CHAPTER XXIII.
HOME AGAIN
Count Schönstein was in love. His ponderous hilarity had quite gone out of him. After Miss Brunel's departure, he moved about the house alone and disconsolate; he was querulous about his meals; he forgot to tell lies about the price of his wines. He ceased to joke about marriage; he became wonderfully polite to the people about him, and above all to Will Anerley; and every evening after dinner he was accustomed to sit and smoke silently in his chair, going over in his mind all the incidents of Annie Brunel's visit, and hoping that nothing had occurred to offend her.
Sometimes, in a fit of passionate longing, he wished he was again a tea-dealer and she the daughter of one of his clerks. He grew sick of his ambitious schemes; inwardly cursed the aristocracy of this and every other country; and prayed for some humble cottage, with Annie Brunel for his wife, and with nothing for himself to do but sit and smoke, and watch the grape-clusters over the verandah.
Twenty years before he had been afflicted by the same visions. They did not alter much his course of life then; nor did he permit them to move him much now – except after dinner, when most people become generously impulsive and talkative. In one of these moods he confessed to Will the passion which disturbed his repose.
Will stared at him, for the mere thought of such a thing seemed to him a sort of sacrilege; but the next moment he asked himself what right he had to resent the Count's affection for Annie Brunel as an insult, and then he was silent.
"Tell me, have I a chance?" said the Count.
"How can I tell you?" he replied.
"You were very friendly with her. You do not imagine there is anybody else in the young lady's graces?"
"I don't know of any one whom Miss Brunel is likely to marry; but, as I say, how can I tell?"
"You imagine I have a fair field?" asked the Count, rather timidly.
"Oh, yes!" said Will, with a laugh, in which there was just a touch of bitterness. "But that is not the way you used to talk about women, and marriage, and so forth. Do you remember how you gloated over the saying of that newspaper man who was at the 'Juliet' supper – about being 'sewn up in a theological sack with a partner for life?' I suppose you were only whistling in the dark, to scare the ghosts away, and now – "
There was no need to complete the sentence. The doleful look on the Count's rubicund face told its own tale. He shook his head, rather sadly, and contemplatively stirred his Moselle with a bit of biscuit.
"It's time a man like me was married. I have plenty of money to give my wife her own way: we shan't quarrel. There's that big house standing empty; you can't expect people to come and visit you, if you've nobody to receive them. Look how perfectly Miss Brunel could do that. Look at the grace of her demeanour, and her courtesy, and all that: why, though she's ever so little a thing, she looks like an empress when she comes into a room. I never could get elsewhere such a wife as she would make."
"Doubtless not; but the point is to get her," said Will, almost defiantly – he did not know whether to laugh at or be indignant with the Count's cool assumption.
"I tell you I would marry her if she was nothing but what she is – " the Count said, vehemently, and then he suddenly paused, with a look of frightened embarrassment on his face.
"How could she be anything else than what she is?" asked Will, carelessly: he had not observed the Count's trepidation.
"Oh – well – ah – if she were nothing more than an ordinary actress, without the manners of a lady, I should be inclined to marry her, on account of her – her sweetness of disposition, you know."
"What magnanimity!" said Will.
"Laugh as you please," said the Count, with a touch of offended dignity, "there are few men in my position who would marry an actress. If I shouldmarry Miss Brunel, I should consider that while she did me a favour I paid her quite as great a compliment. Look at the estimation in which actresses are held. Look at those women of the – theatre; at Miss – , and Miss – , and Miss – . Don't the public know all about them? And the public won't stop to pick out one respectable actress from the lot, and be just to her. They all suffer for the sins of the majority; and any actress, whatever may be her personal character, ought to know that she lies under the ban of social suspicion, and – "
"Excuse my interrupting you. But you needn't seek to lower Miss Brunel in my opinion: I am not going to marry her. And I should advise you not to attempt to lower her in her own opinion, if you mean to remain friends with her. You can't humble a woman into accepting you; you may flatter her into accepting you. If a woman does not think she is conferring a favour in marrying you, she won't at all – that is, if she is the sort of a woman any man would care to marry."
"Leave that to me, my boy, leave that to me," said the Count, with a superb smile. "I rather fancy, if flattery is to win the day, that I shall not be far behind."
"And yet I heard you one evening say to Nelly Featherstone that 'all pretty women were idiots.' How could any woman help being offended by such a remark?"
"Why, don't you see, you greenhorn, that Nelly isn't pretty – "
"And you as good as told her so," said Will. "Besides, Nelly, like every other woman, fancies she is pretty in a certain way, and would rather that you had informed her of her idiotcy than of her plainness."
