“_CHORUS GIRL NUMBER II. ON THE LEFT_”
+A Fantasy Founded on Fact+
Plain but Fascinating—The Swell in the
Stalls—Overtures—Persistence—Introduction at Last—Her Story—His
Kindness—Happiness crept in—Love—An Ecstasy of Joy—His Story—A Rude
Awakening—The Result of Deception—The Injustice of Silence—Back to
Town—Illness—Sleep.
The curtain had just risen; the orchestra was playing the music of
the famous operetta _Penso_, when a man in the prime of life in a
handsome fur coat entered the stalls. He was alone. Having paid for his
programme and taken off his furs, he quietly sat down to survey the
scene.
The chorus was upon the stage; sweeping his glasses from end to end
of the line of girls upon the boards, his eyes suddenly lighted upon
the second girl on the left. She was not beautiful. She had a pretty
figure, and a most expressive face; but her features were irregular
and her mouth was large. Far more lovely girls stood in that row, many
taller, with finely chiselled features and elegant figures, but only
that girl—_Number II. on the Left_—caught and riveted his attention.
He looked and looked again. What charm did she possess, he wondered,
which seemed to draw him towards her? She was singing, and making
little curtsies like the others in time to the music: she was waving
her arms with those automatic gesticulations the chorus learn; she was
smiling, and yet behind it all he seemed to see an unutterable sadness
in the depths of her dark grey eyes. The girl fascinated him; he
listened not to the music of _Penso_, he hardly looked at any one else;
so long as _Number II. on the Left_ remained upon the stage his entire
thoughts were with her. She enchained, she almost seemed to hypnotise
him, and yet she seldom looked his way. During the _entr’acte_ Allan
Murray went outside to try and discover the name of _Number II. on the
Left_. No one, however, was able to tell him, or if they were, they
would not.
Disappointed he returned to his seat in time for the second act. She
had changed her dress, and the new one was perhaps less becoming than
the first.
“She is not pretty,” he kept repeating to himself, “but she is young.
She is neither a great singer nor a dancer, but she is a gentlewoman.”
So great was the fascination she had exerted over the man of the world,
that he returned the next night to a seat in the stalls, and as he
gazed upon the operetta he felt more than ever convinced that there was
some great tragedy lying hidden behind the smiling face of _Number II.
on the Left_. He desired to unravel it.
A short time before Christmas, being absolutely determined to find out
who she was, he succeeded in worming the information from some one
behind the scenes. Her real name was Sarah Hopper—could anything be
more hideous?—her professional one Alwyn FitzClare—could anything be
more euphonious? He went off to his club after one of the performances
was over, and wrote her a note. Days went by and he received no answer.
Then he purchased some beautiful flowers and sent them to the stage
door for Miss Alwyn FitzClare with his compliments. Still no answer;
but in the meantime he had been back to the theatre, and had been even
more struck than before with the appearance of the girl, and felt sorry
for the look of distress he thought he saw lurking behind her smiles.
It was now two days before Christmas, and writing her a note begging
her not to take it amiss from a stranger, who wished her a very
pleasant Christmas, he enclosed two five-pound notes, hoping she would
drink his health and remember she had given great pleasure to one of
her audience.
Christmas morning brought him back the two notes with a formal stiff
little letter, saying that Miss FitzClare begged to return her thanks
and was quite unable to accept gifts from a stranger.
For weeks and weeks he occupied a stall at the theatre, whenever he
had an off-night. He continued to write little notes to Miss Alwyn
FitzClare, but never received any reply. However, at last he ventured
to beg that she would grant him an interview. If she would only tell
him where she came from, or give him an inkling of her position, he
would find some means to obtain a formal introduction. She answered
this letter not quite so stiffly as the former one containing the
bank-notes, and stated that she came from Ipswich. Time passed; he
succeeded in gaining an introduction, and sent it formally to _Number
II. on the Left_. At the same time he invited her to lunch with him
at a famous restaurant. She accepted; she came out of curiosity, she
ultimately vowed, although in spite of the introduction, and in spite
of the months of persuasion on his part, she felt doubtful as to the
wisdom of doing so.
The girl who had looked plain but interesting upon the stage, appeared
before him in a neat blue serge costume, well fitting and undecorated,
and struck Mr. Murray as very much better looking, and smarter
altogether in the capacity of a private person than she did in the
chorus. “A gentlewoman” was writ big all over her. No one could look at
her a second time and not feel that she was well born.
“Do you know,” she said, “I often have funny letters from people on the
other side of the footlights; but yours is the only one I ever answered
in my life. Tell me why you have been so persistent?”
