# His Leading Lady

Extracted from The Windsor Magazine, Vol 66 1926-27, pp. 3–14. Accompanying illustrations may be omitted. [#Duchess Laura]
Illustration: "'Hilda?' he exclaimed. 'I suppose some people would think this funny. I don't.' And he handed his daughter a newspaper cutting."
HIS LEADING LADY
By MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES
ILLUSTRATED BY HENRY COLLER
LAURA is a dear woman, and a shining example to us all. But clever? No, my dear, Laura is not clever."
"You don't call the Duchess stupid?"
"Good heavens, no! But I've known many a stupid woman make a better thing of her girls' lives than Laura has managed to do. Look at the two elder daughters?"
"You mean Lady Lettice and Lady Susie?"
"Of course I do. They both made very bad marriages; Lettice to that pompous young M.P. from the north; and Susie, who is really very pretty, is in India, married to a penniless soldier."
"What an odd thing."
"All their mother's fault! Yet not only is she a duchess, and that still counts—men are such snobs—but she's got this splendid old place in which she could have given a series of such delightful 'young' parties. I don't mean the sort of thing that's going on this time. Private theatricals, matrimonially speaking, are never any use, and just think of the 'detrimentals' who are here just now!"
"Perhaps Lady Hilda will do better for herself?"
"She may. But I shall be very surprised if she does. She's a clever little thing——"
"Pretty too," interjected the other lady.
"Pretty in a way; piquante one would have called it in old days; and that isn't beauty, my dear! It seems to me that Laura falls between two stools. Her daughters aren't the demure, old-fashioned girls that some modern men fancy, and neither are they like the naughty, bold young minxes that carry off all the elder sons."
"Young men are so spoilt nowadays. I shouldn't care to have the Duke for a father-in-law—"
"Neither should I!" And then both ladies tittered.
"Listeners never hear any good of themselves."
The Duchess ruefully reminded herself of the old saying, as she unwillingly overheard the short conversation between two of her guests; one, Lady Brislington, known since her girlhood, and the other, Mrs. Chichester, a new acquaintance who was a friend of Lady Brislington. The gossips were sunning themselves on the terrace of the Castle, and a large screen had been put up to shelter them from the east wind. Their hostess, meaning to join them, had slipped through the long French window of one of the smaller sitting-rooms, just behind the screen, when her attention had been caught by the sound of her own name.
For a few moments she stood quite still, scarcely breathing. It would be so unpleasant for them all three were she to be discovered! But at last, feeling mortified, and not a little hurt, she cautiously pushed open the French window, and stepped indoors again.
Was it really true that she had been a foolish, neglectful mother? Could she have done anything to prevent Lettice, her cherished eldest child, from marrying that tiresome Gerald Armitage? As for Susie—well, there had been a tragic little episode known only to her, Susie's mother, and to Susie herself, and it was natural that the girl's heart had been caught at the rebound by that fine, if penniless, young fellow, Captain Geoffrey Brentlaw, V.C.
And then, for she was a very honest woman, honest with herself as few women are, the Duchess admitted, with a sigh, that she might in very truth have done a very great deal more than she had done, especially with regard to her eldest daughter. She could have filled the Castle with what those two worldly women would call "the right kind of young man." But, like most modern mothers who still feel themselves quite young as they approach middle age, she had never thought of her little Lettice as "grown up" till Lettice had already lost her heart to the man the Duke called "that pompous prig." Also, the Duchess was very much devoted wife as well as devoted mother; and both she and the Duke, in their very different ways, were unworldly, neither inclined to fix an eye on the main chance, especially where their children were concerned.
Anxiously the Duchess ran over in her mind the names of the young men who were now staying in the Castle in connection with a charity performance of that old favourite, "A Pantomime Rehearsal," which was to be acted in what was called the big ballroom in about ten days. With a certain shock of surprise she realised that not one of them could be regarded as being, matrimonially speaking, eligible. When she had talked the party over with her son Algy, all she had stipulated was that the young men invited for what must be an exceptionally long visit should be "nice."
And nice they certainly all were—simple, well-behaved, pleasant, young fellows, but not an "elder son" among them!
With a rueful smile she realised that it was this fact which had inspired her friend, Agnes Brislington's, spiteful remarks. Lady Brislington's daughter, Rosie, was staying here too, and no doubt Rosie's mother felt it hard that in a ducal house-party there was not even one young man whom a careful mother would welcome as a son-in-law.
