Part 3

‘Oh, thanks. I don’t think I want help--yet. But it is most kind of you to offer. I dare say I shall get a chance some day.’

‘But I’ve always heard you can’t learn acting off the stage. You can’t do much by yourself down here surely?’

‘You can’t learn to _act_, but you can learn to _speak_ beautifully; life teaches you that, more than all the theatres in the world.’

He looked at her in surprise.

‘I don’t know, of course, but that’s my idea of things,’ she said smiling.

‘And how do you study?’

‘I learn parts, and say them over and over again to myself until I get just the sound I want into my voice.’

‘What parts? Juliet?’

‘Well, Beatrice in _The Cenci_ is the one I like best. I don’t like Juliet; all that sort of sentiment is such a delusion, you know. I can’t pretend to believe in it; but there is a real, terrible tragedy in Beatrice, you can’t help feeling it; it takes hold of you, you can’t escape it.’

‘_The Cenci_ is very improper, isn’t it?’

‘I dare say; I just read the play through once to understand the part of Beatrice, I forget about the details. I only know the fact that she has a real, terrible wrong done her, which makes her loathe herself and lose her wits for a while, that she revenges it, and is beheaded for her crime just as life had become possible for her, when the father that had poisoned the very air in which she grew up had ceased to live. It seems to me that is the only really tragic part ever written for a woman. Lady Macbeth was a fiend, Juliet a baby.’

‘Will you read some of it to me?’

‘No. I can’t bear reading in a room, it is so amateurish.’

‘But just quietly, to one person, surely that is different.’

‘Well, perhaps I will. No, I’ll tell you what; if you like to come down to the river mead, I will bring out the book and read a little of it this afternoon. Now go; I don’t want the girl to see us come in together.’ He obediently went on ahead. She sat on a stile for a moment or two thinking. ‘Suppose I go off; suppose I get an engagement, what then?’ Lord Kirkdale looked round as he turned the corner, which took him out of her sight. And she wondered why he looked so heavy and sheepish, and foolish.

In case my reader should get a wrong impression of Lord Kirkdale, they must be here informed that he was an extremely well made young man, six feet one in height, thirteen stone in weight, with fair hair and ruddy complexion; there was nothing comic or unseemly about his appearance, but to a woman who had taken it into her head to adore the type of man represented by the Dancing Faun, no Hercules, however laboriously devoted, need apply.

* * * * *

‘Who is this dreadful ineligible man Robert tells me was dining here the other night?’ said Maisy. She had been lunching at Davies Street with her mother and sister, and the three were sitting in the drawing-room.

‘I don’t think you need trouble about his being detrimental, unless it is on mamma’s account; he devotes himself entirely to her,’ said Geraldine.

Lady Kirkdale laughed. ‘I was telling Geraldine the other day, that in a few seasons no woman this side of fifty will have a chance in society.’

‘I wonder what the meaning of it is,’ said Maisy.

‘Age has its advantages,’ said Lady Kirkdale. ‘Besides, as Edgar Allen Poe says, “What man truly loves in woman is her womanhood.”’

‘That’s so true, dear mamma; a womanly woman can do anything she likes with a man, the other sort sets his teeth on edge at once.’

‘A womanly woman indeed,’ broke out Geraldine; ‘it is only within the last few years women have dared show their womanhood. At last they are permitted to possess a small quota of human nature; they may be something more than waxen masks of doll-like acquiescence without disgracing themselves in the eyes of the world.’

‘My dear Geraldine, don’t be so disgustingly Ibsenish.’

‘You make me perfectly wild, Maisy. Do you suppose all these questions haven’t been working in everybody’s mind for the last fifty years. You may be pretty sure they have, if _we_ have come to hear of them. I consider the whole machinery of society to be especially contrived to keep an influential set of people sufficiently ignorant to effectually counter-balance the work of men and women of genius, who see clearly enough what the next stage of progress will be; and the mob would follow them readily if the dead weight of authority and influence did not keep them back.’

‘Mamma, what is becoming of her? My dear Geraldine, you’ll never get married if you go on like this. You’ll have to take to lecturing on temperance or something, like poor Emily.’

‘I hate marriage; I think it’s a degrading bargain, which can only be carried out by unlimited lying on both sides.’

‘Really, mamma; why don’t you speak to her?’

‘Because I can’t deny the truth of what she says.’

‘But--look at Robert and me!’

