CHAPTER XXIX.
PREPARATIONS FOR AN IMPORTANT EVENT.
The coldness between uncle Bryan and Jessie did not diminish with time. As a matter of necessity they were compelled to speak to each other occasionally, but they did so with coldness and reluctance, and a distinct avoidance of the subject which had broken the bond between them. I say that they were compelled to speak to each other as a matter of necessity, but I may be mistaken; they may have spoken not out of consideration for themselves, but for my mother. Thinking over the matter since that time, I have understood how those two, if they had been alone, might have lived in the same house for years, and might have performed their separate duties conscientiously, without a word passing between them. For the sake of peace Jessie would have yielded, but uncle Bryan would have remained implacable. Results proved this. In vain did my mother strive to bring them together in a more amiable spirit; in vain did she speak separately to each of the other's good qualities, magnifying their merits, ignoring their faults. Her labour upon uncle Bryan was entirely lost; but it was different with Jessie, not because she thought she was wrong, nor for uncle Bryan's sake, but out of her love for my mother.
'You are a child, my dear,' said my mother to her, 'and he is an old man. If for that reason alone, you should yield.'
'It would be useless,' was Jessie's rejoinder; 'I have known him for a much shorter time than you, but I know his nature better than you do. I judge of it by my own.'
'You do both him and yourself injustice, my dear,' pleaded the peacemaker; 'if he were all wrong and you were all right, it would be your duty to give in.'
'Love and duty do not always go together,' said Jessie obstinately.
'But we must make sacrifices, my child; what a miserable thing this life would be if some of us did not yield!'
'If I thought,' said Jessie, softening, 'that I should not be insulted I would do as you wish willingly, most willingly--not for my sake, but for yours.'
'Try, then, for my sake.'
'I will; and you will see what will come of it.'
And Jessie tried, in her best manner and in good faith, with the result for which she was prepared.
'Can you not see now how it is?' she asked, with tears in her eyes. 'I have brought trouble into this house. How much better would it have been for you if I had never entered it! But it wasn't my fault. Ah, if I were a man I wouldn't stop in it for another hour! But I have no friends; and if it were not that I love to live, I might wish that I had never been born.'
'Then you do not regard me as a friend, my dear child?'
But Jessie, with cruel determination, refused to respond to the tender appeal, and turned rebelliously away. All this I learnt from my mother, who hid nothing from me, and it did not tend to make me happier.
'Be patient, my darling,' my mother said; 'all will come right in the end.'
'Did anything ever come right with uncle Bryan?' I fretfully asked. 'Think of the story he told us! I remember too well what you said when I asked if you would have me look on things as he does. You said it would take all the sweetness out of my life; and you were right. He has taken the sweetness out of it already.'
I did not consider that it was the very refinement of cruelty to bring her own words in judgment against herself. On such occasions she would tremble from sheer helplessness; but with unwearied patience she would strengthen her soul, and strive, and strive, for ever with the same result. So wrapt was I in my own unhappiness, that it was only by fits and starts I gave a thought to hers; even that she was growing thinner and more sad, with this inward conflict of her affections, escaped me. Others saw it, but at that time the selfishness of my own grief made me blind.
But there were bright spots in my life during these days, even in the midst of these unhappy differences, in every one of which Jessie was the central figure. All that seemed to me worth living for was centred in Jessie; and she was never absent from my mind. She passed nearly the whole of her time with the Wests now--naturally enough, finding so little comfort at home--and as I was not happy out of her society, all my leisure was spent with her. This circumstance was introduced unpremeditatedly one evening when Jessie and I were preparing to go out. My mother, to tempt us to stop at home, had promised some little delicacies for supper, and mentioned it incidentally, when Jessie said that she should not want any supper when she came home.
'I am sure to have supper with Josey West,' she said.
'You go there a great deal, Jessie,' remarked my mother, with an anxious look.
'I am happy there,' was Jessie's terse reply; 'but I don't want to take Chris away.'
'You don't want the sunflower to turn to the sun,' sneered uncle Bryan, with his usual amiability.
'I will not thank you for the compliment,' said Jessie, 'for it isn't meant for one. Chris,' she exclaimed, turning suddenly to me, 'is the sun the only bright thing in the heavens? Is not the moon as lovely, and are not the stars the loveliest of all?'
Uncle Bryan took up the theme, continuing it to her disadvantage.
'But one loses sight of these loveliest things of all when the glare of the sun is in his eyes.'
Jessie bit her lips.
'Am I to blame for going where my best friends are?' she asked.
'You go where your wishes take you. We are certainly not good enough for such a young lady as you.'
'Perhaps not,' said Jessie defiantly, as she left the room.
