Читать книгу A Queen of the Stage - Fred M. White - Страница 5

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Elsie stood for a moment oblivious to her surroundings, her whole attention fixed upon the letter in her hand. Here was a development which she had not expected. Not till now had she realised how much she had counted on the hope of seeing Dora Carney again. Nor could she be absolutely sure that the letter had come from the dramatic agent's daughter. Elsie knew little of the world, but, like most people who live in country places, she had read a daily paper carefully, and some weird stories came into her mind. Was this some subtle plot to lure her into a situation fraught with danger and difficulties?

Then Elsie's common sense came to her rescue, and she put the disturbing thought aside. The letter must be from Dora Carney. The girl had been prevented from keeping her appointment, and the appearance of the messenger-boy was the natural sequel. Doubtless Elsie had been described to the lad, and his sharp wits had been answerable for the rest. Elsie would have asked a question or two, but the boy had already vanished.

To go or not to go, that was the question. The letter in Elsie's hand was probably a passport to a comfortable lodging with respectable people, and perhaps the offer of regular employment. It was getting late and there was only one cruel alternative to the somewhat peremptory letter. If Elsie decided to have no more to do with it, she would have to carry out her original programme and throw herself on the mercy of the police.

And supposing they doubted her word? Supposing they regarded her as an impostor? In that case Elsie wondered if they could send her to prison. She had heard of country magistrates doing that kind of thing, when a man came before them charged with having no visible means of support; and it was an absolute fact that Elsie had no way of getting a living. There was nothing for it but to take her courage in both hands and boldly face the future. When this resolution was come to Elsie felt the better for it. A healthy craving for food gripped her. For one so vigorous, the amount she had eaten during the day was barely enough to sustain strength. She drifted down the Strand looking for some policeman so put her in the way of reaching 12 Regent Terrace. She wondered what all these happy, well-dressed people pouring out of the theatres would think if they heard her story.

To Elsie's alarm she found she had a considerable distance to travel. By the time she reached Marylebone-road her limbs were dragging painfully and her breath was coming fast, and with a feeling of thankfulness Elsie reached her destination. This was the place right enough. A row of magnificent houses gleaming white in the rays of the electric light. So far as Elsie could see, No. 12 was somewhat more important than its neighbours. The house seemed to be brilliantly lighted and a flight of marble steps led to the front door. For a moment the girl hesitated; then she laid a shaky hand on the electric bell and heard the ripple far below. There could be no drawing back now.

A footman in neat livery threw open the door and politely waited for Elsie to speak. She was not in the least surprised to notice that the servant was a negro. The circumstance seemed to fit in with her strange adventure.

"I have come here by appointment," Elsie said. "I—I do not know the name of the lady of the house, but I have a letter here which will explain everything to her."

"That is all right madame," the negro said, speaking perfect English. "Will you be good enough to come this way?"

Elsie's nervousness had vanished, and she felt sure there was no danger ahead. It was absurd to identify a house like this with anything in the way of crime or vulgar intrigue. Tired as she was and utterly exhausted, Elsie could not help noting the perfect appointments of the house. On more than one occasion in her father's time she had dined at the castle of the Duke of Sidmouth, one of the show places in her part of the country, but she had seen nothing finer than the suite of rooms through which she was now being conducted.

She came at length to a small apartment at once refined and homelike; a fire of logs and coals was blazing on the hearth. The warmth was so grateful to Elsie that she dropped into an arm-chair and closed her eyes. It was only for a moment that the fit of fatigue held her, then she realised that the negro was addressing her in tones of deference.

"I was directed to bring you here," he said. "It is not long before my—my—the owner of the house will see you. Meanwhile, you will permit me to offer you refreshment."

The negro indicated a table which Elsie had not previously noticed. She saw that a supper for one had been laid out, a dainty supper, perfectly served, and a gold-necked bottle stood by the side of the plate. Without waiting to be told, the servant opened the champagne, and gravely tendered Elsie a glass.

"Presently," she said. "After I have eaten something."

The servant pulled up a chair and vanished. Elsie was not sorry to be alone. She was too wolfishly hungry to care about being watched. Then gradually the feeling of hunger passed away, and she raised the glass to her lips and swallowed the champagne, which coursed through her veins like liquid fire, and braced her for anything that was likely to happen.

The house was strangely silent, but Elsie put that down to the thickness of the carpets on the floors. By and by she heard a sound of voices in angry altercation. One was the voice of a woman, pure and sweet, the other that of a man who spoke in commanding accents. While Elsie was still wondering, the door opened and a woman came in.

She was tall and dark, and gave Elsie the singular idea that she looked older than her years. At the same time she was haunted by the fancy that she had seen this beautiful, well-dressed woman before. Then it suddenly burst upon her, and she gave a cry of surprise and pleasure.

"I see you know me," the lady said with a smile.