‘Yes, look at you, that’s just what I mean----’

‘Geraldine, my dear, my dear, hush!’ cried Lady Kirkdale. ‘You mustn’t talk like this, you distress Maisy. And after all, you needn’t be so bitter about it. God knows, if you prefer not to marry, I am not the woman to wish to force you to it. You’ve been upset, hadn’t you better go and lie down?’

‘Oh no! I’m all right. One must speak sometimes, one can’t spend one’s life grinning like a Cheshire cat, and pretending one thinks everything perfect.’

‘Well, to change this very unpleasant subject,’ said Maisy, ‘what is this Mr. George Travers like?’

‘He is tall and slight, I should say about forty, with a careworn face and a charming smile: he can dance, ride, scull, and play billiards to perfection. There is no subject on which he is not well informed,--in fact, if he were only safely married, he would be a great acquisition to society,’ replied Lady Kirkdale.

‘And Geraldine is in love with him,’ said Maisy.

‘How dare you say such things!’ cried Geraldine.

‘When a girl, who is generally good-tempered, becomes snappish and disagreeable, you may be sure she is in love with a detrimental. The detrimental is on the spot, you are snappish. The situation is complete, my dear.’

Geraldine walked out of the room and banged the door loudly.

‘What is to be done about her, mamma?’

‘I must take her abroad, I suppose. Love is like bronchitis, a thorough change is the only cure.’

At this moment Mr. Travers was announced.

‘I must apologise for this untimely call; but I have just been at the club, and Lord Snordenham was mentioning that he must send round to tell you that his coach had to start half an hour earlier for Hurlingham to-morrow than was arranged. I said I should be passing your door, and he commissioned me to deliver the message.’

‘Thank you very much. You are to be one of us, then?’

‘I have that honour.’

‘May I introduce you to my daughter, Lady Maisy Potter. She has just returned from her honeymoon.’

‘O mamma, don’t give such a wrong impression! I must tell you, Mr. Travers, my honeymoon lasted six months,’ she said, turning to him with an engaging smile.

‘It ought to last for ever,’ he said, bowing. ‘At any rate it has agreed with you splendidly.’

‘Oh, please don’t say that; I know I am terribly sunburnt. It is so dreadful to come to London looking so healthy, late in the season, isn’t it?’

‘I am afraid my tastes are not sufficiently æsthetic to allow me to appreciate a sickly style of beauty.’

‘I am so glad to hear you say that. It is exactly what I think myself; only it doesn’t do nowadays to say anything you think, or one might be taken for one of those dreadful advanced people that are always clamouring for free thought, and free speech, and free everything. I feel it so very necessary to keep on thinking just what is right and proper. Our responsibilities as leaders of thought are so grave. For we are the leaders of thought, are we not, Mr. Travers?’

‘After a certain point necessarily so. Progress is made in circles; and if you stand still long enough you will find yourself in the van.’

‘But,’ said Lady Kirkdale, ‘suppose it doesn’t come back to the same point exactly, but goes onward in a spiral.’

‘That’s the whole problem of life. Is it a circle or a spiral?’ said Travers.

‘If it’s the latter I am sorry for all of us.’

‘Oh, don’t be afraid, mamma, life is very nice as it is. We’ll take it for granted it’s a circle, and sit still and not bother ourselves. Spirals are such uncomfortable-looking things.’

The carriage was announced, and Lady Kirkdale asked Travers to drive with them. He did so, sitting next to Geraldine and opposite Maisy. They dropped Maisy at the hotel in Albemarle Street she and Mr. Potter were staying at. Travers of course escorted her in, and as they parted she hoped he would accept the invitation to come to Cowes that her husband was going to send him for the yacht-week.

When he re-entered the carriage he said to Lady Geraldine, ‘I imagined your sisters were all out of town.’

‘So they were when we last spoke of them, but Maisy and Mr. Potter returned last month.’

‘Ah, I met Mr. Potter at your dinner-party on Thursday, of course. I didn’t know he was a relation.’

‘He is an odd man. He has inherited a large fortune from his father. He is what I call disgustingly rich; he never seems to do anything with his money. His chief pleasure in life seems to be sitting still and thinking.’

‘What does he think about?’

‘Nobody knows. I used to offer him a penny for his thoughts last year, but he always made one answer.’

‘What was that?’

‘He only said, “My mind is a perfect blank.”’