This was her custom, after all her attempts at conciliation had failed. Sometimes she would be silent; at others she would answer pithily and bitterly, and without thought, perhaps; but she always retired when she was becoming the subject of conversation. The old days of light skirmishing were at an end. Short and bitter battles of words, in which there was much gall, were now the fashion.
I was aware that for some time preparations were being made for an important evening at the Wests'. I was very curious about it, but Jessie would not allay my curiosity.
'You shall know all at the proper time,' she said; 'in the mean time you can help me if you like.'
'Of course I will. What is that paper in your hand?'
'This is one of my characters, Chris. See here. Pauline--I'm to play Pauline. And here's another--Mrs. Letitia Lullaby--that's me again. I must learn every word of the parts, and you can help me in them.'
'I know what you want, Jessie; I've heard Turk go through some of his parts.'
Thus it fell to my lot to hear Jessie repeat from memory all that Pauline and Mrs. Letitia Lullaby have to say, giving her the cues, and correcting her until she was, as she said, 'letter perfect.' But as she continued to tease me, and would not let me into the secret of all this preparation, I applied to Josey West for information. The good-natured creature seldom refused me anything.
'We are going to have a grand dress performance, my dear,' she said, 'and Jessie will play the principal characters in two pieces.'
'In dress?' I asked, in some amazement.
'In dress, my dear. The pieces are Delicate Ground, and A Conjugal Lesson; three characters in the first, and two in the second. Gus will play Mr. Simon Lullaby, Jessie's husband, in one piece, and Citizen Sangfroid, Jessie's husband, in the other. Brinsley, who is out of an engagement, has condescended--that is the word, my dear--condescended to play Alphonse de Grandier in Delicate Ground for one night only, by special request of a lady.'
'Jessie?' I said.
'She is the lady referred to; the part is far beneath him, of course--these parts always are, my dear, unless they are the principal parts--but he'll play it very well; I shouldn't wonder if he doesn't try to cut Gus out, so that we are sure to have some good acting. Between the pieces there will be some dancing by Sophy, and Florry, and Matty, and Rosy, and Nelly--it's good practice for them--and as there's a change of performance at the Royal Columbia, Turk hopes to be able to get away in time to see the last piece, and to recite "The Dream of Eugene Aram." He wished very much to recite another piece, as he was sick of committing murders, he said; but he does Eugene Aram also by special request of a lady. He does it very finely too; one night at a benefit two ladies went into hysterics in the middle of it, and had to be carried out of the theatre. There was a paragraph in the Era about it, and it was put in some country papers as well. Turk is very proud of that; he often speaks of it as a triumph of art. I ought to play something as well, oughtn't I, my dear, on Jessie's night? But I shall have enough to do as acting-manager.'
'Why do you call it Jessie's night?'
'Because it's the first time she ever dressed to act. Why, Turk has got some bills printed!--he's a good-natured fellow, is Turk, the best in the whole bunch, my dear! Here's one; but you mustn't say you've seen it. Jessie doesn't know anything about it yet.' And Josey West produced a printed bill, which read as follows:
Josey West drew my particular attention to various parts of the programme, such as the price of the stalls. 'In a fashionable theatre, my dear, such as this is,' she said, with a whimsical look,' you can't make the stalls too high;' and the notice about babies in arms--'You know what a famous family we are for babies, my dear;' especially to the words, 'Free list suspended, press excepted.'
'But you don't expect the press,' I said.
'Not exactly the press; but somebody of as much importance as a critic may honour us with his company. But never mind him just now. Isn't the programme splendid? It was Turk's idea, and he drew it up, and had it printed, all out of his own pocket. No one knows anything of it but you and me and him, so you must keep it quiet--we want to surprise Jessie with it when the night comes. Turk says that when Jessie is a famous actress this playbill will be a great curiosity.'
'When Jessie becomes a famous actress!' I repeated, with a sinking heart.
'Yes, my dear; and she will be if she likes. Do you know, Chris, that if I were you--I really think if I were you'--and she paused, and looked at me kindly and shrewdly--'that I would buy two of the nicest bouquets I can see to throw to Jessie when she is called on at the end of the pieces. We'll manage between us, you and me, that no one shall see them until the proper moment; you buy them, and give them to me on the sly before the audience arrives, and I'll place them under your seat, so that no one shall know. And now, my dear, I want you to tell me something. If you don't like to, don't; and if I am asking any thing that I oughtn't to ask, all you've got to do is to tell me of it, and I'll drop it at once. Is Jessie comfortable at home? Ah, you hesitate and turn colour; if you speak, you'll stammer. Don't say a word; I'll drop the subject.'
'No, why should you?' I said. 'You are a good friend, and you have a reason for asking.'
'I am as good a friend, my dear, to you and Jessie as you'll find in all your knockings about in the world. Mind that! Don't you forget it, or you'll hurt my feelings, as the Kinchin says. You've only got one better friend, and that's that dear mother of yours, that I'd like to throw my arms round the neck of this minute, and hug.'
