The Soul of Countess Adrian/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II.
The Improvisatrice.
On the journey from Southampton to London, during which the image of the young actress obtruded itself somewhat disquietingly, Lendon assured himself that the serious business of home-coming and resettling himself in his ordinary routine of occupation would leave him but little leisure for romantic speculations about Miss Beatrice Brett. He was a little ashamed of the sudden interest with which she had inspired him, for he had been indulging of late in a lofty, philosophic indifference, not to say scorn of the charms of womanhood, and had made up his mind that for him emotional disturbance was a matter of the past. He had acted out his drama, had lived through his disillusionment, as he fancied, and it was humiliating to find himself as susceptible still to the light of a pair of bright eyes as ever he had been in the old days before the first had turned to ashes, and he had gone madly off to the New World to heal his heart's wound. It was this feeling which made him determine that he would not think of her, would not make any special effort to find out her whereabouts, would not call upon Mrs. Walcot Valbry, would not search the papers for any mention of the Professor and his discovery in magnetic-dynamics (whatever that might mean), or of the trumpet praises which pique curiosity as to any forthcoming débutante on the London stage. As a matter of fact, he did think a good deal about her, nevertheless, and he never saw the turn of a particularly slender throat, the shape of an unusually delicate form, or the back of a golden head in front of him in a theatre-stall or in the street, without a sudden inward flutter and desperate, if momentary, wonderment whether at last kindly chance were about to throw them together. He never did come across her, however, nor had he any means of finding out where she lived. He plunged into business and pleasure, and tried to forget her. One morning it gave him an odd thrill to receive a note from her, enclosing a card of invitation from Mrs. Walcot Valbry, that American lady of whom they had spoken, and who was, indeed, well known in the upper Bohemia of London. The inscription on the card ran—
"Mrs. Walcot Valbry
At home
Wednesday, February 20th, at 9.30.
"Fleetwood House, West Kensington.
To meet Professor Villa (Inventor of the Viall-Motor) and Miss Beatrice Brett (the celebrated American 'Improvisatrice')."
The note said—
Dear Mr. Lendon,
Do come; though I warn you that I am not inclined to do the 'Improvisatrice,' consciously at any rate, for any one; and I am not celebrated yet. But, as I told you, I mean to be by-and-by. We have gotten charming rooms, and I am preparing for my London début, and sometimes I don't seem to know which is me and which is Never mind; I'll explain, perhaps, some day.
Mrs. Cubison and Professor Viall send their kind regards;
And I am, yours sincerely,
Beatrice Brett.
Lendon despatched a prompt acceptance of Mrs. Walcot Valbry's invitation. He would have liked to write also to Miss Brett, but with characteristic carelessness—or could it be intention? she had omitted to name the locality of their charming rooms. And he did not venture upon addressing her at the house of Mrs. Valbry.
The cultivation of cheap celebrity is a disease in upper Bohemia, where patrons and patronised, inviters and invitees, have their very being, socially and commercially, in the easily bought advertisement which sells their wares and trumpets them into a third-rate notoriety. Mrs. Walcot Valbry was rich enough to despise paragraphists; nevertheless, paragraphists abounded at her "at Home;" and representative Bohemia—mummers, novelists, poets, artists, dilettanti members of parliament, and sensation-hunting visitants from a more aristocratic sphere, made a brave show in the spacious drawing-rooms. Just outside the most prominent door, Mrs. Walcot Valbry herself, large, bediamonded, with the crisp, abundant white hair and yellow crumpled face familiar to the casual traveller in the parlours of New York hotels, stood, and in an absent manner received her guests.
As Lendon came on to the landing she was saying, "You are interested in the Viall-Motor?" to a young-old society man, with a tired expression and a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard, who counter-queried—
"What is the Viall-Motor?"
"Well, I did presume you knew that, Sir Donald!" replied the American lady, severely. "The Viall-Motor is—everything. It's science; it's religion; it's Bulwer Lytton's Vrill;" and she shook hands vaguely at the same time with Lendon, adding, "You know Professor Viall and Miss Beatrice Brett, don't you? I needn't present you."
"Is it the Viall-Motor or the Improvisatrice that brings you here, Lendon?" said the gentleman called Sir Donald, drawing Lendon back into a recess on the other side of the door.
