CHAPTER IV.
True to his promise, Mr. Gascoigne came up to town and saw Muriel.
She had of course told him of her good fortune in meeting with the Carrolls, and when he saw the genuine affection they both felt for her, and heard from the novelist how delighted he was with his new secretary, he strongly advised her to give up the idea of using her voice in any way as a professional.
She smiled, but Mrs. Carroll told him of her triumph with Mr. Keene, and of his sanguine prognostications for her future, and the old lawyer raised his eyebrows.
“I have seen Francis Keene in most of his best rôles. He is not the sort of man to take a sudden fancy I should say. He is considered one of the most relentless of managers and sternest of critics; if he asked you to act with him, Muriel, your future is evidently decided, and you are to be congratulated.”
“We hope to keep her with us for as long as she likes to stay. My husband is so happy with her secretarial work that he dreads the time when she will not have the leisure,” Mrs. Carroll said, looking at Muriel affectionately.
“Well, it is of no use for me to remind you of your promised visit to us at Easter,” Mr. Gascoigne said, when leaving. “As things are it would only make a break, I suppose. You know you have only to come, child, when you like. Let me have a wire or a letter when your first appearance is arranged, and I will run up to applaud you. Mrs. Gascoigne sends her dearest love; she is, as you know, too much of an invalid to travel. Reginald wanted to see you very badly, but I thought I would come alone this time. You can let him have a message if—the wish should ever prove reciprocal,” he added, laughing grimly.
“Oh, I shall not do anything for a very long time yet,” the girl said, shaking her head, leaving the last sentence unanswered. “As you say, Mr. Keene is far too particular to recommend me anywhere until I am pretty certain not to disgrace his introduction.”
About a fortnight after Mrs. Carroll’s “At Home,” Muriel was sitting alone in the drawing-room one afternoon, playing some of her favourite Chopin’s nocturnes.
It had been a wet day, and Mrs. Carroll, who detested rain, had gone to her room to nurse a headache.
The servant announced Mr. Keene, and Muriel got up quickly.
“Mr. Carroll is out, and Mrs. Carroll is in her room, but I will go to her——”
“I came to see you, Miss Winstanley,” he said, quietly. “Miss D’Orsay broke down after acting last night, and the doctor says she must go abroad at once, as her chest is very delicate. Her understudy, Miss Cameron, is in great trouble, for her mother is dying. I gave her permission to go down to Bath yesterday, and I shall be sorry to have to wire to her for to-night.”
“To-night?”
“Yes. Miss D’Orsay is too ill. Besides, she cannot speak above a whisper. Will you take her place with me?”
The girl looked at him with wide open startled eyes.
“You ask me to act in the ‘Coliseum’?” she gasped. “Merciful Heaven! Am I dreaming?”
“YOU ASK ME TO ACT IN THE ‘COLISEUM’?” SHE GASPED.
“No. Listen. I intend to put on ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ in a fortnight, and after you went through that scene with me, I meant you to be my Beatrice. Ophelia is not a difficult part except for the mad scene. Your voice is so exceptionally fine that the songs will be a great feature. If you know the old music you know mine. Nothing is new. Will you do it? You are word perfect, of course? Gray Leighton was so wrapped up in ‘Hamlet,’ that you must have often rehearsed with him.”
“Yes. I am word perfect,” said Muriel, slowly. “I have done it many times, and I know the music; but——”
She raised her eyes piteously to his face.
“Will you do it as a favour to me?”
“Can I face the audience, Mr. Keene? That is my only fear.”
“Yes, or I would not ask you. I do not count a failure at the ‘Coliseum,’” he said, smiling. “Will you come back with me and rehearse at once? I have all the people there, and we have over three hours. You shall dine at the theatre.”
“Then you were sure of me?” she said, smiling in spite of herself, and the colour crept back to her face.
“I felt I might rely upon your sympathy and help,” he returned, taking her hands and pressing them closely. “You see that I am in a difficulty, and I am selfish enough to come to you.”
“How you put things,” the girl said, flushing. “I will do my best. I shall never dare to look straight in front of me, and if I die for it I will get through my part somehow.”
“Thank you. Then there is no time to be lost. Will you let Mrs. Carroll know and put your hat on? You shall have some tea after the first rehearsal.”