'Why, you've never spoken to her, Josey!'
'What of that? I've heard of her, and that's enough for Josey West. And a good mother makes a good son. I like you first for yourself, and I like you second for your mother (not out of a riddlebook, my dear, though it sounds like it)! As for my reasons, why, yes, I have my reasons for asking, or I shouldn't ask.'
'Jessie does not make a confidant of any one but you, I suppose, Josey.'
'Of no one but me, my dear, and I know what I know, and suspect a great deal more.'
'If Jessie confides in you, I may. She is not so happy at home as she might be and as she deserves to be.'
'Thank you, my dear; I only wanted to make sure. Now we'll drop the subject.' She went through some comical pantomime, as though she were sewing up her lips. 'Stop and see the girls go through their ballet. Come along, Sophy and Florry and all of you; the bell has rung for the curtain.' And she began to sing, first, however, whispering to me that we should have real music on the night. 'No expense, my dear; it's all ready to hand in the family.'
Then the children arranged their figures and positions to Josey West's singing, and rehearsed the ballet with the seriousness of grown-up people.
Neither uncle Bryan nor my mother knew anything of Jessie's passion for acting. Jessie held me to my promise of not saying anything about it at home; and on occasions when I urged her to let my mother know of it, she refused in the most decided manner, and said she had her reasons for keeping it a secret.
As for myself, I found myself in a labyrinth. So conflicting were the influences around me, that I scarcely dared to think of the plans I had cherished but a little while since, and hoped to see fulfilled. I could only hope and wait.
CHAPTER XXX.
JESSIE'S TRIUMPH.
The eventful evening arrived. It had been a difficult matter with me to keep the knowledge of the affair to myself, for I was in a state of great excitement, and my mother noticed it; but she did not seek my confidence except by kind looks of interest and curiosity. During the day, in accordance with Josey West's advice, I bought two handsome bouquets, which I conveyed to Josey secretly, and which she hid under my seat in the kitchen. Great pains had been taken with the room, which, with benches and chairs properly arranged, and the stage curtain, and a row of stagelights with green shades to them, really presented the appearance of a miniature theatre. It was rather gloomy, certainly, for all the candles were required for the stage, but that was a small matter. The room was filled chiefly by the West family, of whom every available member was present, down to the youngest baby in arms, and among the audience were a few persons with whom I was not acquainted, but whose appearance, with one exception, clearly denoted that they belonged to the dramatic profession. Two male and two female Wests, of tender age, comprised the band; the girls played the violin, and one of the boys played the flute, and the other the cornopean--which latter instrument ran short occasionally in the matter of wind. Everybody was very excited and very merry, and Josey West's queer little figure was continually darting before and behind the curtain.
'Would you like to see her?' the good-natured creature whispered to me. 'Of course you would. Come along, then. She's dressed for Pauline.'
I went with Josey behind the scenes to Jessie's dressing-room, which had been built for the occasion with shop-shutters, and blankets, and odds and ends. Jessie looked wonderfully fascinating and beautiful in her fine dress, and a painful feeling of inferiority came upon me in the presence of so much grace and loveliness.
'And how do I look, Chris?' she asked, as she stood before me, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.
I sighed as I told her that I had never seen any one look more lovely.
'She'll never want a wig, my dear!' said Josey West admiringly, as she ran her fingers through Jessie's beautiful hair. 'Did you ever see such hair and such a complexion? All her own, my dear--scarcely a touch of the hare's foot. But, bless the boy! he looks as if he was sorry instead of pleased. That's not the way to make her act well. There! kiss her, and go back to your seat. The music's beginning.'
My cheeks were as red as Jessie's as Josey West pushed me towards Jessie, and turned her back; but my arm was round Jessie's waist nevertheless, and Jessie, moved by a sudden impulse, kissed me very affectionately. It was the first time our lips had ever met.
'Done?' cried Josey West. 'There! I'm sure you feel more comfortable now. Now run away, or I shall have you turned out of the house.'
