Chapter XVII: Both Sides of the Curtain

The orchestra had just struck up the overture to the “Voice of the Charmer,” when two young men entered the auditorium and took their places in the stalls. Their faces contrasted strongly with their immaculate shirt-fronts, for they were bronzed, even weather-beaten; and their general appearance gave one the impression that they had recently returned from some distant clime. The one clean-shaven and square-shouldered, was Dr. Geoffrey Milnes; the other--shorter and of slighter build--Dick Stannard, the squire’s son. These two, although they had not seen much of each other when at home, had become fast friends out in Australia. Stannard was rollicking and bright, with a fresh breezy manner which acted as a kind of tonic on Geoffrey’s more serious disposition. He had taken a fancy to Milnes, and their mutual home-connections served to form a link between them. When the young doctor had been utterly disheartened by the absolute failure of his research in connection with tuberculosis, it was Stannard who saved him from morbidly dwelling on his defeat, and insisted on his taking an active part in the social life of Sydney. He took upon himself the part of mentor, and ruled Geoffrey with a rod of iron; not, however, that the advice he gave was in any way severe. His deep conviction was that it was the duty of every one to endeavour to obtain the maximum of enjoyment with the minimum of discomfort; and although he could not quite convert his friend to his way of thinking, he did succeed in capturing his medical tomes and papers, thus bringing his work to an abrupt standstill. Geoffrey scarcely appreciated his attention, and on the voyage home had threatened to duck him more than once, but he certainly felt more “fit” since he had been obliged to give his brains a rest.

“I say, Milnes, I’m awfully curious to see her,” Dick said, when he had devoured the contents of his programme. “The last recollection I have of her was at our Christmas party in Durlston, when she had very long hair and very short skirts, and stood on a hassock to recite ‘The Spider and the Fly.’ I suppose she has altered a good deal since then. I wonder if it is true that she is engaged to Lady Marjorie Stonor’s brother?”

“Can’t tell you, I’m sure,” Dr. Geoff rejoined with a frown; and then the lights were lowered and the curtain rose.

They both had neither eyes nor ears for any one but _Mallida_. Before she came on, the play lagged and filled them with impatience, but at her entry all was changed. Geoffrey felt thrilled to the core, as, at the sound of her well-remembered voice, he craned his head to catch the first glimpse of her sweet face and snowy draperies. Then a strong feeling of indignation took possession of him as he realized that, for the mere price of a seat, any fellow could avail himself of the privilege of basking in the sunshine of her smile, and drinking in the richness of her voice. And although he enjoyed the play and admired Celia’s acting, he hated to see her upon the stage, hated to think that for three hours every evening she belonged absolutely to the public; that her smiles and tears were alike artificial, mechanically assumed for their benefit. It seemed to him little less than desecration of the gifts with which she had been so liberally endowed.

Dick Stannard was wildly enthusiastic, and at the end of the first act, declared his intention of going behind. Geoffrey, for some inexplicable reason of his own, refused to accompany him, so, having thought out a few particularly flowery compliments to offer, he went alone. A few minutes later, however, he returned with an obvious expression of disappointment on his rugged face; and flinging himself on to the seat, uttered the inelegant but forcible expression of “Rot!”

“My dear boy!” expostulated Geoffrey. “Have you forgotten that you are in decent company for once?”

“No; but it is rot all the same,” returned Stannard, indignantly. “The fellow, whoever he might be, absolutely refused to take in my card. Said Miss Franks saw nobody at the theatre, not even her most intimate friends, and that I might possibly be able to see her by appointment at Mr. and Mrs. Haviland’s house in Acacia Road. I told him that I had just arrived from Australia, and was going on to the North to-morrow morning, but it made no difference. He said he had his orders which he was bound to obey, and as he wasn’t the sort of man to take a tip, all I could do was to turn to the right about and come away.”

“Which you did with a very bad grace, I am sure,” rejoined the doctor, with a smile. “Moral, don’t attempt to pry where you are not wanted.”

“It’s utter rot!” reiterated Stannard, emphatically. “What would it hurt if I just went and wished her good evening?”

But Geoffrey was secretly glad that the rules were so stringent, for they must save Celia the annoyance of interviewing many an undesirable visitor, he thought.

