Linnet: A Romance
pull at his whiskey. “See here, my dear sir,” he said, stroking his
smooth chin placidly; “a man don’t succeed in these walks of life unless
he’s got some _nous_ in him to start with. He’s bound to observe, and
remember, and infer, a good deal; he’s bound to have an eye for
character, and be a reader of faces. Now, it happens you wrote those
self-same lines in Mrs Palmer’s album; and I chanced to read them there
while I waited for her in the drawing-room this very morning. A man’s
got to be smart, you bet, and look out for coincidences, if he’s going
to do much in occult science to astonish the public. Well, I’ve noticed
every one has certain pet quotations of his own, which he uses
frequently; and you’d be surprised to find how often the same quotation
turns up, time after time, in these psychical experiments. ‘The curfew
tolls the knell,’ or, ‘Not a drum was heard,’ are pretty sure to be
given six times out of seven that one holds a _séance_. But yours was a
new one; so I learnt it by heart, and observed you set it down to
Browning’s _Cleon_. As for the Russian character—well, where was an
English officer likely to learn it except in the Crimea? That was risky,
of course; I might have been mistaken; but one bad shot don’t count
against you, while a good one carries conviction straight off to the
mind of your subject.”
Florian paused, and considered. Before the end of the evening, indeed,
he had learnt a good many things about the trade of prophet; and Mr
Joaquin Holmes had taken, incidentally, every drop as much whiskey as
was good for his constitution. When at last he rose to go, he clasped
Florian’s delicate hand hard. “You’re a straight man, I believe,
stranger,” he said, significantly, “and I’m sure you’re a smart one. But
mind this from me, Mr Florian Wood, if ever you round on me, Colorado or
London, the six-shooter’ll settle it.”
Florian smiled, and pressed his hand. “I don’t care _that_ for your
six-shooter,” he answered, calmly, with a resonant snap of his tiny left
forefinger. “But I don’t want to spoil a man’s prospects in life, when
he’s taken fifteen years to make a consummate rogue of himself. You’re
perfect in your way, Mr Holmes, and I adore perfection. If ever I
breathe a single word of this to my dearest friend—well, I give you
free leave to whip out that six-shooter you’re so fond of bragging
about.”
CHAPTER XXV
A DRAMATIC VENTURE
Among the minor successes of that London season, all the world reckoned
the Colorado Seer’s Psycho-physical Entertainment at the Assyrian Hall
in Bond Street, and Will Deverill’s dainty operetta, “Honeysuckle,” at
the Duke of Edinburgh’s Theatre in Long Acre. The Seer, indeed, had been
well advertised beforehand by the _Morning Post_ and other London
dailies, which gave puffs preliminary of his marvellous performance, “as
privately exhibited to a select audience at Mrs Palmer’s charming and
hospitable residence in Hans Place, Chelsea.” A well-known society
writer, with a lingering love of the occult and the supernatural, saw in
Mr Joaquin Holmes’s abstruse gifts “a genuine case of Second Sight, and
a curious modern parallel to the most famous feats of the Delphic oracle
and the Indian Yogis.” The _Spectator_ suggested in a learned article
that “Mahatmas were about”; the _Daily News_ averred that “Nothing like
Mr Holmes’s extraordinary powers had been seen on earth since the
Egyptian magicians impiously counterfeited the miracles of Moses and
Aaron before the throne of Pharaoh.” Every one of the accounts
particularly insisted on the presence at the first trial of Mr Florian
Wood, the distinguished musical and dramatic critic; whose inmost
thoughts the Seer had read offhand like an open book, and whose
quotations from little-known and unpopular sources he had instantly
assigned to their proper origin. But when Florian himself was questioned
on the subject, he shook his head with an air of esoteric knowledge, put
two soft white fingers to his delicate lips, and smiled mysteriously. To
say the truth, Florian loved a mystery. It flattered his sense of
personal importance. Nay, he would almost have joined Mr Joaquin Holmes
as a confederate in his little tricks for pure love of mystification,
were it not for a wholesome and restraining dread that others might find
them out as he himself had done. So the Seer, thus well and cheaply
advertised by anticipation, made a hit for the moment, as dozens of such
quacks have done before and since, from Home and Bishop to the Little
Georgia Magnet.
As for Will Deverill’s play, the first night was crowded. All London was
there, in the sense that the Savage, the Garrick, and the Savile give to
all London. Rue had taken tickets for stalls with reckless extravagance,
and bestowed them right and left, as if on the author’s behalf, to every
influential soul among her fine acquaintance. Florian whipped up a fair
number of first-nighters of the literary clique, and not a few great
ladies from Belgravia drawing-rooms. The audience was distinctly and
decidedly favourable. But not all the packed houses that ever were can
save a bad play, if bad it is, from condign damnation. The incorruptible
pit and the free and independent electors of the gallery are no
respecters of persons, in their critical capacity. Fortunately, however,
as it happened, Will’s play was a good one. It didn’t take the audience
by storm at the first hearing, but it pleased and satisfied them. One or
two of the melodies had a catchy ring; one or two of the scenes were
both brilliant and pathetic. The house encored all the principal tunes;
and when the curtain fell on virtue triumphant, in the person of
_Honeysuckle_, vociferous cries arose on every side for “Author!
Author!”
