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Lion and the Unicorn

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The following afternoon, when Helen was to come to tea, Carroll decided that he would receive her with all the old friendliness, but that he must be careful to subdue all emotion. He was really deeply hurt at her treatment, and had it not been that she came on her own invitation he would not of his own accord have sought to see her. In consequence, he rather welcomed than otherwise the arrival of Marion Cavendish, who came a half-hour before Helen was expected, and who followed a hasty knock with a precipitate entrance. “Sit down,” she commanded breathlessly; “and listen. I’ve been at rehearsal all day, or I’d have been here before you were awake.” She seated herself nervously and nodded her head at Carroll in an excited and mysterious manner. “What is it?” he asked. “Have you and Reggie—” “Listen,” Marion repeated, “our fortunes are made; that is what’s the matter—and I’ve made them. If you took half the interest in your work I do, you’d have made yours long ago. Last night,” she began impressively, “I went to a large supper at the Savoy, and I sat next to Charley Wimpole. He came in late, after everybody had finished, and I attacked him while he was eating his supper. He said he had been rehearsing ‘Caste’ after the performance; that they’ve put it on as a stop-gap on account of the failure of the ‘Triflers,’ and that he knew revivals were of no use; that he would give any sum for a good modern comedy. That was my cue, and I told him I knew of a better comedy than any he had produced at his theatre in five years, and that it was going begging. He laughed, and asked where was he to find this wonderful comedy, and I said, ‘It’s been in your safe for the last two months and you haven’t read it.’ He said, ‘Indeed, how do you know that?’ and I said, ‘Because if you’d read it, it wouldn’t be in your safe, but on your stage.’ So he asked me what the play was about, and I told him the plot and what sort of a part his was, and some of his scenes, and he began to take notice. He forgot his supper, and very soon he grew so interested that he turned his chair round and kept eying my supper-card to find out who I was, and at last remembered seeing me in ‘The New Boy’—and a rotten part it was, too—but he remembered it, and he told me to go on and tell him more about your play. So I recited it, bit by bit, and he laughed in all the right places and got very much excited, and said finally that he would read it the first thing this morning.” Marion paused, breathlessly. “Oh, yes, and he wrote your address on his cuff,” she added, with the air of delivering a complete and convincing climax. Carroll stared at her and pulled excitedly on his pipe. “Oh, Marion!” he gasped, “suppose he should? He won’t though,” he added, but eying her eagerly and inviting contradiction. “He will,” she answered, stoutly, “if he reads it.” “The other managers read it,” Carroll suggested, doubtfully. “Yes, but what do they know?” Marion returned, loftily. “He knows. Charles Wimpole is the only intelligent actor-manager in London.” There was a sharp knock at the door, which Marion in her excitement had left ajar, and Prentiss threw it wide open with an impressive sweep, as though he were announcing royalty: “Mr. Charles Wimpole,” he said. The actor-manager stopped in the doorway bowing gracefully, his hat held before him and his hand on his stick as though it were resting on a foil. He had the face and carriage of a gallant of the days of Congreve, and he wore his modern frock-coat with as much distinction as if it were of silk and lace. He was evidently amused. “I couldn’t help overhearing the last line,” he said, smiling. “It gives me a good entrance.” Marion gazed at him blankly: “Oh,” she gasped, “we—we—were just talking about you.” “If you hadn’t mentioned my name,” the actor said, “I should never have guessed it. And this is Mr. Carroll, I hope.” The great man was rather pleased with the situation. As he read it, it struck him as possessing strong dramatic possibilities: Carroll was the struggling author on the verge of starvation: Marion, his sweetheart, flying to him gave him hope; and he was the good fairy arriving in the nick of time to set everything right and to make the young people happy and prosperous. He rather fancied himself in the part of the good fairy, and as he seated himself he bowed to them both in a manner which was charmingly inclusive and confidential. “Miss Cavendish, I imagine, has already warned you that you might expect a visit from me,” he said tentatively. Carroll nodded. He was too much concerned to interrupt. “Then I need only tell you,” Wimpole continued, “that I got up at an absurd hour this morning to read your play; that I did read it; that I like it immensely—and that if we can come to terms I shall produce it I shall produce it at once, within a fortnight or three weeks.” Carroll was staring at him intently and continued doing so after Wimpole had finished