 Section 19 of Mimic Life. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Kelly Taylor. The Unknown Tragedian by Anna Cora Mowat Ritchie. Chapter 3. In genius and reckless by nature, Lord Orenmore made no concealment of his feelings and intentions. That evening he gave Edmonton an animated account of his second interview with Elma. They were sitting in a theater at the time. The play represented was Sheridan Knoll's Tragedy of the Wife. Elma was to make her first appearance since the death of her mother. Edmonton's attention seemed riveted upon the performance. But when Lord Orenmore repeated Elma's declaration that her hand was promised, his friend gave a violent start. Amazement! What else could it be? Lent to the eyes which he fixed upon the speaker a strange lurid glare. The words, not possible, issued involuntarily from his ashy lips. She told me herself, said Lord Orenmore. But that does not alter my resolve. It has only given them a new impetus. A woman worth wearing is worth pursuing, notwithstanding this prior engagement I believe in my ultimate success. Edmonton was, again, to all appearance engrossed in the play. For the rest of the evening Lord Orenmore found it impossible to conquer his companion's taciturnity. On the morrow, the young Lord, with characteristic frankness, we might say daring, made known his matrimonial intentions to his stately father. The astonishment and wrath of the latter could hardly exceed his son's anticipations. An angry discussion ended as arguments between the enraged parents and self-willed sons generally conclude. The father threatened to disinherit him as far as possible. An entitled estate limited the paternal power. The son intimated his willingness to accept this penalty as the price of following his own inclinations. Lord Orenmore looked upon Elma's rejection of his son as one of the coquettish wiles by which she proposed more firmly to ensnare him. At first the indignant nobleman was strongly tempted to call upon her himself. Then he reflected that his chaplain would be a more suitable person. This gracious, aged man, a benign and charity-loving Christian, invents great reluctance to undertake the mission. In vain he protested that he was not qualified to act in such matters. The excited father would receive no denial. Mr. Edmonton must paint to the young girl the discord and misery which would be brought into the family by her forced admission. Must obtain from her a promise that she would decline all further communication with Lord Orenmore. Elma was at rehearsal when the unwilling ambassador called at her father's house. The clergyman announced his intention of waiting and was ushered into the drawing-room. Elma, when she entered, was not aware that the apartment was occupied. She stood directly in front of the venerable man, who had ample time to scan her person before she was conscious of his presence. He rose and mentioned his name. What a flood of radiance seemed poured from her face and shown from her eyes a thousand dewy rays. There was not a trace of the usual cold reserve in her greeting as she seated herself with unsuspicious confidence by his side. Her dignified simplicity and quiet grace made a deep impression upon her guest. This visit no doubt surprises you, Miss Ruthwin, and yet some of your friends, I believe, now and then exchange our fireside for yours. Yes, Lord Orenmore has been quite a frequent visitor and also your son, Mr. Edmonton. My son! Yes, I believe I have heard him say so, but I was not thinking of him. Not thinking of him? Elma echoed the words internally with painful surprise. What, then, was the object of her father's visit? The dancing, sparkling life that illumined her countenance grew dimmer and dimmer as she mused, and then were wholly extinguished. Her revering guest noticed that without comprehending the change. After an embarrassing pause with much delicacy he disclosed his errand. To the father of Lord Orenmore, to any one in the world save the man who set beside her, Elma would have replied haughtily, but there was a subdued sorrow in her tone which hardly accorded with the language of her reply. His lordship has nothing to fear from me. In regard to Lord Orenmore I would not unite my fate to his were his father and all his kin humbly to sue me. I have never even entertained a passing preference for him. I believe you, my dear young lady, there is an air of truth about you which no one could doubt. My report will wholly calm the fears of Lord Orenmore, for I see you are not a woman who could be guilty of trifling. He did you wrong in supposing that your rejection of his son was a coquettish lure to enslave him. Great wrong! I am as proud as his lordship, though perhaps in a different way. Mr Edmonton gladly dropped the subject. Though his mission was accomplished, he