She couldn't tell him, for the rest of her guests came in together;she only had time to say: "It SHA'N'T go to the dogs!"He came away before the others, restless with the desire to go to Notting Hill even that night, late as it was, haunted with the sense that Violet Grey had measured her fall. When he got into the street, however, he allowed second thoughts to counsel another course; the effect of knocking her up at two o'clock in the morning would hardly be to soothe her. He looked at six newspapers the next day and found in them never a good word for her. They were well enough about the piece, but they were unanimous as to the disappointment caused by the young actress whose former efforts had excited such hopes and on whom, on this occasion, such pressing responsibilities rested. They asked in chorus what was the matter with her, and they declared in chorus that the play, which was not without promise, was handicapped (they all used the same word) by the odd want of correspondence between the heroine and her interpreter. Wayworth drove early to Notting Hill, but he didn't take the newspapers with him; Violet Grey could be trusted to have sent out for them by the peep of dawn and to have fed her anguish full. She declined to see him--she only sent down word by her aunt that she was extremely unwell and should be unable to act that night unless she were suffered to spend the day unmolested and in bed. Wayworth sat for an hour with the old lady, who understood everything and to whom he could speak frankly. She gave him a touching picture of her niece's condition, which was all the more vivid for the ****** words in which it was expressed: "She feels she isn't right, you know--she feels she isn't right!""Tell her it doesn't matter--it doesn't matter a straw!" said Wayworth.
"And she's so proud--you know how proud she is!" the old lady went on.
"Tell her I'm more than satisfied, that I accept her gratefully as she is.""She says she injures your play, that she ruins it," said his interlocutress.
"She'll improve, immensely--she'll grow into the part," the young man continued.
"She'd improve if she knew how--but she says she doesn't. She has given all she has got, and she doesn't know what's wanted.""What's wanted is simply that she should go straight on and trust me.""How can she trust you when she feels she's losing you?""Losing me?" Wayworth cried.
"You'll never forgive her if your play is taken off!""It will run six months," said the author of the piece.
The old lady laid her hand on his arm. "What will you do for her if it does?"He looked at Violet Grey's aunt a moment. "Do you say your niece is very proud?""Too proud for her dreadful profession."
"Then she wouldn't wish you to ask me that," Wayworth answered, getting up.
When he reached home he was very tired, and for a person to whom it was open to consider that he had scored a success he spent a remarkably dismal day. All his restlessness had gone, and fatigue and depression possessed him. He sank into his old chair by the fire and sat there for hours with his eyes closed. His landlady came in to bring his luncheon and mend the fire, but he feigned to be asleep, so as not to be spoken to. It is to be supposed that sleep at last overtook him, for about the hour that dusk began to gather he had an extraordinary impression, a visit that, it would seem, could have belonged to no waking consciousness. Nona Vincent, in face and form, the living heroine of his play, rose before him in his little silent room, sat down with him at his dingy fireside. She was not Violet Grey, she was not Mrs. Alsager, she was not any woman he had seen upon earth, nor was it any masquerade of friendship or of penitence.
Yet she was more familiar to him than the women he had known best, and she was ineffably beautiful and consoling. She filled the poor room with her presence, the effect of which was as soothing as some odour of incense. She was as quiet as an affectionate sister, and there was no surprise in her being there. Nothing more real had ever befallen him, and nothing, somehow, more reassuring. He felt her hand rest upon his own, and all his senses seemed to open to her message. She struck him, in the strangest way, both as his creation and as his inspirer, and she gave him the happiest consciousness of success. If she was so charming, in the red firelight, in her vague, clear-coloured garments, it was because he had made her so, and yet if the weight seemed lifted from his spirit it was because she drew it away. When she bent her deep eyes upon him they seemed to speak of safety and ******* and to make a green garden of the future. From time to time she smiled and said: "I live--I live--I live." How long she stayed he couldn't have told, but when his landlady blundered in with the lamp Nona Vincent was no longer there. He rubbed his eyes, but no dream had ever been so intense; and as he slowly got out of his chair it was with a deep still joy--the joy of the artist--in the thought of how right he had been, how exactly like herself he had made her. She had come to show him that. At the end of five minutes, however, he felt sufficiently mystified to call his landlady back--he wanted to ask her a question. When the good woman reappeared the question hung fire an instant; then it shaped itself as the inquiry:
"Has any lady been here?"
"No, sir--no lady at all."
The woman seemed slightly scandalised. "Not Miss Vincent?""Miss Vincent, sir?"
"The young lady of my play, don't you know?""Oh, sir, you mean Miss Violet Grey!"
"No I don't, at all. I think I mean Mrs. Alsager.""There has been no Mrs. Alsager, sir."
"Nor anybody at all like her?"