“Because of the trouble in your face,” he answered.
“In mine? But I am always laughing on the stage—that is part of the
duty of the chorus.”
“Yes,” he replied, “you laugh outwardly; but you cry inwardly. It was
your sad expression which first attracted my attention.”
He was very sympathetic and very kind, and gradually she told him her
story. Her father had been a solicitor of good birth. He had a large
practice, but dying suddenly left a family of nine children, all under
the age of twenty, practically unprovided for, for the small amount for
which his life was insured soon dwindled away in meeting the funeral
expenses and settling outstanding bills.
“I was not clever enough to become a governess,” she said, “I had not
been educated for a secretary—in fact, I had no talent of any sort or
kind except the ability to sing a little. Luck and hard work brought me
the chance of being able to earn a guinea a week on the stage, out of
which I manage to live and send home a shilling or so to help mother
and the children.”
It was a tragic little story—one of many which a great metropolis
can unfold, where men bring children into the world without giving a
thought to their future, and leave them to be dragged up on the bitter
bread of charity, or to work in that starvation-mill which so many
well-born gentlewomen grind year after year.
The rich gentleman and _Number II. on the Left_ became warm friends.
Months went by and they often met. She lunched with him sometimes;
they spent an occasional Sunday on the river, and she wrote to him,
and he to her, on the days when they did not meet. She was very proud;
she would accept none of his presents, she would not take money, and
was always most circumspect in her behaviour. Gradually that sad look
melted away from her eyes, and a certain beauty took its place. He was
kind to her, and by degrees, little by little, the interest aroused by
her mournful expression deepened—as it disappeared—into love. She,
on her side, looked upon him as a true friend, practically the only
disinterested friend she had in London; and so time wore on, bringing
happiness to both: neither paused to think. Her life was a happy one.
She grew not to mind her work at the theatre, or the sewing she did for
the children at home, sitting hour by hour alone in her little attic
lodging, looking forward to those pleasant Sunday trips which brought a
new joy into her existence. His companionship and friendship were very
precious to this lonely girl in London.
One glorious hot July Sunday which they spent near Marlow-on-Thames
seemed to Sarah Hopper the happiest day of her life. She loved him,
and she knew it. He loved her; and had often told her so; but more
than that had never passed between them. It was nearly two years since
they first met, during which time the only bright hours in the life
of _Number II. on the Left_ had been those spent in Allan Murray’s
company. His kindness never changed. His consideration for her seemed
to Alwyn delightful.
On that sunny afternoon they pulled up under the willows for tea, which
she made from a little basket they always took with them. They were
sitting chatting pleasantly, watching the water-flies buzzing on the
stream, throwing an occasional bit of cake to a swan, and thoroughly
enjoying that delightful sense of laziness which comes upon most of us
at the close of a hot day, when seated beneath the shady trees that
overhang the river.
He took her hand, and played with it absently for a while.
“Little girl,” he said at last, “this cannot go on. I love you, and
you know it; you love me, and I know that too; but do you love me
sufficiently to give yourself to me?”
“I don’t think I could love you any more,” she replied, “however hard
I tried, for you have been my good angel for two happy years, you have
been the one bright star of hope, the one pleasant thing in my life.
I love you, _I love you_, I LOVE YOU,” she murmured, as she leaned
forward and laid her cheek upon his hand. He felt her warm breath
thrill through him.
“I know it, dear,” he said, and a sad pained look crossed his face;
“but what I want to know is, do you care for me sufficiently?”
“I hardly understand,” she answered, frightened she knew not why.
“Will you give me the right to keep you in luxury and protect you from
harm?”
She looked up anxiously, there was something in his words and something
in his tone she did not comprehend. His face was averted, but she saw
how pale and haggard he looked.
“What do you mean?” she questioned, turning sick with an inexplicable
dread.
“Could you give up the stage, the world for me? Instead of being your
friend I would be your slave.”
She seemed to be in a dream; his words sounded strange, his halting
speech, his ashen hue denoted evil.
“Tell me what you mean,” she cried.
“Dearest,” he murmured, and then words seemed to fail him.
“But?” and she looked him through and through, a terrible suspicion
entering her soul, “but——”
“But,” he replied, turning away from her, “you can never be my wife.”
“Great God!” exclaimed the girl. “This from the one friend I thought I
had on earth, from the one man I had learned to love and respect. Not
your wife?” she repeated. “Am I losing my senses or are you?”
“You cannot be my wife,” he reiterated desperately.
“So you think 1 am not good enough?” she gasped almost hysterically.
