Prince Fortunatus by William Black (ebook reader with highlighter TXT) 📖

work at once to get ready, so that he had no opportunity of seeing Miss Burgoyne until he actually met her on the stage. Now, those of the public who had seen this piece before could not have perceived any difference of manner on the part of the coquettish Grace Mainwaring towards the young gentleman who had so unexpectedly fallen in her way--to wit, Harry Thornhill; but Lionel instantly became aware of it; and while he was endeavoring, after the fashion of the young stage gallant, to convey to Miss Grace Mainwaring the knowledge that she had suddenly captured his fancy and made him her slave for life, he was inwardly reflecting that he should have come down earlier to the theatre, and apologized to Miss Burgoyne for the unintentional slight of the previous day. As soon as the scene was over and they were both in the wings, he hastened to her (they had left the stage by opposite sides) and said,

"Oh, Miss Burgoyne, something very awkward happened yesterday--I am so sorry--I want to apologize--"

"I hope you will do nothing of the kind," said she, haughtily, "it is quite unnecessary."

"Oh, but look here, I'm really very sorry," he was endeavoring to say, when she again interrupted him:

"If you choose to go driving through London with chorus-girls," said she, in measured and bitter tones, "I suppose your attention must be fully occupied."

And therewith she marched proudly away from him; nor could he follow her to protest or explain, for he was wanted on the stage in about a second. He felt inclined to be angry and resentful; but he was helpless; he had to attend to this immediate scene.

Meanwhile Miss Burgoyne did not long preserve that lofty demeanor of hers; the moment she left him her rage got the better of her, for here was the Italian girl most inopportunely coming along the corridor; and just as poor Nina came up Miss Burgoyne turned to her maid, who was holding open the dressing-room door for her, and said aloud, so that every one could overhear,

"Oh, we don't want foreigners in English opera; why don't they take a barrel-organ through the streets, or a couple of canaries in a cage?"

Nor was that all; for here was Mlle. Girond; and the smart little boy-officer, as she came along the passage, was gayly singing to herself,

"Le roti, la salade,
L'amour, la promenade
A deux dans les
Dans les
Deux dans les
A deux dans les bluets!"


"Oh, there's another of the foreign chimpanzees!" exclaimed Miss Burgoyne, in her fury; and she dashed into her room, and slammed the door behind her.

Mlle. Girond stood staring at the door; then she turned to look at Nina; then she burst out laughing.

"Quel ouragan, grand Dieu!" she cried. "Ma pauvre enfant, qu'allez vous faire maintenant?" She turned to the door and laughed again. "Elle a la tete pres du bonnet, n'est-ce pas?--mon Dieu, elle s'enflamme comme de la poudre!"

But Nina did not stay to make any explanation; somewhat paler than usual, and quite silent and reserved, she took up her position in the wings; nor had she a word to say to Lionel when he came off the stage and passed her--with a nod and a smile of greeting--on his way to his room.

Then things went from bad to worse, and swiftly. On the very next afternoon, which was a Sunday, Lionel was about to walk down to Sloane Street, to have a chat and a cup of tea with Mrs. Grey and Nina; but before going he thought he would just have time to scribble a piece of music in an album that Lady Rosamund Bourne had sent him and affix his name thereto. He brought his writing materials to the table and opened the big volume; and he was glancing over the pages (Lady Rosamund had laid some very distinguished people, mostly artists, under contribution, and there were some interesting sketches) when the house-porter came up and presented a card. Lionel glanced at the name--Mr. Percival Miles--and wondered who the stranger might be; then he recollected that surely this was the name of a young gentleman who was a devoted admirer of Miss Burgoyne. Miss Burgoyne had, indeed, on one occasion introduced the young man to him; but he had paid little heed; most likely he regarded him with the sort of half-humorous contempt with which the professional actor is apt to look upon the moon-struck youths who bring bouquets into the stalls and languish about stage-doors. However, he told the house-porter to ask the gentleman to step up-stairs.

But he was hardly prepared for what followed. The young gentleman who now came into the room--he was a pretty boy, of the fair-haired English type, with a little yellow moustache and clear, gray eyes--seemed almost incapable of speech, and his lips were quite pale.

"In--in what I have to say to you, Mr. Moore," he said, in a breathless kind of way, "I hope there will be no need to mention any lady's name. But you know whom I mean. That--that lady has placed her interests in my hands--she has appealed to me--I am here to demand reparation--in the usual way--"

"Reparation--for what?" Lionel asked, staring at the young man as if he were an escaped lunatic.

"Your attentions," said the hapless boy, striving hard to preserve a calm demeanor, "your attentions are odious and objectionable--she will not submit to them any longer--"

"My attentions?" Lionel said. "If you mean Miss Burgoyne, I never paid her any--you must be out of your senses!"