Then the Duchess reminded herself, with a feeling of relief, that her own daughter, Lady Hilda, was still very young, not yet eighteen, and that the last thing the girl seemed to think about just now was love and marriage. In fact, not long ago she had told her father that though she meant to be married some day, she intended to have a great deal of fun first! Lady Hilda's idea of fun had always been private theatricals: indeed she thought of little else, and most of her evenings, during her infrequent visits to London, were spent at the theatre.
Feeling in no mood to join her critics on the terrace, the Duchess made her way to the big ballroom, and she stayed her steps by the half-open door.
She could see without being seen, and she smiled, in spite of herself, as she saw the scene of happy confusion which reigned therein. The whole cast of "A Pantomime Rehearsal" was gathered together, and their youthful hostess, clad in an unbecoming holland overall, stood on a ladder, engaged in putting up on the stage which filled the farther side of the room a curtain which certainly followed the stage direction, "Forest Cloth. Unfinished, and execrably painted in," But as soon as she saw who stood looking through the door, the girl hopped off the ladder, and rushed across to her mother.
"Bob Walleston has telephoned to say that he can't come; but that if we don't mind, his greatest friend, Lord Elstone, will take his place, and be our producer. Now that would be simply splendid, for Lord Elstone has even produced a real play! May I send a telephone message saying that we shall be delighted to have him? And, mother? I should like him to come to-day if he can—it's so important; we can't make a real start without a producer! It's been bad enough waiting for Bob Walleston; he has let us down——"
"Lord Elstone?"
The Duchess hesitated. What was it she had heard about Lord Elstone? And then she remembered having been told that he was an eccentric kind of young man, passionately devoted to every form of art, and so remarkable an amateur actor that more than once, under an assumed name, he had taken part in a big London production. Also that, though enormously rich, he took no part in any of the usual amusements common to his class; he neither danced, shot, nor raced.
A little anxiously she wondered if the Duke would approve of this stage-struck young man being asked to the Castle.
"Well, mother? It's all right—isn't it?" The girl laughed. "Your dear Lady Brislington will be delighted——"
"Why should she be? I shouldn't think Lord Elstone, from what I've heard of him, is her sort at all."
"Can't you guess, mother? The Weekly Rattle said last week that he was the richest bachelor in England! What a chance for Rosie Brislington!"
"I certainly shouldn't ask Lord Elstone to join our party to please Rosie's mother," and the Duchess spoke in so sharp a tone that her daughter felt surprised.
"Then he may come, mother?"
"I suppose he may——"
Though she said the words a little doubtfully, she smiled into the girl's eager face.
Half an hour later the Duchess received a telephone message to the effect that Lord Elstone thanked her Grace for her kind invitation, and would do himself the pleasure of motoring down to the Castle in time to dress for dinner.
As she glanced at the courteous words written on the telephone slip, she told herself that her coming guest, whatever his oddities, had nice, old-fashioned manners. Even, so her heart quaked a little, as she approached the Duke's own room in order to tell him of the coming addition to their house-party.
"What Hilda calls the 'producer' of the play, Bob Walleston, has fallen out," she explained. "And Lord Elstone is coming to take his place."
"Young Elstone? I thought he banned ordinary society? And yet he's a man of parts, Laura! Only the other day I told him he ought to go in for politics."
"I had no idea you knew him, James." She felt genuinely astonished.
"I come across him now and again at the club."
To the Duke there was but one club—the Carlton.
"The story goes," he went on, "that his father made him promise never to give up the club, and he keeps his word. I always like meeting that young chap; he's really clever, and I was fond, in a way, of poor old Elstone. Funny that a man like that should have had so 'artistic' a son."
"Hilda says he's the most wonderful actor——"
"So I've heard," said the Duke carelessly. "But if that's really true he's fated to play only a certain kind of part, for he's hideously ugly."
"In what way ugly?" asked the Duchess with interest.
"Let me see? Well! He's short, stumpy, fat rather than thin, and his hair's red. But he has a clever, good-tempered face, and his funny little eyes always have a twinkle in them. That's the best I can do for you."
"Your best is very good!" cried the Duchess. "I'm glad to know what he's like; I was expecting an Adonis."
