A DEPARTURE.

There was but little sleep for Nina that night. She was sick at heart to think that in return for the unceasing kindness Lionel had shown her since her arrival in England, she should be the means of drawing him into this foolish embroilment. She saw the situation of affairs clearly enough. Miss Burgoyne was an exacting, irritable, jealous woman, who had resented Nina's presence in the theatre almost from the beginning, and who had been driven into a sudden fury by the sight of Lionel (he taking no notice of her either) driving past with this interloping foreigner.

Moreover, Miss Burgoyne was inordinately vain: to have the popular young baritone fight a duel on her account--to have their names coupled together in common talk--what greater triumph could she desire than that? But while Miss Burgoyne might be the ostensible cause of the quarrel, Nina knew who was the real cause of it; and again and again she asked herself why she had ever come to England, thus to bring trouble upon her old ally and companion Leo.

And then in that world of visions that lies just outside the realm of sleep--in which great things become small, and small things acquire a fantastic and monstrous importance--she worried and fretted because Lionel had laughingly complained on the previous evening that henceforth there would be no more home-made lemonade for him. Well, now, if she--that is to say, if Nina--were in her humble way to try what she could do in that direction? It might not be so good as the lemonade that Miss Burgoyne prepared; but perhaps Lionel would be a little generous and make allowance? She would not challenge any comparison. She and Mrs.

Grey between them would do their best, and the result would be sent anonymously to his rooms in Piccadilly; if he chose to accept it--well, it was a timid little something by way of compensation. Nina forgot for the moment that within the next few days an unlucky sword-thrust might suddenly determine Lionel's interest in lemonade, as in all other earthly things; these trivial matters grew large in this distorted land of waking dreams; nay, she began to think that if she were to leave England altogether, and go away back to Naples, and perhaps accept an engagement in opera at Malta, then matters would be as before at the New Theatre; and when Lionel and Miss Burgoyne met in the corridor, it would be, "Good-evening, Miss Burgoyne!" and "Good-evening, Mr. Moore!" just as it used to be. There would be no Italian girl interfering, and bringing dissension and trouble.

But the next morning, when the actual facts of the case were before her clearer vision, she had better reason for becoming anxious and restless and miserable. As the day wore on, Mrs. Grey could hardly persuade her to run down to the Crystal Palace for the opening of the Handel Festival, though, as the little widow pointed out, Mr. Moore had procured the tickets for them, and they were bound to go. Of course, when once they were in the great transept of the Palace, in the presence of this vast a.s.semblage, and listening to the splendid orchestra and a chorus of between three and four thousand voices dealing with the ma.s.sive and majestic strains of the "Messiah," the spell of the music fell upon Nina and held absolute sway over her. She got into a curious state of exaltation; she seemed breathless; sometimes, Mrs. Grey thought, she shivered a little with the strain of emotion. And all the time that Mr. Santley was singing "Why do the nations," she held her hand tightly over her heart; and when he had finished--when the thrilled mult.i.tude broke forth into an extraordinary thunder of enthusiasm--Nina murmured to herself,

"It is--it is like to take my life-blood away."

But when they were in the train again, and on their way up to town, it was evident to her companion that the girl had returned to her anxious fears.

"Mrs. Grey," she said, suddenly, "I speak to Miss Burgoyne to-night."

"Oh, no, don't do that, Miss Nina!" said Mrs. Grey, with much concern, for she knew something of the circ.u.mstances of the case. "I hope you won't do that! You might simply make matters worse. Mr. Moore would not have spoken to you if he thought you would interfere, depend upon that.

And if Miss Burgoyne is vexed or angry, what good would you do? I hear she has a sharp tongue; don't _you_ try her temper, my dear," the little woman pleaded.

But Nina did not answer these representations; and she was mostly silent and thoughtful all the way to town. When they reached London, they had some tea at the railway-station, and she went on at once to the theatre.

She was there early; Miss Burgoyne had not arrived; so Nina lingered about the corridor, listening to Mlle. Girond's pretty chatter, but not hearing very much.

