MRS LYLE’S STRATAGEM.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume IX, Issue 48, 26 November 1892, Page 1174

MRS LYLE’S STRATAGEM.

THINK, (Jerry, dear,’ said Mrs Lyle, rising from tbe shadow of a great red rock, ‘ I’ll run up to the comprehensive Gundry and fetch our letters. Would yon care to come with me ?’ Gerald Lyle gave a yawn, and looked up at his wife with an air of pathetic protest. He was very lazy, and the shade of rock was infinitely grateful to the toil-weaiied Londoner. Mrs Lyle therefore smiled the smile of the superior person who does things, and tripped off unescorted. Mr Gerald Lyle, the famous actor and present manager of the Piccadilly Theatre, had the previous day brought his young wife down from London to the little Southcoast watering - place, Crytham. They had originally intended to patronise some more fashionable resort, and had only changed their plans at the last moment. Thus, being uncertain as to their future address (for they had not yet engaged rooms) they left orders that their letters should be forwarded to Mr Gundry, tbe stationer on the Parade. Everybody who visits Crytham knows Gundry. He is the librarian, the enterprising impresario who runs the music hall ; the local guide-book is the product of his gifted pen. Thus it was to Gundry’s Library that Effie Lyle bent her steps. Gerald Lyle watched the retreating figure of his wife with honest pride. And well might he. A handsomer, blighter girl was not to be seen at the rm st crowded church parade. She was a dark-liaired, brown e\ed, olive-skinned brunette, with quick, vivacious ways and a ready wit. L’nlike the wives of most actors, she had not been in any way connected with the stage. Indeed, she had never been inside a theatre un'il after her mairiage with Gerald Lyle. They had met in a country house some three years before. The young girl had fallen in love with the clever, intellectual man, whose mobile face reflected the keen receptive brain. And he, too, had been equally fascinated by the simple, unaffected girl. So they were married, greatly against her friends’ wishes, for, you see, ‘ they knew what those play actor fellows weie, don't you know,’ and prophesied all sorts of disaster. As yet, however, their gloomy forebodings had not been realised. For the Lyles were as happy as the day was long. She was proud of him, his talent, his well earned popularity, and he valued, above all things, the sweet tender woman at his own fireside. Scarcely a day passed, but he contrasted with a thankful heart his refined and happy borne with the constant whirl of bis professional life. For truly might he have echoed the beautiful apophthegm of Canning's, that when he crossed the threshold of his home he left all his cares behind him.

In a few minutes Mrs Lyle returned, and, having handed her husband a packet of letters, some from the theatre, and some from home, commenced reading her own correspondence. ‘ Well, dear, and from whom have you heard ?’ said Mrs Lyle, after she had read her last letter.

* Oh, the usual thing,’ said her husband, wearily, as he opened his letters with the deliberation engendered by a very hot day, and an exceedingly good cigar. * Here’s the last statement of receipts at the “ Piccadilly ” —very satisfactory. A letter from Hubbard the dramatist, about the last act of the new play. Then—Hullo ! what’s this ?— Just a line. dear, to ask you to come and see my new frock tried on.

• Why that must be for you, Effie,’ he exc’aimed, glancing at the signature. • You must have mixed it up with mine by mistake. A letter from an American dramatist. And—well, that’s about all.’ ‘ But what is that letter you are putting in your pocket,’ said Mrs Lyle, as she observed her husband gently secreting a letter he had just opened, and which certainly did not look like a business communication. • Oh, that,’ said Lyle, * is just a theatrical note. Letter to me in my professional capacity, don't you know.’ • May I see it, dear ?’ ‘ 1 don’t think it would interest you in the slightest,’ replied her husband, blandly. ‘ But I wish to see it,’ replied Mrs Lyle, petulantly, piqued at the unusual obduracy on the part of her doting husband. ‘Very well, dear,’ said Herald, with resignation, ‘you can see it if you like, but I must tell you frankly it is from a woman.’ • A woman. What woman ?’ • Heaven only knows. You know, Ellie, there are a lot of silly, light headed women in London who write to actors if— well—if they're at all good-looking.’ • Love letters, (Jerald ? How funny !’ replied Mrs Lyle, with a little laugh that certainly did not suggest hilarity. * I should so like to see the sort of thing you get.’ The actor shrugged his shoulders, and tossed her the letter. Mrs Lyle gave a cry, in which surprise and resentment were curiously mingled ; and well might she, for the letter ran thus : — IIKAKEST Mr Lyle,—l saw you look at me on Monday night. I was in the second box on the left, and wore a black dress with white flowers in my bosom. And am I wrong in thinking that your glances toward me were not entirely devoid of admiration.

