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- Herausgeber: Fred M White
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
Timidly, almost appealingly, a girl with pathetic blue eyes looked at a man opposite to her. They were a striking contrast; the girl so young and fair and innocent of the world, the man wearing an assumption of benevolence which was belied by the furtiveness of his eyes, and the sensual lips. Smooth were his words; but anybody who knew the world would have mistrusted Roger Carney instinctively. As to the rest, he was a theatrical agent in very poor repute, though Elsie Vane was ignorant of that when she wrote to him from the country in reply to a plausible advertisement. He spread out his hands and affected a look of sympathy.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
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Fred M. White
A Queen of the Stage
Table of contents
I. — CRUEL FORTUNE
II. — ALONE IN LONDON
III. — THE TOY OF CIRCUMSTANCE
IV. — THE DEAD FACE
V. — A FAMILY SKELETON
VI. — THE WRONG HOUSE
VII. — DANGER!
VIII. — THE DANGER DEEPENS
IX. — A WELCOME INTERRUPTION
X. — AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
XI. — THE ICE MAIDEN
XII. — THE BLACK POODLE
XIII. — TO THE SLUMS POST HASTE
XIV. — A KING'S RANSOM
XV. — THE POLICE RAID
XVI. — THE PERIL DEEPENS
XVII. — STILL IN DARKNESS
XVIII. — SHADOWED
XIX. — CLEARING THE WAY
XX. — A QUESTION OF PEDIGREE
XXI. — A NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH
XXII. — A LAPSE OF MEMORY
XXIII. — IN HIDING
XXIV. — THE WATCH IS FOUND
XXV. — HANDCUFFED
XXVI — FORD'S WIFE
XXVII. — WEISS'S RETURN
XXVIII. — THE FIRST DIARY
XXIX. — MORE LEAVES FROM THE DIARY
XXX. — THE DIARY CONTINUED
XXXI. — THE BLACK POCKET-BOOK
XXXII. — THE END OF THE DIARY
XXXIII. — THE TRAIL BROADENS
XXXIV. — A GOOD REASON WHY
XXXV. — FORD TO THE RESCUE
XXXVI. — BEARDING THE BULLY
XXXVII. — THE MISSING WITNESS
XXXVIII. — DRIVING IT HOME
XXXIX. — CLOSE QUARTERS
XL. — CONFESSION
XLI. — A CLEAR SKY
I. — CRUEL FORTUNE
II. — ALONE IN LONDON
For some moments Elsie stood in the dingy office turning the card over in her fingers, wondering what it could mean. Greatly as she had mistrusted Carney, she did not entertain the same feelings towards Dora. It seemed impossible the young and timid girl, with the frank, innocent face, could be the daughter of the sorry blackguard who made a living by robbing ignorant girls with a fancy for the stage. Elsie would have been puzzled to explain why she herself had been lured in that direction. The only child of a scholarly country parson, she had seen nothing of the world, and all her ideas of the Theatre had been drawn from novels which had presented the pleasant side of the picture. Had Elsie realised half the perils and privations of the stage, she would have shrunk appalled from the prospect. As it was, she had had her lesson. She was quite cured now. She wished to have nothing further to do with her old ambition.
Meanwhile, she was alone in London, and her sole means of subsistence lay within the narrow limits of the solitary shilling which she had in her purse. She had come, fully believing that she was to start at once on a provincial tour, when everything would be found for her, and every provision made for her comfort. She had left her wardrobe at Paddington Station, where she had intended to take it up before beginning her tour in the West. And here she was stranded, a pretty, innocent girl, alone in the cruelest city in the world for anyone who lacks friends.
It was fortunate she knew the address of her father's old acquaintance in the city of London. She had never seen Mr. Jeffries, but she knew he had been at school and college with her father, and had heard the latter speak of him as a man doing a large business as a solicitor. When in the street, Elsie summoned up courage to ask the way of a policeman, and was pleased to find she had no great distance to walk. With beating heart she inquired for Mr. Jeffries. The clerk was civil, but had a piece of information to impart which brought the tears to Elsie's eyes.
