Part 35 (1/2)
”I have no doubt you will be as pleased to make her acquaintance as she will be to make yours,” said he, ”and a few civil words never do any harm.”
Here Miss Burgoyne was called. She went to the little side-table and sipped some of her home-brewed lemonade; then he opened the door for her, and together they went up into the wings.
”Tall, is she?” continued Miss Burgoyne, as they were looking on at Mr.
Fred Collier's buffooneries out there on the stage. ”Is she as silent and stupid as her brother?”
”Her brother?”
”Lord Rockminster.”
”Oh, Lord Rockminster isn't her brother. You've got them mixed up,” said Lionel. ”Miss Cunyngham's brother, Sir Hugh, married a sister of Lord Rockminster--the Lady Adela Cunyngham who came to your room one night--don't you remember?”
”You seem to have the whole peerage and baronetage at your fingers'
ends,” said she, sullenly; and the next moment she was on the stage, smiling and gracious, and receiving her father's guests with that charming manner which the heroine of the operetta could a.s.sume when she chose.
Even with Miss Burgoyne's grudgingly promised a.s.sistance, Lionel still remained unaccountably perturbed about that visit of Lady Cunyngham and her daughter; and when on the Sat.u.r.day evening he first became aware--through the confused glare of the footlights--that the two ladies had come into the box he had secured for them, it seemed to him as though he were responsible for every single feature of the performance.
As for himself, he was at his best, and he knew it; he sang, 'The starry night brings me no rest' with such a _verve_ that the enthusiasm of the audience was unbounded; even Miss Burgoyne--Miss Grace Mainwaring, that is, who was perched up on a bit of scaffolding in order to throw a rose to her lover--listened with a new interest, instead of being busy with her ribbons and the set of her hair; and when she opened the cas.e.m.e.nt in answer to his impa.s.sioned appeal, she kissed the crimson-cotton blossom thrice ere she dropped it to her enraptured swain below. This was all very well; but when the comic man took possession of the stage, Lionel--instead of going off to his dressing-room to glance at an evening paper or have a chat with some acquaintance--remained in the wings, looking on with an indescribable loathing. This hideous farcicality seemed more vulgar than ever? what would Honnor Cunyngham think of his a.s.sociates? He felt as if he were an accomplice in foisting this wretched music-hall stuff on the public. And the mother--the tall lady with the proud, fine features and the grave and placid voice--what would she think of the new acquaintance whom her daughter had introduced to her? Had it been Lady Adela or her sisters, he would not have cared one jot. They were proud to be in alliance with professional people; they flattered themselves that they rather belonged to the set--actors, authors, artists, musicians, those busy and eager amateurs considered to be, like themselves, of imagination all compact. But that he should have asked Honnor Cunyngham to come and look on at the antics of this gaping and grinning fool; that she should know he had to consort with such folk; that she should consider him an aider and abettor in putting this kind of entertainment before the public--this galled him to the quick.
The murmur of the Aivron and the Geinig seemed dinning in his ears. If only he could have thrown aside these senseless trappings--if he were an under-keeper now, or a water-bailiff, or even a gillie looking after the dogs and the ponies, he could have met the gaze of those clear hazel eyes without shame. But here he was the coadjutor of this grimacing clown; and she was sitting in her box there--and thinking.
”What is it, Leo?” said Nina, coming up to him rather timidly. ”You are annoyed.”
”I have made a mistake, that is all,” he said, rather impatiently. ”I shouldn't have persuaded those two ladies to come to the theatre; I forgot what kind of thing we played in; I might as well have asked them to go to a penny gaff. Collier is worse than ever to-night.”
”And you better, Leo,” said Nina, who had always comforting words for him. ”Did you not hear how enthusiastic the audience were? And if this is the young lady you told me of--who was so friendly in Scotland that she did not fear ridicule for herself in order to save you from the possibility of ridicule--surely she will be so well-wis.h.i.+ng to you that she will understand you have nothing to do with the foolishness on the stage.”
