# The Soul of Countess Adrian/Chapter 8
### CHAPTER VIII.
#### The Great Night.

It was a mixture of these feelings which made Lendon, when he was with Beatrice, avoid mentioning that Countess Adrian was sitting to him for her portrait. The discovery came about by accident, though it must not be supposed that he made any special point of concealment. In truth his mind, except during the sittings, was too much occupied with Beatrice herself and with the fate of the play, to concern itself deeply about Countess Adrian. He was working at the background one afternoon when, to his great, surprise, Mrs. Cubison and Miss Brett were announced.
They had come to consult him upon a matter in the Duchess' costume, about which Cosway Keele and the Dionysion authorities found themselves in sudden perplexity. An impulse had seized Beatrice to drive along the embankment to Chelsea. They had got into a hansom at the door of the Dionysion, where they were. So Mrs. Cubison explained. The matter of the costume could be settled at once by reference to a volume in the library, and Lendon at once proposed an adjournment thither. Mrs. Cubison declared her intention of waiting for them in the studio, thus taking an opportunity of resting her poor legs and head, and forthwith proceeded to repose herself on the sofa. As she passed the easel at which Lendon had been working, Beatrice stopped with a startled exclamation and stood motionless before the portrait.
"Ah! I forgot," said Lendon a little awkwardly. "I am painting Countess Adrian. It is a curious sort of commission, and I am bound to secrecy, for it is to be a birthday present to Sir Donald Urquhart, and till the day comes he is to know nothing about it."
Beatrice said not a word for a minute, but looked intently at the picture.
"Is that why you did not tell me?" she asked.
"In good truth," he answered, "when I am with you I can think of nothing but you and the Duchess of Malfi. And then I did not want to revive an unpleasant association."
Beatrice touched the little charm at her wrist. "You need not have been afraid; she has been away. And besides, I have been relying on my talisman."
"Or rather work has driven away the foolish fancy—sober, serious, earnest work—for it was a foolish fancy, Beatrice, you will admit it now."
She shook her head. "It was no fancy; and even as I look at her portrait, the eyes seem to follow me and make me shiver with that strange horrible dread. I shall never get over it—never! But I am stronger and better able to face it when I have you to help me." She paused a moment. As if with an effort she turned away from the portrait. Presently she said to him in a tone of alarm—"She is back again from Paris? And she will be at the Dionysion first-night. Oh! what shall I do?"
"My dear child," he said soothingly. "It makes me miserable to see how this thing unnerves you. I have got a message for you from Countess Adrian herself, which I had not meant to give you until you yourself should bring up the subject. Perhaps it may comfort you."
"You told her that I was afraid?"
"I told her that you were delicate, nervous and overwrought, and that imagination is apt to run riot with such an organization as yours. Well, she bade me tell you that she would never experimentalize, as she called it, on you again, and that you had her heartiest wishes for success as the Duchess of Malfi. You will find her one of the most sympathetic of your first-night audience."
She gave another little shiver. "Tell me," she said "you are painting her picture, you have many opportunities of hearing her talk. You should be in some sort of position to know whether this instinctive dread of mine has any foundation in fact. Do you think she is a good woman?"
He hesitated. With the girl's large clear eyes full upon him, it seemed to him impossible to answer from his heart that he believed Countess Adrian to be a good woman. "I don't know; I cannot tell," he answered. "Don't let us talk of Countess Adrian any more. Come to the book-room and we will look up the Duchess' sleeve."
She went up the stairs silently, and followed him as he led the way to a quaint bow-windowed room, which contained the celebrated Stothard prints, and a collection of volumes rare enough to satisfy a most fastidious collector, It was some time before they settled the vexed question of the pattern of the Duchess' sleeve. Then the prints had to be examined. And then some curious Moorish brass work took her fancy. He thought she had quite forgotten Countess Adrian; but after she had said that they must go down and wake up Marmy, she paused, and returned again to the subject.
"It is humiliating to confess that I am relieved at Countess Adrian's promise to spare me," she said, "but it is true. And I am almost glad to know that she was consciously exerting her will against me. Perhaps now that I am warned and on my guard, I might have some strength to resist. But I feel that I could not act if that power was working against me. It was like a sort of death that night. Everything seemed to go out of me, and there came the most appalling sensation of absolute loneliness and terror. Then I fainted. But I will be strong," she added feverishly. "I can be strong, for now I have you to help me."
"Oh Beatrice," Lendon cried. "You don't know how happy those words of yours make me. They give me hope and courage. They lift me nearer to you. Don't let us talk of Countess Adrian, dear. Let us talk of ourselves. Oh, if only I could be certain that you would let me help you always—in everything. If only I might be close to you always to protect you from all trouble, to take the burden of all that perplexes and alarms you. These imaginary terrors would vanish away into the night from which they had sprung, and my love would be like a wall encompassing you and guarding you from every hurtful influence."
