Rupert Godwin

VIOLET RESOLVES UPON ENTERING A NEW SPHERE.

A cloud fell upon the little household in the purlieus of the Waterloo-road. Violet sought for fresh employment, but in vain. She was incapable of uttering a falsehood, and she did not attempt to conceal the fact of her having lately quitted Mrs. Montague Trevor’s employment.

In every case she was asked for a reference to her late employer, and when she refused to refer to Mrs. Trevor, people shook their heads. The case looked suspicious, and no one would have anything to say to the helpless girl, whose youth and beauty were additional obstacles to her success.

Thus Violet found herself with a blighted character, helpless and friendless, in the vast city of London.

Now for the first time the poor girl’s heart failed; her courage gave way. Her enforced idleness gave her time for thought, and she sat brooding upon her fate for hours together, until a profound melancholy took possession of her.

She had lost so much—a doting father; a betrothed lover, in whom she had so fondly trusted—it was scarcely strange that she should feel her life very hopeless and desolate, even though her mother and Lionel were still left to her.

Once, and once only, she had written to George Stanmore, at the Poste Restante, Bruges. She had written to him, telling him of her father’s death, and the sad changes of fortune which had followed that calamity. In a spirit of mingled pride and generosity she had released her lover from the engagement that bound him to her.

No answer had come to that letter. Violet could only imagine that Mr. Stanmore had left Bruges, or that he accepted her release in silence. The pain of this thought was very bitter; but Violet Westford was becoming used to sorrow. Neither her mother nor Lionel suspected the existence of that hidden grief, which made a dull aching anguish in the girl’s breast.

And in the meantime they were poor, very poor. Toil as she might with her skilful needle, Clara Westford could earn very little towards the support of that small household; and Lionel’s earnings as a copyist of law-papers were very uncertain. It was only by the most unfailing economy that this once prosperous family were able to pay the rent of the pitiful lodging, and obtain the commonest necessaries of life.

To Violet enforced idleness was almost insupportable. She saw those she loved toiling through the long weary days—hot summer days, whose sunshine brought back the remembrance of the shadowy gardens about the Grange, the cool depths of the forest, those deep and sheltered glades in which she had spent such careless hours of happiness with George Stanmore. When she saw her mother and Lionel toiling in their close, dingy London lodging, and felt that she could do nothing to help them, despair took possession of her heart.

Every day she answered fresh advertisements in the Times newspaper, the hire of which from a neighbouring stationer cost her a penny a day. Every day she walked weary miles, in order to form one of the crowd of helpless girls, highly educated and tenderly reared, whom the iron hand of poverty has thrust out upon the hard world of London.

But her perseverance was of no avail. Without a reference to her former employer, no one would venture to trust in her. Even her beauty—that gift so precious for the pampered child of a luxurious home—became an impediment to her success, and gave rise to cruel suspicions about her in the minds of the worldly-wise.

She had doubtless been dismissed from her last situation because of some imprudence—or perhaps something worse than imprudence—which rendered her unfit to be the companion and guardian of innocence.

After efforts that would have almost exhausted the patience of a martyr, Violet’s hope and courage at last failed her altogether, and she gave up all thought of obtaining another situation. She was crushed and bowed to the very earth under the burden of despair.

It was on a glorious day in August that this sense of utter hopelessness took possession of her mind. She had walked to Hampstead that morning, after breakfasting on a little dry bread and a teacupful of milk. She had walked from the Waterloo-road to the breezy Heath at Hampstead, and had presented herself before noon at a pretentious villa, only to be told by its prosperous mistress that she was a great deal too young for the situation.

“There was no age stated in the advertisement, madam,” poor Violet pleaded almost piteously; “and I can assure you that I possess all the accomplishments required, or I should not have applied for the situation.”

“Very likely,” answered the lady of the villa, who was the wife of an ironmonger at the West-end; “very likely you have a school-girl’s smattering of the accomplishments I require; but I could not possibly intrust my children’s education to a person of your age, and I really consider it almost an impertinence in a girl of nineteen to apply for such a position as governess in a house of this kind.”