Mr. Carroll entered at that moment, and as Muriel passed him, she struck a sudden attitude, crying laughingly:
“Behold Ophelia of the Coliseum Theatre!” and left the astonished novelist to receive explanation from Keene.
In less than a few minutes she was back again in a picturesque big feathered hat and cloak, with some thick, fluffy furs round her throat.
The actor’s brougham was waiting, and Mr. Carroll put her in, promising to be at the theatre with his wife as soon as possible.
Keene had remembered every detail.
A dressmaker was in attendance to make alterations in the dresses.
Every employée was ordered to go into the auditorium.
All the cast had been requested to attend for extra rehearsal before Muriel had been electrified by being asked to take the part.
There was hardly any hitch.
She was not only letter-perfect, but every gesture even to stage business had been carefully drilled in her; and her own rare receptivity and lightning-like perception saved her from many errors.
She had acted before in the little theatre at Idleminster, but the difference from that to the big, stately grandeur of the ‘Coliseum’ was appalling.
But Keene never took his eyes off her.
Before going on he told her that she was to turn to him for every direction without fear.
“No matter how slight your doubt, let me know.”
And she obeyed him to the letter.
So much so that after the first rehearsal of Ophelia’s part, he directed her to play to the house.
Carroll had come down with about a dozen friends hastily collected, and these, with the employées, made a good appearance in the stalls.
With a few directions, which were given in an undertone, under cover of mere conversation, the girl went through a second time.
“Let yourself go,” said Keene. “Don’t be afraid.”
“You have acted before?” said Rivers to her, who played Laertes. “But I have never had the pleasure of seeing you. I fancied that—from something Mr. Keene said—you were a novice; but I see my error. As he approves of course there can be no doubt of your success. He is well pleased I know.”
“This is my first appearance in London,” she said, quietly. “I have taken parts in a little country theatre.”
He stared at her for a little.
“Then you have genius, Miss Winstanley,” he said, with courteous respect, and Keene approached.
“You have done better than I hoped. It is needless to give you more fatigue. Go and rest until seven. Will you dine here?” to the Carrolls and two eminent critics who had come down out of kindness and friendship for Keene. “It will save you the trouble of going back, and it is past six already.”
They at once accepted, and a very merry party it was.
Keene took care that Muriel had a good dinner in spite of her protestations that she was too excited to eat, and some very especial Mumm was produced to wish her success.
11.30 p.m.
It was over.
The theatre was just empty.
Mr. Keene’s room was crowded, and Muriel’s name was in everyone’s mouth.
She was a success.
Three times had she been called before the curtain, trembling so that Keene had grasped her hand tightly, and the last time almost carried her to Mrs. Carroll who was awaiting her in the dressing-room.
“Her fortune’s made!” said Scott Roberts, as he and Alex. Fraser went to greet her when Mrs. Carroll brought her to the green-room.
“As usual, Keene’s on his feet. I did not see her bit of Beatrice the other night——”
“I did,” nodded Fraser. “She was delightful. But anything like her acting to-night has never been heard of. All in a minute, you know. Marvellous I call it. And never hesitated for a word.”
“I am glad you are pleased,” Muriel said, simply, but flushing with pleasure at the tone of genuine praise. “I was so horribly frightened and nervous when I heard someone say the house was packed that I thought I should have made an idiot of myself.”
“You positively looked at the audience,” said Carroll. “Bang into the boxes too. My dear child, to talk of nervousness after that! You are a fraud!”
“That was only when Mr. Keene was on the stage with me. I did not feel so afraid then.”
“Your mad scene was quite novel. May one ask whether your rendering was entirely original, Miss Winstanley?” asked Alex. Fraser.
But Keene came up, and laughingly pushed him aside.
“Go home and write your ‘copy’ Fraser. She has had enough of it for one night, and I will not have her interviewed. When you have seen her as ‘Beatrice’ on my stage you shall hear who trained her.”
And by-and-bye the Carrolls took her home.
For one minute, as they were waiting for the brougham and the attention of the Carrolls was taken by some friends, Muriel turned to the actor, who was standing close behind her.
“You have not criticized me,” she said, wistfully. “Mr. Keene was I even half what you expected? Shall I ever be good enough?”
He leaned down to her, speaking in her ear.
“I will answer your question to-morrow. I cannot thank you to-night.”
