THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER.

A droll rogue of my acquaintance, whom (one tried to think) the force of circumstance, rather than any natural disposition, had driven from the pavement of integrity into the gutter, used to maintain that it was better to confess one’s peccadilloes, with such colourable excuses as might suggest themselves, than to conceal them. In the former case you might, with a struggle, get out of the scrape and have done with it; in the latter case you were never safe from discovery, and when it came there was sure to be a catastrophe.

There was, it is true, no peccadillo in William Henry’s keeping that appointment we wot of with those two charming ornaments of Drury Lane Theatre, but since he had an impression that Margaret might not like it, he ought, according to my friend’s philosophy, to have told her all about it. After his interview with his Royal Highness (which could not be concealed) he felt that this straightforward course was the right one, and as he returned home in the hackney carriage with the precious manuscripts, amused himself with the thoughts of the pleasure Margaret would exhibit on hearing of the greatness that had been thrust upon him. When her mind had been dazzled by visions of Royalty, he had intended it to slip out in a casual way that he had been indebted for his introduction to his Royal Highness to one of those professional persons who had called in Norfolk Street the previous day on business, and whom he had been compelled to receive in place of his father—a Mrs. Jordan. The whole thing ran as smoothly and naturally in his own mind as could be. It was like some well-oiled mechanical machine, which the inventor (though of course it was no invention, only an adaptation) feels confident will do all he expects of it, only somehow in practice it doesn’t act. He found Margaret not in the least interested about his Royal Highness, and very much excited about the lady who had been the mere medium of his introduction, and whose part in the matter he had taken, it must be confessed, some pains to minimise.

‘You have not been frank with me, William Henry,’ she said with some severity.

He had it upon his lips to say that since he was William Henry he could hardly be Frank, but he felt she was in no mood for banter; and, moreover, with that name there naturally occurred to him the thought of Frank Dennis, which made his heart stand still. It was not her anger that he feared, nor even the diminution of her love, which had been indicated very significantly by the mention of his double name (which she had not used for months) instead of ‘Willie,’ but the possible diversion of her love to another object. Perhaps she was already making a comparison in her mind between himself and a certain other person who, whatever his faults, would, she knew, never have deceived her.

It was not impossible that love could stray, for had it not done so but a few hours ago, within his own experience, and with no such provocation? It was very different, of course, in his case; there is a certain latitude given to men, and the handsomest man on the stage, or off it, would, he was well aware, not have caused Margaret to forget her Willie even for an instant. But then women, when they are jealous, are capable of anything, and from pique will not only ‘be off’ with those they love, but sometimes ‘be on’ with another.

‘I am very sorry, Margaret,’ he stammered, ‘but I really don’t know what you mean.’

‘Then your face belies your words,’ was the cold reply. ‘Why did you not tell me yesterday that you were going to meet that woman at Drury Lane this morning?’

‘There were two of them,’ said William Henry eagerly, urged, as he felt, by some fortunate inspiration to tell the whole truth.

‘Oh, there were two, were there?’ Though she strove to keep her tone the same, there was a relaxation in her severity that did not escape him; the reflection that there was safety in numbers had no doubt occurred to her. ‘You omitted that circumstance, sir, in your previous narrative, with, no doubt, many others.’

‘Indeed, Margaret, I have told you all; that is, all that I thought could have any interest for you. I ought to have said, of course, that the invitation to the theatre came from both the ladies; they wanted to have some alteration made in the play for them (which of course was out of the question). Mrs. Powell was very angry about it; I should think that she had a temper of her own.’

‘I don’t want to hear about Mrs. Powell.’

There was once a young gentleman who was endeavouring to make himself agreeable as a raconteur in the presence of Royalty. When he had done his story the Royal lips let fall these terrible words: ‘We are not amused.’ Poor William Henry found himself in much the same position. His reminiscences of Mrs. Powell were, as it were, cut off at the main. Margaret’s instinct had eliminated that factor from the sum of the matter as insignificant; there was another person to talk about, it was true, but he was averse to enter upon that subject. Unhappily it was suggested to him as a topic.

‘Who, may I ask, is this Mrs. Jordan?’

‘Well, she was the other lady, of course, who called here,’ said William Henry (he felt that he was turning a lively red, and it was so important to him that he should keep his colour). ‘She is to perform Flavia in the play.’

‘The person in man’s clothes?’ observed Margaret icily.

‘Well, she plays the Page; you can hardly expect her to play him in petticoats. It was not a dress rehearsal,’ stammered the young man, ‘if you mean that. They simply asked me—both of them—to step round to the theatre this morning and render them some professional assistance, which, as it happened, I am unable to do. I cannot for the life of me see what harm there was in that.’

