Kitabı oku: «The King of Schnorrers: Grotesques and Fantasies», sayfa 12
"Doubtful! Your Upper Ten is usually supposed to have cured marriage of it."
She bent her head over her plate, so that I strove in vain to read her eyes.
"Well, it's a beastly shame," I said. "Don't you think so, Miss Harper – Ethelberta? May I call you Ethelberta?"
"If it gives you any comfort," she said plumply.
"It gives me more than comfort," I rejoined.
A wild hope flamed in my breast. What if she loved me after all! I would speak the word. But no! If she did, I had won her love under a false glamour of nobility. Better, far better, to keep both my secrets in my own breast. Besides, had I not seen she was a flirt? I continued to call her Ethelberta, but that was all. When we rose from table I had not spoken; knowing that my friends would claim my society for the rest of the evening, I held out my hand in final farewell. She took it. Her own hand was hot. I clasped it for a moment, gazing into the wonderful blue eyes; then I let it go, and all was over.
"I do believe Teddy is hit!" Towers said when I came into our room, whither they had preceded me.
"Rot!" I said, turning my face away. "A seasoned bachelor like me. Heigho! I shall be awfully glad to get to work again to-morrow."
"Yes," said the Infant. "I see from the statistics that the mortality of your district has declined frightfully. That Robins must be a regular duffer."
"I'll soon set that right!" I exclaimed, with a forced grin.
"She certainly is a stunner," Towers mused.
"Hullo! I'm afraid it's Merton that's damaged," I laughed boisterously.
"Well, if she wasn't an heiress – " began Towers slowly.
"She might have you," finished the Infant. "But I say, boys, we'd better ask for our bills; we've got to be off in the morning by the 8.5. Jones mightn't be up when we leave."
The room echoed with sardonic laughter at the idea. There was no need to ring for Jones; he found two pretexts an hour to come and gaze upon me. When my bill came, I went to the window for air and to hide my face from Jones.
"All right, Jones!" cried the Infant, guessing what was up. "We'll leave it on the table before we go to bed."
"Well?" my friends enquired eagerly, when Jones had crawled off.
"Twenty-seven pounds two and tenpence!" I groaned, letting the accursed paper drift helplessly to the floor.
"D – d reasonable!" said the Infant.
"You would go it!" Towers added soothingly.
"Reasonable or not," I said, "I've only got six pounds in my pockets."
"You said you brought ten," said Towers.
"Yes! but what of carriage-sails and yacht-drives?" I cried agitatedly.
"You're drunk," said the Infant brutally. "However, I suppose, before going into dividing exes we must get together the gross sum."
It was easier said than done. When every farthing had been scraped together, we were thirteen pounds short on the three bills. We held a long council of war, discussing the possibilities of surreptitious pledging – the unspeakable Jones, playing his blindfold game, had reduced us to pawn – but even these were impracticable.
"Confound you!" cried Merton Towers. "Why didn't you think of the bill before?"
As if I had not better things to think of!
The horror of facing Jones in the morning drove us to the most desperate devices; but none seemed workable.
"There's only one way left of getting the coin, Teddy," said the Infant at last.
"What's that?" I cried eagerly.
"Ask the heiress."
It was an ambiguous phrase, but in whatever sense he meant it, it was a cruel and unmanly thrust; in my indignation I saw light.
"What fools we have been!" I shouted. "It's as easy as A B C. I'm not in an office like you, bound to be back to the day – I stay on over to-morrow, and you send me on the money from town."
"Where are we to get it from?" growled Towers.
"Anywhere! anybody!" I cried excitedly; "I'll write to Robins at once for it."
"Why not wire?" said the Infant.
"I don't see the necessity for wasting sixpence," I said; "we must be economical. Besides, Jones would read the wire."
CHAPTER IV
THE WINNING MOVE
Time slipped on; but I could not tear myself away from this enchanted hotel. The departure of my friends allowed me to be nearly all day with Ethelberta.
I had drowned reason and conscience: day followed day in a golden languor and the longer I stopped, the harder it was to go. At last Robins's telegrams became too imperative to be disregarded, and even my second supply of money would not suffice for another day.