"Your love!" she replied, in a subdued half-wondering tone.
"You know that I love you," he exclaimed passionately. "I have loved you from the first moment that I saw you on the steamer. I love you as I have never loved any other woman in the world—purely, wholly, devotedly. I don't want to hide from you that I have loved before. I cared once for a woman who—who was unworthy. That love is dead—a thing of the past; and deep as it was, it seems nothing—nothing in comparison with the love I feel for you."
It was the first time he had declared his love so unreservedly, though over and over again, in every word and look he had implied it. She drew back a little, as if he had pained her.
"Hush," she said, "you mustn't say that. You mustn't talk to me of love—now."
"How can I keep silence, when your voice, your look, something in your eyes, in your manner when we are together half implies that you do care for me a little? Oh! Beatrice, you know it is so. You know that there is sympathy between us. You are happy in my companionship."
"Oh, yes!" she answered simply, "But Mr. Lendon—that is not love."
"It would soon grow to be love," he urged, "if only you would give your heart full play, if only it might not be a forbidden subject between us."
"It must be so still," she answered. "I cannot think of love yet."
"But a little later," he pleaded, "when you know me better, and trust me more."
"I don't need to do that," she said; "I have trusted you always. I trusted you not to be like other men who have wanted to make love to me. I trusted you to be my friend and to have my career at heart."
There was a note of reproach in her tone which touched him keenly.
"Oh Beatrice," he said, "you expect too much of me—you expect me to be more than human; how can I help loving you? And have I not your career at heart? There is no one who thinks so much of it as I do—yes, not even you yourself—for you don't see the dangers as I see them. You don't see that you need some one to lean upon. Some one to stand between you and the jars and shocks your sensitive nature must inevitably suffer. You don't see that, however brilliant your life may be—and it will be that, for you will certainly succeed—the more brilliant indeed that it is, more lonely it will be."
"I do know that," she answered sadly; "you can little guess how lonely I have felt, even here in London. Do I not know how lonely I shall feel on the first night of the 'Duchess of Malfi,' more lonely if it is success than if—if it be failure."
"No, Beatrice," he said, taking her hands in his; "you will not be lonely, for I shall be there, and my whole heart will be with you."
She did not answer. They stood thus with hands clasped, both looking out on the little garden gay with its spring bulbs.
"We ought to go to Marmy," she said at last, withdrawing her hands.
"Will you not give me one word of hope? I will wait as long as you please. Only give me the right to stand by you before the world as your affianced husband. I know that I could understand you, and that I could make you happy. I know that I could win your love."
"Does that seem to you so very difficult?" she said, looking at him with the first gleam of coquetry he had ever seen in her eyes.
He took her hand again in his and kissed it. "Say that it may be so, Beatrice. Give me the right to guard you. Give me the right to prove to you how tenderly and passionately I love you."
"No," she answered seriously, "not now. I am going to tell you exactly how I feel, and you mustn't think me ungrateful or unwomanly. I do value your love. I do feel proud of the honour you have done me. Perhaps some day, if you would be patient—some day I might be able to tell you that I care for you in the way you wish; but now"—a smile played on her face—"Mr. Lendon, the truth is that I am devoted heart and soul to some one else."
"Some one else!" Lendon exclaimed, thrilling with doubt and dread.
"Yes; some one worthy of my devotion. I have been constantly in his company during the past weeks. I have studied his character in many phases. He has his faults, but he is greater than his faults; and I admire him in spite of them—nay, because of them. That is how one ought to love, is it not, Mr. Lendon?"
"Beatrice! it is not like you to play with a man's heart in this way."
She smiled again. "But I want you to hear all about my hero, Bernard. He is a brave, loyal, devoted gentleman. He is very proud, but he is an odd mixture, too, of modesty and pride—too modest to speak of love until he is told that he may love—but then, when lifted so high, brave enough for any woman's heart—resolute to hold to her, to defend her, to fight for her, to die for her, to do anything but give her up!"
She was becoming melodramatic; Lendon was becoming sullen.
"Any man would be like that, I suppose," he said; "any man who cared for a woman—we have all of us pluck enough for that."
"Oh, but all men are not like my hero, and my champion, and my lover!"
The last word revived him.
"Come, now," he said, "I know you are talking nonsense when you talk like that. May I hear that wonderful hero's name?"
"Oh, yes! his name is Antonio."
A thrill of relief passed through Lendon's heart.
"Treacherous Antonio," he said with a smile. "I introduced him to you, and he has supplanted me! Antonio is the lover and husband of the Duchess of Malfi."
Beatrice smiled a sweet, half-pathetic smile. "Antonio must have his day," she answered. "But the curtain must fall upon him. Then—perhaps!"
