Читать книгу A Queen of the Stage - Fred M. White - Страница 4

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For some moments Elsie stood in the dingy office turning the card over in her fingers, wondering what it could mean. Greatly as she had mistrusted Carney, she did not entertain the same feelings towards Dora. It seemed impossible the young and timid girl, with the frank, innocent face, could be the daughter of the sorry blackguard who made a living by robbing ignorant girls with a fancy for the stage. Elsie would have been puzzled to explain why she herself had been lured in that direction. The only child of a scholarly country parson, she had seen nothing of the world, and all her ideas of the Theatre had been drawn from novels which had presented the pleasant side of the picture. Had Elsie realised half the perils and privations of the stage, she would have shrunk appalled from the prospect. As it was, she had had her lesson. She was quite cured now. She wished to have nothing further to do with her old ambition.

Meanwhile, she was alone in London, and her sole means of subsistence lay within the narrow limits of the solitary shilling which she had in her purse. She had come, fully believing that she was to start at once on a provincial tour, when everything would be found for her, and every provision made for her comfort. She had left her wardrobe at Paddington Station, where she had intended to take it up before beginning her tour in the West. And here she was stranded, a pretty, innocent girl, alone in the cruelest city in the world for anyone who lacks friends.

It was fortunate she knew the address of her father's old acquaintance in the city of London. She had never seen Mr. Jeffries, but she knew he had been at school and college with her father, and had heard the latter speak of him as a man doing a large business as a solicitor. When in the street, Elsie summoned up courage to ask the way of a policeman, and was pleased to find she had no great distance to walk. With beating heart she inquired for Mr. Jeffries. The clerk was civil, but had a piece of information to impart which brought the tears to Elsie's eyes.

"I am sorry you can't see Mr. Jeffries, miss," he said. "He is out of town. If you are here on business connected with the firm, there are other gentlemen——"

"Oh, my business is quite private," Elsie said. "Mr. Jeffries was an old friend of my father's, and I wanted his advice."

"That is unfortunate," the clerk said. "Mr. Jeffries is on the Continent. He hasn't been well lately, and we don't expect him back for a month. Will you not see one of the partners."

Elsie shook her head. She had no words for the moment. It was all she could do to keep from breaking down. She was feeling faint from want of food, for it was nearly two o'clock, and she had had nothing since her early breakfast, which she had been too excited to eat. Desperate as her situation was, she could not find it in her heart to unbosom herself to strangers. She contrived to find her voice at last.

"It is very good of you," she said, "but I don't think I will trouble the other gentlemen. I dare say I can call upon Mr. Jeffries another time. I hope he will soon be better."

Elsie drifted out of the office, feeling she had broken the last link between herself and the past. Few well-educated, well-nurtured girls had fewer friends than she. Her mother had died years before, leaving her to be her father's only companion, in a small country village where congenial society was scarce. The failure of one or two concerns in which Mr. Vane had invested his money had so preyed upon his health that he died, leaving Elsie practically penniless when his debts had been paid. When she left home that morning there was not a single friend to bid her good-bye. So far as she knew, she had no living relations in England; and here she was, young and strong and active, with nothing but a slender wardrobe and one shilling in her purse.

Come what may, she must have something to eat. She wanted to sit down and rest herself, and think the situation over. Save for one happy fortnight three years before, she had never been in London, and the crowds of people dismayed her. She would not have been afraid to walk through the most desolate country place at midnight but in these thronged streets she felt abashed and frightened. It seemed dreadful to stand there with that stream of humanity flowing by, and not be able recognise one of that sea of faces. More by instinct than anything else, Elsie drifted into a tea shop and laid out sixpence of her money to the best advantage. She was pleased to find she could have a fresh egg and bread and butter and tea for the limited sum of sixpence. She was decidedly the better for her meal, frugal though it was. Her natural courage rose, and she felt able to face the situation. The healthy life she had led in the past had given her a perfect nerve and a magnificent constitution.

Surely there must be some place where girls situated as she was could find food and lodging for a day or two. If only these could be obtained, she had nothing to fear. She had been thoroughly trained to look after a house, and her learned father had educated her far beyond the ordinary standard.