”If you are thinking of that salmon-fis.h.i.+ng incident,” he said, rather hastily, ”of course you mustn't imagine there was any fear of _her_ encountering any ridicule. Oh, certainly not. It was no new thing for her to get wet when she was out fis.h.i.+ng--”
”At all events, it was a friendly act to you,” said Nina, on whom that occurrence seemed to have made some impression. ”And if she is so generous, so benevolent towards you, do you think she will not see you are not responsible for the comic business?”
It was at the end of the penultimate act that an attendant brought round Miss Cunyngham and her mother--the latter a handsome and distinguished-looking elderly lady, with white hair done up _a la Marie Antoinette_--behind the scenes; and Nina, hanging some way back, could see them being presented to Miss Burgoyne. Nina was a little breathless and bewildered. She had heard a good deal about the fisher-maiden in the far North, of her hardy out-of-door life, and her rough and serviceable costume; and perhaps she had formed some mental picture of her--very different from the actual appearance of this tall young Englishwoman, whose clear, calm eyes, strongly marked eyebrows, and proud, refined features were so striking. Here was no simple maiden in a suit of serge, but a young woman of commanding presence, whose long cloak of tan-colored velvet, with its hanging sleeves showing a flash of crimson, seemed to Nina to have a sort of royal magnificence about it. And yet her manner appeared to be very simple and gentle; she smiled as she talked to Miss Burgoyne; and the last that Nina saw of her--as they all left together in the direction of the corridor, Lionel obsequiously attending them--was that the tall young lady walked with a most gracious carriage. Nina made sure that they had all disappeared before she, too, went down the steps; then she made her way to her own room, to get ready for the final act. Miss Girond, of course, was also here; but Nina had no word for Estelle; she seemed preoccupied about something.
Never had Harry Thornhill dressed so quickly; and when, in his gay costume of flowered silk and ruffles, tied wig and buckled shoes, he tapped at Miss Burgoyne's door and entered, he found that this young lady was still in the curtained apartment, though she had sent out Jane to see that her two visitors were being looked after. Lionel, too, helped himself to some tea; and it was with a singular feeling of relief that he discovered, as he presently did, that both Lady Cunyngham and her daughter were quite charmed with the piece, so far as they had seen it. They appeared to put the farcicality altogether aside, and to have been much impressed by the character of the music.
”What a pretty girl that Miss Ross is!” said the younger of the two ladies, incidentally. ”But she is not English, is she? I thought I could detect a trace of foreign accent here and there.”
”No, she is Italian,” Lionel made answer. ”Her name is really Rossi--Antonia Rossi--but her intimate friends call her Nina.”
”What a beautiful voice she has!” Miss Honnor continued. ”So fresh and pure and sweet. I think she has a far more beautiful voice than--”
He quickly held up his hand, and the hint was taken.
”And she puts such life into her part--she seems to be really light-hearted and merry,” resumed Miss Honnor, who appeared to have been much taken by Nina's manner on the stage. ”Do you know, Mr. Moore, I could not help to-night thinking more than once of ”The Chaplet” and my sisters and their amateur friends. The difference between an amateur performance and a performance of trained artists is so marvellous; it doesn't seem to me to be one of degree at all; at an amateur performance, however clever it may be, I am conscious all the time that the people are a.s.suming something quite foreign to themselves, whereas on the stage the people seem to be the actual characters they profess to be. I forget they are actors and actresses--”
”You must be a good audience, Miss Cunyngham,” said he (it used to be ”Miss Honnor” in Strathaivron, but that was some time ago--_then_ he was not decked out and painted for exhibition on the stage).
”Oh, I like to believe,” she said. ”I don't wish to criticise. I wholly and delightfully give myself up to the illusion. Mother and I go so seldom to the theatre that we are under no temptation to begin and ask how this or that is done, or to make any comparisons; we surrender ourselves to the story, and believe the people to be real people all we can. As for mother, if it weren't a dreadful secret--”