 CHAPTER IV Tina had just entered her sixth year when she was entrusted with the role of the young Duke of York in Shakespeare's tragedy Richard III. The pulse of true genius stirred within her soul, always exultant when her high gifts were brought into use, caused her to experience an inexplicable, indescribable fascination for her profession, a fascination that counterbalanced the weariness, the anxieties, the trials that crowd the actor's smoothest pathway. Even at that early age she was a close student of her art. She had an intense love for the poet's conception and for its lifelike embodiment, rather than any undue fondness for applause. The latter was overvalued as a token that she had fitly interpreted her author, that she had done her duty. The power of mental concentration, of total self-forgetfulness, is the first great element of dramatic success. At this she possessed in an imminent degree. The character of the young Duke of York she studied with an all-absorbing enthusiasm. In Act IV the Duke of York enters with the Archbishop of York, Queen Elizabeth, and the Duchess of York. The following is the dialogue. I long with all my heart to see the Prince. I hope he is much grown since last I saw him, Queen Elizabeth. But I hear no, they say my son of York hath almost orn't take him in his grove, York. I, mother, but I would not have it so, Duchess. Why, my good cousin, it is good to grow, York. Grandem, one night, as we did sit at supper, my uncle Rivers talked how I did grow, more than my brother. I, quote my uncle Gloucester, some herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace, and since me thinks I would not grow so fast, because sweet flowers are slow, and weeds make haste. Duchess, good faith, good faith, the saying did not hold in him that did object the same to thee. He was the wretchedest thing when he was young, so long a-growing and so leisurely, that if his rule were true he would be gracious. And so, no doubt, he is my gracious madam, Duchess. I hope he is, but yet let mothers doubt, York. Now, by my trod, if I had been remembered, I could have given my uncle's grace a flout to touch his growth nearer than he touched mine. Duchess, how, my good York, I pretty, let me hear it, York. Mary, they say my uncle grew so fast, that he could gnaw a crust at two hours old, twas full two years ere I could get a tooth. Grandam, this would have been a biting jest. Duchess, I pray thee, pretty York, who told you this? York. Grandam, his nurse. Duchess, his nurse, while she was dead ere thou art born, York. If it were not she, I cannot tell who told me. Queen Elizabeth, a parolous boy, go to, you are too shrewd. These salient points were given with an earnest archeness that invents how thoroughly the child comprehended the character she assumed. In the third act the young Duke enters again, accompanied by Hastings and the Cardinal. His elder brother, the Prince of Wales, thus greets the youthful Duke. Prince. Richard of York, how fares our loving brother. A touch of childlike deference mingled with the tone of affection in which the young Duke replied, York. Well, dread Lord, so I must call you now, Prince. I, brother, to our grief, as it is yours, too late he died that might have kept that title, which by his death have sloss much majesty lost her. How fares our cousin, noble Lord of York. York. I thank you, gentle uncle. Oh, my lord, you said that idle weeds are fast in growth. The Prince, my brother, hath outgrown me far. Gloucester, ye have, my lord. York. And, therefore, is he idle? Gloucester. Oh, my fair cousin, I must not say so. York. Then he is more beholden to you than I. Gloucester. He may command me as my sovereign, but you have power in me as a kinsman, York. I pray you, uncle, then give me this dagger, Gloucester, my dagger, little cousin, with all my heart. Prince. A beggar, brother, York. Of my kind uncle that I know will give, and being but a toy, which is no grief to give. Gloucester. A greater gift than that I'll give my cousin. York. A greater gift? Oh, that's the sword to it. Gloucester, I, gentle cousin, were it light enough. York. Oh, then I see, you'll part with but light gifts. In weightier things you'll say a beggar, nay, Gloucester. It is too weighty for your grace to bear, York. I weigh it lightly, were it heavier. Gloucester. What? Would you have my weapon, Lord York? I would that I might thank you as you call me, Gloucester. How, York? Little Prince. My lord of York will still be cross in talk, uncle. Your grace knows how to bear with him. York. You mean to bear me, not to bear with me? Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me, because I am little like an ape. He thinks that you should bear me on your shoulders. Buckingham. With what sharp provided wit he reasons. To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle, he prettily and aptly taunts himself. So cunning and so young is wonderful. Gloucester. My gracious lord, will please you to pass along. Myself and my good cousin Buckingham, will you to your mother to entreat of her, to meet you at the tower and welcome you? York. What? Will you go into the tower, my lord? Prince. My lord protector needs will have it so. York. I will not sleep quiet in the tower, Gloucester. Why, sir? What would you fear? York. Mary, my uncle Clarence, angry ghost, my grandam told me he was murdered there. Prince. I fear no uncle's dead, Gloucester. Nor none that live, I hope. Prince. And if they live, I hope I need not fear, but come, my lord, and with a heavy heart, thinking on them, I go into the tower. The prince twins his arms around the reluctant York, who looks back to Gloucester with a doubtful glance, shaking his head mournfully while he goes out. As if some dark foreshadowing of his fate were flitting across his mind. Will it be credited that the hearty applause called forth by Tina's acting excited the displeasure of the distinguished tragedian who represented Richard? He felt as though the child's delineation of her part rendered her too prominent in a picture where he had the right to stand in solitary conspicuousness. He desired alone to engross the public eye. His surroundings must all be subordinate accessories, satellites that would not interfere with his more luminous shining. That he could exhibit envy towards a child may seem an absurdity to many. It will be recognized as an incident of constant occurrence by those who move within the narrow circle of the profession. At the close of the play there was, of course, a call for Upton, who had impersonated Richard, but he had scarcely made his bow before the footlights when a second cry arose for the young Duke of York. The child had never before been honored by a similar summons, one which actors highly value. After the exertions and fatigues of the evening, the call before the curtain is to them a refreshing mark of approval which stars are very unwilling to forego. Robin, from his prompter's seat, heard the name of his child rising in peels. His breast glowed with tumultuous transport, yet stage etiquette forbade him to apprise Tina or in any manner to notice the wishes of the audience until the stage manager sent forth his orders. Mr. Tuttle adhered to the principle of never putting an actor forward for fear that he might rise above his control or demand an increase of salary. He listened to the call, comprehended it perfectly, secretly admitted its justice, but to all appearance remained singularly deaf. He issued no commands. He hoped the audience would grow weary and the applause die away, but the impression made was too deep. The acclamations only grew louder when the audience found its demand was unnoticed. Mr. Higgins, who, from his post in the boxkeeper's office, could overhear all that took place, now hastened behind the scenes and demanded why Tuttle had not sent on the child. It was the manager's policy to encourage this favoritism of his patrons, for it rendered Tina doubly valuable to him. As for spoiling the true hearts, he had no fear of that. He had too great a hold on them, but he, he asked himself, would have engaged a hunchback prompter. Did he answer himself that when Robin Trueheart applied for a situation that hunch had given the wily manager a pretext for cutting off one-third of the prompter's usual salary? Oh no, he forgot that small item, and actually persuaded himself that he had employed Robin out of charity. Send on Ms. Trueheart at once, Tuttle, said Higgins, majestically. Mr. Tuttle bowed and declared that he was just on the point of doing so, then ordered the prompter to notify Ms. Trueheart to appear before the curtain without delay, also to summon