Heavens, child! what do you mean? you cannot doubt the sincerity of his protestations of affection for you, surely?"
Her daughter laughed.
"I certainly do not wish him to be more demonstrative, mother dear; love-making is the most boring process imaginable; but still, I should prefer, I must confess, that there was no under-current of feeling for wife number one."
"You amaze me, Ethel, by suggesting such a horrible idea. The woman may be dead for anything I know; at all events, she left England before he obtained his divorce, and no one has heard anything of her since. It is extremely improbable that she will ever return to this country."
But in this, as we know, the Duchess was in grave error.
At that very moment Bella was sitting by the open piano in her cosy apartments in a street off the Strand, idly striking a note here and there and humming the air of a new song; but her cough, which was incessant, made singing almost out of the question.
"I believe I'm getting worse," she cried, rising and flinging herself on the sofa, "I'm sure I was not so bad as this three months ago—not so bad when—he never came. Ah! why should he? How could I expect it? Perhaps to-day may have been his wedding day! Come in."
The door opened noisily, and Saidie Blackall, very much over-dressed and distinctly rouged and made up, entered, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Doss, looking precisely the same as on that memorable night when they had been the innocent cause of so much trouble to Bella's husband. The old music-hall singer and his wife had lost no time in looking her up when she returned from the States, and were really well-meaning, kindly folk.
"Hallo, Bella, you look done up!"
"I am," admitted the girl wearily. "It was as much as I could do to pull through to-night, and I have got a beastly new song to tackle."
"I don't like your cough, my dear," said Mrs. Doss, looking distressed; "it shakes you to bits."
"I've got a little more cold, I fancy; but I'll be all right in a day or two."
"You're not looking the thing—I saw you from the front to-night—and—well, I guess it was a bit of a heffort to sing at all, eh?"
Bella turned quickly and looked sharply into Mr. Doss's face.
"If you have got anything disagreeable to say, don't be afraid, out with it. I suppose you have jumped to the notion that I'm dying?"
She tried to laugh, but it was a piteous attempt, and ended in a fit of coughing which left her white and trembling in every limb.
"There, there!" cried Mrs. Doss, compassionately; "you must not excite yourself; we will do the talking, and you keep quiet."
Bella lay back on her cushions, weak and exhausted, and when the Dosses at length went away she gave a sigh of relief.
"What did they come for to-night?" she said thoughtfully.
"Well, Bella, Doss had heard a bit of bad news and thought it as well to put you on your guard; but finding you like this put it out of his head, I suppose."
"Bad news? What do you mean? He's not married, is he?"
Saidie stared at her.
"Not that I know of—why, he would have you to-morrow; you know that as well as I do! you are treating him in a rough way; there's no mistake about it."
Bella fell back again relievedly.
"Oh, you're talking about Charlie, are you?" she said.
"Who should I be talking about? There isn't no one else as wants to make an honest woman of you, is there?"
The shaft fell short of its mark. Bella did not even wince.
"Well, it strikes me, my girl, you'll have to fall in with his views," Saidie continued presently; "for if what has come to Doss's ears is true, you'll be out of a berth before you can say Christopher Columbus."
"What on earth do you mean?"
"The management are getting dissatisfied, and we know what that means."
The pale face flushed poppy red.
"They can't help themselves," she said eagerly. "I have a contract for six months. They cannot cancel it, you must know they can't, and it's not very likely I shall allow myself to be played fast and loose with as the fancy takes them."
"But if you're not able to fulfil your share of the contract—"
"Who says I am not?" cried Bella fiercely. "Old Robertson is a fool, and if he thinks I'm going to put up with any hanky-panky, he's jolly well mistaken. Let him try it on, that's all! I should immediately take steps to enforce my rights, the law is on my side, that's clear enough."
"I don't know! You heard what Doss said—about how you looked from the front; and others have got their eyesight as well as him, and can see you are not well and not—"
"Not fit to sing—that's what you are driving at?"
Saidie was silent.
"I tell you I will sing. Nothing and no one shall stop me. I shall just defy them all, and go on, and there's no law in England to stop me."
"If you are not a goose, Bella, I never saw one! What in all the world keeps you on the boards, I cannot see. Here's a man come over from N'York with the intention of marrying you; a man who is earning his hundred dollars a week, and you turn up your nose at him. I can't understand you. You seemed proud enough of him a week or two back; but now all on a sudden, for no earthly reason, you show him the cold shoulder."
"I suppose I can please myself," answered Bella, and her lip quivered, and the tears began to roll down her cheeks.
"I wish to God I had never left—Jack," she said weakly.
Whereupon Saidie gave her what she was pleased to call a "piece of her mind" as to the insane folly of any such speech, the result of which was that Bella wept and coughed herself into a state of collapse, and had to be carried off to bed.
Things did not mend. Bella persisted, ill though she was, in appearing night after night in public until at length what Saidie had predicted came to pass, and she received a formal notice cancelling her engagement at the Empire on the ground of the extreme delicacy of her health.
Mr. and Mrs. Doss happened to be with her at the time she received the notice, and Bella partially appealed to them.