Will sat in a stage box, throughout the whole performance, with Florian,
Rue, his sister, Mrs Sartoris, and her husband, the amiable East End
curate. It was a three-act piece. As far as the end of the second act,
Maud Sartoris was delighted; it was a distinct success, and Rue was very
well pleased. Maud thought that was good; after all, whether she “smelt
of drapery” or not, it’s well for one’s brother to produce a favourable
impression on a woman with a fortune of seven hundred thousand. But the
third act, she felt sure, was distinctly inferior to the two that
preceded it. She said as much to Rue, while Will, trembling with
excitement from head to foot, slipped off to make his expected bow
before the curtain.
At those words of hers, Rue turned pale. She had thought so all through,
though she would hardly acknowledge it, even to herself, and she feared
in her own heart she knew the reason. Could Will have written the first
two acts during those happy days when his head was stuffed full of
Linnet at Meran, and gone on with the third in a London lodging after he
learned of her marriage to Andreas Hausberger? Rue more than
half-suspected that obvious explanation—for _Honeysuckle_ was
Linnet—and the thought disquieted her.
“You’re quite right,” Florian interposed, with his airy eloquence. “The
first two acts are good—distinctly good. Will wrote them in the Tyrol.
The third’s a poor thing—mere fluff and feather: oh, what a falling off
was there! It was written in London! But who can sing aright of Arcady
in the mud of Mayfair? Who can sing of Zion by the willows of Babylon?
Will drew his first inspiration from the sparkling air of Meran; it
faded like a mist with the mists of the Channel.”
“The audience doesn’t seem to think so,” Rue put in, somewhat anxiously,
as a hearty round of applause greeted Will by the footlights. “They feel
it’s all right. They’re evidently satisfied, on the whole, with the
nature of the _dénoument_.”
“If you look at the papers to-morrow morning,” Florian answered,
carelessly, “you’ll find every candid critic disagrees with the audience
and agrees with Mrs Sartoris. But what matter for that! It’s a very good
play, with some very good tunes in it; and the actors have made it. I
really didn’t think our dear friend Will could do anything so good—till
I saw it interpreted. I call the reception, on the whole, most
promising.”
Rue felt positively annoyed that Florian should speak so condescendingly
of Will’s beautiful music. He damned it with faint praise, while Rue
herself felt for it a genuine enthusiasm. For she knew it was good,—all
except that third act,—and even there she saw touches of really fine
composition.
In a minute or two more, Will came back to them, radiant. Florian
boarded him at once. “Ten thousand congratulations, dear boy,” he cried,
affectedly. “We’re all delighted. Laurel wreaths for the victor! Bays
drape your lute. Everybody’s been saying the first two acts are a
triumphal progress, though the third, we agree, fails to sustain the
attention—flags in interest somewhat.”
Will coloured up to his eyes. Rue noted the blush; her heart sank at
sight of it. “I knew it was weak myself,” he admitted, a little
shamefacedly. “The inspiration died down. Perhaps it was natural. You
see, Maud,” he went on, turning round to his sister as to a neutral
person, and avoiding Rue’s eye, “I wrote and composed the first two acts
at Innsbruck and Meran, under the immediate influence of the Tyrolese
air and the Tyrolese music; they welled up in me in the midst of peasant
songs and cow-bells. The third act, I had to manufacture at my rooms in
Craven Street. Surroundings, of course, make a deal of difference to
this sort of thing. I was _in_ the key there, and _out_ of it in London.
Pumped-up poetry and pumped-up music are poor substitutes after all for
the spontaneous article.”
He didn’t dare to look at Rue as he spoke those words. He was conscious
all the while, let him boggle as he might, that she _knew_ the real
reason for the failure of the _dénoument_. And he was conscious, too,
though he was a modest man, that Rue would feel hurt at the effect
Linnet’s marriage had had upon his music. As for Rue herself, poor girl,
her face was crimson. To think she should have done so much, and wronged
her modesty so far with Mr Wildon Blades to get Will’s operetta put on
the stage that evening; to think she should have risked her own money to
ensure its success, and then to find it owed its inspiration wholly and
solely to the charms of her peasant rival, Linnet! Rue was more than
merely vexed; she was shamed and humiliated. Will’s triumph was turned
for her into gall and bitterness. His heart, after all, was still fixed
on his cow-girl!
They drove home together in Rue’s luxurious brougham to Hans Place,
Chelsea—Mr Sartoris and Florian following close in a hansom. The party
were engaged to sup at Rue’s. Florian had invited them, indeed, to a
banquet at Romano’s, as more strictly in keeping with the evening’s
entertainment; but Maud Sartoris had objected to such a plan as
“improper,” and likely to damage dear Arthur’s prospects. So at Rue’s
they supped. But, in spite of Will’s success, and his health which they
drank in Rue’s finest champagne, with musical honours, the party somehow
lacked go and spirit. Will was dimly conscious in his own soul of having
unwittingly behaved rather ill to Rue; Rue was dimly conscious of
harbouring some deep-seated but indefinite resentment towards Will and
Linnet. It was some consolation, at least, to know that the girl was now
decently married and done for; sooner or later, for certain, such a man
as Will Deverill was sure to get over a mere passing fancy for a
handsome up-standing Tyrolese peasant-girl.
After supper, Will Deverill and the Sartorises went home in a party. But
Florian lingered late. This was an excellent opportunity. Rue was
annoyed with Will, and therefore all the more likely to accept another