Richmond of the evening to conduct her. Robin's heart beat with a stroke that was almost audible. Up the long narrow flight of stairs he scrambled, taking two steps at a time. Susan had not anticipated this tribute to her child's talents. She had distrobed Tina of her black velvet tunic, glittering with bugle embroidery. The child was now attired in a coarse-red calico dress and a white bib. She was sitting on her mother's knee half asleep when Robin knocked at the door, for the dressing room was appropriated to half a dozen ladies beside Susan. In an agitated tone he told Susan to bring out Tina. What is it, Robin dear? asked Susan, opening the door. Bring the birdie quickly. She is called, called before the curtain. Do you hear those shouts' wife? They are calling for her, for our little one. She played magnificently. Come, come quickly. Susan had never heard her grave tranquil husband speak so rapidly, so incoherently. She was lost in amazement, and so was the suddenly awakened child. But Robin took the ladder in his arms and ran down the steps. Such an interval had elapsed, he feared the call would cease. The gentleman who impersonated Richmond was standing by the curtain, waiting for it to be drawn back. Susan had only recovered her presence of mind in time to say, You are to curtsy, darling, as you cross the stage, curtsy several times, as often as they seem to want. When the audience beheld, instead of the noble Duke of York, in his rich, ducal garb, the little girl evidently startled out of sleep, in her calico dress, and white bib, and rough shoes, there was a general laugh. But Tina curtsied gracefully, and half laughed herself, comprehending their cause and merriment. She had established a species of magnetic communication between herself and her audiences, and this response to their mirth drew her more closely to them. They saw, too, how lovely was this child in her mean attire, how little, costly her renament had contributed to display her infantile grace and beauty. Susan could hardly sleep for joy that night, and Robin lay in waking dream. But Tina's slumbers were undisturbed by the weight of her fresh laurels. Richard III was repeated several nights in secession. Tina's performance was an acknowledged feature, which added to the popularity of the tragedy. She was always called before the curtain, but Susan was too hopeful of the reputation of that honour again to substitute the red calico for the ducal vestiments. Even Mr. Upton's heart was not proof against the child's witchery of manner. She continued so docile, so unalated by adulation. Rumour whispered in Mr. Higgins' ear that other theatres were about to make Robin advantageous offers. The hit made by his daughter had been noised about London. The manager was quite aware that father and mother, as well as their little one, could commend much better salaries than he allowed them, salaries that would place them in comparatively easy circumstances. Before these whispers of preferment could reach Robin, the prompter was summoned to the box office. Mr. Higgins praised Tina in a highly, contentious and condescending manner, then inquired whether Robin would not like to sign a contract for the engagement of himself, his wife, and his child for three years. The wily manager took great care to impress upon the poor prompter's mind that he meant to confer on him and his needy family a special favour. As a mark of his generosity he proposed to raise Tina's salary from ten shillings per week to fifteen. Robin's upright manner harbored no suspicions. He thankfully signed the contract, which, already drawn up, lay upon the table. On his return home he was rejoicing with Susan over this increase in their funds and describing to her Mr. Higgins' unusual suavity of manner when a letter was placed in his hands. It contained an offer for his services and those of Susan and Tina at the Princess's Theatre with a salary of ten pounds per week. And he had engaged with Higgins to receive three pounds and a quarter weekly for three years. Robin crushed the letter in his hands after he perused it. Higgins must have known this, he exclaimed. He has bound me by this wicked contract and prevented my rendering you and the birdie comfortable besides laying up something for a rainy day. He has outwitted me. And what is to be done? Nothing could be done. True heart was forced to abide by the contract from which Higgins, when he was told of this more lucrative offer, showed not the slightest intention of releasing him. King John was the next Shakespearean revival, and it was selected principally to give Tina an opportunity of appearing as Prince Arthur. Her gift of personation now revealed itself in a striking manner. There was a strong contrast between her Picante, Shrewd, Parolas Duke of York, and the tender melancholy loving Prince Arthur. The scene in which Arthur pleads with Hubert, when he is commissioned to put out the Prince's eyes, moved the audience to tears. A look of premature sorrow pervaded the whole mean. The weight of the early care betrayed itself in the child's very step when Arthur enters and greets Hubert with a subdued good morrow, Hubert. Hubert. Good morrow, little Prince. Arthur. As little Prince, having so great a title, to be more Prince as may be, you are sad. Hubert. Indeed, I have been merrier. Arthur. Mercy on me. Me thinks nobody should be sad but I. Yet I remember when I was in France young gentlemen would be sad at night only for wantonness. By my Christendom. So were I out of prison and kept sheep, I would be merry as the day is long, and so I would be here. But that I doubt my uncle practices more harm to me. He is afraid of me and I of him. Is it my fault that I am Jeffrey's son? No, indeed it is not. And I would, to heaven, I were your son, and so you would love me, Hubert. Hubert. If I talk to him with his innocent freight he will awake my Mercy, which is dead. Therefore I will be sudden and desperate. Arthur. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale today. In sooth I word you were a little sick that I would sit all night and watch with you. I warn't I love you more than you do me. Hubert. His words do take possession of my bosom. Read here, young Arthur, showing a paper. How now felt foolish room aside, turning a most disobedious torture out of door. I must be brief, lest resolution drop. Out at my eyes in tender womanish tears. Can you not read it? It is it not fair writ, Arthur. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect. Must you with hot irons burn out my eyes? Hubert, young boy, I must. Arthur. And will you, Hubert? And I will. Arthur. Have you the heart? When your head did but eight I knit your my handkerchief about your brows. The best I had, a princess wrought at me. And I did never ask at you again. And with my hand at midnight held your head. Arthur. And, like the watchful minutes of the hour, still in anon cheered up the heavy time, saying, What lack you? And where lies your grief? Or what good love may I perform you? Many a poor man's son would have lain still, and Nair spoke in a loving word to you, but you at your sick service had a prince. Nay, you may think your love was crafty love, and calling it cunning do, and if you will. If heaven be pleased that you must use me ill, why, then you must. Will you put out my eyes? These eyes that never did, nor ever shall, so much as frown on you, Hubert. I have sworn to do it, and with hot irons I must burn them out. Arthur. Aw, but none in this iron age would do it. The iron of itself, though heat-red hot approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears, and quench his fiery indignation, even in the matter of mine innocence. Nay, after that, consume away in rust, but for containing fire to harm my eye. Are you more stubborn hard than hammered iron? And if an angel should have come to me, and told me, Hubert should put out my eyes, I believe no tongue but Hubert's. Hubert, come forth, stamp, interattendance with cord, iron, and etc. Do as I bid you, Arthur. Oh, save me, Hubert, save me! Mine eyes are out, even with the fierce look of these bloody men. Hubert, give me the iron, I say, and bind him here, Arthur. Alas, why need you so boisterous rough? I will not struggle, I will stand stone still. For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound. Nay, hear, Hubert, drive these men away, and I will sit as quiet as a lamb. I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, nor look upon the iron angrily. Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you whatever torment you do put me to. Hubert, go stand with him, let me alone with him, first attendant. I am best pleased to be away from such a deed, exaunt, attendance. Arthur, alas, that I have chit away my friend. He hath a stern look but a gentle heart. Let him come back, that his compassion may give life to yours. Hubert, come, boy, prepare yourself. Arthur, is there no remedy? Hubert, none but to lose your eyes. Arthur, oh heaven, that there were but a note in yours, a grain, a dust, a net, a wandering hair, any annoyance in those precious scents, then feeling what small things or boisterous there your vile intent must need seem horrible. Hubert, is this your promise? Go to hold your tongue. Hubert, the entrance of abrasive tongues must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes. Let me not hold my tongue, let me not Hubert, or Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, so I may keep mine eyes. Oh, spare mine eyes, though no use but to still look upon you. Lo, by my trough the innstone is cold, and would not harm me. Hubert, I can heed it, boy. Arthur, no, in good sooth the fire is dead with grief, being create for cold to be used in undeserved extremes. See, else you yourself, there is no malice in this burning cold. The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out, and strewn repentant ashes on his head. Hubert, but with my breath I can revive it, boy. Arthur, and if you do, you will but make it blush and glow with the shame of your proceedings, Hubert. Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes, and, like a dog that is compelled to fight, snatch at its master that doth tear him on, all things that you should use to do be wrong, deny their office. Only you do lack that mercy, which fierce fire and iron extend, creatures of note for mercy lacking uses, Hubert. Well, see to live, I will not touch thine eyes, for all the treasures that thine uncle owes, yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy, with this same very iron to burn them out. Arthur, oh now you look like Hubert, all this while you were disguised. Hubert, peace, no more, adieu. Your uncle must not know, but you are dead. I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports, and, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure, that Hubert, for all the wealth of the world, will not offend thee. Arthur, oh heaven, I thank you, Hubert. The escaped prince next appears in the act fourth, seen third, upon a wall before the castle, and speaks thus. Arthur, the wall is high, and yet I will leap down, good ground, be pitiful, and hurt me not. There is few or none do not know me, and if they did, this ship-boy's semblance hath disguised me quite. I am afraid, and yet I'll venture it. If I get down and do not break my limbs, I'll find a thousand shifts to get away. As good to die and go, as die and stay. He leaps down, and, after the fall, feebly groans out the words, oh me, my uncle's spirit is on these stones. Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones. Die. The wall was sufficiently high to cause a shudder when the prince leaped down. Dread that the child was in reality injured was increased by the pathetic tone in which the last lines were delivered. Pembroke, Salisbury, and Bijoux enter. The body of Arthur is not first perceived. Then Pembroke, bending over the corpse, gives utterance to that exquisite line, oh death made proud with pure and princely beauty. Hubert brings the glad tidings that Arthur is safe, and has shown the boy stark and dead upon the ground. When accused of his murder, he replies, it is but an hour since I left him well. I honored him, I loved him, and weep my date of life out of his sweet life's loss. The child is born in Hubert's arms, and it was not until the clothes of his protracted scene that the anxiety of Tina's parents was relieved, and they found that she had escaped injury. She was so light and supple that, by relaxing her limbs when she fell and making no resistance, she might have dropped from a much more alarming height without receiving a bruise. Her performance of Prince Arthur had made so deep an impression that the papers now began to trumpet her praises. Mr. Upton, whose admiration for the child's dramatic gifts and attraction to her lovable character, had overcome his former sense of professional envy, proposed the production of William Tell and Tina's appearance as Albert. There was a long discussion at the manager's table. Tina could, doubtless, enact Albert and make what the low comedian humorously styled a hard hit and striking hit, but her exceedingly delicate features, her fairy-like proportions, were partially unsuited to the bold, sturdy mountain boy. We expect to see a tall man when Othella is personated, suggested Mr. Upton, but I believe no one remembered Mr. Keane's diminutive stature when he represented the Moor. His genius lifted him up until he looked grander than men of six feet who surrounded him. This argument was conclusive. The play was cast, and Tina commenced studying Albert. The character inspired her with fresh delight. When the appointed night came, Mr. Upton's judgment proved correct. Her vigorous step, the width and decisiveness of her movement, the power of her voice, the rustic boldness of her bearing caused the unsuitableness of her stature to be overlooked. In the same scene, the voice springs down the rocks at the call of Emma, his mother. The replies to her two first queries, though so simple, were spoken in a tone of deep reverence, which the child could not have simulated, had not her heart been so full of unaffected devoutness. Emma, knelt you when you got up today? Albert, I did and do so every day. Emma, I know you do and think you when you kneel to whom you kneel? Albert, I do. Emma, you have been early up when I that played the sluggard in comparison am up full early for the highest peaks alone as yet behold the sun. Now tell me what you ought to think upon when you see the sun so shining on the peak? Albert, that as the peak feels not the pleasant sun, or feels at least so they who have the highest stand in fortune smile are gladdened by at least or not at all? Emma, and what's the profit you should turn this to? Albert, rather to place my good in what I have than to think it worthless wishing to have more, for more is not more happiness so off as less. Emma, I'm glad you husband what you're taught, that is the lesson of content my son, he who finds which has all, who misses nothing. Albert's shooting his desire to emulate his heroic mountaineer his father, his attention to tell's instructions concerning the use of the bow, all these interested the audience, but it was not until the second act when Albert encounters Gessler fainting upon the rock gives him to drink and offers to show him the way to Altorf that the dramatic abilities of the child were tested. Albert, I've lost your way upon the hill, Gessler, I have. Albert, and whither would you go, Gessler, to Altorf. Albert, I'll guide you hither, Gessler, you're a child. Albert, I know the way. The track I've come is far harder to find. Gessler, the track you've come, what means you? Sure you have not been still further in the mountains. Albert, I've traveled from Mount Baragel. Gessler, no one with thee. Albert, no one but God. Gessler, do you not fear these storms? Albert, God's in the storms. Gessler, and there's torrents too that must not be crossed. Albert, God's by the torrent too. Gessler, you're but a child. Albert, God will be with a child. Gessler, you're sure you know the way. Tis but to keep the sight of yonder stream, Gessler. But guide me safe, and I'll give thee gold. Albert, I'll guide thee safe without, Gessler. Here's earnest for thee, offers gold. Here, I'll double that. Yay, treble it, but see me at the gate, to Altorf. Why would you refuse the gold? Take it. Albert, no. Gessler, you shall. Albert, I will not. Gessler, why, Albert? Because I do not covet it. And though I did, it would be wrong to take it at the price of doing one a kindness. Gessler, ha, who taught thee that? Albert, my father. Gessler, does he live in Altorf? Albert, no, in the mountains. Gessler, how? A mountaineer. He should become a tenant of the city. He'd gain by it. Albert, not so much as he might lose by it. Gessler, what might he lose by it? Albert, liberty. Gessler, indeed, he also taught thee that. Albert, he did. Gessler, his name? Albert. This is the way to Altorf, sir. Gessler, I'd know thy father's name. Albert, the day is wasting. We have far to go. Gessler, thy father's name, I say. Albert, I will not tell it thee. Gessler, not tell it to me, why? Albert, you may be an enemy of his. Gessler, may be a friend. Albert, may be, but should you be an enemy, although I would