In a very happy frame of mind I took my seat among the audience, whose enthusiasm was unbounded. The stage management was simply perfect; there was not a hitch in the entire performance. Directly the music ceased, amidst a general clapping of hands and stamping of feet--our satisfaction was so complete that we wanted everything done over again--a bell tinkled for the curtain, which was promptly drawn aside, and the comic drama of Delicate Ground commenced. General interest of course centred round Jessie, who at first was slightly nervous, but she grew more confident as the scene progressed. To say that she played well is to say little; her acting on that night is fixed in my mind as the most perfect and beautiful I have ever seen. It was not only my opinion, it was the opinion of all, and the applause that was bestowed upon her was astonishing in its genuineness and heartiness. 'By heavens, sir!' I heard one of the visitors with whom I was not acquainted say to another--'by heavens, sir, she's peerless--peerless! She'll make a sensation when she comes out.' There was an entire absence of envy in the praise that was given to her; and the women, as well as the men, were extravagantly enthusiastic in their demonstrations. I heard remarks also passed from one to another, to the effect that Gus and Brinsley never acted better in their lives; they certainly, after the fashion of Turk, 'went in' with a will, and it was difficult to say which of them deserved the palm of victory. I liked Brinsley best, because he did not play the part of Jessie's husband, but this view I kept to myself. Had it not been for the kiss Jessie had given me, the memory of which made me triumphantly happy during the whole of the night, I might have been rendered uneasy by the passion which Gus West threw into the last lines of his part: 'You have no rival. You have been, and are, sole mistress of this my heart. You have been, and will be, sole mistress of this my house.' But even these words, and the passion with which they were spoken, did not disturb me, and when the curtain fell upon the scene, my only feeling was one of pride in Jessie's triumph. There were loud calls for Pauline; and Turk, who came in just as the curtain fell, joined vehemently in the applause, although he had seen nothing of the piece. He was accompanied by the old actor, whom I knew as Mac, and whose acquaintance I had made on the memorable night I spent at the Royal Columbia. When Jessie, led on by Gus and Brinsley West, came before the curtain and curtsied her acknowledgments, and when I threw my bouquet at her feet, the cheers were redoubled again and again; and all acknowledged that there could not have been a greater success. Then there was a merry interval, which was occupied by gossip and refreshments; and then the ballet and terpsichorean revel by Josey West's sisters, towards whom the audience were disposed to be more critical. The young misses acquitted themselves admirably, and were followed by Turk West, whose 'Dream of Eugene Aram' was a most tremendous elocutionary effort. To me it was terribly grand, and the intense earnestness of Turk made a deep impression upon me. He was rewarded by unanimous cries of 'Bravo, Turk!' 'Well done, old fellow!' and a call before the curtain, which he acknowledged in his best manner. Jessie's appearance in The Conjugal Lesson, as Mrs. Simon Lullaby, was, if possible, more successful than her Pauline; but Turk, who found a seat next to me, was somewhat sarcastic on his brother Gus. Perhaps he was jealous too; at all events, he whispered to me that he wished he had had the opportunity of playing Mr. Simon Lullaby; 'then you would have seen a piece of acting, Chris, my boy, which you would not easily have forgotten.' It was late when the performances were over. Jessie was of course called on again, and received my second bouquet, and then the company prepared to depart. But Josey West cried out from behind the curtain that they were all to stop to supper, and in a short time these male and female Bohemians, the merriest and best-hearted crew in the world, were regaling themselves on bread-and-cheese and pickles and beer, amid such a din of joviality that you could scarcely hear your own words. I went behind to Jessie's room, and waited until she was dressed; Josey West heard me walking restlessly about, and called to me when Jessie was ready.
'And what do you think of us now?' she asked.
I did not stint my measure of admiration, and I told them what I had heard one of the visitors say, that Jessie's acting was peerless--peerless.
'And so it was,' said Josey West. 'Which one was it, my dear, who said that--a tall thin man, with a sandy moustache?'
'No; but he was sitting near, and I saw him nodding his head, and clapping, as though he was very pleased.'
'That's a good sign; he's a fine judge of acting. He'll want to be introduced to you, Jessie; so will they all. I shouldn't wonder----'
'What?' I asked.
'Nothing, my dear, unless you can make something out of the circumstance that that gentleman's name is Rackstraw, and that he prepares young ladies for the stage. That was a good thought of yours, my dear, bringing these bouquets. Such beautiful ones, too! I wish I had such a prince!'
Jessie laughingly bade Josey West hold her tongue, and I saw with delight that she had placed in her bosom a flower from one of the bouquets.
'It was very kind of you, Chris,' said Jessie, giving me her hand, which was burning with excitement.
'You must be tired, Jessie.'
'I could go all through it again,' she replied.
'That's the way with us excitable creatures,' observed Josey West complacently; 'we're like thoroughbred race-horses, we can go on till we drop. Now, Jessie, come along and be praised.'
The praises she received were sufficient to turn any one's head; she was surrounded and kissed by all the women, and the men could not find words sufficiently strong to express their gratification. Mr. Rackstraw, the gentleman who prepared young ladies for the stage, was very eulogistic and very inquisitive, asking personal questions with a freedom which did not please me. But neither Josey West nor Jessie shared my feeling in this respect--Josey especially taking great interest in what he said.
'And you think she would succeed?' said Josey West.
'I am sure of it, Josey,' he answered.
He addressed all in the room by their Christian names, and was evidently regarded as a man of importance.
