Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  Mrs White looked at Miss St Vincent with more than ordinary interest, and the actress had bestowed more than one searching glance at the fashionable woman who sat in the stage-box with Lord Wedmore. At the end of her song, as Miss St Vincent bowed her acknowledgements to an applauding public, Mrs White took a large bouquet of white flowers, which was lying on the ledge of the box, and adroitly threw it full at Miss St Vincent’s feet. The actress picked it up, and the women exchanged a look fully as indicative of hatred as if they had drawn daggers from their skirts. The throwing of the bouquet, apparently a compliment, was one of those secret sneers which women know well how to give, and which they never forget.

  These two women, although separated by immense social barriers as wide as the oceans which divide continents, were united by enmity in the closest bonds. They knew each other well by sight and name; they knew each other’s intentions, and they knew they were engaged in a struggle where no quarter would be given or expected. It was one of those thousand duels which take place in our midst, whose collective force, although unnoticed by the historian, is certainly equal to the battles which decide the fate of empires. Men fight for many things, women fight only for man, and Mrs White’s quarrel with Miss St Vincent was no exception to the rule. Lord Wedmore was the stake played for; the game was matrimony, and never were gamblers more absorbed in their play than these two women. Lord Wedmore was the young man who sat beside Mrs White; he sat there quite as unconscious of the cunning, the trickery, and the heartlessness that would be used to gain him as the pile of money on the green cloth is of the eyes watching the cards that will transfer it from one to the other.

  Lord Wedmore was the man whom most women wish to marry, but whom none love. Yet he was tall and well built, and was not ill-looking, although his hair was fair and his face florid. He was unattractive to women solely because he excited their curiosity in nothing. He was a neutral tint, offensive for its monotony. He had been surrounded by actresses, match-making mammas, racing-men, yachting-men, all of whom had done their best, in different ways, to help him to spend his twenty thousand a year. But, after a short trial, he had shaken them all off one after the other, for the amusements they had to offer bored him. He had tried to flirt in drawing-rooms; he had bought a few worthless screws; he had lost money at cards; he had even travelled a year in Italy; but, unable to cultivate a taste for art, came home, and smoked cigars and drank brandies-and-sodas in despair.

  After a time he grew very tired of this, and he inwardly blessed a friend who advised him to lend a few thousands to the manager of the Pall Mall Theatre, who allowed him to go behind the scenes when he liked, and make what presents he thought fit to the actresses. After some hesitation, Lord Wedmore’s choice settled upon Miss St Vincent, partly because she encouraged him more adroitly than the rest; partly because every fellow he knew thought her charming, and was dying to know her. He was very proud of his acquaintance with her: it gave him a slight individuality in his club - he was the man who knew Miss St Vincent. Miss St Vincent allowed him to make love to her; but, in common with the rest of her sex, she thought him the greatest bore she ever met. His defects were doubly visible to her; for she liked very much (if she were not in love with) a young actor with whom she had once, in the provinces, played Juliet to his Romeo. Lord Wedmore had twenty thousand a year, and as dearly as she wished to play leading business in high-class comedy with Mr Shirley, she was aware that Lady Wedmore was the better part of the two. She therefore allowed Lord Wedmore to take her home from the theatre occasionally, and make her presents of jewellery; but, always in the approved way, he left them at the stage-door anonymously. She put them on at night and showed them to him, saying, ‘How kind it is of the sender, and how much obliged she was!’ The deception was a thin one; but appearances were preserved, and that was all she wanted.

  Mrs Wallington White, on the other hand, had met Lord Wedmore in society, and she at once fixed upon him as the most likely person she had ever met to realize her dreams of wealth, honour, and position.

