CHAPTER III.
“My dear, Mr. Keene was perfectly right to advise you as he did. A man of the world’s advice may always be taken in matters of this sort; and a girl who lives alone is always open to criticism, you know, even if she have no relations.”
“I am singularly fortunate in my friends,” the girl said, with a bright smile. “Mr. Gascoigne says I was born under a lucky star.”
“In meeting Mr. Keene you were undoubtedly,” Mrs. Carroll said, with a swift look at the tall, graceful figure bending over the escretoire; “but if you knew how many failures Mr. Carroll and I have had in trying to get a lady secretary, you would say that we were the lucky people. There seemed to be no chance of finding what we wanted. If a girl were clever, she was vulgar or self-assertive; if lady-like, utterly stupid, or worse still,”—laughing—“weak and incapable of holding an opinion. Perhaps the most objectionable type was the girl of the period—masculine, irrepressible, and in fact——”
“Full of bounce,” added Mr. Carroll, laughing and looking up from the Times; “like Miss Morton, who dictated to me instead of taking down my ideas. I assure you, Miss Winstanley, that she argued about every chapter in ‘Young Calderon’s Career,’ until I suggested that she should write a novel herself and leave me to my own little sphere.”
“I wish that I knew shorthand,” Muriel said, presently, getting paper and pens ready; “it would be so much quicker for you.”
“But it entails re-writing into longhand, whereas you get my MSS. all ready for the printers. No, I prefer this way; you are the quickest longhand writer I have ever known. I am only afraid that just when you get into my ways and ‘fads’ you will blossom into a Mrs. Siddons, and I shall be in misery again.”
The girl laughed.
“Mr. Keene is too severe a critic, and since he has so very kindly undertaken to bring me out, he will not let me do anything in a hurry. It will be months yet, I expect.”
“Humph! I hope it will,” muttered the novelist. “My dear,” to his wife, “have you any letters for Miss Winstanley this morning, because the sooner I can begin the better.”
“Only a few more invitations for my ‘At Home’ on the 25th,” said Mrs. Carroll; “here is the list. And a line to Lady Hetherington to say that I expect her and all her party. I wish she were more æsthetic in her tastes—her friends are so often objectionable; but it cannot be helped.”
Muriel wrote the letter and the invitations rapidly in her clear, somewhat eccentric, handwriting, then handed them to Mrs. Carroll, who passed into the adjoining room, which was only separated by gracefully-draped curtains, for the novelist and his wife were original enough to care for one another after ten years of married life, and Mr. Carroll liked to have his dainty little wife always in view whilst he was dictating, and even composing.
Her morning-room and his library were thus in juxtaposition, and as he walked up and down, with his notes or MSS. in his hand, smoking an eternal cigarette or cigar, he would catch a gleam of her golden hair, as she sat surrounded by a pretty mass of crewel silks and broideries.
Muriel got an hour or more before ten o’clock a.m. for study, and after two o’clock she was free, Mrs. Carroll only asking her to accompany her in her drives and calls as a friendly request, to be refused or accepted at will.
She would drive her down to the “Coliseum” when Mr. Keene had wished her to witness a rehearsal; and in the evenings there were always stalls or a box for one of the theatres, for Muriel was to see and hear everything by way of gaining experience.
She herself did not know what Mr. Keene had informed the Carrolls, who were his greatest friends.
That Gray Leighton had so carefully trained her in voice, gesture, manner, expression, having the most responsive ground to work upon, she was so well drilled in Shakespeare, Sheridan, Molière, Racine—in fact, in the brilliant actor’s splendid repertoire—that personal experience was the one thing lacking to develop her splendid powers.
She knew now that Keene and Leighton had been friends united by the closest sympathy.
The older man lacked the younger’s sustaining power, which at five-and-twenty—his age when Leighton left England—was not at its full zenith of course.
Leighton had at once perceived his young rival’s strength, and knew that his own fame would never be so lasting.
