Stokers Shadow Read Free Page B

feeling of the moment; that her life was the centre of everything: past, present, future; east, west, north and south. Bram was acting manager of the Lyceum. He was Sir Henry Irving’s right-hand man. The Lyceum and Irving were conquering North America as they had already conquered England.
    Florence touches the cover of The Moonstone again, as though it were itself a precious gem. Dust from the cover rises with a fragrance she knows but can’t place. The room darkens, a murmur of conversation flowing in from some dark nowhere. Stars appear in the shadows of the mirror and just as soon turn into sharp tongues of candle flame. Florence lets herself settle into the recollection as though riding a wave. She sees the Lyceum’s leading lady, Ellen Terry, her shining, humourous eyes just above the bobbing yellow flame.
    â€œA Wilkie Collins story!” Ellen exclaims. “That’s what the Lyceum needs.”
    The soft gold light reflects upon the silken green of the actress’s dress. Ellen’s expression glistens with good-natured poise. Bram is there also, his romantic grey eyes a well ofmournful energy. Henry Irving seems to hover over them all, hawklike and saturnine, with black hair and dark eyes. Next to him is Thornley, Bram’s older brother: solid, mild and respectable with his round face and white hair.
    â€œOh indeed,” Florence feels herself saying. “Something mysterious but not sinister. Something like The Moonstone or The Woman in White.”
    â€œUnfortunately, Mr. Collins is dead,” snaps Irving, still carrying the intense malevolence of Mephistopheles, his latest triumph. The great actor absorbs his parts until they take him over, Florence thinks – a pity he can’t play someone more pleasant for a change.
    Irving takes a puff of his cigar which he then holds in front of his face like a shield as the smoke rises.
    â€œAre you suggesting that respectability in mystery fiction has died with him?” Bram asks gently.
    â€œI am.”
    â€œIndeed,” agrees Bram, looking from face to face, drawing them all in, with the steady rhythm of learned oration. “We live in a world of the unspeakable brought to life. Ibsen and the barbarian hordes of ‘progress’ are beating down the doors of decorum in drama.”
    â€œWhat of the supernatural, Bram?” asks Ellen. “That is where the public hunger is now, surely. Aren’t you working on something of that nature yourself?”
    â€œAh that! I would rather call it ‘the unknown.’ The word ‘supernatural’ implies impossibility.”
    Florence finds herself exclaiming in unison with Ellen. Thornley guffaws. “A mystery, Bram? Tell us.”
    â€œThe novel I am planning,” Bram continues, his audience now spellbound, “is one that penetrates the uncharted territories of the mind, our dreams and nightmares.”
    â€œIt sounds very modern, Bram,” says Ellen, beaming.
    â€œIndeed it is.”
    â€œPerhaps the Lyceum should follow suit, Irving,” Ellen continues. “Perhaps we should look to our own for a change.”
    Florence suddenly burns with self-consciousness – Ellen has unknowingly activated a volcano in her.
    â€œWhat are you suggesting?” Irving asks her calmly.
    Florence fidgets with the stem of her glass, unable to look up.
    â€œWhat I’m suggesting is this,” Ellen answers, determined to make her point. “That rather than constantly hiring outside hacks to adapt popular stories for major productions, we should use something our own Bram wrote.”
    Florence shoots a glance at Bram, her lip trembling. She sees his face redden and his huge shoulders hunch over.
    â€œMy dear,” Irving answers, taking a casual puff of his cigar, “I did not realize you were joining our management team.”
    Florence dabs her napkin over her mouth, wanting to scream. Do something, Bram! Stick up for yourself,