Prince Fortunatus Part 42

"But look here, Miss Girond," he exclaimed, "if she has gone back to her friends in Italy, that's all right; but if she is in this country, without any occupation, her money will soon be exhausted--she can't have had so very much. What will become of her then? Don't you think I should put an advertis.e.m.e.nt in the papers--not in my name, but in yours--your initials--begging her at least to let you know where she is?"

Estelle shook her head.

"No, it is useless. Perhaps I understand Nina a little better than you, though you know her longer. She is gentle and affectionate and very grateful to her friends; but under that there is firmness--oh, yes. She has firmness of mind, although she is so loving; when she has decided to go away and remain, you will not draw her back, no, not at all! She will remain where she wishes to be; perhaps she decides never to see any of us again. Well, well, it is pitiable, but for us to interfere, that is useless."

"Oh, I am not so sure of that," he said. "As you say, I have known Nina longer than you have; if I could only learn where she is, I am quite sure that I could persuade her to come back."

"Very well--try!" said Estelle, throwing out both hands. "I say no--that she will not say where she is. And your London papers, how will they find her? Perhaps she is in a small English village--perhaps in Paris--perhaps in Naples--perhaps in Malta. For me, no. She said, 'If you are my friend, you will not seek to discover where I have gone.' I am her friend; I obey her wish. When she thinks it is right, she will send me a message. Until then, I wait."

But if Nina had gone away--depriving him of her pleasant companions.h.i.+p, her quick sympathy, her grave and almost matron-like remonstrances--there was another quite ready to take her place. Miss Burgoyne did not at all appear to regret the disappearance from the theatre of Antonia Rossi. She was kinder to this young man than ever; she showered her experienced blandishments upon him, even when she rallied him about his gloomy looks or listless demeanor. All the time he was not on the stage, and not engaged in dressing, he usually spent in her sitting-room; there were cigarettes and lemonade awaiting him; and when she herself could not appear, at all events she could carry on a sort of conversation with him from the inner sanctuary; and often she would come out and finish her make-up before the large mirror while she talked to him.

"They tell me you gamble," she said to him on one occasion, in her blunt way.

"Not much," he said.

"What good do you get out of it?" she asked again.

"Oh, well, it is a sort of distraction. It keeps people from thinking."

"And what have you to think about?" continued Grace Mainwaring, regarding herself in the gla.s.s. "What dreadful crimes have you to forget? You want to drown remorse, do you? I dare say you ought; but I don't believe it all the same. You men don't care what you do, and poor girls' hearts get broken. But gambling! Well, I imagine most men have one vice or another, but gambling has always seemed to me the stupidest thing one could take to. Drink kills you, but I suppose you get some fun out of it. What fun do you get out of gambling? Too serious, isn't it?

And then the waste of money. The fact is, you want somebody to take care of you, Master Lionel; and a fine job she'll have of it, whoever undertakes it!"

"Why should it be a she," he asked, "a.s.suming that I am incapable of managing my own affairs?"

"Because it is the way of the world," she answered, promptly. "And you, of all people, need somebody to look after you. Why should you have to take to gambling, at your time of life? You're not shamming _ennui_, are you, to imitate your swell acquaintances? _Ennui!_ I could cure their _ennui_ for them, if they'd only come to _me_!" she added, somewhat scornfully.

"A cure for _ennui_?" he said. "That would be valuable; what is it?"

"I'd tell them to light a wax match and put it up their nostril and hold it there till it went out," she answered, with some sharpness.

"It would make them jump, anyway, wouldn't it?" he said, listlessly.

"It would give them something to claim their very earnest attention for at least a fortnight," Miss Burgoyne observed, with decision; and then she had to ask him to open the door, for it was time for her to get up to the wings.

Christmas was now close at hand, and one evening when Harry Thornhill, attired in his laced coat and ruffles, silken stockings and buckled shoes, went as usual into Miss Burgoyne's room, he perceived that she had, somewhere or other, obtained a piece of mistletoe, which she had placed on the top of the piano. As soon as Grace Mainwaring knew he was there, she came forth from the dressing-room and went to the big mirror, kicking out her resplendent train of flounced white satin behind her, and proceeding to judge of the general effect of her powder and patches and heavily-pencilled eyebrows.

"Where are you going for Christmas?" she asked.

"Into the country," he answered.

"That's no good," said the brilliant-eyed white little bride, still contemplating herself in the gla.s.s, and giving a finis.h.i.+ng touch here and there. "The country's too horrid at this time of year. We are going to Brighton, some friends and I, a rather biggish party; and a whole heap of rooms have been taken at a hotel. That will be fun, I promise you. A dance in the evening. You'd better come; I can get you an invitation."

"Thanks, I couldn't very well. I am going to play the good boy, and pa.s.s one night under the parental roof. It isn't often I get the chance."

"I wish you would tell me where to hang up that piece of mistletoe," she said, presently.

"I know where I should like to hang it up," he made answer, with a sort of lazy impertinence.

"Where?"

"Just over your head."

"Why?"

"You would see."

She made a little grimace.

"Oh, no, I shouldn't see anything of the kind," she retorted, confidently. "I should see nothing of the kind. You haven't acquired the right, young gentleman. On the stage Harry Thornhill may claim his privileges--or make believe; but off the stage he must keep his distance."

