I could hear the laughter and applause from the drawing-room. I listened till I could stand it no longer,—all looking at Lilian, and I, who fancied I had the best right to see her, absent. I stole down-stairs, and got into the drawing-room behind the company, hiding myself among the servants, but I could see the stage perfectly.
“By Jove, Westby, how she did act! There, it was not acting—she felt it all; I hated to see her, and yet she did look so out and out lovely. It was some French story, as far as I could make out: she was engaged to a man she did not like, and yet to suit her purpose she could smile, and laugh, and cajole. I kept saying to myself, ‘It is acting, it’s only acting,’ and I heard the people talking in front, ‘It’s nature, perfect nature, not acting.’ And they were right, Westby!
“I was sickened by all the laughter and applause; there was laughter and giggle, too, where I was, though in an undertone, particularly towards the end of the play. I could not but listen.
“‘The fun is,’ said a servant girl before me—of course they were in utter ignorance of my presence—‘the fun is, she is really in love with the very man she don’t like in the play. I’m sure of it.’
“‘Well, he is always here, for one thing,’ said another.
“I can tell you, Westby, a child might have knocked me down.”
“There, there,” cried Westby with disgust. “I want to hear no more of it. I can see it all. I can tell you the fellow’s name—Frank Scott! I had heard some rumours, but like an ass I disbelieved them. Pshaw! I know the whole story as well as if you had given it me word for word—it’s the story of a heartless flirt.”
“No, no! Westby,” cried Newton, vehemently. “I never meant to tell you about Scott, it will only mislead you. She is not in love with him!”
“I don’t understand you, Newton.”
“I can only tell you I believed it as strongly as you do now—I taxed her with it—”
“And of course she denied it,” interrupted Westby. “Credat Judæeus! Forgive me if I’m rather sceptical, it was not to be expected that she should confess to you the name of her new lover.”
“Look you here, Westby, I only regret that it is not in my power to tell you all the facts about our last interview—she is not in love with Scott, I’m certain of that—but enough of the whole affair. It is so very painful to me that I dare not dwell on it, and just because it is so painful, and just because I feel so utterly desolate. I’ve come to shake your old fist and have a bit of comfort in seeing a friend who has been staunch and true throughout.”
“Thank God,” murmured Westby, “I can give you my hand on it.” Then in a louder tone, “These misfortunes cure themselves, Newton. You are well rid of her—bear that in mind! But Fred Temple,” and Westby’s voice dropped, “what would he say to this? his sister a wretched jilt! You never knew Temple, Newton. I can tell you this affair would have wounded him to the quick. I know he would never have forgiven her. Good God! to think Lilian should have acted thus.” Westby was silent for a while, then he suddenly drew his hand from Newton’s grasp. “How dare I throw stones? Newton, I’ll hide nothing from you—I’m a beggarly humbug, I was once madly in love with this girl—madly, madly, I can tell you. I could speak and think rightly enough till I was tried in the fire, but then I was as weak—as weak as the meanest wretch living. I talk of despising her indeed! That night, Newton, before she came to bid you adieu—and, mark you, she asked me as her brother’s friend for my advice—there, it was rising in my soul to take advantage of your misfortune, and so win her from you; but she knew what her duty was then, if she has forgotten it now, and she told me what it was, putting the very words into my mouth, while I was struggling with my wretched thought, and so she saved me from being in very fact a scoundrel and a knave. You may cut me to-morrow, Newton, but I’m glad I’ve told you. I could not hold it back after what has taken place.”
There was a painful silence.
Westby’s words of self-accusation had burst from his lips with vehement fluency, but when he began to speak again it was with the utmost hesitation and uncertainty.
“You are my very oldest friend, Newton, and I would not for worlds have you despise me. I have accused myself, therefore I have a right to say something in my own extenuation. That wretched night cured my wicked stupid love. I swear to you, Newton, that I have done all that lay in my power to serve your interests, both with the Temples and with regard to that bank business. Do tell me you believe this.”
“I do believe it, you dear old boy, from the bottom of my heart!” and Newton took Westby’s hand in his.
“I wish that there was a pledge of assurance deeper than words,” exclaimed Westby.
“Why, your labour in that bank affair speaks for itself,” urged Newton, “and I may tell you thus much of our interview—Lilian Temple swore to me that your influence had held her for so long true to me.”
Newton emphasised all this with a hearty shake of the hand.
“Good night, old fellow,” said he, taking up his hat. “I shall come and breakfast with you, mind that—eight o’clock, hey?”
“I can say later, if you like.”
“No, no; at eight o’clock I’m your man,” and Newton left the room.
Westby understood the motive of Newton’s proposal to come to breakfast. “He really does forgive me! Pshaw! I shouldn’t wonder, after all, if this is not some foolish lovers’ misunderstanding, which a few judicious words may set straight. I’ll see Lilian to-morrow; she taught me aright once—I’ll try if I can’t teach her aright in return.”
CHAPTER VII. REAL ACTING.
But we must now give the other side of Newton’s story:—
“Rouge!” exclaimed Lilian, “please—no.”
“Before the lights, miss, you’ll be as white as a ghost,” expostulated Mr. Williams, the eminent perruquier.
“As little as possible, then.”