"Both," returned Lendon, laconically.
"A combination of science and beauty!" Lendon's eyes roved. "You are looking for her. We are at the wrong door. She is in the inner room, which our hostess guards. By the way, you haven't forgotten that you sup with me at twelve to-night?"
"Ah!" Lendon had indeed forgotten.
"Would it be possible to transfer the attraction from here to my house in Eaton Square? Please present me by-and-by."
"At once if you wish it."
"No; I am glued to the door till Countess Adrian arrives."
"Countess Adrian! The lady of the lawsuit?"
"The lady who has been the victim of a cowardly and infamous husband—yes."
"But the marriage was declared invalid," said Lendon, thoughtlessly. "Wasn't it the general opinion that Countess Adrian—as she still seems to call herself—was playing a bold game?"
"Stop!" said Sir Donald, with scarcely a change of inflexion in his apathetic voice. "I had better tell you that Countess Adrian has honoured me by consenting to become my wife."
"Urquhart! A million pardons. I read the report of the trial in America, and you know what newspapers are there. I spoke as I had no right to speak—on the vaguest impression. How can I prove my regret?"
"By letting me present you to Countess Adrian when she comes, and by forgetting everything to her disadvantage that you have ever heard," replied Urquhart graciously. "See, there is a rift in the crowd, and if I am not mistaken the Improvisatrice wishes you to pay your respects."
"Lendon," whispered Phil Bonhote, a young journalist, who at the moment pressed up against him, "if they grow them like this I shall take shares in the Viall-Motor."
Lendon's heart gave a bound as he suddenly became aware that Beatrice Brett was close to him, that she was smiling seriously at him, and, by an almost unnoticeable movement of her small hand, was beckoning him to approach. His first feeling was a sort of surprise and dazzlement that she was so much more beautiful than even love's memory had painted her. Of course he had never before seen her in evening dress, and her throat and arms were finely formed and had the whiteness—not of marble, but of a stephanotis petal. There was about her a girlish radiance which he had not associated with her on the steamer. Her eyes were alight as if with some secret fire, her golden hair was dressed in a more elaborate fashion; she swayed nervously to and fro a great feather fan, and in the same hand, held with the fan, she carried a bunch of lilies of the valley tied loosely in the American manner with a knot of white ribbon. He found himself wondering seriously what young admirer had sent her the flowers, and then he realised suddenly that he was in love with her—in love with this girl to whom he had only spoken twice before in his life.
She was quite unembarrassed. She was not in love with him. Oh, no; she was not the sort of girl to fall of a sudden in love with anyone. She was devoted to her art, for one thing. She was at the age, of the temperament, in the mood when art and ambition are consuming passions and allow but little play to any more strictly human emotion. Of course, as indeed he had hinted, she was inclined to be morbid, and she was self-analytical, and cold as a vestal, but yet she had a keen artistic curiosity and she was very sweet and very womanly, though she tried to persuade herself and others that she was an altogether abnormal creature. She was interested in his ardent admiration, and on the whole she was touched and excited and altogether glad to see him once more.
Somebody stepped up before Lendon and kept her for a moment or two in conversation. There appeared to be a sudden stir and excitement in her neighbourhood, and when Lendon moved eagerly forward, though she smiled again, she made a slight movement as if bidding him wait. He saw that Mrs. Walcot Valbry was holding her hand persuasively and speaking in a low tone as if urging her to comply with some request. Mrs. Valbry was struck by the expression of the girl's eyes and the sweet smile of recognition directed towards some further object, and her look following that of Beatrice encountered Lendon.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "here's somebody who knows the people and will tell you it is all for your advantage. Mr. Lendon, we want the weight of your influence. Come along."
Lendon approached and took Beatrice's hand. "What is my influence required for?" he asked. "Miss Brett, I hope that your cold is quite well."
"Yes, thank you," she replied frankly. "I told you we should meet here; but you know you haven't got any influence; we don't think alike. If I do what they want, you'd say I am morbid."
"That unlucky word," said Lendon, "I take it back. I know what Mrs. Walcot Valbry means. Cosway Keele is here, and half-a-dozen of the principal critics. Don't recite unless you are quite sure of yourself, and unless you want to be the talk of the Garrick to-night, and to be in all the society papers of the week."