Then aloud:
“Will you be round at five o’clock to-morrow, Miss Winstanley, please? I should like you to go through one or two scenes with me—a full rehearsal will not be necessary.”
“I will not fail,” she said, giving him her hand.
As they were driven away, Mrs. Carroll took her in her arms and kissed her.
“You were simply wonderful, my dear. Everyone was electrified, and even after the other night I could hardly believe my eyes. We shall lose you now.”
“Not a bit of it,” said her husband. “She must live somewhere, and why not with us? And she can still help me in the mornings, eh, my dear?”
“How good you are to me,” she returned, gratefully. “Of course I will, Mr. Carroll. But when Miss D’Orsay gets well I shall have to wait perhaps a long time——”
The novelist laughed.
“You made a hit, my dear; your singing alone was worth hearing. Keene was pleased, though he said nothing; he seldom does. Think of it. You have made your début on the stage of the ‘Coliseum,’ acting with the greatest man of the time, not as a super either but as leading lady. I shall put you into my next novel, and everyone will say how far-fetched is the plot.”
The next day Mrs. Carroll drove her down to the theatre, saying she would return in time to take her back to dinner.
As Muriel went to the green-room, Keene came out of his own and led her in, merely greeting her in his usual courteous way.
The room was empty, and the girl looked round a little wonderingly.
“Am I to rehearse here instead of on the stage?”
He did not answer for a moment.
She threw aside her wraps and stood waiting until he approached her quite closely.
“I have heard from Miss D’Orsay that it is uncertain whether she will ever be strong enough to return to the stage,” he said distinctly, but in low tones. “Will you accept the position of leading lady, Miss Winstanley?”
She drew back a few steps, staring at him in bewilderment, her deep eyes looking almost dazed.
Then they flashed, and she ran towards him with outstretched hands.
“Ah, you cannot mean it, you cannot,” she gasped, breathing convulsively.
He took her hands in both his own, and drew her towards him very gently, looking into her eyes with such intensity that she felt he was reading her very soul.
Her colour came and went with each breath.
She was powerless to resist the strong magnetic influence felt by all who knew Francis Keene.
“Yes, I mean it. I offer you the post for life if you will accept it. I want you to play Beatrice to my Benedict for all time. I have loved you from the time of our first meeting. Am I too presumptuous, or do you care a little for me? When I saw my roses in your breast, when you yielded to my caress that was inevitable then, I fancied that my touch had power to thrill you. Muriel—”
Her eyes sank beneath his, and he held her close to his heart, stooping until his lips rested on hers.
For a moment she rested so, then, with a sudden shudder, she drew herself away.
“You do not know who I am,” she whispered hoarsely. “My mother—was—guilty of a great sin.”
“Do not tell me, my child,” he interrupted. “I love you. Whoever or whatever were your people and their doings is nothing to me.”
“I can never marry,” she said, clasping her hands to her heart, and speaking with passionate strength, “for if ever I meet a man named Philip Ainslie I will kill him. He merits death. If he has any descendants I will tell them of their father’s iniquity.”
Keene started violently, and looked at her with amazement in his face.
Then he went slowly to her, and put his hands on her shoulders.
“My darling, what phantasy is this? Philip Ainslie was my father. I am his eldest son, Francis Ainslie. How has my father wronged you?”
He never forgot the horror and misery that his words brought into her features, nor the pathos with which she recoiled, shuddering in every limb.
“Oh, dear God! You, Francis Ainslie——”
“Keene is my theatrical name. What is it, my child? What is the sin?” he asked, very tenderly. “Come to me and tell me.”
But she shrank from him, pressing her hands to her eyes as though to shut him out from her sight.
“You—you—” she moaned. “I cannot tell you—I cannot——”
With two steps he caught her in his arms, crushing her resistance with unconscious strength, pressing passionate kisses on her pale, quivering lips.
“You love me—you cannot deny that. I will yield you to no other, listen to no reason that can separate you from me. By this kiss I swear that you shall be my wife. Now tell me,” releasing her, “what was the wrong done by my father? What did he do. Tell me, Muriel.”
White as death, she met his look and answered faintly—
“He betrayed my mother and murdered my father.”
Then, before he could prevent, slipped to the ground.
For the first time in her life, she had fainted.
FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HER LIFE SHE HAD FAINTED.