The bitter experience of parting had to be faced again; the miserable evening, when I had first called her Ethelberta, had to be repeated. We spoke little at dinner; afterwards, as I had not my friends to go to this time, we left Mrs. Windpeg sitting over her dessert, and paced up and down in the little cultivated enclosure which separated the hotel from the parade. It was a balmy evening; the moon was up, silvering the greenery, stretching a rippling band across the sea, and touching Ethelberta's face to a more marvellous fairness. The air was heavy with perfume; everything combined to soften my mood. Tears came into my eyes as I thought that this was the very last respite. Those tears seemed to purge my vision: I saw the beauty of truth and sincerity, and felt that I could not go away without telling her who I really was; then, in future years, whatever she thought of me, I, at least, could think of her sacredly, with no cloud of falseness between me and her.
"Ethelberta!" I said, in low trembling tones.
"Lord Everett!" she murmured responsively.
"I have a confession to make."
She flushed and lowered her eyes.
"No, no!" she said agitatedly; "spare me that confession. I have heard it so often; it is so conventional. Let us part friends."
She looked up into my face with that frank, heavenly glance of hers. It shook my resolution, but I recovered myself and went on:
"It is not a conventional confession. I was not going to say I love you."
"No?" she murmured.
Was it the tricksy play of the moon among the clouds, or did a shade of disappointment flit across her face? Were her words genuine, or was she only a coquette? I stopped not to analyse; I paused not to enquire; I forgot everything but the loveliness that intoxicated me.
"I – I – mean I was!" I stammered awkwardly; "I have loved you from the first moment I saw you."
I strove to take her hand; but she drew it away haughtily.
"Lord Everett, it is impossible! Say no more."
The twang dropped from her speech in her dignity; her accents rang pure and sweet.
"Why not?" I cried passionately. "Why is it impossible? You seemed to care for me."
She was silent; at last she answered slowly:
"You are a lord! I cannot marry a lord."
My heart gave a great leap, then I felt cold as ice.
"Because I am a lord?" I murmured wonderingly.
"Yes! I – I – flirted with you at first out of pure fun – believe me, that was the truth. If I loved you now," her words were tremulous and almost inaudible, "it would be right that I should be punished. We must never meet again. Good-bye!"
She stood still and extended her hand.
I touched it with my icy fingers.
"Oh! if you had only let me confess just now what I wanted to!" I cried in agony.
"Confess what?" she said. "Have you not confessed?"
"No! You may disbelieve me now; but I wanted to tell you that I am not a lord at all, that I only became one through Jones."
Her lovely eyes dilated with surprise. I explained briefly, confusedly.
She laughed, but there was a catch in her voice.
"Listen!" she said hurriedly, starting pacing again; "I, too, have a confession to make. Jones has corrupted me too. I'm not an heiress at all, nor even an American – just a moderately successful London actress, resting a few weeks, and Mrs. Windpeg is only my companion and general factotum, the widow of a drunken stage-carpenter, who left her without resources, poor thing. But we had hardly crossed the steps of the hotel, before Jones mentioned Lord Everett was in the place, and buzzed the name so in our ears that the idea of a wild frolic flashed into my head. I am a great flirt, you know, and I thought that while I had the chance I would test the belief that English lords always fall in love with American heiresses."
"It was no test," I interrupted. "A Chinese Mandarin would fall in love with you equally."
"I let Mrs. Windpeg tell Jones all about me – imaginatively," she went on with a sad smile; "I told her to call me Harper, because Harper's Magazine came into my mind. But it was Jones who seated us together. I will believe that you took a genuine liking to me; still, it was a foolish freak on both sides, and we must both forget it as soon as possible."
"I can never forget it!" I said passionately; "I love you; and I dare to think you care for me, though while you fancied I was a peer you stifled the feeling that had grown up despite you. Believe me, I understand the purity of your motives, and love you the more for them."
She shook her head.
"Good-bye!" she faltered.
"I will not say 'good-bye'! I have little to offer you, but it includes a heart that is aching for you. There is no reason now why we should part."
Her lips were white in the moonlight.
"I never said I loved you," she murmured.
"Not in so many words," I admitted; "but why did you let me call you Ethelberta?" I asked passionately.
"Because it is not my name," she answered; and a ghost of the old gay smile lit up the lovely features.
I stood for a moment dumbfounded. Unconsciously we had come to a standstill under the window of the dining-room.
She took advantage of my consternation to say more lightly:
"Come, let us part friends."
I dimly understood that, in some subtle way I was too coarse to comprehend, she was ashamed of the part she had played throughout, that she would punish herself by renunciation. I knew not what to say; I saw the happiness of my life fading before my eyes. She held out her hand for the last time and I clasped it mechanically. So we stood, silent.
