Part 45 (1/2)
As the graceful little lady came in, pale and trembling all over, Trilby rose from her chair to receive her, and rather timidly put out her hand, and smiled in a frightened manner. Neither could speak for a second.
Mrs. Bagot stood stock-still by the door gazing (with all her heart in her eyes) at the so terribly altered Trilby--the girl she had once so dreaded.
Trilby, who seemed also bereft of motion, and whose face and lips were ashen, exclaimed, ”I'm afraid I haven't quite kept my promise to you, after all! but things have turned out so differently! anyhow, you needn't have any fear of me _now_.”
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”'OH, MY POOR GIRL! MY POOR GIRL!'”]
At the mere sound of that voice, Mrs. Bagot, who was as impulsive, emotional, and unregulated as her son, rushed forward, crying, ”Oh, my poor girl, my poor girl!” and caught her in her arms, and kissed and caressed her, and burst into a flood of tears, and forced her back into her chair, hugging her as if she were a long-lost child.
”I love you now as much as I always admired you--pray believe it!”
”Oh, how kind of you to say that!” said Trilby, her own eyes filling.
”I'm not at all the dangerous or designing person you thought. I knew quite well I wasn't a proper person to marry your son all the time; and told him so again and again. It was very stupid of me to say yes at last. I was miserable directly after, I a.s.sure you. Somehow I couldn't help myself--I was driven.”
”Oh, don't talk of that! don't talk of that! You've never been to blame in any way--I've long known it--I've been full of remorse! You've been in my thoughts always, night and day. Forgive a poor jealous mother. As if _any_ man could help loving you--or any woman either. Forgive me!”
”Oh, Mrs. Bagot--forgive _you_! What a funny idea! But, anyhow, you've forgiven _me_, and that's all I care for now. I was very fond of your son--as fond as could be. I am now, but in quite a different sort of way, you know--the sort of way _you_ must be, I fancy! There was never another like him that I ever met--anywhere! You _must_ be so proud of him; who wouldn't? _n.o.body's_ good enough for him. I would have been only too glad to be his servant, his humble servant! I used to tell him so--but he wouldn't hear of it--he was much too kind! He always thought of others before himself. And, oh! how rich and famous he's become! I've heard all about it, and it did me good. It does me more good to think of than anything else; far more than if I were to be ever so rich and famous myself, I can tell you!”
This from la Svengali, whose overpowering fame, so utterly forgotten by herself, was still ringing all over Europe; whose lamentable illness and approaching death were being mourned and discussed and commented upon in every capital of the civilized world, as one distressing bulletin appeared after another. She might have been a royal personage!
Mrs. Bagot knew, of course, the strange form her insanity had taken, and made no allusion to the flood of thoughts that rushed through her own brain as she listened to this towering G.o.ddess of song, this poor mad queen of the nightingales, humbly gloating over her son's success....
Poor Mrs. Bagot had just come from Little Billee's, in Fitzroy Square, close by. There she had seen Taffy, in a corner of Little Billee's studio, laboriously answering endless letters and telegrams from all parts of Europe--for the good Taffy had const.i.tuted himself Trilby's secretary and _homme d'affaires_--unknown to her, of course. And this was no sinecure (though he liked it): putting aside the numerous people he had to see and be interviewed by, there were kind inquiries and messages of condolence and sympathy from nearly all the crowned heads of Europe, through their chamberlains; applications for help from unsuccessful musical strugglers all over the world to the pre-eminently successful one; beautiful letters from great and famous people, musical or otherwise; disinterested offers of service; interested proposals for engagements when the present trouble should be over; beggings for an interview from famous impresarios, to obtain which no distance would be thought too great, etc., etc., etc. It was endless, in English, French, German, Italian--in languages quite incomprehensible (many letters had to remain unanswered)--Taffy took an almost malicious pleasure in explaining all this to Mrs. Bagot.
Then there was a constant rolling of carriages up to the door, and a thundering of Little Billee's knocker: Lord and Lady Palmerston wish to know--the Lord Chief Justice wishes to know--the Dean of Westminster wishes to know--the Marchioness of Westminster wishes to know--everybody wishes to know if there is any better news of Madame Svengali!
These were small things, truly; but Mrs. Bagot was a small person from a small village in Devons.h.i.+re, and one whose heart and eye had hitherto been filled by no larger image than that of Little Billee; and Little Billee's fame, as she now discovered for the first time, did not quite fill the entire universe.
And she mustn't be too much blamed if all these obvious signs of a world-wide colossal celebrity impressed and even awed her a little.
Madame Svengali! Why, this was the beautiful girl whom she remembered so well, whom she had so grandly discarded with a word, and who had accepted her conge so meekly in a minute; whom, indeed, she had been cursing in her heart for years, because--because what?
Poor Mrs. Bagot felt herself turn hot and red all over, and humbled herself to the very dust, and almost forgot that she had been in the right, after all, and that ”la grande Trilby” was certainly no fit match for her son!
So she went quite humbly to see Trilby, and found a poor, pathetic, mad creature still more humble than herself, who still apologized for--for what?
A poor, pathetic, mad creature who had clean forgotten that she was the greatest singer in all the world--one of the greatest artists that had ever lived; but who remembered with shame and contrition that she had once taken the liberty of yielding (after endless pressure and repeated disinterested refusals of her own, and out of sheer irresistible affection) to the pa.s.sionate pleadings of a little obscure art student, a mere boy--no better off than herself--just as penniless and insignificant a n.o.body; but--the son of Mrs. Bagot.
All due sense of proportion died out of the poor lady as she remembered and realized all this!
And then Trilby's pathetic beauty, so touching, so winning, in its rapid decay; the nameless charm of look and voice and manner that was her special apanage, and which her malady and singular madness had only increased; her childlike simplicity, her transparent forgetfulness of self--all these so fascinated and entranced Mrs. Bagot, whose quick susceptibility to such impressions was just as keen as her son's, that she very soon found herself all but wors.h.i.+pping this fast-fading lily--for so she called her in her own mind--quite forgetting (or affecting to forget) on what very questionable soil the lily had been reared, and through what strange vicissitudes of evil and corruption it had managed to grow so tall and white and fragrant!
Oh, strange compelling power of weakness and grace and prettiness combined, and sweet, sincere unconscious natural manners! not to speak of world-wide fame!
For Mrs. Bagot was just a shrewd little conventional British country matron of the good upper middle-cla.s.s type, bristling all over with provincial proprieties and respectabilities, a philistine of the philistines, in spite of her artistic instincts; one who for years had (rather unjustly) thought of Trilby as a wanton and perilous siren, an unchaste and unprincipled and most dangerous daughter of Heth, and the special enemy of her house.
And here she was--like all the rest of us monads and nomads and bohemians--just sitting at Trilby's feet.... ”A washer-woman! a figure model! and Heaven knows what besides!” and she had never even heard her sing!