by George Moore
‘I never loved anyone until I saw you,’ he said. ‘I never cared for anything - I could not amuse myself like other fellows. I have lots of money, but I don’t know what to do with it. I do not care for betting and racing like other men; it only bores me to spend money. Last year I could not get through more than five thousand pounds, and I have twenty a year. Now, if you would only love me a little, all this would be so different; for you would know how to get through all this money properly, and I should have something to live for; it would be such a pleasure to make you happy!’
This was not very eloquent, but it had a flavour of sincerity which Miss St Vincent did not fail to recognize. There was something so piteous in the statement of the poor swell, who felt so lonely with his twenty thousand a year, not having any of the tastes necessary to enable him to spend it, that the actress felt really sorry for him, and, in a way, began to like him.
The two nestled together in the cold cab, the lord pleading and the actress listening, as they drove through the narrow streets leading to Kennington Oval. For a long time he took Miss St Vincent’s silence as a favourable augury; but at last its duration began to frighten him.
Suddenly the cabby drew up before a shabby two-storeyed house, and Miss St Vincent made a movement to rise; but Lord Wedmore put his hand on the door, and said, ‘No, I may not see you again alone; I must know my fate. Do you love me? Can you ever care for me?’
Miss St Vincent did not know well what to answer. She was anxious, she was determined that he should ask her, in so many words, to be Lady Wedmore, although she did not really know if she would accept him or not; so she said evasively, ‘I do not know if I ever might grow to love you as you want to be loved; but I like you well enough.’
‘What must I do, then, to make you love me?’
This was a difficult question for her to answer. She could do nothing but say that love was an involuntary emotion, and that it came and went of its own accord. This led, of course, to a prolonged discussion as to what love is and is not, much to Miss St Vincent’s discontent, for her teeth were chattering and her cheeks were violet with cold. The cabby sat as if petrified on his box; and through the frozen panes the white snow was seen extending on every side.
Several times Lord Wedmore nearly said the wished-for words, and as often the conversation slid away into some trifling discussion. She waited and waited, thinking that every phrase would be the phrase of phrases, till at last the cold became so intense that she could stand it no longer, and she begged him to let her get out.
‘No,’ he said at last, ‘not until you say you will be Lady Wedmore.’
The actress sank back into her seat. The words were said, and Lord Wedmore drew her towards him and kissed her. Yet she could not make up her mind to throw over Mr Shirley and the profession she loved, nor yet to say ‘No’ to a title and twenty thousand a year.
‘Yes or no?’ he asked, taking her hand.
‘What is the use of my answering you now?’ she said, annoyed at herself for not being able to say yes. ‘I am too cold, too miserable. Pray let me out; if you don’t, I shan’t be able to sing tonight.’
‘Say yes, and I will tell cabby to drive to Victoria, and in a few hours we shall be out of this hateful London.’
With a little more pressing she might have accepted him, if it were only to get out of the cab; but the idea of driving back to Victoria was too fearful. It was not the impropriety of the runaway match she thought of; she could think of nothing but the cold, and the fire she knew was burning in her room. How often are our gravest steps in life decided by some trifling incident!
‘No, no, I could not. It would kill me. Already I am beginning to feel the effects of the cold. I have waited here too long as it is.’
‘When shall I see you?’ he asked imploringly; ‘when will you tell me?’
After a few moments, during which time it was clear, from the fixed calculating look that came over her face, that she had suddenly thought of some way out of the embarrassing situation in which she found herself -
‘To-morrow,’ she said, getting out of the cab, ‘I will come and see you at your house.’
‘At what time?’
‘Between two and half-past four,’ she answered quickly. ‘Wait for me; I shall come.’
‘Shall I help you? Take care or you will fall,’ said Lord Wedmore, preparing to get out of the cab.
‘No, no, I shan’t. Don’t get out, I beg of you,’ she replied, holding on to the railings, and climbing up the snow-covered steps with difficulty. Kissing him a good-bye, she let herself in with her latch-key, the door closed, and Lord Wedmore, with a sigh, told the nearly half-frozen coachman to drive to Maddox-street, Regent-street.
