nelly o'neill threw herself into her work with greater ardour than ever. but her triumphs were shadowed by worries. she was nervous lest the hon. reginald should turn up at one of her halls--she had three now; she was afraid her voice was spoiling in the smoky atmosphere; sometimes the image of the hon. reginald came back reproachfully, sometimes tantalisingly. oh, why was he so stupid? or was it she who had been stupid?
then there was the apprehension of the end of her career at the lee carters'. the young generation was nearly grown up. the eldest boy she even suspected of music-halls. he might stumble upon her.
her popularity, too, was beginning to frighten her. adventurous young gentlemen followed her in cabs--cabs were now a necessity of her triple appearance--and she never dared drive quite to her door or even the street. bracelets she always returned, if the address was given; flowers she sent to hospitals, anonymous gifts to her family. nobody ever saw her wearing his badge.
a sketch of her even found its way to one of mrs. lee carter's journals.
"why, she looks something like me!" eileen said boldly.
"you flatter yourself," said mrs. lee carter. "you're both irish, that's all. but i don't see why these music-hall minxes should be pictured in respectable household papers."
"some people say that the only real talent is now to be found in the halls," said eileen.
"well, i hope it'll stay there," rejoined her mistress, tartly. eileen recalled this conversation a few nights later, when she met master harold lee carter outside the door at midnight with a rival latch-key.
"been to a theatre, miss o'keeffe?" asked her whilom pupil.
"no; have you?"
"well, not exactly a theatre!"
"why, what do you mean?"
"sort of half-and-half place, you know."
by the icy chill at her heart at his innocent phrase, she knew how she dreaded discovery and clung to her social status.
"what is a half-and-half place?" she asked smiling.
"oh, comic songs and tumblers and you can smoke."
"no? you're not really allowed to smoke in a theatre?"
"yes, we are. they call it a music-hall--it's great fun. but don't tell the mater."
"you naughty boy!"
"i don't see it. all the chaps go."
she shook her head. "not the nicest."
"oh, that's tommyrot," he said disrespectfully. "their women folk don't know--that's all."
eileen now began to feel like a criminal round whom the toils thicken. in the most fashionable of her three halls, she sang a little french song. and she had taught master harold his french.
of course, even if nelly were seen by eileen's friends or acquaintances, detection was not sure. eileen was always in such sedate gowns, never low-cut, her manners were so suppressed, her hair done so differently, and what a difference hair made! in fact, it was in her private life that she felt herself more truly the actress. on the boards her real secret self seemed to flash forth, full of verve, dash, roguery, devilry. should she take to a wig, or to character songs in appropriate costumes? no, she would run the risk. it gave more spice to life. every evening now was an adventure, nay three adventures, and when she snuggled herself up at midnight in her demure white bed, overlooked by the crucifix, she felt like the hunted were-wolf, safely back in human shape. and she became more audacious, letting herself go, so as to widen the chasm between nelly and eileen, and make anybody who should suspect her be sure he was wrong. and occasionally she paid for all this fever and gaiety by fits of the blackest melancholy.
she had gradually dropped her habit of prayer, but in one of her dark moods she found herself slipping to her knees and crying: "oh, holy mother, look down on thy distressed daughter, and deliver her from the body of this death. so many wooers and no spark of love in herself; a woman who sings love-songs with lips no man has touched, a lone-of-soul who can live neither with the respectable nor with the bohemians, who loves you, _sanctissima maria_, without being sure you exist. oh, holy mother of god, advocate of sinners, pray for me. if i had only something solid to cling to--a babe to suckle with its red grotesque little face. you will say cling to the cross, but is not my whole life also a crucifixion? i am rent in twain that a thousand fools may laugh nightly. oh, holy mother, make me at one with myself; it is the atonement i need. send me the child's heart, and i will light a hundred candles to you.... or do you now prefer electricity? oh, maria mavourneen, i cannot pray to you, for there is a mocking devil within me, and you will not cast her out." and she burst into hysteric tears.
