A RECOGNITION AND A DISAPPOINTMENT.
Violet attended the rehearsals at the Circenses with unfailing
regularity, and won the warm praises of Mr. Maltravers, the
stage-manager, both for her punctual habits and her quiet manners,
which were in strong contrast with the noisy chatter and clamorous
laughter of some of the giddy careless girls employed in the theatre.
The interior of the theatre was like a strange world to this girl,
who had been reared in the refined atmosphere of home. Esther Vanberg
and her companions treated the newcomer as an intruder. They would
have been very kind to her, perhaps, had she been an ordinary-looking
girl, the homely muddy-complexioned sort of young person whom other
girls speak of as “a dear;” but she was something very different.
Her undeniable beauty inspired all manner of malice, envy, and
uncharitableness; and these young ladies did their uttermost to
render the theatre uncomfortable to her.
They did their uttermost, but they failed most completely; for
Violet’s thoughts were so far removed from theirs that she scarcely
felt any annoyance from their sneers or their insolence. Strange
as this unknown world behind the curtain seemed to her, she was
supported by the knowledge that she was earning money that would
at least secure her mother from actual privation; and she was
comparatively happy.
At last the eventful night arrived on which the new burlesque was to
be performed. Violet was by this time perfectly familiar with the
easy task she had to perform. Her dress was ready for her, and no
expense had been spared to render the costume magnificent.
Even Violet Westford, unconscious though she ordinarily was of her
own attractions, could scarcely fail to recognize the perfection of
the face and figure she saw reflected in the glass when the finishing
touch had been put to her dress, and a starry circlet placed upon her
sunny hair, which was allowed to fall in wavy masses that reached
below her waist.
She went downstairs to the stage, and was warmly complimented by Mr.
Maltravers on her appearance.
He saw her seated in a fairy temple which formed the central feature
of the gorgeous scene that was to conclude the extravaganza, and then
left her. In a few minutes the front scene would be drawn aside,
and Violet Westford would find herself face to face with a London
audience.
Her heart beat quickly; for though she had nothing more to do than
to sit in statuesque repose upon a gilded throne and look beautiful,
she could not help being a little alarmed at the prospect of finding
herself the focus of all the eyes in the crowded house. On one side
of the temple Esther Vanberg was placed amongst a group of girls
ranged on gilded pedestals, for the scene was one of those displays
of pretty young women and gorgeous stage decoration which Mr. Ruskin
condemns on aesthetic principles. The Jewess was talking loudly while
waiting for the scene to be unclosed.
“Pretty!” she exclaimed scornfully; “if Mr. Maltravers calls that
piece of fair-haired insipidity a beauty, I don’t think much of his
taste. She’s about as fit to be the Queen of Beauty as the snuffy old
woman who cleans out the theatre.”
Violet knew that this elegant speech referred to her; but she knew
also the envious feeling which dictated it, and she was not disturbed
by her rival’s malignity.
But as Esther Vanberg spoke Violet turned almost involuntarily
to look at her. The Jewess was splendidly dressed, and looked
very handsome; but the hollowness of her cheeks and the feverish
brightness of her eyes were visible, in spite of the rouge and other
cosmetiques which she used to enhance her beauty.
As Violet looked at those dark eyes, some memory, which she was
powerless to put into any distinct shape, arose in her mind. Where
and when had she seen such eyes as those?
She could not answer the question; but she knew that she had at some
time or other encountered a gaze which was now recalled to her by
that of Esther Vanberg.
Miss Westford had no time to ponder upon this question, for the scene
was unclosed, and she saw before her the crowded theatre, with its
myriad faces and dazzling lights.
A tremendous burst of applause followed the unclosing of the scene,
for the final tableau of the new burlesque was a miracle of the
scene-painter’s art.
For some moments Violet could only see a confused mass of faces and
glittering lamps; then little by little the scene grew clearer to her
eyes, and she could distinguish single faces from among the crowd.
She saw beautiful women--aristocratic-looking men. She saw hundreds
of opera-glasses, which all seemed to be levelled at herself. She
saw humbler sight-seers gazing with enraptured countenances upon the
scene from the Olympus of the eighteen-penny gallery, and little
children applauding vehemently, with their chubby hands.
Then, as the scene was a long one, and as she had nothing to do
during its progress, her gaze wandered idly about the house, now
resting here, now lingering there, attracted by the novelty of the
scene.
Suddenly she started, and trembled from head to foot.
In the dress-circle--in a corner nearest the stage--she had
recognized a man sitting alone, with his arms folded on the velvet
cushion, his eyes fixed dreamily on the scene before him, as if in
utter absence of mind.
This man was George Stanmore the painter!