speaking. The actor felt he had somehow missed his point, or that Carroll could not have understood him, and repeated, “I say I shall put it in rehearsal at once.” Carroll rose abruptly, and pushed back his chair. “I should be very glad,” he murmured, and strode over to the window, where he stood with his back turned to his guests. Wimpole looked after him with a kindly smile and nodded his head appreciatively. He had produced even a greater effect than his lines seemed to warrant. When he spoke again, it was quite simply, and sincerely, and though he spoke for Carroll’s benefit, he addressed himself to Marion. “You were quite right last night,” he said, “it is a most charming piece of work. I am really extremely grateful to you for bringing it to my notice.” He rose, and going to Carroll, put his hand on his shoulder. “My boy,” he said, “I congratulate you. I should like to be your age, and to have written that play. Come to my theatre to-morrow and we will talk terms. Talk it over first with your friends, so that I sha’n’t rob you. Do you think you would prefer a lump sum now, and so be done with it altogether, or trust that the royalties may—” “Royalties,” prompted Marion, in an eager aside. The men laughed. “Quite right,” Wimpole assented, good-humoredly; “it’s a poor sportsman who doesn’t back his own horse. Well, then, until to-morrow.” “But,” Carroll began, “one moment please. I haven’t thanked you.” “My dear boy,” cried Wimpole, waving him away with his stick, “it is I who have to thank you.” “And—and there is a condition,” Carroll said, “which goes with the play. It is that Miss Cavendish is to have the part of Nancy.” Wimpole looked serious and considered for a moment. “Nancy,” he said, “the girl who interferes—a very good part. I have cast Miss Maddox for it in my mind, but, of course, if the author insists—” Marion, with her elbows on the table, clasped her hands appealingly before her. “Oh, Mr. Wimpole!” she cried, “you owe me that, at least.” Carroll leaned over and took both of Marion’s hands in one of his. “It’s all right,” he said; “the author insists.” Wimpole waved his stick again as though it were the magic wand of the good fairy. “You shall have it,” he said. “I recall your performance in ‘The New Boy’ with pleasure. I take the play, and Miss Cavendish shall be cast for Nancy. We shall begin rehearsals at once. I hope you are a quick study.” “I’m letter-perfect now{,}” laughed Marion. Wimpole turned at the door and nodded to them. They were both so young, so eager, and so jubilant that he felt strangely old and out of it. “Good-by, then,” he said. “Good-by, sir,” they both chorussed. And Marion cried after him, “And thank you a thousand times.” He turned again and looked back at them, but in their rejoicing they had already forgotten him. “Bless you, my children,” he said, smiling. As he was about to close the door a young girl came down the passage toward it, and as she was apparently going to Carroll’s rooms, the actor left the door open behind him. Neither Marion nor Carroll had noticed his final exit. They were both gazing at each other as though, could they find speech, they would ask if it were true. “It’s come at last, Marion,” Philip said, with an uncertain voice. “I could weep,” cried Marion. “Philip,” she exclaimed, “I would rather see that play succeed than any play ever written, and I would rather play that part in it than—Oh, Philip,” she ended. “I’m so proud of you!” and rising, she threw her arms about his neck and sobbed on his shoulder. Carroll raised one of her hands and kissed the tips of her fingers gently. “I owe it to you, Marion,” he said—“all to you.” This was the tableau that was presented through the open door to Miss Helen Cabot, hurrying on her errand of restitution and good-will, and with Philip’s ring and watch clasped in her hand. They had not heard her, nor did they see her at the door, so she drew back quickly and ran along the passage and down the stairs into the street. She did not need now to analyze her feelings. They were only too evident. For she could translate what she had just seen as meaning only one thing—that she had considered Philip’s love so lightly that she had not felt it passing away from her until her neglect had killed it—until it was too late. And now that it was too late she felt that without it her life could not go on. She tried to assure herself that only the fact that she had lost it made it seem invaluable, but this thought did not comfort her—she was not deceived by it, she knew that at last she cared for him deeply and entirely. In her distress she blamed herself bitterly, but she also blamed Philip no less bitterly for having failed to wait for her. “He might have known that I must love him in time,” she repeated to herself again and again. She was so unhappy that her letter congratulating Philip on his good fortune in having his comedy accepted seemed to him cold and unfeeling, and as his success meant for him only what it meant to her, he was hurt and grievously disappointed. He accordingly turned