not tell you my father's name, I'd guide you safe to Altorf. Will you follow me? Gessler, there mine thy father's name. What would it profit me to know? Thy hand, we are not enemies. Albert, I never had an enemy. Gessler, lead on. Albert, advance yourself as you descend and fix it well. Come on. Gessler, what must we make that steep? Albert, tis nothing, come. I'll go before, ne'er fear. Come on, come on. Exempt. Gessler and Albert are next seen at the gate of Altorf. Albert, you're at the gate of Altorf. Gessler, terry boy. Albert, I would be back. I'm waited for. Gessler, come back. Who waits for thee? Come, tell me. I'm rich and powerful and can reward. Albert, tis close on evening. I have to go. I'm late. Gessler, stay. I can punish, too. Albert, I might have left you on the hill where I found you fainting and the mist around you, but I stopped and cheered you until to yourself you came again. I offered to guide you, when you could not find the way, and I have brought you to the gate of Altorf. Gessler, boy, do you know me? Albert, no. Gessler, why fear you then to trust me with your father's name? Speak. Albert, why do you desire to know it? Gessler, you have served me, and I would thank him if I chance to pass his dwelling. Albert, twad not please him that service so trifling should be made so much of. Gessler, trifling, you saved my life. Albert, then do not question me, but let me go. Gessler, when I have learned from thee thy father's name, what whole? Sentinel within. Who's there? Gessler, Gessler. Albert, ha, Gessler. The gate is open. Gessler to the soldiers. Seize him. Will thou tell me thy father's name? Albert, no. Gessler, I can bid them cast thee into a dungeon. Will thou tell it to me now? Albert, no. Gessler, I can bid them strangle thee. Will thou tell, tell it? Albert, never. Gessler, away with him. Soldiers, take off Albert through the gate. In the third act, William Tell has been taken prisoner and bought before Gessler. Albert refuses to recognize his father, whose life he fears he may endanger. Tell, also, sentenced by the tyrant to die, will not acknowledge the boy and bids him farewell as though he were the child of another, sending by him a message to his mother. But when Albert is sentenced to death by the inhuman Gessler, the father is overpowered. He yields to conquering nature, embraces his child, confessing that he is a parent. Then Gessler offers him freedom. If he will shoot an apple from his child's head, risking that child's life, or an eye, or mangling of his cheek, his lips, the lips his mother has so often covered with kisses. After a fierce middle struggle, the father consents. The moment for the trial arrives. The arrow is aimed, faithfully sped. The boy is safe. Father and son are free. Albert has not many words to utter during this last thrilling scene, but the variations of the child's eloquent countenance, the spontaneous gesticulations, the by-play, as it is styled in stage parlance, spoke more emphatically than language, filled out the part even more fully and beautifully than it had been contrived by the poet. Tina's graphic delineation of Albert had assisted Mr. Upton in his personation of tell. He was generous enough to admit the fact. The instant that the green curtain had fallen between the actors and the audience, he turned to Susan and said, Ah, you may be well proud of her. She will make the first actress of her day. I never saw anything so true to nature. The call was now deafening all ears. Mr. Tuttle advanced. They are calling you, Mr. Upton. Be so good as to not keep the audience waiting. Miss Trueheart, don't go to your room. They are calling you also. You will go out afterwards. No, said Mr. Upton, warmly. She richly deserves a call. She shall go on with me. A star who is supposed to receive all first honors and never to share them, to propose conducting before the footlights an answer to his own summons, a child, one of the stock company, the prompter's daughter. This was indeed an unprecedented condescension. The tragedian led Tina out. The unusually hearty welcome of the audience implied a recognition of the courteous act. This would have repaid him had he not been more amply compensated by that internal sense of delight that emanates from the consciousness of having performed a generous deed. He found an additional reward in the expression of Robin's countenance as he held back the curtain for them to make their exempt and said in a low feeling tone, I thank you, sir. Very few stars would have done what you have just done. End of Section 13 Section 14 of Mimic Life This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. The Prompter's Daughter by Anna Koromovic. Chapter 5 Operatic melodies were as familiar to Tina's infant ears as the cradle lullaby to those of ordinary children. Susan had always taken part in choruses. She possessed a sweet though not powerful voice and a very accurate ear. Before her child's lisping tongue could prattle fluently, the mother commenced instructing her in one of the most important branches of her profession. Tina was in her seventh year before her musical faculties were discovered in the theater. She was then required to sing in a burlesque. The music apportion to her was a parody upon several popular heirs. The gush of bird-like melody that broke from her lips at rehearsal, the clear, warbled notes took all ears captive and hushed every other sound. Those within listening could not choose but mutely listen. Then her face sang. Her eyes shot out vocal light. Her whole frame penetrated and thrilled through and through with the spirit of melody. The leader of the orchestra was in ecstasy. Need the effect upon the audience at night be related? From that time the new songster caroled nightly to enchanted ears. Mr. Higgins announced to his stage manager that Shakespeare's tempest would be the next attraction presented to the public. Let it not be imagined that this refined selection was an evidence of Mr. Higgins' cultivation and taste. He was merely a judicious caterer for the public amusement. He had the skill of feeling the pulse of his audiences and discovering their requirements of high art, of the true purposes and ennobling objects of the stage. He knew nothing. The theatre was simply his means of gaining a livelihood, his workshop, where dramas to suit his customers were provided and manufactured, where artisans were paid as cheerily as possible for their labour. As for the elevated or debasing tone, the morality or immorality of the plays presented, these were not subjects upon which he wasted a thought. It's so chance that a class of audience who supported his theatre were attracted by unobjectionable plays. Such, therefore, were placed before them, dished up by Mr. Higgins, as a hotel purveyor serves his veons, consulting merely the appetite, not the health of his guest. Had the patrons of his establishment preferred plays of an opposite character, Mr. Higgins, as far as the licensor permitted, could have surfitted them with the most highly seasoned immorality that could have been concocted. The tempest was to be produced from the original text. The reader may not be aware of the existence of a stage version in which hapless Will Shakespeare is unmercifully mutilated. The noble Prospero has a spurious scion grafted onto his stop, and the peerless Miranda is furnished with a sister, an excresience as unresembling herself as goneral is unlike Cordelia. The character of the dainty Ariel, the delicate sprite, belongs, according to stage conventionalities, to the singer of the theatre. That its delineation should be entrusted to a child was a novel idea, yet such was Mr. Higgins' proposal to his stage manager. Tina's great popularity and the spell of her flute-like music induced Mr. Higgins to make this bold experiment, a decided innovation on theatrical usage. Mr. Tuttle, a customer as he was to bow and say aye to every suggestion of superior, now ventured to demer. He urged that the singer of the theatre, Miss Mellon, would probably throw up her engagement. The part belonged to her by right. That could be proved by all precedence. Then the music was difficult. Could Miss Trueheart master it in time? Could she execute it at all? Mr. Tuttle vehemently heaved his objections one upon another, and Mr. Higgins coolly swept them away, as though they had been a child's edifice of cards. He was one of those persons whom opposition always renders inflexible. Cast the piece, sir, with Miss Trueheart as Ariel. I will arrange matters with Miss Mellon if she choose to throw up her engagement so much the better. Miss Trueheart will more than fill her place. One