CHAPTER III
WHEN MISS ST Vincent got up to her room she stirred the fire, which had been carefully slacked by Mrs Clark herself, who always verified with her own eyes that nothing was wanting in her daughter’s room before she went to bed. The actress warmed her cold hands, and set her alarum for nine. ‘Only four hours’ sleep,’ she thought, looking wistfully at her bed. ‘Shall I ever be able to get up? I never was so tired in my life.’ But Miss St Vincent was a woman of purpose, and when the clock sent forth its rattling sound, she jumped out of bed without a moment’s reflection, and was down to breakfast at a quarter to ten. Mrs Clark was astonished at seeing her daughter so early, and she said, as she poured out the tea, ‘My dear, you will kill yourself! You were not in till five. I heard you open the door.’
‘I am very sorry, Mamma, if I disturbed you; but there was a supper last night at the theatre, and I had to stay. Give me a cup of tea; I am dying with thirst.’
‘But why did you get up so early? The rehearsal is not until half-past twelve.’
‘I have business in the City, and I am going to take Emma with me.’
‘And what, in the name of goodness, are you going to do in the City?’
‘O, nothing of consequence,’ said Miss St Vincent, drinking greedily her cup of tea, but refusing all her mother’s pressing offers of eggs, kidneys, steaks, chops, etc. She could scarcely touch a bit of dry toast. ‘Ring the bell, Mother, and tell Emma to get ready and fetch me a cab.’
Mrs Clark had been left a widow some seventeen or eighteen years ago, with two hundred a year, and her daughter to bring up. This sum proved more than sufficient until Miss Nellie announced her intention of going on the stage, and demanded lessons of the most expensive masters. Mrs Clark knew not how to say ‘No’ to her daughter, and she spent uncomplainingly the economies of past years, without ever dreaming of the magnificent return they would bring in. Miss St Vincent worked hard. It was her nature to see life seriously; and in a couple of years she got a small part, and before she was two-and-twenty, stepped into leading business at fifteen pounds a week.
Mrs Clark rang the bell; having implicit confidence in her daughter’s good sense, she let her conduct her affairs in her own way. Emma soon put on her bonnet and shawl, and, in a few minutes, maid and mistress were whirling away in the direction of Holborn. Emma occupied a special position in the little household. She had been with them for many years, and, from a girl of all work, had, with the family fortunes, been promoted to the position of lady’s-maid. She was invaluable to Miss St Vincent, for she knew she could trust her implicitly.
The cab drove over Westminster Bridge, through Trafalgar-square, then on through Oxford-street, and at last stopped before a door in Gray’s Inn.
Looking at the names painted on the wall, Miss St Vincent said, ‘Yes, here it is, on the third floor - Messrs Fox & Seaward, Solicitors.’
For two long hours the cab waited, until the driver began to feel afraid that his customers had given him the slip. At last the two women came down, and Miss St Vincent told him to drive in all haste to the Pall Mall Theatre. The rehearsal had begun. It was for an under-study, and was a very wearisome affair for everybody except the one who lived in the hopes that coughs and colds would overtake the principal whose part h
e had to learn. Everybody idled in the wings, and inwardly cursed the unfortunate under-study.
Miss St Vincent was so absentminded that she could not give the proper cues; she looked at her watch every few minutes, and at last told her manager that she could wait no longer, that he must do without her.
She was evidently absorbed by some project which she was dying to put into execution, and could think of nothing else.
She ran up the steps to the stage-door, and called a hansom. Emma asked her if she was to accompany her.
‘Of course, yes. Yes, jump in,’ was the reply.
‘Where to?’ asked the cabby.
‘27 Norfolk-street, Park-lane.’
During the short drive from Pall Mall to Mayfair, Miss St Vincent did not speak. From her thoughtful appearance, Emma supposed that she was studying some new part. When they arrived, Miss St Vincent told her maid to wait, that she might want her.
The smart footman who opened the door, in answer to the query if Mrs Wallington White was at home, said, ‘Mrs White does not receive before three.’
This was what Miss St Vincent wanted to know. So, handing him her card, she said, ‘Give my card to Mrs White, and say that I should like to see her on important business.’
