Supping With Panthers (16 page)

I must confess, however, that for several weeks I continued uninspired. My dear wife was sick at the time; add to such a domestic crisis the pressures attendant upon any manager before a theatrical run, and the failure of my literary exertions will, I hope, seem excusable. Our season was due to open on the 14th; as that day drew nearer, so my hours grew less and less my own. At length, however, the 14th arrived, and as so often happens in the eye of a storm, I found myself surprised by a sudden calm. I sat in my office, knowing that I had done all I could and wondering all the same if it would prove to be enough. But I could only wait and hope for the best. It was then that Dr Eliot sent in his card.

I glanced over it. The name it announced meant nothing to me. But such was my state of mind that I welcomed any distraction, and so I asked for Dr Eliot to be shown into my room. He had clearly been waiting by the door, for he entered at once as though he had some urgent matter to pursue. Although his resolve was dear enough, however, so also was his calmness; indeed he seemed absolutely imperturbable, to an extent remarkable in one so young, for he could not have been more than thirty years of age, yet I could fancy at once what a power he would have over his patients. He took a seat by my desk and stared straight into my face, as though trying to penetrate the depths of my thoughts.

‘You have a Miss Lucy Ruthven here,’ he said abruptly, ‘as one of your actresses.’

I acknowledged that we did. ‘She is to play in the performance of
Faust
tonight.’

‘A major role?’

‘No, but not a small one either. She is exceedingly young, Dr Eliot. She has done very well to have gained such a part.’

He looked at me shrewdly. ‘You admire her talent, then?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I agreed, ‘she will be a wonderful actress.’ I paused and flushed suddenly, for it seemed to me that my enthusiasm might be misinterpreted, but Dr Eliot appeared not to observe my confusion. ‘I need to speak to her,’ he said. ‘I assume she is not in the theatre at present?’

‘No,’ I replied, ‘she will not be here until after four. However, if you wish to leave her a note I could show you to her dressing room.’

Eliot inclined his head. ‘That would be very kind of you.’ He rose and followed me out from my study, and I led him down the stairways and narrow theatre corridors. ‘I have had great difficulty in finding Miss Ruthven,’ he said, as he clambered after me, ‘I had been informed that she is legally the ward of Sir George Mowberley. However, it would appear that she does not choose to live with him.’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘But you must understand that she only became the ward of Sir George on the sad occasion of her brother’s death. You heard, perhaps, of that poor gentleman’s murder?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Eliot hurriedly, as though keen not to discuss such a topic. ‘But it is still strange, is it not,’ he continued, ‘that Miss Ruthven does not live with Sir George at present? What age is she now?’

‘Only eighteen, I believe.’

‘Then you are right, that is young indeed.’ He paused. ‘I called at the Mowberleys’ last night. At the mention of Miss Ruthven, it seemed to me that Lady Mowberley grew somewhat cold.’ He paused again and glanced up at me. ‘I was afraid that there might be bad blood between them.’

This had been said in an inquiring tone of voice, and I nodded in response. ‘I believe you may be right,’ I replied. ‘It is likely, I suppose, that Lady Mowberley did not approve of Miss Ruthven’s intention to go on the stage.’

‘I must confess,’ said Eliot, ‘that I am a little surprised myself. I knew her brother quite well, you see. They are of very good family.’

‘Yes,’ I answered, somewhat aggrieved, ‘and that is why she acts here at the Lyceum, where Mr Irving has done so much to improve the status of the acting profession.’

‘Please,’ he said hurriedly, ‘I did not mean to be insulting. But you must acknowledge, Mr Stoker, that it is rare for a girl with such a background to wish to join the stage.’

‘I am not certain, Dr Eliot. Many may wish it. Few have the courage to act on such a wish.’

He considered this. ‘Yes,’ he murmured at length, ‘you may be right.’

‘Dr Eliot,’ I told him, ‘Miss Ruthven is a girl of great character and purposefulness. She has, I might almost say, a man’s mind – and yet she also has a woman’s heart and natural purity. She will adorn the stage, just as she adorns her family name. Have no fears for her, Dr Eliot. She is a remarkable person in every way.’

Eliot nodded slowly. I flushed again, and swallowed; then I turned and hurried on down the corridor. Eliot, following me, made no further comment It was with some relief that I saw the dressing rooms ahead. ‘Here we are,’ I said, taking my keys from my pocket. Then I saw that the door to Miss Ruthven’s room was fractionally ajar. ‘You are in luck,’ I told him. ‘She is already here.’