At length the prima-donna appeared; and she would have pa.s.sed Nina without recognition, had not the latter went forward a step, and said, somewhat timidly,

"Miss Burgoyne!"

"What?" said Miss Burgoyne, stopping short, and regarding the Italian girl with a by-no-means-friendly stare.

"May I have a word with you?" Nina said, with a little hesitation.

"Yes; what is it?" the other demanded, abruptly.

"But--but in private?" Nina said again. "In your room?"

"Oh, very well, come in!" Miss Burgoyne said, with but scant courtesy; and she led the way into her sitting-room, and also intimated to her maid that she might retire into the inner apartment. Then she turned to Nina.

"What is it you want?"

But the crisis found Nina quite unprepared. She had constructed no set speech; she had formulated no demand. For a second or so she stood tongue-tied--tongue-tied and helpless--unable to put her pa.s.sionate appeal into words; then, all of a sudden, she said,

"Miss Burgoyne, you will not allow it--this folly! It is madness that they fight about--about nothing! You will not allow it!--what is it to you?--you have enough fame, enough reputation as a prima-donna, as a favorite with the public--what more? Why should you wish more--and at such a dreadful risk?--"

"Oh, I don't know what you're talking about!" said Miss Burgoyne. "What are you talking about?"

"The duel--" said Nina, breathlessly.

"What duel?"

Nina stared at her.

"Ah, you do not know, then?" she exclaimed.

"What don't I know?" Miss Burgoyne said, impatiently. "What are you talking about! What duel? Is it something in the evening papers? Or have you taken leave of your senses?"

Nina paid no heed to these taunts.

"You do not know, then," she asked, "that--that Mr. Moore is going to fight a duel--with a young gentleman who is your friend? No?--you do not know it?"

It was Miss Burgoyne's turn to stare in amazement.

"Mr. Moore?" she repeated, with her eyes (which were pretty and coquettish enough, though they were not on the same plane) grown wide and wondering. "A friend of mine? And you come to me--as if I had anything to do with it? Oh, my goodness!" she suddenly exclaimed, and a curious smile of intelligence began to dawn upon her face. "Has that young donkey carried the matter so far as that?"

But she was not displeased; nay, she was rather inclined to laugh.

"Well, that would make a stir, wouldn't it? And how did you find it out?--who told _you_? A duel? I thought he was talking rather mysteriously yesterday morning--Conrad the Corsair kind of thing--glooms and daggers--so it was a duel he was thinking of? But they are not really going to fight, Miss Ross," continued Miss Burgoyne, who had grown quite friendly. "You know people can't give up an engagement at a theatre to go and fight a duel: it's only French gentlemen who have no occupation who do that sort of thing. A duel?--a real, actual duel--do you seriously mean it?"

The prospect seemed to afford her great satisfaction, if not even a cause for merriment.

"Miss Burgoyne, you will not permit it!" Nina exclaimed.

"I?" said the other. "What have I to do with it? If two men want to fight, why shouldn't they?" said she, with apparent carelessness.

"Ah, but you know well what you have to do with it," Nina said, with some touch of scorn. "Yes, you pretend; but you know it well. The young man he goes from you yesterday to provoke the duel--you have been talking to him--and yet you pretend. You say, why should they not fight? Then it is nothing to you that one friend or the other friend may be killed?--that is nothing to you?--and you know you can prevent it if you choose. You do not wish to interfere--it will be amusing to read in the papers! Oh, very amusing! And if the one is killed?"

"But you know, Miss Ross, they don't go such lengths nowadays," said Miss Burgoyne, with great good-humor. "No, no; it's only honor and glory they go out for; it's only the name of the thing; they don't want to kill each other. Besides, if two men mean to fight, how can a woman interfere? What is she supposed to know of the cause of quarrel? These things are not supposed to be known."

