"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 Rénaud, 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.