"That's what I've been saying to the Professor," said Mrs. Walcot Valbry, "he says she is sure of herself."
A tall lean gentleman standing by had poked his head forward and was scrutinizing Lendon with interest. "You hear Mr. Lendon's opinion," Mrs. Valbry said; "you see it is important."
"Very important," he assented, and added interrogatively, "Mr. Lendon?
"Mr. Lendon is hand-and-glove with the critics. He writes plays himself sometimes, and he designs Cosway Keele's costumes. You two haven't met yet. Why, it's lovely for you to meet here. He's just lovely," she added vaguely, her eyes fixed upon a point halfway between the tall gentleman and the painter, so that it was not directly evident to which she referred.
"Professor Viall, Mr. Lendon. Professor Viall is Miss Brett's uncle."
Lendon bowed and shook hands, first with the Professor and then with a small lady beside him, whom the Professor introduced as "My sister, Mrs. Cubison."
Miss Brett's guardians presented a curious contrast to one another. The Professor was a man of about sixty, with straight iron-grey hair, a very long nose, and an even disproportionately long upper lip and chin. His forehead was high and narrow. His height could not have been less than six feet four or five inches, and with his narrow shoulders—one a little lower than the other—and his spare frame, he made one think somehow of an ill-balanced obelisk; whereas his sister, Mrs. Cubison, resembled nothing so much as a fat pouter pigeon, so short was she, so plump and so commonplace and comforting.
"Oh, she's always sure of herself," said Mrs. Cubison. "There's no fear of Beaty's breaking down. They always carry her through."
"Then why should there be so much fuss?" said Mrs. Walcot Valbry. "You are going to do it, Beatrice?"
"Yes," replied the girl, composedly; "I am going to do it."
"That's right. Now you'll astonish us all. I'll leave you to look after her, Mr. Lendon—you and the Professor, for I see some new people coming," and she hurried of to her station at the door.
The Professor was not thinking just now of Beatrice. "Why, it's Maddox Challis,' he said, craning his head.
"Maddox Challis!" repeated Lendon. "I thought he was in Palestine."
"I mean the Occultist," said the Professor, with the deepest interest. "Do you know him?"
"No—yes," Lendon answered. "Every one knows Maddox Challis—in one sense. In another, no one knows him."
"That is true," assented the Professor. "The ordinary London diner-out would not know Maddox Challis."
"Mr. Lendon is not the ordinary London diner-out," said Beatrice Brett.
"Thank you," he said. A glance of sympathy passed between them. "Did you mean," he asked, "that you are really going to play the Improvisatrice; and since Mr. Walcot Valbry put you in my charge, tell me what I am to do."
"Take me to some place where I can be quiet for a few minutes," she answered.
He gave her his arm, and piloted her across the room. "I may talk to you some time this evening?" he asked. "I have so much I want to say to you, and then there's the visit to my studio, we must arrange that."
She looked troubled and preoccupied and withdrew her arm, standing still before him. "I can't think of anything now, but what I am going to do. I don't know why I want to do it, but I can't help it; it's been in me all day, making me so restless."
Mrs. Walcot Valbry, who had rejoined the Professor, came up with him at that moment and put Beatrice's arm within hers as she whispered something in the girl's ear.
"Yes, I will come," said Beatrice. She turned to Lendon with a look he had never yet seen on her face—a hushed, breathless, awed look, and said in a very low voice:
"I made sure I wouldn't act to-night, but it's stronger than I am. Wait; I'll talk to you by and by."
She moved on, led by Mrs. Walcot Valbry, and passed between the heavy velvet curtains that divided a farther room from that in which most of the guests were assembled. The crowd was very dense; and on Mrs. Valbry's reappearance, there was a momentary silence, and presently the word went round that the Improvisatrice was about to do one of the inspirational scenes for which she was already celebrated in America. The dramatic stars who were present looked at each other, at once interested and contemptuous. Two actor-managers simultaneously changed their positions and crossed to where they would be more advantageously placed for seeing the performance. Miravoglia, who had helped to train Aimée Deselées, said aloud, "I know her; she is my pupil. Inspiration! Dead spirits! Bah! I say that is living genius."