The lady tossed her head contemptuously as she uttered this speech. Had there been one spark of womanly feeling in her breast, she might have seen that poor Violet was well-nigh exhausted from sheer fatigue, and ready to drop fainting to the floor. She might have seen the mute anguish pourtrayed in the girl’s face; and she might at least have offered a glass of wine from her well-stocked cellar, and a few words of sympathy and comfort from one Christian woman to another.

“Alas for the rarity of Christian charity” in this hard world! The lady of the villa only rang the bell, and desired her servant to show the “young person” out. Poor Violet found a seat upon the Heath, where she was able to rest for some time, in order to regain strength for the long homeward walk. There was no occasion for haste; why should she hurry home, when she had no good tidings for those whom she loved? She had only the old cruel story to tell—the story of failure and disappointment.

She sat for a long time, gazing dreamily at the dark roofs and steeples of the city, which were half hidden under a cloud of smoke in the valley beneath her. Then at last she rose, and walked slowly and despondently homewards.

The walk was a very long one; and the way she went took her across Long-acre and into Bow-street, which she entered at about three o’clock in the afternoon, dusty with her long walk in the high-road, pale and exhausted with fatigue.

Bow-street was very busy at this hour of the afternoon. A series of cheap performances were being given at the close of the Covent-Garden opera-season, and people were buying tickets and engaging boxes for the night’s entertainment.

Bow-street is the centre of the theatrical world of London. In this street the dramatic agents have their offices, and to those offices flock all classes of the theatrical profession, from the provincial Macready, who is only waiting to get an innings in order to set the town in a blaze, and who enters the official chamber with a pompous tragedy stalk, to the timid amateur aspirant for dramatic fame, who has never yet set foot upon a public stage, and who announces his approach by a faint nervous cough, expressive of profound self-abasement.

The street is redolent of the footlights. Here the theatrical wigmaker exhibits the flowing chevelure of roistering Charles Stuart—that supreme favourite of vaudeville and commedietta—side by side with the oily locks of Tartuffe, or the close-cropped poll of Jack Sheppard. There the theatrical hosier displays the sacred mysteries of his art, and treacherously reveals the means by which art and cotton-wool can supply the deficiencies of nature. Close at hand the theatrical gold-lace maker sets forth his glittering wares, and allows the vulgar eye to gloat upon the diadem of a Richard, and the jewelled sword-hilt of a Romeo. Next door hang Beauty’s robes, limp and dowdy of aspect when untenanted by their fair mistress. Everywhere the specialty of the street reveals itself.

Walking slowly down this street, Violet Westford glanced, in sheer absence of mind, at the big brass plate upon the door of a dramatic agent’s offices.

A dramatic agent! It was only after a few moments’ reflection that she understood what the term meant.

A dramatic agent, of course, must be a person whose business it is to procure situations for actors and actresses.

A sudden and desperate fancy entered Violet’s brain. She knew that people earned money, sometimes a great deal of money, by acting. She had read novels in which lovely young creatures, with a taste for histrionics, had walked straight from their domestic retirement on to the stage of Drury Lane, to take the town by storm on their first appearance, and to be the delight and glory of the universe, until prevailed upon to exchange the triumphs of the drama for the social successes of fashionable life by an adoring duke, who languishes to lay his strawberry leaves and rent-roll at their feet.

Why should she not be an actress? She was rejected on every side as a governess. In her despair, she would have been almost willing to have swept a crossing, if by so doing she might have helped her mother and Lionel.

Why should she not be an actress? The thought was not quite so wild as it seemed. Violet Westford had often acted in amateur theatricals in pleasant country-houses near the Grange, and at merry Christmas gatherings in her own home. She had shown considerable talent upon these occasions, and had been much admired and applauded for that talent; and she had no idea of the width of that gulf which divides the clever young actress of the domestic charade from the hard-working artist who woos public favour.

She remembered her social successes—not with any feeling of vanity, but as one last wild hope, to which, in the depth of her despair, she was ready to cling, as the drowning sailor clings to the frailest plank that ever floated on a blustrous ocean.

Acting on the impulse of the moment, she seemed inspired by a boldness that was strange to her. She entered the open doorway by which she had seen the brass plate, and went up an uncarpeted staircase leading to the first-floor. Here she saw the word “office” painted upon a door opposite to her. She knocked timidly, and a voice, that sounded harsh and abrupt in her unaccustomed ears, told her to enter.