of these days, that child is invaluable to the establishment, and I can foresee what she is destined to become. And Tina was cast for Ariel. The cast of plays is hung in the glass frame in a conspicuous part of the green room. It is the duty of every actor to inspect the cast daily. Concerning its preparation, the members of the company are not consulted by the stage manager. In all well-regulated theaters, however, every actor is entitled to a certain line of business, and cannot be called upon to undertake any character which does not belong to the class for which he is engaged. Great was Susan's wonder and delight when glancing over the cast of the tempest she read Tina's name as Ariel. A rehearsal was called to take place the next day, a way she ran to the stage, in hope that the business of the morning had not yet commenced, and she could communicate the good news to her husband. But the first act had that moment begun. It is an infringement of the rules for any person not engaged in rehearsing to cross the stage, or address the prompter, or in any way interfere with his duty. Susan and Robin had been accustomed to adhere strictly to all regulations, not merely from a dread of seeing their names inscribed in the awful forfeit book, which in its glaring red cover lay threateningly on the stage manager's table, but because obedience was a duty. A strict adherence to duty in trifles rendered easier the fulfillment of duty in manners of importance. Tina was not needed at the theatre that morning, and there was no one near with whom Susan could share her delight. The happy mother could not speed her way home, and gladdened the child with the good intelligence, and bid her commence studying forthwith, for Susan had a small part to rehearse, and could not absent herself. Soon she was summoned to the stage. She delivered her few lines, and had only to play the listener for some time. The temptation became so great that she could not forbear drawing nearer to the prompter than customary, and, catching Robin's eye, she whispered, oh Robin, such good news. Robin looked at her inquiringly, and smiled because she smiled, but he was too strict the disciplinarian to induce her to say any more. At last the rehearsal was over, and Susan could give vent to her pent-up feelings of joy. She caught Robin's arm as he gathered up his books and paper. Robin, have you seen the cast of the Tempest? Tina, our Tina, is cast as Ariel. Is it possible, Ariel? Wife, you are dreaming. It is Miss Mellon's part. It is our Tina's. They have cast it to her. Come, come and see. And she drew him to the green room, where several of the company were examining the cast. One of them read a lull. Prospero, Mr. Oldman. Miranda, Miss Loveless. Ariel, Miss Trueheart. Robin and Susan waited, not to hear the possible comments. It was true, and if Tina was successful in this character, as they felt sure she would be, they might look forward to a glorious future for her. Already they began to build castles in the clouds. They pictured her at the top most pinnacle of her profession, a star released from half the tremors that render the stage an existence of perpetual weariness, trial, mortification to underlings. More they painted her in fancy, independent, rich, bidding adieu to the stage, while she was still in the bloom of womanhood, giving her heart to one who was worthy of a woman's boundless devotion, at whose feet she would gladly cast her laurels down, rejoicing more than she ever rejoiced in wearing them to feel herself fit beside an unambitious hearth to sit domestic queen. Upon this vision the future their minds reveled in a species of mental intoxication, never had their quiet natures been so stirred so elated. When they reached home they could scarcely restrain themselves from confiding to their child all their hopes, but Tina's thoughts were quickly absorbed by the difficulties of the characters. With the perception of an artist she felt the weight of the true artist's responsibilities. A few shelves suspended from the wall held her little library. Five minutes after her parents entered the room she was hunting among her books for the tempest. The rest of the day beheld her seated on a low stool near the window, her head buried in her hands, the open book upon her knees. She was reading and rereading and pondering over Shakespeare's fine poetic creation, and gradually molding a conception in her own mind. As to the language variable, that was memorized almost unconsciously. High cultivation will impart to the memory of an actor a rapidity in receiving impression, which becomes a kind of mental daguerre typing. Tina had no part to enact that evening and could remain at home. Before Susan left for the theater, the child begged her to sing the airs which Ariel executes. Fortunately, Susan was familiar with all of these peculiarly bewitching and fantastic melodies. The next morning before the play was rehearsed, the leader of the orchestra proposed to instruct Miss Trueheart in music. His report to the manager was that she sang with such wonderful fidelity and expression it was a delight to teach her. And what will it be to hear her at night, he added enthusiastically. You see, Mr. Tuttle, said Higgins, with a self-preggradulating air, my judgment has proved somewhat better than yours, sir. Mr. Tuttle very humbly admitted the fact, asserting that it was no wonder for Mr. Higgins' judgment was always better than that of anybody else, and nobody was more willing to admit this superiority than Mr. Tuttle himself. All the theater was in a state of excitement at the expected performance for, in spite of the jealousies which would seem inseparable from the profession, true genius, once recognized, wins an involuntary reverence, envy gives place to a species of characteristic generosity, and actors are magnetically attracted towards an individual whose talent surpasses their own. Even Miss Mellon came to the wing to hear Tina sing at rehearsal, and found no fault except that which was contained in the remark, Shakespeare's aerial was not a child, that's what makes it ridiculous. Aerial was a sprite, a spirit, retorted one of Tina's warm admirers, and I suppose, as none of us ever saw a sprite or a spirit either, it would be difficult to give any authority for its not being impersonated by a wonderfully gifted child. A week elapsed, during which the tempest was rehearsed daily, then came the appointed night for its performance. The fair, fragile child in her gossamer robe looped here and there with sprays of bright seaweed, with her shining, filmy wings, her floating hair interwound with branches of white and scarlet coral, her girdle and bracelets of shells, looked the island's sprite indeed, a being scarce earthly. Robin had not seen her aerial attire, for the piece was one that required the closest attention and task all his powers. The prompter's seat was a sort of nook on the right hand of the stage, close to the audience. It is worth describing. A high desk with a tall stool, on one side five leather pockets marked, letters for first act, for act second, for act third, for act fourth, for act fifth. A sixth pocket with marriage contracts, parchment wills, and various legal documents. Near the desk are fixtures for turning off gas to darken the stage or turning it on to increase the light. A speaking trumpet through which the prompter directs the musicians, a little bell, the wire of which runs upward to the flies, and gives notice to elevate or lower the curtain. A second bell for the descent of golden cars from which mythological personage allied upon the stage, or for lowering of rose-tinted clouds where cupids and other visionary beings make their appearance. Then there is a peephole through which the prompter has a view of the stage and can watch the actors. A second peephole, not legitimate, by means of which he can get a bird's-eye view of the audience. Here set Robin, in the midst of these stage appliances, anxiously waiting until the moment came when Tina, half-bounded, half-guided on the stage, exclaiming to Prospero, All hail, great master, grave sir, hail! I come to answer thy best pleasure, be it to fly, to swim, to dive into fire, to ride on the curl clouds, to thy strong-bidding task, aerial, and all his quality. Her appearance evoked a tremendous burst from the audience, which reverberated loudly and long. It would be useless to attempt to describe the quaint, original, inimitable acting. After the scene with Prospero, aerial next appears, luring in Ferdinand, to whose eyes the spirit is supposed to be invisible. Aerial is playing on a lyre-like instrument and sings. Come