The critics had condemned a too great enthusiasm in him, alleging that his excitable nature led him to expend himself too soon in a play; that, in consequence, his finale was apt to be lacking in the interest felt by his audience in the early part of the evening.
Keene had felt the greatest admiration, however, for him, and he had spoken to Muriel as he had thought from the first, his own modesty underrating his own capabilities.
As a manager he knew that he himself had no living equal.
Sparing no pains, care, nor expense, he searched the world’s most remote corners for unique talent and objets d’art, so that he never incurred the mortification of reading that his productions were “one-act plays.”
All the minor rôles were as carefully rehearsed as his own, and the actors in his cast, even the very servants, received the most tempting offers and larger salaries than were usually paid—by outside men as inducement to leave the “Coliseum.”
“Are you ready, Miss Winstanley?” asked the novelist, as Mrs. Carroll left the room. “I don’t mind if you stop me twenty times; but for Heaven’s sake don’t go on too fast and get muddled. I have only notes here, you know. Where did we leave off?”
“The twins want to go to the theatre—the Gaiety,” said Muriel, in tones of suppressed laughter, as she read what she had written. “‘Let’s pit it to-night,’ whispered Henry. ‘Ma’s in the humour to fork out, as the lodgers have paid up.’”
“Got that? All right then,” and Mr. Carroll began striding up and down, puffing out smoke, and looking at his notes.
“‘How much are you worth?’ asked Henrietta. ‘I’m stumped.’
“‘Two bob. But I shall make her give us five, and we can go on the top of a ’bus. You go and eat some sandwiches, and I’ll tackle her now. She can have a flirtation with the major all the evening.’
“‘Poor wretch, I pity him!’ said Henrietta. ‘Ma will talk about her poor husband until he’ll wish himself out of it. I do want to see the serpentine dance. It’s lovely.’
“‘You’ll be trying to do it with a table-cloth, to-morrow,’ sneered Henry. ‘You’re mad on dancing.’
“‘I’d rather be mad on dancing than on lodgers,’ Henrietta answered, epigrammatically, bouncing out of the room. ‘You get the cash,’ she called as a parting shot.”
“What are you laughing at!” Mr. Carroll asked, in surprise. “Do you find it amusing? It is very vulgar, of course; but I assure you, no exaggeration.”
“It is very wonderful to me,” Muriel said, taking a fresh sheet of paper, “that you can philosophise so deeply when you please, and then put in a chapter like this—the variety is unique.”
“The publishers tell me that it is what the public like. Life is not all beer and skittles, you know, and yet if it were, we should very soon tire of them. There were two little brutes who talked just like that in a place where I stayed once in my young days. ‘Chapter thirty-four. The howl of the pessimist is one of the signs of the times, one that cannot be checked too strongly, for it is the outcome of a discontent fatal to any great achievement, and as false as it is hurtful.’”
A dissertation on pessimism followed, and quotations from so many classical authors of olden and modern time as showed that the author knew his subject thoroughly, and was a man of no mean understanding.
Mrs. Carroll’s “At Home” promised to be a very brilliant affair.
There were two ambassadors coming, the latest social “lion,” and the most brilliant members of the legal, literary and dramatic professions.
Mrs. Carroll had asked Muriel to go with her to Madame Irène’s about ten days beforehand, for she said she always felt more comfortable if she put on her gown before a friend whose judgment she could rely upon.
All innocently Muriel assented, and expressed genuine admiration when the dainty little woman had herself arrayed in soft, thick brocade of the colours of almond blossom and delicate green leaves, with some real old lace on the bodice.
“It doesn’t make me look too old? My husband likes handsome materials,” she said, anxiously.
“Mais, madame is superbe,” the Frenchwoman said, clasping her hands.
“It suits you perfectly, Mrs. Carroll. Everyone wears brocade now, and you will never look old,” Muriel said, smiling.
