by Thomas Hardy
IX.
At the back of the room the applause had been loud at the moment of thekiss, real or counterfeit. The cause was partly owing to an exceptionalcircumstance which had occurred in that quarter early in the play.
The people had all seated themselves, and the first act had begun,when the tapestry that screened the door was lifted gently and a figureappeared in the opening. The general attention was at this momentabsorbed by the newly disclosed stage, and scarcely a soul noticed thestranger. Had any one of the audience turned his head, there would havebeen sufficient in the countenance to detain his gaze, notwithstandingthe counter-attraction forward.
He was obviously a man who had come from afar. There was not a squareinch about him that had anything to do with modern English life. Hisvisage, which was of the colour of light porphyry, had little of itsoriginal surface left; it was a face which had been the plaything ofstrange fires or pestilences, that had moulded to whatever shape theychose his originally supple skin, and left it pitted, puckered, andseamed like a dried water-course. But though dire catastrophes orthe treacherous airs of remote climates had done their worst upon hisexterior, they seemed to have affected him but little within, to judgefrom a certain robustness which showed itself in his manner of standing.
The face-marks had a meaning, for any one who could read them, beyondthe mere suggestion of their origin: they signified that this manhad either been the victim of some terrible necessity as regarded theoccupation to which he had devoted himself, or that he was a man ofdogged obstinacy, from sheer sang froid holding his ground amid malignforces when others would have fled affrighted away.
As nobody noticed him, he dropped the door hangings after a while,walked silently along the matted alley, and sat down in one of the backchairs. His manner of entry was enough to show that the strength ofcharacter which he seemed to possess had phlegm for its base and notardour. One might have said that perhaps the shocks he had passedthrough had taken all his original warmth out of him. His beaver hat,which he had retained on his head till this moment, he now placed underthe seat, where he sat absolutely motionless till the end of the firstact, as if he were indulging in a monologue which did not quite reachhis lips.
When Paula entered at the beginning of the second act he showed as muchexcitement as was expressed by a slight movement of the eyes. When shespoke he turned to his next neighbour, and asked him in cold level wordswhich had once been English, but which seemed to have lost the accentof nationality: 'Is that the young woman who is the possessor of thiscastle--Power by name?'
His neighbour happened to be the landlord at Sleeping-Green, and heinformed the stranger that she was what he supposed.
'And who is that gentleman whose line of business seems to be to makelove to Power?'
'He's Captain De Stancy, Sir William De Stancy's son, who used to ownthis property.'
'Baronet or knight?'
'Baronet--a very old-established family about here.'
The stranger nodded, and the play went on, no further word being spokentill the fourth act was reached, when the stranger again said, withouttaking his narrow black eyes from the stage: 'There's something in thatlove-making between Stancy and Power that's not all sham!'
'Well,' said the landlord, 'I have heard different stories about that,and wouldn't be the man to zay what I couldn't swear to. The story isthat Captain De Stancy, who is as poor as a gallicrow, is in full crya'ter her, and that his on'y chance lies in his being heir to a titleand the wold name. But she has not shown a genuine hanker for anybodyyet.'
'If she finds the money, and this Stancy finds the name and blood,'twould be a very neat match between 'em,--hey?'
'That's the argument.'
Nothing more was said again for a long time, but the stranger's eyesshowed more interest in the passes between Paula and De Stancy than theyhad shown before. At length the crisis came, as described in the lastchapter, De Stancy saluting her with that semblance of a kiss which gavesuch umbrage to Somerset. The stranger's thin lips lengthened a coupleof inches with satisfaction; he put his hand into his pocket, drew outtwo half-crowns which he handed to the landlord, saying, 'Just applaudthat, will you, and get your comrades to do the same.'
The landlord, though a little surprised, took the money, and began toclap his hands as desired. The example was contagious, and spread allover the room; for the audience, gentle and simple, though they mightnot have followed the blank verse in all its bearings, could at leastappreciate a kiss. It was the unusual acclamation raised by this meanswhich had led Somerset to turn his head.
When the play had ended the stranger was the first to rise, and goingdownstairs at the head of the crowd he passed out of doors, and was lostto view. Some questions were asked by the landlord as to the stranger'sindividuality; but few had seen him; fewer had noticed him, singular ashe was; and none knew his name.
While these things had been going on in the quarter allotted to thecommonalty, Somerset in front had waited the fall of the curtain withthose sick and sorry feelings which should be combated by the aid ofphilosophy and a good conscience, but which really are only subdued bytime and the abrading rush of affairs. He was, however, stoical enough,when it was all over, to accept Mrs. Goodman's invitation to accompanyher to the drawing-room, fully expecting to find there a large company,including Captain De Stancy.
But none of the acting ladies and gentlemen had emerged from theirdressing-rooms as yet. Feeling that he did not care to meet any of themthat night, he bade farewell to Mrs. Goodman after a few minutes ofconversation, and left her. While he was passing along the corridor,at the side of the gallery which had been used as the theatre, Paulacrossed it from the latter apartment towards an opposite door. She wasstill in the dress of the Princess, and the diamond and pearl necklacestill hung over her bosom as placed there by Captain De Stancy.