At that the Duke shouted with laughter. "You would have had a shock!"
"When one thinks of a young man as a good amateur actor one does think of him as an Adonis, James," and she laughed too. "I'm glad he's clever," she went on, "I do get so bored with most young men."
Illustration: "Lady Hilda was perpetually on the brink of tears, though she felt sure no one suspected the horrid fact."
"He did quite good work at the last General Election. I think even you might have known that!"
"Now that you say so, I remember it."
"Elstone can do what so few men can do, young or old—make a humorous fighting speech," went on the Duke.
"All you tell me makes me feel very glad we're getting him down!" she exclaimed. "I had a notion that he'd be very 'high-brow,' and that he'd frighten me, at any rate, out of my wits."
"The 'high-brow' isn't born who would frighten you," he observed dryly; then, "Instead of going off to-morrow, I think I'll stay on another couple of days. I'd like a word or two with young Elstone. He's at the parting of the ways, just twenty-seven."
"He ought to marry."
"Only a blind girl would have him," observed the Duke.
Illustration: "To-night every member of the cast, as well as the producer himself, felt very nervous."
"A good many girls would give their eyes to have him—if he's even a quarter as rich as he's said to be."
"I think that young man has his own weather eye very much open. Luckily there'll be nothing of the kind going on here—and I shall be able to talk to him seriously."
"You won't see much of him," she said warningly. "Those boys and girls are in the big ballroom all day long. I can hardly get them out of it even to take a little exercise."
"I don't think he's such a fool as some of the young men you've asked down for this idiotic show," said the Duke thoughtfully. "I'm sure I shall be able to get hold of him now and again. Elstone's the sort of chap who's badly wanted in modern politics."
About seven o'clock that same evening the Duchess went down to the long library to greet her new guest; and, after a while, rather to her annoyance, Lady Brislington wandered in.
"I've got a lot of letters to write, Laura—I mean before dressing for dinner." And then she waited uncertainly, as a certain type of woman is apt to do. "Aren't you coming upstairs?" she asked.
"I'm coming up presently, but I'm expecting a new young man from London. Bob Walleston has fallen out, and Lord Elstone is coming to take his place."
"Lord Elstone?"
The Duchess nodded. Her little Hilda had been right, for Lady Brislington had put a surprising amount of joyful excitement into those two simple words.
"What an extraordinary thing! How did you manage to persuade him to come? He never goes anywhere. Have you any idea of what his fortune is?"
"None," said the Duchess sincerely. "But I know he's supposed to be a very rich man."
"Over two hundred thousand a year! Good solid real estate in New York—from his American grandmother."
The Duchess felt startled. "Poor young man! What a tremendous amount of money he must pay in income-tax."
"That's true. But still, there's plenty left. And they say he's so clever, too."
"Hush! Here he is——"
As Lord Elstone came forward into the long room, there was a pleasant, eager look on his exceedingly plain face.
"How very kind of you, Duchess, to have asked me to take my friend Bob Walleston's place!"
She told herself that he had easy, agreeable manners, nothing Bohemian or queer about them at any rate. But he certainly Was a very ugly young man, though his fleshy face was redeemed by a pair of bright clear brown eyes, and a look of alert intelligence.
His hostess had just time to introduce him to Lady Brislington, when the Duke came in.
The two men shook hands cordially. Then, at the Duke's suggestion, they went off together.
The Duchess, thinking aloud, exclaimed, "He certainly is extraordinarily ugly!"
Lady Brislington caught her up quickly. "Oh, but I never think that looks matter in a man, Laura. It's what he is that matters!"
And then the Duchess did allow herself just one little feline tap. "I should have thought that with you, my dear, it was more what a man has than what a man is," she said gently.
"Only when one's thinking of marriage," replied the other with disconcerting frankness. "Bread and cheese and kisses are all very well, but they soon pall. I can't afford to give my daughters a nice fortune apiece."
"I'll put Lord Elstone next to your little Rosie at dinner to-night," said the Duchess generously. "As I shall have old Sir George the other side of me, they'll have plenty of opportunity to make friends."
"Laura! You are kind!" And Lady Brislington's old friend was just a little touched, as well as amused, to feel a truly affectionate kiss imprinted upon her cheek.
II.