"I am sorry you can't see Mr. Jeffries, miss," he said. "He is out of town. If you are here on business connected with the firm, there are other gentlemen——"
"Oh, my business is quite private," Elsie said. "Mr. Jeffries was an old friend of my father's, and I wanted his advice."
"That is unfortunate," the clerk said. "Mr. Jeffries is on the Continent. He hasn't been well lately, and we don't expect him back for a month. Will you not see one of the partners."
Elsie shook her head. She had no words for the moment. It was all she could do to keep from breaking down. She was feeling faint from want of food, for it was nearly two o'clock, and she had had nothing since her early breakfast, which she had been too excited to eat. Desperate as her situation was, she could not find it in her heart to unbosom herself to strangers. She contrived to find her voice at last.
"It is very good of you," she said, "but I don't think I will trouble the other gentlemen. I dare say I can call upon Mr. Jeffries another time. I hope he will soon be better."
Elsie drifted out of the office, feeling she had broken the last link between herself and the past. Few well-educated, well-nurtured girls had fewer friends than she. Her mother had died years before, leaving her to be her father's only companion, in a small country village where congenial society was scarce. The failure of one or two concerns in which Mr. Vane had invested his money had so preyed upon his health that he died, leaving Elsie practically penniless when his debts had been paid. When she left home that morning there was not a single friend to bid her good-bye. So far as she knew, she had no living relations in England; and here she was, young and strong and active, with nothing but a slender wardrobe and one shilling in her purse.
Come what may, she must have something to eat. She wanted to sit down and rest herself, and think the situation over. Save for one happy fortnight three years before, she had never been in London, and the crowds of people dismayed her. She would not have been afraid to walk through the most desolate country place at midnight but in these thronged streets she felt abashed and frightened. It seemed dreadful to stand there with that stream of humanity flowing by, and not be able recognise one of that sea of faces. More by instinct than anything else, Elsie drifted into a tea shop and laid out sixpence of her money to the best advantage. She was pleased to find she could have a fresh egg and bread and butter and tea for the limited sum of sixpence. She was decidedly the better for her meal, frugal though it was. Her natural courage rose, and she felt able to face the situation. The healthy life she had led in the past had given her a perfect nerve and a magnificent constitution.
Surely there must be some place where girls situated as she was could find food and lodging for a day or two. If only these could be obtained, she had nothing to fear. She had been thoroughly trained to look after a house, and her learned father had educated her far beyond the ordinary standard.
Elsie wandered until she came at length to the Park, where she sat down and watched the children play. She resolved not to think of what was likely to happen later. She could not let her mind dwell upon the problem of her night's lodging. She would wait on the off chance of something turning up, and, if necessary in the last resort, would confide her story to a policeman, and ask her way to the nearest station. Then came a glimmer of hope as she remembered the card in her pocket. She could not help feeling that Dora Carney would prove her friend. If the appointment outside the Regency Theatre failed, then she could put her other plan into execution.
A smart nursemaid with two little children came to the seat, and one of the bairns asked for a knife to mend his boat. Elsie complied eagerly. She even mended the boat to the child's gratification. Elsie loved children, and here, too, was a means of escaping from her sad thoughts. For an hour or more she sat chatting to the children and their nurse, and watching the stream of glittering carriages flash by. The nurse was Cockney to her finger tips. She seemed to know a great many of the fashionable folk by sight, so that to Elsie the conversation was really entertaining. Presently there passed by a landau in which an elegantly dressed lady was seated alone. She was young, and apparently surrounded with all that wealth could bestow. There was something in her face that appealed to Elsie strongly. It was a beautiful face, clear-cut and pathetic, with dark, melancholy eyes, and Elsie thought the owner of such a face must be capable of rising to the loftiest heights both of courage and self-sacrifice.
"Do you know who she is?" she asked the nursemaid.
"Who doesn't miss?" the other replied. "That is Vera Barrington, the great actress. I suppose you have heard of her."