Her eye caught Somerset's, and she stopped. Probably there was somethingin his face which told his mind, for she invited him by a smile into theroom she was entering.
'I congratulate you on your performance,' he said mechanically, when shepushed to the door.
'Do you really think it was well done?' She drew near him with asociable air.
'It was startlingly done--the part from "Romeo and Juliet" pre-eminentlyso.'
'Do you think I knew he was going to introduce it, or do you think Ididn't know?' she said, with that gentle sauciness which shows itself inthe loved one's manner when she has had a triumphant evening without thelover's assistance.
'I think you may have known.'
'No,' she averred, decisively shaking her head. 'It took me as much bysurprise as it probably did you. But why should I have told!'
Without answering that question Somerset went on. 'Then what he did atthe end of his gag was of course a surprise also.'
'He didn't really do what he seemed to do,' she serenely answered.
'Well, I have no right to make observations--your actions are notsubject to my surveillance; you float above my plane,' said the youngman with some bitterness. 'But to speak plainly, surely he--kissed you?'
'No,' she said. 'He only kissed the air in front of me--ever so faroff.'
'Was it six inches off?'
'No, not six inches.'
'Nor three.'
'It was quite one,' she said with an ingenuous air.
'I don't call that very far.'
'A miss is as good as a mile, says the time-honoured proverb; and it isnot for us modern mortals to question its truth.'
'How can you be so off-hand?' broke out Somerset. 'I love you wildly anddesperately, Paula, and you know it well!'
'I have never denied knowing it,' she said softly.
'Then why do you, with such knowledge, adopt an air of levity at such amoment as this! You keep me at arm's-length, and won't say whether youcare for me one bit, or no. I have owned all to you; yet never once haveyou owned anything to me!'
'I have owned much. And you do me wrong if you consider that I showlevity. But even if
I had not owned everything, and you all, it is notaltogether such a grievous thing.'
'You mean to say that it is not grievous, even if a man does love awoman, and suffers all the pain of feeling he loves in vain? Well, I sayit is quite the reverse, and I have grounds for knowing.'
'Now, don't fume so, George Somerset, but hear me. My not owning allmay not have the dreadful meaning you think, and therefore it may notbe really such a grievous thing. There are genuine reasons for women'sconduct in these matters as well as for men's, though it is sometimessupposed to be regulated entirely by caprice. And if I do not give wayto every feeling--I mean demonstration--it is because I don't want to.There now, you know what that implies; and be content.'
'Very well,' said Somerset, with repressed sadness, 'I will not expectyou to say more. But you do like me a little, Paula?'
'Now!' she said, shaking her head with symptoms of tenderness andlooking into his eyes. 'What have you just promised? Perhaps I like youa little more than a little, which is much too much! Yes,--Shakespearesays so, and he is always right. Do you still doubt me? Ah, I see youdo!'
'Because somebody has stood nearer to you to-night than I.'
'A fogy like him!--half as old again as either of us! How can you mindhim? What shall I do to show you that I do not for a moment let him comebetween me and you?'
'It is not for me to suggest what you should do. Though what you shouldpermit ME to do is obvious enough.'
She dropped her voice: 'You mean, permit you to do really and in earnestwhat he only seemed to do in the play.'
Somerset signified by a look that such had been his thought.
Paula was silent. 'No,' she murmured at last. 'That cannot be. He didnot, nor must you.'
It was said none the less decidedly for being spoken low.
'You quite resent such a suggestion: you have a right to. I beg yourpardon, not for speaking of it, but for thinking it.'
'I don't resent it at all, and I am not offended one bit. But I am notthe less of opinion that it is possible to be premature in some things;and to do this just now would be premature. I know what you wouldsay--that you would not have asked it, but for that unfortunateimprovisation of it in the play. But that I was not responsible for, andtherefore owe no reparation to you now.... Listen!'
'Paula--Paula! Where in the world are you?' was heard resounding alongthe corridor in the voice of her aunt. 'Our friends are all ready toleave, and you will surely bid them good-night!'
'I must be gone--I won't ring for you to be shown out--come this way.'
'But how will you get on in repeating the play tomorrow evening if thatinterpolation is against your wish?' he asked, looking her hard in theface.
'I'll think it over during the night. Come to-morrow morning to help mesettle. But,' she added, with coy yet genial independence, 'listen tome. Not a word more about a--what you asked for, mind! I don't want togo so far, and I will not--not just yet anyhow--I mean perhaps never.You must promise that, or I cannot see you again alone.'
'It shall be as you request.'
'Very well. And not a word of this to a soul. My aunt suspects: but sheis a good aunt and will say nothing. Now that is clearly understood, Ishould be glad to consult with you tomorrow early. I will come to you inthe studio or Pleasance as soon as I am disengaged.'
She took him to a little chamfered doorway in the corner, which openedinto a descending turret; and Somerset went down. When he had unfastenedthe door at the bottom, and stepped into the lower corridor, she asked,'Are you down?' And on receiving an affirmative reply she closed the topdoor.