'But there is a great deal to be learnt?' asked Jessie; 'is there not?'
'Yes, assuredly, my dear.' (Another sign of familiarity which displeased me. I did not mind it from the members of the West family; there was a homely and honest ring of affection in the term as they used it, but it sounded quite differently from Mr. Rackstraw's lips.) 'A great deal.'
'And it would cost money?'
'Well, yes,' he said promptly, 'it would cost money--but not much, not much. Josey, I took the liberty of bringing a friend with me--Mr. Glover.'
Mr. Glover, the best-dressed man in the room, tall and dark, and between forty and fifty years of age, was the gentleman I had noticed who, alone among the audience, did not appear to belong to the dramatic profession. I had not paid any attention to him during the evening, but upon this direct reference I turned towards him, and saw at a glance, in my closer observance of him, that his station in life was higher than ours. Being introduced to Jessie, he thanked her for a most pleasant evening.
'I am not a frequenter of theatres,' he said, 'but if you were upon the stage, I think I should be tempted to come very often to see you.' He spoke well and slowly, and with the manner of a person who was accustomed to reflect upon each word before it passed his lips. When he and his friend were gone, Josey West informed us that Mr. Rackstraw was a person of the greatest influence. Not only did he prepare young ladies for the stage, she said, but he was in connection with a theatrical agency, where important engagements were effected. Gus's name was down upon the books of this agency, and having in this way made Mr. Rackstraw's personal acquaintance, he had induced him to come down and see Jessie act. Josey was in high spirits because everything had gone off so well.
'It is a real, complete, and splendid success,' she said, 'and ought to be repeated every evening until further notice. Hark--old Mac's going to speak!'
The old actor had risen, glass in hand, and had expressed his wish to address a few words to the company--an intimation which was received with vociferous and lengthened applause.
'Brothers and sisters in the noblest of all noble professions,' he said, 'this reception is not only cheering, but, coming upon me when I am in the sere and yellow----'(Here there were cries of 'No, no, old fellow; you've a good twenty years before you yet!')--'I use the language of those base and envious detractors who say it is time the old actor was laid on the shelf. Using their words, then, which Avon's Swan never thought would be so misapplied, this reception coming upon me when I am in the sere and yellow, is not only cheering but affecting. It recalls the memory of times when the humble individual before you never stepped upon the boards without one, and when old Mac's place--his proper and legitimate place in the ranks, won by the force of genius and hard study----'(Cries of 'Bravo, Mac! Go it!')--'I mean to--when his legitimate place, won, as I have said, by the force of hard study and genius, was not occupied by pretenders. But tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis----' (The applause here lasted for full a minute) 'O yes, old Mac can show these pretenders the way to go! Tempora mutantur, et cetera, my sons, and may you never find it out in the same way as the humble individual who stands before you has! But it was not to speak of myself that I rose--the old actor never cares to thrust himself forward'--(general and good-humoured laughter)--'knowing as he does that the subject is weary, stale, and unprofitable. He knows that he is but "a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more!" But damme, my sons, the poor player is happy to know that in his old age he has honour, love, and, if not obedience, troops of friends.' ('So you have, old boy! Go on!') 'I intend to. I drink to you. Give me the cup. Nay, I have it'--(with a humorous look)--'not sparkling to the brim, but 'twill serve. "Let the kettle to the trumpet speak. The trumpet to the cannoneer without. The cannons to the heavens, the heavens to earth." Old Mac drinks to those he loves!' (As the speaker drained his glass, the youngster who played the cornopean performed a flourish upon the instrument, and the other members of the company did their best to produce an appropriate demonstration.) 'But to the point. We have witnessed to-night a most remarkable performance by a young lady, who I am informed has never appeared upon the boards--a young lady who is destined to occupy a distinguished position--mark me, a distinguished position--and may old Mac live to see it! She has youth, she has grace, she has beauty, she has genius. In her presence I say it, my sons. The old actor knows a pretender when he sees him, and he knows genius when he sees it; he sees it here. In proposing the toast of this young lady's health' (Mac placed his glass upon the table, and waited until it was refilled), 'and in wishing her the success that always should, but sometimes doesn't, wait on merit, old Mac knows that he is performing a task which every one of you would like to have performed in his place. But damme, my sons, while old Mac lives, the old school of gallantry will never die out.'
How the toast was received, and with what enthusiasm it was drunk; how they all surrounded Jessie and petted her and complimented her; how she blushed and trembled at the praises which were showered upon her; and how these honours seemed to remove her farther and farther from me,--I have not the power to describe. It was two o'clock in the morning before the company broke up, and Jessie and I walked home. My heart was full almost to bursting, and I could not trust myself to speak. Not a word passed between us, but with Jessie's arm closely entwined in mine, and with her hand clasped in mine, I felt that without her I would not wish to live. When we reached home, I knocked softly at the street-door, but no answer came. I knocked more loudly, but still there was no answer. Surprised that my mother was not waiting up for us, I tried the handle of the door, and found that it was unlocked. I closed the street-door, and we entered the sitting-room, where a candle was burning. My mother was there, sitting by the table, with her head on her arm. I approached her in some alarm, and saw that she was asleep; her dreams must have been distressing ones, for she was sobbing bitterly.
