"Nina!"

"You will see, Leo!" Nina said; and that was all she could say just then, for Mr. Lehmann came up to take the general vote as to whether they would rather have tea out there in the moonlight or return to the dining-room.

But any doubt as to the manner in which Miss Burgoyne regarded his intercession on behalf of Mr. Percival Miles was removed, and that in a most summary fashion, by the young lady herself. As they were about to leave the hotel, the men were standing about in the hall, chatting at haphazard or lighting a fresh cigar, while they waited for the women-folk to get ready. Lionel saw Miss Burgoyne coming along the corridor, and was glad of the chance of saying good-night to her before she got on to the front of Lord Denysfort's drag. But it was not good-night that Miss Burgoyne had in her mind.

"Mr. Moore," she said, when she came up, and she spoke in a low, clear, incisive voice that considerably startled him. "I am told it was through you that that boy was invited to the dinner to-night."

He looked at her in amazement.

"Well, what then?" he exclaimed. "What was the objection? I thought he was a friend of yours. That boy?—that boy is a sufficiently important person, surely—heir to the Petmansworth estates—why I should have thought—"

She interrupted him.

"I consider it a gross piece of impertinence," she said, haughtily. "I suppose you thought you were conferring a favor on me! How dared you assume that any one—that any one—wished him to be present in that room?"

She turned proudly away from him, without waiting for his reply.

"Lord Denysfort, here I am," said she; and the chinless young man with the large ears gave her his arm and conducted her down the steps. Lionel looked after her—bewildered.



CHAPTER XV.

"LET THE STRUCKEN DEER GO WEEP."

But if Lionel regarded this constant association with Nina—this unreserved discussion of all their private affairs—even the sort of authority and guidance he exercised over her at times—as so simple and natural a thing that it was unnecessary to pause and ask whither it might tend, what about Nina herself? She was quite alone in England; she had more regard for the future than he had; what if certain wistful hopes, concealed almost from herself, had sprung up amid all this intimate and frankly affectionate companionship?

One morning she and Estelle were walking in to Regent Street, to examine proofs of certain photographs that had been taken of them both (for Clara figured in the shop-windows now, as well as Capitaine Crepin). Nina was very merry and vivacious on this sufficiently bright forenoon; and to please Estelle she was talking French—her French being fluent enough, if it was not quite perfect as to accent. They were passing along Piccadilly, when she stopped at a certain shop.

"Come, I show you something," she said.

Estelle followed her in. The moment the shopman saw who it was he did not wait to be questioned.

"It is quite ready, miss; I was just about to send it down."

He brought forward the double loving-cup that Lionel had given to Nina; and as the young lady took it into her hands she glanced at the rim. Yes; the inscription was quite right: "From Leo to Nina"—that was the simple legend she had had engraved.

"Here is the cup I spoke of, Estelle; is it not beautiful? And then I would not trouble Lionel to have the inscription made—I told him I would have it done myself and asked him what the words should be—behold it!"

The cup was duly admired and handed back to be sent down to Sloane Street; then Estelle and she left the shop together.

"Oh, yes, it is very beautiful," said the former, continuing to speak in her native tongue, "and a very distinguished present; but there is something still more piquant that he will be buying for you ere long—can you not guess, Nina?—no?—not a wedding-ring?"

The audacity of the question somewhat disconcerted Nina; but she met it with no sham denial, no affected protest.

"He has not spoken to me, Estelle," Nina said, gravely and simply, "And sometimes I ask myself if it is not better we should remain as we are—we are such good friends and companions. We are happy; we have plenty to occupy ourselves with; why undertake more serious cares? Perhaps that is all that Lionel thinks of it; and, if it is so, I am content. And then sometimes, Estelle, I ask myself if it would not be better for him to marry—when he has made his choice, that is to say; and I picture him and his young wife living very happily in a quite small establishment—perhaps two or three rooms only, in one of those large buildings in Victoria Street—and everything very pretty around them, with their music and their occupations and the visits of friends. Would not that be for him a life far more satisfactory than his present distractions—the gayeties and amusements—the invitations of strangers?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" her companion cried, with instant assent. "Ah, Nina, I can see you the most charming young house-mistress—I can see you receive your guests when they come for afternoon music—you wear a tea-gown of brocade the color of wall-flower, with cream-colored lace—you speak French, English, Italian as it is necessary for this one and that—your musical reunions are known everywhere. Will madame permit the poor Estelle to be present?—Estelle, who will not dare to sing before those celebrated ones, but who will applaud, applaud—in herself a prodigious claque! And now, behold! Miss Burgoyne arrives—Miss Burgoyne in grand state—and nevertheless you are her dear Nina, her charming friend, although in her heart she hates you for having carried off the handsome Lionel—"

"Estelle," said Nina, gently, "you let your tongue run away. When I picture to myself Lionel in the future, I leave the space beside him empty. Who is to fill it?—perhaps he has never given a thought to that. Perhaps it will always be empty; perhaps one of his fashionable friends will suddenly appear there, who knows? He does not seem ever to look forward; if I remonstrate about his expenditure, he laughs. And why should he give me things of value? I am not covetous. If he wishes to express kindness, is not a word better than any silver cup; If he wishes to be remembered when he is absent, would not the smallest message sent in a letter be of more value than a bracelet with sapphires—"

"Oh, Nina," her companion exclaimed, laughing, "what a thing to say!—that you would rather have a scrap of writing from Lionel Moore than a bracelet with sapphires—"

"No, Estelle, I did not," Nina protested, rather indignantly; "I was talking of the value of presents generally, and of their use or uselessness."

"And yet you seemed very proud of that loving-cup, Nina, and of the inscription on it," Estelle said, demurely; and there the subject ended, for they were now approaching the photographer's.

It was a Saturday night that Honnor Cunyngham and her mother—who had come up from Brighton for a few days—had been induced to fix for their visit to the New Theatre; and as the evening drew near, Lionel became more and more anxious, so that he almost regretted having persuaded them. All his other troubles and worries he could at once carry to Nina, whose cheerful common-sense and abundant courage made light of them and lent him heart; but this one he had to ponder over by himself; he did not care to tell Nina with what concern he looked forward to the impressions that Miss Cunyngham might form of himself and his surroundings when brought immediately into contact with them. And yet he was not altogether silent.

"You see how it is, Nina," he said, in tones of deep vexation. "That fellow Collier has been allowed to gag and gag until the whole piece is filled with his music-hall tomfoolery, and the music has been made quite subsidiary. I wonder Lehmann doesn't get a lot of acrobats and conjurors, and let Miss Burgoyne and you and me stop at home. "The Squire's Daughter" is really a very pretty piece, with some delightful melody running through it; but that fellow has vulgarized it into the lowest burlesque."

"What does it matter to you, Leo?" Nina said. "What he does is separate from you. He cannot vulgarize your singing."

"But he makes all that clowning of his so important—it has become so big a feature of the piece that any friends of yours coming to see the little opera might very naturally say, 'Oh, is this the kind of thing he figures in? This is an intellectual entertainment, truly!'"

"But you do not join in it, Leo!" Nina protested.

"In the most gagging scene of all, I've got to stand and look on the whole time!" he said.

"Oh, no, Leo," Nina said, with mock sympathy, "you can listen to Miss Burgoyne as she talks to you from behind her fan."

"Those two ladies I told you of," he continued, "who are coming on Saturday night—I wonder what they will think of all that low-comedy stuff. I begin to wish I hadn't asked them to come behind, but I thought it might be a sort of inducement. Miss Cunyngham was very kind to me when I was in the Highlands, and this was all I could think of; but I don't think she has much of the frivolous curiosity of her sisters-in-law; and I am not sure that her mother and she would even care much for the honor of having tea in Miss Burgoyne's room. No, I wish I hadn't asked them."

"Do you value their opinion so highly, then, Leo?" Nina asked, gently.

"Oh, yes," he said, with some hesitation—"that is, I shouldn't like them to form any unfavorable impression—to go away with any scornful feeling towards comic opera, and towards the people engaged in it; I should like them to think well of the piece. I suppose I couldn't bribe Collier to leave out the half of his gag, or the whole of it, for that particular night. Did you see what one of the papers said about the 400th performance?—that the fate of "The Squire's Daughter" had for some time been doubtful, but that it had been saved by the increased prominence given to the part played by Mr. Fred Collier!—a compliment to the public taste!—the piece saved by lugging in a lot of music-hall buffoonery!"

"But, Leo," Nina said, "your friends who are coming on Saturday night will not think you responsible for all that."

"People are apt to judge of you by your associates, Nina," he said, absently; he was clearly looking forward to this visit with some compunction, not to say alarm.