As the assemblage stood waiting, with eyes bent towards the closed curtain, there was a rustle of heavy brocade near the door, an announcement distinctly audible, "Countess Adrian," and then that sudden stir of heads and shoulders which tells of an instantly diverted curiosity. Lendon turned too, and for the first time saw the woman whom, somewhat less than a year ago, a cause célèbre had made famous.
Was she beautiful? No. He remembered vaguely to have heard her described as "La belle Laide." She was far too large, too tall, too bounteously made for beauty. But then, how perfectly she was proportioned, and what a graceful snake-like way she had of moving, and what a grand carriage of head and magnificence of bust! Her eyes were too close together. But the eyes! Surely they might have illustrated Professor Viall's theory of Magnetic Dynamics. They were all pupil and yellow light. When the pupil dilated, there was nothing else; when it contracted, the iris showed queer golden gleams, like those in the eyes of some savage animal, Her features were too irregular. But what matter of that, when they were so full of power and passion? And who cared that the rich red lips, parted so as to show a double row of small glistening teeth, were so red and so ripe as to suggest sense rather than soul? Soul somehow was the last attribute one would associate with Countess Adrian. A glorious creature certainly—an intellectual creature—a creature with will, emotion, force of diameter, noble instinct it might be; but always of the flesh, and not of the spirit. Countess Adrian a disembodied thing! That splendid, glowing vitality quenched for ever! Impossible!
She was dressed peculiarly in a gown of some stiff red, expensive fabric, that hung in massive folds about her. The jewels she wore were barbaric looking—a great uncut ruby at her breast, and valuable cats-eyes, set in diamonds, on her neck and in her black hair. She carried a big fan of deep yellow ostrich feathery, with glittering sticks.
"It isn't really safe to come to houses like this, though they are amusing," observed a thin woman in a tiara, on Lendon's right. She was a great lady, to whom the Improvisatrice had acted as a "draw." "I used to know her in Paris—every one did, till it was discovered that she was a fraud—no more married to Count Adrian than I am. Of course, nobody can know her now."
Lendon murmured something about her being a victim to circumstances.
"Victim to fiddlesticks!" pursued the irate great lady. "Do you suppose she didn't know that sham ceremony meant nothing? Does she look as if a nincompoop like Adrian could bamboozle her?"
The argument seemed unanswerable. Just then there was a cry of "Silence, please!" and the drawn curtains disclosed Beatrice Brett.
Is this Beatrice Brett—this strange woman, cowering in the stillness of absolute misery, unconscious of herself, unconscious of her surroundings—blank despair in her eyes, blank despair on her white mask-like features, despair and doom in the rigid lips and the tense limbs? She is alone in the condemned cell. Death on the scaffold to-morrow, or death to-night by the poison which was her lover's last gift—which? And now she moves—memory awakes. The past comes back. The drama is re-enacted. She lives again through dead days—the convent, the marriage—a lamb led to slaughter—one more maiden sacrificed to the elderly debauchee. Then, love—white in its bud, red passion in its growth. Temptation. Crime. She secretly kills the loathed husband. And now there is no barrier between her and the man of her heart—the man who, honouring her, will not gain her through dishonour … All this in broken soliloquy and gesture—quiet at first, girlishly tender, piteously human; and then, always repressed, reaching the climax of a tragedy, than which no tragedy could be more grim. It is the moment in which her lover's arms first clasp her as his promised bride. His kiss is on her lips. She trembles with a holy ecstasy … Ah! … It is Hell, not Heaven! Rapture becomes horror unimaginable. The punishment is from beyond the grave. A ghost has come forth to be its own avenger. The arms which encircle her are dead arms. The lips that press hers are the lips of a corpse, It is her murdered husband who, embodied in her living lover, claims her for his wife. … She kneels. She cries for mercy. In her agony, the horrible confession is made. And now, silence …
A long breath of pent emotion heaved through the audience. Lendon became conscious of a movement behind him. A woman's voice whispered in an audible sibilant whisper, "She shall feel me." He turned involuntarily. Countess Adrian was standing with her head bent a little forward, and her eyes fixed in a gaze of the most extraordinary intensity on the young actress's face.