That significant phrase about his not having acquired the right was almost a challenge. And why should he not say, "Well, give me the right!" What did it matter? It was of little concern what happened to him. As he lay back in his chair and looked at her, he guessed what she would do. He imagined the pretty little performance. "Well, give me the right, then!" Miss Burgoyne turns round from the mirror. "Lionel, what do you mean?"

"You know what I mean: let us be engaged lovers off the stage as well as on." She hangs down her head. He goes to her and kisses her--without any mistletoe; she murmurs some doubt and hesitation, in her maiden shyness; he laughingly rea.s.sures her; it is all over, in half a dozen seconds.

And then? Why, then he has secured for himself a sufficiently good-natured life-companion; it will be convenient in many ways, especially when they are engaged at the same theatre; he will marry in his own sphere, and everybody be satisfied. If he has to give up his bachelor ways and habits, she will probably look after a little establishment as well as another; where there is no frantic pa.s.sion on either side, there will be no frantic jealousy; and, after all, what is better than peace and quiet and content?

Was he too indolent, then, to accept this future that seemed to be offered to him?

"Isn't it rather odd to go to a Brighton hotel for Christmas?" he said, at random.

"It's the swagger thing to do, don't you know?" said Miss Burgoyne, whose phraseology sometimes made him wince. "It's the latest fad among people who have no formal family ties. I can imagine it will be the jolliest thing possible. Instead of the big family gathering, where half the relations hate the sight of the other half, you have all nice people, picked friends and acquaintances; and you go away down to a place where you can have your choice of rooms, where you have every freedom and no responsibility, where you can have everything you want and no trouble in getting it. Instead of foggy London, the sea; and at night, instead of Sir Roger de Coverley with a lot of hobbledehoys, you have a charming little dance, on a good floor, with capital partners.

Come, Master Lionel, change your mind; and you and I will go down together on Christmas morning in the Pullman. Most of the others are there already; it's only one or two poor professionals who will have to go down on Christmas-day."

But Lionel shook his head.

"Duty--duty," he murmured.

"Duty!" said she, contemptuously. "Duty is a thing you owe to other people, which no one ever thinks of paying to you." And therewith this profound moralist and epigrammatist tucked up her white satin train and waited for him to open the door, so that she might make her way to the stage, he humbly following.

On the Christmas morning the display of parcels, packets, and envelopes, large and small, spread out on the side-table in his sitting-room was simply portentous; for the fas.h.i.+onable world of London had had no intimation yet that their favorite singer was ill-disposed towards them, and had even at times formed sullen resolutions of withdrawing altogether from their brilliant rooms. As he quite indifferently turned the packages and letters over, trying to guess at the name of the sender by the address, he said to himself,

"They toss you those things out of their bounty as they fling a s.h.i.+lling to a crossing-sweeper because it is Christmas-day."

But here was one that he opened, recognizing the handwriting of his cousin Francie; and Francie had sent him a very pretty pair of blue velvet slippers, with his initials worked by herself in thread of gold.

That was all right, for he had got for Miss Francie a little present that he was about to take down with him--a hand-bag in green lizard-skin that might be useful to her when she was going on her numerous errands.

It was different with the next packet he opened (also recognizing the writing), for this was a paper-weight--an oblong slab of crystal set in silver, with a photograph of the sender showing through, and the inscription at the foot, "To Lionel Moore, from his sincere friend, K.B." And he had never thought of getting anything for Miss Burgoyne!

Well, it was too late now; he would have to atone for his neglect of her when he returned to town. Meanwhile he recollected that just about now she would be getting down to Victoria station _en route_ to Brighton; and, indeed, had it not been for the duty he owed the old people, he would have been well content to be going with her. The last time he had been in a Pullman car on the way to Brighton it was with other friends--or acquaintances; he knew his place now, and was resigned. So he continued opening these parcels and envelopes carelessly and somewhat ungratefully, merely glancing at the various messages, until it was time to bethink him of setting forth.

But first of all, when the cab had been summoned and his portmanteau put on the top, he told the man to drive to a certain number in Sloane Street; he thought he would call for a minute on Mrs. Grey and Miss Girond and wish them a pleasant Christmas. Estelle, when she made her appearance, knew better what had brought him hither.

"Ah, it is so kind of you to send me the pretty work-case--thank you, thank you very much; and Mrs. Grey is so proud of the beautiful lamp--she will tell you in a moment when she comes in. And if there is something we might have liked better--pardon, it is no disfavor to the pretty presents, not at all--it is what you would like, too, I am sure--it is a message from Nina. Yes, I expected it a little--I was awake hour after hour this morning--when the postman came I ran down the stairs--no! no word of any kind."

He stood silent for a minute.

"I confess I had some kind of fancy she might wish to send you just a line or a card--any sort of reminder of her existence--on Christmas-day; for she knows the English custom," he said, rather absently. "And there is nothing--nothing of any kind, you say. Well, I have written to Pandiani."

"Ah, the _maestro_?--yes?"

"You see, I knew it was no use writing to her friends," he continued, "for, if she were with them, she would tell them not to answer. But it is different with Pandiani. If she has got any musical engagement in Naples, or if she has gone to Malta, he would know. It seems hard that at Christmas-time we should be unable to send a message to Nina."