The Winslow Mail

When the Lights Went Out.

By DOLF WYLLARDE.

The original cause of Digby Sullivan's quarrel with his wife was Lottie Le Marchant, but the effect of it was a blunder. It was Digby's friend, Desserte, who first took him behind the scenes at the Frivolity, and he was the real mover in the affair which ended in Lottie's husband getting a decree nisi. But Lottie had large capacities. She was quite ready to absorb Digby Sullivan as well as Desserte, and for a time she really did succeed in making him somewhat of a fool. Sullivan, however, only dabbled—Desserte plunged. Sullivan's wife did not know this until afterwards. At the time, when the florist and the jeweler sent in bills, which she opened in all innocence, and when there were names mentioned in court, Sybil naturally jumped to conclusions, and went and stayed with her sister-in-law for an indefinite visit. Fortunately the latter was an astute woman.

Digby only tried to explain matters once, and then he got furious, went into chambers, and looked the scandal in the face. Three months after he became a grass widower he saw that on the whole Lottie had done him a good turn.

Six months later his cook left, and he took to dining at the club. After that all the buttons came off his shirts at once, or so it seemed to him. Then he swore. He could not recollect that he had ever seen Sybil sewing at his shirts, but she had certainly had a mysterious influence over the buttons.

Nine months later he chanced to go to the Frivolity. Lottie was not playing there then, but a particularly attractive burlesque had occurred and he foregathered with Mordaunt, of the guards, and went to see it. Mordaunt had already seen the piece five times, but he bounded in his stall with excitement, and chuckled as at a first performance. Sullivan was faintly bored. It occurred to him that Mordaunt was an ass, and that he had heard twin productions to the burlesque 120 times. It was a full house, but he designated it as dowdy, and he was just thinking of going out and leaving Mordaunt to chuckle, when an attendant preceded two ladies into their row of stalls, and let down the empty seats beside him. He had a distinct impression that both women were perfectly dressed, and that the one next to him was beautiful, but he waited with stealthy interest to look at her until she had settled herself.

"I am afraid we have missed most of the first act," she said, quietly, to her companion, as she threw back her cloak.

Digby sat clinging to his opera glasses, and staring at the stage in a way which it struck him suddenly must look idiotic. But he had recognized the voice—it was his wife's.

After a second he stole a look at her. She was leaning back comfortably, her lips parted in obvious amusement, and her eyes on the stage. Apparently, she was enjoying herself very much, and quite unconscious that the stall next her was occupied; in fact, her self-possession was appalling.

As the time went on, Digby began to feel in a dream; Sybil was positively so close to him that if he moved he touched her, the vague scent of violets which always haunted her was wafted to him in a maddening fashion, he was aggravatingly conscious of the rise and fall of her breast with every untroubled breath she drew, and of the contrast of her white neck against her black gown; and yet she was as unmoved as if she really was not aware that he was there. It was impossible that she had not seen him. He turned deliberately and looked at her. She was speaking to her sister-in-law of a mutual acquaintance, a name he recognized. Suddenly she broke off, flushed, and smiled.

"Oh, here is Capt. Hawtrey?" she said.

A man had entered the row of stalls behind, and had taken his place so that Sybil was immediately in front of him. He leaned forward and shook hands, and they began to talk. This was in the interval between the acts. Digby's wrath rose with the conversation. It was no more intimate than ordinary acquaintance warranted, but it contrived to leave Sullivan boiling with jealousy. He stared at the man gloomily, and tried in vain to pick holes in him.

"Beastly good looking beggar!" he said to himself, with a groan. "Must be a recent acquaintance—he doesn't know me. Oh, he's going to meet her to-morrow, is he? Confound his impertinence! What a howling cad I am to listen."

Then the second act began, and the divinity of the hour kicked herself backwards round the stage, and sang a touching ditty, but even that did not entirely comfort Digby. The man behind him was whispering and Sybil was leaning back to listen. Her husband calculated the number of inches between them.

When the scene ended, the crisis came. They have a way of putting out all the gas at the Frivolity when they change the scenes, instead of letting down the curtain. Digby heard Sybil say "Oh!" as the darkness came upon them, for she was not expecting it; then there was a long, soft breath, and then three small fingers slipped into his, making him gasp and set his teeth hard. He had been sitting with his hand down beside him, resting between the seats, and it flashed into his brain that she had mistaken it for that of the man behind . . . . He gripped hold of the fingers in a fashion that must have hurt, but he did not care. Just before the gas was turned on again he relaxed his hold, and they were withdrawn. The next scene flashed by while he wondered if she had discovered what she had done. Then it was dark again, and Digby was only conscious that she was leaning sideways in her stall. He leaned back also, and found her lips by instinct. They kissed each other in the darkness, and after that he waited grimly to the end. When Sybil rose at the fall of the curtain he rose too, and touched her lightly on the arm.

"I should like to speak to you, if you will allow me a few minutes' conversation," he said, ceremoniously.

She regarded him with unmoved serenity.

"Certainly!" she said, politely. "But—here?"

"If you will allow me to see you home"

"Oh!" She turned to her sister-in-law, and said something in a low tone. After a minute she spoke to Sullivan again. "I am quite ready—if you are," she remarked.

Sullivan also thought that he was quite ready until he found himself alone with her in the hansom. Then he found that between the intoxication of the violets and his furious indignation, he was dumb. He struggled with himself without daring to glance at her, his eyes fixed vacantly on the glitter of the streets as they bowled along

When you kissed me in the theater," began his wife, quietly.

He turned round with his eyes blazing. "Then you knew" he said

She bowed.

"I thought—" He was ashamed to say what he had thought, and besides the intoxication had got the upper hand.

"I was going to say," said Sybil sweetly, "that I suppose it was—by mistake?"

Five minutes later she remarked that a looking glass in a hansom was a handy thing—it looked so bad to come home with one's hair untidy, and Sullivan added irrelevantly that he hoped her sister-in-law would not sit up for them.

"N-no," said Sybil. "I don't think so. Where are you staying?"

"Out at Westminster. Shall we go to the Riviera before we settle down again?"

"If you like—just whatever you like."

But the curious part was that there had not been a word of explanation between them.—St. Paul's.