The Duchess, having dressed, was waiting for the Duke. They were a very old-fashioned couple in some ways and, when he was at home, she always waited till he was ready, too, before going down to the great drawing-room where everyone assembled before dinner.
As she waited. Lady Hilda ran into the room with the words, "Mother! Have you seen him?"
"Seen whom?" asked the Duchess.
"Lord Elstone, of course! I do think he might have come straight to the ball-room, instead of sticking with father and Algy. He told Algy he is thinking of building a theatre—isn't, that exciting?"
"I suppose it is, darling."
The Duchess was listening for the Duke's footsteps, and she hardly knew what the girl was saying.
"You won't mind our all going off to the ballroom again after dinner, will you?"
"I shall be sorry if you spoil that pretty dress, my pet."
"I'll put on the same overall I wore this afternoon. There's such a tremendous lot to be done before we can really think of rehearsing properly——"
And then she started, for her father had come in silently, and laid a heavy hand on her slender shoulder.
"Hilda?" he exclaimed. "I suppose some people would think this funny. I don't." And he handed his daughter a newspaper cutting.
"What's that?" asked the Duchess. She took the cutting out of the girl's hand, and this is what she read:
    "It is whispered that Lady Hilda Ardvilly, the third daughter of the Duke and Duchess of St. Andrews, will shortly become a pupil at the Royal School of Dramatic Art. Though not yet out, she is one of the cleverest amateur actresses in society. Should she follow out her present intention she will be the first duke's daughter to adopt the profession, though of course the beautiful Lady Mona—no need to give her surname—has been acting for some years the part that she has made famous in two continents."
"What will people say next!" she exclaimed, and the colour rushed into her face.
"Say next? You mean print next," said the Duke savagely. "I'm very sorry that we're going to have a play acted here, Hilda——"
He spoke far more sharply than he was wont to speak to his daughter.
"I can't think why you can't be satisfied with the many amusements and interests belonging to your own class," he went on, not over kindly.
"There's no harm in acting," the girl said defiantly. "As for this paragraph, it only says what I should like to do, and what I long to do," and then, to the mingled distress and amazement of both her parents, angry tears began rolling down her face.
"My darling Hilda,"—the Duchess rushed forward and put her arms round her daughter—"surely you don't mean that you would like to be an actress?"
"Of course I mean that," sobbed Lady Hilda. "Acting's the only thing in the world I've ever cared for——"
"Ever cared for?" groaned the Duke. "Listen to her! Who would think her seventeen? She talks like a woman of seventy."
The Duchess signalled to him to go away. She looked distractedly at the clock. It marked twenty-five minutes past eight: "Do go down, James! Say I've been delayed."
As he left the room she turned to her daughter. "Darling, darling child!" she exclaimed, "what are we to do?"
"There's nothing to be done," said the girl, with a touch of mingled dignity and sullenness. "Of course I know that it would make father terribly unhappy, so I'm not thinking of doing it, mother. But I did feel it to be too much when he began to scold me over our private theatricals! I suppose you won't mind my joining the Windsor Strollers if they'll have me later on? And I do hope that you've put me next to Lord Elstone at dinner, mother?"
The Duchess felt a pang of regret. "I wish I had," she said vexedly. "But you yourself told me Lady Brislington regards him as what we old fogies call a great parti so I've put little Rosie next to him."
And then, to Lady Hilda's surprise, her mother went off into a peal of rather hysterical laughter. "Oh, my dear," she exclaimed, "I can't tell you what Lord Elstone's like! He's frighteningly ugly. I can't think what silly little Rosie will make of him."
"I don't mind a bit how ugly he is. He's a wonderful actor. I know I shall like him!" cried Lady Hilda, dabbing her eyes.
"He's no fool. Your father thinks very well of him," observed the Duchess. Then she said quickly, "It's two minutes past the half-hour. We ought by now to be sitting down to dinner——"
She took her daughter's hand, and together they raced along the corridors, and down the great staircase, each as nimble-footed as the other. But outside the drawing-room door the Duchess composed herself, and no one, seeing her come in and greet her guests, would have known that she had looked like her little daughter's twin, two or three moments before.
There was no time to introduce Lord Elstone to those present who were not already acquainted with him; and, after they were all seated round the wide dinner-table the Duchess was slightly amused to overhear him say, in a confidential tone, to the young lady next to him: "I've heard from Walleston how awfully good you are!" She also overheard the surprised, giggling, answer, "I don't know that I'm so very good." And his rather stiff, "I beg your pardon. I thought you were Lady Hilda. I was alluding to her acting."
