Thelma
go,--and I shan't be able to get back tonight. You'll be all alone,
Thelma. I wish you'd go to the Winsleighs!"
"Why?" said Thelma quietly. "I shall much prefer to be here. I do not
mind, Philip. I am accustomed to be alone."
Something in her tone struck him as particularly sad, and he looked at
her intently.
"Now, my darling," he said suddenly, "if this Parliamentary bother is
making you feel worried or vexed in any way, I'll throw it all up--by
Jove, I will!" And he drew her into his warm embrace. "After all" he
added, with a laugh, "what does it matter! The country can get on
without me!"
Thelma smiled a little.
"You must not talk so foolishly, Philip," she said tenderly. "It is
wrong to begin a thing of importance, and not go through with it. And I
am not worried or vexed at all. What would people say of me if I, your
wife, were, for my own selfish comfort and pleasure of having you always
with me, to prevent you from taking a good place among the men of your
nation? Indeed, I should deserve much blame! And so, though it is a
gloomy day for you, poor boy,--you must go to this place where you are
wanted, and I shall think of you all the time you are gone, and shall be
so happy to welcome you home to-morrow!"
And she kissed and clung to him for a moment in silence. All that day
Philip was haunted by the remembrance of the lingering tenderness of her
farewell embrace. By ten o'clock he was gone, taking Neville with him;
and after her household duties were over, Thelma prepared herself to go
and lunch with old Mrs. Lorimer, and see what she would advise
concerning the affair of Sir Francis Lennox. But, at the same time, she
resolved that nothing should make her speak of the reports that were
afloat about her husband and Violet Vere.
"I know it is all false," she said to herself over and over again. "And
the people here are as silly as the peasants in Bosekop, ready to
believe any untruth so long as it gives them something to talk about.
But they may chatter as they please--I shall not say one word, not even
to Philip--for it would seem as if I mistrusted him."
Thus she put away all the morbid fancies that threatened to oppress her,
and became almost cheerful.
And while she made her simple plans for pleasantly passing the long,
dull day of her husband's enforced absence, her friend, Lady Winsleigh,
was making arrangements of a very different nature. Her ladyship had
received a telegram from Sir Francis Lennox that morning. The pink
missive had apparently put her in an excellent humor, though, after
reading it, she crumpled it up and threw it in the waste-paper basket,
from which receptacle, Louise Renaud, her astute attendant, half an hour
later extracted it, secreting it in her own pocket for private perusal
at leisure. She ordered her brougham, saying she was going out on
business,--and before departing, she took from her dressing-case certain
bank-notes and crammed them hastily into her purse--a purse which, in
all good faith, she handed to her maid to put in her sealskin muff-bag.
Of course, Louise managed to make herself aware of its contents,--but
when her ladyship at last entered her carriage her unexpected order, "To
the Brilliant Theatre, Strand," was sufficient to startle Briggs, and
cause him to exchange surprise signals with "Mamzelle," who merely
smiled a prim, incomprehensible smile.
"_Where_ did your la'ship say?" asked Briggs dubiously.
"Are you getting deaf, Briggs?" responded his mistress pleasantly. "To
the Brilliant Theatre!" She raised her voice, and spoke with distinct
emphasis. There was no mistaking her. Briggs touched his hat,--in the
same instant he winked at Louise, and then the carriage rolled away.
At night, the Brilliant Theatre is a pretty little place,--comfortable,
cosy, bright, and deserving of its name;--in broad day, it is none of
these things. A squalid dreariness seems to have settled upon it--it has
a peculiar atmosphere of its own--an atmosphere dark, heavy, and
strangely flavored with odors of escaping gas and crushed orange-peel.
Behind the scenes, these odors mingle with a chronic, all-pervading
smell of beer--beer, which the stranger's sensitive nose detects
directly, in spite of the choking clouds of dust which arise from the
boards at the smallest movement of any part of the painted scenery. The
Brilliant had gone through much ill-fortune--its proprietors never
realized any financial profit till they secured Violet Vere. With her
came prosperity. Her utter absence of all reserve--the frankness with
which she threw modesty to the winds,--the vigor with which she danced a
regular "break-down,"--roaring a comic song of the lowest type, by way
of accompaniment,--the energetic manner in which, metaphorically
speaking, she kicked at the public with her shapely legs,--all this
overflow of genius on her part drew crowds to the Brilliant nightly, and
the grateful and happy managers paid her a handsome salary, humored all
her caprices, and stinted and snubbed for her sake, all the rest of the
company. She was immensely popular--the "golden youth" of London raved
about her dyed hair, painted eyes, and carmined lips--even her voice, as
coarse as that of a dustman, was applauded to the echo, and her dancing
excited the wildest enthusiasm. Dukes sent her presents of diamond
ornaments--gifts of value which they would have possibly refused to
their own wives and daughters,--Royal Highnesses thought it no shame to
be seen lounging near her stage dressing-room door,--in short, she was
in the zenith of her career, and, being thoroughly unprincipled,
audaciously insolent, and wholly without a conscience,--she enjoyed
herself immensely.