The Count blushed deeply. In making the remark to Miss Featherstone, he had imagined he was exhibiting a most remarkable and subtle knowledge of human weakness; and hoped to console her for the shape of her nose by sneering at the stupidity of prettier women. But the Count was a rich man, and a great favourite of Mr. Melton; and Nelly, being a prudent young woman, pocketed the affront.
A variety of circumstances now transpired to hasten the return of both Will and the Count to England. The former could do scarcely anything to the business for which he had come, through his inability to use his right arm. There were, besides, certain growing symptoms of irritation in the wounds which he had fancied were slowly healing, which made him anxious to consult some experienced English surgeon. Such were his ostensible reasons.
Under these circumstances, what pleasure could the Count have in remaining in Schönstein alone? He preferred to have Will's company on the homeward journey; and besides, he was personally interested in learning whether the injuries his friend had suffered were likely to become more dangerous. Such were his ostensible reasons.
But the crowning thought of both of them, as they turned their back upon Schönstein, was – "I shall soon see Annie Brunel."
As they passed through the village, Margarethe Halm came out from under her father's door, and the driver stopped the carriage.
"You will see the young English lady when you return home?" said Grete to Will, with a blush on her pretty brown face.
"And if I do?"
"Will you give her this little parcel? it is my work."
With that she slipped the parcel into his hand. At this moment Hans Halm came forward and bade both the gentlemen good-bye; and in that moment Grete, unnoticed, timidly handed up to Hermann, who was seated beside the driver, another little parcel. There was a slight quivering of the lips as she did so; and then she turned away, and went up to her own room, and threw herself, sobbing, on the bed in quite a passion of grief, not daring to look after the carriage as it rolled away into the forest.
Hermann stealthily opened the packet, and found therein a little gilt Gebetbuch, with coloured pictures of the saints throughout it, and a little inscription in front in Grete's handwriting. Franz Gersbach, having been over at Donaueschingen, had secretly bought the tiny prayer-book for her; and he knew all the time for whom it was intended.
"She is a good girl," said Hermann, "and a good girl makes a good wife. I will go once more to England, but never after that – no, not if I had seven hundred Counts for my master."
They stopped a day at Strasbourg, and there they found a lot of English newspapers of recent date.
"Look what the people are saying of Miss Brunel!" said Will, utterly confounded by the tone in which the journals spoke of 'Rosalind.'
The Count took up paper after paper, and eagerly scanned such notices of the pieces as he could find.
"They are not very enthusiastic," said he; "but they are really most complimentary – "
"Complimentary? Yes; but only to Miss Brunel, not to 'Rosalind.' Don't you see in every one of them how the writer, wishing to speak as highly as possible of her, scarcely knows how to throw cold water on the play? And yet cold water is thrown abundantly. The unanimity of these critiques simply says this – that Miss Brunel's 'Rosalind' is a failure."
"How will she bear it?" said the Count.
"She will bear it with the self-possession and sweetness that always cling to her."
For a moment he thought of an old simile of his of her being like an Æolian harp, which struck harshly or softly, by the north wind or the gentle south, could only breathe harmony in return. Would that fine perfection of composure still remain with her, now that her generous artistic aspirations seemed to have been crushed in some way? He knew himself – for the divine light of her face in certain moments had taught him – that there is no joy upon earth to be compared with the joy of artistic creation. He could imagine, then, that the greatest possible misery is that which results from strong desire and impotent faculty.
"It is 'Rosalind' that is wrong, not she," he said. "Or she may be suffering from some indisposition – at any rate they may spare their half-concealed compassion. Let her get a part to suit her – and then!"
He was not quite satisfied. How was it that none of the critics – and some of them were men of the true critical, sensitive temperament, quick to discern the subtle personal relations existing between an artist and his art – dwelt upon the point that the part was obviously unsuited to her? Indeed, did not every one who had seen her in divers parts know that there were few parts which were so obviously suited to her?
"I know what it is!" said the Count. "There aren't enough people returned to town to fill the theatre, and she has been disheartened." And he already had some recklessly extravagant idea of filling the house with "paper" at his own expense.
"But there you read that the theatre was crammed," said Will.
"True," said the Count, gravely. "I hope there's nobody whom she has refused to see, or something like that, has been bribing all the papers out of spite?"
"They do that only in French plays," said Will. "I should think it more likely that the girl has been put out of sorts by some private affliction. We shall see when we get home."
