Читать книгу Petticoat Loose - Rita - Страница 11

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Brianna sat on where her strange companion had left her, half-bewildered by this extraordinary conversation. What had he meant—what could he mean by affirming that they had met and known each other and loved in some past time? What voice had spoken to him that she too was to hear? What mystery attracted and repelled her when she met his strange eyes, or listened to the odd deep vibrations of his voice?

She asked herself these questions but heard no answer. Yet she felt this past half-hour had had an influence upon her life. A wave of new feeling had lifted her on its crest far above the level of common-place things. Her soul had begun to live, her mind would never sleep again in placid assurance that what was, was; that it had always been, and would always be, unaffected by human hopes and desires.

She lost all sense of time and place. Passing footsteps seemed only the echoes of a dream, figures and faces looked vague and shadowy. When at last she roused herself she felt it must be late; far later than the usual breakfast hour. But even the thought of her aunt's anger did not disturb her, and she walked tranquilly back to where the "vials of wrath" awaited her, feeling that with all the wide wonderful future before her a little inconvenience in the present might easily be endured.

Sally Dunne was irate, and letting everyone in the vicinity know it. To be left in this fashion to light the fire, to get the breakfast, to do all that had long been relegated to Brianna's useful hands, had aroused a fair amount of her hot Irish temper, and Mickey Croom had felt the lash of her tongue despite his offers of assistance.

When Brianna really put in an appearance at last she had so exhausted her vocabulary of vituperation that she had little to say, and took refuge in sarcasm of a distant and polite nature.

Would the Tragedy Queen partake of breakfast? Might she offer the humble refreshment of her poor dwelling to one so gifted and superior? She feared the tea was cold, but if, on another occasion, information was given as to what hour breakfast would be convenient, she would do her humble endeavours to have it ready.

Brianna listened silently as she drank a cup of tea and ate a morsel of dry bread. It all seemed so mean and so insignificant, fussing over trifles like this, when the world was so beautiful, and life so full of promise.

"Oh, do be quiet, aunt!" she exclaimed at last. "After all, you only had to do what you will have to go on doing; for if I go away on this tour you must shift for yourself, unless you engage a servant to work as I've worked without wage or thanks for the last five years."

"Oh, indeed!" answered Sally, loftily. "And 'twas wages you expected? And what of your keep, you ungrateful cannibal, you? And your clothes, and the wear and tear of my constitution teaching and putting up with the like o' you? For our social grades were very different. I was never a ragamuffin, and boot and shoe to my foot was never wanting; and that's more than you can say! But there; your head is just turned topsy-turvy with this play-ranting nonsense. But take my word, the day will come when your pride will be broke, and like the stricken heart that panteth for the water-brooks, so will your wounded spirit turn hankering after the safety and comforts of my caravan, and you'll cry, 'Oh, for the shelter of my wandering home, and the plain but honest victuals that awaited me there.'"

"And which I always had to cook."

"Better is it to cook than to gallervant," answered Sally; "and an honest mouthful with quietness is preferable to a stalled ox on the housetop, which is metaphorical but spoken with good intention, and no call either to be received with a sneer or a sniff!"

"I'm not doing either," said Brianna, meekly, "and I'll wash up these things now, and you can go to the studio if you want to."

"Dear me! How mighty condescending we are! And no compunctions, which I suppose is to be expected, and your benefactress only fit to be trampled in the dust. Well, I guess you'll have your fall yet, Brianna, for pride is bound to suffer; and so lay that to your heart while I attend to my duties, and unroll the panorama of art in my humble, though ostentatious, fashion."

"Instantaneous, you mean," laughed Brianna.

"Oh! I insinuate nothing," said Sally, loftily. "Words are but empty sounds, and I must, of course, stand corrected when play-actresses come on the scene. But, let me tell you, Brianna, that in that great and glorious land where I made myself name and fame, my language was accounted one or my universal accomplishments, and no trally-wagging, gallervanting chit of a girl would ever have dared to pass her criticalisms upon it."

She tossed her head. All the "stars and stripes" seemed to flutter in her faded ribbons, and sound in her shrill voice. Brianna's face grew grave. She said no more, and with the majesty of a Siddons, Sally Dunne marched out of the caravan and down the steps, and thence to what she fondly called her studio.