"Shuffling will do you no good," said this fierce warrior, who seemed to be always trying to swallow something--perhaps his wrath. "The lady has placed her interests in my hands; I demand the only reparation that is possible between gentlemen."

"Look here, my young friend," Lionel said, in a very cool sort of fashion, "do you want to go on the stage? Is that a specimen of what you can do? For it isn't bad, you know--for burlesque."

"You won't fight?" said the young man, getting paler and more breathless than ever.

"No, I will not fight--about nothing," Lionel said, with perfect good-humor. "I am not such an ass. If Miss Burgoyne is annoyed because I passed her on Friday without recognizing her, that was simply a mistake for which I have already apologized to her. As for any cock-and-bull story about my having persecuted her with odious attentions, that's all moonshine; she never put that into your head; that's your own imagination--"

"By heavens, you shall fight!" broke in this infuriate young fool, and the next moment he had snatched up the ink-bottle from the table before him and tossed it into his enemy's face. That is to say, it did not quite reach its aim; for Lionel had instinctively raised his hand, and the missile fell harmlessly on to the table again--not altogether harmlessly, either, for in falling the lid had opened and the ink was now flowing over Lady Rosamund's open album. At sight of this mishap, Lionel sprang to his feet, his eyes afire.

"I've a mind to take you and knock your idiotic brains against that wall," he said to the panting, white-faced youth. "But I won't. I will teach you a lesson instead. Yes, I will fight. Make what arrangements you please; I'll be there. Now get out."

He held the door open; the young man said, as he passed,

"You shall hear from me."

And then Lionel went back to Lady Rosamund's ill-fated album, and began to sponge it with blotting-paper, while with many a qualm he considered how he was to apologize to her and make some kind of plausible explanation. Fortunately the damage turned out to be less serious than at first sight appeared. The open page, which contained a very charming little sketch in water-color by Mr. Mellord, was of course hopelessly ruined; but elsewhere the ink had not penetrated very far; a number of new mounts would soon put that right. Then he thought he would go to Mr. Mellord and lay the whole affair before him, and humbly beg for another sketch (artists always being provided with such things); so that, as regarded the album, no great harm had been done.

But as he was sitting in Mrs. Grey's little parlor, at tea, Nina fancied he looked a little preoccupied and was not talking as blithely as usual, and she made bold to ask him if anything were the matter.

"Yes," said he, "something is the matter. I'm afraid I've made a fool of myself." And then he added, with a smile, "Nina, I'm going to fight a duel."

"A duel, Leo?" she said, faintly.

"Yes; and what I fear about it is the ridicule that may follow. But don't be alarmed, Nina," he said, cheerfully, "I don't think I'm going to fall on the deadly field of battle; I can take care of myself. The trouble is that the whole thing is so preposterous--so absolutely ridiculous! The fact is, what the young gentleman really wants is a thorough good caning, and there's nobody to give it him. Very well, he must have something else; and I propose to teach him a wholesome lesson. I'm not going to take the trouble of crossing over to France or Belgium--I dare say that will be the programme--for nothing. Then there's another thing, Nina: I am the challenged party; I ought to have the choice of weapons. Well, now, I am not a very good shot; but I'm considered a very fair fencer; and I suppose you would say that I should be magnanimous and choose pistols? Oh, no; I'm not going to do anything of the kind. There might be a very awkward accident with pistols--that is to say, if our bloodthirsty seconds put in more than half a charge of powder. But with swords I fancy I shall be rather master of the situation; and perhaps a little prod or a scratch, just to show him the color of his own blood, will do him a world of good. It may turn out the other way, no doubt; I've heard of bad fencers breaking through one's guard just by pure ignorance and accident; but the betting is against that kind of thing."

"But what is it all about, Leo?" Nina exclaimed; she was far more concerned about this mad project than he appeared to be.

"Oh, I can't tell you that," said he, lightly, "without telling you the name of the lady--for of course there is a lady in it--and that is never allowed."

Nina sprang to her feet and stretched out her hands towards him.

"I know--I know!" she said, in a breathless sort of way. "Leo, you will not deny it to me--it is Miss Burgoyne! Ah, do I not know!--she is a serpent!--a cat!--a devil!--"

"Nina," he said, almost angrily, "what are you talking about? Do you suppose Miss Burgoyne would want a duel fought just because I happened to pass her, by accident, without raising my hat?--it's absurd."

"Ah, there is more than that, Leo!" Nina cried, eagerly; and then she paused, in some hesitation and embarrassment. "Yes, there is more than that," she repeated, as if with an effort, and there was a slight flush in the pretty, pale face. "Why should I not say it to you? You are too simple, Leo. You do not understand. She