Elsie nodded. Even in the remote village where she came from, the name of Vera Barrington was known. She was young, not more than four and twenty, and yet had already arrived at the very zenith of her profession. Nothing appeared to come amiss to the woman who only three years before had made a hit at one of the minor music halls. She had her chance in a musical comedy, in which she had proved a brilliant success. Thence she had gone straight into the realms of tragedy, when her acting had been a perfect revelation to the critics. There was a slight feeling of envy in Elsie's heart as her eyes followed the figure in the retreating carriage.
"Of course, I have heard of Miss Barrington," she said. "Is she married? I understand there is something romantic about her."
"Nobody knows, miss," the nursemaid answered. "I am told she keeps herself quite to herself. She has a beautiful house in Regent's Park, but nobody ever goes there. Even in the theatre, they say she is standoffish. And now I must be going. Come along, children. Say good-bye to the lady first."
Elsie did not part with the little ones without a real sense of reluctance. The Park had suddenly become very lonely, and the stream of humanity in the streets would be preferable to this. So the hours drifted on till night fell, and the houses were picked out with points of flame. It was nearly eight o'clock before Elsie went back to the shop where she had had the previous meal. When her hunger was satisfied her purse was empty. Thanks to her country training and regular hours, however, Elsie was not utterly tired and worn out. Besides, she was buoyed up by the hope that something would come of the assignation outside the Regency Theatre. It was a fine night so that the anxieties of the situation were not too strongly marked. For nearly three hours Elsie walked briskly along, striving to assume the air of one who has some definite object in view.
Her heart beat faster and her pulse quickened as the hour of eleven drew near. She came at length to the portico of the Regency Theatre, and stood there waiting. One or two men in evening dress inside the vestibule gazed at her admiringly, but the girl's proud, unconscious face, and assured manner checked all attempts of familiarity. She turned to look at the large frame of photographs hanging in the doorway, and saw to her surprise that the figure in the centre was that of Vera Barrington. It struck Elsie as strange that she should be keeping an appointment outside the very theatre where the brilliant actress was engaged. A moment later a tall, graceful figure flitted through the entrance hall towards a brougham standing by the pavement. Elsie caught a glimpse of a pale, pathetic face, and, with a thrill, recognised that it was the tragedienne herself.
"She finishes early," Elsie heard one man say to another. "Beautiful woman, isn't she, but cold as ice."
The brougham drove away, and presently there was a sound of music within the theatre and the distant notes of the National Anthem. Evidently the performance was over, and almost immediately crowds of people in evening dress thronged the vestibule. Outside a couple of commissionaires were bawling hoarsely for carriages and the shrill sound of cab whistles filled the air. The clock had struck eleven, and with some dismay Elsie felt the appointment would not be kept. As she stood uncertain what to do, her eye fell upon the jaunty form of a little messenger-boy, who started forward as he met her glance.
"Miss Vane?" he said. "If so, I have a letter for you."
Elsie grabbed at the envelope and tore it open. Inside was a short message.
"Could not come," it said. "Go at once to 12 Regent Terrace and ask to see the mistress of the house. Go boldly without fear. Your presence is anxiously awaited."
III. — THE TOY OF CIRCUMSTANCE
Elsie stood for a moment oblivious to her surroundings, her whole attention fixed upon the letter in her hand. Here was a development which she had not expected. Not till now had she realised how much she had counted on the hope of seeing Dora Carney again. Nor could she be absolutely sure that the letter had come from the dramatic agent's daughter. Elsie knew little of the world, but, like most people who live in country places, she had read a daily paper carefully, and some weird stories came into her mind. Was this some subtle plot to lure her into a situation fraught with danger and difficulties?
Then Elsie's common sense came to her rescue, and she put the disturbing thought aside. The letter must be from Dora Carney. The girl had been prevented from keeping her appointment, and the appearance of the messenger-boy was the natural sequel. Doubtless Elsie had been described to the lad, and his sharp wits had been answerable for the rest. Elsie would have asked a question or two, but the boy had already vanished.