"What does that matter, Mrs. Windpeg? You're a real lady, that's enough for me. It wasn't because I thought you had money that I ventured to raise my eyes to you."
We started. It was the voice of Jones. Mrs. Windpeg had evidently lingered too long over her dessert.
"But I tell you I have nothing at all – nothing!" came the voice of Mrs. Windpeg.
"I don't want it. You see, I'm like you – not what I seem. This place belongs to me, only I was born and bred a waiter in this very hotel, and I don't see why the 'ouse shouldn't profit by the tips instead of a stranger. My son does the show part; but he ain't fit for anything but reading Dickens and other low-class writers, and I feel the want of a real lady, knowing the ways of the aristocrats. What with Lord Porchester and Lord Everett, it looks as if this hotel is going to be fashionable and I know there's lots of 'igh-class wrinkles I ain't picked up yet. Only lately I was flummoxed by a gent asking for a liqueur I'd never 'eard of. You're mixed up with tip-top swells; I loved you from the moment I saw you fold your first serviette. I'm a widower, you're a widow. Let bygones be bygones. Why shouldn't we make a match of it?"
We looked at each other and laughed; false subtleties were swept away by a wave of mutual merriment.
"'Let bygones be bygones. Why shouldn't we make a match of it?'" I echoed. "Jones is right." I tightened my grasp of her hand and drew her towards me, almost without resistance. "You're going to lose your companion, you'll want another."
Her lovely face came nearer and nearer.
"Besides," I said gaily, "I understand you're out of an engagement."
"Thanks," she said; "I don't care for an engagement in the Provinces, and I have sworn never to marry in the profession: they're a bad lot."
"Call me an actor?"
My lips were almost on hers.
"You played Lord Dundreary – not unforgivably."
Our lips met!
"Oh, Augustus," came the voice of Mrs. Windpeg, "I feel so faint with happiness!"
"Loose your arms a moment, my popsy. I'll fetch you a drop of Damtidam!" answered the voice of Jones.
The Principal Boy
I
To sit out a play is a bore; to sit out a dance demands less patience. Even when you do it merely to prevent your partner dancing with you, it is the less disagreeable alternative. But it sometimes makes you giddier than galoping. Frank Redhill lost his head – a well-built head – completely through indulging in it; and without the head to look after it, the heart soon goes. He held Lucy's little hand in his hot clasp. She wished he would get himself gloves large enough not to split at the thumbs, and felt quite affectionate towards the dear, untidy boy. As a woman almost out of her teens, she could permit herself a motherly feeling for a lad who had but just attained his majority. The little thing looked very sweet in a demure dress of nun's veiling, which Frank would have described as "white robes." For he was only an undergraduate. Some undergraduates are past masters in the science and art of woman; but Frank was not in that set. Nor did he herd with the athletic, who drift mainly into the unpaid magistracy, nor with the worldly, who usually go in for the church. He was a reading man. Only he did not stick to the curriculum, but fed himself on the conceits of the poets, and thirsted to redeem mankind. So he got a second-class. But this is anticipating. Perhaps Lucy had been anticipating, too. At any rate she went through the scene as admirably as if she had rehearsed for it. And yet it was presumably the first time she had been asked to say: "I love you" – that wonderful little phrase, so easy to say and so hard to believe. Still, Lucy said and Frank believed it.
Not that Lucy did not share his belief. It must be for love that she was conceding Frank her hand – since her mother objected to the match. As the nephew of a peer, Frank could give her rather better society than she now enjoyed, even if he could not give her that of the peer, who had an hereditary feud with him. Of course she could not marry him yet, he was quite too poor for that, but he was a young man of considerable talents – which are after all gold pieces. When fame and fortune came to him, Lucy would come and join the party. En attendant, their souls would be wed. They kissed each other passionately, sealing the contract of souls with the red sealing-wax of burning lips. To them in Paradise entered the Guardian Angel with flaming countenance, and drove them into the outer darkness of the brilliant ball-room.
"My dear," said the Guardian Angel, who was Lucy Grayling's mother, "there is going to be an interval, and Mrs. Bayswater is so anxious for you to give that sweet recitation from Racine."
So Lucy declaimed one of Athalie's terrible speeches in a way that enthralled those who understood it, and made those who didn't, enthusiastic.
