Chapter XIV: “the Voice of the Charmer;” and an Unexpected Meeting

It was a Sunday afternoon in November. Outside, a grey mist hung over streets and squares, filling the air with unpleasant dampness; but inside--in this particular St. John’s Wood drawing-room, at least--there was warmth and comfort. The lamps under their crimson shades combined with the crackling fire to generate a cheerful light and heat, the pleasant effect of which was heightened by the clink of tea-cups and the buzz of human voices.

A stranger had merely to glance casually around to know that this was the apartment of one who was in some way connected with the drama. There were portraits everywhere: on the walls, the mantelpiece, the boudoir grand piano, and on both sides of a large screen; in fact, in every nook where there was the smallest space. Most of them portrayed the charms of well-known actors and actresses, some of them being the leading lights of the dramatic profession in England, America, and France. Art and music were also represented, although in a lesser degree; and each portrait was signed by the autograph of the original, in some cases supplemented by a friendly inscription.

The latest addition to this collection was a panel portrait of Celia Franks, in the character of Galatea, which was the last part in which she had performed at the Academy; and in close proximity to it sat Celia herself, carelessly stirring her tea. She was talking to the famous and marvellously beautiful actress, Mrs. Potter Wemyss, who, having at Haviland’s request attended the dress rehearsal of the new play, was so delighted with Celia’s acting as to wish to give her a few hints before the important first night. This was a great honour, for Mrs. Potter Wemyss did not usually trouble to give a novice the benefit of her advice; so Celia, appreciating it as such, listened with eager attention.

There were several other people in the room, including a little woman in black, who poured out the tea and spoke to nobody--she was the insignificant mistress of the house; Guy Haviland himself, genial as ever; his sister Grace, who was talking to Mrs. Neville Williams; and Lord Bexley, who sat silent in a far-off shadowy corner.

Bexley looked preoccupied as he absent-mindedly twirled his moustache. He watched Celia Franks and Mrs. Potter Wemyss, and wondered which of the two distinct types of beauty were the more perfect from the artistic point of view. Mrs. Potter Wemyss was Irish, with typical Irish eyes, and plump yet delicately moulded features. Celia, although her profile reminded him of a Greek statue, had the advantage of her Semitic descent; and with her red-gold hair would have made an excellent study for the Madonna, the accepted ideal of Jewish virginal beauty.

Bexley admired lovely women, especially when they were women of intelligence also, so that to gaze unobserved at these two afforded him keen pleasure. Their every movement was a graceful pose--perhaps studied in the case of the elder woman, but not so with the younger; and their long clinging gowns served to enhance the beauty of their well-proportioned forms.

“A pretty picture,” remarked Mrs. Neville Williams, in an undertone, suddenly appearing beside his chair. “Age instructing youth in the way of vice.”

She glanced towards the pair as she spoke. Her words jarred on Bexley in his present mood.

“I do not know why you should think that,” he returned with warmth. “I should say that Mrs. Potter Wemyss would be more likely to teach virtue than vice.”

“Oh yes”--with a laugh that was half a sneer,--“I know she is very good. Goes to church regularly, refuses to travel on Sunday, and won’t act during Lent. But it’s just a fad, you know, which she, being at the top of the ladder, can afford to indulge. It’s a good advertisement too. An actress does not usually possess a reputation of that kind.”

Bexley wondered what it was that made Mrs. Neville Williams so ungenerous to those of her own sex. Whenever he met her, which was very frequently of late--more often, if the truth be known, than he desired,--she always had something spiteful to say about one of their mutual acquaintance. He did not admire this trait in her character, and generally felt called upon to defend the lady who happened to be under discussion.

“It is hardly fair to take it for granted that Mrs. Wemyss is guilty of hypocrisy,” he said with a touch of asperity. “I consider it very praiseworthy on her part to stick to her Christian principles even though she is on the stage. Her example is one which might be followed to advantage by the lesser luminaries of her profession.”

