SCENE III.
Montmorency was seated in the greenroom at the conclusion of the play, engaged in that absent train of thought known as a brown-study. The more he saw of the fascinating Fonblanque, the more he was captivated. Every hour spent in her society but served to rivet more closely the chain which bound him to her. Should he condescend and make her an offer of his hand, she would naturally be influenced by a profound sense of gratitude, when she discovered that she had married a man of fortune and a Stanley! Whereas, if he had married the rich Miss Anstruther, he would have had her money-bags perpetually thrown in his face. A silver-toned utterance fell on his ears. Looking up, he beheld the subject of his cogitations.
‘Allow me to congratulate you, Mr Montmorency, on your Charles Surface this evening. A double call before the curtain, and well deserved.’
‘You are pleased to flatter me. The plaudits of the house to-night render any praise on my part of your Lady Teazle unnecessary. I regret that I am fated to lose so charming a compatriot.’
Was it fancy that Montmorency imagined he detected a paler tint on the cheek of the actress, as she replied: ‘You are not going to leave us?’
‘I fear so.’
‘Wherefore?’
‘You are the last person to whom I can confide the cause of my sudden departure.’
Lady Teazle cast down her lovely eyes for a brief space, and then, in a voice in which the smallest possible tremolo was perceptible, whispered: ‘Are you not happy here?’
‘I fear, too much so,’ sighed Montmorency. ‘I have been living in a fool’s paradise lately.’
‘How? In what way, Mr Montmorency?’
‘I am in love.—You start. You do not believe in an actor, who is always simulating affection, ever falling under the influence of a real and veritable passion.’
‘You wrong me; indeed, you do. The artistic nature is, and must be, more acutely sensitive than that possessed by ordinary mortals. Do I know the lady?’
‘You see her every day—when you contemplate those charming features in the glass. Yes; it is you, Miss Fonblanque, whom I love, whom I adore!’
How can we describe the flood of sensations which agitated the bosom of the heiress, as she listened to the avowal of affection from the lips of the only man she had ever loved! In low and trembling tones, she managed to reply: ‘Mr Montmorency, you are not rehearsing a scene in some new comedy?’
‘I was never more serious in my life.’
By this time, the pride of the Anstruthers had come to the assistance of the heiress. ‘I grieve very much that I cannot accept your offer. It is impossible.’
‘Impossible! Why?’
‘That I cannot explain.’
‘We are both members of the same profession, and so far equal.’
‘Pardon me,’ said Lady Teazle. ‘You know nothing of my antecedents, and’——
‘And you know nothing of mine, you would say. Charming equality! Say, Miss Fonblanque, may I hope?’
It was now the turn of the actress to sigh. ‘It would be cruel to raise hopes which can never be realised.’
Montmorency let fall the hand which in his ardour he had seized, and drew himself proudly up. ‘That is your fixed answer?’
‘It is.’
Montmorency once more took possession of her taper fingers, and raising them to his lips, uttered the word ‘Farewell!’ and hastily left the greenroom.
The dark melting eyes of the heiress gazed after his retreating figure, and large drops of moisture gathered in them. ‘I have half a mind to call him back,’ she mentally whispered.—‘No! I must remember I am an Anstruther.’
Sinking on a couch, Lady Teazle felt her brain spinning round; then presently raising her eyes, she beheld—Mr Vallance!
‘Have I not the honour of speaking to Miss Anstruther?’
‘Since you recognise me, it would be affectation to deny my identity. Mr Vallance, may I ask you to preserve my secret?’
‘From all save one individual—Mr Montmorency. Surely you knew that in the Charles Surface of this evening you beheld your rejected lover, Mr Stanley?’
A film came slowly over the eyes of Miss Anstruther. ‘You are not joking, Mr Vallance?’
‘The matter is too serious for jesting. But I will break a confidence. He loves you. He told me so half an hour ago.’
The heiress could scarcely forbear a smile, as she reflected that her ears had drunk in the soft confession only five minutes ago. ‘Mr Vallance, will you do me a favour? Will you ask Mr Stanley to step here for a few minutes? But remember, you must on no account reveal my identity.’
‘You may rely upon me, Miss Anstruther. I do not know what steps you mean to adopt; but there is no time to lose, for old Colonel Stanley is in front, and will, if he has recognised you, at once inform his son.’
‘That is my fear; so haste.’
Almost before the heiress could mature her plans, the rejected one appeared before her. He was very grave, and bowed with an air of deep humility, as the actress thus addressed him: ‘Mr Vallance and I are old acquaintances, so I commissioned him to ask you to return for a short time. I feel very anxious about our scenes in the Hunchback to-morrow. Would you mind running through the Modus and Helen scenes? I mean the second one.’
Montmorency bowed. ‘With pleasure.’
It would have been a lesson for half the actresses on the stage, could they have beheld the manner in which the saucy coquette of the play coaxed her lover, lured him on, fascinated him, and enveloped him in such a spell of witcheries, that no Modus that ever breathed could have been proof against her seductive wiles. The scene came to an unexpected termination, for Montmorency suddenly caught her in his arms, and as he held her clasped tight to his breast, exclaimed in rapid and excited tones: ‘This is not acting! If it be, you are the greatest actress that ever trod the boards. You love me! I see it in your sparkling eye; I read it in your blushing cheek! Say, am I not right?’
Emily Anstruther remained perfectly passive in the arms of Harry Stanley, as she murmured ‘Yes!’
The enraptured couple were so completely absorbed in reading love in each other’s eyes, that they had not observed the entrance of two gentlemen, Colonel Stanley and Mr Vallance.
The old colonel was the first to speak. ‘Speak, sir! Is this a scene from a play?’
By this time the heiress had left the sweet anchorage of her lover’s arms, and advancing to the old man, said: ‘Do you not recognise your godchild, Emily Anstruther?’
But surprise had taken away the power of speech from the colonel.
His son interposed. ‘I trust Miss Anstruther will acquit me of any guilty knowledge of this fact—will believe that I believed she was merely Miss Fonblanque the actress.’
Emily Anstruther here cast down her eyes, while a deep blush mantled over her face and neck. ‘I am afraid I am not equally innocent; for Mr Vallance informed me that I had refused my hated lover. But I have enough confidence in his love for me, to hope for his belief in my unselfish love for him.’
‘So you see, dad,’ exclaimed the younger Stanley, ‘Love not only rules the court, the camp, the grove, as the poet says, but does not disdain to flutter his wings in the greenroom.’
Author’s Note.—This story having been dramatised, and the provisions of the law as regards dramatic copyright having been duly complied with, any infringement of the author’s rights becomes actionable.