The applause did not seem to gratify the Guardian Angel as much as usual. Lucy wondered how much she had seen, and, disliking useless domestic discussion, extorted a promise of secrecy from her lover before they parted. He did not care about keeping anything from his father – especially something of which his approval was dubious. Still, all's fair and honourable in love – or love makes it seem so.
Frank took a solemn view of engagement, and embraced Lucy in his general scheme for the redemption of mankind. He felt she was a sacred as well as a precious charge, and he promised himself to attend to her spiritual salvation in so far as her pure instincts needed guidance. He directed her reading in bulky letters bearing the Oxford post-mark. Meantime, Lucy disapproved of his neckties. She thought he would be even nicer with a loving wife to look after his wardrobe.
II
When Frank achieved the indistinction of a second-class, as prematurely revealed, he went to Canada, and became a farm-pupil. It was not that his physique warranted the work, but there seemed no way in the old country of making enough money to marry Lucy (much less to redeem mankind) on. He was suffering, too, at the moment from a disgust with the schools, and a sentimental yearning to "return to nature."
The parting with Lucy was bitter, but he carried her bright image in his heart, and wrote to her by every mail. In Canada he did not look at a woman, as the saying goes; true, the opportunities were scant on the lonely log-farm. Absence, distance, lent the last touch of idealisation and enchantment to his conception of Lucy. She stood to him not only for Womanhood and Purity, but for England, Home, and Beauty. Nay, the thought of her was even Culture, when the evening found him too worn with physical toil to read a page of the small library he had brought with him. He saw his way to profitable farming on his own account in a few years' time. Then Lucy would come out to him, if they should be too impatient to wait till he had made money enough to go to her.
Lucy's letters did nothing to disabuse him of his ideals or his aims. They were charming, affectionate, and intellectual. Midway, in the batch he treasured more than eastern jewels, the sheets began to wear mourning for Lucy's mother. The Guardian Angel was gone – whether to continue the rôle none could say. Frank comforted the orphaned girl as best he could with epistolary kisses and condolences, and hoped she would get along pleasantly with her aunt till the necessity for that good relative vanished. And so the correspondence went on, Lucy's mind improving visibly under her lover's solicitous guidance. Then one day Redhill the elder cabled that by the death of his brother and nephew within a few days of each other, he had become Lord Redhill, and Frank consequently heir to a fine old peerage, and with an heir's income. Whereupon Frank returned forthwith from nature to civilisation. Now he could marry Lucy (and redeem mankind) immediately. Only he did not tell Lucy he was coming. He could not deny himself (or her) the pleasure of so pleasurable a surprise.
III
It was a cold evening in early November when Frank's hansom drove up to the little house near Bond Street, where Lucy's aunt resided. He had not been to see his father yet; Lucy's angel-face hovered before him, warming the wintry air, and drawing him onwards towards the roof that sheltered her. The house was new to him; and as he paused outside for a moment, striving to still his emotion, his eye caught sight of a little placard in the window of the ground floor, inscribed "Apartments." He shuddered, a pang akin to self-reproach shot through him. Lucy's aunt was poor, was reduced to letting lodgings. Lucy herself had, perhaps, been left penniless. Delicacy had restrained her from alluding to her poverty in her letter. He had taken everything too much for granted – surely, straitened as were his means, he should have proffered her some assistance. A suspicion that he lacked worldly wisdom dawned upon him for the first time, as he rang the bell. Poor little Lucy! Well, whatever she had gone through, the bright days were come at last. The ocean which had severed them for so many weary moons no longer rolled between them – thank God, only the panels of the street-door divided them now. In another instant that darling head – no more the haunting elusive phantom of dream – would be upon his breast. Then as the door opened, the thought flashed upon him that she might not be in – the idea of waiting a single moment longer for her turned him sick. But his fears vanished at the encouraging expression on the face of the maid servant who opened the door.
"Miss Gray's upstairs," she mumbled, without waiting for him to speak. And, all intelligent reflection swamped by a great wave of joy, he followed her up one narrow flight of stairs, and passed eagerly into a room to which she pointed. It was a bright, cosy room, prettily furnished, and a cheerful fire crackled on the hearth. There were books and flowers about, and engravings on the walls. The little round table was laid for tea. Everything smiled "welcome." But these details only gradually penetrated Frank's consciousness – for the moment all he saw was that She was not there. Then he became aware of the fire, and moved involuntarily towards it, and held his hands over it, for they were almost numbed with the cold. Straightening himself again, he was startled by his own white face in the glass.