Then he reflected with a bitter pang that now he was debarred from ever approaching that too dear friend of his and asking about her welfare. Whatever she might be suffering, through private sorrow or public neglect, he could no longer go forward and offer a comforting hand and a comforting word. When he thought that this privilege was now monopolised by the big, well-meaning, blundering Count, he was like to break his own resolve and vow to go straight to her the moment his feet touched English soil.
They crossed the Channel during the day; when they arrived in London, towards the evening, Will drove straight to his chambers, and the Count went home.
"You won't go down to St. Mary-Kirby," the latter had said, "to see that charming little Dove? what a devilish fine woman she'll make! – you ought to consider yourself a happy fellow."
"It is too late," said Will, "to go down to-night. Besides, they don't expect me until to-morrow."
So he went to his lodgings; and there, having changed his dress, he found himself with the evening before him. He walked round to his club, read one or two letters that awaited him, went up to the smoking-room and found not a human being in the place – nothing but empty easy-chairs, chess-board tables, dishevelled magazines, and a prevailing odour of stale cigars – and then he went out and proceeded in the direction of the theatre in which Annie Brunel was at that moment playing. That goal had been uppermost in his thoughts ever since he left Calais pier in the morning.
The tall, pale, muscular man – and people noticed that he had his right arm in a sling – who now paid his four or five shillings, walked upstairs, and slunk into the back seat of the dress-circle, was as nervous and as much afraid of being seen as a schoolboy thieving fruit. Perhaps it was the dread of seeing, as much as the fear of being seen, that made his heart beat; perhaps it was only expectation; but he bethought himself that in the twilight of the back seats of the circle his figure would be too dusky to be recognised, especially by one who had to look – if she looked at all – over the strong glare of the footlights.
The act drop was down when he entered – the orchestra playing the last instalment of Offenbach's confectionery music. The whole house was in the act of regarding two young ladies, dressed as little as possible in white silk, with wonderful complexions, towers of golden hair on their heads, and on their faces an assumed unconsciousness of being stared at, who occupied a box by themselves. The elder of them had really beautiful features of an old French type – the forehead low and narrow, the eyelids heavy, the eyes large, languid, melancholy, the nose thin and a little retroussée, the mouth small, the lips thin and rather sad, the cheeks blanched and a trifle sunken, the line of the chin and neck magnificent. The beautiful, sad woman sate and stared wistfully at the glare of the gas; sometimes smiling, in a cold way, to her companion, a plump, commonplace beauty of a coarse English type, who had far too much white on her forehead and neck. Together, however, they seemed to make a sufficiently pretty picture to provoke that stolid British gaze which has something of the idiot but more of the animal in it.
When the curtain rose again the spectators found themselves in Arden forest, with the Duke and his lords before them; and they listened to the talk of these poor actors as though they heard some creatures out of the other world converse. But from Will Anerley all the possibility of this generous delusion had fled. He shrank back, lest some of the men might have recognised him, and might carry the intelligence of his presence to Annie Brunel. Perhaps the Duke had just spoken to her; perhaps she was then looking on the scene from the wings. It was no longer Arden forest to him. The perspective of the stream and of the avenues of the trees vanished, and he saw only a stained breadth of canvas that hid her from his sight. Was she walking behind that screen? Could the actors on the stage see her in one of the entrances? And was it not a monstrous and inconceivable thing that these poor, wretched, unambitious, and not very clean-shaven men were breathing the same atmosphere with her, that they sometimes touched her dress in passing, that her soft dark eyes regarded them?
You know that 'Rosalind' comes into this forest of Arden weary, dispirited, almost broken-hearted, in company with the gentle 'Celia' and the friendly 'Touchstone.' As the moment approached for her entrance, Anerley's breath came and went all the quicker. Was she not now just behind that board or screen? What was the expression of her face; and how had she borne up against the dull welcome that awaited her in England? He thought he should see only 'Rosalind' when she came upon the stage – that Annie Brunel might now be standing in the wings, but that 'Rosalind' only would appear before him.
He never saw 'Rosalind' at all. He suddenly became conscious that Annie Brunel – the intimate companion who had sate beside him in long railway-journeys, who had taken breakfast with him, and played cards with him in the evening – had come out before all these people to amuse or interest them; and that the coarse, and stupid, and vicious, and offensive faces that had been staring a few minutes ago at the two creatures in white silk were now staring in the same manner at her – at her who was his near friend. A wonderful new throb went through his heart at that thought – a throb that reddened his pale cheek. He saw no more of 'Rosalind,' nor of Annie Brunel either. He watched only the people's faces – watched them with eyes that had no pleasant light in them. Who were these people, that they dared to examine her critically, that they presumed to look on her with interest, that they had the unfathomable audacity to look at all? He could not see the costermongers in the gallery; but he saw the dress-coated publicans and grocers around him, and he regarded their stupidly delighted features with a savage scorn. This spasm of ungovernable hatred for the stolid, good-hearted, incomprehensible British tradesman was not the result of intellectual pride; but the consequence of a far more powerful passion. How many years was it since Harry Ormond had sate in his box, and glared with a bitter fury upon the people who dared to admire and applaud Annie Brunel's mother?
