“Never mind, it was my own fault,” he rejoined, not wishing her to feel that she was in any way to blame. “It was foolish of me to imagine that you could fall in love with an old stager like myself. Oh, that’s all right”—as the girl was about to remonstrate,—“I am getting old, you know. Well, well, we will not say any more about it; only I do hope that when Mr. Right comes along, he will be worthy of you, Cely. You are a dear girl, you deserve to be made happy, and I sincerely trust that some good man will make you so.”
There was a suspicious moisture in Celia’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said simply, with one of her wonderful smiles. “It is very kind and generous of you to wish me all that; I hope, though, you won’t go away before Thursday,” raising her voice slightly, for Miss Haviland’s eyes were upon them. “I made sure that Lady Marjorie would be present at the theatre on the first night. I shall be dreadfully disappointed if you are away too.”
“Then I will stay,” he hastened to rejoin. “It is very kind of you to express such a desire.”
Thus ended Lord Bexley’s love affair, the only one he ever had.
The important Thursday came in due course, as every long-anticipated day comes, whether its advent be hailed with delight or dread. Celia was excited one moment, calm the next, and all the time cherished a secret fear lest she should be overcome with stage-fright at the crucial moment.
Late in the afternoon a large floral horse-shoe arrived from Mrs. Potter Wemyss. Haviland had it hung up in Celia’s dressing-room at the theatre, for luck. Accompanying the emblem was a note from the great actress wishing the author and his heroine a huge success. She was unable to attend the performance herself, having a professional engagement of her own to fulfil, but hoped to join them later at the Carlton, where Haviland was giving a supper in honour of the occasion.
Her good wishes were, happily, gratified. “The Voice of the Charmer” was a decided success. From the first ring-up to the final fall of the curtain, it went without a hitch. Beautiful scenery and costumes, good acting, a whimsical but fascinating plot—all these things were in its favour; and the audience being enthusiastic, ready to applaud on the slightest provocation, the good fortune of the play was thus ensured.
Celia’s cue did not occur until the latter part of the first act. She was heard singing in the distance until, after a melodious cadenza, she herself appeared. From the first moment of her entrance she held the stage. Opera glasses were immediately levelled and focussed, as with almost breathless interest the audience took in the beauty of her face and form, the profusion of bright hair falling over robes of filmy white; and then, the marvellous sweetness of her voice. Slightly nervous at first, she soon gained confidence; and, taking no heed of the audience, lost herself in the identity of Mallida, the hypnotist’s daughter, who, living in an old-world German town, lures men and women on by the magic power of her voice, until, arriving on her father’s domain, they are forced to submit to his evil machinations.
It was a curious play, recalling “Dr. Faustus” in the mystic impossibility of its first act, but becoming more plausible as it proceeded. The first scene was a secret cave in the heart of the Hartz mountains, where the hypnotist hid the spoil he had plundered from his victims; the last act represented, in striking contrast, a modern London ball-room; Haviland having run the whole gamut from the romantic to the commonplace.
The theatre was crowded in every part. Celia could not have desired a better reception than the one which was accorded her. Many of the people in the stalls and boxes had met her, when, like a meteor, she had flashed upon society under the chaperonage of Lady Marjorie Stonor. Claiming personal acquaintance, therefore, they were particularly interested, and vied with pit and gallery in thundering their applause.