Do you ever walk in Kensington-gardens? for 1 shall be under the trees south of the Round Pond next Tuesday morning at 11.30. I shall wear a black dress with gored skirts—remember gored skirts —so you will easily recognise me by that.—Yours devotedly, ♦ Mavdie. ‘ O—oh, Gerald, and you get letters like this,’ cried Mrs Lyle. ‘ Heaps of them, my dear,’ said Lyle, with refreshing candour. ‘ Possibly twenty a week in the Season, when I’m playing a romantic part in a picturesque costume. Why, they strew the floor like the leaves in Vallombrosa. Then, you know, my leading lady, though an admirable actress, is not attractive, and that touches the hearts of sympathetic womankind. Of course, I cannot help it. What am I to do ’ I can’t put up a notice in the theatre to the effect that “ ladies are earnestly requested not to send amatory letters to the lessee,” can I ? So there's nothing to be done, but to destroy the letters unanswered. Besides,’ he added, thoughtfully, ‘ that kind of woman generally

takes a box. And boxes each run from two to four guineas.’ ‘.But what I want to know is this,’ said Mrs Lyle, slowly, 'did you look at this—this woman?’ ‘Not consciously, my dear. You see, except during the limited occasions when my back is turned to the audience, I must look somewhere, and in a crowded house my eyes are pretty sure to fall upon some one.’ ‘ Possibly, Gerald, but that some one might equally well be a man, nor need your eyes dwell there,’ said Mrs Lyle with quite unusual acerbity. • Why, Ellie, I do believe you’re jealous. Well, you've certainly no reason to be so, dear ; I have never given you occasion for one moment’s anxiety. This silly woman will go to Kensington Gardens, and, finding that Mr Lyle has not responded, will realise that she has made a goose of herself, and take boxes for the futnre at some other theatre. There, let us tear up the horrid thing, go into lunch, and dismiss the whole affair from your thoughts.’ The letter was destroyed ; the Lyles did proceed to lunch ; but, unfortunately for Mrs Lyle’s peace of mind, the incident was not so easily dismissed from her thoughts. Scarcely a day passed but the existence of those infatuated correspondents recurred to her mind and troubled her profoundly. The idea that any man, because he earned his living on the stage, should be forthwith regarded as the common property of the smart femininity of London was most abhorrent. Nor was she quite reassured by the offhand, matter of fact way in which her husband had treated the whole aifair. She did not allude to the letters again, nor did she ask a second time to look at his theatrical correspondence. She believed in him—of this fact she assured herself at least fifty times a day. She also, we may add,

saw the futility of questioning him further. For assuming if he did pay attention to the letters, it was scarcely likely he would admit the impeachment, the excuse being a very venial sin compared with the act itself. So she held her peace and pondered much. In dne course, the Lyles returned to London, and the ‘ Piccadilly Theatre ’re opened. For the first time since she was married, Mrs Lyle saw her husband leave home with a feeling of apprehension, which certainly had never assailed her before—an emotion which was greatly intensified when she went herself to see a performance of the new play. For when she looked round the house, and saw, in stalls and boxes, some of the most lovely women in London, exquisitely dressed in that dtcoUMe mode which has been subtly defined as the ‘low and behold’ style of attire, covered with jewels, bright of eye, and soft of skin, she sadly reflected that if Gerald was true in heart to his little wife at home, he was, indeed, a veritable ‘Sir Galahad.’ He «■«« true to her—she said again and again to herself, he was true, but oh, what would she not give for some tangible proof of the unalterable fidelity he so ardently avowed 1