Then he went to Miss Burgoyne. Miss Burgoyne had forgiven him for having introduced Percival Miles to the Richmond dinner-party; indeed, she was generally as ready to forgive as she was quick to take offence.

"I wish you would do me a very great favor," he said.

"What is it?" asked Grace Mainwaring, who was standing in front of the tall mirror, adjusting the shining stars and crescents that adorned her powdered hair.

"I suppose you could wear a little nosegay with that dress," he said, "of natural flowers, done up with a bit of white satin ribbon, perhaps, and a silver tube and cord, or something of that kind?"

"Flowers?" she repeated. "Oh, yes, I could wear them—if any one were polite enough to give me them."

"I shall be delighted to send you some every evening for a month, if you'll only do this for me on Saturday," said he. "It is on Saturday night those two ladies are coming to the theatre; and you were good enough to promise to ask them to your room and offer them some tea. The younger of the two—that is, Miss Cunyngham—has never been behind the scenes of a theatre before, and I think she will be very pleased to be introduced to Miss Grace Mainwaring; and don't you think it would be rather nice of Miss Grace Mainwaring to take those flowers from her dress and present them to the young lady, as a souvenir of her visit?"

She wheeled round, and looked at him with a curious scrutiny.

"Well, this is something new!" she said, as she turned to the mirror again. "I thought it was the fortunate Harry Thornhill who received all kinds of compliments and attentions from his lady adorers; I wasn't aware he ever returned them. But do you think it is quite fair, Mr. Moore? If this is some girl who has a love-sick fancy for Harry Thornhill, don't you think you should drop Harry Thornhill and play David Garrick, to cure the poor thing?"

"Considering that Miss Cunyngham has never seen Harry Thornhill," he was beginning, when she interrupted him:

"Oh, only heard him sing in private? Quite enough, I suppose, to put nonsense into a silly school-girl's head."

"When you see this young lady," he observed, "I don't think you will say she looks like a silly school-girl. She's nearly as tall as I am, for one thing."

"I hate giraffes," said Miss Burgoyne, tartly, "Do you put a string round her neck when you go out walking with her?"

He was just on the point of saying something about greenroom manners, but thought better of it.

"Now, Miss Burgoyne," he said to her, "on Saturday night you are going to put on your most winning way—you can do it when you like—and you are going to captivate and fascinate those two people until they'll go away home with the conviction that you are the most charming and delightful creature that ever lived. You can do it easily enough if you like—no one better. You are going to be very nice to them, and you'll send them away just in love with Grace Mainwaring."

Miss Burgoyne altered her tone a little.

"If I give your giraffe friend those flowers, I suppose you expect me to tell lies as well?" she asked, with some approach to good-humor.

"About what?"

"Oh, about being delighted to make her acquaintance, and that kind of thing."

"I have no doubt you will be as pleased to make her acquaintance as she will be to make yours," said he, "and a few civil words never do any harm."

Here Miss Burgoyne was called. She went to the little side-table and sipped some of her home-brewed lemonade; then he opened the door for her, and together they went up into the wings.

"Tall, is she?" continued Miss Burgoyne, as they were looking on at Mr. Fred Collier's buffooneries out there on the stage. "Is she as silent and stupid as her brother?"

"Her brother?"

"Lord Rockminster."

"Oh, Lord Rockminster isn't her brother. You've got them mixed up," said Lionel. "Miss Cunyngham's brother, Sir Hugh, married a sister of Lord Rockminster—the Lady Adela Cunyngham who came to your room one night—don't you remember?"

"You seem to have the whole peerage and baronetage at your fingers' ends," said she, sullenly; and the next moment she was on the stage, smiling and gracious, and receiving her father's guests with that charming manner which the heroine of the operetta could assume when she chose.

Even with Miss Burgoyne's grudgingly promised assistance, Lionel still remained unaccountably perturbed about that visit of Lady Cunyngham and her daughter; and when on the Saturday evening he first became aware—through the confused glare of the footlights—that the two ladies had come into the box he had secured for them, it seemed to him as though he were responsible for every single feature of the performance. As for himself, he was at his best, and he knew it; he sang, 'The starry night brings me no rest' with such a verve that the enthusiasm of the audience was unbounded; even Miss Burgoyne—Miss Grace Mainwaring, that is, who was perched up on a bit of scaffolding in order to throw a rose to her lover—listened with a new interest, instead of being busy with her ribbons and the set of her hair; and when she opened the casement in answer to his impassioned appeal, she kissed the crimson-cotton blossom thrice ere she dropped it to her enraptured swain below. This was all very well; but when the comic man took possession of the stage, Lionel—instead of going off to his dressing-room to glance at an evening paper or have a chat with some acquaintance—remained in the wings, looking on with an indescribable loathing. This hideous farcicality seemed more vulgar than ever? what would Honnor Cunyngham think of his associates? He felt as if he were an accomplice in foisting this wretched music-hall stuff on the public. And the mother—the tall lady with the proud, fine features and the grave and placid voice—what would she think of the new acquaintance whom her daughter had introduced to her? Had it been Lady Adela or her sisters, he would not have cared one jot. They were proud to be in alliance with professional people; they flattered themselves that they rather belonged to the set—actors, authors, artists, musicians, those busy and eager amateurs considered to be, like themselves, of imagination all compact. But that he should have asked Honnor Cunyngham to come and look on at the antics of this gaping and grinning fool; that she should know he had to consort with such folk; that she should consider him an aider and abettor in putting this kind of entertainment before the public—this galled him to the quick. The murmur of the Aivron and the Geinig seemed dinning in his ears. If only he could have thrown aside these senseless trappings—if he were an under-keeper now, or a water-bailiff, or even a gillie looking after the dogs and the ponies, he could have met the gaze of those clear hazel eyes without shame. But here he was the coadjutor of this grimacing clown; and she was sitting in her box there—and thinking.

"What is it, Leo?" said Nina, coming up to him rather timidly. "You are annoyed."

"I have made a mistake, that is all," he said, rather impatiently. "I shouldn't have persuaded those two ladies to come to the theatre; I forgot what kind of thing we played in; I might as well have asked them to go to a penny gaff. Collier is worse than ever to-night."

"And you better, Leo," said Nina, who had always comforting words for him. "Did you not hear how enthusiastic the audience were? And if this is the young lady you told me of—who was so friendly in Scotland that she did not fear ridicule for herself in order to save you from the possibility of ridicule—surely she will be so well-wishing to you that she will understand you have nothing to do with the foolishness on the stage."

"If you are thinking of that salmon-fishing incident," he said, rather hastily, "of course you mustn't imagine there was any fear of her encountering any ridicule. Oh, certainly not. It was no new thing for her to get wet when she was out fishing—"

"At all events, it was a friendly act to you," said Nina, on whom that occurrence seemed to have made some impression. "And if she is so generous, so benevolent towards you, do you think she will not see you are not responsible for the comic business?"

It was at the end of the penultimate act that an attendant brought round Miss Cunyngham and her mother—the latter a handsome and distinguished-looking elderly lady, with white hair done up a la Marie Antoinette—behind the scenes; and Nina, hanging some way back, could see them being presented to Miss Burgoyne. Nina was a little breathless and bewildered. She had heard a good deal about the fisher-maiden in the far North, of her hardy out-of-door life, and her rough and serviceable costume; and perhaps she had formed some mental picture of her—very different from the actual appearance of this tall young Englishwoman, whose clear, calm eyes, strongly marked eyebrows, and proud, refined features were so striking. Here was no simple maiden in a suit of serge, but a young woman of commanding presence, whose long cloak of tan-colored velvet, with its hanging sleeves showing a flash of crimson, seemed to Nina to have a sort of royal magnificence about it. And yet her manner appeared to be very simple and gentle; she smiled as she talked to Miss Burgoyne; and the last that Nina saw of her—as they all left together in the direction of the corridor, Lionel obsequiously attending them—was that the tall young lady walked with a most gracious carriage. Nina made sure that they had all disappeared before she, too, went down the steps; then she made her way to her own room, to get ready for the final act. Miss Girond, of course, was also here; but Nina had no word for Estelle; she seemed preoccupied about something.

Never had Harry Thornhill dressed so quickly; and when, in his gay costume of flowered silk and ruffles, tied wig and buckled shoes, he tapped at Miss Burgoyne's door and entered, he found that this young lady was still in the curtained apartment, though she had sent out Jane to see that her two visitors were being looked after. Lionel, too, helped himself to some tea; and it was with a singular feeling of relief that he discovered, as he presently did, that both Lady Cunyngham and her daughter were quite charmed with the piece, so far as they had seen it. They appeared to put the farcicality altogether aside, and to have been much impressed by the character of the music.