There was nothing malignant in the look. It expressed thoughtful curiosity and eager desire of dominance, such as might be seen in some wrestler, not certain of mastery, who, calculating his resources, calls will-force to his aid in a supreme effort for victory.
If Countess Adrian's object were to test her power by quenching the girl's inspiration and forcing her soul back to the realm of commonplace, she succeeded in her attempt. No words came to break the pause. The actress gave a long shiver. Life and light went out of her face. The guilty woman, in her passion of love and terror and remorse, had vanished. There remained a shrinking child, dazed by some bewildering sight or sound, helpless and incapable. She tottered; a low moaning cry broke from her lips, and she fell forward insensible.
Lendon leaped to his feet and, forcing himself to the front, reached the prostrate girl just as Professor Viall, with quiet presence of mind, stepped within the arch and drew down the heavy curtains. Lendon knew nothing for a moment but that he was holding her in his arms, and that her golden hair brushed his face. People pressed into the room. There were confused inquiries and ejaculations, and a doctor proffered his services. But Professor Viall waved them all away with an authoritative air—all except one man, who held his place, also as if with authority, and who looked at the young actress as she lay in Lendon's arms with an expression of thoughtful interest.
"This is not an ordinary seizure," he said quietly. "If you will allow me to try some magnetic passes, I think I can do good, My name is Maddox Challis, and I um supposed to have some skill in the higher magnetism."
"The name and works of Maddox Challis are very familiar to me," said the Professor. "It has long been my wish to meet one of whom I have read and heard so much, and with whose pursuits I am to a certain extent identified, for I also am a humble student of Occultism. I have been accustomed to use magnetism in the treatment of my niece, and I now readily yield to a higher power than mine."
Maddox Challis bowed only in reply to the Professor's elaborate address, and, opening the door of the tiny boudoir which led out of the room in which they were, motioned to Lendon to carry his burden thither. Presently the girl was lying upon a sofa, with Mrs. Cubison loosening her dress and Mr. Challis making passes over her, extending and drawing back his arms slowly every now and then with a jerky movement of his fingers, plucking, as it were, something invisible from her and throwing it away. She revived almost immediately. The deathly look left her face. She drew a deep sigh and opened her eyes. They rested on the stranger's face with a startled gaze but he did not pause for an instant from his monotonous passes, and after a minute or two the look of bewilderment gave place to an expression of relief, and with another sigh she again closed her eyes. A faint flush crept into her cheek, and her breathing became soft and regular. Maddox Challis discontinued his passes. He laid his hand for a moment on the girl's forehead, then, without a word, left the room.
The Professor seemed disappointed. His eyes followed Challis till the door closed, then he turned and watched Beatrice.
"She will be all right now," he said. "I presume it was the mixed magnetism that upset her."
"No," said Mrs. Cubison, mysteriously; "it was the influences. She encourages them. I'm sure I don't wonder, considering what they do for her. It might have been Rachel who controlled her, you know. I never saw her finer than she was to-night."
"Influences?" repeated Lendon in a puzzled tone.
"You're not troubled with them?" remarked Mrs. Cubison, composedly.
"No," answered Lendon.
"Ah, perhaps you don't come of an inspirational family, as we do. It has its drawbacks. Beaty's mother used to suffer from influences. Hers weren't always satisfactory. They had a very bad effect on Beaty's mother," Mrs. Cubison added, and paused.
"They drove her out of her mind," said the Professor, drearily.
"But, good Heavens! you don't mean that there is any danger?" exclaimed Lendon.
"Well, I don't know that I can explain," began the Professor.
"Oh, you needn't mind Mr. Lendon," put in Mrs. Cubison. "He's inspirational himself—in a certain sense. All artists must be inspirational, you know, more or less, and of course they attract artistic spirits into their sphere."
Lendon laughed. "Do you mean that the influences are dead people?" he asked.
Mrs. Cubison nodded. The Professor stroked his long upper lip.
"Why, certainly," he said, "Of course, there's danger; but what's the use of worrying over what part of your temperament? We have the misfortune to be a family of mediums. It is a disease—hereditary, like consumption and other things. I've got over it. The Viall-Motor helped me through. Acting will be Beaty's safeguard. Her mother was an idle woman, and she fell in love and died in an asylum. Beaty is different. As long as she keeps real grip on her work she has nothing to be afraid of."