"Then," said Nina, whose lips had grown still more indignant and scornful, "this is what I say: if anything happens, it is your conscience that will speak to you in after time. You wish them to fight, yes, for your vanity to be pleased!--you wish it said that they fight about you! And that is a trionf for you--something in the papers--and you do not care what harm is done if you are talked about! That is your friendship!--what do you care?--any one may be sacrificed to your vanity--"

"I suppose if they were fighting about you, you wouldn't say a word against it!" observed Miss Burgoyne, coolly. In fact the vehement reproaches that Nina had addressed to her did not seem to have offended her in the least; for she went on to say, in the best of tempers: "Well, Miss Ross, I have to thank you for bringing me the news. But don't be alarmed; these dreadful duels, even when they get into the newspapers, seldom show much harm done. And in the meantime will you excuse me?--Jane is grumbling in there, I know. Tell me anything you may hear about it by and by--and meanwhile I am very much obliged to you." So Nina found herself dismissed, neither her piteous appeal nor her indignant protest having had apparently any effect whatever.

But Miss Burgoyne, while transforming herself into Grace Mainwaring, had plenty of time to think over this startling position of affairs, and to consider how she could best use it to her own advantage. She had a nimble brain; and it may have occurred to her that here was a notable chance for her to display the splendid magnanimity of her disposition--to overwhelm Mr. Lionel Moore with her forgiveness and her generous intervention on his behalf. At all events, in the first scene in which these two met on the stage, Harry Thornhill became instantly aware that the merry and mischievous Grace Mainwaring appeared bent on being very friendly towards him--even while she looked curiously at him, as if there were something in her mind. Moreover, she seemed in excellent spirits; there was no perfunctory "drag" in her give-and-take speeches with the adventurous young gentleman whom fate had thrown in her way. He was very well pleased to find the scene going so well; he sang his share in the parting duet with unusual _verve_; she responded with equal animation; the crowded house gave them an enthusiastic recall. But the public could not tell that, even in the midst of this artistic triumph, the audacious young lover had his own thoughts in his head; and that he was really saying to himself, "What the mischief is she at now?"

He was to learn later on in the evening. Just as he got dressed for the ball-room scene, a message was brought him that Miss Burgoyne would like to see him for a minute or two as soon as he was ready. Forthwith he went to her room, tapped at her door, entered, and found himself the sole occupant; but the next moment the curtain concealing the dressing-room was opened about five feet from the ground; and there (the rest of her person being concealed) he beheld the smiling face of Grace Mainwaring, with its sparkling eyes and rouge and patches, to say nothing of the magnificent white wig with its nodding sprays of brilliants.

"Just a moment, Mr. Moore," said she, "and I shall be with you directly"--and therewith the vision was gone, and the crimson curtains came together again.

Very shortly thereafter the Squire's Daughter came forth in all the splendor of her white satin and pearls; and she lost no time in letting him know why he had been summoned.

"You are a very bloodthirsty man," said she, in accents of grave reproach (though her eyes were not so serious), "and I am ashamed of you that you should think of harming that poor boy; but I am not going to allow it--"

"Why, who told you anything about it?" he said; for he could not pretend not to know what she meant.

"A little bird," she made answer, with much complacence. "And the idea that you should really want to do such a thing!--how many voices like yours are there wandering about in comedy-opera that you should consider you have any right to run such a risk? I don't mean being killed--I mean catching a cold! I suppose you have got to take your coat and waistcoat off--on Calais sands--with a wind blowing in from the sea; that is a nice thing for your chest and throat, isn't it? Well, I'm going to step in and prevent it. I consider you have treated me very badly--pretending you didn't see me, when you were so very particularly engaged; but never mind; I never bear malice; and, as I say, I'm going to step in and prevent this piece of folly."

"Very much obliged, I am sure," he said, politely. "When men propose to fight, it is so extremely pleasant to find a woman appear to throw a protecting arm over them!"

"Oh, I am not going to be repelled by any of your ferocious sentiments,"

said she, good-naturedly. "I am a friend of both of you--I hope; and I won't have anything of the kind--I tell you I won't allow it--"