"What a pretty girl that Miss Ross is!" said the younger of the two ladies, incidentally. "But she is not English, is she? I thought I could detect a trace of foreign accent here and there."

"No, she is Italian," Lionel made answer. "Her name is really Rossi—Antonia Rossi—but her intimate friends call her Nina."

"What a beautiful voice she has!" Miss Honnor continued. "So fresh and pure and sweet. I think she has a far more beautiful voice than—"

He quickly held up his hand, and the hint was taken.

"And she puts such life into her part—she seems to be really light-hearted and merry," resumed Miss Honnor, who appeared to have been much taken by Nina's manner on the stage. "Do you know, Mr. Moore, I could not help to-night thinking more than once of "The Chaplet" and my sisters and their amateur friends. The difference between an amateur performance and a performance of trained artists is so marvellous; it doesn't seem to me to be one of degree at all; at an amateur performance, however clever it may be, I am conscious all the time that the people are assuming something quite foreign to themselves, whereas on the stage the people seem to be the actual characters they profess to be. I forget they are actors and actresses—"

"You must be a good audience, Miss Cunyngham," said he (it used to be "Miss Honnor" in Strathaivron, but that was some time ago—then he was not decked out and painted for exhibition on the stage).

"Oh, I like to believe," she said. "I don't wish to criticise. I wholly and delightfully give myself up to the illusion. Mother and I go so seldom to the theatre that we are under no temptation to begin and ask how this or that is done, or to make any comparisons; we surrender ourselves to the story, and believe the people to be real people all we can. As for mother, if it weren't a dreadful secret—"

But here the curtains were thrown wide, and out came Miss Burgoyne, obviously conscious of her magnificent costume, profuse in her apologies for not appearing sooner. Something had gone wrong, and the mishap had kept her late; indeed, she had just time to go through the formality of taking a cup of tea with her guests when she was called and had to get ready to go.



"However, I need not say good-bye just yet," she said to them, as she tucked up her voluminous train. "Wouldn't you like to look on for a little while from the wings? You could have the prompter's chair, Lady Cunyngham, so that you could see the audience or the stage, just as you chose, if Miss Cunyngham wouldn't mind standing about among the gasmen."

"If you are sure we shall not be in the way," said the elder lady, who had, perhaps, a little more curiosity than her daughter.

"Oh, Mr. Moore will show you," said Miss Burgoyne, making no scruple about preceding her visitors along the corridor and up the steps, for she had not too much time.

The prompter's office, now that this piece had been running over four hundred nights, was practically a sinecure, so that there was no trouble about getting Lady Cunyngham installed in the little corner, whence, through a small aperture, she could regard the dusky-hued audience or turn her attention to the stage just as she pleased. Miss Honnor stood close by her, when she was allowed—keeping out of sight of the opposite boxes as much as she could, though she observed that the workmen about her did not care much whether they were visible or not, and that they talked or called to one another with a fine indifference towards what was going forward on the stage. At present a minuet was being danced, and very pretty it was; she could not help noticing how cleverly Miss Burgoyne managed her train. As for her mother, the old lady seemed intensely interested and yet conscious all the time that she herself, in this strange position, was an interloper; again and again she rose and offered to resign her place to the rather shabby-looking elderly man who was the rightful occupant; but he just as often begged her to remain—he seemed mostly interested in the management of the gas-handles just over his head.

And now came in the comic interlude which Lionel had feared most of all—the squire's faithful henchman going through all the phases of getting drunk in double-quick stage-time; and, while those stupidities were going forward, Lionel and Miss Burgoyne were supposed to retire up the stage somewhat and look on. Well, they took up their positions—Grace Mainwaring being seated.

"Your giraffe is rather handsome," she said, behind her fan.

"I believe she is considered to be one of the best-looking women in England," said he, somewhat stiffly.

"Oh, really! Well, of course, tastes differ," Miss Grace Mainwaring said. "I don't think a woman should have blacking-brushes instead of eyebrows. But it's a matter of taste."

"Yes," said he, "and comic opera is the sort of place where one's taste becomes so refined. What do you think of this gag now? Is this what the public like—when they come to hear music?"

"You're very fastidious—you want everything to be super-fine—but you may depend on it that it keeps the piece going with the pit and gallery."

His answer to that was one of this young lady's strangest experiences of the stage: Lionel Moore had suddenly left her, and, indeed, quitted this scene, in which he was supposed to be a chief figure. He walked down the wings until he found himself close to Miss Honnor Cunyngham.

"Miss Cunyngham," he said.

She turned—her eyes somewhat bewildered by the glare of light on the stage.

"Come back, please," he said. "I don't want you to see this scene—it has nothing to do with the operetta—and it is dull and stupid and tedious beyond description."

She followed him two or three steps, wondering.

"You say you like the music," he continued, here in the twilight of the wings, "and the little story is really rather pretty and idyllic; but they will go and introduce a lot of music-hall stuff to please the groundlings. I should prefer you not to see it. Won't you rather wait a little, and talk about something?—it isn't often you and I meet. Did you get many salmon after I left Strathaivron?"

"Oh, no," said she, still rather surprised. "Towards the end of the season the red fish are really not worth landing."

"It seems a long time since then," he said. "I find myself sitting up at night and thinking over all those experiences—making pictures of them—and the hours go by in a most astonishing fashion. Here in London, among the November fogs, it seems so strange to think of those splendid days and the long, clear twilights. I suppose it is all so well known to you, you do not trouble to recall it; but I do—it is like a dream—only that I see everything so distinctly—I seem almost to be able to touch each leaf of the bushes in the little dell where we used to have luncheon; do you remember?"

"Above the Geinig Pool?—oh, yes!" she said, smiling.

"And the Junction Pool," he continued, with a curious eagerness, as if he were claiming her sympathy, her interest, on account of that old companionship—"I can make the clearest vision of it as I sit up all by myself at night—you remember the little bush on the opposite side that you used sometimes to catch your fly on, and the shelf of shingle going suddenly down into the brown water—I always thought that was a dangerous place. And how well you used to fish the Rock Pool! Old Robert used to be so proud of you! Once, at the tail of the Rock Pool, you wound up, and said to him, 'Well, I can't do any better than that, Robert;' and then he said, 'No man ever fished that pool better—oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Honnor; no one at all ever fished that pool better.' I suppose Strathaivron is nothing to you—you must be so familiar with it—but to me it is a sort of wonderland, to dream of when I am all by myself at night—"

Alas! it was at this very moment that Nina came up from her room; Clara, the innkeeper's daughter, had to go on immediately after the ball-room scene was over. And Nina, as she came by, caught sight of these two, and for a moment she stood still, her eyes staring. The two figures were in a sort of twilight—a twilight as compared with the glare of the stage beyond them, but there were lights here quite sufficient to illumine their features; it was no imagination on Nina's part—she saw with a startling clearness that Lionel was regarding this tall, English-looking girl with a look she had never seen him direct towards any woman before—a timid, wistful, half-beseeching look that needed no words to explain its meaning. For a second Nina stood there, paralyzed—not daring to breathe—not able to move. Yet was it altogether a revelation to her, or only a sudden and overwhelming confirmation of certain half-frightened misgivings which had visited her from time to time, and which she had striven hard to banish? The next moment Nina had passed on silently, like a ghost, and had disappeared in the dusk behind some scenery.

"When shall you be back in Strathaivron, Miss Honnor?" he asked.

"In the spring, I suppose, for the salmon-fishing," she made answer.

"You will be up there in the clear April days, by the side of that beautiful river, and I shall be playing the mountebank here, among the London gas and fog."

But at this moment the orchestra began the slow music that intimated the resumption of the minuet, and this recalled him to his senses; he had hurriedly to take leave of her, and then he went and rejoined Miss Burgoyne, who merely said, "Well, that's a pretty trick!" as she gave him her hand for the dance.

A still stranger thing, however, happened in the next scene, where the gay young officer, the French prisoner of war, makes love to the innkeeper's daughter. Estelle noticed with great surprise that not only did Nina deliver the English maiden's retorts without any of the saucy spirit that the situation demanded, but also that she was quite confused about the words, stammering and hesitating, and getting through them in the most perfunctory manner. At last, when the little Capitaine Crepin says, "Bewitching maid, say you will fly with me!" Clara's reply is, "You forget I am to be married to-morrow—see, here comes my betrothed;" but Nina only got as far as "married to-morrow"—then she paused—hesitated—she put her hand to her head as if everything had gone from her brain—and at the same moment Estelle, with the most admirable presence of mind, continued, "See, here comes your betrothed," thus giving the lover his cue. The dialogue now remained with Estelle and this husband-elect, so that Nina had time to recover; and in the trio that closes the scene she sang her part well enough. Directly they had left the stage, Estelle ran to her friend.