“That sounds very nice,” Mrs. Williams replied with a shrug. “But I am afraid that I do not believe in such goodness. The world--especially the theatrical world--is too full of sham and make-believe.”

“And yet there is plenty of unaffected sincerity too, if we only know where to look for it,” the peer returned musingly, his eyes still on Celia and Mrs. Potter Wemyss. “Do you know, I used to think that when a human being ceased to believe in goodness, and in God as the Author of all goodness, he--or she--was no longer fit to live. Sometimes I think so now.”

Mrs. Neville Williams bit her lip, although it was not Bexley’s fault if she chose to apply the remark to herself.

“That is rather a strong expression,” she said, her small foot tapping the ground.

“Yes, one feels strongly sometimes,” he rejoined; then turned to Haviland’s little girl, who had just come into the room.

Mrs. Williams moved away wondering what had occurred to vex his lordship, for that he had been put out about something was evident. It was a question whether she would have been pleased, had she known.

That very morning Lord Bexley had proposed marriage to Celia Franks, and, to his sorrow, had been refused. She liked and respected him immensely, she said, and felt honoured that he should desire to marry her; but she did not love him, and, having once experienced an engagement without love, she was anxious to avoid a repetition of the mistake. It was no wonder, therefore, that he was not in the happiest of moods. He had known all along that, having given up her own fortune for the sake of her belief, his rank and wealth were not likely to carry much weight; but such knowledge did not make his disappointment any the less keen.

“I think I shall join my sister in the South,” he said, when, Mrs. Potter Wemyss having taken her departure, he was able to speak to Celia. “London seems suddenly to have become cold and grey. It will be a relief to see sunny Italy once more.”

Celia turned to him with an expression of regret. “You make me feel that I am sending you away,” she said, with a touch of self-reproach. “I am so sorry, Lord Bexley, sorry that I have had to hurt you, I mean.”

“Never mind, it was my own fault,” he rejoined, not wishing her to feel that she was in any way to blame. “It was foolish of me to imagine that you could fall in love with an old stager like myself. Oh, that’s all right”--as the girl was about to remonstrate,--“I am getting old, you know. Well, well, we will not say any more about it; only I do hope that when Mr. Right comes along, he will be worthy of you, Cely. You are a dear girl, you deserve to be made happy, and I sincerely trust that some good man will make you so.”

There was a suspicious moisture in Celia’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said simply, with one of her wonderful smiles. “It is very kind and generous of you to wish me all that; I hope, though, you won’t go away before Thursday,” raising her voice slightly, for Miss Haviland’s eyes were upon them. “I made sure that Lady Marjorie would be present at the theatre on the first night. I shall be dreadfully disappointed if you are away too.”

“Then I will stay,” he hastened to rejoin. “It is very kind of you to express such a desire.”

Thus ended Lord Bexley’s love affair, the only one he ever had.

The important Thursday came in due course, as every long-anticipated day comes, whether its advent be hailed with delight or dread. Celia was excited one moment, calm the next, and all the time cherished a secret fear lest she should be overcome with stage-fright at the crucial moment.

Late in the afternoon a large floral horse-shoe arrived from Mrs. Potter Wemyss. Haviland had it hung up in Celia’s dressing-room at the theatre, for luck. Accompanying the emblem was a note from the great actress wishing the author and his heroine a huge success. She was unable to attend the performance herself, having a professional engagement of her own to fulfil, but hoped to join them later at the Carlton, where Haviland was giving a supper in honour of the occasion.

Her good wishes were, happily, gratified. “The Voice of the Charmer” was a decided success. From the first ring-up to the final fall of the curtain, it went without a hitch. Beautiful scenery and costumes, good acting, a whimsical but fascinating plot--all these things were in its favour; and the audience being enthusiastic, ready to applaud on the slightest provocation, the good fortune of the play was thus ensured.