The idea of Brianna's independence was gall and wormwood to her. She could not bear to think of it. Yet she felt that she was powerless to restrain the girl. "The liberty of the subject" could not be infringed lightly, even in a less law-abiding country than Ireland. If the girl had a craze for the footlights, to the footlights she would go. It annoyed Sally to think that she had secured an engagement, had actually undergone the ordeal of a first appearance, without consulting herself. And done it creditably, too. She had seen the announcement in the morning paper. Mickey had bought one and shown it her, and the testimony of print was very convincing. She had said nothing of it to the girl, not being desirous of "cockering up her vanity," as she expressed it. Still, it rankled in her mind, and spoilt the sunshine that was so good for business, and made her curt and uncomplimentary to female customers. As luck would have it a great many of the minor "stars" of the company had strolled down to the caravan that morning, some to be photographed, some to criticise the habitation of the new recruit to their ranks. Her history had got about and curiosity was rife, so they dragged their tumbled skirts and badly-shod feet, and general aspect of unwashed powdered impropriety to this strange domicile. They succeeded in thoroughly rousing the ire of Sally Dunne, and hearing some home-truths about themselves and their profession that were too uncomplimentary to pass for playfulness.

When Brianna heard sounds of warfare in the vicinity, she guessed that the redoubtable Sally was to blame. Curiosity impelled her to learn what was the matter. She was astonished to find her aunt being "baited" by a lot of loud-voiced rowdy-looking girls. She recognised some of the faces as belonging to the touring company, and wondered what had brought them there. When they saw her, they ceased their fusilade of compliments. One or two greeted her in friendly fashion, but the others examined her with the curiosity they would have bestowed on a strange animal.

"So you're going to be one of us?" "My, ain't she good-looking, though." "No wonder old Monty took a fancy to her!" "Engaged right straight off, ain't you, my dear?" "What's this your name is? Brianna Lynch, I heard."

"What a mouthful! Well, Brianna, you did uncommon well last night. I'm the girl who might have had your part if I'd been a quick study, but I'm not, especially in the legitimate line. Shakespere's awfully hard. My name's Phyllis D'Eyncourt—at your service. Pretty, ain't it? Phyllis I got out of a book and D'Eyncourt from a play I once acted in. Everyone calls me 'Phil' in the company. So can you, if you like. Now, tell me who's the old party in the tent? Heavy old woman? Leading lady? Got a rough side to her tongue and no mistake."

She was a tall fair girl who had spoken, with a certain air of jaunty, self-assurance about her manner that told of long knocking about in the by-world of adventure to which the stage offers an open door. Brianna looked at her critically. There was something she liked in the large frank blue eyes, the smiling mouth, the good-humoured expression.

"That is my aunt, Mrs. Dunne," she said. "Why don't you let her take your photograph?"

"Been done by too many good artists, my dear. See me in the windows here, if you look. No, your three-penny-done-while-you-wait and frame-given-in don't suit my ticket. I told the old lady that, and it riled her, I think. But I came to see you and have a talk. You know we leave to-night. Are you ready? We'll have to catch the 11.45 train, and not a moment to pack up. All the private luggage has to be sent on this afternoon."

"Well, I've not much," said Brianna, ruefully. "And nothing to pack it in," she added.

"What's that?" queried Sally Dunne's sharp tongue. "My niece ain't going to disgrace herself trallywaggin' with a lot like you. There isn't a respectable coloured head among the whole pack. I refuse my consent."

"I shall do without it, as I told you last night," said Brianna.

"Then you don't take a rag to your back save what you stand in!" exclaimed Sally. "And a nice show you'll make, going about with a touring company. Fine company, indeed! Set of painted Medusas, with your serpent locks and bold eyes!"

"Come, you stop that," said Phil indignantly. "I'd have you know we're just as respectable, and more, too, than any travelling caravan owners. Your niece doesn't appear to have much to boast of in the way of relatives, anyhow. Why, a decent-sized scarecrow in a cornfield would be ashamed to stand alongside of you!"

This sally was greeted with a shout of laughter from her friends, which had the effect of still further increasing Mrs. Dunne's temper.

She let fly a broadside of abuse in which Irish and American idioms were graphically mingled. This effectually routed the enemy. The girls fled, laughing, and shouting, and calling back to her, and bidding Brianna flee for her life if she wanted to show an uninjured face to the stage-dresser that evening. The girl stood there pale and trembling and humiliated.