CHAPTER XXXI.
MY MOTHER EXPRESSES HER FEARS CONCERNING JESSIE.
One evening, as I was smartening myself up in my room, preparatory to going to the Wests', my mother entered, and said, almost humbly,
'My dear, can you spare me a few minutes?'
'Certainly,'I replied. 'Jessie is at the Wests', isn't she?'
'Yes, my dear. I'll not keep you long. I want to speak to you about her.'
'Go on, mother,' I said, in a tone of satisfaction, for that was the subject I loved best to converse upon.
'How you have grown, my darling! You are the image of your father, who was a fine handsome man. How proud I am of my son!'
I looked in the glass, without any feeling of vanity. I always took pains with my appearance when I was about to present myself to Jessie, but I had no high opinion of myself, and I was never quite satisfied with the result.
'You do your best to spoil me, mother,' I said, submitting myself to my mother, whose fond fingers were about my neck. 'Go on, about Jessie.'
'You are in her confidence, my dear?'
The words were used in the form of a question; and I was immediately conscious that they were the prelude to something of importance, for there was trouble in my mother's face. I also was troubled; a new sorrow had entered into my life, a sorrow with which of course Jessie was connected. All that there was for me of joy and pain in the world was associated with her.
I hesitated in my answer. Jessie had pledged me to secrecy with reference to the peculiar nature of her intimacy with the Wests and to her passion for acting, and I would not betray her, not even to my mother. There were confidences between Jessie and me which even she could not share. My mother and I had but few opportunities for conversation during this time, for very little of my time was spent at home. Wherever Jessie went I was bound to follow. It did not matter--except in the sorrow that it caused me--that she gave me less encouragement than formerly; it did not matter that certain undefinable signs from her, which I had hitherto treasured in my heart of hearts as proofs of her love, came rarely and more rarely; the rarer they were the more precious they were. I found excuses for her: in my own inferiority, which hourly and daily impressed itself more painfully upon me; in my being poor; in her being so beautiful and so far above me. I could not see, I dared not think, how it was to end; but I followed her blindly, clung to her blindly.
My mother observed my hesitation, and divined the cause.
'Nay, my dear,' she said, in a sad and gentle tone, 'I do not ask you to tell me anything you think you ought to keep to yourself. I have not forfeited your confidence, have I, my darling?'
Before I could reply, she placed her hand to her heart, and uttered an exclamation of pain.
'Mother!' I cried.
'It is nothing, dear child,' she said; 'it is only a pain in my side that has come once or twice lately. Put your arms round my neck, my darling; it will pass away directly.'
She rested her head upon my shoulder and closed her eyes, holding me tightly to her.
'I am better now, dear child,' she said presently, with a sweet smile.
Could I see nothing in her face but physical pain? No, nothing. The old patient look was there, the old tender love was there. What more could I have seen, had I not been blind?
'You ought to get advice, mother. Promise me.'
'I will, my dear; but it is nothing. I am not growing younger, Chris.'
'You were speaking of Jessie, mother.'
'Yes, my dear. I was about to say that Jessie has no one to look after her but me.'
'And me,' I added proudly.
'And you, my dear. I know what your feelings are towards her, but you are away at your work all the day, and then the duty devolves upon me alone.'
'Well, mother?'
'Jessie is a little different to me from what she was; I am beginning to think--sorely against my will, dear child--that she mistrusts me. I know that she is not happy, but I could comfort her if she would let me. It might be better for all of us if she would confide in me.'
'I am sure it would be, mother.'
'She does not repulse me, Chris; she avoids me. When I have it in my mind to speak to her seriously, she seems to know what I am about to say--she is very bright and clever, my dear--and she obstinately refuses to listen; runs away, or turns me from my purpose by some means. I am very anxious about her.'
'Jessie can take care of herself,' I said, assuming an easiness I did not feel; she is not happy at home, as we know; but we know, also, who is to blame for that. I suppose she refuses to listen to you because she feels that the subject you wish to speak to her upon is a painful one. I should do the same in her place.'
'I don't blame her, my dear; don't think that I blame her. But I must not forget my duty. She has no mother; do not I stand in that relation to her?'
I kissed my mother for these words.
'Then, knowing that I wish her nothing but good, why does she avoid me so steadily? O Chris, my child! greater unhappiness than all may come from her distrust of me.'