He gazed at it dreamily, and beyond it towards the folding-doors, which led into an adjoining room. His eyes fixed themselves fascinated upon these reflected doors, and strayed no more. It was through them that she would come.
Suddenly a dreadful thought occurred to him. When she came through those doors, what would be the effect of his presence upon her? Would not the sudden shock, joyful though it was, upset the fragile little beauty? Had he not even heard of people dying from joy? Why had he not prepared her for his return, if only to the tiniest extent? The suspicion that he lacked worldly wisdom gained in force. Tumultuous suggestions of retreat crossed his mind – but before he could move, the folding-doors in the mirror flew apart, and a radiant image dashed lightly through them. It was a vision of dazzling splendour that made his eyes blink – a beautiful glittering figure in tights and tinsel, the prancing prince of pantomime. For an infinitesimal fraction of a second, Frank had the horror of the thought that he had come into the wrong house.
"Good evening, George," the Prince cried: "I had almost given you up."
Great God! Was the voice, indeed, Lucy's? Frank grasped at the mantel, sick and blind, the world tumbling about his ears. The suspicion that he lacked worldly wisdom became a certainty. Slowly he turned his head to face the waves of dazzling colour that tossed before his dizzy eyes.
The Prince's outstretched hand dropped suddenly. A startled shriek broke from the painted lips. The re-united lovers stood staring half blindly at each other. More than the Atlantic rolled between them.
Lucy broke the terrible silence.
"Brute!"
It was his welcome home.
"Brute?" he echoed interrogatively, in a low, hoarse whisper.
"Brute and cad!" said the Prince vehemently, the musical tones strident with anger. "Is this your faith, your loyalty – to sneak back home like a thief – to peep through the keyhole to see if I was a good little girl – ?"
"Lucy! Don't!" he interrupted in anguished tones. "As there is a heaven above us, I had no suspicion – "
"But you have now," the Prince interrupted with a bitter laugh. Neither made any attempt to touch the other, though they were but a few inches apart. "Out with it!"
"Lucy, I have nothing to say against you. How should I? I know nothing. It is for you to speak. For pity's sake tell me all. What is this masquerade?"
"This masquerade?" She touched her pink tights – he shuddered at the touch. "These are – " She paused. Why not tell the easy lie and be done with the whole business, and marry the dear, devoted boy? But the mad instinct of revolt and resentment swept over her in a flood that dragged the truth from her heart and hurled it at him. "These are the legs of Prince Prettypet. If I am lucky, I shall stand on them in the pantomime of The Enchanted Princess; or, Harlequin Dick Turpin, at the Oriental Theatre. The man who has the casting of the part is coming to see how I look."
"You have gone on the stage?"
"Yes; I couldn't live on your lectures," Prince Prettypet said, still in the same resentful tone. "I couldn't fritter away the little capital I had when mamma died, and then wait for starvation. I had no useful accomplishments. I could only recite —Athalie."
"But surely your aunt – "
"Is a fiction. Had she been a fact it would have been all the same. I had had enough of mamma. No more leading-strings!"
"Lucy! And you wept over her so in your letters?"
"Crocodile's tears. Heavens, are women to have no lives of their own?"
"Oh, why did you not write to me of your difficulties?" he groaned. "I would have come over and fetched you – we would have borne poverty together."
"Yes," the Prince said mockingly. "''E was werry good to me, 'e was.' Do you think I could submit to government by a prig?"
He started as if stung. The little tinselled figure, looking taller in its swashbuckling habits, stared at him defiantly.
"Tell me," he said brokenly, "have you made a living?"
"No. If truth must be told, Lucy Gray – docked at the tail, sir – hasn't made enough to keep Lucy Grayling in theatrical costumes. I got plenty of kudos in the Provinces, but two of my managers were bogus."
"Yes?" he said vaguely.
"No treasury, don't you know? Ghost didn't walk. No oof, rhino, shiners, coin, cash, salary!"
"Do I understand you have travelled about the country by yourself?"
"By myself! What, in a company? You've picked up Irish in America. Ha! ha! ha!"
"You know what I mean, Lucy." It seemed strange to call this new person Lucy, but "Miss Grayling" would have sounded just as strange.
"Oh, there was sure to be a married lady – with her husband – in the troupe, poor thing!" The Prince had a roguish twinkle in the eye. "And surely I am old enough to take care of myself. Still, I felt you wouldn't like it. That's why I was anxious to get a London appearance – if only in East-end pantomime. The money's safe, and your notices are more valuable. I only want a show to take the town. I do hope George won't disappoint me. I thought you were he."