The footman showed Miss St Vincent into the diningroom, and sent the card up by the maid.
Mrs Wallington White was still en peignoir. Her maid laid down the tress of hair she was going to twirl and pin up, and went to answer the knock. Mrs White sat before the large toilette-table, which resembled a ball-dress in its thousand folds of muslin garnished with coquettishly-tied blue and pink bows. The carpet was soft and delicious underfoot; there was nothing else in the dressing-room but the bath, from which came an odour of eau de Lubin, a very voluptuous sofa, and looking-glasses of all kinds.
When Annette handed her mistress Miss St Vincent’s card, Mrs White looked at it in amazement, and said, ‘Miss St Vincent! Impossible! There must be some mistake!’
‘No, Ma’am, I don’t think there is. The lady asked for Mrs Wallington White, and said she wanted to see you on business.’
‘See me on business! What can this mean? What is the lady like?’
‘I don’t know, Ma’am; I have not seen her.’
‘Very well, go down-stairs and ask her if it is not a mistake.’
‘Will you see her, Ma’am, if she does want to see you?’ asked Annette, as she went towards the door.
‘Yes; show her into the drawing-room. I will do up my hair myself,’ said Mrs White, holding a tress of hair with one hand, and searching for a hairpin with the other amid the ivory nick-nacks that covered the dressing-table.
‘Can it be?’ she thought, as she looked in the glass sideways, and pinned up her hair, and then put a little colour on her lips and some powder on her cheeks. Rouge she did not yet use in the morning. Mrs White was very handsome in her grey-silk dressing-gown. She scented her hands with some white rose, and impatiently awaited for her maid to return. In her heart she hoped that it was not a mistake, for she had nothing to look forward to the whole afternoon except a series of visits each more monotonous than the other; whereas to meet in her own drawing-room her rival, a burlesque actress, was full of novelty, and promised excitement. In a few minutes Annette came back.
‘Is she young or old?’ asked Mrs White, before her maid had time to speak.
‘She is quite young, Ma’am - not much over twenty, I should think.’
‘What does she look like? Is she a lady?’
‘Well, Ma’am, since you ask, I think she looks like an actress.’
‘You have shown her into the drawing-room?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘How extraordinary!’ thought Mrs White, as she walked from her dressing-room through her bedroom. She hesitated a moment before the drawing-room door, thinking how she would receive her unexpected visitor. Making up her mind that studied coldness would probably embarrass her more than anything else, she opened the door, and stood face to face with Miss St Vincent, who was examining the daintily-furnished room. Mrs White bowed to the actress, asked her to sit down, covered herself with a cloak of stiff frigidity, and sat down on the little black sofa out of the light.
‘You are, doubtless, surprised at my visit?’ said Miss St Vincent, by way of opening the conversation.
It never was Mrs White’s plan to answer questions directly, so she remarked that she had heard that Miss St Vincent had come to see her on important business.
‘I have, otherwise my visit would have been an impertinence,’ returned Miss St Vincent, determined to show her rival that such sneers as that would not discountenance her. ‘My business,’ she continued, ’is so important that I will ask you half an hour of your time.’
Mrs White raised her eyebrows to express her astonishment at the request; but she bowed an assent. Yet this did not seem to satisfy Miss St Vincent; for, after a moment of embarrassment, she said:
‘The matter on which I wish to speak to you is strictly private, and it would be awkward if we were interrupted before we had come to a conclusion. May I ask you to give word that you are not to be disturbed during the time you kindly consented to give me?’
Mrs White’s curiosity was roused to the highest pitch; she almost trembled with excitement; and she so far forgot herself that she neglected to make any affected movement or remark, and answered simply, ‘Certainly; nothing is so annoying as to be disturbed when one is talking of anything serious.’ She rang the bell, and, when the servant appeared, said, ‘John, mind I am not at home for anyone - mind, for anyone - until Miss St Vincent leaves.’
When the door closed Mrs White bent forward to listen, and waited for her visitor to begin. Miss St Vincent was embarrassed. She knew very well what she had come to say, but a preparatory sentence was difficult. However, there was no time for choosing, so she said, ‘I hope you liked the piece last night. You were sitting in a box with Lord Wedmore.’