He raised her to a chair, and fetched brandy himself, but it was some minutes before she opened her eyes.
As soon as she was fully sensible he made her drink some brandy mixed with water, fairly pouring it down her throat.
Then he spoke to her, firmly holding her hands in a strong grasp.
And by degrees, with her face hidden on his shoulder, she told him the story of Ainslie’s treachery, her mother’s weakness, and of her father’s nobility, though it cost him his life.
As she finished she drew away from him and spoke very quietly—
“You see that I could never be your wife. I could not marry the son of my father’s murderer. Do not seek to persuade me.”
“Listen to me, my darling. My father was not a good man. He married at one-and-twenty my mother, a beautiful girl of seventeen, and in two years he deserted her after breaking her heart with his cruelty. She died when I was little more than six years old, but after nearly thirty years I can see her lovely face still, with its look of eternal unhappiness. I was educated at a monastery in Florence until I was eighteen, and I never saw my father’s face nor knew that he existed; he had made no sign nor troubled himself to know if I were living or dead. My mother’s father had settled some money upon me, which made me independent. When I came to England and went to Oxford I found that my father was living—that he had re-married. But though I sought him out, he betrayed such little interest in me that I left him, declaring that he would never see me again unless he summoned me.
“I carried out my own career without his aid. His life was a very unhappy one, his second wife was a woman who was my mother’s opposite entirely—strong, domineering, extravagant. He died two years ago, before I could go to him, of a painful disease.
“You see, my darling, that I knew nothing of his sin against your father—it must have been committed whilst I was in Florence. I will not press you now—you will require all your strength to act to-night. In a week from to-day I will hear your decision.”
And as she got up wearily he took her in his arms and kissed her quietly with a strength and mastery that were irresistible.
Neither by word nor look did Muriel feel that the man with whom she acted night after night remembered aught of their conversation concerning her mother’s and his father’s sin, nor of the love that he had shown to her.
Whatever his genius evinced to the audience—and with Ophelia there is but little of the tender passion to be shown—Muriel knew that he was keeping his word to the letter, and, woman-like, she experienced just a little pique that it was so.
His courtesy was always the same, but whether they were alone or not, his manner showed no more warmth than was requisite for a close friend.
It had been a Monday when she first acted at the “Coliseum”; the week would be up on Tuesday.
Muriel grew white and embarrassed, dreading to meet his look, yet looking forward each day to the evening.
On the Saturday when the Carrolls came to fetch her, the novelist turned to Keene.
“Will you drive down to Windsor with us to-morrow? Roberts is coming, and Sir Randal and Lady Trevelyan.”
“I should have been delighted,” the actor said, cordially; “but I have to go down into the country—to see a friend who is ill. I have been wanting to go all the week, but Sunday is my only day, you see.”
And on Monday when Muriel arrived at the theatre, her dresser brought her a note from Keene.
“My dear child,—You will find an old friend in the green room, who is anxious to see you. Can you go now? You had better dress first, however.
“Yours, F. Keene.”
“Who can it be?” she said to herself, telling her dresser to be very quick.
And in ten minutes she was ready and hastening to the green room.
Keene was there, leaning over someone lying on a sofa.
He turned to greet her, and then Muriel gave a little cry and ran forward to kneel by the couch.
“You!” she said. “Oh! Mr. Leighton, this is so delightful. I never dared to hope that you would come to London.”
The picturesque-looking man, sadly worn and wasted physically, lying back on the cushions, gave a warm smile, and took her hands in his.
“When your letter reached me, child, telling of your success, I felt tempted to try to get to town; but—you know my weakness and dislike to being seen.”
“Yes,” she said softly, “I know; and,” with a quick flush, “Mr. Keene managed it, I am sure.”
“He found me out through you, child, of course. And yesterday, Francis,” to the actor who had left them alone, “I wonder if you realised what it was to me to see you? It was like old times—”
Keene came back and went round to the other side from Muriel, leaning forward and putting one hand caressingly on Leighton’s shoulder.
When he spoke, Muriel knew that he was putting stern control over himself, not letting the emotion he felt be detected by the swift, restless eyes that now and then lit up with all the fire and intellect of a great actor’s enthusiasm.
It was no light thing, the meeting of the two men, separated by nearly ten years’ absence.
They had parted with Leighton in the full zenith of his career, Keene the rising young actor of five-and-twenty, even then considered by old playgoers to be far in advance of all others.