into the yellow sands and then take hands, curtsy twin you have kissed, the wild waves twist. Foot it beately here and there, and sweet sprites the burden bear. Burden, hark, hark, val val, the watchdogs bark. Hark, hark, I hear the strain of threading, chanticlear, cri-caca-doodle-doo. The very first notes, ringing with silvery clearness from her lips, brought the actor from the green room to cluster around the wings. At the close of the air, not a few of their hands spontaneous joined in ratchrous applause of the audience. As the melody ceases, Ferdinand says in a tone of wonder, Where would this music be? In the air, in the earth. It sounds no more, and sure it waits upon some god of the island, sitting on a bank, weeping again the king, my father's wreck. This music crept by me on the waters, allaying both their fury and my passion with its sweet air. Hence I have followed it, or hath it drawn me, rather, but has gone. No, it begins again, Ariel sings. Full fathom five thy father lies, Of his bones are coral made, Those pearls that wear his eyes, nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea change, into something rich and strange. Seen in its hourly ring his knell, hark I hear them ding dong del. Ferdinand, ding dong del. We cannot follow the performance step by step, but hasten to the more important clothes. It is usual for Ariel to appear flying across the stage. This flying process is generally performed by a double, costumed closely to resemble the true Ariel. It would have been difficult to have found a child that so nearly resembled Tina, as to deceive the audience, and to destroy an illusion, is to rob any play, especially one highly poetical, of a powerful charm. It was therefore arranged that she should execute the feat herself, but not until the close of the fifth act, when Prospero gives Ariel his liberty. To produce the appearance of flying, wires invisible to the spectators are attached by means of hooks, and a strong band to the shoulders and waist of Ariel. The child first mounts a high platform on the right of the stage behind the scenes, by aid of pulleys she along the wires, but apparently floated through the air. In this manner she transverses the whole length of the stage. As she passes out of sight of the audience on the left hand, the wires are gently lowered until her feet touch the ground. The sensation experiences singular and rather terrifying, but the child of genius was too much absorbed in her part to be susceptible to fear. The fifth act commenced. Tina had thrown around the audience her most potent spells singing, where the bee sucks their suck eye, in a cow slips bell I lie, there I couch when owls do cry, on the bats back I do fly, after summer merrily, merrily, merrily shall live I, under the blossom that hangs on the bow. Twice more Ariel appears for a few more moments, once the master and boatswain amazingly follow, then driving in Caliban, Stefano, and Trinculo. The faithful sprite then receives the promised boon of liberty from Prospero. There is a slight transposition of the original passages to give the performer a few moments to prepare for her Ariel traveling. The time allowed is very short. After her exit, Tina bounded up the ladder closely followed by her watchful mother. Susan had never felt prouder, more exulting, more hopeful in her life, alas for such moments in the human heart. Mr. Gilder's sleep was standing on the platform. He carefully adjusted the wires to Tina's waist and shoulders and tested their strength. Then gave a signal to the carpenters above. The pulleys were drawn. Ariel appeared before the audience in mid-air. The waving of those graceful arms, moving the light wings, while the ransom spirit smiled farewell to the group upon the stage. How the people cheered! Many rose in their seats and leaned forward. The illusion was so perfect it seemed as though she must be winging her flight through the atmosphere without support. The floating form was almost out of sight when suddenly it stopped. The arms were still waving. The light wings responded, but the figure remained immovable. The wires, in some explicable manner, had become entangled. The pulleys refused to work. The child haven't guard her. She was suspended immediately over one of the sidelights used to illumine the back portion of the stage. A heart-rending shriek that pierced every ear burst from Susan's lip and gave the first announcement of impending danger. Regardless of the audience, she dashed frantically across the stage, crying, Cut the wires! My child, my child! She will be burned to death! Beneath the spot where hung the child, she fell upon her knees, blinging up her despairing arms and uttered cry after cry which broke out from the very depths of her tortured soul. All was confusion. Numbers of the audience leaped upon the stage, which was now throng with actors. The carpenters, apparently paralyzed with fear, vainly strove to make the pulleys do their duty. Mr. Higgins ran from the boxkeeper's office, exclaiming, Save her! That child is the most valuable person in my establishment. A reward for the man that saves her. Save her for my sake! Save her! Not for the poor child's sake, not for the sake of her agonized parents, but because she was of value to him, sordid man offered a reward that her life might be saved, as if humanity contained a monster that could save her for a reward who could have saved her and did without. Thus far, Tina, with wonderful heroism, had remained in a state of stony quieted, though perfectly conscious of her danger, but now the intense pain of her scorching feet every moment increasing drew from her the most piteous wails. And where was Robin, the only person present who retained anything like presence of mine? He had rushed down to the property room, snatched a hatchet, seized the ladder on the right of the stage, dashed down the platform which it supported, and, with strength imparted by terror, the usually feeble cripple was seen bearing the heavy ladder across the stage as powerfully as though it were held in a titanic grasp. He placed it beside his child, mounted as lightning flashes, severed the wires with strong blows of the hatchet, and caught the child in his arms just as her gauzy rainment became one sheet of flame. Fortunately he had not loosed from his neck the cloak which he always wore at night, to protect him against the drafts that whistled around his exposed seat. The child was quickly enveloped in the ample foals and the flames extinguished. There was a physician among the crowds of people who, in the hope of rendering assistance, had gathered upon the stage. Accompanied by him, Tina was born to the green room, but, oh, what a spectacle for her mother's eyes. Her tiny silver slippers were literally burned from her feet, and a large portion of the silk stockinette which encased her limbs was also consumed how the flames had fed on her delicate flesh. Excruciating were the little girl's sufferings while the stockinette was gradually removed, yet less terrible than those of her parents. Susan would not yield up her child to other hands, though her own shook violently as they performed the trying offices. Tina, ever thoughtful of her mother, in spite of the torturing pain, uttered not a single cry, and only now and then an irresistible moan escaped her lips. The oil with which the burns were immediately bathed produced a soothing effect, and her mangled limbs were now covered with raw cotton, and tenderly bound up. She lay upon a small sofa, from which it was found impossible to remove her without danger. Dr. Weldon ordered her to remain undisturbed that night, with what altered feelings Susan and Robin sat down to watch beside her. Their exulting pride had suddenly been changed almost to despair, yet were their hearts full of thankfulness that their child's life had been spared. But the shock to her constitution must be so great, those burns were so terrible, might she not yet die? Neither dared ask that question, but it shone in the eyes of both, when they looked into each other's faces for comfort. After pity, curiosity, and interest had all been satisfied, the green room was gradually deserted, saved by Susan and Robin. They sat together, hand clasped in hand, the whole of that long fearful night, watching their child. An opiate had caused a half-sleep, but the pain did not seem wholly lulled. She lay with her eyes partially open, for their shining blue glittered through the long lashes. Her breath was labored, and now and then she flung her arms from side to side, and feebly groaned. The kind physician returned soon after daylight, and ordered the little