MISS TINSEL.
It was in a magnificent theatre that Chester Harding first saw her--a
theatre grand in size and tasteful in decoration. It had only lately
been opened, and was one of the lions of the Golden City. Harding went
there to while away an idle hour, and in order, perhaps, that he might
see all there was to be seen before leaving San Francisco. His visit was
one of merest chance, and no trifle had seemed lighter in all his
California life than his straying that night into the Cosmopolitan
Theatre.
And yet perhaps it was the turning-point in his existence. Others who
were there from Bullion Flat said afterward that from that night Harding
was transfigured. A blaze of chandeliers, with golden fretwork skirting
the galleries and rich dark velvet framing the boxes, could hardly
surprise him. Nor was there much to astonish--whatever there might be to
admire--in the rows of handsomely dressed women who gave brilliancy to
the audience. Neither could the drama itself, which the manager was
pleased to style "a grand legendary fairy spectacle," move Harding
seriously from his equilibrium. All these splendors, together with the
resonant orchestra, the dazzling scenery, rich in Dutch metal and gold
foil, the sanguinary and crested Baron, the villain of the play, the
iridescent youth, its hero, the demons, who went through traps, vampire
and other--one Blood-Red Demon with a long nose being especially
conspicuous--the fairies, who brought order out of chaos--of whom the
"Queen of the Fairy Bower" was the large-limbed and voluptuous
principal--the "Amazonian Phalanx," who went through unheard-of
manoeuvres with massive tin battle axes and spears--all these failed, it
must be owned, to startle Mr. Harding from his propriety. He had seen
such things, or things very like them, before. And yet he was taken off
his feet, to use the metaphor, and swept away captive by a very torrent
of emotion excited by Miss Tinsel.
She was only a _coryphee_; that is, she was but one among the minor
subordinates of the ballet. Her advent was accomplished as one of the
"Sprites of the Silver Shower." She had to come chassezing down the
stage, and she never raised her eyelids--before most demurely cast
down--until she was close upon the footlights. But when those eyelids
_did_ go up it was--well, as Judge Carboy afterward used to say, it was
just like sunrise over the mountains at Boone's Bar! A girl with a mass
of bright hair, almost red it looked by daylight, and large gray eyes
that looked as black as soot by the gas, but took on more tender hues by
day--a girl with a figure that was simply perfection, and yet one who
with all her archness seemed to have no vanity. She had many dainty
white skirts, one above another like an artichoke, of fluffy and
diaphanous texture, and although these, it cannot be denied, were
perilously short, somehow Miss Tinsel did not look in the least
immodest.
All the men from Bullion Flat knew it _was_ Miss Tinsel, since the
"Queen of the Fairy Bower" addressed this charming figure more than once
as "Zephyrind," and a reference to the play-bill thereupon at once
established her identity.
What strange magnetism there was about this girl Harding, and indeed all
who looked at her, found it hard to define. Perhaps, apart from her
lovely eyes and hair and her exquisite figure, it was because she always
seemed to be drawing away that she proved so fascinating. Even when she
advanced straight toward you she seemed for ever to retreat. By what
subtle and skilful instinct of coquetry Miss Tinsel was enabled to
convey this impression cannot here be explained. That she did convey it
was universally admitted. It appeared, however, on inquiry, that her
dramatic powers were of the slightest. Her beauty and charm were such
that the manager would gladly have put her forward could he have seen
his way to do so. But her success had been so moderate, when the
experiment was tried, in one or two of the "walking ladies" of farces,
that it was thought wisest to let her be seen as much and heard as
little as possible.
When Harding last saw her that night she was going up to Paradise on one
foot, the other pointing vaguely at nothing behind, the intoxicating
eyes turned up with a charming simulation of pious joy, and the cherry
lips curled into a smile that showed plenty of pearls below. She
vanished from his gaze in a glory of red fire, amid the blare of gongs
and trumpets, while the "Blood-Red Demon" went down to the bad place
under the stage through a trap, and the "Queen of the Fairy Bower," with
felicitous compensation, ascended to the heaven of the flies.
After this tremendous catastrophe Harding went to his hotel and
reflected.
That a Timon like himself--a misogynist indeed of the first
water--should fall in love at first sight with a ballet girl certainly
furnished matter for reflection. But reflection did not prevent Timon
from seeking an interview with his unconscious enslaver the next day.
Even cold and soured natures may become under some incentives
enthusiastic and ingenious.
Harding found out where Miss Tinsel lived, learned that she usually came
from rehearsal at about two, called consequently at three, and coolly
sent in his name, telling the servant that the young lady would know who
he was. As he hoped, the device got him admittance. The girl supposed he
was some one from the theatre whose name she had not caught or had
forgotten.
It was a very plain and humble room, almost us bare and forbidding
perhaps as the inside of Harding's tent on the knoll, and yet how
glorified was the place with the purple atmosphere of romance!
Miss Tinsel was as simply equipped as her room: a gown of dark stuff
with a bit of color at the throat, and that was all. Harding saw that
she was not quite so perfect physically as he had thought, and this,
strange as it may seem, instantly increased his passion for her. Nothing
could make her figure other than beautiful, or impair the lustre of her
eyes; but the fair creature had a little range of freckles across her
delicate nose and cheeks, and her hair by day appeared, as has been said
before, nearly red. Her natural smile, on the other hand, as
distinguished from her stage smile, which was merely intoxicating, was
almost heavenly; and it was not made less so by an occasional look that
was grave almost to sadness.
"Sit down." He was standing stock still and silent in the middle of the
room. "You come from the theatre, don't you?"
