Prince Fortunatus Part 45

"Ah, but do you fear for Nina?" Estelle cried. "No, no--she has courage--she has self-reliance, even in despair--she will have made preparations for all. Everywhere she has her pa.s.sport--in her voice. 'I am Miss Ross, from the New Theatre, London,' she says. 'How do we know that you are Miss Ross?' 'Give me a sheet of music, then.' Perhaps it is in a theatre or a concert-room. Nina sings. 'Thank you, mademoiselle, it is enough; what are the terms you wish for an engagement?' Then it is finished, and Nina has all her plans made for her by the management; and she goes from one town to the other, far away perhaps; perhaps she has not much time to think of England. So much the better; poor Nina!"

And for a while he took an eager interest in the American newspapers.

Such of them as he could get hold of he read diligently--particularly the columns in which concerts and musical entertainments were announced or reported. But there was no mention of Miss Ross, or of any new singer whom he could identify with her. Gradually he lost all hope in that direction also. He did not forget Nina. He could not; but he grew to think that--whether she were in America, or in Australia, or in whatever far land she might be--she had gone away forever. Her abrupt disappearance was no momentary withdrawal; she had sundered their familiar a.s.sociation, their close comradeship, that was never to be resumed; according to the old and sad refrain, it was "Adieu for evermore, my dear, and adieu for evermore!" Well, for him there were still crowded houses, with their dull thunders of applause; and there were cards and betting to send the one feverish hour flying after the other; and there were the lonely walks through the London streets in the daytime--when the hours did _not_ fly so quickly. He had carefully put away those trinkets that Nina had returned to him; he would fain have forgotten their existence.

And then there was Miss Burgoyne. Miss Burgoyne could be very brisk and cheerful when she chose; and she now seemed bent on showing Mr. Lionel Moore the sunnier side of her character. In truth, she was most a.s.siduously kind to the young man, even when she scolded him about the life he was leading. Her room and its mild refreshments were always at his disposal. She begged for his photograph, and, having got it, she told him to write something very nice and pretty at the foot of it; why should formalities be used between people so intimately and constantly a.s.sociated? On more than one occasion she subst.i.tuted a real rose (which was not nearly so effective, however) for the millinery blossom which Grace Mainwaring had to drop from the balcony to her lover below; and of course Lionel had to treasure the flower and keep it in water, until the hot and ga.s.sy atmosphere of his dressing-room killed it. Once or twice she called him Lionel, by way of pretty inadvertence.

There came an afternoon when the fog that had lain all day over London deepened and deepened until in the evening the streets were become almost impa.s.sable. The various members of the company, setting out in good time, managed to reach the theatre--though there were breathless accounts of adventures and escapes as this one or that hurried through the wings and down into the dressing-room corridor; but the public, not being paid to come forth on such a night, for the most part preferred the snugness and safety of their own homes, so that the house was but half filled, and the faces of the scant audience were more dusky than ever--were almost invisible--beyond the blaze of the footlights. And as the performance proceeded, Miss Burgoyne professed to become more and more alarmed. Dreadful reports came in from without. All traffic was suspended. It was scarcely possible to cross a street. Even the policemen, familiar with the thoroughfares, hardly dared leave the pavement to escort a bewildered traveller to the other side.

When Lionel, having dressed for the last act, went into Miss Burgoyne's room, he found her (apparently) very much perturbed.

"Have you heard? It's worse than ever!" she called to him from the inner apartment.

"So they say."

"Whatever am I to do?" she exclaimed, her anxiety proving too much for her grammar.

"Well, I think you couldn't do better than stop where you are," Harry Thornhill made answer, carelessly.

"Stop where I am? It's impossible! My brother Jim would go frantic. He would make sure I was run over or drowned or something, and be off to the police-stations."

"Oh, no, he wouldn't? he wouldn't stir out on such a night, if he had any sense."