‘Then it is strange,’ answered Eliot, ‘that she chooses to sit in the dark.’

I saw now that he was quite right, that the room did indeed appear to be in darkness. I frowned and glanced down at my keys. For some reason, we both paused outside the door. I felt a strange presentiment – of what, I cannot say – not fear exactly, but uncertainty, perhaps … and talking to my companion later, I know that he had experienced a very similar emotion. I observed a faint flush upon his sallow cheeks. He glanced at me, then leaned against the door. ‘Lucy,’ he called out, knocking gently. ‘Lucy!’ Slowly he pushed open the door. I followed him into the dressing room.

He reached for a lamp and I saw the spurt of a match. The room was Ht by a soft orange glow. Eliot held the lamp up high. He was staring at something behind me, and his brow seemed very dark. I turned round and started, for reclining in a chair was the figure of a man.

He was young and very beautiful, with delicate features and curling dark hair. His eyes were closed; indeed, so perfectly still he sat, and so pale were his cheeks, that I would have thought him a corpse were it not for the faint dilation of his nostrils which flickered as though in appreciation of some gorgeous scent. Slowly, the young man opened his eyes. They glittered. Indeed, I found myself quite hypnotised by their stare; it reminded me somewhat of Henry Irving’s, though colder and more unsettling, for it seemed expressive of a great despair and pride such as not even an actor could simulate. The young man must have observed my discomfiture, for a faint smile touched his full red lips and he rose languidly to his feet. His dress was rich, and perfectly cut. A long cloak fell about him. ‘I am afraid I have rather surprised you,’ he said. ‘Permit me to apologise,’ His voice was wonderfully musical, and hypnotic just as his eyes had been. ‘I have come to call on my cousin,’ he went on as he stretched out his hand. ‘My name is Ruthven, Lord Ruthven,’ His hand, when I shook it, felt as cold as ice.

This is a great pleasure, then,’ said Eliot, shaking Lord Ruthven’s hand in turn. ‘I was a friend of Arthur, your elder cousin.’

A faint shadow seemed to cross Lord Ruthven’s face. ‘I never knew him,’ he murmured at last. ‘He is dead, is he not?’

‘In most regrettable circumstances,’ answered Eliot.

‘Yes,’ said Lord Ruthven, ‘I heard of it,’ He narrowed his eyes, then shrugged faintly. ‘I have lived abroad all my life, and only returned to England recently. It is the privilege of the well-travelled man, that his relatives mean very little to him. And yet sometimes’ – he glanced around the dressing room – ‘even relatives can surprise. For instance,’ he continued, picking up an envelope from the desk, ‘I find I have an actress in my family. Why, it is more than surprising. It is positively romantic!’ He opened the envelope and removed a theatre programme – marked, I observed, with the Lyceum crest. Lord Ruthven handed me the programme and I saw that Miss Ruthven’s name had been underlined in red. ‘It was sent to me today.’

Eliot looked up from the programme, which he had been studying over my shoulder. ‘Indeed?’ he asked, then frowned. ‘By whom?’

‘It was unsigned.’

‘And the envelope? Had that been written on?’

Lord Ruthven raised an eyebrow. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘It was left at my club,’ He smiled faintly. ‘Why your interest, sir?’

Eliot shrugged. ‘I was merely wondering who might have sent it, that was all.’

‘Oh, but there can be no mystery there. It was surely sent by the fair young Miss Ruthven herself. Indeed’ – Lord Ruthven turned back to me – ‘that is why I am waiting here. I have decided to attend the performance tonight and shall require a private box. Perhaps, since my cousin is not here herself, you might assist me instead?’

‘I am afraid,’ I said, ‘that what you request is impossible, my Lord. It is the opening night of the Season; there are absolutely no boxes to be had.’

‘Is that so?’ He spoke quite calmly; there seemed no menace in his tone that I could identify, yet all the same – I know not how – I felt myself suddenly terrified. Drawn to stare into his eyes again, I saw Lord Ruthven smile mockingly at me. I am a large, strong man and not a coward, I hope, but I found myself suddenly shaking like a leaf. Lord Ruthven’s beauty seemed blinding, and yet ghastly too, like that of a snake, deadly and cruel. It felt almost as though he were feeding on my strength. I dabbed at the sweat as it rose on my brow.

‘I am sure,’ I said at last, in a low voice, ‘that some accommodation might be made.’

‘Good,’ said Lord Ruthven pleasantly. He rose to his feet, and as he did so my sense of terror melted away. He crossed to the door. ‘Where will the ticket be kept for me?’ he asked.