Mrs White smiled, and she thought, ‘Ah, of course; it is of him you have come to speak with me! I might have guessed it, but what you have to say I can’t for the life of me imagine.’
‘After the piece was over there was a supper given by the management.’
Mrs White smiled, and thought, ‘What can the suppers of ballet-girls and actors have to do with me? However, I can’t do better than to remain silent; it will embarrass her more than any questions.’
The smile was not lost on Miss St Vincent, who thought, ‘Ah, you want to play the indifferent; we will see if we cannot wake you up.’
‘After the supper,’ she continued, ‘which lasted till five in the morning, Lord Wedmore drove me home.’
‘Ah,’ thought Mrs White, ‘so you have come to tell me that, in order to try to have some revenge on me for the bouquet last night! I am surprised, for you do not look the little fool that you are.’
‘During the drive from Pall Mall to Kennington Oval he asked me to be his wife.’
The news was so unexpected that for once in her life Mrs White lost her self-possession; she nervously grasped the arm of the sofa and turned pale. Out of sheer malice Miss St Vincent waited to watch the effect, and she thought, ‘Ha, ha, my fine lady, you would throw bouquets and sneer! I wonder who has the best of the game now?’
Quivering with rage, Mrs White rose to her feet. There was no doubt the actress had trumped her trick, but, mastering her emotion with a supreme effort, Mrs White said, ‘And how do you suppose that your intrigue with Lord Wedmore in a cab can interest me?’
‘I know that you want to marry him.’
‘Your impertinence obliges me,’ said Mrs White, rising and moving towards the bell, ‘to -’
‘But it depends upon you, Mrs White, whether I shall accept him or not,’ replied Miss St Vincent.
Mrs White’s arm dropped by her side, and she looked wonderingly at the young girl before her. Not for years had Mrs White made any outward manifestation of her real sentiments; she had looked glad and sorry whe
n it was necessary, as the well-educated butler will hand round sherry and claret, and uncork the champagne in the right places; she had carefully laced her mind as she had her body, and the breaking of the strings of the former changed her as much morally as an accident to the latter would physically. Her naturalism seemed the height of mannerism; and none of those who knew her well would have believed that it was not a highly worked-up part she was playing, when she said boldly, ‘It depends upon me if you will refuse or accept him? What do you mean?’
‘Merely this,’ the actress answered, laying her hand on Mrs White’s arm: ‘Lord Wedmore has twenty thousand a year; he is the richest prize in the market; his fortune is still intact - racing-men have failed, card-men have failed, women, up to now, have failed - it is left for you and me to fight out the battle!’
‘You say he proposed to you last night: why don’t you accept him and win the battle?’
‘I will tell you. I am only two-and-twenty. At my age, as you know, women have their illusions. Life is before them, and it is a hard thing to give up all they have dreamed of. I speak practically enough, but I am not made of stone.’
‘You love someone else,’ said Mrs White, looking sneeringly at the young girl, in whom she now began to recognize her equal, if not her superior.
‘Quite so. I like someone far better: one with whom I hope to succeed; one in the same position as myself; one with whom I might be happy.’
‘And you would like to effect a compromise?’ said Mrs White, who now began to guess vaguely at what the actress was trying to arrive at.
‘I would,’ returned Miss St Vincent; ‘and will, if you will assist me.’
‘But how?’ asked Mrs White, feeling a little ashamed at seeing herself fairly beaten by one at least ten years her junior in experience.
‘As I have told you, it lies between us two. He proposed to me last night; so far the advantage is on my side. But pray do not let any foolish jealousy prevent us from arranging matters to suit our mutual interests,’ said Miss St Vincent; for she noticed an expression of annoyance pass over Mrs White’s face, from which the mask being torn was now as transparent as a child’s. ‘I only go over the facts,’ continued the actress, ‘so as more perfectly to explain the case. But although Lord Wedmore asked me to be Lady Wedmore last night, and is now waiting to hear my decision, I know, as a fact, that he is nevertheless very much under your influence; and I assure you that there is no doubt that if I withdraw you will succeed in marrying him.’