"Not if he thought his sister was lost? That's all you know. There are some people who do have a little affection in their nature," said Miss Burgoyne, as she drew aside the curtain and came forth, and went to the tall gla.s.s. "But surely I can get a four-wheeled cab, Mr. Moore? I will give the man a sovereign to take me safe home. And even then it will be dreadful. I get so frightened in a bad fog--absolutely terrified--and especially at night. Supposing the man were to lose his way? Or he might be drunk? I wish I had asked Jim to come down for me. There's Miss Constance's mother never misses a single night; I wonder who she thinks is going to run away with that puny-faced creature!"

"Oh, if you are at all afraid to make the venture alone, I will go with you," said he. "I don't suppose I can see farther in a fog than any one else; but if you are nervous about being alone, you'd better let me accompany you."

"Will you?" she said, suddenly wheeling round, and bestowing upon him a glance of obvious grat.i.tude. "That is indeed kind of you! Now I don't care for all the fogs in Christendom. But really and truly," she added--"really and truly you must tell me if I am taking you away from any other engagement."

"Not at all," he said, idly. "I had thought of going up to the Garden Club for some supper, but it isn't the sort of night for anybody to be wandering about. When I've left you in the Edgeware Road, I can find my way to my rooms easily. Once in Park Lane, I could go blindfold."

And very proud and pleased was Miss Burgoyne to accept his escort--that is to say, when he had, with an immense amount of trouble, brought a four-wheeled cab, accompanied by two link-boys with blazing torches, up to the stage-door. And when they had started off on their unknown journey through this thick chaos, she did not minimize the fears she otherwise should have suffered; this was thanking him by implication. As for the route chosen by the cabman, or rather by the link-boys, neither he nor she had the faintest idea what it was. Outside they could see nothing but the gold and crimson of the torches flaring through the densely yellow fog; while the grating of the wheels against the curb told them that their driver was keeping as close as he could to the pavement. Then they would find themselves leaving that guidance, and blindly adventuring out into the open thoroughfare to avoid some obstacle--some spectral wain or omnibus got hopelessly stranded; while there were m.u.f.fled cries and calls here, there, and everywhere. They went at a snail's pace, of course. Once, at a corner, the near wheels got on the pavement; the cab tilted over; Miss Burgoyne shrieked aloud and clung to her companion; then there was a heavy b.u.mp, and the venerable vehicle resumed its slow progress. Suddenly they beheld a cl.u.s.ter of dim, nebulous, phantom lights high up in air.

"This must be Oxford Circus, surely," Lionel said.

He put his head out of the window and called to the cabman.

"Where are we now, cabby?"

"Blessed if I know, sir!" was the husky answer, coming from under the heavy folds of a cravat.

"Boy," he called again, "where are we? Is this Oxford Circus?"

"No, no, sir," responded the sharp voice of the London _gamin_. "We ain't 'alf way up Regent Street yet!"

He shut the window.

"At this rate, goodness only knows when you'll ever get home," he said to her. "You should have stopped at the theatre."

"Oh, I don't mind," said she, cheerfully. "It's an adventure. It's something to be talked of afterwards. I shouldn't wonder if the theatrical papers got hold of it--just the kind of paragraph to go the round--Harry Thornhill and Grace Mainwaring lost in a fog together. No, I don't mind. I'm very well off. But fancy some of those poor girls about the theatre, who must be trying to get home on foot. No four-wheeled cabs for them; no companion to keep up their spirits. I sha'n't forget your kindness, Mr. Moore."

Indeed, Lionel was much more anxious than she was. He would rather have done without that paragraph in the newspapers. All his senses were on the rack; and yet he could make out absolutely nothing of his whereabouts in this formless void of a world, with its opaque atmosphere, its distant calls, inquiries, warnings, its murky lamp-lights that only became visible when they were over one's head.

Miss Burgoyne seemed to be well content, to be amused even. She liked to see her name in the newspapers. There would be a pretty little paragraph to get quoted in gossippy columns, even if she and her more anxious fellow-adventurer did not reach home till breakfast-time.