experienced a strong inclination to extend his visit. He introduced other topics and Elma conversed freely. He found how richly her mind was stored, how nobly her actions were guided, and wondered not at Lord Orenmore's infatuation, or only marvel that the harebrained youth had planted his hitherto fluctuating affections upon so worthy a foundation. At Link the clergyman rose to depart. He laid a hand tenderly on the head of the young girl, with a further, God bless you, my child. Elma knew not that the face she raised to his beamed with reverential affection. The old man pondered for some time afterwards on that involuntary look. It gave his imagination the rain. When Elma informed her father of Mr Edmonton's visit, she also communicated to him Lord Orenmore's offer, made on the day previous and her rejection. Mr Ruthman would have been indignant at the messengers sent to his child by the imperious nobleman had he not experienced a proud satisfaction in Elma's decisive refusal. He was flattered that a man of illustrious birth had rivaled for his daughter, but he would not have allowed her to enter a noble family. That would be to separate her from himself to holy loser. No. He greatly preferred to behold her the wife of an eminent actor, above all others, of Gerald Mortimer. He told her this in emphatic language. Elma replied, It is my chief happiness to please you, my father, but let us not talk of marriage. That I should marry yet is not an inevitable necessity. Let us put off all thoughts of it at present. I did not mean to urge you or to hurry you, my child. It would be a joy to have Mortimer always with us. We are so sad and lonely since your mother went, and Mortimer's presence is always exciting, inspiring. I need a son's aid. No, we won't urge you, but the sooner the day comes, the better. And no doubt so Mortimer thinks. He has been gone three weeks, and now he writes to us praise me that he will be in Dublin next Monday, and will commence an engagement. Here is a note enclosed for you. Elma had perhaps been overcome by her interview with Miss Edmonton. For her head swam. She grasped the chair for support and tottered rather than walked to the window. Her father threw it open. You are not as strong as you were. Your mother's death has broken down both of us. Lean out. The air will revive you. But you have not taken Mortimer's note. There should be a restorative in that. Break the seal at once. I will leave you to enjoy the contents uninterrupted. Though her father left the room, Elma set in pensive meditation, with the note lying unheeded on her lap. At last she glanced over the brief lines and laid them aside with a deep sigh. After that she went steadily on her way as before, ever hoping that the patient discharge of her daily duties would bring repose to her troubled mind. She was passing through a valley of shadows, groping in darkness for a season, but she never doubted that light shone in the unseen distance to fulfill the task that heaven assigned her was to attract its rays to her obscured pathway. If all were ours unearned, what need of action, if God no problem set for our unfolding, where were the joy, the power, the satisfaction, of toil and faith and prayer, our spirits molding? Lord Orinmore sought Elma again, but was denied admission to her presence. He appealed to Mr. Ruthfyn and learned that his daughter was Afianz to Mortimer. The nobleman was not discomfited. He could not place his suit on an equality with that of an actor. He remained confident that Elma might be one. A storm delayed the arrival of the steamer on the morning that Mortimer was to reach the Irish shores. It was near midday before the passengers disembarked at Kingston and entered the railway carriages that conveyed them to Dublin. The play for that evening was Giuseppus, the youthful production of Gerald Griffin, a highly gifted Irish novelist who, in spite of the allurements of a brilliant literary career, grew weary of the world and entered a monastery in Cork. There he died at the age of thirty-five in the second year of his novitiate. Giuseppus was one of Mortimer's most wonderful delineations. Rehearsal had been called at a much later hour than ordinary, in anticipation of the tragedian's delay on the channel. He was, however, so regardless of stage observances that his presence at the theatre in the morning was scarcely expected. It was an agreeable surprise to the manager when Mortimer, soon after the rehearsal commenced, walked upon the stage. He was warmly welcomed by the whole company. Perhaps we ought to accept Alma, but she was never demonstrative. Mortimer was a rare instance of dramatic favourite enthusiastically beloved by players themselves. His manner was wholly free from the overbearing tyranny which tragic heroes are accustomed to assume