Читать книгу Petticoat Loose - Rita - Страница 8

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The theatre was crammed from floor to ceiling.

It is a curious fact that no audience appreciates Shakespeare like an Irish audience. They have learnt him at good hands, studied his best under his best interpreters, and no one is more critical of a faulty or unorthodox representation than an old Irish play-goer.

The touring company at present performing had come to Cork for the race week, and had given Othello, As You Like It, and Macbeth, with great success. To-night had been fixed for The Merchant of Venice. Foremost in the dress circle sat the young men who had been the last occupants of the smoking-room at the Imperial Hotel the previous night.

Just before the curtain rose the manager came forward to ask indulgence of the audience on behalf of a new actress who had consented to take the part of Jessica on very short notice. There had been no time to alter play bills or programmes, but printed slips informed the occupants of dress seats that the girl's name was "Miss Brianna Lynch."

"I wonder if that's a common Irish name?" remarked Max Lorrimer to Raemore Clive who sat next to him. "I've come across it twice in the short time I've been here."

The thought-reader narrowed his eyes for a moment and looked at the slip of paper. "It's odd," he said slowly, "but when I look there I see the face of a girl with a shawl over her head. She has very bright hair, tumbling about her face. I think you know her."

Max Lorrimer gave him a quick startled glance.

"It would be the wildest improbability," he exclaimed, "if—if I did."

"We will see," observed Raemore Clive quietly. "We won't have long to wait."

The curtain drew up almost on his words The first act was very brief, and the pause between Antonio's last speech and the scene at Belmont in Portia's room was simply signalised by the descent and rising of the curtain in some few moments. The scene between Gobbo and Launcelot, and the following colloquies were distinguished by "cuts." Then came the entrance of Jessica and her first speech to Launcelot—I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so. Our house is hell, and thou a merry devil.

Max Lorrimer drew a sharp breath. He could not believe his eyes. There stood the girl of the caravan, his companion of the previous night. A warning pressure of his arm kept him still, but his excitement deepened with every word she spoke.

There was no sign of nervousness or timidity. Her voice was perfectly modulated, her gestures natural, and full of grace. The brief scene won the audience at once; though none recognised her in her new dress and make-up, for Brianna of the caravan.

"By Jove!" muttered the Englishman. "Who'd have thought it? She's a born actress; there's no doubt of that."

It seemed to him that all the interest of the play passed away with her. He grew restless and impatient. That lovely face, that lovely voice impressed him a thousand times more in this new aspect than they had done in the girl's own natural sphere.

"She was quite right. She has a genius for the stage," he said, as the act concluded, and in spite of Portia's triumph and recall, he lent voice and hand to the applause that had recognised the worth and beauty of the young novice. She was led before the curtain trembling and unstrung, with scarce sufficient self-command to bow acknowledgements.

Then Max Lorrimer's tongue was unloosed, and he and his friend discussed this unexpected episode with keen interest. Conjecture was rife in both minds. How had she come here? By what chance, what luck, and how in the name of all that was wonderful had she acquired this stage-knowledge, this self-possession, this beauty of elocution, this charm of delivery, this simple yet admirable grace of action? It seemed miraculous—incredible—and yet it was true. Max Lorrimer recalled her words, and her acknowledgement of Mickey Croom's instructions, but allowing all this, the girl must be a heaven-born genius.

The play went on, but excellent as were Portia and Shylock, the three young men were too keenly interested in Jessica to appreciate them. Faults, of course, the girl had. To a critical mind, they might have been innumerable, but she possessed a power, a charm, a magnetism that carried all before her. She loved with Jessica, and she was Jessica for the time. She went by no traditions, she copied no one. She simply played the part as it had shown itself to her; artless, innocent, subtle by turns, with no elation in her success, no consciousness of her own personality, until for the last time the curtain fell and the manager and the principal actor were holding her hands and uttering warm congratulations and prophecies for the future. Then her heart seemed to swell, and a wave of gratitude went out to the poor, deformed, unhappy creature who had been her tutor and her friend.

The tears streamed from her eyes.

"It's all Mickey," she cried. "All Mickey. Oh, where is he? I've never thanked him yet."

He was waiting at the stage-door for her—grim and grey and silent, his heart too full to trust itself to speak, his whole soul thrilling with her triumph, and proud of her success.

There she found him when she had changed her dress and gone out. There, too, were three figures pacing to and fro, and scenting the air with cigarettes. One approached her. She shrank back a little as the uplifted hat revealed the face of her English acquaintance.

"It is you," he exclaimed. "I knew it. I felt it. But by what miracle have you sprung from your caravan into the midst of legitimate drama? What Genius of the Lamp has done this for you?"

She laughed, disarmed by the frankness of voice and manner.

"It is all Mickey," she said proudly. "He taught me, he helped me, he encouraged me, and when this chance came and he heard of it, he got me the part. Indeed, it's grateful and happy I am to-night. Oh, sir! how did I do? Was I really worth all that applause they gave me?"

"Indeed, you were, Brianna," said the young man, heartily. "Do you know, I and my friends were waiting here to ask you to come to supper with us. Do, and we'll drink success and long life to you, and Mickey here. Besides, there's something to be said about your future. I told you I had some interest in London. If you once got on there your fortune will be made."

"I'd like to go to supper with you," said the girl reluctantly. "Do you think I might, Mickey?"

"Please yourself," said the hunchback, coldly. "It's no business of mine."

"Nonsense. You come along, too," said the young Englishman, heartily. "Miss Brianna is your pupil, and you have to look after her interests."

"I'll do that in my own way," muttered Mickey. "It won't be yours, I think, sir. Suppers and champagne don't often help a woman to much good."

"Mickey, you're rude and cross," said the girl, quickly. "This gentleman only meant to be kind to us——"

"That I can assure you is true," said a deep voice, suddenly.

The girl started. She looked up and met the strange inscrutable eyes of Raemore Clive. They held hers for a moment. She felt sick and cold, yet fascinated, despite herself. Suddenly, too, she recognised that she would give worlds to refuse that invitation, but that it was no longer in her power.

"You will come, won't you?" pleaded Max Lorrimer, persuasively, and, half-regretful, half-repelled, she saw the hunchback turn and leave them at her murmured "Yes."