‘Oh,’ cried Lady Kirkdale, ‘that is like those Indian people who sit contemplating their big toes all day. What are they called?’

‘Do you mean the Yogis?’

‘Ah yes, that was it.’

‘I am never quite accurate about things. You see, Geraldine, dear, it’s one of my womanly qualities.’

‘Are you going down to Cowes, Mr. Travers? I think I heard Maisy asking you to join her party.’

‘Are you going?’

‘We have taken rooms in the hotel.’

‘Then I shall certainly take advantage of the proposal. That is, if Mr. Potter sends the invitation. Does his mind ever cease to be a blank?’

‘No one knows.’

* * * * *

It was the first Sunday in August. Lady Kirkdale and Lady Geraldine Fitzjustin had gone to spend a few days in Essex with Mary, the eldest daughter of the family, before proceeding to Cowes. Lord Kirkdale, left in possession at Davies Street, had invited Travers to dinner, and the two men were sitting in the smoking-room ruminating over their cigars and whisky and Seltzer. There had been a long pause in the conversation when Kirkdale suddenly looked up and said, ‘Look here, Travers, who is this girl down at the cottage?’

‘I’ve been waiting for that question for some time; I thought she must have told you herself.’

‘Not a word.’

‘Well, I think perhaps I ought to let you know that she is secretly married to a very dear friend of mine.’

‘Ah, I knew it; she is your wife.’

‘Ha! ha! ha! that’s good; my dear fellow, you never made such a mistake in your life. I may be foolish, but I’m not such a fool as to go and put my head into a noose like that.’

‘Travers, I don’t believe you. I am sure she loves you.’

‘That’s quite possible.’

‘Look here, you think you’re a very clever man; you think you are deceiving the whole world, because you can deceive a parcel of women. But the time has come for a little plain speaking, old fellow. I know all about you. Clausen has told me. He recognised you that first day you called in Davies Street. He was present when the card-party at Canning’s ended your career in London society. Since then I have had many proofs of how a fellow can go from bad to worse; how a man who begins with cheating at cards can end by picking up half-crowns from his friend’s dressing-table. No! no! old fellow, hitting me won’t put it right,’ and he seized Travers by the wrists.

‘What are you going to do?’ said Travers, helpless and sullen in Kirkdale’s powerful grasp.

‘I am going to hear the truth about this girl.’

‘And what else?’

‘Then I shall decide what to do. Who is she?’

‘My wife, you fool! Now are you satisfied?’

Kirkdale dropped his hands suddenly. Travers walked over to the looking-glass, settled his cuffs, and wiped his forehead. Then he leaned his back against the mantelpiece and surveyed Kirkdale, who had thrown himself into an armchair on the other side of the room. After a pause he spoke.

‘I need not tell you, Kirkdale, that I have long foreseen this situation: I knew we should have to come to an understanding sooner or later.’

‘And you played your cards accordingly?’

‘There is no necessity to be so bitter about it. When a man has absolutely nothing but his wits to rely upon, he must cultivate them. Because I have acquired some skill in the marshalling of events, I don’t see that you need reproach me. We all have our temptations. Your father succumbed to the temptations of idleness, I to the temptations of necessity. I was brought up rather more luxuriously than yourself, for my father’s vices did not make him bad-tempered; your father’s did, and that always has a chastening effect upon a man’s offspring. As I was saying, no want of mine was denied until I was practically cast on my own resources, just at the age when one’s tastes are most expensive. I needn’t tell you what it means to be in a crack regiment with no private income. I had not learnt how to make money as a middleman, or by gambling on the stock exchange; the only resources open to me I took advantage of and kept afloat for some time, then luck deserted me and the crash came. I went abroad; I associated with men not fit to black my boots. My life was a perfect hell. My God! how do you suppose a man brought up as I have been can earn enough to keep him going in a way that makes life worth living? One must have at least five thousand a year. Where is it to come from?’

‘Oh, go to the devil!’

‘Precisely, that is the only answer to my question. I have been.’

Kirkdale rose and walked up and down the room impatiently. He snapped his fingers.

‘I don’t care that for you. I am thinking of her.’

‘I don’t think that is at all a proper way to talk to a man about his wife, my dear boy.’

‘Oh, damn!’

‘By all means.’

Kirkdale walked towards Travers, who looked him straight in the face. After a prolonged stare they both burst out laughing.