towards their inferiors. He treated the subordinates of the theatre with manly courtesy and acknowledging remembrance that the feelings of the humblest were entitled to some consideration. It was singular that, while he totally disregarded the clamourous approval of the audience, an unstudied expression of delight falling from the lips of a bearer of banners or a general utility imparted a thrill of pleasure. He often declared that actors were the only judges of acting, the only true critics. The penigerics which the journals teamed, he never read. He scorned the quirks of blazing pins which, to display the critics own wisdom, manufactured beauties or shaped faults that are not at random. Mortimer dispensed charities with lavish hand. It was currently reported that the enormous proceeds of his nightly exertions were distributed among the suffering members of the profession. He had freed many from the galling bondage of the stage and established them in more congenial employment. Did space permit? We might relate not a few touching histories of the objects of his bounty. Upon this day in particular, he listened with ready ear to tales of grief and want and brightened the dim eyes of poverty with the reflected glitter of gold. He was happy and true happiness yearns to share its joyful throbs with others, to double, treble them by that communion. Mortimer's manner was unusually buoyant during rehearsal. At its conclusion, he accompanied Mr. Ruthfen and his daughter to their home. Elma had some needful preparations to make for the evening and absented to herself for a short time. Left alone with Mortimer, Mr. Ruthfen, with paternal pride, made known the flattering addresses of Lord Oralmore and Elma's rejection of his hand. Every word struck on Mortimer's ears as the poisonous dart of serpent tongues. He called to mind the last night that he stood upon the stage with Elma, the direction of her eyes when the bouquets were placed in her hands. They had turned to the stage box where Lord Oralmore sat. Heart-searing, crushing, was the conviction that took strong possession of his mind. Elma loved this frivolous, sycophantic young nobleman. Yes, it must be so. Her trough to Mortimer had compelled her to refuse this lordly suitor. She loved him, and Mortimer must yield her up. Lord Oralmore would snatch her from the throne before which he had knelt with the worshipping crowd, which stripped from her brow its crown, from her hand its scepter, to discover that with them she had lost the charms of which he was enamored. He would transplant her to a petty conventional sphere of fashionable frivolities where she must play a cold and narrow part upon a stage where there is more acting than in a playhouse, how terrible would be her fate. Mortimer dwelt more upon her probable misery than upon his certain wretchedness, for love seeks the felicity of the object-belove, rather than its own joy. From the heart where it dwells in pristine purity the demon's selfishness is wholly cast out. Elma had no cause to re-enter the room so timidly she needed not to fear being left alone with her lover, nor to dread an outpouring of his passionate devotion. Mr. Ruthven considerably withdrew. Elma bent over her embroidery, counting the stitches with as much earnestness as though there were no more interesting occupation in life. Mortimer watched her for a short time in silence. When he spoke it was upon indifferent subjects. Very soon he abruptly took his leave. Elma did not see him again until they met at night upon the stage. She represented Sophronia, the Athenian maiden betrothed to Giuseppus, who secretly loves Fluvius. On the very morning of their bridal a doubt of Sophronia's affection springs up in the mind of noble Giuseppus. His magnanimity of soul points out but one course. He will learn the truth and return to Sophronia her freedom, if he discover that she is about to place in his an unwilling hand. Giuseppus thus addresses her. Lay your heart before me, hid as it appears to your own thoughts, with all its aspirations. You may find that I can act as worthy and as free, apart as if I ne'er had stooped so low to win the love that hath at last deceived me. For though my heart doth witness, I do prize that love beyond the life blood that flows through it. I would not weigh it against your happiness. The throbbing of one pulse. Never leave it, trust me, Sophronia. You are too noble, Giuseppus. No, no. Do not think that, Sophronia, nor let your generous fear to wound a heart too sensitive affect your confidence. The rigid schools in which my youth was formed have taught my soul the virtue that consists in mastering all its selfish impulses. And could I bring content into your bosom and bid that care that pines your delicate cheek and pales its hue of bloom? Fit paradise for the revelry of