Mrs. Carroll gave a sigh of relief, and then turned to inspect some white silks that were hanging over chairs.
“Do you like this, Muriel?” she said, touching one of the thickest.
“It would suit mademoiselle,” said Madame Irène, looking at the delicate complexion and the waves of deep gold hair.
Muriel shook her head.
“I am in mourning—”
“But you will look sweet in white,” said Mrs. Carroll. “You must have a new gown too. Madame, can you make one in time?”
And, in spite of the girl’s look of entreaty, the little woman carried her point, laughingly telling her as they drove home that she had arranged it beforehand with her husband.
“We wanted you to look your best, and white is so becoming for girls. Old married people can do anything, you know,” she added, with a bewitching little smile that went to Muriel’s heart as she tried to thank her.
Very lovely she looked on the night in the long straight folds of the perfectly-fitting gown, with some white moss-rose buds fastened at her breast.
They had been sent to her anonymously, and she thought it was merely another of Mrs. Carroll’s many kindnesses.
She could not resist the pleasure of wearing them, although she discovered her mistake when she made her appearance in the drawing-room.
As soon as the rooms began filling, music, songs, and recitations succeeded each other, there being so many professionals present that there was no danger of ennui.
Muriel played and sang, Signor Losti, the great master, taking a great fancy to her voice, and, finding that she knew Gray Leighton, striking up a friendship on the spot.
Mr. Keene came on from the “Coliseum,” and, heedless of fatigue, took his part amongst the performers with the winning courtesy so often seen in great artistes.
He said little to Muriel, seeing that she was surrounded by a circle of admirers, until late in the evening, when Mrs. Carroll approached him and asked with a smile if he would give them one more delight.
He smiled and went up to Muriel.
“Miss Winstanley, are you tired?”
“No,” she smiled, rising instantly, wondering a little at his question.
“I want you to recite with me.”
“I?” starting back and turning white; “Mr. Keene—you are cruel!”
“No,” he returned kindly, “I am quite sure that you can if you will. You will not be nervous?”
“Horribly—I—perhaps by myself I could, but with the greatest actor of the day, it would be such a terrible ordeal—”
“No worse than with Gray Leighton. Come and rehearse with me.”
Trembling, she placed her one hand on his arm and he led her through the conservatory, across the hall, into the library.
“Do not be so frightened, child. You are positively shaking,” he said, putting one hand on her shoulder. “Imagine that you are in Leighton’s library in Idleminster and that I am he. You know Beatrice’s lines in Much Ado? Yes, I am sure of your memory. Take me up in the Church Scene, Act IV. Exeunt Friar, Hero and Leonato. Beatrice and Benedict are alone.”
He went back a few steps to give her time to pull herself together, then approached her with:
“‘Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?’”
For one instant only she hesitated, the remembrance of the scene with its dawning of passion under cover of the exquisite badinage sending a flood of colour to her face.
Then she gave her answer—
“‘Yea, and I will weep awhile longer,’” with trembling excitement, giving the sound of indignant tears in the rich but wondrously sweet tone, trained to perfection by Gray Leighton’s sensitive ear.
The scene went on to its end without a break.
Keene, knowing the passionate nature of the girl woman, letting himself reveal the great love of Benedict despite the laughing nature, and the torrent of light jest that rolls from his lips.
She rose to it, keeping well under control even when with the confession of her love almost unconsciously forced from her:
“‘I love you with so much of my heart, that none is left to protest.’”
He caught her to his heart, kissing her hair as he murmured passionately—“Come, bid me do anything for thee.”
She paled, but laughed as he released her, with sweetest witchery pelting him with taunts until he protests:
“‘By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account,’” and the scene ends.
She stood perfectly still, then swayed a moment, falling on a chair as he went forward.
Seeing the severe tension to which her nerves were pitched, he left her again, quietly looking over some books, but watching her covertly, knowing she would not faint now.