"You will help me, won't you? You won't allow them to impose upon me so shamefully. They have no right to do it. It's infamous—'annul my engagement' indeed! They shall find out who they are dealing with. It would be ruin for me, it would simply spoil my career. I shall go down at once and see Robertson. It's a likely thing that I'm going to sit down calmly and quietly and accept my dismissal. Not if I know it. I'll give Robertson beans."
"I wouldn't do it if I were you," said Mrs. Doss quietly.
"Not do it; what do you mean? You must be dreaming. It is the only thing to be done."
And now Mr. Doss, obeying a pathetic glance of his better half, put in his oar.
"Be a bit patient; wait and see how things turn out; don't do anything in a 'urry—that's our advice—the old gal's and mine."
"Yes, take things heasy, I say," chimed in the "Rabbit Queen."
"I don't see what there is to wait for. Show me what is to be gained by waiting, and I will consider it."
"Well, Bella; Doss here will tell you what we was thinking of; he puts things clear like."
"What was in our mind was to talk the thing over first. Allus talk the matter well over, was my motto as a boy. It saves a peck o' bother and a deal o' doing. Don't flare out about it, but take it gently and conversational."
"Fussing over things won't make you no better," echoed Mrs. Doss. "Lor', bless me, didn't I have a sister what killed herself fussing! Fussed herself into the grave, she did! And might have been here, leastways in Camberwell—alive and hearty at this minute."
"The question is—am I too ill to fulfil my engagement? and I say 'no,'" cried Bella, angrily.
"And me, the missis and me—we says, certainly you are, and so heverybody says. You want a thorough rest, and then you will pick up again."
"That may be your opinion; it is not mine! you may talk till doomsday; you won't convince me. I may surely be allowed to be the best judge of my own state of health. I shall not wait a day—not an hour. I'm going at once down to Robertson to have the matter out with him."
The distressed pair exchanged glances, and then Mrs. Doss said in a coaxing way, "If you must go, you will let me come with you, my dear."
Bella hesitated.
"If you're on my side and mean to stick up for me, all right; but if you're going to hum and haw and look grave, and take the part of the management, you had best stay away."
Mrs. Doss tucked Bella's arm within her own and trotted upstairs to the bedroom, where Bella arrayed herself in total silence, and her friend, beyond a vigorous sigh or two, was mute also.
Mr. Robertson was disengaged, and the ladies were at once ushered into his presence.
"Now then," began Bella, dashing into her subject, "I have come to know what all this means. You cannot dismiss me at a moment's notice, and you know it just as well as I do. Ain't you satisfied with me?"
"Perfectly. It is no question of that sort—but in your present state of health you are not up to your work, and there was no other alternative."
"Oh!" said Bella disagreeably, "does anybody else say I am not up to work except you?"
"My dear Miss Blackall, I regret that this has been necessary. I am exceedingly sorry that we brought you over from America and then are compelled to terminate your engagement so soon, but in your present condition—"
Mr. Robertson flung out his hands with an eloquent gesture.
"Well, look here; I'll give up my dance—that does shake me a bit, I'll grant; but you must let me sing the new song—you really must; I'm a nailer at it and I'll wrap up! My cough will soon go: give me another chance!"
Her cheeks were flushed with excitement and her eyes were sparkling—she really did not look so very ill this morning; perhaps after all, things had been exaggerated. Mr. Robertson wavered. Bella was quick to see her advantage and to press it.
"Withdraw your notice," she said, "and let me come on for one song only for a week or two."
"It would really be better, I think, if you were to have an entire rest for a month or so."
"Yes, for someone else to step into my shoes! Thank you for nothing."
"I will pay you a fortnight's salary in lieu of longer notice; and if you are desirous of returning to your friends in the States, perhaps something might be arranged."
"I have no friends here or there," said Bella simply; "my profession is all I have."
"Well, well, we'll give it a week's trial. If at the end of that time you are sufficiently recovered to do your work properly, well and good; but if not, you must really consider your engagement at an end."
All this time Mrs. Doss had said nothing. Bella had talked so volubly and so fast, there had really been no chance of getting in a word; and when the manager rose to his feet to intimate that the interview was at an end, there was nothing to be done but to follow Bella out into the street.
"There!" she cried triumphantly, "I told you I would bring him to his senses. You saw how soon he caved in. It is not a question of my health at all; you may bet your bottom dollar I have an enemy, but I flatter myself I've routed him."
Her breath was coming in gasps and she spoke with difficulty. Now that the excitement was over and the necessity for bearing up at an end, there came the reaction.
"I think I had better go home and lie down," she said, "or I shall not be at my post to-night, and I must, you know, I must."
"Poor child, I could fairly have cried," said kindly Mrs. Doss to her spouse after Bella had been safely escorted home.
"I'm not satisfied with you, old girl," said Mr. Doss, shaking his head mournfully. "I can't 'elp thinking you might ha' managed things better. If Bella Blackall goes on a singing at the Hempire, you mark my words, she'll sing herself into 'eaven."