smiles, resigns his throne there. My heart without a pain could lose you, aside. How it burns while I belie it, Sophronia. I have heard you with wonder that forbids my gratitude. How have you humbled me? Oh, Giuseppus, I would not deceive you yet. For you shall find, although I cannot practice, yet I know what greatness is, and can respect it truly. I would requite your generosity, and what I can, I will. Do not distrust me from any seeming. I have plight my promise, and it shall be fulfilled. Giuseppus, my fears were just then, Sophronas. Let them be banished now, my noble monitor. When I shall make advantage of your goodness, virtue forswear me. You have waked my heart to duty and to honor. They shall find an earnest votary in it. The audience might have deemed it excellent dissembling, but there was no acting in the deep intensity with which these passages were delivered. The confidence of Giuseppus is restored, and he departs to hasten preparations for his nuptials. Fluvious enters and upraids Sophronia. Giuseppus unexpectedly returns and hears their converse, Sophronia. Pray you, Fluvious, resolve me this, Fluvious. What is it you ask? Sophronia. Sophronia suppose. I do but dream now while I speak of this. But say that it were possible our loves might yet be favored. Fluvious. Ha! Sophronia. Beware, young Roman. I speak this as a dreamer, but suppose, Giuseppus, you know is worthy and loves you as a friend. Fluvious. Alas, I prove that, but ill-requited him. Sophronia. I pray you, hear me. Suppose your friend should give me back the promise that I applied it almost unwillingly, and leave me free to make my own election wrong or dishonor set apart. Fluvious. I hear you. Sophronia. How would my freedom move you? Fluvious, rapturously. As my life restored beneath the lifted axe. Sophronia. We should rejoice then. Fluvious. We should pale the front. The afric front of night with rebel lights and tire her echoes with our laughter. Sophronia. I. And Giuseppus would laugh too. Fluvious. Ha! Sophronia. He'd be the loudest raveler among us. I. We should be framed in the story too. The best, the truest friends, self-sacrifices. Oh, our monuments should be in the memories of every virtuous breast while Giuseppus might find his own dark tomb and die forgotten. By this dialogue the noble Athenian learns that his afiance bride weds him from a sense of honor, though her affections in spite of herself belong to another. Giuseppus suddenly comes forward and confronts the lovers. They are overwhelmed with confusion, but he, with glorious self-abnegation, resigns Sophronia and bestows her upon the chosen of her heart. Mortimer's eyes had sought the stage-box as he spoke. Lord Orinmore and Leonard Edmonton sat in their customary seats, the former bending forward with eager interest. The anguish and despair of the Tragedian became all quiescent and burst forth in a wild strain of improvised eloquence. He called down the most appalling maledictions upon the one for whom he yielded up his heart's best treasure. If sorrow ever crushed her spirit or tears scolded her furlough's cheeks and ended with a prayer for her whose will he had shipwrecked all his hopes to secure. Actors and audience were alike taken by storm. Never had his magical sway over their emotions been so entire, the theater rose en masse with waving hats and handkerchiefs and a whirlwind of acclamations. Elma stood petrified. A calmness as sudden as his violence now sank upon Mortimer's perturbed spirit. He returned to the language of the author. But even through that colder channel his agony found vent. Fluvius and Sophronia depart together, but Giuseppus alone cries out in sorrow's last extremity. Gone, alone, how my head whirls in my limbs shake and totter as if I had done a crime I have. I have lied against my heart. What think ye now, wise world, how shows this action in your eyes? My sight is thick and misty, and my ears are filled with sounds of hooting and scorn. What should I fear? I will meet scorn with scorn. It is an inglorious deed that I have done. I will maintain it against the wide world's slight, and the upgrading of my own wracked heart. Oh, there I am conquered. He sinks despondingly upon a rude bench, lifts from his brow the natural garland, and drops it at his feet. The remaining acts of the play were unmarked by any extraordinary incident. As Mortimer passed out of the theater he had to force his way through a dense crowd of men, women, and children assembled around the stage door. Men who cheered, children who clung to his garments, women who held up their infants begging that he would bestow one look upon the poor creatures just for good luck's sake. His hands were seized and kissed repeatedly, and it was with some difficulty that he could disengage them. When they were free he drew a handful