‘O what fools we are! what fools we are!’ cried Kirkdale almost hysterically, as he flung himself into a chair.

‘Well, that’s agreed; now let’s clear the ground before us. You are in love with my wife; I am as much in love with her myself as the holy estate of matrimony will permit a man to be. She is in love with me, and not with you, unless I am very much deceived.’

‘Yes, yes. I had no hope of that kind. I don’t know if you can understand or not, but I would do anything on earth to save her pain and to make her life happy.’

‘The feeling does you honour, my dear boy. It is one often roused by unrequited affection. A woman who does not love you is always an angel, a woman who does is often a devil.’

‘Look here, Travers, don’t keep her down in that wretched hole any longer. Let her go on the stage.’

‘I can’t do that, old fellow.’

‘Why not?’

‘I know too much about it. The stage isn’t a fit place for a woman unless she is a firstrate actress; she must be able to boss the show or quit.’

‘But she could boss the show, she’d be firstrate.’

‘Not quite that, old fellow. I first saw her on the stage; I could see all she had in her at a glance; it wasn’t good enough.’

‘She has been on the stage, then?’

‘Yes; you may have heard of her, there was some talk of her early in the year. Grace Lovell was her name.’

‘I do vaguely remember hearing something or other about her.’

‘How long was she on the stage before you met her?’

‘Five or six years, I think. She has been working hard down in the country.’

‘What at?’

‘Oh, reading things. I know I heard her read a bit of Shelley, which fetched me more than anything I’ve ever heard on the stage.’

‘Well, I’ll see what we can do--with her.’

‘You may rely on me, if you want help.’

‘Thanks, old fellow.’

‘And in the meantime?’

‘We shall meet at Cowes on Monday. By-the-bye, can I be of any use to you?’ and Kirkdale took out his pocket-book.

‘Well, old man, if you like to make it a pony this time it would be rather a weight off my mind.’

Kirkdale handed over some notes. Travers took them, folded them up deliberately, buttoned his coat, took up his hat and stick, and walked out of the room. He nodded pleasantly to Kirkdale as he closed the door after him.

Kirkdale sat still for some time, then he lighted a cigar and began to smoke. As he was finishing it the footman tapped and asked if he was at home to Mr. Clausen. Kirkdale signified that he would see him, and Mr. Clausen was shown up.

‘Stephen, my boy,’ he said, ‘this must be put a stop to. I have just come round from the club, and that fellow Travers came in and is hand in glove with every one. Potter was there, and they are sitting down to _écarté_. You know what it will end in--there will be a devil of a row.’

‘I can’t help it, old fellow; I have tied my hands in the matter. I must let things take their course. It won’t hurt Robert if he does lose his money.’

‘But, my dear fellow, we can’t possibly countenance this sort of thing. A man must draw the line somewhere, and I draw it at conniving at----’

‘It’s no use, I tell you. He must be left alone; at any rate, for the present.’

‘Well, if nothing else will move you, I suppose I shall have to tell you what I really fear from him. He will marry your sister----’

‘Oh no, he won’t.’

‘You don’t know her as well as I do. She is a woman who will have her own way, whatever it costs.’

‘He cannot marry her.’

‘It is what he has been working for the whole time.’

‘You’re a fool!’ yelled Stephen. ‘No, no, no! I dare say you’re right. I’ve been thinking about something else. I dare say he’s capable of it. But I tell you she’s quite safe. He is already married.’

‘And therefore you consider she is quite safe.’

‘She is my sister, sir.’

‘And your father’s daughter.’

‘You will drive me wild between you all,’ cried Stephen.

‘My dear boy, it’s for your own sake.’

‘All the damnable things done under heaven are done for my sake it would seem.’

‘Have you no regard for duty? Would you like to see your sister fall a victim to this swindler?’

‘She must be told he is married, of course.’

‘And that he is a low cad no gentleman would associate with.’

‘Yes, Clausen, yes, anything you like--anything you like. Be off with you and tell her all you told me and all I have told you. Be off now, no time like the present.’

‘Stop a bit! not so fast, my young friend. I want a little more explanation from you first. You say he is married. Where does he conceal his wife?’

‘She is at Old Windsor.’

‘You have made several excursions there lately. What is she like?’

‘Oh, young and pretty; much too good for him.’

‘Too vague, my boy, describe her.’

‘I don’t know how to describe her.’

‘Well, is she dark or fair, tall or short?’