‘By the Private Entrance, my Lord.’ I glanced round at Eliot, who was sitting at the table writing a note. ‘You could tell Miss Ruthven to leave any message for you at the same place, Dr Eliot’

‘Dr Eliot?’ Lord Ruthven’s pale features seemed Ht by a sudden spark of interest. ‘That is your name?’

‘Yes,’ Eliot replied. He furrowed his brow. ‘Why, does it mean anything to you?’

Lord Ruthven did not answer. He smiled, though; and not until the smile had frozen away did he shrug and turn. As he did so, he brushed against one of Miss Ruthven’s costumes. To my surprise I saw his face grew suddenly animated: his cheeks flushed, his eyes blazed and his nostrils began to dilate again. It was almost as though he were breathing in some perfume from the dress; but when he had gone, and I held the costume to my own nostrils, I could smell nothing. I turned to Eliot and shrugged. ‘He seemed quite mad,’ I commented. Eliot made no answer; instead he stared at the doorway through which Lord Ruthven had just disappeared, and then round at Miss Ruthven’s dressing room. He frowned and returned to his writing, and I did not want to disturb him, for I was in a hurry now to return to my office. Eliot did not take long to write his note; once he had finished it he turned it over and held it to the light, as though inspecting it, then left it propped against the mirror lamp. We returned to the corridor and walked in virtual silence back through the theatre. I showed Eliot the Private Entrance and parted from him there.

I then rapidly forgot all about him, for no sooner had we made our farewells than the floodtide that is an opening night began to rise again, and soon it had swept me utterly away. I had no time to contemplate the curious business of the afternoon; when I passed Miss Ruthven I did pause to wonder what arrangement she had reached with Eliot, but I did not stop to ask her. One thing I did know, however, and that was that Eliot would not be attending the performance; when I had asked him, he had told me that he had no great taste for plays, or indeed anything fictional at all.

Faust,
however, as it was performed on that opening night, would surely have enraptured even Eliot. It was a consummate triumph; and if the chief plaudits went as ever to Mr Henry Irving and Miss Ellen Terry, then those given to Miss Lucy Ruthven were not far behind. She was a revelation, if not to me then to the audience, and the talk after the show was all of her. By the Private Entrance I saw Lord Ruthven; I wondered what he had made of his cousin’s display. He was standing talking to Oscar Wilde, but he paused in his conversation as I went by him and smiled faintly at me.

‘Bram!’ Wilde called out, noticing me too. ‘Dear man! Your young actress, Miss Ruthven – this is her first leading role, I hear? I refuse to believe it! Only years of practice and careful subterfuge could have enabled her to appear so
triumphantly
unspoiled.’

I bowed my head. ‘And you, Lord Ruthven?’ I asked. ‘Did you enjoy your cousin’s performance?’

‘Oh, exceedingly so.’ His eyes glittered as he nodded his assent. ‘She was charming. I quite disagree with you, however, Mr Wilde. She had that rare type of freshness which is not a pose. It will fade, of course, for a girl of such beauty and evident intelligence will soon grow to value style above truth, but meanwhile’ – his eyes glittered again – ‘it was a delightful display.’ He paused, and glanced over my shoulder. ‘But talking of Lucy,’ he murmured, ‘here comes another admirer now.’

I glanced round and saw Eliot coming up the stairs. ‘Admirer?’ I asked with a frown.

‘I had assumed so.’ Lord Ruthven smiled. ‘Why else do men come calling on actresses?’

My frown deepened as I looked round for Eliot again. He had reached the top of the stairs by now and was standing there, clearly debating which door he should take. I made my excuses to Lord Ruthven and Wilde, then pushed through the crowds to Eliot. He saw me coming and walked across to meet me. ‘Mr Stoker,’ he asked, ‘which route am I permitted to take?’

‘To Miss Ruthven’s dressing room?’ I inquired. ‘This way. We will go across the stage.’

‘There is no need to escort me. I remember the way.’

‘No, no,’ I said, ‘it is not in the least inconvenient’

He shrugged. ‘It is very kind of you.’

I led him down to the stage. ‘You missed a wonderful performance tonight,’ I remarked, wondering how to broach what I had to say.

‘So I hear,’ he replied. There was a slight pause. ‘I gather that Miss Ruthven has had a great triumph.’

‘Yes,’ I said shortly.

Eliot smilled. ‘She seems to be quite the favourite of the hour.’

‘Yes,’ I said again, even more abruptly; then I paused, and stopped in my tracks and turned to face him. ‘Dr Eliot…’ I began.