The one had been cut down in the prime of his manhood, his life’s happiness seared by one of the basest treacheries ever perpetrated by a friend. His enthusiasm damped, his sensitive nature shrinking beneath the blow, he could not endure the former publicity that had attached to his lightest action, preferring to live in an obscure country town, away from the torment of the world’s pity.
“You have reached so high a pinnacle that the critics cannot influence, yet you will not disdain my congratulations, Francis. You were always greater far than I, and to your own power you add that of unrivalled management——”
Keene laughingly put his hand over the speaker’s mouth.
“Opinions differ, my dear Lyon. I would give a very great deal to have the old days revived. You worked wonders with your pupil here. I had little or nothing to add to your training, given at such disadvantage.”
“I should like to witness the performance to-night from the front, if it can be managed. Can you put me somewhere out of sight?” Fenton asked; “if not——”
“Your chair will be placed in the stage box,” Keene answered, softly; “no one shall bother you. Colin Carroll—you remember him?”
“The writer? Yes; a very amusing fellow.”
“He has married since you knew him—a charming little woman. I thought of asking them to take care of you; here they are.”
“And Mr. Gascoigne!” cried Muriel. “Mr. Keene, you are inimitable.”
“That is true,” laughed Fenton. “There is the call-boy, Francis.”
The Carrolls came up, and the invalid’s chair was wheeled to the stage box.
Mr. Gascoigne went off to his stall, for Keene would not run the risk of wearying Fenton by too many faces and conversation at first.
The performance went off more brilliantly than ever.
Muriel, conscious of the white, worn face watching hers and Keene’s every movement, listening to every word, and of her old friend straight in front of her in the stalls, was in a fever of excitement.
Her eyes flashed and sparkled; in the mad scene she surpassed herself, her voice filling every corner of the vast theatre like the chime of silver bells, low but clear.
Keene was superb, and the audience thundered such applause that he was bound to appear after each act again and again, Muriel also being called for with him.
“You will be a great actress, my dear,” Lyon Fenton said to her afterwards. “Although you have had every possible advantage in going on with Keene, still an educated audience would not tolerate mediocrity even under such auspices. You have sympathy, you are en rapport with your part and with the people, and you are very beautiful. Go on working hard—Keene will never let you rest; and he is the greatest man of the time. You like him?”
She coloured hotly under the swift, searching scrutiny.
“My dear, you will not be offended with me—”
She knelt down by the chair.
They were alone; and the tears trembled on her eyelids.
“You know that I can never repay a tenth part of your goodness to me,” she said, with deepest feeling. “All my life, Mr. Fenton, I shall pray that—even yet—you may be happy. Without your training I could have done nothing, and your introduction—”
“No, no. That was all overshadowed by your meeting with Keene in the train. He loved you at first sight—I know all about it, my child. And yet there is a cloud between you. He is very attractive to women—surely you are not insensible to his affection and admiration? Tell me what is the matter. I am old enough to be your father, and, moreover, I have one foot in the grave and the other hovering on the brink. I believe that you do care for him with all your strength,” he added, putting one hand on her arm, gently, and lifting her face.
“Yes,” she said, suddenly, “I do, Mr. Fenton. How could I help it? He was so kind, so thoughtful, so generous; and, when I found that he knew you so well, it was not like speaking to a stranger.”
“And so, sweetheart, you will not visit my father’s sin upon me? I hoped that Fenton would persuade you. Indeed,” laughing, and turning her face up to his, “I am strongly of opinion that he is first with you. I have got his promise that he will live with us; so that his last years will be happier than the past ten have been. And the child loves you. Are you pleased, my darling?”
She put her arms round his neck, and, for the first time, laid her mouth on his with a long passionate kiss.
If he had doubted the strength of her love before, he never did after that.
“You are perfect, Francis. Quite perfect,” she said, gravely. “If you do not commit something mortal I shall be afraid of you.”
NOTICE.—The next Complete Novelette Story, to be Given Away with No. 676 of “Something to Read” Journal, will be entitled:
AT THE ALTAR RAILS.
Printed by A. Bradley, at the London and County Works, Drury Lane, W.C.; and Published for the Proprietor, Edwin J. Brett, at 173, Fleet Street, E.C.—Feb. 13, 1894.