Would she ever get through her three Halls? It did not seem as if she had
strength for the Half-and-Half itself. She nerved herself to the task,
and knew, not merely from the shrieks of delight, that she had surpassed
herself. Happy and flushed she flung herself into her waiting cab.
She had the 9.45 turn at her second and most fashionable Hall--a Hall
where the chairman had been replaced by programme numbers--and then would
come her third and last appearance at 10.35. It was strange to think that
in another hour Nelly O'Neill's career would be over. It seemed like
murdering her. Yes, Eileen O'Keeffe would be her murderess. Well, why not
murder what lay between one and happiness? As she waited at the wings,
just before going on, while the orchestra played her opening bars, she
glanced diagonally at the packed stalls, and her heart stood still.
There in the second row sat Colonel Doherty, smoking a big cheroot.
Instinctively she made the sign of the cross; then swayed back and was
caught by the man who changed the programme-numbers.
"Is No. 9 come?" she gasped.
"I think so; aren't you well, Miss O'Neill?"
"For God's sake, give me breathing space," she said, with a last wild
peep at the Colonel. Yes, there was no mistaking him after the three new
portraits he had sent her. He was in cheerful conversation with a stout,
sallow gentleman of the Anglo-Indian stage-type. Both were in immaculate
evening-dress and wore white orchids. How fortunate she had refused to
send any photograph in return, pleading ugliness but really afraid of
theatrical sketches that might find their way to the officers' mess!
The band stopped, changed its tune, No. 9 appeared on the board; there
was a murmur of confusion.
"No, by Heaven, I'll face the music," she said with grim humour. She
almost hustled the hastening juggler out of the way. She was in a
whirlwind of excitement. So he was there--well, so much the better. He
had saved her from lying. He had given her an easy way of confessing.
Words were so inadequate, he should see the reality: the stage to-night
would be her confessional. She would extenuate nothing. She would throw
herself furiously into the fun and racket; go to her broadest limits,
else the confession would be inadequate. Then ... if he survived the
shock ... why then, perhaps, she'd insist on going on with this double
life...! He had risen in his seat. No, no, he must not go away, she could
not risk the juggler boring him.
"I'm better; I mustn't be late at my next shop," she murmured
apologetically as the number and the music were changed back.
"Ah, she's come--she was late," came the murmurs of the audience as it
stirred in excited expectation.
She flung on roguish, feverish, diabolical, seductive in low-cut bodice
pranked with flowers. It was a frenzy of impromptu extravagance, dazzling
even the orchestra; each line accentuated by new gesture, the verses
supplemented by new monologue; a miracle of chic and improvisation, and
the house rose at it. Out of the mist before her eyes thunder seemed to
come in great roars and crashes. She almost groped her way to the wing.
She was recalled. The mist cleared. She bowed direct at him, smiling
defiance from her sparkling eyes. He was applauding with his hands, his
stick, his lungs! Was it possible?--yes, he had not recognised her!
Now came a new revulsion. Again she felt herself saved. She sang her
other songs straight at him, and exaggerated them equally, half to tempt
Providence, half as a bold way of keeping Eileen still concealed. She
heard his companion chuckling, "By Jove, Willie, she's mashed on you,"
as she threw a farewell kiss towards him. Then she hurried to her
dressing-room and took out his letter. She had transferred it to the
pocket of her theatrical gown, but had not as yet found time to finish
it. Even before she re-perused it, another emotion had begun to possess
her, a rush of resentment. So this was how he amused himself while
waiting to clasp her in his arms! How would he ever live through the
hours till Sunday afternoon, forsooth! She was jealous of the applause he
lavished on Nelly O'Neill, incensed at his levity, at his immaculate
evening-dress, at his white orchid. How dare he be so gay and debonair?
Her anger rose as she read his protestations, his romantic professions.
"O my darling, I shall sit up all night, thinking of you, re-reading all
your dear letters, recalling our past, picturing our future. In short, as
old Landor puts it:--
"'A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.'"
She crumpled the paper in her hand. There was a knock at the door; Fossy
poked his head in. He had risen in the world of Halls, even as Nelly
O'Neill.
"Might I present two friends of mine? They want so much to know you."
"You know I never see anybody, and that I have to hurry off."
"Then, I was to give you this bouquet."
He handed in a costly floral mass. Amid it lay a card, "Colonel Doherty."
She crumpled his letter more viciously.
"Tell them I can give them ten minutes only. Oh, Fossy, it's an amusing
Show, isn't it?"
"It was a rattling good show," said Fossy, half puzzled. "Come in, boys."
Entered the Anglo-Indian twain with shining faces and shirt-fronts,
cheroots politely lowered.
"Oh, smoke away, gentlemen," cried Nelly O'Neill, facing them in all
the dazzle of her flesh and the crudity of her stage-paint, and her
over-lustrous eyes, "don't mind me. Which of you is the Colonel?"
The stout, sallow gentleman jocosely pushed his tall flaxen-haired
companion forward. "Oh, I knew the Major was out of it," he grinned.
"Not at all, Major," said Nelly. "I only wanted to know which I had to
thank for these lovely flowers."
"You have yourself to thank," said the Colonel, smartly. "By Jove! You
gave us a treat. London was worth coming back to."
"Ah, you've been away from London?"
"Just back this very day from India--"
"And of course the first thing after a good dinner is the good old
Friv--" put in the Major.
"Thank you, Major," said Fossy. "That's handsome of you. And now I'll
leave you to Miss O'Neill."
"That's handsomer still," said the Colonel. And the three men guffawed.
Eileen felt sick.
The Major began to talk of the music-halls of India; the Colonel chimed
in. They treated her as a comrade, told her anecdotes of the _coulisses_
of Calcutta. The Colonel retailed a jest of the bazaars.
"I permit smoke, not smoking-room stories," she said severely. At which
the twain poked each other shriekingly in the ribs. After that Eileen let
the Colonel have rope enough to hang himself with, though she felt it
cutting cruelly into her own flesh. It was an orgie of the eternal
masculine, spiced with the aroma of costly cigars.
"I'm so sorry," she said, when she had let them have a quarter of an
hour's run. "I really must fly." And she seized the bouquet, and
carefully adjusted his card in the glowing mass. "Won't you come
and have tea with me to-morrow? About four."