A tremor ran through my frame. Not love alone, but pity, was expressed in my mother's face and tone.
'I don't quite understand you, mother,' I said.
'Where does Jessie go to in the day, my dear?'
'Where does Jessie go to in the day!' I repeated. 'Does she go anywhere?'
'Then you do not know, my dear; she hides it from you as well. For the last fortnight she has gone out every morning at eleven 'o'clock, and has not returned until four. I have put her dinner by for her every day, but she will not eat it, and she refuses to say where she has been.'
I considered for a few moments, and soon arrived at a satisfactory conclusion.
'It is very simple. She goes to Miss West's, and she does not eat her dinner because she knows she is not welcome to it. It is uncle Bryan's dinner, and this is uncle Bryan's house. Jessie is very proud.'
My mother shook her head. 'She does not go to Miss West's. I have not watched her, because I know that she would discover me, and that it would turn her more against me. But three mornings ago I saw her get into an omnibus which goes to the West-end. What friends can she have there, Chris? And if she has friends, should we not know who they are?'
'If she has friends!' I exclaimed, putting a brave face on the disclosure, although I was inexpressibly hurt at the knowledge that Jessie was keeping a secret from me. 'Do you suspect she has?'
'She must have, Chris.'
I looked at my mother; there was more in her tone than her words implied.
'Go on, mother. You have something more to tell me.'
'It is best you should know, my darling,' said my mother in a tone of inexpressible tenderness, encircling my waist with her arm; it is best you should know, for you are in Jessie's confidence, and she will listen to you when she would not heed me. Yesterday afternoon, as I was walking home--I had been out on an errand for your uncle--a cab passed me, with two persons in it. One was a gentleman, the other was Jessie. Nay, my dear, don't shrink. There is no harm in that; the harm is in keeping it from us, her dearest friends, and in making a secret of it.'
I controlled my agitation, foolishly believing that I could deceive this fondest of mothers.
'Did the cab come to our door?' I asked.
'No, my dear; it did not come down the street. It stopped a few yards in front of me, and the gentleman assisted Jessie out----'
'Don't hide anything from me, mother; of course I shall speak to Jessie about it. Tell me exactly what you saw and heard.'
'I heard nothing; I shrank away, so that Jessie should, not see me. The gentleman said something to her, but she shook her head, and then he bade her good-bye and drove away. That is all.'
It was enough to make me most unhappy, but still I strove to conceal my feelings. I endeavoured to make light of the circumstance, and I asked my mother in a careless tone whether she was sure it was a gentleman who accompanied Jessie. She said she was sure of it.
'What was he like?'
'Tall and dark, and very well dressed.'
'Young?' I asked.
'No,' she answered, and I could not help feeling relieved at the information; nearer fifty than forty, I should say.'
I could not at the moment call to mind any person whom the description fitted, and I promised my mother that I would speak to Jessie about it.
'Ask her to confide in me, my dear,' my mother said.
'I will, mother.'
As I walked towards the Wests', my mind was filled with what my mother had told me. I held the clue which would have led me to the truth, but I juggled with myself, and rejected it because the result was displeasing to me. I had never yet mustered sufficient courage to speak to Jessie plainly concerning her passion for acting, and what it was likely to lead to. Many and many a time had I thought of Josey West's words, 'when Jessie becomes a famous actress,' and of old Mac's remark that Jessie was destined to occupy a distinguished position on the boards. These utterances, coupled with the conversation that took place between Mr. Rackstraw and Jessie on the night of the performance, were surely sufficient to convince me that Jessie's visits to the West-end had something to do with her desire to become an actress; but I would not be convinced, simply because I did not wish to believe it. Say that Jessie did appear upon the public stage, and became famous--as I was sure she would become--she would be farther than ever from me. I caught at one little straw that lay in the way of the result I dreaded. Mr. Rackstraw had said that there was a great deal to be learnt, and that it would cost money. Well, Jessie did not have any money. I magnified this straw into an insurmountable obstacle which it was impossible for Jessie to get over, and so I played the fool with my reason.
I found the Wests busy as usual. Jessie was there, learning some dancing steps from one of the young misses; she blushed as I entered, and the lesson was discontinued. I had intended to speak privately to Josey West about Jessie, but within a few minutes of my arrival, Gus West came in, and I had not the tact to make the opportunity. Josey informing Gus that Jessie had been taking a dancing lesson, he proposed that they should go through a minuet; and he and Jessie and two of the girls performed the old-fashioned dance most gracefully, Josey West humming the minuet de la cour, while I sat in the corner, the only serious person in the room. When the minuet was finished, Josey West called me to her, and addressing me quietly as Mr. Glum, said she was afraid I was of a sulky disposition. I said I did not think I was sulky, but that I was very unhappy.