Meanwhile, behind the scenes, Celia was dressing for the second act. She would not have been so calm and collected, perhaps, had she known who was in the stalls. Her dresser was relating some of her humorous and varied experiences as she dexterously braided the girl’s long hair: and Celia, engaged in spoiling her complexion with grease-paint and powder, listened with genuine amusement. Mrs. Jackson had been chief dresser to Mrs. Potter Wemyss at one time, and was very proud of the fact. Many were the tales she had to tell of the great actress’s kindly words and deeds. “Mrs. Potter Wemyss used to say,” was her favourite mode of beginning a sentence; and “just like Mrs. Potter Wemyss” her ideal of perfection. Had Celia not known the lady in question, she would probably have grown tired of her name, but being a personal friend, her interest never flagged.

“You are ready early to-night, miss,” she said, as she put the finishing touches to Celia’s toilette. “It is a pity Mr. Haviland won’t let you see anybody. It would help to pass away the time. There’s that little Mr. Smiffkins always a-hanging round the stage door--the one who wears the overcoat with the tremendous fur collar and cuffs. He offered me a sovereign if I could get him an interview with you.”

“Did he really? What a waste of money!” was Celia’s comment.

“It’s rather a shame, though, miss, that Mr. Haviland is so strict. Why, you could have this room crammed full of flowers every show if he would let Jones take them in, not to mention boxes of chocolates and all manner of nice things. I don’t think as it’s right to deny an actress her perks. I should kick agen it if I was you, miss, that I would.”

“But how could I possibly accept presents from people I don’t even know?” said the girl with wide-open eyes. “Surely Mrs. Potter Wemyss never did!”

“Oh well, Mrs. Potter Wemyss is Mrs. Potter Wemyss. She’s got a great strapping husband six foot one in his stocking-feet, and they do say as he knows how to strike out with his fists. It wouldn’t do for young men to be sending _her_ flowers and billydoos. But you are quite another matter, miss, you are ‘free and unfettered,’ as it says in the play.”

Celia smilingly shook her head, and rising, surveyed herself in the long pier-glass. It was certainly a picturesque figure which met her gaze. Her dress with its long train of bejewelled cloth, fell in stately folds around her form, glittering and scintillating with every fresh ray of light. A silver belt of cunningly chased design adorned her waist, whilst her peculiar head-dress--a quaint kind of cap--set off to the best advantage the rich colouring of her hair.

As she turned away, satisfied with the result of her dresser’s labours, she heard a foot-fall in the stone passage. Then, without knocking, and in evident agitation, Grace Haviland stumbled into the room. She was breathless and excited, and dropped on to a chair with an air of exhaustion. Clutched in her grasp were two of the evening papers and an unopened telegram. Instantly Celia divined that something had happened.

“What is it, Grace?” she asked, with apprehension. “Is anything wrong?”

Miss Haviland nodded, but for the moment was unable to speak.

“This telegram came directly you were gone,” she panted, as soon as she had recovered her breath. “I wouldn’t have troubled about it, only there was something in the evening paper which told me it was of importance. I thought you ought to know at once, so that’s why I’ve rushed here. I have not seen Guy yet: I think he is with Mr. Calhoun at the wings. Perhaps they will be angry when they know I’ve told you, but I thought it cruel not to let you know.”

Celia took the telegram, and tore it open. Then she uttered a little cry.

“Mr. Karne met with a serious accident. Come at once.--HIGGINS.”

And then she caught sight of the head-line of the newspaper column, “Attempted murder of Herbert Karne, R.A.;” and underneath, in smaller type, “The assailant a raving madman.”

For the moment she thought she must surely be the victim of nightmare. She rubbed her eyes, as though expecting her surroundings to float away and to find herself in her bedroom at Acacia Road. But, unfortunately, it was no nightmare; it was stern reality. There, unmistakably, was the dressing-room with her stage-dresses hung upon the walls, and all her stage-belongings strewn round the room. There also, was the dresser, looking startled and bewildered as she stood with her arms akimbo, and Grace Haviland, pale and agitated, hating to be the bearer of such bad news. And worst of all, there were the horrible words staring her in the face: _Attempted murder_.

Suddenly the electric bell announcing the ring-up of the curtain resounded through the building. The sound recalled Celia to the present exigence, and with a shudder she leant against the table.