The link-boys certainly deserved the very substantial reward that Lionel bestowed on them; for when, after what seemed interminable hours--with all kinds of stoppages and inquiries in this Egyptian darkness--the cab came to a final halt, and when Miss Burgoyne had been piloted across the pavement, she declared that here, indubitably, was her own door. Indeed, at this very moment it was opened, and there was a glimmer of a candle in the pa.s.sage.

"No, Mr. Moore," she said, distinctly, when Lionel came back after paying the cabman, "you are not going off like that, certainly not. You must be starving; you must come up-stairs and have something to eat and drink." "Jim," she said, addressing her brother, who was standing there, candle in hand, "have you left any supper for us?"

"I haven't touched a thing yet," said he. "I've been waiting for you I don't know how long."

"There's a truly heroic brother!" exclaimed the young lady, as she pulled Lionel into the little lobby and shut the door. "What's enough for two is enough for three. Come along, Mr. Moore; and now you've got safely into a house, I think you'd much better have Jim's room for the night--or the morning, rather? I'm sure Jim won't mind taking the sofa."

"I? Not I!" said her brother, blowing out the candle as they entered the lamp-lit room.

It was a pretty room, and, with its blazing fire, looked very warm and snug after the cold, raw night without. Miss Burgoyne threw off her cloak and hat, and set to work to supplement the supper that was already laid on the central table. Her brother Jim--who was a dawdling, good-natured-looking lad of about fifteen, clad in a marvellous costume of cricketing trousers, a "blazer" of overpowering blue and yellow stripes, and an Egyptian fez set far back on his forehead--helped her to explore the contents of the cupboard; and very soon the three of them were seated at a comfortable and most welcome little banquet. Indeed, the charming little feast was almost sumptuous; insomuch that Lionel was inclined to ask himself whether Miss Burgoyne, who was an astute young lady, had not foreseen the possibility of this small supper-party before leaving home in the afternoon. The ousters, for example: did Miss Burgoyne order a dozen ousters for herself alone every evening?--for her brother declared that he never touched, and would not touch, any such thing. Lionel observed that his own photograph, which he had recently given her, had been accorded the place of honor on the mantel-shelf; another portrait of him, which she had bought, stood on the piano. But why these trivial suspicions, when she was so kind and hospitable and considerate? She pressed things on him; she herself filled up his gla.s.s; she was as merry as possible, and talkative and good-humored.

"Just to think we've known each other so long, and you've never been in my house before!" she said. "That's a portrait of my younger sister you're looking at--isn't she pretty? It's a pastel--Miss Corkran's. Of course she is not allowed to sit up for me; only Jim does that; he keeps me company at supper-time, for I couldn't sit down all by myself, could I, in the middle of the night? Oh, yes, you must have some more. I know gentlemen are afraid of champagne in a house looked after by a woman; but that's all right; that was sent me as a Christmas present by Mr.

Lehmann."

"It is excellent," Lionel a.s.sured her, "but I must keep my head clear if I am to find my way into Park Lane; after that, it will be easy enough getting home."

"But there's Jim's room," she exclaimed.

"Oh, no, thank you," he said; "I shall get down there without any trouble."

And then she went to a cabinet that formed part of a book-case, and returned with a cigar-box in her hand.

"I am not so sure of these," she said. "They are some I got when papa was last in town, and he seemed to think them tolerable."

"Oh, but I sha'n't smoke, thanks; no, no, I couldn't think of it!" he protested. "You'll soon be coming down again to breakfast."

"To please me, Mr. Moore," she said, somewhat authoritatively. "I a.s.sure you there's nothing in the world I like so much as the smell of cigars."

