Part 30 (2/2)

”No--not at all!”

”Sat.u.r.day week is the 400th night,” he continued; ”and to celebrate it, Lehmann is going to give the princ.i.p.al members of the company, and a few friends, I suppose, a dinner at the Star and Garter at Richmond. Haven't you heard?--but of course he'll send you a card of invitation. The worst of it is that it is no use driving down at this time of the year; I suppose we shall have to get there just as we please, and meet in the room; but I don't know how all the proper escorts are to be arranged. I was thinking, Nina, I could take you and Miss Girond down, if you will let me.”

There was a bright, quick look of pleasure in Nina's eyes--but only for an instant.

”No, no, Leo,” she said, with lowered lashes. ”That is not right. Miss Burgoyne and you are the two princ.i.p.al people in the theatre--you are on the stage equals--off the stage also you are her friend--you must take her to Richmond, Leo.”

”Miss Burgoyne?”

But here the door of Miss Burgoyne's room was suddenly opened, and the voice of the young lady herself was heard, in unmistakably angry tones:

”Oh, bother your headache! I suppose it was your headache made you split my blue jacket in two, and I suppose it was your headache made you smash my brooch last night--I wonder what some women were born for!” And therewithal the charming Grace Mainwaring made her appearance; and not a word--hardly a look--did the indignant small lady choose to bestow on either Lionel or Nina as she brushed by them on her way up to the wings.

Yes, here he was in the theatre again, with all its trivial distractions and interests, and also its larger excitements and ambitions and rewards, not the least of which was the curious fascination he found in holding a great audience hushed and enthralled, listening breathlessly to every far-reaching, pa.s.sionate note. Then his reappearance on the stage brought him a renewal of all the friendly little attentions and hospitalities that had been interrupted by his leaving for Scotland; for if certain of his fas.h.i.+onable acquaintance were still away at their country houses, there were plenty of others who had returned to town.

Club life had begun again, too. But most of all, at this time, Lionel was disposed to enjoy that quiet and gentle companions.h.i.+p with Nina, which was so simple and frank and unreserved. He could talk to her freely, on all subjects save one--and that he was trying to put away from himself in these altered circ.u.mstances. He and she had a community of interests; there was never any lack of conversation--whether he were down in Sloane Street, drinking tea and trying over new music with her, or walking in with Miss Girond and her to the theatre through the now almost leafless Green Park. Sometimes, when she was grown petulant and fractious, he had to scold her into good-humor; sometimes she had seriously to remonstrate with him; but it was all given and taken in good part. He was never embarra.s.sed or anxious in her society; he was happy and content and careless, as she appeared to be also. He did not trouble to invent any excuse for calling upon her; he went down to Sloane Street just whenever he had a spare half-hour or hour; and if the morning was bright, or even pa.s.sable (for it was November now, and even a tolerable sort of day was welcome), and if Miss Girond did not wish to go out or had some other engagement, Nina and he would set off for a stroll by themselves, up into Kensington Gardens, it might be, or along Piccadilly, or through the busy crowds of Oxford Street; while they looked at the shops and the pa.s.sers-by, and talked about the theatre and the people in it or about old days in Naples. There was no harm; and they thought no harm. Sometimes he could hear her hum to herself a fragment of one of the old familiar canzoni--”Antoniella Antonia!” or ”Voca, voca ncas' a mano”--so light-hearted was she; and occasionally they said a word to each other in Neapolitanese--but this was seldom, for Nina considered the practice to be most reprehensible. What she had chiefly to take him to task for, however, was his incurable and inordinate extravagance--wherever she was concerned especially.

”Leo, you think it is a compliment?” she said to him, earnestly. ”No, not at all? I am sorry. Why should you buy for me this, that, whatever strikes your eye, and no matter the price? I have everything I desire.

Why to me?--why, if you must give, why not to your cousin you tell me of, who is so kind to the sick children in boarding them in the country?

There, now, is something worthy, something good, something to be praised--”

”Oh, preach away, Nina!” he answered, with a laugh. ”But I've contributed to Francie's funds until she won't take anything more from me--not at present. But why do you always talk about saving and saving?

You are an artist, Nina, and you put such value on money!”

”But an artist grows old, Leo,” she said.

”Perhaps you have been saving a little yourself, Nina?” he said, at a venture.

”Oh, yes, I have, Leo, a little,” she answered, rather shamefacedly.

”What for?” he made bold to ask.

”Oh, how do I know?” she said, with downcast eyes. ”Many things might happen: is it not safer? No, Leo, you must not say I love money for itself; it is not fair to me; but--but if a dear friend is ill--if a doctor says to him, 'Suspend all work and go away to Capri, to Algeria, to Eg--Egippo'--is it right?--and perhaps he has been indiscreet--he has been too generous to all his companions--he is in need--then you say, 'Here, take mine--it is between friends.' Then you are proud to have money, are you not?”

”I'm afraid, Nina, that's what they call a parable,” said he, darkly.

”But I am sure of this, that if that person were to be taken ill, and were so very poor, and were to go to Nina for help, I don't think he would have to fear any refusal. And then, as you say, Nina, you would be proud to have the money--just as I know you would be ready to give it.”

It was rarely that Nina blushed, but now her pretty, pale face fairly burned with conscious pleasure; and he hardly dared to look, yet he fancied there was something of moisture in the long, dark lashes, while she did not speak for some seconds. Perhaps he had been too bold in interpreting her parable.

Yes, there was no doubt that this spoiled favorite of the public, who lived amid the excitements, the flatteries, the gratifications of the moment, with hardly a thought of the future, was dreadfully extravagant, though it was rarely on himself that he lavished his reckless expenditure. Nina's protests were of no avail; whenever he saw anything pretty or odd or interesting, that he thought would please her, it was purchased there and then, to be given to her on the first opportunity.

One day he was going through Vigo Street, and noticed in a shop-window a pair of old-fas.h.i.+oned, silver-gilt loving-cups--those that interclasp; and forthwith he went in and bought them: ”I'll take those; how much are they” being his way of bargaining. In the afternoon he carried them down to Sloane Street.

”Here, Nina, I've brought you a little present; and I'll have to show you how to use it, or you would never guess what it is for.”

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