From little things spring very great projects. And from constantly brooding on the subject, Mrs Lyle bethought her of a certain little stratagem whereby she could at least dispel the unpleasant doubts which troubled her. She knew how wrong and cruel this stratagem would be, in case her husband was (as of course he was), innocent, but still she had not the courage to forego putting him to the test. She accordingly sent a note to Miss Nelly Sebright, her bosom friend and confidant, whom she intended to impress as the necessary ally. Miss Sebright came at once to Cromwell Gardens, and the two ladies forthwith began to discuss various subjects beloved of woman ; the true ideal of womankind, and the bad time they have generally ; the uselessness of man in the body politic, except as an adjunct to woman when the latter wants something done ; ‘ how Mrs So and So can wear terra-cotta gowns with that complexion of hers,' and the like ; and so, having dexterously shifted the conversation to the unfair advantages enjoyed by men—that is, at least nice-looking man — Mrs Lyle broached the subject nearer her heart, by remarking casually, * By the way, Nelly, I suppose my husband is good looking in a way!’ ‘ I should rather think so,’ replied Miss Sebright, with what Mrs Lyle thought unnecessary warmth. * He’s admittedly the best-looking man on the stage. Why, only last night, at Lady Buckstone’s, Miss Sadie Tilkins, the great American heiress, admitted that she “ was just clean crushed on him.” Crush, dear Effie, is, I believe, their synonym for our vulgar word “ mash,” and so I thought it only kind to tell her that Mr Lyle’s wife was one of my dearest friends. Believe me, that poor young girl gave a sigh you could have heard across the room. Indeed, she told me afterwards, in confidence, that she had intended to write to him ; but, being a girl of strict principles, reared on two catechisms, she would refiain from corresponding with a married man—so yon see the effect of good bringing up.’ ‘ I suppose,’ said Mrs Lyle, artlessly, • Gerald does get letters occasionally from—from snch people !’ • Occasionally !’ cried Nelly. * Why he gets piles of them. Piles !' ‘Why do you think so?’ said Mrs Lyle sharply. ‘ Have you ever written to an actor ?’ • No, dear,’ replied Miss Sebright, ‘ but very often 1 should have liked to have written. But there, you know, I’m not married, and that makes all the difference,' and she gave a little sigh as she thought of the pitiful limitations of spinsterbood. • But of course you know,’ said Mrs Lyle, ‘ Mr Lyle would never think of answering such letters.’ Miss Sebright simply said ‘Oh !’ Now, the purport of this interjection depends entirely upon the inflection of the speaker’s I voice—and in this particular instance it suggested a lamentable lack of conviction, and jarred acutely upon the ear of her listener.

Mrs Lyle sat looking in the fire for a few seconds, and then said with a sprightly air, which was a little forced, • Do you know, Nelly, I have a notion. Let us write to Gerald a letter under an assumed name, purporting to come from an admirer, and—er—see what happens. Just for a joke, you know. Of course he will take no notice of it, and then we can tell him.’ * Better not, my dear,’ said Nelly, shaking her head in a way that spoke volumes. * Better not. Ignorance in these little matters is not bliss, I know, but it works a great deal better than the wisdom which is proverbally akin to folly !’ •Oh, you little cynic,’ said Mrs Lyle, ‘ that quite decides me. I will write—or at least you shall, because, of course, he knows my writing ; whilst I don’t suppose he has ever seen yours. And it will just prove to you how good and faithful my Gerald is.’ In vain did Miss Sebright implore her friend not to be so foolish—in vain she cited endless instances of domestic tragedies brought about by the unreasonable desire on the part of the lady to know too much. But Mrs Lyle was inflexible, and even threatened to appeal for assistance to some other girl—a prospect which quite disarmed Miss Sebright. And so, realising that she bad been invited that day with no other aim or object but to aid and abet in this wicked conspiracy, she laid aside her scruples and entered into the plot with the utmost zest. Mrs Lyle ran upstairs, and having extracted some uncreated stationery fiom her travelling bag, she and Nelly sat down and concoted the following letter, which followed pretty closely the example of polite correspondence which she had already seen : — Deahkbt Mr Lyle.— l cannot describe to you how thrilled I was when I observed that your impassioned words of love were