"How silly of me not to guess that!" And then, more naturally, Rosie Brislington added: "Hilda is splendid. And I'm quite useful, you know, in a humble way. I've a good memory. It's a pity you're only going to be the producer. We've heard you're a wonderful actor, Lord Elstone?"
"I don't know about that," said the young man awkwardly. "Acting's the thing I care for most in the world, and if I'd had better luck, I should have been an actor. I mean a real actor."
Rosie's mother, looking across at the young pair, told herself fondly that her dear child was evidently getting on quite well with that odd young man. What a good thing it was that he should meet, for once, a really nice girl—the sort of girl, reflected Lady Brislington, who was both old-fashioned and up to date, quite unlike the Duchess's wilful, outspoken, tomboyish little Hilda.
Rosie Brislington, though she had quiet, pretty manners, was a good deal made up, and her hair, shingled according to the very latest mode, made her look like a boy in the sixth form.
And the subject of these fond reflections?
Rosie Brislington was well aware that her family considered it her duty to make what worldly folk describe as "a good marriage," and she had, therefore, wasted very little of her time or attention on any young man whom her mother described by the expressive old term "detrimental." She had at once realised, on her arrival at the Castle three days ago, that so far the masculine half of the party was composed solely of "detrimentals." Yet, till this evening, being a simple-natured girl, she had enjoyed the cheery, rather childish atmosphere, and once or twice she had told herself that it must be great fun to be able to throw oneself into anything as her friend Hilda threw herself into all this silly acting.
To-night she felt far from happy, for Lord Elstone was not only very ugly, but also, as she told herself plaintively, in his talk far more like an old gentleman than a young man. Most sincerely did she hope that he liked her as little as she liked him.
And this, as a matter of fact, was the case.
No doubt one reason why "A Pantomime Rehearsal" has kept such an enduring hold on the affections of amateur actors and actresses, is the fact that, apart from its own intrinsic humour, the famous little comedy provides so much simple fun to those engaged in rehearsing it.
On the other hand, from the producer's point of view, it is a difficult play, and one calling for the exercise of a good deal of the histrionic gift.
Lord Elstone, who took everything connected with the theatre very seriously, found his work cut out for him. Indeed not once, but many times, he told himself that but for the intelligence, quiet help, and clever acting, of Lady Hilda Ardvilly, he would never have got this amateur performance of "A Pantomime Rehearsal" into anything like shipshape form.
Many and many a time, as he was directing his unruly troupe, he felt as if he were in very truth "Jack Deedes the gifted author," whose difficult task in the play consists in making all his "Aristocratic Amateurs" carry out his notion of how this new version of "The Babes in the Wood" should be acted! Lord Algy as "Sir Charles Grandison" and Lady Hilda as "The Honourable Lily Eaton-Belgrave" alone prevented "the whole show," as the young man sometimes vexedly said to himself, from being absurd in the wrong sense, and so an utter failure.
Often the producer and his leading lady held anxious counsel together.
"If only they could enter into the 'rotting' spirit which is, after all, the whole point of 'A Pantomime Rehearsal,'" he would say with something like a groan.
"I can't think why they don't buck up a bit more," she would answer sadly.
"It's because they're all so stupid," he would whisper crossly.
"It's so odd, too, for they all say they feel keen."
"They may feel keen, but they're hopelessly flabby; only you and your brother seem to me to have any pep at all!"
Lady Hilda swelled with pride on hearing this delightful praise. They caused her to work harder than ever, not only at her own part, but in a sense at that of everybody else.
Lord Elstone had made one excellent suggestion. This was that "A Pantomime Rehearsal" should be made into a period play, and be acted in the frills and furbelows of the early nineties. This pleased everybody, for everyone enjoys "dressing up."
But alas! As the days went on, and as each of the other ten actors and actresses became more and more tired, two or three of the young men who had thought Lady Hilda charming before they settled down to the really hard work of rehearsing a play, now began to think her a very disagreeable girl. And as for Lord Elstone, his earnestness—they called it his slave-driving qualities—induced in some members of his company something like hatred. Indeed, as the Duchess once observed to the Duke, the state of the younger members of their house-party was far too like that supposed to be displayed in the play they were engaged in rehearsing, to be altogether pleasant.