It was a sweet voice--sweet and low--too low, in truth, which was one of
the reasons of its failure in the drama--one of those thrilling
contralto voices, most magnetic and charming when heard by one alone, or
close by, but which lost their magnetism and charm if strained to fill
the ears of a crowd.
"No--yes--that is, I was there last night. I saw you there," he replies
stupidly.
"Last night? Oh, yes. But why do you want to see me to-day?"
This is a hard question to answer; so he tries evasion.
"Did you get a bouquet?"
"A perfect love--a beauty--it was thrown at my feet; but I gave it to
her of course."
"Gave it to _her_?"
"Miss De Montague--don't you know--the 'Queen of the Fairy Bower?' She
gets all the bouquets."
"Oh, she does, does she?"
"Certainly. She is the principal, you know. Her engagement calls for all
the bouquets."
"Even when they are plainly intended for somebody else?"
"Ah, but they oughtn't to be intended for somebody else. If any one is
so silly as to think somebody else ought to have a bouquet, any one has
to be punished. Then they forfeit him."
"Forfeit him?"
"Or his flowers. They always forfeit you in theatres--if you're late at
rehearsal, you know, or if you keep the stage waiting. But then you
needn't mind. Miss De Montague is a dear, good soul. She took the
bouquet for the look of the thing, you know; that's business; but she
gave me half the flowers when we got home."
"Does she live here then?"
"Why, to be sure. You know, we always go to the theatre together. Only
for her I should be quite alone."
"And do you like this kind of thing?" he asks clumsily.
She bursts into a merry laugh. "Like it? Why, I get my living by it. We
all have to live, you know, and I've no one to look out for me but
myself, and----"
She pauses suddenly, having caught his eye fixed upon her with a gaze of
passionate admiration. This first calls up the look of gravity we have
spoken of, and then brings the color sharply to her face. It also
reminds her of the somewhat peculiar character of the interview. The
instant after she resumes, as if continuing her sentence, "Did you come
here to ask me that?"
"No," he replies bluntly. "I never thought of the question until the
moment before I asked it."
"Please tell me, then," she proceeds, with gathering surprise, "what
_did_ you come for?"
He hesitates a moment, moved by the superstition or the honest feeling
that he must tell her no word of untruth, and then quietly answers:
"I am not sure that I know."
"Not sure that you know?"
"No."
"Perhaps, then, you'll go away, and when you _are_ sure----"
"Come back again?" hazards he.
"I didn't say that. You look and talk like a gentleman, and if, as I
hope, you are one, you will know that I can't see strangers--people who
have no business with me--and so you must excuse me." She has risen and
moves with some dignity toward the door.
"One moment," he interposes. "Forgive me; you know for your part that it
is impossible I should wish to offend----"
"How should I? You come here to me a stranger, and refuse to say what
for."
"No. I did not refuse. I only said I was not sure that I knew why I
came."
"Then you must be crazy!" she blurts out impulsively.
"Perhaps I am. I begin to think so."
"Then I wish you would go away!" she goes on with apprehension. "I'll
tell you what, Mr. Bellario is here, and he's--oh, terribly strong!"
"Mr. Bellario?" he echoes.
"Yes. The 'Blood-Red Demon,' you know. Didn't you see him go through the
traps?"
Harding laughs, very much amused. "And you mean to threaten me with the
'Blood-Red Demon,' do you?"
"Oh, no," she responds gently, but again edging toward the door--"not
threaten; but"--in a very conciliatory tone--"if you won't say what you
come for and won't go away----"
"But I will," he says gravely.
"Will which?"
"Will both. I will say what I came for and then I will go away."
"I don't mean to be rude, you know," she puts in, softening.
"Nor I. Now I will tell you. I came because I could not possibly stay
away--because you drew me toward you with an irresistible force----"
"I'm sure I didn't!" she protests indignantly.
"Unconsciously, of course. You may think me foolish--wild if you please.
I can't help that. You will know better in time. I come to you saying
not a wrong word, thinking not a wrong thought. There is nothing against
me. At home I was a gentleman. I ask leave to visit you, respectfully as
a friend, nothing more."
"But why?" she asks, bewildered.
"Because I admire you greatly, inexpressibly, and I must tell you so."
She turns scarlet now. "But I shall never tell you this--not again--or
anything else in words you do not choose to hear. All I ask is the leave
now and then to see and to speak with you."
This was very embarrassing. Had he said he loved her, and at first
sight, she would have turned him away. She would have distrusted both
his sincerity and his motives. But he did not say this. On the contrary,
he offered in explicit terms, it would seem, not to say it. She
therefore naturally took refuge in generalities.
"But what you ask won't be possible. What would people say? This is a
very bad, a scandalous country, I mean. What would Miss De Montague
think, or Mr. Bellario?"
"What people will say or think hardly needs to be considered," said
Harding steadily, "since in a week I shall have gone to my home in the
mines. You won't be troubled with me long--twice more perhaps. Only once
if you prefer it. All shall be exactly as you wish it. Is not that
fair?"
Miss Tinsel was saved the present necessity for replying to a question
or coping with a situation both of which she found extremely perplexing,
since at this juncture the door opened and admitted the "Queen of the
Fairy Bower" and the "Blood-Red Demon," who had apparently been out for
a morning walk. To Harding's surprise, the "Queen" was a motherly
looking woman of forty-five and the "Demon" a weak-eyed young man, with
a pasty white face, and some fifteen years younger. Both were much
overdressed, and both stared vigorously at Harding--the "Queen" with an
air intended to represent fashionable raillery, the "Demon" with haughty
surprise. But the visitor avoided explanations that might have been
embarrassing by bowing low to the company and passing from the room.