The recognition had set Violet’s heart beating violently. But she
remembered where she was, and the myriad eyes that were upon her. By
a powerful effort of self-control she restrained all outward token of
emotion.
George Stanmore’s dark eyes were still fixed upon vacancy, rather
than on the dazzling scene at which all the rest of the audience
were looking; and as Violet watched those dark eyes, a sudden fancy
startled her, almost as much as she had been startled by her first
recognition of the artist.
She perceived a singular resemblance between the eyes of George
Stanmore and those of the Jewess, Esther Vanberg. This was the
likeness which had so puzzled her only a few moments before the
unclosing of the scene. It was strange; and Violet was grieved at
finding a likeness between the man she loved and the _figurante_,
whose short youth had been one career of folly and extravagance.
It was strange; but these accidental resemblances are of frequent
occurrence, so Violet did not long puzzle herself about the subject.
She was too much absorbed by the knowledge that the plighted lover
from whom she had been so long separated was now before her. Surely
he must speedily recognize her, as she had recognized him.
She did not consider that she saw George Stanmore in his everyday
habiliments; while he beheld her in the complete disguise of a
brilliant stage costume, and moreover in a position which he could
not have supposed she would occupy. Presently, however, she saw him
rouse himself from his reverie and look at the stage. He had no
opera-glass; but he started, and looked at Violet with a prolonged
and eager scrutiny.
“Yes,” she thought, “he recognizes me; I knew that he would do so.
And now, how will he act? Will my appearance in this place disgust
and annoy him? Will the change in our circumstances produce an
alteration in his feelings? Will he despise the woman who has sunk
from affluence to poverty, or will he respect my endeavour to earn a
livelihood by any means in my power?”
Violet asked herself these questions, but in her heart she never
doubted the fidelity of the man she loved. He had recognized her,
and he would doubtless leave the box immediately, and hasten to the
stage-door, whence he could send her a message or a letter.
But to her surprise he did not hasten to quit his seat. He sat quite
still, gazing fixedly at her until the curtain fell and shut him from
her sight.
Then Violet fancied that he had only waited for the fall of the
curtain, preferring to wait rather than to disturb the people about
him by rising in the middle of a scene.
She left the stage, where the confusion caused by the shifting of the
scenery was something beyond description. She left the tumultuous
chaos of noisy carpenters and ponderous machinery, and hurried to
the room in which she dressed, in company with Esther Vanberg and
about half-a-dozen other girls. Her heart throbbed with a new sense
of happiness, her cheeks were flushed with expectation, her hands
trembled as she removed her fantastic dress, and plaited her long
hair. She had no ears for the loud talk of her excited companions,
who were noisily discussing the success of the scene they had been
engaged in, and the relative merits of their several costumes,
or speculating and disputing as to who was or who was not in
“front,”--the front in question being that portion of the theatre
which has been more elegantly described as the _auditorium_.
Every moment Violet expected to hear her name pronounced outside the
door of the dressing-room; every moment she expected to be summoned,
in order that a letter or message might be given to her.
But no letter, no message came. Half an hour, and then the greater
part of an hour, passed. Violet had dressed herself very slowly,
lingering over the operation in expectation of a summons; but she
had now put on her bonnet and shawl; she was ready to go home; and
her mother, the careful anxious mother, to whom this ordeal of her
daughter’s was unspeakably painful, would be waiting in the hall by
the stage-entrance, ready to escort the _débutante_ home.
Clara Westford had insisted upon coming to fetch Violet from the
theatre. Lionel was away, and the girl had now no male protector. How
could the devoted mother rest within doors, with the knowledge that
her daughter was exposed to all the perils of insult and annoyance in
the half-deserted London streets?
Poor Violet could not linger any longer in the dressing-room with
the knowledge that her mother was waiting for her below. No words
can tell the bitterness of her disappointment. Only those who have
known a life as joyless and hopeless as hers had been of late, can
imagine the anguish which she felt as she saw her brightest and most
cherished dream fade away from her.
Throughout her sorrows her heart had been sustained by a belief in
George Stanmore’s constancy, a deep and heartfelt confidence in his
affection, which circumstances might shake but could not destroy.
Now that fondly treasured hope was crushed all at once.
He had seen her after a long separation, which should have made her a
hundredfold more dear to him; he had seen her, he had recognized her,
and yet had made no effort to approach her.
“He despises me in my altered fortune,” she thought bitterly; “he has
been to the neighbourhood of the Grange perhaps, and has heard of our
losses; and now that he sees me struggling to earn a living as best
I may, he despises me. It was all very well for him to talk so nobly
about the worshippers of Mammon while he thought me the daughter of
a rich man, but he is not disinterested enough to forgive the sin of
poverty in the woman he pretended to love.”