Thelma
waist-belt of extra width,--a flesh-colored bodice about three inches
high, and a pair of blue wings attached to her fat shoulders, Thelma
started and half rose from her seat in dismay, while a hot tide of color
crimsoned her cheeks. She looked nervously at her husband.
"I do not think this is pleasant to see," she said in a low tone. "Would
it not be best to go away? I--I think I would rather be at home."
Lady Winsleigh heard and smiled,--a little mocking smile.
"Don't be silly, child!" she said. "If you leave the theatre just now
you'll have every one staring at you. That woman's an immense
favorite--she is the success of the piece. She's got more diamonds than
either you or I."
Thelma regarded her friend with a sort of grave wonder,--but said
nothing in reply. If Lady Winsleigh liked the performance and wished to
remain, why--then politeness demanded that Thelma should not interfere
with her pleasure by taking an abrupt leave. So she resumed her seat,
but withdrew herself far behind the curtain of the box, in a corner
where the stage was almost invisible to her eyes. Her husband bent over
her and whispered--
"I'll take you home if you wish it, dear! only say the word."
She shook her head.
"Clara enjoys it!" she answered somewhat plaintively. "We must stay."
Philip was about to address Lady Winsleigh on the subject, when suddenly
Neville touched him on the arm.
"Can I speak to you alone for a moment, Sir Philip?" he said in a
strange, hoarse whisper. "Outside the box--away from the ladies--a
matter of importance!"
He looked as if he were about to faint. He gasped rather than spoke
these words; his face was white as death, and his eyes had a confused
and bewildered stare.
"Certainly!" answered Philip promptly, though not without an accent of
surprise,--and, excusing their absence briefly to his wife and Lady
Winsleigh, they left the box together. Meanwhile the well-fed
"Humming-Bird" was capering extravagantly before the footlights,
pointing her toe in the delighted face of the stalls and singing in a in
a loud, coarse voice the following refined ditty--
"Oh my ducky, oh my darling, oh my duck, duck, duck!
If you love me you must have a little pluck, pluck, pluck!
Come and put your arms around me, kiss me once, twice, thrice,
For kissing may be naughty, but, by Jingo! it is nice!
Once, twice, thrice!
Nice, nice, nice!
Bliss, bliss, bliss!
Kiss, kiss, kiss!
Kissing may be naughty, but it's nice!"
There were several verses in this graceful poem, and each one was hailed
with enthusiastic applause. The "Humming-Bird" was triumphant, and when
her song was concluded she executed a startling _pas-seul_ full of
quaint and astonishing surprises, reaching her superbest climax, when
she backed off the stage on one portly leg,--kicking the other in
regular time to the orchestra. Lady Winsleigh laughed, and leaning
towards Thelma, who still sat in her retired corner, said with a show of
kindness--
"You dear little goose! You must get accustomed to this kind of
thing--it takes with the men immensely. Why, even your wonderful Philip
has gone down behind the scenes with Neville--you may be sure of that!"
The startled, pitiful astonishment in the girl's face might have touched
a less callous heart than Lady Winsleigh's,--but her ladyship was
prepared for it and only smiled.
"Gone behind the scenes! To see that dreadful woman!" exclaimed Thelma
in a low pained tone. "Oh no, Clara! He would not do such a thing.
Impossible!"
"Well, my dear, then where is he? He has been gone quite ten minutes.
Look at the stalls--all the men are out of them! I tell you Violet Vere
draws everybody--of the male sex after her! At the end of all her
'scenes' she has a regular reception--for men only--of course! Ladies
not admitted!" And Clara Winsleigh laughed. "Don't look so shocked for
heaven's sake, Thelma,--you don't want your husband to be a regular
nincompoop! He must have his amusements as well as other people. I
believe you want him to be like a baby, tied to your apron-string!
You'll find that an awful mistake,--he'll get tired to death of you,
sweet little Griselda though you are!"
Thelma's face grew very pale, and her hand closed more tightly on the
fan she held.
"You have said that so very, very often lately, Clara!" she murmured.
"You seem so sure that he will get tired--that all men get tired. I do
not think you know Philip--he is not like any other person I have ever
met. And why should he go behind the scenes to such a person as Violet
Vere--"
At that moment the box-door opened with a sharp click, and Errington
entered alone. He looked disturbed and anxious.
"Neville is not well," he said abruptly, addressing his wife. "I've sent
him home. He wouldn't have been able to sit this thing out." And he
glanced half angrily towards the stage--the curtain had just gone up
again and displayed the wondrous Violet Vere still in her "humming-bird"
character, swinging on the branch of a tree and (after the example of
all humming-birds) smoking a cigar with brazen-faced tranquillity.
"I am sorry he is ill," said Thelma gently. "That is why you were so
long away?"
"Was I long?" returned Philip somewhat absently. "I didn't know it. I
went to ask a question behind the scenes."
Lady Winsleigh coughed and glanced at Thelma, whose eyes dropped
instantly.
"I suppose you saw Violet Vere?" asked Clara.
"Yes, I saw her," he replied briefly. He seemed irritable and
vexed--moreover, decidedly impatient. Presently he said--
"Lady Winsleigh, would you mind very much if we left this place and went
home? I'm rather anxious about Neville--he's had a shock. Thelma doesn't
care a bit about this piece, I know, and if you are not very much
absorbed--"
Lady Winsleigh rose instantly, with her usual ready grace.