of silver from his pockets and scattered it among the crowd. As the delighted bobs scrambled for the coin, he leaped into his coach. Mortimer had hurried from the theater without bidding good night to Elma or her father. The next day the tragedian did not appear at rehearsal. This awakened no surprise. He did not call upon Elma. Night arrived. The hour for rising of the curtain, and still Mortimer came not. A messenger was sent to his lodgings. The answer spread consternation throughout the theater. After returning home on the night previous he had walked out and had not been heard of since. The play was suddenly changed. Elma's mind was full of presageful spheres, that frantic burst of eloquence had disclosed his belief that she loved Lord Oranmore. What consequences might not the fatal error bring forth? She dared not picture them. End of Section 19. Section 20 of Mimic Life. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. The Unknown Tragedian by Anna Korah-Mawet Ritchie. Chapter 4. Poor days dragged wearily on. No tidings came from Mortimer. His mysterious absence threw an additional weight upon Elma's already oppressed spirits. Mr. Ruffin, after struggling upon the stage for two nights, called down the displeasure of the audience by his imperfect assumption of his favorite villains, fell ill and was confined to his bed. His constant query was, Has Gerald come yet? Has Gerald been heard from? And when the same sad answer was repeated, he would ask for the fiftieth time in an operating tone, Elma, did you say anything to distress him? Did you could you ill-treat Mortimer? Her assurances satisfied him only for the moment. Nature's foster nurse repose fled from him. No sweet oblivion closed his straining restless eyes. Grief had outstripped time, indebting all his faculties. He became helpless, petulant and childish. He could not endure Elma to be absent from his side, yet he would not allow her to relinquish the arduous professional duties which unavoidably separated her from him during a portion of the morning and the whole of the evening. The maid of Merendorp was the play represented on the fourth night after Mortimer's sudden disappearance. The filial devotion of the heroine stirred a deep spring in Elma's bosom. She could not but think of her suffering, perhaps dying father. Her acting won a supremacy over the minds of her audience never before attained. The play was over. She was passing to her chamber to disrobe and hastened home, when she beheld in the obscure distance a familiar form. How like Mortimer, she ejaculated internally. The figure drew nearer. An exclamation of joy broke from her lips. She rushed towards it and seized the cold, nervous hand. You have returned. Is it in you indeed? No ill has befallen you. Heaven be praised a thousand and a thousand times. There was no possibility mistaking the rapture that betrayed itself in her tone, her mean, her glowing countenance. Those rare, delicious auguries shed their melting warp on Mortimer's chilled heart. The dress of the Tragedian was travel-stained and disordered. His boots were pierced in many places, as though he had walked over rough roads for a long distance. His hair hung matted and entangled about his bloodless face. His lackluster eyes had the peculiar dreamy look of a recent awakening from a somnambulic trance. Tell me, where have you been, questioned Elmok, with anxious earned interest? I do not know, walking through the woods, I believe. I cannot tell where. Walking all this time without shelter, without food, without sleep, impossible. How long is it then, he asked, abstractedly. For days since you left us, Mortimer seemed to be reflecting, trying to calculate time, but he could or would give no further explanation. Several of the company had caught sight of him, and they gathered around with joyful welcomes. Elmok had placed her arm in his. She was confident that his presence at her father's bedside would possess a remediate influence. You will continue your engagement. You will appear tomorrow night, inquired the calculating manager. Elmok's voice joined in, do consent. You must not leave us. Your absence has terribly distressed my father. He is very ill. Indeed, let us go to him directly, returned Mortimer, with emotion. But your engagement, surely you will conclude it, I have posters put out immediately, let me intrigue you, persisted, Mr. Villers. I have no intention of breaking it, replied Mr. Mortimer. Elmok's stage-rainment was quickly exchanged for her ordinary garments, and accompanied by Mortimer and old Winifred, in a few moments she was on her way home. Her father was anxiously awaiting her return, counting the very minutes of her absence. He accosted her peevishly with, Is it you, at last? The play must have been over an hour ago. Elmok, why do you neglect