In especial there were two men, occupying a box by themselves, against whom he was particularly vengeful. As he afterwards learned from Mr. Melton, they were the promoters of a company which sold the best port, sherry, champagne, hock, burgundy, and claret at a uniform rate of ten shillings a dozen; and, in respect of their long advertisements, occasionally got a box for nothing through this or that newspaper. They were never known to drink their own wines; but they were partial to the gin of the refreshment-room; and, after having drunk a sufficient quantity of that delicious and cooling beverage, they grew rather demonstrative. Your honest cad watches a play attentively; the histrionic cad assumes the part of those florid-faced gentlemen – mostly officers – who come down to a theatre after dinner and laugh and joke during the progress of the piece, with their backs turned on the performers. A gentleman who has little brains, much loquacity, and an extra bottle of claret, is bad enough; but the half-tipsy cad who imitates him is immeasurably worse. The two men in question, wishing to be considered "d – d aristocratic," talked so as to be heard across the theatre, ogled the women with their borrowed opera-glasses instead of looking at the play, and burst forth with laughter at the "sentimental" parts. It was altogether an inspiriting exhibition, which one never sees out of England.
And the gentle 'Rosalind,' too, was conscious that these men were looking at her. How could it be Arden forest to her – how could she be 'Rosalind' at all – if she was aware of the presence of such people, if she feared their inattention, and shrank from their laugh?
"What the papers have said about her is right," said Will to himself. "Something must have happened to dispirit her or upset her, and she seems not to care much about the part."
The charm of her acting was there – one could sit and watch with an extreme delight the artistic manipulation of those means which are obviously at the actor's hand – but there was a subtle something wanting in the play. It was pretty and interesting while it lasted; but one could have permitted it to drop at any moment without regret.
There is, as everybody knows, a charming scene in the drama, in which 'Rosalind,' disguised as a youth, coaxes 'Orlando' to reveal all his love for her. There is in it every variety of coy bashfulness, and wayward fun, and half-suggested tenderness which an author could conceive or the most accomplished actress desire to represent. When 'Orlando' wishes he could convince this untoward page of his extreme love for 'Rosalind,' the disguised 'Rosalind' says merrily, "Me believe it? You may as soon make her that you love believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do, than to confess she does: that is one of the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth," she adds, suddenly changing her tone into tender, trustful entreaty, "are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein 'Rosalind' is so admired?" And then again she asks, "But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?"
'Rosalind' turned the side of her face to her lover, as if her ear wished to drink in the sweet assurance; and her eyes, which fronted the audience, stared vacantly before her, as if they too were only interested in listening; while a light, happy smile dawned upon her lips. Suddenly the eyes, vacantly gazing into the deep theatre, seemed to start into a faint surprise, and a deadly pallor overspread her face. She tried to collect herself – 'Orlando' had already answered – she stumbled, looked half-wildly at him for a moment, and then burst into tears. The house was astonished, and then struck with a fit of admiration which expressed itself in rounds of applause. To them it was no hysterical climax to a long series of sad and solitary reveries, but a transcendant piece of stage effect. It was the over-excited 'Rosalind' who had just then burst into tears of joy on learning how much her lover loved her.
'Orlando' was for the moment taken aback; but the applause of the people gave him time to recover himself, and he took her hand, and went on with the part as if nothing had happened. He and the people in the stage-boxes saw that her tears were real, and that she could scarcely continue the part for a sort of half-hysterical sobbing; but the majority of those in the theatre were convinced that Annie Brunel was the greatest actress they had ever seen, and wondered why the newspapers had spoken so coldly of her performance.
Will knew that she had seen him; he had caught that swift, electric glance. But, not knowing any reason why the seeing him should produce such profound emotion, he, too, fancied that her bursting into tears was a novel and pretty piece of acting. However, for his own sake, he did not wish to sit longer there; and so he rose and left.