What was she going to say next? But he took a cigar and lit it, and again she filled up his gla.s.s, which he had not emptied; and they set to talking about the Royal Academy of Music, while she nibbled Lychee nuts, and her brother Jim subsided into a French novel. Miss Burgoyne was a sharp and shrewd observer; she had had a sufficiently varied career, and had come through some amusing experiences. She talked well, but on this evening, or morning, rather, always on the good-natured side; if she described the foibles of any one with whom she had come in contact, it was with a laugh. Lionel was inclined to forget that outer world of thick, cold fog, so warm and pleasant was the bright and pretty room, so easily the time seemed to pa.s.s.

However, he had to tear himself away in the end. She insisted on his having a m.u.f.fler of Jim's to wrap round his throat; both she and her brother went down-stairs to see him out; and then, with a hasty good-bye, he plunged into the dark. He had some difficulty in crossing to the top of Park Lane, for there were wagons come in from the country waiting for the daylight to give them some chance of moving on; but eventually he found himself in the well-known thoroughfare, and thereafter had not much trouble in getting down to his rooms in Piccadilly. This time he went to bed without sitting up in front of the fire in aimless reverie.

This was not the last he was to hear of that adventure. Two days afterwards the foreshadowed paragraph appeared in an evening paper; and from thence it was copied into all the weekly periodicals that deal more or less directly with theatrical affairs. It was headed "'The Squire's Daughter' in Wednesday Night's Fog," and gave a minute and somewhat highly colored account of Miss Burgoyne's experiences on the night in question; while the fact of her having been escorted by Mr. Lionel Moore was pointed to as another instance of the way in which professional people were always ready to help one another. That this account emanated in the first place from Miss Burgoyne herself, there could be no doubt whatever; for there were certain incidents--as, for example, the cab wheels getting up on the pavement and the near upsetting of the vehicle--which were only known to herself and her companion; but Lionel did not in his own mind accuse her of having directly instigated its publication. He thought it was more likely one of the advertising tricks of Mr. Lehmann, who was always trying to keep the chief members of his company well before the public. It was the first time, certainly, that he, Lionel, had had his name coupled (unprofessionally) with that of Miss Burgoyne in the columns of a newspaper; but was that of any consequence? People might think what they liked. He had grown a little reckless and careless of late.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_And again she filled up his gla.s.s, which he had not emptied._"]

But a much more important event was now about to happen which the theatrical papers would have been glad to get for their weekly gossip, had the persons chiefly concerned thought fit. Just at this time there was being formed in London, under distinguished patronage, a loan-collection of arms and embroideries of the Middle Ages, and there was to be a Private View on the Sat.u.r.day preceding the opening of the exhibition to the public. Among others, Miss Burgoyne received a couple of cards of invitation, whereupon she came to Lionel, told him that her brother Jim was going to see some football match on that day, explained that she was very anxious to have a look at the precious needle-work, and virtually asked him to take her to the show. Lionel hung back; the crowd at this Private View was sure to include a number of fashionable folk; there might be one or two people there whom he would rather not meet. But Miss Burgoyne was gently persuasive, not to say pertinacious; he could not well refuse; finally it was arranged he should call for her about half past one o'clock on the Sat.u.r.day, so that they might have a look round before the crush began in the afternoon.

Trust an actress to know how to dress for any possible occasion! When he called for her, he found her attired in a most charming costume; though, to be sure, when she was at last ready to go, he may have thought her furs a trifle too magnificent for her height. They drove in a hansom to Bond Street. There were few people in the rooms, certainly no one whom he knew; she could study those gorgeous treasures of embroidery from Italy and the East, he could examine the swords and daggers and coats of mail, as they pleased. And when they had lightly glanced round the rooms, he was for getting away again; but she was bent on remaining until the world should arrive, and declared that she had not half exhausted the interest of the various cases.

As it chanced, the first persons he saw whom he knew were Miss Georgie Lestrange and her brother; and Miss Georgie, not perceiving that any one was with him (for Miss Burgoyne was at the moment feasting her eyes on some rich-hued Persian stuffs), came up to him.

"Why, Mr. Moore, you have quite disappeared of late," the ruddy-haired damsel said, quite reproachfully. "Where have you been? What have you been doing?"