But, as Rosie Brislington once muttered to the young man who played the part of "Captain Tom Robinson," even the most tiresome house-party comes to an end at last.
III.
And now had come the evening when "A Pantomime Rehearsal" was going to be acted to a real paying audience. Already there had been two private performances that hadn't gone badly at all—the first shown to the older members of the house-party; the second, which was far greater fun, for the benefit of the servants, indoors and out. But then neither of these audiences could be regarded as impartial. Each of these audiences had been only too ready to be pleased with everything that took place, both on the stage and off.
To-night every member of the cast, as well as the producer himself, felt very nervous. Indeed, Lady Hilda was perpetually on the brink of tears, though she felt sure no one suspected the horrid fact.
The curtain was to go up at eight o'clock, and at twenty to eight Lord Elstone sought her out. They had both been so terribly busy all day that they had scarcely spoken to one another, a most unusual state of affairs.
"I want you to come along with me just for five minutes!" he exclaimed.
"What for?" she asked excitedly. "Do tell me? Is there anything I can do—anything I've forgotten?"
"You never forget anything——" He was looking at her with glowing eyes. "You're simply splendid! And you're so good that you'll act them all off the stage——"
"D'you really mean that?"
"Of course I do. If I were a manager——"
"Yes?" she cried, clasping her hands with an unconsciously dramatic gesture.
"You'd be my leading lady!"
She looked at him to see if he were serious, and when she saw that he was, she felt so pleased that two tears of joy actually ran down her painted cheeks.
"Do come with me just for five minutes?" and he touched her arm.
"Come where?"
"To the butler's pantry. It's the only place where we can get a minute's quiet."
"What a good idea!" she cried delightedly .
"You see, it's so near to the ballroom—I mean the theatre."
He pulled out his watch. "There's a good quarter of an hour before the curtain is even timed to go up, and it won't go up, as a matter of fact, for at least another twenty-five minutes."
In the centre of the stone-vaulted pantry, which had been, hundreds of years ago, a banqueting-room, stood a table, and on that table a tray on which were a plateful of daintily cut little sandwiches, a bottle of cold water, and half a bottle of champagne.
"Who can this tray be for? No one's ill that I know of," said Lady Hilda.
"Can't you guess whom it's for?"
She looked at the young man, surprised. "Of course I can't guess."
"It's for you."
"For me?" The colour rushed into her face.
"I don't suppose you're aware," he said gravely, "that you've eaten nothing all day. I watched you at lunch, I watched you at tea, and I watched you while the others were all guzzling away an hour ago! So now you've got to eat up all those sandwiches, and you've got to have a little fizz—not much—with just a dash of water in it!"
He was now engaged in opening the half-bottle of champagne, and, as she said nothing, he went on, banteringly, "You see, I'm treating you as if you really were my leading lady! You don't mind—do you?"
"Of course I don't mind. I'll just do as you say."
She began to nibble daintily at a sandwich, and then she turned to him, piteously, "I don't think I can eat this. It seems to choke me. I'm not a bit hungry."
"Of course you can eat a sandwich—and I'll have one too, to keep you company! I know exactly how you feel, for I felt exactly like that on my first night."
He poured out a half-glass of champagne. The glass was of generous size, and had been made a hundred years ago, when Lady Hilda's great-grandfather and great-grandmother had married. Into the glass Lord Elstone poured a little water.
"Take a mouthful of this stuff! It's a 1906 champagne, the best bubbly in the world," he said, smiling.
She sipped a little champagne, and the colour came back into her pale cheeks. Then she looked round her, distractedly. "Oh, but you must have some too! I wonder where the glasses are kept?"
"I want you to drink all that up."
"Dont think about me."
She obeyed him, wondering a little within herself why she always did at once everything Lord Elstone told her to do.
"We mustn't be late," she said nervously.
"We shan't be late. You mustn't interfere with my job"—and he nearly added the words "my darling." But he pulled himself up in time, and for a moment felt what he was not given to feeling—ashamed of himself. For all his lack of conventionality Lord Elstone had old-fashioned ideas as to the way a man should treat a woman. It would have seemed to him dishonourable to lure his host's daughter into his host's pantry in order to make love to her.