"Nina, what was the matter?" she exclaimed.

"My head—" said Nina, pressing her hand against her forehead and talking rather faintly—"I do not know—my head is giddy, Estelle—oh, I wish it was all over!—I wish I was home!"

"You have very little more to do now, Nina!" Estelle said quickly to her, in French. "Come, you must have courage, Nina—I will run and get you my smelling-salts, and it will pass away—oh, you must make an effort, Nina—would you let Miss Burgoyne see you break down—no, no, indeed! You will be all right, Nina, I assure you—and I will tell the prompter to be on the watch for you—oh, I wouldn't give way—before Miss Burgoyne—if I were you, no, not for a hundred pounds!"

Therewith the kind-hearted little French officer sped away to her own room, and brought back the smelling-salts and was most eagerly solicitous that Nina should conquer this passing attack of hysteria, as she deemed it. And, indeed, Nina managed to get through the rest of her part without any serious breakdown, to Estelle's exceeding joy.

As they went home together in the four-wheeled cab, Nina did not utter a word. Once or twice Estelle fancied she heard a slight sob; but she merely said to herself,

"Ah, it has come back, that trembling of the nerves? But I will make her take some wine at supper, and she will go to bed and sleep well; to-morrow she will have forgotten all about it."

And Estelle was most kind and considerate when they got down to Sloane Street. She helped Nina off with her things; she stirred up the fire; she put a bottle of white wine on the table, where supper was already laid; she drew in Nina's chair for her. Then Mrs. Grey came up, to see that her children, as she called them, were all right; and she was easily induced to stay for a little while, for a retired actress is always eager to hear news of the theatre; so she and Miss Girond fell to talking between themselves. Nina sat silent; her eyes seemed heavy and tired; she only pretended to touch the food and wine before her.

"Very well, then, Nina," her friend said, when Mrs. Grey had gone, "if you will have nothing to eat or to drink, you must go to bed and see what a sound night's rest will do for you. I am going to sit up a little while to read, but I shall not disturb you."

"Good-night, then, Estelle," said Nina, rather languidly; "you have been so kind to me!"

They kissed each other; then Nina opened the folding-doors, and disappeared into her own room, while Estelle took up her book. It was "Les Vacances de Camille" she had got hold of; but she did not turn the pages quickly; there was something else in her mind. She was thinking of Nina. She was troubled about her, in a vague kind of way. She had never seen Nina look like that before, and she was puzzled and a little concerned.

Suddenly, in this hushed stillness, she heard, or fancied she heard, a slight sound that startled her; it came from the adjoining room. Stealthily she arose and approached the door; she put her ear close and listened; yes, she had not been mistaken—Nina was sobbing bitterly. Estelle did not hesitate a moment; she boldly opened the door and went in; and the first thing she beheld was Nina, just as she had left the other room, now lying prone on the bed, her face buried in the pillow, while in vain she tried to control the violence of her grief.

"Nina!" she cried, in alarm.

Nina sprang up—she thrust out both trembling hands, as if wildly seeking for help, and Estelle was not slow to seize them.

"Nina, what is it?" she exclaimed, frightened by the haggard face and streaming eyes.

"Estelle!—Estelle!" said Nina, in a low voice that simply tore the heart of this faithful friend of hers. "It is nothing! It is only that my life is broken—my life is broken—and I have no mother—Poverina!—she would have said to me—"

Her sobs choked her speech; she withdrew her trembling hands; she threw herself again on the bed, face downward, and burst into a wild fit of weeping. Estelle knew not what to do; she was terrified.

"Nina, what has happened?" she cried again.

"It is nothing!—it is nothing!—it is nothing!" she said, between her passionate sobs. "I have made a mistake; I am punished—O God, can you not kill me!—I do not wish to live—"

"Nina!" said Estelle, and the girl bent down and put her cheek close to her friend's, and she tenderly placed both her hands on the masses of beautiful blue-black hair. "Nina—tell me!"

In time the violent sobbing ceased, or partially ceased; Nina rose, but she clung to Estelle's hand and kissed it passionately.

"You have been so kind, so affectionate to me, Estelle! To-morrow you will know—perhaps. I will leave you a letter. I am going away. If you forget me—well, that is right; if you do not forget me, do not think bad of—of poor Nina!"

"I don't know what you mean, Nina," said Estelle, who was herself whimpering by this time; "but I won't let you go away. No, I will not. You do not know what you say. It is madness—to-morrow morning you will reflect—to-morrow morning you will tell me, and rely on me as a friend."

"Yes, to-morrow morning all will be right, Estelle," Nina said, again kissing the hand that she clung to. "Pardon me that I have kept you up—and disturbed you. Go away to your bed, Estelle—to-morrow morning all will be right!"

Very reluctantly Estelle was at length persuaded to leave; and as she left she turned off the gas in the sitting-room. A few minutes thereafter Nina, still dressed as she had come home from the theatre, entered the room, re-lit the gas, and noiselessly proceeded to clear a portion of the table, on which she placed writing materials. Then she went into her bedroom and fetched a little drawer in which she kept her valuables; and the first thing she did was to take out an old-fashioned gold ring she had brought with her from Naples. She put the ring in an envelope, and (while her eyelids were still heavy with tears, and her cheeks wan and worn) she wrote outside—"For Estelle."



CHAPTER XVI.

AN AWAKENING.

London is a dreary-looking city on a Sunday morning, especially on a Sunday morning in November; people seem to know how tedious the hours are going to be, and lie in bed as long as they decently can; the teeming and swarming capital of the world looks as if it had suddenly grown lifeless. When Lionel got up, there was a sort of yellow darkness in the air; hardly a single human being was visible in the Green Park over the way; a solitary saunterer, hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat, who wandered idly along the neglected pavement, had the appearance of having been out all night, and of not knowing what to do with himself, now that what passed for daylight had come. All of a sudden there flashed into the brain of this young man standing by the French window a yearning to get away from this dark and dismal town—there came before him a vision of clear air, of wind-swept waves, with an after-church promenade of fashionable folk in which he might recognize the welcome face of many a friend. He looked at his watch; there was yet time; he would hurry through his breakfast and catch the 10.45 to Brighton.

But was there nothing else prompting this unpremeditated resolve to get away down to Victoria station? Not some secret hope that he might perchance descry Lady Cunyngham and her daughter among the crowd swarming on to the long platform? They had not definitely told him at the theatre that they were returning the next morning; but was it not just possible—or, rather, extremely probable? And surely he might presume on their mutual acquaintance so far as to get into the same railway-carriage and have some casual chatting with them on the way down? He had been as attentive as possible to them on the previous evening; and they had seemed pleased. And he had tried to arouse in Miss Honnor's mind some recollection of the closer relationship which had existed between her and him in the solitudes of far Strathaivron.

When he did arrive at Victoria station he found the people pouring in in shoals; for now was the very height of the Brighton season; besides which there were plenty of Londoners glad to escape, if only for a day, from the perpetual fog and gloom. And yet, curiously enough, although the carriages were being rapidly filled, he took no trouble about securing a seat. After he had gone down the whole length of the train, he turned, and kept watching the new arrivals as they came through the distant gate. The time for departure was imminent; but he did not seem anxious about getting to Brighton. And at last his patience, or his obstinacy, was rewarded; he saw two figures—away along there—that he instantly recognized; even at a greater distance he could have told that one of these was Honnor Cunyngham, for who else in all England walked like that? The two ladies were unattended by either man or maid; and as they came along they seemed rather concerned at the crowded condition of the train. Lionel walked quickly forward to meet them. There was no time for the expression of surprise on their part—only for the briefest greeting.

"I must try to get you seats," said he, "but the train appears to be very full, and the guards are at their wits' end. I say!" he called to a porter. "Look here; this train is crammed, and the people are pouring in yet; what are they going to do?"

"There's a relief train, sir," said the porter, indicating a long row of empty carriages just across the platform.

"You are sure those are going?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then we can get in now?"

The man looked doubtful; but Lionel soon settled that matter by taking the two ladies along to a Pullman car, where the conductor at once allowed them to pass. It is true that as soon as the public outside perceived that these empty carriages were also going, they took possession without more ado; but in the meantime Lionel and his two companions had had their choice of places, so that they were seated together when the train started.

"It was most fortunate we met you," Lady Cunyngham said, bending very friendly eyes on the young man. "I do so hate a crowded train; it happens so seldom in travelling in England that one is not used to it. Are you going down to Brighton for any time, Mr. Moore?"