'About her?' questioned Josey, with a sharp look in the direction of Jessie; but before I could answer, Jessie came towards us, and said she was ready to go home.
'I did not wish to go,' she said to me, on our way, 'but I saw that you had something to say to me.'
I answered, yes; that I did wish to speak to her.
'And about something unpleasant, I can see,' she said; 'make it as short as you can, Chris.'
She was toying with a flower which Gus West had worn in his coat when he came in. I did not see him give it to her, but that she had it, and seemed to value it, was like a dagger in my heart.
'Jessie,' I said disconsolately, 'you know how I love you!'
'If any person on the stage,' she answered lightly, 'spoke of love in that tone, the whole house would laugh at him.'
'That is the only thing that runs in your thoughts now,' I said gloomily.
'What?' she exclaimed. 'Love? I meant the stage. You think of nothing but acting.'
'Well--perhaps! What else have I to think of that brings any happiness to me?'
'I thought you loved me, Jessie.'
'So I do, Chris,' she said in careless fashion, still toying with the flower.
'And others, too,' I added.
'Well, yes--if you please. There are always more than two persons in the world.'
'Jessie!' I implored. 'It hurts me to hear you speak in that careless way. I cannot believe that it is in your nature to think and speak so lightly of what is most precious.'
'Why cannot you believe so?' she asked, somewhat more seriously. 'Am I the only one who lightly regards a precious gift--am I the only one who does not know the value of love?'
'I at least know the value of it, Jessie. Ah, you would believe me if you knew what I would do for you.'
'I think you love me, Chris.'
'With all my heart, Jessie; with all my soul!'
She trembled a little at the passion of my words.
'Tell me,' she said, averting her head, 'what would you do for me?'
I answered that there was no sacrifice that I would not willingly, cheerfully make for her sake; that I thought of none but her, that I loved none but her; that if all the world were on one side, and she alone on the other, I would fly to her, and deem myself blessed to live only for her. This, and much more that has been said a myriad times before, and will be said a myriad times again, I said passionately and fervently. She listened in silence, and then, after a pause, told me she believed I had spoken the true feelings of my heart, and that she was sure I had meant every word I had uttered. And then she pinned Gus West's flower to the bosom of her dress, and asked me if it did not look well there. Miserably, I answered Yes, and felt as though all the brightness were dying out of the world.
'But you have something else to say to me,' Jessie presently remarked; 'what you have already said is very pleasant to me. Now for the unpleasant thing.'
The conversation with my mother, which in the heat of my declaration had slipped out of my mind, now recurred to me, and I told Jessie that my mother was very anxious about her.
'In what way?' she asked.
'Where do you go to every day, Jessie? Mother tells me that you go out regularly at eleven o'clock every morning, and that you do not return until four in the afternoon, and that you don't spend that time at the Wests'.'
'Has she been watching me?'
'No, Jessie.'
'Have you?'
'No,' I replied, very hurt at the question; 'you don't think I would play the spy upon you!'
'Oh, I don't know,' she said, with a toss of her head; 'persons do strange things when they are in love.'
'You seem to know a great deal, Jessie.'
She appeared to be both pleased and discontented at this remark.
'When girls get together, Chris, they will talk; and Josey West and I don't sit in the corner, mumchance, with our mouths shut, as you sat to-night. Have you anything else to tell me?'
'Yes,' I said, 'and I wouldn't speak of it if I hadn't promised mother that I would do so. Yesterday she saw you riding in a cab with a gentleman.'
'That is quite true,' said Jessie simply, before I could proceed farther; 'but why didn't she speak to me about it?'
'Rather say, Jessie, why did you not speak to her. But mother is afraid that you mistrust her; she says that you avoid her when she has it in her mind to speak seriously to you.'
'She told you that?'
'Yes, Jessie.'
'She is not wrong, Chris,' said Jessie, with a sigh; 'but we all seem to be playing at cross purposes, and not one of us seems to understand the other.'
'I think I understand you, Jessie.'
'Do you, Chris?' she asked, in a tenderer tone.
'If others mistrust you, I don't. I know that everything you do is right.' She shook her head gently. 'No, you shall not make me think otherwise, Jessie. You and I will stand together, come what will.'
'Against all the rest of the world,' she said, quoting my words.
'Yes, against all the rest of the world, Jessie,' I replied eagerly.
'It will never be, Chris; I would not accept such a service from you if the whole happiness of my life depended upon it. Ah me! Often and often I think what an unhappy day that was for all of us when I came among you.'
'You said so on the Sunday morning that you asked uncle Bryan to come to church with us; but you repented immediately afterwards, if you remember, and said you were not sorry, for if it had happened so, you would not have known mother.'
'I have learnt something from her, Chris--something good, I hope.'
'You could learn nothing from her that was not sweet and good,' I said.
These last words were spoken on the threshold of our home.