After Lady Hilda had finished her champagne, it was his turn to be surprised. She poured a little water into the glass from which she had just drunk, and then she took out of the pocket of her long old-fashioned skirt, an unfolded handkerchief. Shaking it out, she dried the glass with it.
"I hope you won't think this 'piggy,'" she said, using an old nursery word, "but I do wish you'd have some of the champagne too!"
"'Drink to me only with thine eyes,'" he murmured; and she laughed merrily at the apt quotation. Then, to please her, he did pour out a little champagne, but he only sipped it.
"I suppose we must be going now," he said gloomily.
"Of course we must. I feel quite all right now!"
Yet before they went through the swing-door she suddenly stayed, her dancing steps.
"Lord Elstone," she said earnestly, "I don't think any of us have thanked you half enough for all the trouble you've taken, and all the time you've spared us. Mother says she's afraid you must be fearfully tired."
He gave her a quick look. "The Duke kindly asked me just now to stay on for a few days after the others have gone——"
She cried childishly, "I am glad you're staying on. What fun we'll have talking it all over! There are heaps of things I want to ask you, too. I mean about acting, and about the plays they're having in London now. We're not coming up to town till May, and then there'll be that tiresome Season, for I'm coming out this year. I know you hate it all too, so I don't suppose we'll often meet, though I hope you'll find time to come and see us now and again when we're alone?"
"Of course I will," and then he said, rather awkwardly, "I've never been friends with a girl before—I mean if I may call myself your friend."
"Of course we're friends, real friends!"
How proud and pleased she felt.
He held open the door for her to pass through, and when they were in the stone-paved passage she said eagerly, "Perhaps mother will let me go sometimes with you to the play, if you tell her it's a nice play. She's rather old-fashioned, you know, though she's very much more advanced than father. Heaps of my friends go about alone with young men, and I don't see why they shouldn't! However, even father agrees that it's all right if one's in a party, so I can make up a party, and you can come to it."
"Two's company, and four or six are none!" he exclaimed vexedly.
"That's true. But father would never understand that."
By now they were back in the ballroom, where already the packed audience looked impatient and expectant.
Lord Elstone glanced at his watch. "Another two minutes, and then we're off!"
The curtain went up; the lights were lowered, and the orchestra stopped. Then came the tingling sound of a piano, and Lord Algy, as "Jack Deedes," was discovered playing, with Sir Charles Grandison, on the top of the ladder painting in the "Forest Cloth."
As fortunately so often happens "on the night," everyone acted his and her best, the audience being particularly pleased with the result of Lord Elstone's having dressed the play in the now strange-looking clothes which were the only wear when "A Pantomime Rehearsal" first saw the limelight.
And when, at last, the curtain went down, never had there been more applause, more calls, on even a great London First Night—and the Duke, much as he hated what he called "all this kind of thing," felt frankly amused at the enthusiasm displayed.
After the final fall of the curtain an announcement was made inviting the audience to enjoy some light refreshments which the Duchess had generously provided, although refreshments had not been at all in the bond. And then the whole of the cast, together with their producer, trooped off to supper, some of them still humming the famous chorus:
"Diddle-oddle-oddle-chip-cham
Chi-chooral-li-ay:
Diddle-oddle-oddle-chip-cham
Chi-chooral-li-ay."
IV.
It was nearly a week later. Life had become normal again, and to one of the inmates of the Castle was about to appear what she called "flat," for Lord Elstone was leaving for town in a few minutes. Indeed, he and Lady Hilda were now saying just a few last words on the terrace.
"I do so hate your going away," she said in a melancholy tone.
"Is that really true?"
The young man for once spoke gravely, so gravely indeed that she looked up at him, surprised.
"Of course it's true. You're the one person in the world who understands exactly how I feel!"
"I should like to think that."
"You don't know how often I've wanted to be a man this last fortnight. In fact,"—she went off into a peal of laughter—"how often I've longed to be you, Lord Elstone!"
"To be me?"
"You can do everything you want. You can act or not act, just as you like. You've got money enough to build a theatre. Look at me? I'm only a girl—not even come out, though I shall be eighteen next month. But if I were forty, I still could never be an actress. It would make my father too unhappy."
He tried to smile, but he still looked unnaturally grave. How often had he rehearsed to himself, during the last few hours, what he was going to say! But somehow the opening he had planned now seemed affected, and silly. Still, he could think of nothing better.