There was an all pervading thrill of excitement in the closely packed rows of seats at the Dionysian on the first night of "The Duchess of Malfi." This was always, more or less, the case. A Dionysion first-night was one of the events of the year. Seats were taken months beforehand, and the life of Cosway Keele's manager was made a burden to him, because of the number of applications and entreaties from acquaintances who thought they had a right to be present on this important occasion. The world of London showed itself in miniature—aristocracy, art, and letters, sent their representatives. Every face in the stalls and boxes was the face of a man or woman known and talked about, and not to be at the first night of the Dionysion was to proclaim oneself out of the swim, at least in Bohemia.
To-night, the excitement was intensified. Beatrice Brett had been much trumpeted, much cried down. The members of the profession were jealous of her notoriety, furious at what they called her audacity. She had been much written about. For weeks the paragraphists had been busy gleaning details as to the new production. The pessimists declared it to be a mad venture; the optimists maintained that a great actress was going to astonish the world. The sick leading lady, who was of course too ill to be present, cursed fate in having been forced to give an opening to a formidable rival. The friends of that same leading lady gathered in somewhat gloomy force, prepared to report and condemn. The audience was what the newspapers called a more than usually brilliant assemblage, but as the house filled there were evidences of almost painful tension. Friends looked anxious and alert. Critics gathered in knots, after having deposited their opera hats, and talked together as gravely as though the fate of a nation were at stake. The pit and gallery were noisy and exuberant. Cosway Keele was a favourite. He had never failed them yet, and they were prepared to back his judgment now. Every now and then, as some recognized celebrity took his seat, a cheer would float down from the ranks above. Lendon was one of those thus greeted. It was freely announced that he was principally responsible for the modernised version of Webster's play, and also for the costumes of the performers; and then, too, thanks to Mrs. Walcot Valbry, rumour already credited him with more than a professional interest in the new actress. He himself was strung to the extremest pitch of nervousness. Mrs. Walcot Valbry, resplendent in diamonds, bent over the edge of her box and nodded and beckoned him to come to her. She had one of the large boxes on the ground tier so that it was easy for an occupant of the stalls to go to her without any troublesome ceremony of knocking at doors. A great many of the dramatic critics availed themselves of the privilege, and she had the satisfaction of feeling that she was putting in a good word for her protégée. As she sat in the corner seat facing the house, she bowed till the diamonds on her white head twinkled like a rain of dewdrops, and she looked like a benign fairy who felt herself more or less responsible for the whole occasion, for did not everyone know that it was at her house Cosway Keele had first seen the American Improvisatrice? She was not the only attraction of the box, which in truth drew towards it many pairs of eyes. Countess Adrian sat looking towards the stage, and somewhat shielded by a curtain from general observation, but Sir Donald Urquhart, in the centre, was fully visible, and it was easy to guess who was the lady monopolizing his attention. She, too, bent over and smiled and nodded at Lendon, and when he came to speak to her, whispered—
"Don't be uneasy, your Improvisatrice shall not have to dread my evil eye to-night—all my influence, all my wishes, will spur her on to success."
And the overture began, and the play opened, and went on, it seemed to Lendon, like the drama of a dream. And at last the curtain did fall upon Antonio—or it would be more correct to say, upon the Duchess—amid such a tempest of applause as perhaps, in spite of all its famous revivals, had never been heard within the walls of the Dionysion.
Needless to say that the play was mounted with all the splendour and dramatic effect and strict attention to historic detail which could make mediæval Italy live again in modern London; needless to say that Cosway Keele as Bosola, the finished villain, surpassed all his previous impersonations, and that a new name was written on the list of stage successes. All this was taken for granted and melted into comparative insignificance before the stupendous impression created by the new Duchess of Malfi. Beatrice had verified all her admirers' most sanguine predictions, and in one night had lifted herself to the rank of the Immortals. Her grace and dignity, her exquisite pathos, her womanly passion, and, at the last, her sublime and saint-like courage, literally took the house by storm. There was an audible sob through the theatre when, just before her cruel death, the Duchess begs that her little children may be cared for—
"I pray thee, look thou giv'st my little boy Some syrup for his cold, and let the girl Say her prayers ere she sleep.
And again, as the strangling cords are round her—
" Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength, Must pull down heaven upon me;— Yet stay, heaven gates are not so highly arch'd As princes' palaces; they that enter there Must go upon their knees—Come, violent death, Serve for mandragora to make me sleep!—
Lendon felt his whole being torn with wonder and emotion, and a strange sweet despair. How could he ever hope to win this dazzling creature, whose look, and word, and gesture could thrill and hold spell-bound a vast assemblage such as this which watched her to-night! And how pure womanly she was! In very soul and essence the type of wife and mother! There lay the secret of her power! She was almost fainting when Cosway Keele brought her forward. Her eye turned to the upper box in which Lendon sat beside Mrs. Cubison. He felt that they were lifted in yearning for sympathy, and, oh! with what wild passionate love his heart went out to her! Mrs. Cubison hurried down the narrow staircase and along the stone passage that led behind. The word had gone round that, as usual on first nights, Cosway Keele would hold a reception on the stage when all was over, and half the occupants of the stalls and boxes were crowding round. Lendon held back. It would have been agony to him that night to join in the commonplace criticisms and the effusive ejaculations of wonder and delight. Beatrice's triumph was to him too sacred a thing for this. Mrs. Cubison bade him wait while she went into Beatrice's dressing-room. Presently her dresser came out to say that Miss Brett and Mrs. Cubison were going straight home and wished Mr. Lendon to go with them.