  Mrs White’s opinion of herself was that she had only made one mistake in life - that she had married for love. The disagreeable result of this error was that, on her husband’s death, she had been left with only five hundred a year to live upon. What she would have done if her father had not allowed her a few hundred extra was more than she could imagine. She just managed to dress beautifully, and keep a carriage and a house in Norfolk-street - a matter of no small difficulty - on something less than a thousand a year. Her drawing-room was a wilderness of delicate trifles. There was much old Saxony on the étagères and inlaid cabinets; between the fireplace and the window there was a little black sofa; and behind, a rose-shaded lamp, which threw a soft light over Mrs White’s face as she leant back reading, one foot resting on the tiger’s head whose skin was the hearthrug, and the other drawn up on the sofa. She was generally found in this position when visitors called. The walls were wainscoted with white painted wood, divided into panels by gilt mouldings, and decorated with well-chosen porcelain and drawings. The piano stood in a corner, turned away from the wall, and was draped with a rich Indian shawl. The windows were curtained with mauve-coloured satin, with double-crossed lace blinds. From this sketch it will be seen that she was a woman, if not of natural, at least of acquired taste. She could talk of the fashionable pictures in the Academy, and attribute to them their accepted qualities. She knew what was thought about the latest novel, had seen all the new plays, and had always a criticism to offer, which; if sometimes a little commonplace, was never stupid. She had learned what she could of music and art, not because she cared for either, but because she knew that the woman of thirty had to conquer the girl of twenty by other means than dressing youthfully and putting a little rouge on her cheeks. She educated herself carefully and studiously for the drawing room successes; of any other she knew nothing, cared nothing. In her dark bead-like eyes could be easily read her hard material nature, which could look neither into the past nor the future, but which found its joys and griefs solely in the present.

  Not the least of Mrs White’s social qualifications was her talent for keeping her friends.

  In her service there were men whom she had known before she was married, and who were as loud in her praise as ever.

  She had friends scattered over the whole of society, and was therefore in a position to command it. There was scarcely an invitation and no news she could not obtain. In twenty-four hours she could find out what was passing in the semi-detached villa in St John’s Wood or the stately mansion in Carlton House-terrace. Lord Wedmore’s wealth was, of course, known to everybody; in half an hour she had sounded exactly his character; and, after a few visits from old club-men, she knew all about the opéra-bouffe prima donna, and how vain the young man was of his acquaintanceship. It did not require much more investigation to discover how the racing, yachting, and card men had failed. In a word, Mrs White saw that they were now (to borrow a sporting phrase) in the ‘run home’, and that Miss St Vincent and she were left to fight the issue out by themselves.

  Previous to going to the theatre, Lord Wedmore had spent the whole afternoon with her; and owing to the delicate tact with which Mrs White had started subjects of conversation for him, and at the same time suggesting to him appropriate answers, he thought he had never spent a pleasanter day. At six, when he took up his hat and prepared to go, he had been easily persuaded to put it down and stay to dinner. The champagne and the entrée, which had been sent for to Gunter’s, were excellent; and Mrs White conversed so pleasantly, ever deluding him that it was he who was doing the talking, that he looked forward to continuing the conversation up-stairs. But she knew better than to risk it. Three hours is a severe strain upon anyone; and feeling afraid that he might bore himself, she wisely proposed to adjourn to the theatre. Ten years of London life had led Mrs White into a great many secrets. She knew well that where there is no intelligence there are still the senses, and she therefore tried to win him by tempting
him through the flesh. She gave him nice dinners to eat and wines to drink, soft chairs to sit on, and, by a thousand artifices, contrived to engender the idea in his mind that she understood him, that he was not half the fool in her society that he was elsewhere. She flattered his self-love in every way; she spoke to him and quizzed him about Miss St Vincent; congratulated him on his good fortune; praised her beauty, her acting, her singing - for she knew that nothing would be gained by abusing her, that any opposition on her part would only have the effect of stimulating his passion. So she laughed, joked, and praised her; and when the time came to decide what theatre they should go to, Mrs White did not hesitate to say that she was dying to see The Tinman. By this means she would continue the pleasantness of Lord Wedmore’s evening; it would flatter his vanity and humiliate Miss St Vincent, who would be forced to dance and sing, while she would do the grand lady in the stage-box, flirting and applauding as the humour came to her. Throwing the bouquet was the finishing touch to the picture designed by a master.

  Before the curtain was rung down on the last act, Mrs White asked Lord Wedmore to give her her opera-cloak; and having wrapped herself well up, she took his arm, and went down to the vestibule of the theatre.

  There was a slight fog; the pavements were slippery, and the house-tops could not be distinguished against the murky sky. The streets were full of people coming from the Strand and Haymarket. With bent heads they hurried along, trying to breathe as little of the foggy air as possible. They went by in groups. Dirty-dressed girls passed, gathering up their skirts; boys still shouted out the last editions of the evening papers, and offered to call cabs for those leaving the theatre. The hansoms and carriages stopped and whirled away every minute.