"Mother," said Honnor Cunyngham, almost reproachfully, "you forget what Mr. Moore's engagements are."

"Yes," said he, with a smile, "it is rather a cruel question. My glimpses of the sea and sky are few and far between. The heavens that I usually find over my head are made of canvas; and the country scenes I wander through are run on wheels."

"But don't you think," said Miss Honnor to him (and it seemed so cheerful to be away from the London gloom and out here in the clearer air; to find himself sitting so near this young lady, able to regard her dress, listening to her voice, sometimes venturing to meet the straightforward glance of her calm eyes—all this was a wondrous and marvellous thing)—"don't you think you enjoy getting away from town all the more keenly? I shall never forget you in Strathaivron; you were never bored like some of the other gentlemen."

"Each and every day was one to be marked by a white stone," he said, with an earnestness hardly befitting railway-carriage conversation.

"The wet ones, too?" she asked, pleasantly.

"Wet or dry, what was the difference?" he made bold to say. "What did I care about the rain if I could go down to the Aivron or away up to the Geinig with you and old Robert?"

"You certainly were very brave about it," she said, in the most friendly way; "you never once grumbled when the sandwiches got damp—not once."

And so the three of them kept gayly and carelessly talking and chatting together, as the long train thundered away to the south; while ever and anon they could turn their eyes to that changing phantasmagoria of the outer world that went whirling by the windows. It was rather a wild-looking day, sometimes brightening with a wan glare of sunlight, but more often darkening until the country looked like a French landscape, in its sombre tones of gray and black and green. Yet, nevertheless, there was a sort of picturesqueness in the brooding sky, the russet woods, the purple hedges, and the new-ploughed furrows; while now and again a distant mansion, set on a height, shone a fair yellow above its terraced lawn. Scattered rooks swept down the wind and settled in a field. The moorhens had forsaken the ruffled water of the ponds and sought shelter among the withered sedge. Puffs of white steam from the engine flew across and were lost in the leafless trees. Embankments suddenly showed themselves high in the air, and as suddenly dipped again; then there were long stretches of coppice, with red bracken, and a sprinkling of gold on the oaks. To Lionel the time went by all too quickly; before he had said the half of what he wanted to say, behold! here they were at Preston Park.

"You are at least remaining over until to-morrow?" Lady Cunyngham asked him.

"Well, no," said he, "I did not think of coming down until this morning, and so I had made no arrangements. I should think it hardly likely there would be a vacant bedroom at the Orleans Club at this time of year—no, in any case, I must get back by the 8.40 to-night."

"And in the meantime," she asked again, "have you any engagement?"

"None. I dare say I shall have a stroll along the sea-front, and then drop in for lunch at the Orleans."

"You might as well come down now and lunch with us," said she, simply.

Lionel's face brightened up amazingly; he had been looking forward to saying good-bye at the station with anything but joy.

"I should be delighted—if I am not in the way," was his prompt answer.

"Oh, Honnor and I are entirely by ourselves at present," said this elderly lady with the silver-white hair. "We are expecting Lady Adela and her sisters this week, however; and perhaps my son will come down later on."

"Are they back from Scotland?"

"They arrive to-morrow, I believe."

"And Lady Adela's novel?"

"Oh, I don't know anything about that," said she, with a good-humored smile. "Surely she can't have written another novel already!"

When they got into the station, a footman was awaiting them, but they had no bags or baggage of any description; they walked a little way along the platform and entered the carriage; presently they were driving away down to the sea-front. What Honnor Cunyngham thought of the arrangement, it is impossible to say, but the invitation was none of her giving: no doubt it was merely a little compliment in acknowledgment of Mr. Moore's kindness of the preceding night. However, when the barouche pulled up in front of a house in Adelaide Crescent, Mr. Moore had his own proposal to make.

"It seems so pleasant down there," said he, looking towards the wide stretches of greensward and the promenade along the sea-wall, where the people, just come out of church, were strolling to and fro; "every one appears to be out—don't you think we should have a little walk before going in?"

Honnor Cunyngham said nothing; it was her mother who at once and good-naturedly assented; and when they had descended from the carriage they forthwith made their way down to mix in this idle throng. It was quite a bright and pleasant morning here—a stiff southwesterly breeze blowing—a considerably heavy sea thundering in and springing with jets of white spray into the air—the sunlight shining along the yellow houses of Brunswick Terrace, where there were cheerful bits of green here and there in the balconies. Then the crowd was rather more gayly dressed than an English crowd usually is; for women allow themselves a little more latitude in the way of color during the Brighton season, and on such a morning there was ample excuse for a display of sunshades. And was it merely a wish to breathe the fresh-blowing wind and to listen to the hissing withdrawal and recurrent roar of the waves that had induced Lionel to ask his two companions to join in this slow march up and down? Young men have their little vanities and weaknesses, like other folk. Rumor had on more than one occasion coupled his name with that of some fair damsel; what if he were to say now, "Well, if you will talk, here is one worth talking about." He was conscious on this shining morning that Miss Cunyngham—the more beautiful daughter of a beautiful mother—was looking superb; he remembered what Miss Georgie had said about Honnor's proud and graceful carriage. He knew a good many of the people in this slow-moving assemblage; and he was not sorry they should see him talking to this tall and handsome young Englishwoman—who also appeared to have a numerous acquaintanceship.

"Why, you seem to know everybody, Mr. Moore?" she said to him, with a smile.

"You would think all London was here this morning—it's really astonishing!" he made answer.

Occasionally they stopped to have a chat with more particular friends; and then Lionel would remain a little bit aside; though once or twice Lady Cunyngham chose to introduce him, and that pleased him, he hardly knew why. But at last she said,

"Well, I think we must be getting home. Properly speaking we have no right to be in the prayer-book brigade at all, for we have not been to church this morning."

Not unlikely the squire of these two ladies was rather loath to leave this gay assemblage; but he was speedily consoled, for, to his inexpressible joy, he found, when they got in-doors, that there was no one else coming to lunch—these three were to be quite by themselves. And of what did they not talk during this careless, protracted, idling meal? Curiously enough, it was Nina, not Miss Burgoyne, who appeared to have chiefly impressed the two visitors on the preceding evening; and when Lady Cunyngham discovered that she was an old companion and fellow-student of Lionel's, she was much interested, and would have him tell her all about his experiences in Naples. And again Miss Honnor recurred to the difference between amateur and professional acting, that seemed to have struck her so forcibly the previous night.



"Really, Mr. Moore," said she, "you must have an astonishing amount of good-nature and tolerance. If I had complete command of any art, and saw a band of amateurs attempting something in it and not even conscious of their own amateurishness, I don't know whether I should be more inclined to laugh or to be angry. I used to be amused, up there in Strathaivron, with the confidence Georgie Lestrange showed in singing a duet with you—"

"Ah, but Miss Lestrange sings very well," said he. "And, you know, if Lady Adela and her sisters perform a piece like "The Chaplet"—well, that is a Watteau-like sort of thing—Sevres china—force or passion of any kind isn't wanted—it's all artificial, and confessedly so. And then, when the professional actor finds himself acting with amateurs, I dare say he modifies himself a little—"

"Becomes an amateur, in short," she said.

"In a measure. Otherwise he would be a regular bull in a china shop. And surely, when you get a number of people in a remote place like Strathaivron, the efforts of amateurs to amuse them should be encouraged and approved. I thought it was very unselfish of them—very kind—though they generally succeeded in sending Lord Fareborough to bed. By the way, Miss Cunyngham, did Lord Fareborough ever get a stag?"

For it was observable that this young man, whenever he got the chance, was anxious to lead away the conversation from the theatre and all things pertaining thereunto, and would rather talk about Strathaivron and salmon-fishing and Miss Honnor's plans with regard to the coming year.

"Oh, no," she said, "he never went out but that once, and then he nearly killed himself, according to his own account. We never quite knew what happened; there was some dark mystery that Roderick wouldn't explain; and, you know, Lord Fareborough himself is rather short-tempered. He ought not to have gone out—a man who has imagined himself into that hypochondriacal state. However, it has given him an excuse for thinking himself a greater invalid than ever; and he has got it into his head now that we all of us persuaded him to try a day's stalking—a conspiracy, as it were, to murder him. There was some accident at one of the fords, I believe. He came home early. I never heard of his having fired at a stag at all." And then she added, with a smile. "Mr. Moore, what made you send me such a lot of salmon-flies?"

"Oh, well," he said, "I thought you ought to have a good stock." How could he tell her of his vague hope that the Jock Scotts and Blue Doctors might serve for a long time to recall him to her memory?