directed to me the other night, and not to the painted creature on the stage. How delightfully debonair you looked ; and how the music of your quite too lovely voice fascinated and enthralled me. I am coming again to see you on Tuesday evening, but cannot say what I shall be in. Could you drop me a line, saying what flowers I am to wear, so that you may know me, and also if and where I could meet you afterwards!—Yours devotedly. • Now, wbat shall we sign it?’ ‘ Marguerite,’ said Miss Sebright, promptly. ‘ There is an idyllic simplicity about the lowly daisy which fitly symbolises our refreshing innocence.’ ‘ But where should we direct it from ?’ inquired Mrs Lyle ; this contingency had not yet occurred to her. • I think, Effie—at least I know, you can call for letters at Booker’s Library, in the Kensingtcn High-street.’ • How on earth do you know that ?’ said Mrs Lyle, severely. ‘Yon don’t mean to say ’ ‘ I mean to say,’ replied the unabashed Miss Sebright, * that there are many most delightful youths who are detrimentals, and—and well—you know what mamma is. Then, of course, receiving letters from people you do know is a very different thing front witting to people you do not know. Besides, I am not a married woman.’ She again started this formula, but in quite a different kind of voice from that which she had used previously, thereby showing that the unmarried state was not entirely devoid cf its compensating advantages. This letter was accordingly sent to the theatre, and Mrs Lyle resolved that, if no answer came (as of course would be the case), she would confess the whole affair and plead forgiveness. But if (oh, horrible possibility !) he did answer, and did fix a rendezvous, then she would appear at that rendezvous, armed with the letter, and clothed in the garb of outraged womanhood. The next day she went to Booker’s library, and inquired, in faltering accents, whether there was anything for ‘ Marguerite.’ The attendant handed her a letter. The direction was in her husband’s handwriting. Mrs Lyle rushed into a side street, tore open the envelope, and read as follows :— Sweetest Marguerite,—So you have guessed my secret. Yes! the moment I saw your tender, piquant face looking down, how could I but play to you ? Of course, I will meet you gladly, but do not come to the theatre ; it may arouse suspicions. Come to supper, Thursday next, after the play—Private Room, No. 3, Cafe Imperiale. Wear a dark dress, and whatever you do, be discreet. Don't be later than twelve, for nry wife is going to a dance that evening and might call for me at the theatre; so I shall try to get away before she is likely to arrive.—Yours devotedly, Gerald. • The monster !’ sobbed Mrs Lyle, ‘ the base, falsehearted monster ! Of course, Thursday is the night of Lady Fortescue’s dance—and to think—oli, this is intolerable!’ ‘ My dear,’ said Gerald, that afternoon at dinner, ‘ what is the matter with yon ? You seem v ery silent and pre occupied.’ • Oh, nothing, perhaps it is just a little dull for me always here by myself, whilst you,’ she added sarcastically, ‘ are exciting adoration. By the way, could you give me a box for next Thursday ’’ • I’m afraid not,’ said Lyle ; ‘ you should have asked me earlier. Every place is booked for the next fortnight.’ • Then, perhaps, you will take me to Lady Fortescue’s dance after.’ • Certainly,’ said Lyle, ‘if I can get back in time, hut its no use you coming to the theatre, consideiing Lady Fortescue lives across the street.’ Mrs Lyle said nothing, but reflected long on the deceit of man. Fuither trust in her husband’s fidelity was impossible; and any inclination she might originally have had to confess to him her stratagem, had, of course, disappeared on receipt of the letter. No, she would go to the restaurant, and there confront him with bis perfidy. Accordingly, on the Thursday night, havirg left word that she was going to Lady Fortescue’s, she drove in a cab to the Cafe Imperiale. Here she was received by the manager, and ushered into a snug little room, where a supper table was laid for two. There were oysters, a game pie, which (flanked by a couple of bottles of Perrier-Jouet) looked very inviting. But Mrs Lyle’s appetite was not at the moment particularly keen. She removed her heavy cloak, and sat by the fire with beating heart. Quarter past twelve o’clock struck, then half-past, and Mr Gerald Lyle did not appear. Mrs Lyle grew nervous, looked again at the letter, and rang the bell. A smirking French waiter appeared. She inquired it a gentleman had not ordered the supper for twelve. He grinned at her appreciatively, and said he would inquire. One o’clock struck. The waiter returned, and said a gentleman had certainly ordered the supper for twelve, but he added, with a significant grin, that some gentlemen were unpunctual in their appointments with ladies, but no doubt he would come, and the waiter’s admiring leer made Mrs Lyle’s blood run cold. All this was very, very unpleasant. Indeed, the poor lady began to feel almost a thrill of indignation that her husband could treat even Marguerite with such discourtesy. If he did make appointments with strange women, he might at least have the common decency to keep them. Half-past one struck, and Mrs Lyle began to wonder whether her husband, in an inopportune fit of contrition, had returned home. This, though gratifying to Mrs Lyle, was truly horrible for Marguerite, for she had but a few shillings in her purse, and how was the supper to be paid for. If she gave up her name to the manager, her husband, when he called the next day to pay for the supper, would very probably be told the circumstance, and discover all. Then, again, if she did not leave her name she would have no option but to leave some valuable article of jewellery. Besides all this, the position of a lonely woman in a public restaurant, even though this particular apartment was piivate, was at least embarrassing. Still there was no help for it, and so she sent for the manager and explained her position with some agitation. • Oh, madam/said the manager, with the utmost courtesy, ‘ pray do not trouble about paying. I am quite sure the gentleman—though he is not personally known to me—will call to morrow. Some unforeseen accident must have detained him. It frequently happens. And now permit me to get you a cab. ’ And so, as the clock struck two, Mrs Lyle, tired, cross, half disappointed, half relieved, arrived at her hall door at Cromwell Gardens.