‘Then why did you not tell me you were going?’

It was the same dreadful question over again. Of course he ought to have told her, and if he had had any idea that she would have come to know of it he certainly would have done so. He looked so sorry (not to say silly) that Margaret’s heart melted a little.

‘You know how I hate anything clandestine and underhand, William Henry.’

‘I know it,’ he answered, with a deep sigh. His face was one of such abject misery, that one would have said, whatever he had done, he was sufficiently punished for it. Her heart melted more and more; he went on penitently:

‘Of course I ought to have told you, Margaret, but I did not conceal it because there was anything to be ashamed of. Only I knew you would not like it, that you would think there was harm in it—as you do, it seems—where there is no harm. It was surely a great piece of goodnature on their part, after I had disappointed them about the play, to offer to do their best for it, and to get the Duke——’

‘Did they both go with you to St. James’s Palace?’ she put in drily.

He was on the point of saying that there had been only room for two in the coach, but fortunately he was a young gentleman who thought before he spoke. It would certainly not have been a satisfactory explanation, and the very idea that he had been about to make it turned him scarlet.

‘No wonder you are ashamed of yourself, sir,’ said she, perceiving his confusion. ‘Why do you talk to me about “they“ and “them,” when you know that only one of these women had anything to do with the matter?’

‘Well, naturally, my dear, Mrs. Jordan was the person to introduce me to his Royal Highness, since she has been privately married to him.’

‘I don’t believe one word of it.’

‘I can only say she told me so,’ said William Henry simply.

Margaret did not give much credit to the assertion of this lady, but she believed what William Henry said. After all, the poor young fellow had probably meant no harm, nor even dreamt of the meshes into which this designing female would have drawn him. He had only been indiscreet and a little surreptitious, and had been rated enough.

‘You don’t know what these actresses are, Willie,’ she said gravely, ‘nor what pleasure they take in making misery and estrangements between honest people. Nothing this woman would like better, I’m sure of it, than to come between you and me.’

‘My dear Margaret, how can you say such things? If you had only seen her!’

‘I don’t want to see her,’ interpolated Margaret quickly.

‘A person entirely devoted to her profession, in which she is justly held in the highest esteem.’

‘I don’t deny that she is a good actress,’ returned Margaret significantly; ‘indeed I have no doubt of it.’

‘And she spoke of you so kindly.’

‘Of me? How dared she speak of me?’ cried Margaret with flashing eye. ‘What does she know of me?’

‘Well, she saw you just for a moment when you looked in by accident yesterday, and she said how beautiful and kind you looked, and congratulated me——’

‘It was shameful of you to tell those women of our engagement,’ she put in.

‘Why not? What was there to be ashamed of? Am I not proud of it? Why should I not have told them?’

His simplicity was very touching. If there had been such a thing as a male ingÉnue upon the stage, the speaker would have been the very man to play it.

‘How they must have laughed at you in their sleeves, my poor Willie!’ she answered pityingly.

He did not think it necessary to state that they had laughed at him, and by no means in their sleeves.

‘I will never see them again if you don’t wish it,’ said William Henry, still sticking to the plural number. ‘Only I suppose when the “Vortigern“ comes to be acted it will be necessary to do so just for a night or two.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind your seeing them at the play, Willie. We shall, of course, be there together.’

He had meant that his assistance would probably be required behind the scenes. Indeed Mrs. Jordan had taken it for granted that he would be a constant visitor at the theatre while the play was in preparation, and he had very willingly acquiesced in that arrangement, but he had not the courage to say so. He was only too thankful that Margaret’s suspicions were at last set at rest. He knew that she was of a jealous disposition, and also that she abhorred deceit, and he loved her none the less on either account, but there were reasons why her manifestation of such excessive displeasure on so small a matter alarmed him, and made his heart heavy within him. However, in a month or two they would be married. He would then be her very own, and she would have no misgivings about him; and as to deceit, there would be no further cause for it, and what was past and gone would surely be forgiven. But still his heart was heavy.

