“I cannot understand why Mr. Karne objects so strongly,” said Lady Marjorie, with a thoughtful expression on her bright face. “He seems to have taken a positive antipathy to the dramatic profession. I told you so, ages ago, didn’t I, Haviland? I have always found him amenable to reason in everything but this. Of course I can understand his feelings in some measure. He does not like the idea of Celia laying herself open to receive the cheap compliments of any one who chooses to pay to see her act. He doesn’t like the associations of the theatre, either, and thinks they might have a deleterious effect. The life of an actress is different to that of a public singer. He may be right, after all.”
Haviland rose from his seat, and folded his arms dramatically.
“‘Et tu, Brute?’” he exclaimed reproachfully. “Lady Marjorie, this is too bad of you. I had quite relied on your co-operation in this matter. Look here; I’ve set my heart on having this play produced. I wrote it purposely for Miss Franks, and the part will suit her down to the ground. It is called ‘The Voice of the Charmer,’ and Miss Franks is to be the charmer. She has to look pretty with her hair down, to act, and to sing, all of which she can do very well indeed. It’s a play that will set off her talents to perfection. Now, as to the questionable associations of the stage, and all that kind of nonsense, I’ll cast the play myself, and every member of the company shall be of good repute; I can arrange all that with the manager. I will also take the responsibility of Miss Franks’s well-being on my own hands. Surely her brother cannot object if I promise all that? I intend taking a special trip to Durlston next week to tackle him on the subject myself, and I shall be very much surprised if I do not succeed in overruling his protestations. Mr. Karne is not an obstinate man, I am sure.”
“No, he is not obstinate,” said Lady Marjorie, decidedly; “but he is very determined, and when he once makes up his mind to anything, he is almost immovable. However, you have my best wishes; I hope you will succeed.”
“If you do manage to obtain his consent, when do you think the play will be produced?” asked David Salmon.
“Ah, that is more than I can tell you,” replied the dramatist, smiling. “It depends on a good many things. Once we put the machinery in motion, though, it will not take us so very long. We might have everything ready by October, or we may have to wait until the pantomime season is over. It entirely depends on the manager who takes it up, and on what his arrangements for the coming months may be.”
David was not sure that the project pleased him. He intended asking Celia to marry him as soon as the arrangements for the wedding could be made, and this theatrical scheme might be an obstacle in the way.
When Haviland took his leave, the younger man lingered behind to try and persuade her to give up the idea; but Lady Marjorie gently reminded Celia that it was time to go and dress for a dinner-party to which they were going, so that David was reluctantly compelled to leave also.
He strode out of the house, and passed the Marble Arch, deep in thought. He was beginning to pity himself for being engaged to such a beautiful and gifted girl; for, were she unattractive and dull, she would be easier to manage—they would have been married long ago. He resented, also, the influence which Lady Marjorie evidently possessed over her, and determined that after the wedding he would treat her with coolness, and try to make Celia do the same. It never occurred to him to be glad that Celia should have such a good friend: instead of that, he was mean-spirited enough to find at the bottom of Lady Marjorie’s friendship a motive of self-interest; he knew that Herbert Karne would not allow his sister to partake of her chaperone’s hospitality without making some adequate return.
As he turned into Edgware Road, David became aware that somebody was walking alongside him, and, looking up, he recognized, with disagreeable surprise, Myer Apfelbaum, a man whose acquaintance he tolerated only because he owed him money. Apfelbaum carried on business in the city as a wholesale furrier, and had become rich by sweating his workpeople. He loved his business, especially when opportunity occurred for him to get the better of any one; he loved to boast about it, too. David did not care to be seen walking with him—he never looked presentable except on Sabbaths and holy-days,—but he was compelled to put up with his society, and listen to an account of the stock he had sold for the last week, and the bargains he had made. When Myer Apfelbaum was not threatening to send him a writ—which happened about three times a week—he was very friendly indeed.