And in a few minutes she drew a deep breath and got to her feet again, going to him, her eyes asking the question her lips could not utter.
He took her hands in his, pressing them with a strong close grasp.
“I am satisfied. You are worthy of Gray Leighton’s tutelage. I will prove my words soon. Meanwhile—hush, child, do not give way now,” her features were quivering as she read the enthusiasm in the strong, intellectual face looking down at her so kindly. With a great effort she forced down her emotion and murmured, brokenly, “How can I thank you?”
“By coming back with me and going through it again before Mrs. Carroll’s guests. You can—will you? You can trust yourself?”
“Can I, Mr. Keene? For God’s sake think—can I?” she asked, looking at him with all the anxious longing of a great soul in her beautiful eyes.
He gave her his arm with a reassuring little nod, and they entered the drawing-room.
Keene took his hostess aside and explained in a few words. Then, turning to Muriel, led her to the centre of the room, and simply announced the scene.
She did not hesitate now.
Clear as a bell her laughter rang out, her gestures full of quaint witchery, void of ordinary theatrical assumption, her manner that of a perfectly-bred lady as she alternately yielded and taunted Benedict.
There was a storm of applause as they finished, from every one of either sex.
Again and again Keene was pressed to give an encore, but he knew that the girl had been taxed to the uttermost for that night, and he let her go.
Old Losti went up to him and muttered a few significant words—
“My friend, do you know what Scott Roberts has just said to me? Mr. Keene will do well to transplant that diamond to the ‘Coliseum.’”
The actor’s eyes flashed, but he said curtly—
“I say nothing, for I do not know myself. Miss Winstanley is only an amateur at present.”
Later on when the guests had all departed Carroll, who had been enjoying a cigar, strolled up to Keene, who was making his adieux to Muriel and his hostess.
“Do not hurry, Keene, have a cigar in the library, the ladies will not object to two smokers, and they can stand umpires.”
“Why?” laughed the other, as he looked for Mrs. Carroll’s permission before lighting up.
“You know the misery I have endured for the last year with inefficient secretaries,” said the novelist, with mock indignation; “my hair nearly turned white with worry. You introduce a pearl beyond price to me, and when I begin to breathe freely—it’s perfectly monstrous, Keene. You are going to turn her into a Ristori, and leave me to my misery again.”
“My dear fellow,” the other rejoined, laughing; “can I or any other man make a Ristori out of a nonentity? Miss Winstanley’s inner consciousness told her long ago in what direction her talent lay, and Gray Leighton confirmed her. I have done nothing but test my friend’s pupil—and I find what I expected.”
“She is too good to be kept back,” Mrs. Carroll said, kissing Muriel, who was flushing and trying to escape. “Much as I regret it in one way, for we shall be the losers, it would be unfair to attempt to dissuade her. And you know, Colin, that Mr. Keene told us from the first——” she stopped, laughing. “The mischief is out; forgive me for my indiscretion.”
Muriel had turned quickly to the actor, her eyes sparkling.
“Ah! please tell me, Mr. Keene. Did you think—before—that I——
“Could act?” enjoying her confusion quietly. “Yes, Miss Winstanley, after I had spoken to you for half-an-hour I felt convinced that you had a great talent for the stage; and the more I knew you, the stronger grew my impression. To-night you have given us all proof, and I am sure,” with a smile at the Carrolls, “that no one of your friends would wish to rob the histrionic profession of one of its future stars. Having had the advantage of two or three years of such excellent training, there need not be such long delay as is necessary with a complete novice. Experience is requisite, after which I hope you will have a brilliant career.”
“Abominable!” cried Carroll. “If you were not beyond criticism, Keene, I would get Scott Roberts and Alex. Fraser to slate your next production. But you stand on such a deuced high pedestal that no one can touch you.”
They all laughed as the actor rose to go, Carroll putting his arm around his shoulders as they left the room.
The two had been close friends for years.