At the very time when Lady Winsleigh's carriage was nearing the Strand,
the grand morning rehearsal of a new burlesque was "on" at the
Brilliant--and Violet's harsh tones, raised to a sort of rough masculine
roar, were heard all over the theatre, as she issued commands or made
complaints according to her changeful humors. She sat in an elevated
position above the stage on a jutting beam of wood painted to resemble
the gnarled branch of a tree,--swinging her legs to and fro and clinking
the heels of her shoes together in time to the mild scraping of a
violin, the player whereof was "trying over" the first few bars of the
new "jig" in which she was ere long to distinguish herself. She was a
handsome woman, with a fine, fair skin, and large, full, dark eyes--she
had a wide mouth, which, nearly always on the grin, displayed to the
full her strong white teeth,--her figure was inclined to excessive
_embonpoint_, but this rather endeared her to her admirers than
otherwise,--many of these gentlemen being prone to describe her fleshly
charms by the epithet "Prime!" as though she were a fatting pig or other
animal getting ready for killing.
"Tommy! Tommy!" she screeched presently. "Are you going to sleep? Do you
expect me to dance to a dirge, you lazy devil!"
Tommy, the player of the violin, paused in his efforts, and looked up
drearily. He was an old man, with a lean, long body and pinched
features--his lips had a curious way, too, of trembling when he spoke,
as if he were ready to cry.
"I can't help it," he said slowly. "I don't know it yet. I must practice
it a bit at home. My sight's not so good as it used to be--"
"Such a pair of optics, love, you've never, never seen--
One my mother blacked last night, the other it is green!"
sang Violet, to the infinite delight of all the unwashed-looking
supernumeraries and ballet-girls, who were scattered about the stage,
talking and laughing.
"Shut up, Tommy!" she continued. "You're always talking about your
eyesight. I warn you, if you say too much about it you'll lose your
place. We don't want blind fiddlers in the Brilliant. Put down you
catgut screamer, and fetch me a pint. Ask for the Vere's own
tipple--they'll twig!"
Tommy obeyed, and shuffled off on his errand. As he departed,--a little
man with a very red face, wearing a stove-pipe hat very much on one
side, bounced on the stage as if some one had thrown him there like a
ball.
"Now, ladies, ladies!" he shouted warningly. "Attention! Once again,
please! The last figure once again!" The straggling groups scrambled
hastily into something like order, and the little man continued--"One,
two, three! Advance--retreat--left, right! Very well, indeed! Arms up a
little more, Miss Jenkins--so! toes well pointed--curtsy--retire! One,
two, three! swift slide to the left wing--forward! Round--take
hands--all smile, please!" This general smile was apparently not quite
satisfactory, for he repeated persuasively--"All smile, please! So!
Round again--more quickly--now break the circle in a centre--enter Miss
Vere--" he paused, growing still redder in the face, and demanded, "Where
is Miss Vere?"
He was standing just beneath the painted bough of the sham tree, and in
one second his hat was dexterously kicked off, and two heels met with a
click round his neck.
"Here I am, pickaninny!" retorted Miss Vere holding him fast in this
novel embrace, amid the laughter of the supers. "You're getting as blind
as Tommy! Steady, steady now, donkey!--steady--woa!" And in a thrice she
stood upright, one foot planted firmly on each of his shoulders.
"No weight, am I, darling?" she went on jeeringly, and with an
inimitably derisive air she put up an eye-glass and surveyed the top of
his head. "You want a wig, my dear--you do, indeed! Come with me
to-morrow, and I'll buy you one to suit your complexion. Your wife won't
know you!"
And with a vigorous jump she sprang down from her position, managing to
give him a smart hit on the nose as she did so--and leaping to the
centre of the stage, she posed herself to commence her dance--when Tommy
came creeping back in his slow and dismal fashion, bearing something in
a pewter pot.
"That's the ticket!" she cried as she perceived him. "I'm as dry as a
whole desert! Give it here!" And she snatched the mug from the feeble
hand of her messenger and began drinking eagerly.
The little red-faced man interposed. "Now, Miss Vi," he said, "is that
brandy?"
"Rather so!" returned the Vere, with a knowing wink, "and a good many
things besides. It's a mixture. The 'Vere's Own!' Ha, ha! Might be the
name of a regiment!"
And she buried her mouth and nose again in the tankard.
"Look here," said the little man again. "Why not wait till after the
dance? It's bad for you before."
"Oh, is it, indeed!" screamed Violet, raising her face, which became
suddenly and violently flushed. "O good Lord! Are you a temperance
preacher? Teach your granny! Bad for me? Say another word, and I'll box
your ears for you! You braying jackass!--you snivelling idiot! Who makes
the Brilliant draw? You or I? Tell me that, you staring old--"
Here Tommy, who had for some minutes been vainly endeavoring to attract
her attention, raised his weak voice to a feeble shout.
"I say, Miss Vere! I've been trying to tell you, but you won't listen!
There's a lady waiting to see you!"
"A what?" she asked.
"A lady!" continued Tommy, in loud tones. "A lady of title! Wants to see
you in private! Won't detain you long!"
Violet Vere raised her pewter mug once more, and drained off its
contents.
"Lord, ain't I honored!" she said, smacking her lips with a grin. "A
lady of title to see me! Let her wait! Now then!" and snapping her
fingers, she began her dance, and went through it to the end, with her
usual vigor and frankness. When she had finished, she turned to the
red-faced man who had watched her evolutions with much delight in spite
of the abuse she had heaped upon him, and said with an affected,
smirking drawl--
"Show the lady of title into my dressing-room! I shall be ready for her