sufferer to be carried upon the sofa to her home. Mr. Gouldersleith, of the Carpenters, who had remained in the theater all night, would have borne her, but the poor hunchback insisted that he himself must aid. Tina was covered with shawls, the father took the head of the couch, and the sympathizing property-man, the foot, and they set out. Susan walked by the side of her child. The carpenter followed, for he well knew that Robin's strength would give way. It was too early in the morning to meet any but a few stragglers, and these paused in surprise and pity, and some asked questions of the carpenter. One woman said to another as they passed. That's the poor lamb, who was nearly burned to death last night. She looks as wide as if she were dying now. What words for the mother's ears! Robin heard them also, they curdled his blood, and took from his limbs their remaining strength. Set her down, Gouldersleith. I can't take another step. They sat down the sofa. Tina was now quite conscious. The fresh morning air had revived her. She opened her eyes and said in a faint tone, I am better, father. I'm so glad you're taking me home. The carpenter now occupied Robin's place, and Robin walked beside Susan, who sorely needed his support. As she clung to his arm, she whispered. That woman said she was so white that— But she's always white, Robin dear. You know she's so fair. She's not whiter than usual, is she? In a few moments they were at the door of their humble lodgings. The sofa was carried up the narrow stair with some difficulty, and at last the prompter's family was once more in their own neat but poverty-betoking room. Tina uttered no groan as her father lifted her up and laid her tenderly on her bed. Though every movement rendered her sufferings more acute. Ah, my birdie, my birdie, this is a terrible blow to fulfill you, said the anguished parent. Father, she whispered, did you not tell me that Gould comes out of every affliction which we bear patiently? I mean to be patient, oh so patient, if you and mother will help me. We will help you, my own birdie. We will all be patient, and the Lord will not take thee, our only treasure away from us. No, he will not. Not, not unless it be for your best good and for mine, father, replied the child. The poor prompter bowed his head. They were his own teachings. How could he rebel? End of Section 14. Section 15 of Mimic Life This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. THE PROMPTER'S DAUGHTER BY ANNA CORRA MAWIT CHAPTER VI When Dr. Weldon visited Robin Truhart's humble lodgings that day, he found Tina in heavy sleep. But her sharp, quick breathing, the crimson spot on either cheek, betokened the presence of a high fever. The doctor's whispered inquiries and his light touch upon her throbbing pulse aroused her. She opened wide her large eyes, now shining with unusual lustre. But they looked vacantly around. Her mother bent tenderly over her, but no answer came to her anxious questions. Then suddenly the child raised herself up on her pillow and broke out in song. The liquid notes rang through the chamber as she warbled. Where the bee sucks, there suck I. In the cow slips bell, I lie. Susan no longer wept or trembled. Her bending, reed-like nature rose up strong and firm under the heavy pressure of this trial. Her tears were petrified by the greatness of her affliction. With unfaltering step she followed the physician from the chamber. Doctor, will she live? Will my child live? was all she said, and the words were uttered in a calm tone. I trust so was his evasive answer. The mother's fear, quickened perception construed the reply arrived. At that moment the child's voice again struck on her ear. Under the blossom that hangs on the bow, that hangs on the bow, that hangs on the bow, sang Tina. The day before Susan would have thought it impossible that she could shudder at the sound of that delicious melody. She returned to the bedside of the child, who now sank back, oppressed with sleep, now started up murmuring snatches of aerial song. Ding dong del, ding dong del! She repeated that burden, the nail sang by the sea nymphs over and over, until Susan at last felt as though the whole universe was filled with that one haunting sound, that melodious nail. She heard it when the child's lips were mute. Night and day it echoed in her ears and drowned all other tones. The accident occurred on Monday, and through the long week Robin had to fulfill his duties at the theatre as usual. Susan kept sleepless vigils beside the couch of the child. Her engagement was, of course, relinquished. With it her salary and Tina's. It was Mr. Higgins' rule not to pay salaries to actors who were indisposed or disabled. If he were to do that, he argued, his company would always be dangerously ill. He would keep a hospital, not a theatre. It was true that Tina had so won her way in some accessible corner of his cold heart that he experienced a strong desire to make her a solitary exception to this stern law. It's not without a secret pang that he decided against an act of liberality, as injurious to his theatrical discipline, but he quieted his conscious by sending the mother a message of condolence, accompanied by a guinea. With this diminution of their weekly salary and the great increase of expenses consequent on Tina's illness, the situation of the true hearts would have been one of fearful privation, but for the beneficence of strangers who were interested in the child's public career, not a few noble ladies dispatched their maids or footmen to rob and true hearts dwelling with messages of sympathy, money, dainties for the sick, fine linen for the dressing of the little girl's burns, etc., etc. One thoughtful lady furnished Tina with a small, elastic bed, a special comfort to the suffering child. Tina had been accustomed to share the couch of her parents, and so great was their fear of disturbing her that until this welcome gift arrived, neither father nor mother, since the night of that fatal accident, had lain down. A few benevolent ladies, not content with entrusting the mission of charity to their domestics, called themselves, but these visits were attacks upon Susan's patience, rather than a consolation to her. It distressed her to answer the numerous queries of curiosity or kindness. She needed all her thoughts, all her time for her child. The members of the company were not behind hand in their warmly tendered sympathy, their proffers of assistance in ministering to the youthful patient. But Susan would not allow anyone to share her maternal duties. She could not bear her child to receive a cup of water from the hand of another. In a few days the fever abated, and Tina's consciousness returned. Though she was too feeble to speak, the grateful smile which repaid an office of love brought sunshine back to the mother's heart. Meantime Miss Armory learned from the public journals that her favorite pupil's life had been in danger. At first she hesitated about visiting the lodgings of a poor actress, one of that class she had been taught to condemn. But true charity conquered the scruples of an unworthy prejudice. As she opened the door of the little apartment, Tina uttered an exclamation of delight and stretched out her arms towards the young perceptress. Oh, I knew you would come, she feebly murmured. Miss Lucy, that is my dear mother, and she added in a whisper her eyes filling with tears as she recalled the scene at the Sunday School. She's not shocking, but good, heavenly good. Miss Armory greeted Susan cordially, and told her that she had come to assist in tending the beloved little invalid. Susan could not decline her services, for she knew that they would be a welcome to the child, but a jealous pang shot through her heart. You look very much worn out, Miss True Heart, remarked the young girl, in a tone of sympathy. Do not think of me, answered Susan. Now that I dare hope that my child will recover, I shall have all the strength that I need. From that time Miss Armory came daily, spent many hours with her former pupil. The kind-hearted girl read to her, conversed with her, amused her. Susan set silently by. It was not easy for her to talk to strangers at any time, but now she shrank more than ever within herself. She remembered Miss Armory's prejudices against the stage, but had not sufficient strength of character to enable her to combat them. In the most distant corner of the room, half concealed by a friendly window-carton, set the mother, hiding her emotions when she found her place occupied by another. Through those long daily visits she chid her own heart for its discontent, and repeated internally over and