Considering Margaret’s youth and her middle-class position in life, the irritation and annoyance she had exhibited may seem unnatural as well as uncalled for. Young women of her age and rank are not nowadays supposed to know so much about the temptations of the stage, but in her time matters were different. The charms of this and that popular actress, and even their mode of life, were topics of common talk, and there was none of them more talked about than Mrs. Jordan. It is not, therefore, to be wondered at that Margaret regarded her as a syren attracted by the notoriety (not to mention the innocence and beauty) of her Willie, who designed to wile him from the quiet harbour of domestic love into the stormy seas of passion. Moreover, it must be said for Margaret that her jealousy was not like that of some people who, while resenting the interference of others with their private property, do not lavish on it any especial kindness of their own. She had always been the friend and defender of William Henry, even before he became her lover, and had long-established claims on his fidelity, and it galled her that one glimpse of a pretty face should have so worked with him as to induce him to renew acquaintance with it, under what seemed to her such suspicious circumstances, and especially in so secret and clandestine a fashion. It had always been a complaint of hers in the old days that William Henry was inclined to deception. It was in relation, however, to Mr. Erin only that she had observed it, and in that case there had been, certainly, excuses for the young man; but that he should have deceived her—if, at least, concealment could be called deception—she justly considered to be less pardonable. However, she had now said her say, and with a vigour that the circumstances scarcely called for; indeed, she felt that she had been somewhat hard upon him. However wrong he had been to try to hoodwink her, that had been the extent of his offending. He could hardly have declined to go to the theatre; and, indeed, she confessed to herself that while the play was in progress it was not reasonable to expect him to hold no communication with those who were to perform in it. The matter interested him very much, nor did she forget that it was mainly on her own account, for did not her uncle’s consent to their union depend upon the play’s success?

When Mr. Erin presently announced the first rehearsal at the theatre, and suggested that William Henry should be present to witness it, Margaret made no opposition; her objections, in short, to the young man’s renewing his acquaintance with the fair Flavia were tacitly withdrawn. She acknowledged to herself that things could scarcely be otherwise, and that, after all, there could be no possible harm in the matter; and from that moment, whenever her Willie was out of her sight, she was more tormented with the fires of jealousy than ever.

She knew that he saw Mrs. Jordan constantly, and was yet compelled to ignore it; she burned to know what passed between them, yet scorned to inquire. The news William Henry brought back with him of the prospects of the play seemed hardly of any consequence to her compared with matters on which he never spoke at all. What was it to her that Kemble was unsympathetic, dogged, and studiously apathetic in his rendering of Vortigern; that Phillimore as Horsus was more like a buffoon than a hero? What was it to her, on the other hand, that Mrs. Powell as Edmunda surpassed Mrs. Siddons herself? What she wished to know, and could not ask, was how that hussey Mrs. Jordan was behaving herself, not as Flavia in tights (though that idea was far from consolatory), but in her own proper person. Of one thing she felt convinced, that not content with seeing her Willie every day, this woman corresponded with him; that he received letters from her under that very roof. Else how was it that when the post now brought him missives in a hand that was strange to her, he would slip them into his pocket without a word of comment, and with an air of indifference that did not impose upon her for an instant? William Henry had now a little sitting-room of his own, and she noticed that when these letters arrived he remained in it longer alone than usual; reading them, no doubt, over and over, perhaps replying to them in the same fervid style in which (she felt sure) they were written, and possibly (for Margaret, though no poet like her Willie, had a lively imagination of her own) even kissing them.

One morning the Epilogue to ‘Vortigern and Rowena’ arrived from Mr. Merry, and was discussed at breakfast-time word by word, as befitted so important a document. An hour afterwards, when William Henry had gone out, as Margaret was only too well convinced, to Drury Lane, Mr. Erin returned to the subject.

‘I don’t much like those concluding lines in the first part,’ he said—

The scattered flowers he left, benignly save,
Posthumous flowers; the garland of the grave.

‘It ran “benignly save,“ did it not, Madge?’

‘I am not sure, uncle.’

‘Then just go and get the thing out of Samuel’s room.’

Margaret went and looked about her for the manuscript in question. It was nowhere to be found. But in her researches she came upon another document spread out in the half-opened drawer of the writing-table; it was written in a delicate hand on large letter-paper, and it was almost impossible that she could avoid reading the commencement of it.

‘My dear W. H.,’ it began, and then followed a mass of heterogeneous words without sense or meaning, as if they had been taken at random out of some dictionary. It is probable that Margaret had never heard of a cryptogram, but she had heard of communications written in cypher, and it flashed upon her mind at once that she was looking at some letter of that nature. It was bad enough that this abandoned hussey of Drury Lane, who dwelt but a mile away from them, and saw her Willie five days out of six, should nevertheless have the audacity to correspond with him; but that she should write such things as could not bear the light and had to be concealed in cypher was indeed intolerable. Granting her premises, there was certainly ample cause for the indignation that mantled to her very forehead, and the bitterness that took possession of her very soul.

As she stood with one hand on the table, for her limbs trembled with the agitation that shook her mind, she heard the front door softly closed, and a hurried footstep in the passage. It was William Henry, who had remembered no doubt—too late—that he had left the letter exposed to view, and had returned to place it in some safer receptacle. The next moment he was face to face with her.