“I can’t go on acting, now: it’s impossible,” she said, tremulously; “quite impossible. Mrs. Jackson, go and find Miss Graham; she must be in the theatre somewhere; tell her she must get ready at once to take my part. Tell Mr. Calhoun and Mr. Haviland that I’ve had bad news, and have to go to Durlston immediately; and ask them to drag out the stage business as much as they can. We’ve about twenty minutes’ grace: oh, do be quick!”

The dresser flew to obey her behest, and with nervous haste Celia began unbuckling her belt. But her fingers had suddenly lost their power, and she fumbled at the clasp in vain. The hooks of her bodice, too, seemed as if they were never intended to unfasten. Before she could succeed in getting out of her costume, the stage-manager and Haviland appeared.

Ernest Calhoun was one of those men who are able to retain their presence of mind under the most untoward circumstances; and while Haviland stood excitedly haranguing his sister for having brought the bad news in the midst of the performance, he himself remained serene and unruffled to the last degree.

“It is most unfortunate,” he remarked calmly; “and I deeply sympathize with you, Miss Franks; but I ask you candidly, what are we to do? If you refuse to go on with your part, the performance will have to be stopped, which, as you know, would entail a vast amount of inconvenience and expense.”

“But where is the understudy?” put in Grace with eagerness.

“Miss Graham has the evening off to-night,” answered Haviland, crossly. “I wish you would learn not to interfere with what does not concern you, Grace. I shall not forget this upset for a long time to come.”

Calhoun waved his hand. “Hush!” he commanded. “We must not waste time. Miss Franks, I appeal to you. Will you pull yourself together and try to carry the thing through?”

The girl shrank back in despair. “Oh, I can’t--I can’t!” she said, in a tense voice. “How can you expect it? My brother is seriously ill, perhaps dying. I must go to him. Surely you wouldn’t have the heart to keep me away? He is the only relative I have in the world! How can I act, and sing, and laugh, when there is a weight like lead at my heart?”

The stage-manager eyed her pityingly. “I know it’s very hard,” he said, in a softened voice. “But just consider a moment. You cannot get a train to Durlston to-night, for the last one went at about six o’clock; so you would have to wait till morning in any case. Now, suppose you go back to St. John’s Wood, what will you do? Simply sit still and make yourself ill with fretting, most probably. Whereas, if you remain here, your mind will, at least temporarily, be diverted into other channels. Miss Franks, I am sure you are a brave young lady. Won’t you try?”

“Oh, it’s cruel, Mr. Calhoun----” Grace Haviland began, but her brother would not allow her to finish the sentence.

Celia was well-nigh distracted. Although loth to cause the stage-manager so much inconvenience and bother, it would be too terrible to think of Herbert, perhaps dying, with none of his own kin near him, whilst she was playing on the hateful stage. Calhoun pulled out his watch, for the precious minutes were speeding away. All three looked at her in eager expectation. What would her answer be?

After what seemed an eternity, although it was in reality only about fifty seconds, she heaved a deep sigh.

“All right, I’ll go through with it,” she said with an effort. “Or at least I’ll do my best. But please--leave me alone--just for a few minutes.”

“That’s a brave girl!” exclaimed Haviland, with gratification. “I knew she wouldn’t put us in such a fix.”

“In seven minutes the call-boy will be here,” said the stage-manager; and then with a word of encouragement the two men withdrew.

Celia sat down at the table and buried her face in her hands. She tried to think, even to pray, but her senses seemed quite dulled. Fortunately the possibility of her stumbling or breaking down never entered her mind. She had promised to go through with it; and she meant to fulfil her promise. There might be tears and pain at heart, but there would be the usual stage-smile on her face. When she raised her head, there was an expression of almost fierce determination on her countenance. She would not, must not, fail!

Mrs. Jackson readjusted the details of her costume, whilst Grace tried to utter words of commiseration and encouragement. Then the former produced a small spirit-flask and glass, and bade Celia drink.

“There’s nothing like a drop of brandy neat, for putting life into a body,” she said cheerfully. “Come now, drink it, missie; it will do you good.”

But the girl demurred. “No thanks, I would rather not,” she replied. “I am all right now;” and then the patter of flying feet heralded the coming of the call-boy.

