Part 42 (1/2)

”But look here, Miss Girond,” he exclaimed, ”if she has gone back to her friends in Italy, that's all right; but if she is in this country, without any occupation, her money will soon be exhausted--she can't have had so very much. What will become of her then? Don't you think I should put an advertis.e.m.e.nt in the papers--not in my name, but in yours--your initials--begging her at least to let you know where she is?”

Estelle shook her head.

”No, it is useless. Perhaps I understand Nina a little better than you, though you know her longer. She is gentle and affectionate and very grateful to her friends; but under that there is firmness--oh, yes. She has firmness of mind, although she is so loving; when she has decided to go away and remain, you will not draw her back, no, not at all! She will remain where she wishes to be; perhaps she decides never to see any of us again. Well, well, it is pitiable, but for us to interfere, that is useless.”

”Oh, I am not so sure of that,” he said. ”As you say, I have known Nina longer than you have; if I could only learn where she is, I am quite sure that I could persuade her to come back.”

”Very well--try!” said Estelle, throwing out both hands. ”I say no--that she will not say where she is. And your London papers, how will they find her? Perhaps she is in a small English village--perhaps in Paris--perhaps in Naples--perhaps in Malta. For me, no. She said, 'If you are my friend, you will not seek to discover where I have gone.' I am her friend; I obey her wish. When she thinks it is right, she will send me a message. Until then, I wait.”

But if Nina had gone away--depriving him of her pleasant companions.h.i.+p, her quick sympathy, her grave and almost matron-like remonstrances--there was another quite ready to take her place. Miss Burgoyne did not at all appear to regret the disappearance from the theatre of Antonia Rossi. She was kinder to this young man than ever; she showered her experienced blandishments upon him, even when she rallied him about his gloomy looks or listless demeanor. All the time he was not on the stage, and not engaged in dressing, he usually spent in her sitting-room; there were cigarettes and lemonade awaiting him; and when she herself could not appear, at all events she could carry on a sort of conversation with him from the inner sanctuary; and often she would come out and finish her make-up before the large mirror while she talked to him.

”They tell me you gamble,” she said to him on one occasion, in her blunt way.

”Not much,” he said.

”What good do you get out of it?” she asked again.

”Oh, well, it is a sort of distraction. It keeps people from thinking.”

”And what have you to think about?” continued Grace Mainwaring, regarding herself in the gla.s.s. ”What dreadful crimes have you to forget? You want to drown remorse, do you? I dare say you ought; but I don't believe it all the same. You men don't care what you do, and poor girls' hearts get broken. But gambling! Well, I imagine most men have one vice or another, but gambling has always seemed to me the stupidest thing one could take to. Drink kills you, but I suppose you get some fun out of it. What fun do you get out of gambling? Too serious, isn't it?

And then the waste of money. The fact is, you want somebody to take care of you, Master Lionel; and a fine job she'll have of it, whoever undertakes it!”

”Why should it be a she,” he asked, ”a.s.suming that I am incapable of managing my own affairs?”

”Because it is the way of the world,” she answered, promptly. ”And you, of all people, need somebody to look after you. Why should you have to take to gambling, at your time of life? You're not shamming _ennui_, are you, to imitate your swell acquaintances? _Ennui!_ I could cure their _ennui_ for them, if they'd only come to _me_!” she added, somewhat scornfully.

”A cure for _ennui_?” he said. ”That would be valuable; what is it?”

”I'd tell them to light a wax match and put it up their nostril and hold it there till it went out,” she answered, with some sharpness.

”It would make them jump, anyway, wouldn't it?” he said, listlessly.

”It would give them something to claim their very earnest attention for at least a fortnight,” Miss Burgoyne observed, with decision; and then she had to ask him to open the door, for it was time for her to get up to the wings.

Christmas was now close at hand, and one evening when Harry Thornhill, attired in his laced coat and ruffles, silken stockings and buckled shoes, went as usual into Miss Burgoyne's room, he perceived that she had, somewhere or other, obtained a piece of mistletoe, which she had placed on the top of the piano. As soon as Grace Mainwaring knew he was there, she came forth from the dressing-room and went to the big mirror, kicking out her resplendent train of flounced white satin behind her, and proceeding to judge of the general effect of her powder and patches and heavily-pencilled eyebrows.

”Where are you going for Christmas?” she asked.

”Into the country,” he answered.

”That's no good,” said the brilliant-eyed white little bride, still contemplating herself in the gla.s.s, and giving a finis.h.i.+ng touch here and there. ”The country's too horrid at this time of year. We are going to Brighton, some friends and I, a rather biggish party; and a whole heap of rooms have been taken at a hotel. That will be fun, I promise you. A dance in the evening. You'd better come; I can get you an invitation.”

”Thanks, I couldn't very well. I am going to play the good boy, and pa.s.s one night under the parental roof. It isn't often I get the chance.”

”I wish you would tell me where to hang up that piece of mistletoe,” she said, presently.

”I know where I should like to hang it up,” he made answer, with a sort of lazy impertinence.

”Where?”

”Just over your head.”