"I'm ashamed of you, and I hate you!" she cried at last, half-choked with passion. "I wouldn't stay another hour here if I could help it. What have I to thank you for? Food, for which I've worked and slaved from morning till night. Clothes, that were your own cast-off leavings. This frock Mickey gave me last Christmas, and it's the only decent one I ever possessed. For the rest, I've been abused, scolded and beaten; never a kind word in all these years; and now, if you could, you would chain me here, your slave still, though you know I can make my way in the world without a cent of yours. But you can't do it—you can't. The Saints be praised for that!"

"The Saints, indeed. It's little enough the Saints will be troubling their heads about you. A vile, ungrateful, headstrong hussy, only fit for the company of painted warlocks like that lot I've just sent off. Well, take my word for it, a judgment there'll be on you, Brianna, and a bad end you'll come to us, sure as I say it."

Her niece gave a scornful shrug of her shoulders and turned away. But all the beauty of the day, and all the visions of a rosy future were spoilt and dimmed for the time. Her new life, as represented by the society of what Sally termed "painted warlocks," looked less inviting than it had done the previous night. Would she ever become like those girls? Would she, too, flaunt in paint and powder, and "second-hand" finery that looked infinitely less respectable than her old patched rags?

She had hardly wondered at Sally Dunne's aspersions. There was something about these girls that repelled her instincts—the jokes, the gestures, the coarse laughter. And yet they belonged to the most glorious and beautiful profession in the world.

A halo of mystery still surrounded that life of the stage. The thought of failure was hateful to her. The fires of ambition so recently lit burned fiercely within her heart and refused to be quenched.

She called to Mickey, who was loitering at some distance.

"Come away from here," she said. "I want to talk to you."

He followed her swift steps at his own limping pace. His eyes took in every line of her figure, the poise of her head, the lithe grace of movement. How splendid she was he thought, and how good it was to think that he—he—poor, despised, deformed Mickey Croom—had been the helper of her fortunes. There was no saying what glories might be hers in future, and to him she would owe everything—everything; her education, her training, her first appearance. All these. True they were only stepping stones as yet, but still without stepping-stones even a brook is impassable, save to sure feet. Brianna's feet would never have been sure but for him—so he told himself—and when she paused abruptly now, and, beckoned him to her side, his pride and his triumph and his glory in her swelled like a tide within his heart and made speech impossible.

But she scarcely heeded his silence. Eagerly she poured out her soul to her patient listener—a soul like a tempestuous sea, full of cross currents and vague restless motion. Had she chosen rightly? Did he think it was in her to act, to become great? Nothing less would satisfy her. If she thought she would degenerate into anything like those frivolous chatterers of the morning she would rather stick to the caravan and the life she had known.

When her breathless words ceased he tried to pacify and reassure her. He had tales of other beginners, histories of theatrical struggles, difficulties surmounted, hardships endured. One thing he assured her she possessed that no training, nor any art could give. It was a voice. A voice capable of expressing every human emotion, full of tender tones, and wonderful inflections. A pipe of melody and infinite charm. Had she not noted its power the previous evening? Why—her very first speech had struck on the attention of the audience; held them, entranced them.

"You must succeed if you work," he went on. "You must. You can't help it."

"Oh, Mickey!" she cried. "I wish you were coming with me. I shan't know what to do without you."

There was a moment's silence. Then he said very quietly:

"Do you mean that, child? Can I help you? Do you feel you want me?"

"Oh, indeed, indeed I do!" she said, earnestly. "You are my only friend, Mickey; you know that."

"But there will be new friends for you now, Brianna. Your life will drift away from mine. And then you'll be ashamed of me. You'll be sorry if I claim your notice."

She turned and looked at him, and then laughed aloud.

"If that day ever comes," she said, "remind me of last night. Do you think I can ever forget what I owe to you?"

"Your hand on that!" he said hoarsely.

She gave it silently. Their eyes met. Something she saw in his arrested her attention.

"Why, Mickey," she said, "you're not crying?"

He jerked out a laugh, and drew his sleeve across his eyes.

"Sure, child, isn't the sun just shining straight into my two eyes?" he said.

Then he rose abruptly.

"You'd better get back and see about the dinner. It's the last time, you know."

She sprang to her feet, and stretched out her arms, and laughed joyously.

"The last time!" she echoed. "Oh, think of that, Mickey. Isn't it glorious! Slavery, tyranny, misery all over! The last time!"

And how could he find it in his heart to warn her that even among those evils she enumerated, there had still lurked one good that the new life might withhold—safety!