To go or not to go, that was the question. The letter in Elsie's hand was probably a passport to a comfortable lodging with respectable people, and perhaps the offer of regular employment. It was getting late and there was only one cruel alternative to the somewhat peremptory letter. If Elsie decided to have no more to do with it, she would have to carry out her original programme and throw herself on the mercy of the police.
And supposing they doubted her word? Supposing they regarded her as an impostor? In that case Elsie wondered if they could send her to prison. She had heard of country magistrates doing that kind of thing, when a man came before them charged with having no visible means of support; and it was an absolute fact that Elsie had no way of getting a living. There was nothing for it but to take her courage in both hands and boldly face the future. When this resolution was come to Elsie felt the better for it. A healthy craving for food gripped her. For one so vigorous, the amount she had eaten during the day was barely enough to sustain strength. She drifted down the Strand looking for some policeman so put her in the way of reaching 12 Regent Terrace. She wondered what all these happy, well-dressed people pouring out of the theatres would think if they heard her story.
To Elsie's alarm she found she had a considerable distance to travel. By the time she reached Marylebone-road her limbs were dragging painfully and her breath was coming fast, and with a feeling of thankfulness Elsie reached her destination. This was the place right enough. A row of magnificent houses gleaming white in the rays of the electric light. So far as Elsie could see, No. 12 was somewhat more important than its neighbours. The house seemed to be brilliantly lighted and a flight of marble steps led to the front door. For a moment the girl hesitated; then she laid a shaky hand on the electric bell and heard the ripple far below. There could be no drawing back now.
A footman in neat livery threw open the door and politely waited for Elsie to speak. She was not in the least surprised to notice that the servant was a negro. The circumstance seemed to fit in with her strange adventure.
"I have come here by appointment," Elsie said. "I—I do not know the name of the lady of the house, but I have a letter here which will explain everything to her."
"That is all right madame," the negro said, speaking perfect English. "Will you be good enough to come this way?"
Elsie's nervousness had vanished, and she felt sure there was no danger ahead. It was absurd to identify a house like this with anything in the way of crime or vulgar intrigue. Tired as she was and utterly exhausted, Elsie could not help noting the perfect appointments of the house. On more than one occasion in her father's time she had dined at the castle of the Duke of Sidmouth, one of the show places in her part of the country, but she had seen nothing finer than the suite of rooms through which she was now being conducted.
She came at length to a small apartment at once refined and homelike; a fire of logs and coals was blazing on the hearth. The warmth was so grateful to Elsie that she dropped into an arm-chair and closed her eyes. It was only for a moment that the fit of fatigue held her, then she realised that the negro was addressing her in tones of deference.
"I was directed to bring you here," he said. "It is not long before my—my—the owner of the house will see you. Meanwhile, you will permit me to offer you refreshment."
The negro indicated a table which Elsie had not previously noticed. She saw that a supper for one had been laid out, a dainty supper, perfectly served, and a gold-necked bottle stood by the side of the plate. Without waiting to be told, the servant opened the champagne, and gravely tendered Elsie a glass.
"Presently," she said. "After I have eaten something."
The servant pulled up a chair and vanished. Elsie was not sorry to be alone. She was too wolfishly hungry to care about being watched. Then gradually the feeling of hunger passed away, and she raised the glass to her lips and swallowed the champagne, which coursed through her veins like liquid fire, and braced her for anything that was likely to happen.
The house was strangely silent, but Elsie put that down to the thickness of the carpets on the floors. By and by she heard a sound of voices in angry altercation. One was the voice of a woman, pure and sweet, the other that of a man who spoke in commanding accents. While Elsie was still wondering, the door opened and a woman came in.
She was tall and dark, and gave Elsie the singular idea that she looked older than her years. At the same time she was haunted by the fancy that she had seen this beautiful, well-dressed woman before. Then it suddenly burst upon her, and she gave a cry of surprise and pleasure.
"I see you know me," the lady said with a smile.
"Not actually till this afternoon," Elsie responded, "and then only by a kind of accident. I happened to be in the Park, and someone pointed you out to me as Miss Vera Barrington. It is remarkable that I should have the privilege of making your acquaintance so soon afterwards."