• Has Mr Lyle returned !’ she said, sharply, to the maid, who was waiting for her. • Lor, yes, mum ; he came back early a purpose to take you to the ball. But, hading you was gone, he went to the study, where he’s a’-sittiu* now.’ Could all have been a mistake! thought Mis Lyle, as she entered the room. • Well, dear, enjoyed yourself!’ said Gerald Lyle, looking up from his book. ' ‘ How early you went. I was here by twelve, and you were gone.’ ‘ You did come for me, then, Gerry,’ she said softly. ‘ Of course, Effie, what you said lately about being dull weighed upon my mind, so I hastened back to take you to the dance myself. And,’ he added with a little laugh, ‘ there was another reason which will amuse you. During the run of the present play, I have been more than ever pestered with those horrid letters from infatuated women. Well, last week I got a particularly unblushing effusion from a lady signing herself Marguerite. Goaded by these persecutions, and knowing how such little rebuffs go from one women to another (of course, in secret), for the first time in my life I replied to the letter, telling the woman to meet me at the Cafe Imperiale to-night, and have supper. I went to the manager yesterday, who evidently is not a play goer, and didn’t know me, and having ordered supper in a private room, I explained to him that possibly I might not turn up, in which case he was to treat the lady with great courtesy, see that no one else went near the room, and re-assure her in case she was perturbed about paying for the supper, without, of course, telling her that it actually had been paid for. I am convinced the lady was thoroughly protected from any annoyance, but I am also pretty sure, when she found herself all alone, at midnight, in a strange restaurant, she had a fright she won’t forget in a hurry.’ • Was that quite fair, Gerry !’ said Mrs Lyle, tremulously.

* What could the manager think of a woman going all by herself ?’ • Well, my dear, I did not expect you to take her part. Besides, had you seen that letter you would not think any adverse opinion unduly harsh. By the bye, here it is. I thought when I told you my little joke, you might like to see it. And do you know, just at first glance, I thought it must have been written by your little friend, Nelly Sebright. You remember, when we were at Crytham, I once opened a letter of hers by mistake. But apart from the unlikelihood of any lady writing such a letter, I saw it could not be she, for a very funny reason. If you raise the Hap of the envelope, you will see the stationer’s name—none other than that of our old friend the comprehensive Gundry. The writer, you see, must have been lately at Crytham ; and, of course, had it been Nelly Sebright, you would have known. But it was curious, now wasn't it!’ Mrs Lyle grew white with terror. Was all this satire! Had he discovered her stratagem. She looked up into his face and tried to read the truth. But for once the eyes were impassive, and the face, usually so expressive, looked like a sealed book. ‘Good-night, Gerald dear. How good you are to me.’ She knelt beside him, and kissed him with passionate fervour ; and then rose and left the room. Just, however, as the door closed, she thought— we say she thought—she heard a long, self satisfied, low chuckle. But of this she is not certain. No more, of course, are we.