Elsie wandered until she came at length to the Park, where she sat down and watched the children play. She resolved not to think of what was likely to happen later. She could not let her mind dwell upon the problem of her night's lodging. She would wait on the off chance of something turning up, and, if necessary in the last resort, would confide her story to a policeman, and ask her way to the nearest station. Then came a glimmer of hope as she remembered the card in her pocket. She could not help feeling that Dora Carney would prove her friend. If the appointment outside the Regency Theatre failed, then she could put her other plan into execution.

A smart nursemaid with two little children came to the seat, and one of the bairns asked for a knife to mend his boat. Elsie complied eagerly. She even mended the boat to the child's gratification. Elsie loved children, and here, too, was a means of escaping from her sad thoughts. For an hour or more she sat chatting to the children and their nurse, and watching the stream of glittering carriages flash by. The nurse was Cockney to her finger tips. She seemed to know a great many of the fashionable folk by sight, so that to Elsie the conversation was really entertaining. Presently there passed by a landau in which an elegantly dressed lady was seated alone. She was young, and apparently surrounded with all that wealth could bestow. There was something in her face that appealed to Elsie strongly. It was a beautiful face, clear-cut and pathetic, with dark, melancholy eyes, and Elsie thought the owner of such a face must be capable of rising to the loftiest heights both of courage and self-sacrifice.

"Do you know who she is?" she asked the nursemaid.

"Who doesn't miss?" the other replied. "That is Vera Barrington, the great actress. I suppose you have heard of her."

Elsie nodded. Even in the remote village where she came from, the name of Vera Barrington was known. She was young, not more than four and twenty, and yet had already arrived at the very zenith of her profession. Nothing appeared to come amiss to the woman who only three years before had made a hit at one of the minor music halls. She had her chance in a musical comedy, in which she had proved a brilliant success. Thence she had gone straight into the realms of tragedy, when her acting had been a perfect revelation to the critics. There was a slight feeling of envy in Elsie's heart as her eyes followed the figure in the retreating carriage.

"Of course, I have heard of Miss Barrington," she said. "Is she married? I understand there is something romantic about her."

"Nobody knows, miss," the nursemaid answered. "I am told she keeps herself quite to herself. She has a beautiful house in Regent's Park, but nobody ever goes there. Even in the theatre, they say she is standoffish. And now I must be going. Come along, children. Say good-bye to the lady first."

Elsie did not part with the little ones without a real sense of reluctance. The Park had suddenly become very lonely, and the stream of humanity in the streets would be preferable to this. So the hours drifted on till night fell, and the houses were picked out with points of flame. It was nearly eight o'clock before Elsie went back to the shop where she had had the previous meal. When her hunger was satisfied her purse was empty. Thanks to her country training and regular hours, however, Elsie was not utterly tired and worn out. Besides, she was buoyed up by the hope that something would come of the assignation outside the Regency Theatre. It was a fine night so that the anxieties of the situation were not too strongly marked. For nearly three hours Elsie walked briskly along, striving to assume the air of one who has some definite object in view.

Her heart beat faster and her pulse quickened as the hour of eleven drew near. She came at length to the portico of the Regency Theatre, and stood there waiting. One or two men in evening dress inside the vestibule gazed at her admiringly, but the girl's proud, unconscious face, and assured manner checked all attempts of familiarity. She turned to look at the large frame of photographs hanging in the doorway, and saw to her surprise that the figure in the centre was that of Vera Barrington. It struck Elsie as strange that she should be keeping an appointment outside the very theatre where the brilliant actress was engaged. A moment later a tall, graceful figure flitted through the entrance hall towards a brougham standing by the pavement. Elsie caught a glimpse of a pale, pathetic face, and, with a thrill, recognised that it was the tragedienne herself.

"She finishes early," Elsie heard one man say to another. "Beautiful woman, isn't she, but cold as ice."

The brougham drove away, and presently there was a sound of music within the theatre and the distant notes of the National Anthem. Evidently the performance was over, and almost immediately crowds of people in evening dress thronged the vestibule. Outside a couple of commissionaires were bawling hoarsely for carriages and the shrill sound of cab whistles filled the air. The clock had struck eleven, and with some dismay Elsie felt the appointment would not be kept. As she stood uncertain what to do, her eye fell upon the jaunty form of a little messenger-boy, who started forward as he met her glance.

"Miss Vane?" he said. "If so, I have a letter for you."

Elsie grabbed at the envelope and tore it open. Inside was a short message.

"Could not come," it said. "Go at once to 12 Regent Terrace and ask to see the mistress of the house. Go boldly without fear. Your presence is anxiously awaited."