But the streets outside were so cold and dark compared with Arden! The chill night air, the gloomy shadows of the broad thoroughfare, the glare of gas-lamps on the pavement, and the chatter of cabmen, were altogether too great a change from 'Rosalind' and the poetry-haunted forest. Nor could he bear the thought of leaving her there among those happy faces, in the warm and joyous atmosphere of romance, while he walked solitarily home to his solitary chambers. He craved for her society, and was content to share it with hundreds of strangers. Merely to look upon her face was such a delight to him that he yielded himself to it irrespective of consequences. So he walked round to another entrance, and stole into a corner of the pit.
Was the delight or the torture the greater? He was now within view of the rows of well-dressed men and women in the stalls, who seemed so pleased with 'Rosalind.' It is one of the profound paradoxes of lore, that while making selfish men unselfish and generous to a degree, it begets in the most unselfish of men an unreasoning and brutal self-regard. He hated them for their admiration. He hated them the more especially that their admiration was worth having. He hated them because their admiration was likely to please Annie Brunel.
It might have been imagined that his anger would have been directed chiefly against those idiotic drapers' assistants and clerks who sate and burlesqued the piece, and sneered at the actress. But no; it was the admiration of the intelligent and accomplished part of the audience he feared; was it not sufficient to interpose between him and her a subtle barrier? He could have wished that the whole theatre was hissing her, that so his homage and tenderness and respect might be accounted as of some worth. He fancied she was in love with the theatre, and he hated all those attractions of the theatre which caused her love with a profound and jealous hatred.
At length the play came to an end, and there was no longer an excuse for his remaining, as Annie Brunel, of course, did not play in the short piece which followed. So he went outside, and in getting into the street he found himself behind the two wine-merchants who had been in the box.
"Why not?" said the one to the other, gaily.
"If she gets into a rage, so much the better fun. 'Rosalind' must be d – d pretty in a fury."
"All right," said the other, with a hiccup.
Will had heard the words distinctly; and the mere suspicion they suggested caused his blood to boil. When the two men turned into the narrow lane leading round to the stage-door of the theatre, he followed them with his mouth hard and firm, and his eyes not looking particularly amiable.
At the entrance to the lane stood Miss Brunel's cab. He recognised the face of the venerable jarvie who was accustomed to wait for her every evening.
He passed up the lane; the two men had paused in front of the small wooden door, and were trying to decipher, by the aid of the lamp overhead, the features of whomsoever passed in or out.
"She won't be here for an hour," said one of them.
"Shouldn't wonder if she went home in Rosalind's dress," said the other, with another hiccup.
"She'll 'it you, 'Arry, if you speak to her."
"Let her. I'd rather like it, 'pon my soul."
The stage-door was continually being swung to and fro by some one passing in or out, but as yet there was no sign of Annie Brunel. At length, however, some of the people who had been engaged in the play came out, and Will knew that she would soon follow.
"Was she likely to be alone? Would they dare to speak to her?" He glanced down at the sling which supported his right arm. Deprive an Englishman of the use of his right arm, and he feels himself utterly helpless. There was one happy thought, however: even if she were alone she would be closely veiled; and how were these half-tipsy cads to recognise her?
She came out; she was alone, and veiled, but Will knew the graceful figure, and the carriage of the queenly head.
By some demoniac inspiration the two men seemed also to take it for granted that the veiled face was that of Annie Brunel. The less tipsy of the two went forward, overtook her as she was going down the lane, and said to her —
"I beg your pardon, Miss – Miss Brunel – "
She turned her head, and in the gaslight Anerley saw that there was a quick, frightened look of interrogation in her eyes. She turned away again, and had hurried on almost to the open street, when the man caught her arm with his hand.
"Not so fast, my dear. Won't you look at my card – "
"Out of the way, idiot!" was the next thing she heard, in a voice that made her heart beat; and in a moment the man had been sent reeling against the opposite wall.
That was the work of an instant. Inflamed with rage and fury, he recovered himself, and was about to aim a blow at his assailant's face, when Anerley's left arm so successfully did duty without the aid of the wounded right one, that the man went down like a log, and lay there. His companion, stupefied, neither stirred nor spoke.
"Get into the cab, Miss Brunel," said Will, abruptly.
He accompanied her across the pavement: an utter stranger could not have been more calm and cold. For a second she looked into his face, with pain, and wonder, and entreaty in her eyes; and then she took his hand, which had been outstretched to bid her good-bye, and said —
"Won't you come with me? I – I am afraid – "
He got into the cab; the driver mounted his box and drove off; and so it was that Will, scarcely knowing how it had come about, found himself sitting once more beside Annie Brunel, with her hand still closed upon his.