Elsie spoke simply and naturally, and was under the impression that the great actress was in some way pleased with her. At any rate, the woman smiled and held out her hand.
"We are all the sport of circumstance," she said. "I dare say you envy me, and imagine that if we could change places you would be the happiest girl in the world."
"I think I should be," Elsie ventured to say.
"Ah, yes; I have been told that before. My child, I like you. I have taken a fancy to your face. I am certain that you are pure and good and innocent, and that you have courage and resolution as well. I want you to help me."
"Do you need help from anybody?" Elsie asked.
"Ay, indeed I do. A word in your ear. I am the most miserable woman on the face of this earth to-day."
The words came with a hissing whisper, with an electric thrill behind them, and for an instant the speaker's face changed to an expression of the most unutterable sadness.
"You have been very kind to me," Elsie stammered, "and I am very, very grateful. If there is anything I can do for you, pray command me, and I will do it gladly. When I come to reflect upon where I might have been at this moment—but of course, you know nothing of my story."
Vera Barrington indicated an arm-chair by the fire.
"Let us sit down and talk," she said. "I have managed to avert the danger for the time being. You will be astonished to hear that I know more of your story than you imagine. You are a friendless girl, and have come from the provinces with an idea of making a name for yourself on the stage. That is one of the saddest fates that ever could befall a woman. The public only know of the adulation and flattery, of the meretricious dazzle of the life behind the footlights. Ah, my dear child, I could show you another vision. I will show you another prospect if necessity arises. But we need not go into that now. Like many a girl before you and many a girl to come after you, you fell a prey to the class of rogue that battens upon innocent ambitions like yours. Roger Carney robbed you of every penny, and then put you out with an excuse that the company in which he had procured you an engagement had broken down. That story is told again and again to no end of victims, who believe it implicitly. When you left Carney's office this morning you were penniless and without friends, save one."
"I can guess who that one friend was," Elsie said. "I am glad my instinct did not play me false. You are speaking of Carney's daughter Dora. I feel sure she is a good girl."
"One of the best," Miss Barrington said with feeling, "and I can remember the time, too, when Roger Carney was an upright and honorable man, low as he has now fallen in the social scale. You would not take him to be a man who once gave promise of a distinguished career in the army."
"Indeed, I should not," Elsie murmured.
"I am only telling you facts," the actress went on. "But for your courage and good nature this morning, Roger Carney would by this time have found himself in gaol. One of his victims happened to be acquainted with a solicitor, who set the law in motion. It was very fortunate that Dora Carney happened to be present or you would not be seated here now. She is a good girl, and would have kept her promise to you but for an accident. Still, you are here, and you may consider yourself amongst friends. It will be no fault of ours if you are ever in need again. At the same time, I warn you that your courage will be put to the test. Do you think you could undertake a mission involving real risk, in which you must ask no questions and do exactly as you are told?"
Vera Barrington's manner had changed abruptly. There was something cold and almost stern in her manner of speaking.
"I think so," Elsie said, after a short pause. "As you are aware, I am friendless and without means. I am ready to earn an honest and honorable living."
"Make your mind easy on that score," Vera Barrington rejoined. "I would never ask you to do anything degrading. You have seen something of this house. You know something of my career. People envy me my success and the good fortune it has brought me, but would they do so if they knew the story of my life? I think not. In the course of your reading, did you ever come across that extraordinary poem of Tom Hood's called 'The Haunted House'?"
"I know it," Elsie said. "It is weird and fascinating; but you don't mean to tell me——"
"Indeed, I do," the actress said in a hoarse whisper. "This house is haunted by disgrace and crime. You would not think it, but the fact remains. The shadow has spoilt my life; it is making me old before my time, and unless I can find some means to lift it, the worry must go on to its certain end. Circumstances have inspired me with some hope, and when Dora Carney told me your story this afternoon, I began to see a way whereby you could be useful to me, and in return you shall never complain of my ingratitude."
"I will do anything you like," Elsie said. "If you will only confide in me, and let me know what you want."