"I suppose you have got the stag's head by now?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, indeed; and tremendously proud of it I am," he responded, eagerly. "You know I should never have gone deer-stalking but for you. I made sure I was going to make a fool of myself—"

"I remember you were rather sensitive, or anxious not to miss, perhaps," she said, in a very gentle way. "I thought of it again last night, when I saw you so completely master in your own sphere—so much at home—with everything at your command—"

"Oh, yes, very much at home," he answered her, with just a touch of bitterness. "Perhaps it is easy to be at home—in harlequinade—though you may not quite like it." And then once more he refused to talk of the theatre. "I am going to send old Robert some tobacco at Christmas," said he.

"I heard of what you did already in that way," she said, smiling. "Do you know that you may spoil a place by your extravagance? I should think all the keepers and gillies in Strathaivron were blessing your name at this very moment."

"And you go up in the spring, you said?"

"Yes. That is the real fishing-time. My brother Hugh and I have it all to ourselves then; Lady Adela and the rest of them prefer London."

And then it was almost in his heart to cry out to her, "May not I, too, go up there, if but for a single week—for six clear-shining days in the springtime?" Ben More, Suilven, Canisp—oh, to see them once again!—and the windy skies, and Geinig thundering down its rocky chasm, and Aivron singing its morning song along the golden gravel of its shoals! what did he want with any theatre?—with the harlequinade in which he was losing his life? Could he not escape? Euston station was not so far away—and Invershin? It seemed to him as though he had already shaken himself free—that a gladder pulsation filled his veins—that he was breathing a sweeter air. The white April days shone all around him; the silver and purple clouds went flying overhead; here he was by the deep, brown pools again, with the gray rocks and the overhanging birch-woods and the long shallows filling all the world with that soft, continuous murmur. As for his singing?—oh, yes, he could sing—he could sing, if needs were,

"O lang may his lady-love Look frae the Castle Doune, Ere she see the Earl o' Moray Come sounding through the toun"—

but there is no gaslight here—there are no painted faces—he has not to look on at the antics of a clown, with shame and confusion in his heart—

The wild fancy was suddenly snapped in twain; Lady Cunyngham rose; the two younger people did likewise.

"Now, I know you gentlemen like a cigar or cigarette after luncheon," she said to Lionel, "and we are going to leave you quite by yourself—you will find us in the drawing-room when you please."

Of course he would not hear of such a proposal; he opened the door for them, and followed them up-stairs; what were cigars or cigarettes to him when he had such a chance of listening to Honnor Cunyngham's low, modulated voice, or watching for a smile in the calmly observant hazel eyes? Indeed, in the drawing-room, as Miss Honnor showed him a large collection of Assiout ware which had been sent her by an English officer in Egypt (by what right or title, Lionel swiftly asked himself, had any English officer made bold to send Miss Cunyngham a hamperful of these red-clay idiotcies?), this solitary guest had again and again to remind himself that he must not outstay his welcome. And yet they seemed to find a great deal to talk about; and the elder of the two ladies was exceedingly kind to him; and there was a singular fascination in his finding himself entirely en famille with them. But alas! Even if he or they had chosen to forget, the early dusk of the November afternoon was a sufficient warning; the windows told him he had to go. And go he did at last. He bade them good-bye; with some friendly words still dwelling in his ears he made his way down the dim stairs and had the door opened for him; then he found himself in this now empty and hopeless town of Brighton, that seemed given over to the low, multitudinous murmur of that wide waste of waves.

He did not go along to the Orleans Club; his heart and brain were too busy to permit of his meeting chance acquaintances. He walked away towards Shoreham till a smart shower made him turn. When he got back to the town the lamps were lit, throwing long, golden reflections on the wet asphalt, but the rain had ceased; so he continued to pace absently along through this blue twilight, hardly noticing the occasional dark figures that passed. What was the reason, then, of this vague unrest—this unknown longing—this dissatisfaction and almost despair? Had he not been more fortunate than he could have hoped for? He had met Miss Honnor and her mother in the morning, and had been with them all the way down; they had been most kind to him; he had spent the best part of the day with them; they had parted excellent friends; looking back, he could not recall a single word he would have liked unsaid. Then a happy fancy struck him: the moment he got up to town he would go and seek out Maurice Mangan. There was a wholesome quality in Mangan's saturnine contempt for the non-essential things of life; Mangan's clear penetration, his covert sympathy, his scorn or mock-melancholy, would help him to get rid of these vapors.

When Lionel returned to town a little after ten o'clock that night he walked along to Mangan's rooms in Victoria Street, and found his friend sitting in front of the fire alone.

"Glad you've looked in, Linn."

"Well, you don't seem to be busy, old chap; who ever saw you before without a book or a pipe?"

"I've been musing, and dreaming dreams, and wishing I was a poet," said this tall, thin, languid-looking man, whose abnormally keen gray eyes were now grown a little absent. "It's only a fancy, you know—perhaps something could be made of it by a fellow who could rhyme—"

"But what is it?" Lionel interposed.

"Well," said the other, still idly staring into the fire before him, "I think I would call it 'The Cry of the Violets'—the violets that are sold in bunches at the head of the Haymarket at midnight. Don't you fancy there might be something in it—if you think of where they come from—the woods and copses, children playing, and all that—and of what they've come to—the gas-glare and drunken laughter and jeers. I would make them tell their own story—I would make them cry to Heaven for swift death and oblivion before the last degradation of being pinned on to the flaunting dress." And then again he said: "No, I don't suppose there's any thing in it; but I'll tell you what made me think of it. This morning, as we were coming back from Winstead church—you know how extraordinarily mild it has been of late, and the lane going down to the church is very well sheltered—I found a couple of violets in at the roots of the hedge—within a few inches of each other, indeed—and I gave them to Miss Francie, and she put them in her prayer-book and carried them home. I thought the violets would not object to that, if they only knew."

"So you went down to Winstead this morning?"

"Yes."

"And how are the old people?"

"Oh, very well."

"And Francie?"

"Very busy—and very happy, I think. If she doesn't deserve to be, who does?" he continued, rousing himself somewhat from his absent manner. "I suppose, now, there is no absolutely faultless woman; and yet I sometimes think it would puzzle the most fastidious critic of human nature to point out any one particular in which Miss Francie could be finer than she is; I think it would. It is not my business to find fault; I don't want to find fault; but I have often thought over Miss Francie—her occupations, her theories, her personal disposition, even her dress—and I've wondered where the improvement was to be suggested. You see, she might be a very good woman, and yet have no sense of humor; she might be very charitable, and also a little vainglorious about it; she might have very exalted ideas of duty, and be a trifle hard on those who did not come up to her standards; but in Miss Francie's case these qualifications haven't to be put in at all. She always seems to me to be doing the right thing, and just in the right way—with a kind of fine touch that has no namby-pambiness about it. Oh, she can be firm, too; she can scold them well enough, those children—when she doesn't laugh and pat them on the shoulder the minute after."

"This is, indeed, something, as coming from you, Maurice!" Lionel exclaimed. "Has it been left for you to discover an absolutely perfect human being?"

"It isn't for you to find fault with her, anyway," the other said, rather sharply. "She's fond enough of you."

"Who said I was finding fault with her?—not likely I am going to find fault with Francie!" Lionel replied, with sufficient good-humor. "Well, now that you have discovered an absolutely faultless creature, you might come to the help of another who is only too conscious that he has plenty of faults, and who is so dissatisfied with himself and his surroundings that he is about sick of life altogether."

Notwithstanding the light tone in which he introduced the subject, Mangan looked up quickly, and regarded the younger man with those penetrating gray eyes.

"Where have you been to-day, Linn?"

"Brighton."

"Among the dukes and duchesses again? Ah, you needn't be angry—I respect as much as anybody those whom God has placed over us—I haven't forgotten my catechism—I can order myself lowly and reverently to all my betters. But tell me what the matter is. You sick of life?—I wonder what the gay world of London would think of that!"

And therewithal Lionel, in a somewhat rambling and incoherent fashion, told his friend of a good many things that had happened to him of late—of his vague aspirations and dissatisfactions—of Miss Cunyngham's visit to the theatre, and his disgust over the music-hall clowning—of his going down to Brighton that day, and his wish to stand on some other footing with those friends of his—winding up by asking, to Mangan's surprise, how long it would take to study for the bar and get called, and whether his training—the confidence acquired on the stage—might not help in addressing a jury.