the more readily to Marion, whose interests and enthusiasm at the rehearsals of the piece seemed in contrast most friendly and unselfish. He could not help but compare the attitude of the two girls at this time, when the failure or success of his best work was still undecided. He felt that as Helen took so little interest in his success he could not dare to trouble her with his anxieties concerning it, and she attributed his silence to his preoccupation and interest in Marion. So the two grew apart, each misunderstanding the other and each troubled in spirit at the other’s indifference. The first night of the play justified all that Marion and Wimpole had claimed for it, and was a great personal triumph for the new playwright. The audience was the typical first-night audience of the class which Charles Wimpole always commanded. It was brilliant, intelligent, and smart, and it came prepared to be pleased. From one of the upper stage-boxes Helen and Lady Gower watched the successful progress of the play with an anxiety almost as keen as that of the author. To Helen it seemed as though the giving of these lines to the public—these lines which he had so often read to her, and altered to her liking—was a desecration. It seemed as though she were losing him indeed—as though he now belonged to these strange people, all of whom were laughing and applauding his words, from the German Princess in the Royal box to the straight-backed Tommy in the pit. Instead of the painted scene before her, she saw the birch-trees by the river at home, where he had first read her the speech to which they were now listening so intensely—the speech in which the hero tells the girl he loves her. She remembered that at the time she had thought how wonderful it would be if some day some one made such a speech to her—not Philip—but a man she loved. And now? If Philip would only make that speech to her now! He came out at last, with Wimpole leading him, and bowed across a glaring barrier of lights at a misty but vociferous audience that was shouting the generous English bravo! and standing up to applaud. He raised his eyes to the box where Helen sat, and saw her staring down at the tumult, with her hands clasped under her chin. Her face was colorless, but lit with the excitement of the moment; and he saw that she was crying. Lady Gower, from behind her, was clapping her hands delightedly. “But, my dear Helen,” she remonstrated breathlessly, “you never told me he was so good-looking.” “Yes,” said Helen, rising abruptly, “he is—very good-looking.” She crossed the box to where her cloak was hanging, but instead of taking it down buried her face in its folds. “My dear child!” cried Lady Gower, in dismay. “What is it? The excitement has been too much for you.” “No, I am just happy,” sobbed Helen. “I am just happy for him.” “We will go and tell him so then,” said Lady Gower. “I am sure he would like to hear it from you to-night.” Philip was standing in the centre of the stage, surrounded by many pretty ladies and elderly men. Wimpole was hovering over him as though he had claims upon him by the right of discovery. But when Philip saw Helen, he pushed his way toward her eagerly and took her hand in both of his. “I am so glad, Phil,” she said. She felt it all so deeply that she was afraid to say more, but that meant so much to her that she was sure he would understand. He had planned it very differently. For a year he had dreamed that, on the first night of his play, there would be a supper, and that he would rise and drink her health, and tell his friends and the world that she was the woman he loved, and that she had agreed to marry him, and that at last he was able, through the success of his play, to make her his wife. And now they met in a crowd to shake hands, and she went her way with one of her grand ladies, and he was left among a group of chattering strangers. The great English playwright took him by the hand and in the hearing of all, praised him gracefully and kindly. It did not matter to Philip whether the older playwright believed what he said or not; he knew it was generously meant. “I envy you this,” the great man was saying. “Don’t lose any of it, stay and listen to all they have to say. You will never live through the first night of your first play but once.” “Yes, I hear them,” said Philip, nervously; “they are all too kind. But I don’t hear the voice I have been listening for,” he added in a whisper. The older man pressed his hand again quickly. “My dear boy,” he said, “I am sorry.” “Thank you,” Philip answered. Within a week he had forgotten the great man’s fine words of praise, but the clasp of his hand he cherished always. Helen met Marion as she was leaving the stage door and stopped to congratulate her on her success in the new part. Marion was radiant. To Helen she seemed obstreperously happy and jubilant. “And, Marion,” Helen began bravely, “I also want to congratulate you on something else. You—you—neither of you have told me yet,” she stammered, “but I am such an old friend of both that I will not