Celia’s cue did not occur until the latter part of the first act. She was heard singing in the distance until, after a melodious cadenza, she herself appeared. From the first moment of her entrance she held the stage. Opera glasses were immediately levelled and focussed, as with almost breathless interest the audience took in the beauty of her face and form, the profusion of bright hair falling over robes of filmy white; and then, the marvellous sweetness of her voice. Slightly nervous at first, she soon gained confidence; and, taking no heed of the audience, lost herself in the identity of Mallida, the hypnotist’s daughter, who, living in an old-world German town, lures men and women on by the magic power of her voice, until, arriving on her father’s domain, they are forced to submit to his evil machinations.

It was a curious play, recalling “Dr. Faustus” in the mystic impossibility of its first act, but becoming more plausible as it proceeded. The first scene was a secret cave in the heart of the Hartz mountains, where the hypnotist hid the spoil he had plundered from his victims; the last act represented, in striking contrast, a modern London ball-room; Haviland having run the whole gamut from the romantic to the commonplace.

The theatre was crowded in every part. Celia could not have desired a better reception than the one which was accorded her. Many of the people in the stalls and boxes had met her, when, like a meteor, she had flashed upon society under the chaperonage of Lady Marjorie Stonor. Claiming personal acquaintance, therefore, they were particularly interested, and vied with pit and gallery in thundering their applause.

Sitting far back in the stage-box sat Herbert Karne, who had arrived from Durlston the preceding day. Although he was naturally gratified at his sister’s success, he felt strangely unattuned to the spirit of the performance, and was not as elated as he should have been. The depression which had accompanied his convalescence seemed to have settled upon him with deeper gloom. Try as he would, he could not reclaim that buoyancy of disposition which had been his aforetime. The sudden departure of Lady Marjorie had affected him more deeply than he would have thought possible. Not only did he miss her cheering visits, her dainty attentions, her vivacious ways, but he also felt that, in spite of extenuating circumstances, he had treated her badly. A hundred times a day her face rose up before his mental vision--her face as it had been after he had told her of his past. And, however hopeless it might be, he loved her. Waking or sleeping, she was continually in his mind.

When the lights were switched on after the end of the second act, he recognized Lord Bexley, but avoided a direct glance. He was, perhaps, hyper-sensitive, but--although he might have been sure that Lady Marjorie would not tell even her brother of what had occurred--he felt that if Bexley were to approach him with a horsewhip, he would have no right to display resentment.

The peer was in an opposite box with friends. One of them, a lady, sat sideways, apparently studying her programme. There was something curiously familiar to Herbert Karne in the contour of her face. He was not able to regard her for long, however, for at that moment Guy Haviland appeared at the door of his box, offering to take him to the vicinity of the stage. He stayed there for the remainder of the performance, being much interested in the working behind the scenes.

Haviland and Celia received quite an ovation when the curtain fell for the last time, the author insisting in sharing the honours with his heroine. As soon as Celia had got rid of her make-up and changed into conventional evening dress, they all drove to the Carlton, where the flowers which had been presented during the evening were already displayed on the tables reserved for their party. Herbert Karne was allotted the place next to Mrs. Potter Wemyss, who had arrived with her husband a few minutes earlier. The two seats on his right were still vacant, but he was so absorbed in studying the radiant beauty of Mrs. Wemyss, that he did not particularly notice the fact.

“Good evening, Karne. Glad to see you again. How is the arm?” said a voice behind him; and, rising, the artist was confronted by Lord Bexley. With averted eyes he shook hands, and uttered a commonplace greeting; then started suddenly, scarcely able to restrain an exclamation of surprise.

A lady was standing by the side of the peer, the same he had seen in the theatre. Although dressed entirely in black, her appearance was by no means sombre, for her corsage, neck, and arms blazed with diamonds; the same jewels gleaming from amongst the unnatural brightness of her hair. Tall and erect, she towered above Herbert with an expression of calm triumph on her face; then, as Lord Bexley introduced him, held out her hand.

“I think we have met before,” she said with her peculiarly crisp accent, half French, half Scotch. “Perhaps Mr. Karne does not remember? It was in the Quartier Latin a few years ago.”