She went into the room, and found herself in the presence of a man of about five-and-thirty years of age, who was sitting at a table writing, with a heap of papers, open letters, and many-coloured playbills lying about him.

The walls of the room were adorned with big rainbow-hued playbills and theatrical portraits. In one of the curtainless windows a foppishly dressed man was lounging, with his back to the interior of the room.

The agent looked up from his writing, and bowed to Violet; but he did not speak. He evidently waited for her to state her business.

The poor girl’s courage failed her all at once. Physically exhausted by her long and weary walk, she was not capable of any very heroic mental effort. She dropped into the chair to which the agent pointed. Her lips moved tremulously; but she could not speak.

Fortunately, the agent was by no means an ill-natured man. He saw Violet’s embarrassment, and came to her relief.

“You want an engagement, I suppose?” he said.

“Yes,” faltered Violet.

“Very good. You’ve brought some bills with you, I suppose?”

“Bills, sir? I——”

“Yes; bills from the theatre where you were last engaged. What’s your line of business? The juvenile lead, I suppose, or first walking-ladies, hay? Where have you been acting lately?”

Violet shook her head.

“I have never acted in any theatre,” she said. “I have only acted in private theatricals at the houses of my friends.”

“What!” cried the agent. “Do you mean to say you’ve never acted on a public stage?”

“Never.”

Mr. Henry de Lancy, the agent, who had been born a Higgins, gave a long whistle, expressive of extreme surprise.

“Then you’re a regular amateur, my dear girl,” he said, “and as ignorant as a baby. I don’t suppose the manager of any theatre in England would care to engage you—unless you were willing to go for a month or so on trial, without any salary.”

Without any salary! Violet’s heart sank in her breast. It was the salary, and the salary alone, she wanted. She did not wish to exhibit herself before a gaping crowd. She only wanted to earn money for those she loved.

“You don’t seem to like the idea,” said Mr. de Lancy. “Most young ladies like you are very glad to get the chance of acting, and would often be willing even to pay for it. Indeed, there are many of them who do pay—and pretty stiffly too.”

“Perhaps so,” Violet answered sadly; “but I am very poor, and I want to earn money. I thought that I could get a salary as an actress.”

“And so you can, my dear, when you’ve learnt how to act; but acting is an art, like every other art, and must be learnt by experience. If you like to go to some little country theatre, and play small parts for a couple of months without any payment, in order to get a little accustomed to your business, I’ll look over my books and see if I can manage the matter for you.”

“A country theatre, sir!” exclaimed Violet, “and no salary! O, that is quite useless for me. I want to be in London, with my mother, and I must earn money.”

The agent flung himself back in his chair with a half-contemptuous shrug of his shoulders.

“You want impossibilities, my dear young lady,” he said. “I can’t be of any use to you. Good afternoon.”

He dipped his pen in the ink, and went on with his writing. Violet rose to leave the room. She began to think that the career of an actress must be attended with as many difficulties as that of a governess.

But as she stood on the threshold of the door, the man who had been lounging in the window, and who had turned round to stare at her during this brief scene, suddenly addressed her.

“Stop a bit, my dear,” he said. “Just sit down five minutes, will you?—De Lancy, my boy, what a fool you are!” he added, addressing the agent.

Mr. de Lancy looked up from his writing.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Why, what a confounded fool you must be not to see that this young lady is the very person we want at the Cir!”

“The Cir” was an abbreviation of the Circenses; and this gentleman was no less an individual than Mr. Maltravers, the stage-manager of the Circenses Theatre.

“What for?” asked the agent.

“Why, for the Queen of Beauty, to be sure, in the new burlesque. Haven’t I been hunting all over London for a pretty girl, and haven’t you sent me all sorts of guys and dowdies to apply for the situation? and isn’t this young lady Venus herself in a straw bonnet?”

Violet blushed crimson. The stage-manager smiled as he perceived her confusion.

“You’ll get used to this sort of thing by-and-by, my dear,” he said. “Now, let us understand each other. You want to be engaged at a London theatre?”

“I do, sir.”