For years after Celia remembered that night, and declared she could never have gone through it again. Calhoun said she had never acted so well. In the third act, in which she was the central figure all through, she surpassed herself, and as the curtain fell, evoked a veritable tumult of applause. And not one out of that light-hearted, pleasure-loving audience had the slightest idea how it hurt her to give that merry ringing laugh at the end of the first scene; or that when, later on, she had to say, “Where is my beloved?... My beloved lays a-dying!” the tears in her voice were unfeigned.

But her nerves were stretched to their utmost limit of endurance, and the reaction was bound to follow. She returned to the dressing-room in a state bordering on exhaustion, scarcely heeding Mr. Calhoun’s “Well done!” Fortunately, however, the worst was over, for the remaining act entailed but slight exertion. She begged Grace Haviland to read the account of the assault at Durlston whilst she was changing her costume; and, occasionally interrupted by sundry comments from Mrs. Jackson, Grace complied with her request.

The gist of the matter was this:--

Jacob Strelitzki, a former heeler at Messrs. Mendel and Co.’s boot factory at Durlston, had, after an absence of two months, returned and run amok at the factory, attempting to wound three men with a large clasp-knife. Being of the opinion that he was either the victim of delirium tremens, or else had lost his reason, the factory people made every effort to detain him, but he cleverly managed to slip through their fingers and made his escape. Nothing more was heard of him until that very morning, when he had forced his way into the studio at the Towers, and, without any warning, attacked Mr. Karne--who was at work upon a picture--with the same clasp-knife he had used on the former occasion. Mr. Karne’s servants had come to the rescue, and managed to subdue the man, who was undoubtedly a raving lunatic, but not before he had been able to inflict serious injury to the unfortunate artist. No adequate motive for the crime was assigned, except that for some time Strelitzki had cherished a senseless grudge against Herbert Karne, and had so worked upon his comrades at the factory, that at his instigation they had even set fire to the artist’s house. Recently, however, a complete reconciliation between Herbert Karne and the factory people had taken place; and the latter were shocked and horrified in the extreme at the dastardly action of their former colleague. Meanwhile, Mr. Karne lay in a critical condition, having been wounded in the thorax and right lung.

Celia’s face blanched as she listened, whilst a sickening anxiety tore at her heart. Oh, if only Higgins had despatched the telegram a little earlier, she would have been well on her way to Durlston by now. As it was, she would have to wait till morning. Would morning ever come?

Mrs. Jackson thought the girl was going to faint, and insisted on forcing some brandy down her throat. She was very sympathetic, almost obtrusively so; for it was that tactless sympathy which is worse than none at all.

“Keep your heart up, miss,” she said cheerily, noticing that Celia’s tears were making havoc with her make-up. “You can’t rely on some of them ha’penny papers, you know. I don’t suppose it’s really so bad as they put it there. Not but what you’ve not cause to be anxious, for all that. I remember when my poor daughter--her that was on the trapeze business at the ’alls--fell right down from the roof to the floor without so much as a net to catch her, they sent for me--I was dresser to Mrs. Potter Wemyss at the Haymarket then--and I arrived at the ’all just in time to find the poor gel stiffening. They told me at first it was only a slight accident; but she was stretched out dead when I got there, miss, and looking as calm as calm can be. Them accidents are nasty things, I reckon. I do hope as you won’t find your poor brother laid out ready----”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, stop!” called out Grace, imperatively. “Can’t you see that you are frightening Miss Franks?”

She felt ready to throw the hand-glass or any other convenient missile at the woman for her arrant thoughtlessness.

Poor Celia was pale and trembling, whilst visions of her brother lying dead flashed before her mind’s eye. How she managed to get through that last act she never knew. The dim faces of the audience looming out of the semi-darkness seemed to her like rows of grisly skeletons mocking her with sardonic mirth. The sweep of the violins in the orchestra sounded like a funeral dirge. Two or three times she was almost overcome with dizziness; but at length all was over, and, for the last time, the curtain fell.

“You did splendidly, Cely,” Guy Haviland said to her on the way home. “You are what I have a great admiration for: a brave girl--a girl with ‘grit.’”

But Celia felt brave no longer. She leant back in the brougham with her head against Grace’s shoulder, and cried quietly all the way. She was utterly worn out.