"Who is George?" he said slowly, as if in pain.
The shrill clamour of the bell answered him.
"There he is!" said the Prince joyfully. "George is only Georgie Spanner, stage-manager of the Oriental. I have been besieging him for two days. Bella Bright, who had to play Prince Prettypet, has gone and eloped with the property-man, and as soon as I heard of it, I got a letter of introduction to Georgie Spanner, and he said I was too little, and I said that was nonsense – that I had played in burlesque at Eastbourne – Come in!"
"Are you at home, miss?" said the maid, putting her head inside the door.
"Certainly, Fanny. That's Mr. Spanner I told you of – " The girl's head looked puzzled as it removed itself. "And so he said if I would put my things on, he would try and run down for an hour this evening, and see if I looked the part."
"And couldn't all that be done at the theatre?"
"Of course it could. But it's ten times more convenient for me here. And it's very considerate of Georgie to come all this way – he's a very busy man, I can tell you."
The street-door slammed loudly.
A sudden paroxysm shook Frank's frame. "Lucy, send this man away – for God's sake." In his excitement he came nearer, he laid his hand pleadingly upon the glittering shoulder. The Prince trembled a little under his touch, and stood as in silent hesitancy. The stairs creaked under heavy footsteps.
"Go to your room," he said more imperatively. Even in the wreck of his ideal, it was an added bitterness to think that limbs whose shapeliness had never even occurred to him, should be made a public spectacle. "Put on decent clothes."
It was the wrong chord to touch. The Prince burst into a boisterous laugh. "Silly old MacDougall!"
The footsteps were painfully near.
"You are mad," Frank whispered hoarsely. "You are killing me – you whom I throned as an angel of light; you who were the first woman in the world – "
"And now I'm going to be the Principal Boy," she laughed quietly back. "Is that you, dear old chap? Come in, George."
The door opened – Frank, disgusted, heart-broken, moved back towards the window-curtains. A corpulent, beef-faced, double-chinned man, with a fat cigar and a fur overcoat, came in.
"How do, Lucy? Cold, eh? What, in your togs? That's right."
"There, you bad man! Don't I look ripping?"
"Stunning, Lucy," he said, approaching her.
"Well, then, down on your knees, George, and apologise for saying I was too little."
"Well, I see more of you now, he! he! he! Yes, you'll do. What swell diggings!"
"Come to the fire. Take that easy-chair. There, that's right, old man. Now, what is it to be? There's tea laid – you've let it get cold, unpunctual ruffian. Perhaps you'd like a brandy and soda better?"
"M' yes."
She rang the bell. "So glad – because there's only tea for two, and I know my friend would prefer tea," with a sneering intonation. "Let me introduce you – Mr. Redhill, Mr. Spanner, you have heard of Mr. Spanner, the celebrated author and stage-manager?"
The celebrated author and stage-manager half rose in his easy-chair, startled, and not over-pleased. The pale-faced rival visitor, half hidden in the curtains, inclined his head stiffly, then moved towards the door.
"Oh, no, don't run away like that, without a cup of tea, in this bitter weather. Mr. Spanner won't mind talking business before you, will you, George? Such a dear old friend, you know."
It was a merry tea-party. Lucy rattled away bewitchingly, overpowering Mr. Spanner like an embodied brandy and soda. The slang of the green room and the sporting papers rolled musically off her tongue, grating on Frank's ear like the scraping of slate pencils. He had not insight enough to divine that she was accentuating her vulgar acquirements to torture him. Spanner went at last – for the Oriental boards claimed him – leaving behind him as nearly definite a promise of the part as a stage-manager can ever bring himself to utter. Lucy accompanied him downstairs. When she returned, Frank was still sitting as she had left him – one hand playing with the spoon in his cup, the rest of the body lethargic, immobile. She bent over him tenderly.
"Frank!" she whispered.
He shivered and looked up at the lovely face, daubed with rouge and pencilled at the eyebrows with black – as for the edification of the distant "gods." He lowered his eyes again, and said slowly: "Lucy, I have come back to marry you. What date will be most convenient to you?"
"You want to marry me," she echoed in low tones. "All the same!" A strange wonderful light came into her eyes. The big lashes were threaded with glistening tears. She put her little hand caressingly upon his hair, and was silent.
"Yes! it is an old promise. It shall be kept."
