Part 34 (1/2)
”LET THE STRUCKEN DEER GO WEEP.”
But if Lionel regarded this constant a.s.sociation with Nina--this unreserved discussion of all their private affairs--even the sort of authority and guidance he exercised over her at times--as so simple and natural a thing that it was unnecessary to pause and ask whither it might tend, what about Nina herself? She was quite alone in England; she had more regard for the future than he had; what if certain wistful hopes, concealed almost from herself, had sprung up amid all this intimate and frankly affectionate companions.h.i.+p?
One morning she and Estelle were walking in to Regent Street, to examine proofs of certain photographs that had been taken of them both (for Clara figured in the shop-windows now, as well as Capitaine Crepin).
Nina was very merry and vivacious on this sufficiently bright forenoon; and to please Estelle she was talking French--her French being fluent enough, if it was not quite perfect as to accent. They were pa.s.sing along Piccadilly, when she stopped at a certain shop.
”Come, I show you something,” she said.
Estelle followed her in. The moment the shopman saw who it was he did not wait to be questioned.
”It is quite ready, miss; I was just about to send it down.”
He brought forward the double loving-cup that Lionel had given to Nina; and as the young lady took it into her hands she glanced at the rim.
Yes; the inscription was quite right: ”_From Leo to Nina_”--that was the simple legend she had had engraved.
”Here is the cup I spoke of, Estelle; is it not beautiful? And then I would not trouble Lionel to have the inscription made--I told him I would have it done myself and asked him what the words should be--behold it!”
The cup was duly admired and handed back to be sent down to Sloane Street; then Estelle and she left the shop together.
”Oh, yes, it is very beautiful,” said the former, continuing to speak in her native tongue, ”and a very distinguished present; but there is something still more piquant that he will be buying for you ere long--can you not guess, Nina?--no?--not a wedding-ring?”
The audacity of the question somewhat disconcerted Nina; but she met it with no sham denial, no affected protest.
”He has not spoken to me, Estelle,” Nina said, gravely and simply, ”And sometimes I ask myself if it is not better we should remain as we are--we are such good friends and companions. We are happy; we have plenty to occupy ourselves with; why undertake more serious cares?
Perhaps that is all that Lionel thinks of it; and, if it is so, I am content. And then sometimes, Estelle, I ask myself if it would not be better for him to marry--when he has made his choice, that is to say; and I picture him and his young wife living very happily in a quite small establishment--perhaps two or three rooms only, in one of those large buildings in Victoria Street--and everything very pretty around them, with their music and their occupations and the visits of friends.
Would not that be for him a life far more satisfactory than his present distractions--the gayeties and amus.e.m.e.nts--the invitations of strangers?”
”Yes, yes, yes!” her companion cried, with instant a.s.sent. ”Ah, Nina, I can see you the most charming young house-mistress--I can see you receive your guests when they come for afternoon music--you wear a tea-gown of brocade the color of wall-flower, with cream-colored lace--you speak French, English, Italian as it is necessary for this one and that--your musical reunions are known everywhere. Will madame permit the poor Estelle to be present?--Estelle, who will not dare to sing before those celebrated ones, but who will applaud, applaud--in herself a prodigious _claque_! And now, behold! Miss Burgoyne arrives--Miss Burgoyne in grand state--and nevertheless you are her dear Nina, her charming friend, although in her heart she hates you for having carried off the handsome Lionel--”
”Estelle,” said Nina, gently, ”you let your tongue run away. When I picture to myself Lionel in the future, I leave the s.p.a.ce beside him empty. Who is to fill it?--perhaps he has never given a thought to that.
Perhaps it will always be empty; perhaps one of his fas.h.i.+onable friends will suddenly appear there, who knows? He does not seem ever to look forward; if I remonstrate about his expenditure, he laughs. And why should he give me things of value? I am not covetous. If he wishes to express kindness, is not a word better than any silver cup; If he wishes to be remembered when he is absent, would not the smallest message sent in a letter be of more value than a bracelet with sapphires--”
”Oh, Nina,” her companion exclaimed, laughing, ”what a thing to say!--that you would rather have a sc.r.a.p of writing from Lionel Moore than a bracelet with sapphires--”
”No, Estelle, I did not,” Nina protested, rather indignantly; ”I was talking of the value of presents generally, and of their use or uselessness.”
”And yet you seemed very proud of that loving-cup, Nina, and of the inscription on it,” Estelle said, demurely; and there the subject ended, for they were now approaching the photographer's.
It was a Sat.u.r.day night that Honnor Cunyngham and her mother--who had come up from Brighton for a few days--had been induced to fix for their visit to the New Theatre; and as the evening drew near, Lionel became more and more anxious, so that he almost regretted having persuaded them. All his other troubles and worries he could at once carry to Nina, whose cheerful common-sense and abundant courage made light of them and lent him heart; but this one he had to ponder over by himself; he did not care to tell Nina with what concern he looked forward to the impressions that Miss Cunyngham might form of himself and his surroundings when brought immediately into contact with them. And yet he was not altogether silent.
”You see how it is, Nina,” he said, in tones of deep vexation. ”That fellow Collier has been allowed to gag and gag until the whole piece is filled with his music-hall tomfoolery, and the music has been made quite subsidiary. I wonder Lehmann doesn't get a lot of acrobats and conjurors, and let Miss Burgoyne and you and me stop at home. ”The Squire's Daughter” is really a very pretty piece, with some delightful melody running through it; but that fellow has vulgarized it into the lowest burlesque.”
”What does it matter to you, Leo?” Nina said. ”What he does is separate from you. He cannot vulgarize your singing.”
”But he makes all that clowning of his so important--it has become so big a feature of the piece that any friends of yours coming to see the little opera might very naturally say, 'Oh, is this the kind of thing he figures in? This is an intellectual entertainment, truly!'”
”But you do not join in it, Leo!” Nina protested.