Vera Barrington appeared as if about to speak then she checked herself, and rose in a listening attitude. From somewhere overhead came a rumbling sound, followed by loud voices and a heavy fall as if a blow had been struck. With the celerity of some graceful animal, Vera Barrington sprang across the room and switched off the electric light. Then she reached over and grasped Elsie by the arm with a grip that was almost painful.
"Come away at once," she whispered. "The trouble has broken out afresh. I would give five years of my life to prevent your presence in the house becoming known. Do not stop to ask any questions, but come at once."
Elsie made no demur. She followed up a flight of stairs into a bedroom that was all in darkness. With a whisper to her to keep up her courage, Vera Barrington closed the door and locked it on the outside, leaving Elsie to her reflections.
IV. — THE DEAD FACE
As far as Elsie could make out the bedroom was as superbly furnished as the rest of the house. A ragged, waning moon behind the bank of clouds served presently to pick out various objects. It was possible to discern objects here and there, which indicated that the room was occupied by a woman. The dressing-table was littered with silver-mounted trifles, and a great wardrobe with open doors revealed many toilettes. In a spirit of natural curiosity Elsie ranged round the room, trying to keep her courage in hand, and succeeding more or less indifferently. She would have been grateful for a light, but though she could see a score of electric fittings she did not dare to try the experiment. Some fascination drew her towards the bed, and to her surprise she saw that the counterpane was literally smothered with the most beautiful flowers.
They were all white, and when Elsie came to look at them she saw that they were not scattered about heedlessly, but arranged artistically and systematically. A wreath of lilies particularly aroused Elsie's admiration, and she stooped to smell them.
A moment later and she started back with a suppressed cry, for in the middle of the wreath was a white, cold face, still in death. It was not a repulsive sight, for the face was young and beautiful, and the marble forehead was half hidden under a veil of gleaming hair. Elsie stood fascinated, almost crazed with fear, and struggling to keep back the scream of hysterical laughter that was forcing itself to her lips. She did not realise that someone was shaking her by the shoulders vigorously. Indeed, it was not until the person behind her pinched her arm savagely that she came to herself. She turned to find herself face to face with Dora Carney. The latter's face was white as her own; her eyes were filled with tears, and she spoke with difficulty.
"Ah, I see I am only just in time," she said. "How thoughtless, how reckless of Vera to bring you here! I suppose the danger broke out suddenly, and she did not know what to do."
"I am glad you came," Elsie replied. "Another moment and I should have screamed aloud. But, tell me, how did you get here?"
Dora explained that she entered by means of a dressing-room, which opened out on the main corridor on the staircase.
"I could not meet you as I promised," she said. "I had a nasty fall, and was quite stupid all afternoon, but if you will come this way I will take you to my room, where you will be safe."
"Do you live here?" Elsie asked.
"Yes and no," was the strange response. "But I cannot go into that now, it will take too long. All in good time you shall learn the sad story of myself and the brilliant unhappy creature who is mistress of this house. I believe it lies in your hands to save us, Elsie. I hope you won't mind me calling you Elsie, but you are so good and kind——"
"I shall be very glad," Elsie replied. "I am only too thankful to think that I have fallen amongst friends, and am ready to do anything to repay their goodness. I am ashamed of my timidity. But when I looked down and saw that dead face——"
"We will not talk about that," Dora said, with a shudder. "It is part of the mystery and intrigue, which poison the happiness of this house. But come, where we can be more comfortable, and where I can tell you as much as you ought to know."
On the opposite side of the corridor Elsie found herself in a comfortable room where a fire was blazing. She noticed that Dora took the precaution to lock the door.
"I have not yet thanked you for your kindness this morning," the girl said. "But for your presence of mind, I tremble to think what would have become of my unhappy father. He spoke the truth when he said he had no money for you. If he had had means I should have compelled him to refund every penny."
"Perhaps it is as well as it is," Elsie smiled. "In that case I should have gone my way and we should have seen no more of each other. By this time I should have been in some lonely room, worrying myself as to the future. It must be awful for a girl to be alone in London. Now I am sure I have found two [...]