"So the idol has got tired of being worshipped," Mangan said, at last. "It is an odd thing. I wonder how many thousands of people there are in London—not merely shop-girls—who consider you the most fortunate person alive—in whose imagination you loom larger than any saint or soldier, any priest or statesman, of our own time. And I wonder what they would say if they knew you were thinking of voluntarily abdicating so proud and enviable a position. Well, well!—and the reason for this sacrifice? Of course, you know it is a not uncommon thing for women to give up their carriages and luxuries and fine living, and go into a retreat, where they have to sweep out cells, and even keep strict silence for a week at a time, which, I suppose, is a more difficult business. The reason in their case is clear enough; they are driven to all that by their spiritual needs; they want to have their souls washed clean by penance and self-denial. But you," he continued, in no unfriendly mood, but with his usual uncompromising sincerity, "whence comes your renunciation? It is simply that a woman has turned your head. You want to find yourself on the same plane with her; you want to be socially her equal; and to do that you think you should throw off those theatrical trappings. You see, my dear Linn, if I have remembered my catechism, you have not; you have forgotten that you must learn and labor truly to get your own living, and do your duty in that state of life unto which it has pleased God to call you. You want to change your state of life; you want to become a barrister. What would happen? The chances are entirely against your being able to earn your own living—at least for years; but what is far more certain is that your fashionable friends—whose positions and occupations you admire—would care nothing more about you. You are interesting to them now because you are a favorite of the public, because you play the chief part at the New Theatre. What would you be as a briefless barrister? Who would provide you with salmon-fishing and deer-stalking then? If you aspired to marry one of those dames of high degree, what would be your claims and qualifications? You say you would almost rather be a gillie in charge of dogs and ponies. A gillie in charge of dogs and ponies doesn't enjoy many conversations with his young mistress; and if he made bold to demand any closer alliance Pauline would pretty soon have that Claude kicked off the premises—and serve him right. If you had come to me and said, 'I am too well off; I am being spoiled and petted to death; the simplicity and dignity of life is being wholly lost in all this fashionable flattery, this public notoriety and applause; and to recover myself a little—as a kind of purification—I am going to put aside my trappings; I will go and work as a hod-carrier for three months or six months; I will live on the plainest fare; I will bear patiently the cursing the master of the gang will undoubtedly hurl at me; I will sleep on a straw mattress'—then I could have understood that. But what is it you renounce?—and why? You think you would recommend yourself better to your swell friends if you dropped the theatre altogether—"

"Don't you want to hire a hall?" said Lionel, gloomily.

"Oh, nobody likes being preached at less than I do myself," Mangan said, with perfect equanimity, "but you see I think I ought to tell you, when you ask me, how I regard the situation. And, mind you, there is something very heroic—very impracticably heroic, but magnanimous all the same—in your idea that you might abandon all the popularity and position you have won as a mere matter of sentiment. Of course you won't do it. You couldn't bring yourself to become a mere nobody—as would happen if you went into chambers and began reading up law-books. And you wouldn't be any nearer to salmon-fishing and deer-forests that way, or to the people who possess these by birth and inheritance. The trouble with you, Linn, my boy, as with most of us, is that you weren't born in the purple. It is quite true that if you were called to the bar you could properly claim the title of esquire, and you would find yourself not further down than the hundred and fiftieth or hundred and sixtieth section in the tables of precedence; but if you went with this qualification to those fine friends of yours, they would admit its validity, and let you know at the same time you were no longer interesting to them. Harry Thornhill, of the New Theatre, has a free passport everywhere; Mr. Lionel Moore, of the Middle Temple, wouldn't be wanted anywhere."

"You are very worldly-wise to-night, Maurice."

"I don't want to see you make a sacrifice that wouldn't bring you what you expect to gain by it," Mangan said. "But, as I say, you won't make any such sacrifice. You have had your brain turned by a pretty pair of eyes—perhaps by an elegant figure—and you have been troubled and dissatisfied and dreaming dreams."

"If that is your conclusion and summing-up of the whole matter," Lionel said, with studied indifference, "perhaps you will offer me a drink, and I'll have a cigarette, and we can talk about something on which we are likely to agree."

"I'm sure I beg your pardon," Mangan said, with a laugh; and he went and brought forth what modest stores he had, and he was quite willing that the conversation should flow into another channel.

And little did Lionel know that at this very moment there was something awaiting him at his own rooms that would (far more effectually than any reasoning and plain speaking) banish from his mind, for the moment at least, all those restless aspirations and vague regrets. When eventually he arrived in Piccadilly and went up-stairs, he was not expecting any letters, this being Sunday; and as there was on the table only a small parcel, he would probably have left that unheeded till the morning (no doubt it was a pair of worked slippers, or a couple of ivory-backed brushes, or something of the kind) but that in passing he happened to glance at the note on the top of it, and he observed that the handwriting was foreign. He took it up carelessly and opened it; his carelessness soon vanished. The message was from Mlle. Girond, and it was in French:

"DEAR MR. MOORE,—To-day Mrs. Grey and I have called twice at your apartments, but in vain, and now I leave this letter for you. It is frightful, what has happened. Nina has gone, no one knows where; we can hear nothing of her. This morning when I came down to her room she was gone; there was a letter for me, one for Mr. Lehmann, one for Miss Constance, asking her to be ready to sing to-morrow night, another for Mrs. Grey, with money for the apartments until the end of the month, and also there was this little packet for you. In her letter to me she asks me to see them all delivered. During the night she must have made these arrangements; in the morning she is gone! I am in despair; I know not what to do. Will you have the goodness to come down to-morrow as soon as possible?

"ESTELLE."

And then mechanically he drew a chair to the table, and sat down and pulled the small package towards him; perhaps the contents might help to explain this extraordinary thing that had occurred. But the moment that he took the lid off the pasteboard box he was more bewildered than ever; for the first glimpse told him that Nina had returned to him all the little presents he had made to her in careless moments.

"Nina!" he said, under his voice, in a tone of indignant reproach.

Yes, here was every one of them, from the enclasped loving-cup to the chance trinkets he had purchased for her just as they happened to attract his eye. He took them all out; there was no letter, no message of any kind. And then he asked himself, almost angrily, what sort of mad freak was this. Had the wayward and petulant Nina—forgetting all the suave and gracious demeanor she had been teaching herself since she came to England—had she run away in a fit of temper, breaking her engagement at the theatre, and causing alarm and anxiety to her friends, all about nothing? For he and she had not quarrelled in any way whatsoever, as far as he knew. One fancy, at least, never occurred to him—or, if it occurred to him, it was dismissed in a moment—that Nina might have had a secret lover; that she had honestly wished to return these presents before making an elopement. It was quite possible that Nicolo Ciana, if he had heard of Nina's success in England, might have pursued her, and sought to marry so very eligible a helpmeet; but if the young man with the greasy hair and the sham jewelry and the falsetto voice had really come to England, Lionel knew who would have been the first to bid him return to his native shores and his zuccherelli. Had not Nina indignantly denied that he had ever dared to address her as "Nenna mia," or that his perpetual "Antoniella, Antonia," in any way referred to her? No; Lionel did not think that Nicolo Ciana had much to do with Nina's disappearance.

And then, as he regarded this little box of useless jewelry, another wild guess flashed through his brain, leaving him somewhat breathless, almost frightened. Was it possible that Nina had mistaken these gifts for love-gifts, had discovered her mistake, and, in a fit of wounded pride, had flung them back and fled forever from this England that had deceived her? He was not vain enough to think there could be anything more serious, that Nina might be breaking her heart over what had happened to her; but it was quite enough if he had unconsciously led her to believe that he was paying her attentions. He looked at that loving-cup with some pricking of conscience; he had to confess that such a gift was capable of misconstruction. It had never occurred to him that she might regard it as some kind of mute declaration—as a pledge of affection between him and her that necessitated no clearer understanding. He had seen the two tiny goblets in a window; he had been taken by the pretty silver-gilt ornamentation; he had been interested in the old-fashioned custom; and he had lightly imagined that Nina would be pleased—that was all. And now that he thought of it, he had to confess that he had been indiscreet. It is true he had given Nina those presents from time to time in a careless and haphazard fashion that ought not to have been misunderstood—only, as he had to remind himself, Nina must have perceived that he did not give similar presents to Miss Burgoyne, or Estelle Girond, or anybody else in the theatre. And was Nina now thinking that he had treated her badly?—Nina, who had been always his sympathizing friend, his gentle adviser, and kind companion. Was there any one in the world that he less wished to harm? He supposed she must have been angry when she returned these jewels and gew-gaws; clearly she was too proud to send him any other message. And now she would be away somewhere, where he could not get hold of her to pet her into a reconciliation again; no doubt there was some hurt feeling of injury in her heart—perhaps she was even crying.