Herbert grasped the back of the chair; the whole room seemed to spin.

“Yes, I remember,” he answered thickly. “It would be impossible to forget----”

The lady prepared to take her place on his left. “How charming of you to say so,” she said, as she sat down. “We shall be able to talk over old times. To recall pleasant reminiscences is quite a favourite pastime of mine.”

It was a merry little supper-party. Guy Haviland kept the table going with his clever wit; he was a past-master in the art of entertaining. Although the evening had been a trying one, Celia did not seem to be fatigued. She enjoyed being made much of--what girl does not?--and her face glowed with happy excitement as she responded to the congratulations of her admirers.

Her brother felt like the death’s-head at the feast. Had Celia been less excited, she could not have failed to notice his unwonted moodiness. Mrs. Potter Wemyss made several efforts to sustain a conversation, but finally despairing of eliciting any but monosyllabic answers, left him to himself. His brain was in a whirl; he could not eat, nor could he speak. All he could do was to stare straight in front of him and marvel at the irony of fate. He had not caught the name of the woman to whom he had been reintroduced; he did not know in what guise she posed or how she came to be an honoured guest at Haviland’s table. It was enough for him that she was there; and being there, claimed recognition.

She confined her conversation principally to her partner, with whom she seemed to be on terms of intimacy. Several times, however, she turned towards the artist with a “Do you remember such and such a thing in Paris?” or, “We had delightful times in those old student-days, didn’t we, Mr. Karne?”

Herbert was amazed at her coolness, being unaware that on her part the meeting with himself had been anticipated. He was completely staggered, too, at the metamorphosis which had taken place in her. He had always credited her with being arrogantly clever, but how in those twelve years she had managed to transform herself from a rank Bohemian into a conventional society lady was more than even he could understand. Judging by the smiling bows of recognition which passed between herself and others who were supping at the Carlton, she was well known: that she had been in the company of Lord Bexley all the evening was in itself sufficient guarantee as to her social standing.

Not until the guests were dispersing did he get an opportunity of speaking to her alone; and then it was only for a second. She was standing in the vestibule, having just said good night to some friends whilst her cavalier went to see after her carriage. Herbert approached, and, with a gesture, drew her aside.

“Ninette!” he exclaimed; and then again, “Ninette!”

She smiled the slow tortuous smile he knew so well of old.

“Not ‘Ninette’ in England,” was her laconic answer.

“I must speak to you,” he said hurriedly, noticing that in spite of the difference in her age and position she was little changed. “Where can I see you, and at what hour? I must have an explanation.”

She drew herself up with dignity. “There is no ‘must’ where I am concerned,” she replied haughtily. “But if you care to call and see me to-morrow, I shall be at home. Here is my card.”

He took it hastily and placed it in his card-case. “At what time?” he asked again. “Ten o’clock?”

“You surely do not expect me to be up at that unearthly hour of the morning?” she answered in an aggrieved tone. “You can come at twelve.”

At that moment Lord Bexley reappeared, and, with a bow, the artist moved away. Then, when he had taken leave of Celia and was on his way to his hotel, he paused under a street lamp to examine the card.

“MRS. NEVILLE WILLIAMS,
_150 Cromwell Mansions,
South Kensington, S.W._”

Such was its inscription.

Herbert read it aloud. “_Mrs. Neville Williams._” The name seemed to have a familiar ring about it. Where had he heard it before? Suddenly he recollected. It was the name of the Vicar of Durlston’s brother-in-law, the late Dr. Neville Williams of Harley Street. Good Heavens! Could Ninette have had the audacity to pose as the doctor’s wife?--or of what had she been guilty?

A cold sweat broke out upon his brow as he thought of it. In whatever way she had disgraced him, she was still his wife; and now that she had suddenly crossed his path again, there could be no more ignoring of the fact.

What would society say if the scandal were exposed? he wondered dully.

What would Marjorie say?

There was no sleep for Herbert Karne that night.