“And you’ve never been on any stage in your life?”

“Never.”

“Then all I can tell you is this: the first moment you tried to open those pretty lips of yours before a London audience you would find it almost as difficult to speak three words as if you had been born deaf and dumb. You think because you’ve read Shakespeare, and acted in a charade now and then among your friends, that you only want a chance in order to burst upon the world as a modern Siddons. But that kind of thing is not quite so easy as you imagine. No, my dear young lady, acting isn’t an accomplishment that comes natural to people, any more than playing the piano, or painting pictures, or speaking foreign languages. Acting must be learnt, my dear, and it isn’t learnt in a day.”

Violet looked despairingly at the speaker, who said all this in the airiest and pleasantest manner.

“What am I to do, then, sir?” she asked piteously. “I have no time to learn an art. I want to earn money, and at once.”

“And you shall earn some money, my dear, and very easily too,” replied the stage-manager.

“O, sir, tell me what you mean!” exclaimed Violet, who was bewildered by the stage-manager’s vivacity.

“What would you say if I were to pay you eighteen shillings a week for sitting in a golden temple for ten minutes every night, in one of the most splendid dresses that was ever made in a theatre? What would you say to appearing as the Queen of Beauty in the last scene of our burlesque? You’ll have nothing to say; you’ll have nothing to do, but sit still and allow the audience to admire you; and you will be paid the liberal sum of eighteen shillings a week. What do you say, young lady? Do you accept my offer?”

“O yes, yes; most willingly,” answered Violet.

Eighteen shillings a week—nearly double the amount of Mrs. Trevor’s miserable salary! Violet was only too eager to secure so much prosperity.

“I accept your offer, and with gratitude!” she exclaimed.

Then, suddenly, the flush of excitement faded from her face, and she grew very pale. Would her mother and Lionel—proud, high-spirited Lionel—would those two, who loved her so dearly, ever consent that she should earn money in this manner? Could the young Oxonian—so quick to feel the humiliation of those he loved—permit his sister to be stared at by an audience who paid for the privilege of criticising or admiring her?

“Surely, when we are so poor, they would scarcely object to any honest means by which I could earn money,” Violet thought.

But she dared not decide the question without her mother’s permission.

“Will you give me time to consult my friends?” she said. “I was too hasty in what I said just now. I cannot accept your offer without my mother’s consent.”

“Very right and proper,” answered the stage-manager approvingly. “But you must get your mother’s permission between this and eleven o’clock to-morrow morning, or I shall be obliged to find another young lady for the Queen of Beauty. I suppose you can come to me at the theatre by half-past ten o’clock to-morrow?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, then; there’s my card. You must go to the stage-door, and if you give that to the door-keeper, he’ll send you to me directly. Mind you are punctual, for there are plenty of people anxious for the situation. All the ugliest ballet-girls in London fancy themselves the very thing for the Queen of Beauty.”

Violet promised to be punctual. There was a fee due to Mr. de Lancy; but when that gentleman found the poor girl was penniless, he very good-naturedly volunteered to wait until she had received her first week’s salary.

Violet hurried homewards after this interview, rejoiced beyond measure at having the chance of help held out to her. She told her mother and Lionel of what had happened, and implored them to lay aside all prejudice at a time when poverty in its worst bitterness had entered their household.

At first, both Mrs. Westford and Lionel were strongly averse to her proposition; but little by little the girl won their consent.

Lionel’s concurrence was given unwillingly, even at the last; it stung him to the very quick to think that his sister should be obliged to earn money by exhibiting her lovely face to a careless, perhaps insolent crowd. But when he looked at his mother’s careworn countenance, the beautiful lines of which were already sharpened by the cruel hand of want, his courage gave way, and he burst into a passion of tears—those tears which seem so terrible when they flow from the eyes of a brave man.

“Do as you will, Violet!” he exclaimed, dashing those bitter drops away with a hasty passionate gesture. “How can we refuse the help of your feeble hands? I am a man; I have received an education which cost my father a small fortune; and yet, work as I may, I cannot earn enough to keep my mother and sister from penury.”

Thus it was that Violet presented herself at the stage-door of the Circenses at the appointed hour on the following morning.