“It is true I am only _Number II. on the Left_, and yet I was born a
lady. I am your equal in social standing, and no breath of scandal has
ever soiled my name. You have made love to me for two years, you have
vowed you love me, and now, when you know my whole heart is given to
you, you turn round and coolly say, ‘You are not good enough to be my
wife.’”
“My darling,” he said, taking her hand and squeezing her fingers until
the blood seemed to stand still within them, “this is torture to me.”
“And what do you suppose it is to me?” she retorted. “It is not only
torture but insult. You have brought me to this. I loved you so
intensely and trusted you so implicitly, I never paused to think.
I have lived like a blind fool in the present, happy when with
you, dreaming of you when away, drifting on, on, in wild Elysium,
hoping—yes, hoping, I suppose—that some day I might be your wife, or
if not that, at any rate that I could still continue to respect myself
and respect you. To think that you, you, whom I trusted so much, should
insult me like this,” and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
“My darling, I cannot marry,” he replied. “It is not your position,
it is not the stage, it is nothing to do with you that makes me say
so. Had it been possible I should have asked you to be my wife a year
ago or more, but, little girl, dearest love, how can I tell you?” and
almost choking with emotion he added, “_I am a married man_.”
She left his side and staggered to the other end of the boat, where,
throwing herself upon the cushions, she wept as if her heart would
break.
“Have I deserved this,” she cried, “that you in smiling guise should
come to me as an emblem of happiness? You have stolen my love from me,
and oh, your poor, poor, wretched wife!”
She was a good, honest, womanly girl, and even in her own anguish of
heart did not forget she was not the only sufferer from such treachery.
In a torrent of words he told her how he had married when a student
at the ’Varsity—married beneath him—how his life had ever since
been misery. How the pretty girl-bride had developed into a vulgar
woman, how for years she and her still commoner family had dogged his
footsteps, how he had paid and paid to be rid of her, how his whole
existence had been ruined by the indiscretion of his youth, and the
wiles of the designing landlady’s daughter, how he had never felt
respect and love for woman until he had met her, _Number II. on the
Left_.
It was a tragic moment in both their lives. He felt the awful sin he
had committed in not telling her from the first that he could never
marry. He felt the injustice of it all, the punishment for his own
folly that had fallen upon him, and she, poor soul, not only realised
the shock to her ideal, but the horrible barrier that had risen between
them.
* * * * *
They travelled up to town together, both silent—each feeling that all
the world was changed. They parted at Victoria—she would not let him
see her home.
The idol of two years was rudely shattered, the happy dreams of life
had suddenly turned to miserable reality.
He returned to his chambers, where he cursed himself, and cursed his
luck, as he walked up and down his rooms all night, and realised
the root of the misery lay in the deception he had practised.
He, whose life had been ruined by the deception of a designing,
low-class minx, had himself in his turn committed the selfsame sin of
misrepresentation. The thought was maddening; his remorse intense. But
alack! the past cannot be recalled, and the curse that had followed him
for many years he had, alas! cast over a sinless girl.
Sarah Hopper returned to her cheap little lodging at Islington, for
after two years’ hard work her salary was still only 30_s._ a week,
and throwing herself into an arm-chair, she sat and thought. Her head
throbbed as if it would burst, her eyes seemed on fire as she reviewed
the whole story from every possible side. She had been a blind fool;
she had trusted in a man she believed a good man, the web of fate had
entangled her, and this—this was the end. She could never see him again.
By morning she was in a high state of fever, and when the landlady came
to her later in the day she was so alarmed at her appearance she sent
at once for the doctor. The doctor came.
“Mental shock,” he said.
Days went by and in wild delirium the little chorus girl lay upon her
bed in the lodging, till one night when the landlady had fallen asleep
the broken-hearted girl managed to scramble up, and getting a piece of
paper and an envelope wrote:
“You have killed me, but for the sake of the honest love of those two
years, I forgive you all.”
She addressed it in a firm hand to Alan Murray, and crawling back into
bed fell asleep.
A few hours later the landlady awoke; all was silent in the room—so
silent, in fact, that she began to wonder. The wild raving had ceased,
the restless head was no longer tossing about on the pillow. Drawing
back the muslin curtains to let the light of early morning—that soft
gentle light of a summer’s day—pour into the room, she went across to
the bed.
The kindly old woman bent over the broken-hearted girl to find her
sleeping peacefully—the sleep of death.
_Printed and bound by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld.,
London and Aylesbury._
* * * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
The spelling, punctuation, hyphenation and accentuation are as the
original with the exception of apparent typographical errors, which have
been corrected.