It was not long before Beatrice herself, leaning shyly on Mrs. Cubison's arm, stole down the passage so closely cloaked and hooded as to be scarcely recognizable. At the same moment Cosway Keele rushed out through the green-room door.
"Miss Brett, we are waiting for you. You will come on? All London is longing to congratulate you."
"Not to-night," she answered. "Indeed, Mr. Keele, I cannot. Indeed, I must go home. Tell me that you are pleased. That's all I care about."
The manager took her two hands in his and pressed them warmly.
"I have told you already what I think," he said. "You are finer than the finest. God bless you, my dear, and thank you. Go home, child," he added with feeling, "and sleep sweetly and dream of the glorious future that is yours from to-night." He turned to Mrs. Cubison, partly to conceal his emotion; he, too, was overwrought. "You must have telegrams you want to send; I have arranged at the office. You had better write them here."
"Why, certainly, there must go a cablegram to the Professor," cried Mrs. Cubison, and ran into the green room. Cosway Keele once more clasped Beatrice's hand. The low roar of voices and laughter from the stage reached them distinctly. "I must go to my guests," he said. "We shall see you round, I suppose, presently, Lendon?"
"He is coming with me," said Beatrice, and slipped her hand within his arm.
Cosway Keele gave a quick look at both—a look which seemed to take in the situation, and left them.
They stood in the narrow passage, her hand was on his arm, and her sweet face was turned up to his.
"Beatrice—my love," he whispered wildly. "How can I dare ask you to stoop to me—after to-night?"
"The curtain has fallen," she said softly. "Antonio has had his day."
Not one word more was spoken then. They understood each other. Surely for the space of three minutes that narrow stone-paved corridor was transformed into Elysium. Scene-shifters and supers and dressers passed on their way out into the street, and looked curiously at the young heroine of the evening cowering here in the half-darkness, when not many paces distant champagne corks were popping and glasses were passing, and some hundreds of the best-known people in London were celebrating her triumph. Mrs. Cubison came back having written and dispatched a little sheaf of telegrams, and Lendon went to find the brougham and put them into it and took his seat beside them. It was so strange driving through the streets after all that had happened on that wondrous evening. Beatrice leaned back like a broken lily; but her eyes glowed soft and bright as stars. She did not speak. Fortunately for Lendon, Mrs. Cubison rattled on, delivering a pæan of joy and thanksgiving. The little house was all astir, and supper was laid in the dining-room. Mrs. Cubison, intent on some domestic arrangement, preceded them thither. She wanted to be certain that the champagne had been iced. Lendon drew Beatrice into her own little study where they had sat so often together.
She threw off her cloak and stood before him, her face very pale and tremulous, with a strange, sweet, inviting smile on her lips, and her golden hair shining round her.
"Beatrice—my darling!" Lendon cried; and he would have taken her in his arms then and there; but something in her clear, pure eyes, in her strange bright smile, that was so sweet and yet so cold, something in her statuesque attitude rebuked his lover's ardour. He let his hands fall upon her dress, but attempted no closer embrace; then he lifted her cloak and then laid it down, and wheeled forward a chair to the fire.
"Sit down," he said gently, "you must be very cold and very tired."
"I am not cold," she answered, "and I am too happy to be tired. I never was so happy in all my life."
"Are you lonely, Beatrice, as you feared?" he said.
"No," she answered. "I am not lonely. You are sharing my joy with me."
He knelt on the ground beside her, and took her hand and kissed it.
"Beatrice, did you mean what you said in the theatre? Has Antonio had his day, and is it my turn now? Oh! my love, be true and frank. Don't keep me in suspense. I love you with my whole heart and soul. Tell me that you will be my wife."
"If you will take me, Bernard," she answered; "I will try to be a true and loving wife; and I know that you will be good to me. You won't expect too much from me, dear. I want you to be very gentle; I want you to be very patient."
He took her in his arms and kissed her with tenderness, but with no passion. It was not passion that she needed from him, but protecting love. He had felt this from the first.
When they went out to the lighted supper-room, Beatrice shyly took Bernard's hand and led him to Mrs. Cubison. "Marmy," she said, "I have promised to be Mr. Lendon's wife?"