"You've got the one thing I've always longed for, all my life. Can't you guess what that is?" he said earnestly.
The girl looked at him anxiously. She was completely at a loss.
And then she answered, in what he thought such a dear shy little way: "You mean a darling mother? I am lucky in that. I did feel sorry when I heard that you had lost yours when you were only a baby. Mothers always understand. I know that mother is very sorry for me; but she's too loyal to father to tell me so."
"I've come to love your mother," he said slowly. "But I didn't mean that."
"Then what did you mean?" She felt full of curiosity.
"If I tell you, you'll laugh at me—or if you are too kind to laugh now, you certainly will laugh when you are alone, after I've gone."
"I should never think of laughing at you!" she exclaimed. And then, "You know what you said just before our performance? That you hoped we'd always be friends? Well, you really are my friend. I've never had a man friend before."
When she said that, looking straight at him, he all but took hold of her hand. But he was, as regarded some things, a very humble young man.
"You don't know what it's like to be as ugly as I am," he muttered. "To know that if an attractive woman speaks to you kindly, she——"
"She what?" asked Lady Hilda, staring at him in astonishment.
There had come a little chilly feeling round her heart. Somehow she didn't like the thought that "attractive women" talked to her friend.
"—is just being nice out of pity."
"D'you think looks matter as much as that in a man?" she asked, genuinely amazed that he should be troubling about his appearance.
"D'you remember what you told me about yourself when you were a little girl?"
Now Lady Hilda had talked to Lord Elstone so much in the last few days—"chitter chatter, chitter chatter," as the Duke had said crossly to himself more than once, when he had tried to get the young man to himself—that she really could not remember what it was that she had told him about herself as a little girl.
"I wonder what you mean?" she said nervously, for just now he looked so unlike his merry, lively self.
"You told me that you had loved the theatre ever since you had been to a pantomime called 'Beauty and the Beast.'"
She breathed again. They were on their old happy hunting ground of the theatre—that fairyland in which she longed to dwell.
"Yes!" she exclaimed. "That's quite true. I can remember it all, oh! so well even now——"
"There's one part in that pantomime that I've longed to play ever since I've met you—but then, of course, you'd have to be a member of the cast too."
She looked at him uncertainly. What could he mean?
And then he did take her hand. "The part I long to play," he said ardently, "is that of the poor Beast, if only you'll consent to be my Beauty——"
She opened her large eyes wide; thus, something of what he was feeling suddenly became clear to her. She tried, but only feebly, to withdraw her hand from his strong clasp.
"Dearest," he whispered. "My darling little love—don't say No just yet. This poor Beast would want so little from his Beauty. I don't mind how long I wait, if only I can see you now and again. Of course I know you'll have ever so many chances of marrying some better-looking chap——"
"I don't want a better-looking chap, and——"
Her voice was trembling and she still felt very much surprised. But in some ways she was like her mother; that is, she always knew her own mind; so bravely she went on. "—I like you just as you are. I should hate you to be different in anything. And as for chances——"
"Yes?"
He had drawn her to him; his ugly face full of hope, of deep feeling. But he was so afraid of frightening her!
She whispered "'There is,' I think, 'a tide in the affairs of Hilda——'" And then he did take her into his
An hour later the Duke said to the Duchess, "I see now why I could never get hold of that young chap——"
"You'll have plenty of time later on," she said placidly.
He looked at her surprised, even a little hurt.
"Laura? You are a cynic! People think you so soft and kind, but it's I who am the sentimentalist."
"She's such a baby; I do hate the thought of her being married yet——" She was crying now. "I do hope they won't be in too great a hurry."
"My poor darling, they're talking of Easter! It's your child who's in a hurry."
"James! How dare you say that?"
"It's the truth. Hilda is a sensible little girl, and she knows she's got hold of a good thing. I wish her sisters had been more like her——"
And then, all at once, the Duchess began to laugh. "I'm thinking of Agnes Brislington," she gasped.
"Why should you think of that horrid woman just now?"
"Something she once said came back to my mind. After all, she's one of my oldest friends; I'll write to-day and tell her our news. It would hurt her if she first saw it in the paper!"
Copyright, 1927, by Paul Reynolds, in the United States of America.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1947, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 76 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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