  Refusing all invitations to supper, Mrs White got into her brougham, bade him good-bye, and lay back on the soft cushions and calculated the progress she had made as she drove home.

  CHAPTER II

  LORD WEDMORE TURNED up a narrow street towards the stage-door. He was curious to see Miss St Vincent; he wondered if she were jealous, and what her comments would be on Mrs Wallington White. Two private broughams and three black-cabs were standing before the low doorway, out of which a lot of seedy-dressed men were hurrying, buttoning up coats and wrapping thick comforters round their necks.

  Lord Wedmore passed the stage-doorkeeper with a nod, wishing that the whole club could see him, and went down the narrow flight of steps leading on to the stage. The drop-curtain was drawn up, and all the lights in the theatre were out except a large iron gas-pipe in the form of a cross, which lit with a flaring uncertain light the auditorium, now empty of all but three or four servant-women, who were covering the seats in the upper boxes with large linen cloths. The stage was dim and deserted, and the scene-shifters piled the large side-scenes up in one corner, and pushed by the actors and actresses who stood about chatting. Mr Lendsell, the manager, was talking to Miss St Vincent in one of the wings, and he shouted to the girls who passed in groups up the narrow staircases leading to their dressing-rooms, that there would be a rehearsal at twelve to-morrow. The manager and actress shook hands with Lord Wedmore, and then withdrew, talking together in whispers. Mr Lendsell was a tall thin man, splendidly built. An immense shock of very dark frizzly hair gave him at first sight a look of an Italian; but his large blue-grey eyes betrayed his Saxon, or rather Celtic, origin. Owing to a few failures, he had the reputation of being easy with other people’s money. Yet there was little of the swindler in his face; it was more that of the sensualist, who loves good living, and does not much trouble himself about the rights and wrongs of things.

  At last Miss St Vincent ran upstairs to dress, and Mr Lendsell, with a hurried and anxious manner, looked about for someone. Meeting Lord Wedmore, he stopped to talk, forgetting the person he was seeking. He gave his very dirty hand to Lord Wedmore, and, drawing him aside, said, ‘Look here, old man; I am rather short for treasury to-morrow. Could you advance me another fifty? With the new piece we shall get it back.’

  ‘Certainly,’ answered Lord Wedmore. ‘I will send you a cheque to-morrow.’

  ‘Could you not let me have it to-night?’

  ‘I have not my cheque-book with me.’

  ‘It does not matter; the stage-doorkeeper will give you a sheet of paper. It is just the same to give it me now. You would be sure to forget it in the morning.’

  They went up-stairs together, where, while Mr Lendsell arranged with Mr Chapel for the rehearsal, Lord Wedmore wrote the cheque. These little matters having been arranged, he proposed a supper to the manager, who was preparing to dart down the stairs after somebody or something he had forgotten. Mr Lendsell consented, and asked who were going to be the guests. Lord Wedmore had no idea beyond that he would like to ask Miss St Vincent, and he was glad to shift the responsibility of the whole thing on the manager’s shoulders. Mr Lendsell, seeing that he would have to ‘boss’ the affair, collected his thoughts, and said, ‘Miss St Vincent, of course. I’ll ask Lottie - Miss Powell is a nice girl. And then for the men: you don’t mind my asking old Centreboard? He is a bore, you know; but I want him to advance me a little money for the new piece.’

  This last phrase was purposely thrown in; for Mr Lendsell did not want the young lord to think he was the only ‘mug’. ‘But that will not be enough.’

  ‘Ah, I forgot,’ said the maager reflectively: ‘I shall have to ask the two Miss Westerns for the old man, and we might ask De Bridet, and Oscalia is good fun. Have you a friend you would like to invite?’

  ‘Ask Slaughter, he is not a bad fellow,’ answered Lord Wedmore, suggesting the acting-manager; for he preferred to relate his adventures behind the scenes than that his friends should be eye-witnesses of them.

  ‘All right, that will do, then,’ replied Lendsell as he hurried away. ‘Stop the girls as they come up. I shall not be a minute.’