"Nothing to be afraid of!" Lendon repeated vaguely.
"Oh, yes, she'll come all right," pursued the Professor. "They wont hurt her while she sticks to Art. The danger is of her falling in with some living influence that might prove stronger than the dead ones."
"You mean—if she should marry?" timidly suggested Lendon.
"Well, I don't know that I meant that altogether. She'll have to take her chance anyhow. What is to be, will be, you know," answered the Professor, with cheerful fatalism. "It would be curious, wouldn't it, if one could know which of them it was to-night," he added, as if an idea had struck him—"Rachel or Siddons, or perhaps poor Aimée Desclées?"
"Ah," said Lendon again, with his little laugh, which was half nervous, "I have no doubt any of our young actresses would gladly run some risk for the sake of being able to summon such distinguished persons as familiar spirits."
"Do you suppose they would be at the beck of any young actress? My dear sir," said the Professor solemnly, "perhaps you don't remember Schiller's description of certain exceptional natures for which 'too easily is ripped open the kingdom of the ghosts'—that's the literal translation, I believe. Those words are another phrase for genius. What is genius?" he went on fervidly. "She hasn't got it" (indicating Mrs. Cubism, who was preening herself in her pouter-pigeon fashion). "I haven't got it. You haven't got it—at least, I beg your pardon, but I should guess not. My niece has it, though; and it's nothing but the unconscious power of access to the highest influences of the past—a power as rare as are the Talmas and the Siddons themselves. It's the open door through which these bodiless beings from the other side can enter into oar world again—the body by which they can vent their unsatisfied cravings and pent-up aspirations. Art is a passion as high and as low as other passions. I have no doubt it was a satisfaction to poor Desclées—if it was she—to hear again the applause that was once her nightly food." He paused, for at this moment the girl stirred. "We'll talk of this some other time," he said.
Beatrice raised herself as he spoke, and looked at him with steady eyes. She seemed now to have quite recovered from her strange attack. "I will talk to Mr. Lendon," she said. "Uncle, I want you to go back to those people and tell them—oh, tell them anything. They've seen enough to show them I can act. They won't want me any more. Let us go home when you have explained why I fainted."
"Why did you faint, Beaty?" Mrs. Cubison questioned, when the Professor had, without further words, left the room.
She gave a shudder and looked at Lendon. "Who is that woman?" she asked, taking no notice of her aunt.
"Countess Adrian," he answered at once.
"I knew that you would know. Is she a friend of yours?"
"She is going to marry a friend of mine," he replied.
The girl was silent.
"But you haven't told us why you fainted, Beaty," said Mrs. Cubison.
"Nor ever shall, I fancy, Marmy dear, for that's one of the mysterious things in earth and heaven that are beyond my understanding." She got up from the sofa as she spoke, and, going to the mantel-piece by which Lendon was standing, leaned her elbow upon it and stood looking at him with a troubled, questioning expression. He uttered some anxious words about her health, but she stopped him.
"No, never mind. I'm quite well now Mr. Lendon, would you do something for me?"
"I would do anything in this world for you," he answered fervently.
She blushed and drooped her eyes, and for the first time a delicious hope dawned within him.
"Will you ask Countess Adrian to leave me alone?"
"But you have strength to overcome this fancy," he began vehemently.
"It is no fancy; it's something real." She shuddered again. "If Countess Adrian came to the theatre and looked at me like that when I was acting, I should break down—as I did to-night. And I think that would kill me. My art is all the world to me. I live for it; I live in it. Mr. Lendon—no, don't speak, listen—I have a feeling that you could stand between one and—and Countess Adrian."
"Between you and everything that could vex or harm you, if you would only let me. I can—and I will, Miss Brett, trust me."
She put out her hand and let him hold it in his for a moment.
"Yes, I will trust you. I can't tell you now all that I want to say. You must go to the others, and we will go home. Good night!"
"But I may come to you?"
"Oh yes. Marmy will be glad, and so shall I. In the evenings, please. I'm working all day. Miravoglia is directing my lessons. Marmy will give you the address."
Mrs. Cubison took out a card from her pocket-book and gave it to him. The young man received it as though it had been a key to the gates of Paradise—as indeed it seemed to his excited fancy just then. And then he bade them good night.