over again, my child is happier when Miss Lucy comes. What matter for me? At the end of a month Tina was pronounced out of danger, but it was obvious that some time must elapse before she could resume her profession. The liberal donations now ceased. Those formerly received had been expended. Robin's family had only his small salary to depend upon. This could not meet the weekly outlay. Susan found herself unable to purchase the expensive medicines ordered by the physician. From that moment she said mentally, I must work again. Oh, what a heavy heart I shall carry to the theatre! But I must work that my little one may not want. Mrs. Gilder's leaf offered to watch beside Tina during her mother's absence. The good landlady's presence was seldom needed, for Miss Armory came regularly at the hour for rehearsal, and remained until Susan's return. In the evening, before the latter left for the theatre, Miss Lucy was again at her post. The first morning that Susan re-entered the theatre, when she stood upon the stage and cast her eyes up to the spot where Tina had been suspended almost in the embrace of death, her blood suddenly congealed, her pulses ceased to be, and the place swam and then grew dark, she tried to take a step towards Robin but fell senseless to the ground. She had fainted for the first time in her life. When consciousness returned she find herself lying on the green room sofa, the same sofa on which Tina had been conveyed to her lodgings. Robin supported her head, and a crowd of actors and actresses were kindly ministering to her. Ah, Sue, I felt just the same when I looked up to that fatal place. But cheer up, wife, for our birdie is spared to us, whispered her husband. And Susan was comforted, and in a short time declared herself able to return to the stage. Robin seated her on a chair by one of the wings and returned to his station at the prompter's table. Inadvertently he had chosen the very spot where she had sat and watched the rehearsal of Pizarro when Tina had first enacted Cora's Child. How well she remembered that day and her own terror at the comparatively slight peril in which her child was then placed. She thanked heaven that the veil of the future had not been lifted, and no presage of a more terrible evil had entered her soul. The call-boy's summons aroused her from her reverie and, with a slow, staggering step, she walked through her trifling part. Another month passed, and still another, and at the end of a third month Tina once more breathed fresh air and beheld the blue sky. At her young teacher's invitation she was conveyed in an easy carriage to queue gardens. Little knew the poor child-actress of the wondrous beauties of nature. She had never dreamed of such a paradise as these gardens revealed to her. The memorable mammoth grapevine, the extensive conservatories, the picturesque shrubberies, the magnificent old trees, the provision of gorgeous flowers—all these were a marvel. The flowers to which her young eyes had been too well accustomed were fabricated of bright tissue paper or colored cambrick. The cut woods were manufactured of canvas, bedobbed with impossible trees. The stage groves and gardens she had nightly moved among were things of paint and glare and godliness. She saluted nature with burst of joyous greeting, a loving recognition, though nature had heretofore been known only through rudely painted image. The child almost flew about, drinking in the balmy air, basking in the sunshine, kissing the flowers, which she was not permitted to pluck, now lifting up her arms and sweet face in mute wonder, her ecstasy now gushing forth in song. Her long-lost buoyancy of spirit, for the moment restored, vented itself in music. It was only a short period since she had been able to walk again, and generally the effort of taking a few steps caused her pain. But she was conscious of neither weakness nor suffering, as she darted about over the lawn, until the butter cups had showered her feet with yellow dust, and she bade Miss Armory look at the golden slippers the flowers had given her. At last she grew weary from the unwanted exercise and lay down, with her head resting on Miss Lucy's lap, beneath the shade of a branching oak, catching glimpses of the sky through the wind-shaken foliage, and singing without pause, singing as birds sing, from that gleefulness within which turns to melody. After they had passed several hours in this manner, the young Sunday school teacher warned her companion that it was time to return. But Tina could not tear herself away from this newly found Elysium. She pleaded for a few more moments, and still a few moments more, until the trees began to cast long shadows, and the rosy light grew gray, and the perfumed air became slightly chilly. Then she was reluctantly conducted back to the carriage. Her exuberant spirit sustained her a while, the excitement lasted, but her reaction succeeded its removal. That night the fever returned with increased violence. No words of blame were uttered by Tina's parents, but Miss Armory could not forgive her own unconscious imprudence. Her attention, her devotions, were redoubled. She was now seldom absent from the child's couch. She literally spent her days at Robin Trueheart's lodgings. In a few weeks the young sufferer rallied. Those beautiful gardens were forever a haunting memory stored up in her mind, but she did not ask to see them again. She seemed to be aware that her joy had not been temperate. She had been intoxicated by the exhilarating air, the pastoral sights and sounds. She had reveled in them until the golden rule of moderation was forgotten. I must not run any more risk or ask for any more indulgences. I must get well and go to work again, she would often say. How ill my poor mother looks if I could only work and let her rest! The anxiety of the last few months had wrought an alarming change in Susan. Cheeks were daily growing more hollow, her weary eyes were deeply sunken, and circled with dark rings. Her form, always slight, was becoming emaciated, and its watchful eyes saw the sad transition, and there was a mysterious admonition in his heart, a foreboding of ill which he could not stifle. He marked how wearily she went through her allotted duties, to what a faint key her voice had sunk, how uncertain her steps had become. She never complained, and to his tender inquiries always answered that she was well. She did not suffer, she was very happy. Was not her child recovering? She was so blessed in all things that she asked of her Heavenly Father no added blessings. She only prayed to become worthier of receiving those she enjoyed. Robin gazed upon her earnestly. Her cheek was so very pale, her eyes so dim. Her whole mean, pervaded by such an air of languor, that he could not help saying, Then you are not suffering or grieving, Sue? You would not hide it from me, if you were. Hide it? No, Robin. I have never concealed anything from you in my life. And it was true. Within her guileless heart there were no secret chambers, no curtain depths, which veiled the innermost sanctuary from her husband's eyes. Unlike, as were these twain in all external appearances, there was a similitude of soul which daily joined them more and more closely together. The silver links of perfect sympathy had never been broken or even jarred. The eyes of both were fixed on the same goal. The feet of both walked in the same path. All their thoughts were in unison. Their faith was planted on the same rock. Their knees bowed to the same God. Theirs was the union of two minds whose strong affinity drew them into one. Not that their love was a dull, unvarying stream gliding and smooth monotony. It passed through soft gradations into love's different seasons, every one more perfect than the other, seasons that are exquisitely described by one of our country's minstrels in these lines. The springtime of love is both happy and gay, for joy sprinkles blossoms and balm in our way. The sky, earth, and ocean in beauty repose, and all the bright future is coulure d'arose. The summer of love is the bloom of the heart when hill, grove, and valley, their music in part, and the pure glow of heaven is seen in fond eyes, and lakes show the rainbow that's hung in the skies. The autumn of love is the season of cheer, life's mild Indian summer, the smile of the gear, which comes when the golden ripe harvest is stored and yields its own blessing, repose, and reward. The winter of love is the beam that we win while the storm scowls without from the sunshine within. Love's rain is eternal, the heart is his throne, and he has all seasons of life for his own. G. P. Morris. End of section 15.