"My dear Sir Philip!" she said sweetly. "As if I would not, do anything
to oblige you! Let us go by all means! These burlesques _are_ extremely
fatiguing!"
He seemed relieved by her acquiescence--and smiled that rare sweet smile
of his, which had once played such havoc with her ladyship's sensitive
feelings. They left the theatre, and were soon on their way home, though
Thelma was rather silent during the drive. They dropped Lady Winsleigh
at her own door, and after they had bidden her a cordial good night, and
were going on again towards home, Philip, turning towards his wife, and
catching sight of her face by the light of a street-lamp, was struck by
her extreme paleness and weary look.
"You are very tired, my darling, I fear?" he inquired, tenderly
encircling her with one arm. "Lean your head on my shoulder--so!"
She obeyed, and her hand trembled a little as he took and held it in his
own warm, strong clasp.
"We shall soon be home!" he added cheerily. "And I think we must have no
more theatre-going this season. The heat and noise and glare are too
much for you."
"Philip," said Thelma suddenly. "Did you really go behind the scenes
to-night?"
"Yes, I did," he answered readily. "I was obliged to go on a matter of
business--a very disagreeable and unpleasant matter too."
"And what was it?" she asked timidly, yet hopefully.
"My pet, I can't tell you! I wish I could! It's a secret I'm bound not
to betray--a secret which involves the name of another person who'd be
wretched if I were to mention it to you. There,--don't let us talk about
it any more!"
"Very well, Philip," said Thelma resignedly,--but though she smiled, a
sudden presentiment of evil depressed her. The figure of the vulgar,
half-clothed, painted creature known as Violet Vere rose up mockingly
before her eyes,--and the half-scornful, half-jesting words of Lady
Winsleigh rang persistently in her ears.
On reaching home, Philip went straight to Neville's little study and
remained with him in earnest conversation for a long time--while Thelma
went to bed, and lay restless among her pillows, puzzling her brain with
strange forebodings and new and perplexing ideas, till fatigue
overpowered her, and she fell asleep with a few tear-drops wet on her
lashes. And that night Philip wondered why his sweet wife talked so
plaintively in her sleep,--though he smiled as he listened to the drift
of those dove-like murmurings.
"No one knows how my boy loves me," sighed the dreaming voice. "No one
in all the world! How should he tire? Love can never tire!"
Meanwhile, Lady Winsleigh, in the seclusion of her own boudoir, penned a
brief note to Sir Francis Lennox as follows--
"DEAR OLD LENNIE,"
"I saw you in the stalls at the theatre this evening, though you
pretended not to see me. What a fickle creature you are! not that I
mind in the very least. The virtuous Bruce-Errington left his
saintly wife and me to talk little platitudes together, while he,
decorously accompanied by his secretary, went down to pay court to
Violet Vere. How stout she is getting! Why don't you men advise her
to diet herself? I know you also went behind the scenes--of course,
you _are_ an _ami intime_--promising boy you are, to be sure! Come and
lunch with me to-morrow, if you're not too lazy."
"Yours ever, CLARA."
She gave this missive to her maid, Louise Renaud, to post,--that
faithful attendant took it first to her own apartment where she ungummed
the envelope neatly by the aid of hot water, and read every word of it.
This was not an exceptional action of hers,--all the letters received
and sent by her mistress were subjected to the same process,--even those
that were sealed with wax she had a means of opening in such a manner
that it was impossible to detect that they had been tampered with.
She was a very clever French maid was Louise,--one of the cleverest of
her class. Fond of mischief, ever suspicious, always on the alert for
evil, utterly unscrupulous and malicious, she was an altogether
admirable attendant for a lady of rank and fashion, her skill as a
_coiffeur_ and needle-woman always obtaining for her the wages she so
justly deserved. When will wealthy women reared in idleness and luxury
learn the folly of keeping a trained spy attached to their persons?--a
spy whose pretended calling is merely to arrange dresses and fripperies
(half of which she invariably steals), but whose real delight is to take
note of all her mistress's incomings and outgoings, tempers and
tears--to watch her looks, her smiles and frowns,--and to start
scandalous gossip concerning her in the servants' hall, from whence it
gradually spreads to the society newspapers--for do you think these
estimable and popular journals are never indebted for their "reliable"
information to the "honest" statements of discharged footman or valet?
Briggs, for instance, had tried his hand at a paragraph or two
concerning the "Upper Ten," and with the aid of a dictionary, had
succeeded in expressing himself quite smartly, though in ordinary
conversation his h's were often lacking or superfluous, and his grammar
doubtful. Whether he persuaded any editor to accept his literary efforts
is quite another matter--a question to which the answer must remain for
ever enveloped in mystery,--but if he _did_ appear in print (it is only
an if!) he must have been immensely gratified to consider that his
statements were received with gusto by at least half aristocratic
London, and implicitly believed as having emanated from the "best
authorities." And Louise Renaud having posted her mistress's letter at
last, went down to visit Briggs in his private pantry, and to ask him a
question.
"Tell me," she said rapidly, with her tight, prim smile. "You read the
papers--you will know. What lady is that of the theatres--Violet Vere?"