"Poor Nina!" he said to himself, little dreaming of the true state of affairs. "I hope it isn't so? but if it is so, here have I, through mere thoughtlessness, wounded her pride, and, what is more, interfered with her professional career. I suppose she'll go right away back to old Pandiani; and they'll be precious glad to get her now at Malta, after her success in England. Perhaps some day we shall hear of her coming over here again, as a famous star in grand opera; that will be her revenge. But I never thought Nina would want to be revenged on me."

And yet he was uneasy; there was something in all this he did not understand. He began to long for the coming of the next day, that he might go away down to Sloane Street and hear what Miss Girond had to tell him. Why, for example, he asked himself, had Nina taken this step so abruptly—so entirely without warning? How and when had she made the discovery that she had mistaken the intention of those friendly little acts of kindness and his constant association with her? Then he tried to remember on what terms he had last parted from her. It was at the theatre, as he patiently summoned up each circumstance. It was at the theatre, on the preceding night. She had come to him in the wings, observing that he looked rather vexed, and she had given him comforting and cheerful words, as was her wont. Surely there was no anger in her mind against him then. But thereafter? Well, he had seen no more of Nina. When Miss Cunyngham had come behind the scenes, he had forgotten all about Nina. And then suddenly he remembered that he must have been standing close by the prompter's box, absorbed in talking to Miss Cunyngham, when Nina would have to come up to go on the stage. Had she passed them? Had she suspected? Had she, in her proud and petted way, resented this intimacy, and resolved to throw back to him the harmless little gifts he had bestowed on her? Poor Nina! she had always been so wilful—so easily pleased, so easily offended—but of late he had rather forgotten that, for she had been bearing herself with what she regarded as an English manner; and indeed their friendship had been so constant and unvarying, so kind and considerate on both sides, that there had been no opportunity for the half-vexed, half-laughing quarrels of earlier days. He would seek out this spoiled child (he said to himself) and scold her into being good again. And yet, even as he tried to persuade himself that all would still be well, he could not help recalling the fierce vehemence with which Nina had repudiated the suggestion that perhaps she might let some one else drink out of this hapless loving-cup that now lay before him. "I would rather have it dashed to pieces and thrown into the sea!" she had said, with pale face and quivering lips and eyes bordering on tears. He remembered that he had been a little surprised at the time—not thinking what it all might mean.



CHAPTER XVII.

A CRISIS.

When he went down to Sloane Street in the morning, he found Estelle eagerly awaiting him. She received him in Nina's small parlor; Mrs. Grey had just gone out. A glance round the room did not show him any difference, except that a row of photographs (of himself, mostly, in various costumes) had disappeared from the mantelshelf.

"Well, what is all this about?" he said, somewhat abruptly.

"Ah, do not blame me too quick!" Estelle said, with tears springing to her clear blue eyes. "Perhaps I am to blame—perhaps when I see her in such trouble on Saturday night, I should entreat her to tell me why; but I said, 'To-night I will not worry her more; to-morrow morning I will talk to her; we will go for a long walk together? Nina will tell me all her sorrow.' Then the morning comes, and she is gone away; what can I do? Twice I go to your apartment—"

"Oh, I am not blaming you at all, Miss Girond," he said, at once and quite gently. "If anybody is to blame, I suppose it's myself, for I appear to have quarrelled with Nina without knowing it. Of course you understood that that packet you left yesterday contained the various little presents I have given her from time to time—worthless bits of things—but all the same her sending them back shows that Nina has some ground of offence. I'm very sorry; if I could only get hold of her I would try to reason with her; but she was always sensitive and proud and impulsive like that. And then to run away because of some fancied slight—"

Estelle interrupted him with a little gesture of impatience, almost of despair.

"Ah, you are wrong, you are wrong," she said. "It is far more serious than that. It is no little quarrel. It is a pain that stabs to the heart—that kills. You will see Nina never again to make up a little quarrel. She has taken her grief away with her. I myself, when I first saw her troubled at the theatre, I also made a mistake—I thought she was hysteric—"

"At the theatre?" said he, with some sudden recalling of his own surmise.

"You did not regard her, perhaps, towards the end of her part, on Saturday night?" said Estelle. "I thought once she would fall on the stage. On the way home I think she was crying—I did not look. Then she is in this room—oh, so silent and miserable—as one in despair, until I persuade her to go to sleep until the morning, when she would tell me her sorrow. Then I was reading; I heard something; I went to the door there—it was Nina crying, oh, so bitterly; and when I ran to her, she was wild with her grief. 'My life is broken, Estelle, my life is broken!' she said—"

But here Estelle herself began to sob, and could not get on with her story at all; she rose from her chair and began to pace up and down.

"I cannot tell you—it was terrible—"

And terrible it was for him, too, to have this revelation made to him. Now he knew it was no little quarrel that had sent Nina away; it was something far more tragic than that; it was the sudden blighting of a life's hopes.

"Estelle," said he, quite forgetting, "you spoke of a letter she had left for you; will you show it to me?"

She took it from her pocket and handed it to him. There was no sign of haste or agitation in these pages; Nina's small and accurate handwriting was as neat and precise as ever; she even seemed to have been careful of her English, as she was leaving this her last message, in the dead watches of the night:

"DEAR ESTELLE" [Nina wrote],—"Forgive me for the trouble I cause you; but I know you will do what I ask, for the sake of our friendship of past days. I leave a letter for Mr. Lehmann, and one for Miss Constance, and a packet for Mr. Moore; will you please have them all sent as soon as possible? I hope Mr. Lehmann will forgive me for any embarrassment, but Miss Constance is quite perfect in the part, and if she gets the letter to-day it will be the longer notice. I enclose a ring for you, Estelle; if you wear it, you will sometimes think of Nina. For it is true what I said to you when you came into my room to-night—I go away in the morning. I have made a terrible mistake, an illusion, a folly, and, now that my eyes are opened, I will try to bear the consequences as I can; but I could not go on the stage as well; it would be too bad a punishment; I could not, Estelle. I must go, and forget—it is so easy to say forget! I go away without feeling injured towards any one; it was my own fault, no one was in fault but me. And if I have done wrong to any one, or appear ungrateful, I am sorry; I did not wish it. Again I ask you to say to Mr. Lehmann, who has been so kind to me in the theatre, that I hope he will forgive me the trouble I cause; but I could not go on with my part just now.

"Shall I ever see you again, Estelle? It is sad, but I think not; it is not so easy to forget as to write it. Perhaps some day I send you a line—no, perhaps some day I send you a message; but you will not know where I am; and if you are my friend you will not seek to know. Adieu, Estelle! I hope you will always be happy, as you are good; but even in your happiest days you will sometimes give a thought to poor Nina."

He sat there looking at the letter, long after he had finished reading it; there was nothing of the petulance of a spoiled child in this simple, this heartbroken farewell. And Nina herself was in every phrase of it—in her anxiety not to be a trouble to any one—her gratitude for very small kindnesses—her wish to live in the gentle remembrance of her friends.

"But why did no one stop her?—why did no one remonstrate?" he asked, in a sort of stupefaction.

"Who could, then?" said Mlle. Girond, returning to her seat and clasping her hands in front of her. "As soon as the housemaid appears in the morning, Nina asks her to come into the room; the money is put into an envelope for Mrs. Grey; the not great luggage is taken quiet down the stair, so that no one is disturbed. Everything is arranged; you know Nina was always so—so business-like—"

"Yes, but the fool of a housemaid should have called Mrs. Grey!" he exclaimed.

"But why, Mr. Moore?" Estelle continued. "She only thought that Nina was so considerate—no one to be awakened—and then a cab is called, and Nina goes away—"

"And of course the housemaid didn't hear what direction was given to the cabman!"

"No; it is a misfortune," said Estelle, with a sigh. "It is a misfortune, but she is not so much in fault. She did not conjecture—she thought Nina was going to catch an early train—that she did not wish to disturb any one. All was in order; all natural, simple; no one can blame her. And so poor Nina disappears—"

"Yes, disappears into the world of London, or into the larger world, without friends, without money—had she any money, Miss Girond?"

"Oh, yes, yes!" Estelle exclaimed. "You did not know? Ah, she was so particular; always exact in her economies, and sometimes I laughed at her; but always she said perhaps some day she would have to play the part of the—the—benevolent fairy to some poor one, and she must save up—"

"Had she a bank account?"

Estelle nodded her head.

"Then she could not have got the money yesterday, if she wished to withdraw it; she must have been in London this morning!"

"Perhaps," said Estelle. "But then! Look at the letter. She says if I am her friend, I will not seek to know where she is."

"But that does not apply to me," he retorted—while his brain was filled with all kinds of wild guesses as to whither Nina had fled.