‘She’s dark. No though, her hair is black and curly, and her eyes are brown, but she has a most beautifully fair complexion. As you sit and watch her reading, you wonder which is the whitest, the little bit of neck shown behind her ear, or the white lawn stuff she ties round her throat.’

‘Is she tall?’

‘About a head shorter than I am; I suppose that is tallish for a woman. Yes, she’s tall, and very, very graceful. She walks beautifully, makes you remember all the old bits of poetry you learned at school.’

‘How does he treat her?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘How’s that?’

‘I have never seen them together.’

‘But----’

‘She lives at the cottage, he at the house.’

‘He isn’t married to her.’

‘Oh yes, he is; I made him confess.’

‘What was she?’

‘An actress.’

‘No good, of course.’

‘Why?’

‘He’d be making money out of her if she were.’

‘Her name was Grace Lovell.’

‘What! that little girl? Why, she’s got the makings of a great actress in her. How comes he to be so shortsighted as to let her remain idle?’

‘He tells me she’s not good enough.’

‘Much he knows! Why, she’s delicious; so fresh, so spontaneous. She’d take the town in no time. How old is she?’

‘About twenty or twenty-one.’

‘Well, to think that rascal has got hold of her. I was wondering only the other day what had become of her, and I asked Horsham what made him part with her. He said she had insisted on leaving, and he fancied she’d gone abroad with some man.’

‘I wish to God she had! Anything would be better for her than being tied to such a devil as that.’ Then Kirkdale asked suddenly, ‘By the way, didn’t you say Travers was the son of that old rascal Swanwick?’

‘Ah yes, capital actor he was; we don’t see that sort of thing now. He knew his business thoroughly, and did it. No high-falutin about intellect, imagination, and rubbish of that sort. He had the instinct here’--and Mr. Clausen thumped his chest,--‘and let the new school say what they like, that’s the place to find the link between an actor and his audience.’

‘That girl has it _there_ too, if ever woman had,’ murmured Kirkdale dreamily. ‘You should hear her read Shelley.’

‘Shelley, nonsense! she’s a comedy actress. No doubt she has the touch of pathos necessary for that line; but no power, no passion.’

‘She may have altered since you saw her, she’s very young.’

‘Yes, that’s possible. It happened in the case of Décles. You sometimes do get a surprise from a woman in that way.’

‘Now, Clausen, like a good fellow, think over what’s to be done. I am determined to get her back on the stage. Shall I take a theatre for her?’

‘What nonsense! As things are at present, you might just as well chuck your capital into the gutter. She won’t draw until she’s done a good deal more hard work, and if you gave him such an opportunity, Travers would spend your money for you and she’d get none of the benefit.’

‘No, the first step is evidently to get rid of Travers.’

‘That is very easily done. I have only to say what I know.’

‘I wonder if he has anything up his sleeve: he’s always vaguely hinting that certain personages are at his mercy,’ said Kirkdale.

‘Very likely he has a whole bundle of scurrilous gossip at his finger-ends; but after all it doesn’t very much matter, people say all they can now, and no respectable paper gives currency to these things. Such stories serve two purposes: they give the radicals something to talk about, and add considerably to the popular interest. “One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,” and the poor sinner in the street feels his heart go out to the weaknesses of the great, in a way never to be invoked by the mere pompous exterior of public ceremonial.’

‘But think of the effect on public opinion.’

‘My dear boy, when Burke said a country was ruled by its public opinion, he was right. The only difficulty about it is that the real public opinion is never expressed; what is expressed is what each man or woman thinks his or her neighbours consider ought to be his or her opinion. But to return to Grace Lovell; what do you suppose she would do if her husband was sent back into limbo?’

‘I’m terribly afraid she’d go with him.’

‘Have you ever discussed the position with her?’

‘She does not even know I am aware of the marriage, she has kept her own counsel; all she has said to me was, that she was anxious to go on the stage.’

‘Let’s go down and find out about her. I want a little country air, and have nothing on earth to do on Monday.’

‘I was going down to Cowes, but I’m sick of the function there; if I go down on Tuesday or Wednesday I shall see all I want,’ said Kirkdale.

‘Agreed; well, I’ll be off. Find out the best train, and call for me in the morning.’

A loud knock at the front door delayed Clausen’s contemplated departure. He looked at his watch and said, ‘By Jove, it’s two o’clock! We’d better open the door, the servants will be in bed.’