  Mr Lendsell’s minute was a long one, and he left his friend kicking his heels together in the cold narrow passage for over a quarter of an hour. The chorus people had mostly all left, but now and again a couple of girls in dark bonnets and shawls would hurry away together, hoping that they were not too late for their bus. At last the two Miss Westerns made their appearance, and Lord Wedmore begged them to stop to supper. The girls seemed embarrassed, they did not know whether to accept or refuse; for the fact was that their father and mother were respectively the stage-doorkeeper and principal dresser. Mr and Mrs Western let their daughters do pretty well as they wished, yet the girls would have liked to quiet the old people with a word of explanation. However, this was impossible: Lord Wedmore was there, and it never would have done to betray their parentage. So the elder gave her father a quick look and they went down-stairs to oysters and champagne, leaving the authors of their being to go home to a bit of bread-and-cheese.

  They found Mr Lendsell in one of the wings, talking to Mr Chapel, the pianist. Apparently he had forgotten all about the supper, for seeing them he was seized with remorse, and rushed up a rickety staircase, and was heard knocking for admittance at Miss St Vincent’s door, and the following dialogue was the result:

  ‘You can’t come in, I am not dressed!’

  ‘It is only me.’

  ‘Ah, I didn’t know. Wait a second. Mrs Jones, give me my shawl.’ A minute after, a door opened, and Miss St Vincent’s voice was heard asking what he wanted. After some whispering the actress promised something, and shut her door, and the manager went to Mdlle Oscalia who dressed in the same room with Miss Powell. When the dresser opened the door there was heard the sound of wrangling voices. The mention of the supper pacified them, and Mr Lendsell - or Dick, as everybody called him - joined Lord Wedmore, who had met De Bridet and Centreboard, and was inquiring after Mr Slaughter. Mr Centreboard declared that he was delighted to stay to supper, but that every place was shut up, and that they would find it impossible to get anything to eat at that hour. The news was disappointing, but Dick declared that he would get everything that was wanted - champagne, oysters, chic
kens, salads - and that they would sup up-stairs, which would be much better fun than going out. To put his plans into execution, it was necessary to take Lord Wedmore into one of the wings, borrow whatever loose sovereigns he had in his pocket, and tell him that there had been a seizure made up-stairs some time ago, which would account for the scarcity of furniture. This, Dick declared, did not matter; and having got ten pounds from his friend, and a couple of sacks from the property-man, he went off without giving any further explanation than to tell De Bridet to show everybody up-stairs, to light a fire, and that he would be back in a minute. The adjoining house was let always with the theatre, and there was a door of communication between the two. When the whole party had assembled on the stage, De Bridet led the way. After having passed into the front of the theatre, round the dress-circle, and up a couple of narrow staircases, he showed them into a large room without fire or light. When the gas was lit there was a general cry of astonishment. The room was absolutely empty; there was literally, with the exception of the piano, not a single piece of furniture in the place, not even a carpet on the floor. They asked De Bridet how they were to sup in a room without a table, a question he admitted he was unable to answer. Was there no other room? Was he sure he had made no mistake? He had made no mistake, and there was no other room, was all he could say; and he proceeded to light an enormous fire, which was sorely needed, for everybody was shivering with the cold. Undoubtedly the supper had been badly started, and seemed likely to prove a failure. Everybody was discontented and out of humour. Mdlle Oscalia declared the whole thing to be une farce anglaise; and Miss St Vincent said that if she were hoarse to-morrow night and could not sing, Dick would have no one to thank but himself. The ladies kept their wraps on, the gentlemen their greatcoats and hats, and stamped about the floor, trying to keep themselves warm. A gloom had fallen over them, and had it not been for De Bridet, who strove, with coarse joking, to keep their spirits up, it is not impossible that they would have gone home, and that Dick would have found no one to eat the supper he had gone to fetch: all prophesied that he would return empty-handed. They were a strangely-assorted company. There was De Bridet, a short thickset little man with a snub-nose, and the hair cut close over his high bumpy forehead. He spoke English with a vile foreign accent, and French with a still viler native one. There was old Centreboard, as he was called behind the scenes, a stout little man nearer sixty than fifty, with mutton-chop whiskers and a pompous manner. He made love to the two Miss Westerns, and it was impossible to tell which he preferred; his chief annoyance in life seemed to be that they occasionally treated him more in the light of a relation than an admirer. Mr Semper was a tall American with a hatchet-like face, who perpetually smoked cigarettes, and annoyed Miss Powell by ever telling her that he was utterly blasé, but that if he had met her ten years ago he doubtless would have admired her very much.