"Not actually till this afternoon," Elsie responded, "and then only by a kind of accident. I happened to be in the Park, and someone pointed you out to me as Miss Vera Barrington. It is remarkable that I should have the privilege of making your acquaintance so soon afterwards."

Elsie spoke simply and naturally, and was under the impression that the great actress was in some way pleased with her. At any rate, the woman smiled and held out her hand.

"We are all the sport of circumstance," she said. "I dare say you envy me, and imagine that if we could change places you would be the happiest girl in the world."

"I think I should be," Elsie ventured to say.

"Ah, yes; I have been told that before. My child, I like you. I have taken a fancy to your face. I am certain that you are pure and good and innocent, and that you have courage and resolution as well. I want you to help me."

"Do you need help from anybody?" Elsie asked.

"Ay, indeed I do. A word in your ear. I am the most miserable woman on the face of this earth to-day."

The words came with a hissing whisper, with an electric thrill behind them, and for an instant the speaker's face changed to an expression of the most unutterable sadness.

"You have been very kind to me," Elsie stammered, "and I am very, very grateful. If there is anything I can do for you, pray command me, and I will do it gladly. When I come to reflect upon where I might have been at this moment—but of course, you know nothing of my story."

Vera Barrington indicated an arm-chair by the fire.

"Let us sit down and talk," she said. "I have managed to avert the danger for the time being. You will be astonished to hear that I know more of your story than you imagine. You are a friendless girl, and have come from the provinces with an idea of making a name for yourself on the stage. That is one of the saddest fates that ever could befall a woman. The public only know of the adulation and flattery, of the meretricious dazzle of the life behind the footlights. Ah, my dear child, I could show you another vision. I will show you another prospect if necessity arises. But we need not go into that now. Like many a girl before you and many a girl to come after you, you fell a prey to the class of rogue that battens upon innocent ambitions like yours. Roger Carney robbed you of every penny, and then put you out with an excuse that the company in which he had procured you an engagement had broken down. That story is told again and again to no end of victims, who believe it implicitly. When you left Carney's office this morning you were penniless and without friends, save one."

"I can guess who that one friend was," Elsie said. "I am glad my instinct did not play me false. You are speaking of Carney's daughter Dora. I feel sure she is a good girl."

"One of the best," Miss Barrington said with feeling, "and I can remember the time, too, when Roger Carney was an upright and honorable man, low as he has now fallen in the social scale. You would not take him to be a man who once gave promise of a distinguished career in the army."

"Indeed, I should not," Elsie murmured.

"I am only telling you facts," the actress went on. "But for your courage and good nature this morning, Roger Carney would by this time have found himself in gaol. One of his victims happened to be acquainted with a solicitor, who set the law in motion. It was very fortunate that Dora Carney happened to be present or you would not be seated here now. She is a good girl, and would have kept her promise to you but for an accident. Still, you are here, and you may consider yourself amongst friends. It will be no fault of ours if you are ever in need again. At the same time, I warn you that your courage will be put to the test. Do you think you could undertake a mission involving real risk, in which you must ask no questions and do exactly as you are told?"

Vera Barrington's manner had changed abruptly. There was something cold and almost stern in her manner of speaking.

"I think so," Elsie said, after a short pause. "As you are aware, I am friendless and without means. I am ready to earn an honest and honorable living."

"Make your mind easy on that score," Vera Barrington rejoined. "I would never ask you to do anything degrading. You have seen something of this house. You know something of my career. People envy me my success and the good fortune it has brought me, but would they do so if they knew the story of my life? I think not. In the course of your reading, did you ever come across that extraordinary poem of Tom Hood's called 'The Haunted House'?"

"I know it," Elsie said. "It is weird and fascinating; but you don't mean to tell me——"

"Indeed, I do," the actress said in a hoarse whisper. "This house is haunted by disgrace and crime. You would not think it, but the fact remains. The shadow has spoilt my life; it is making me old before my time, and unless I can find some means to lift it, the worry must go on to its certain end. Circumstances have inspired me with some hope, and when Dora Carney told me your story this afternoon, I began to see a way whereby you could be useful to me, and in return you shall never complain of my ingratitude."

"I will do anything you like," Elsie said. "If you will only confide in me, and let me know what you want."

Vera Barrington appeared as if about to speak then she checked herself, and rose in a listening attitude. From somewhere overhead came a rumbling sound, followed by loud voices and a heavy fall as if a blow had been struck. With the celerity of some graceful animal, Vera Barrington sprang across the room and switched off the electric light. Then she reached over and grasped Elsie by the arm with a grip that was almost painful.

"Come away at once," she whispered. "The trouble has broken out afresh. I would give five years of my life to prevent your presence in the house becoming known. Do not stop to ask any questions, but come at once."

Elsie made no demur. She followed up a flight of stairs into a bedroom that was all in darkness. With a whisper to her to keep up her courage, Vera Barrington closed the door and locked it on the outside, leaving Elsie to her reflections.