be kept out of the secret.” At these words Marion’s air of triumphant gayety vanished; she regarded Helen’s troubled eyes closely and kindly. “What secret, Helen?” she asked. “I came to the door of Philip’s room the other day when you did not know I was there,” Helen answered; “and I could not help seeing how matters were. And I do congratulate you both—and wish you—oh, such happiness!” Without a word Marion dragged her back down the passage to her dressing-room, and closed the door. “Now tell me what you mean,” she said. “I am sorry if I discovered anything you didn’t want known yet,” said Helen, “but the door was open. Mr. Wimpole had just left you and had not shut it, and I could not help seeing.” Marion interrupted her with an eager exclamation of enlightenment. “Oh, you were there, then,” she cried. “And you?” she asked eagerly—“you thought Phil cared for me—that we are engaged, and it hurt you; you are sorry? Tell me,” she demanded, “are you sorry?” Helen drew back and stretched out her hand toward the door. “How can you!” she exclaimed, indignantly. “You have no right.” Marion stood between her and the door. “I have every right,” she said, “to help my friends, and I want to help you and Philip. And indeed I do hope you ARE sorry. I hope you are miserable. And I’m glad you saw me kiss him. That was the first and the last time, and I did it because I was happy and glad for him; and because I love him too, but not in the least in the way he loves you. No one ever loved any one as he loves you. And it’s time you found it out. And if I have helped to make you find it out I’m glad, and I don’t care how much I hurt you.” “Marion!” exclaimed Helen, “what does it mean? Do you mean that you are not engaged; that—” “Certainly not,” Marion answered. “I am going to marry Reggie. It is you that Philip loves, and I am very sorry for you that you don’t love him.” Helen clasped Marion’s hands in both of hers. “But, Marion!” she cried, “I do, oh, I do!” There was a thick yellow fog the next morning, and with it rain and a sticky, depressing dampness which crept through the window-panes, and which neither a fire nor blazing gas-jets could overcome. Philip stood in front of the fireplace with the morning papers piled high on the centre-table and scattered over the room about him. He had read them all, and he knew now what it was to wake up famous, but he could not taste it. Now that it had come it meant nothing, and that it was so complete a triumph only made it the harder. In his most optimistic dreams he had never imagined success so satisfying as the reality had proved to be; but in his dreams Helen had always held the chief part, and without her, success seemed only to mock him. He wanted to lay it all before her, to say, “If you are pleased, I am happy. If you are satisfied, then I am content. It was done for you, and I am wholly yours, and all that I do is yours.” And, as though in answer to his thoughts, there was an instant knock at the door, and Helen entered the room and stood smiling at him across the table. Her eyes were lit with excitement, and spoke with many emotions, and her cheeks were brilliant with color. He had never seen her look more beautiful. “Why, Helen!” he exclaimed, “how good of you to come. Is there anything wrong? Is anything the matter?” She tried to speak, but faltered, and smiled at him appealingly. “What is it?” he asked in great concern. Helen drew in her breath quickly, and at the same moment motioned him away—and he stepped back and stood watching her in much perplexity. With her eyes fixed on his she raised her hands to her head, and her fingers fumbled with the knot of her veil. She pulled it loose, and then, with a sudden courage, lifted her hat proudly, as though it were a coronet, and placed it between them on his table. “Philip,” she stammered, with the tears in her voice and eyes, “if you will let me—I have come to stay.” The table was no longer between them. He caught her in his arms and kissed her face and her uncovered head again and again. From outside the rain beat drearily and the fog rolled through the street, but inside before the fire the two young people sat close together, asking eager questions or sitting in silence, staring at the flames with wondering, happy eyes. The Lion and the Unicorn saw them only once again. It was a month later when they stopped in front of the shop in a four-wheeler, with their baggage mixed on top of it, and steamer-labels pasted over every trunk. “And, oh, Prentiss!” Carroll called from the cab-window. “I came near forgetting. I promised to gild the Lion and the Unicorn if I won out in London. So have it done, please, and send the bill to me. For I’ve won out all right.” And then he shut the door of the cab, and they drove away forever. “Nice gal, that,” growled the Lion. “I always liked her. I am glad they’ve settled it at last.” The Unicorn sighed, sentimentally. “The other one’s worth two of her,” he said. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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