me so? Why did you not come sooner? I was detained, my dear father. Shall I bring in my apology? Do not be too much rejoiced, for I am going to offer it in the person of a valued friend, whose presence you have missed even more than you did mine. Mr. Rutherford raised himself upon his elbow. As he come, as he come, Mr. Mortimer, cried Elmok. Mortimer entered at the summons. The aged actor's delight bordered on the precepts of pain. He could not ask where Mortimer had been, why he had gone. He cared not to know. It was enough that he had returned. All the questions his tongue could frame were swallowed up in the entreaty. You will not leave us again. I am an old man now. Gerald, you will not leave us any more. Say yes to that. Mortimer turned to Elmok. The eyes of her father followed the direction. Yes, yes, I know what that means. She is a girl of few words, yet she will also bid you stay. Will you not, my daughter? Yes, replied Elmok promptly. Mortimer, as readily, but with Mark's solemnity answered, I will never leave you until she bid me. The pain contracted wrinkled features of the old man relaxed with a childlike calm. He lay gazing upon the two beloved beings until slumber, so long a fugitive, gently rocked his spirit, and with her balmy breathing closed his eyes. Elmok feared that some sudden movement might disturb him. She softly rose and led the way to the budwara joining, singing the door as she passed out. Elmok, said Mortimer, when they were alone together, have I deceived myself? Was the joy you exhibited at my return all for your father's sake? Elmok, while she said at her father's couch, had nerv'd herself for this interview. I did not rejoice for my father's sake alone. Your unaccountable absence has given me great uneasiness, much pain. How shall I explain it, returned Mortimer? Your father told me of Lord Orenmore's suit and of your rejection. An accidental occurrence caused me to believe that you loved him. With that conviction my heart seemed turned to stone. I might truly have said, with a tortured more, I strike it and it hurts my hand. For I carried in my bosom a thing of marble coldness and of iron weight. I fear to tell you to what desperate deed I was tempted as I wandered. Stretched on the rack of doubt I thought I could no longer face the ills of this harsh world. But my better angel stood beside me and I held back my rash hand. I know not how long or whither I strayed or what chanced until a voice whispered soothingly that I was the dupe of my own phantom-like fears. I had not learned from Elma's lips that she loved this brainless lord. That boy sent me back to ask the question. I do not love Lord Orenmore. Never have loved him, never could love him, answered Elma verily. Those words fall like the healing knucked a drop upon the pestilence in my soul and calm and purify its troubled, tainted atmosphere. If you had loved him, Elma, do not think that I could have thrust myself as a hideous barrier between you and happiness. Had you made such a choice, I must have trembled for your future. I would have prayed you to reflect, but though my soul is so infettered to your love, I would have broken the chain with resolute hand when I found that it hung heavily upon you. But this is not so. You do not love him. You have said it. I may pray you listen to me while I tell you all that you have been to me, all that you are, all that you can be. When I tell you how you may make or unmake, though Elma did not interrupt him, though she set with folded hands and half-bowed form and eyes bent down until the long, silky lashes cast a deep shadow on her cheek, Mortimer paused. Elma, actress as she was, could not banish from her countenance an expression of intense suffering. Your look renders me dumb. Elma, I implore you, let me not deceive myself again. There is something I cannot comprehend. Give language to your thoughts, even to those which could pain me most. I entreat you. Do not keep me a stranger to them. What shadow is upon your sweet countenance? You do not love Lord Oranmore. You would not marry him. Surely there is no other. In an instant Elma regained her self-possession, which had forsaken her. She prevented his concluding sentence. I—it is that I—I do not desire to marry. Then, as she caught his searching eye, she added, Not while I feel as I do at this moment. For a brief space the Tragedian sat pondering. God forgive me if I commit its ungenerous an action, he said. Many men have been guilty of such deeds when Pashing gained the mastery over their judgment, and they could accept no guidance. I fear myself. After a long silence he added, Elma, I will but ask one sacrifice from you, one which perhaps I have no right to demand. For, though your mother joined our hands, I must relinquish you, if your heart does not ratify that solemn compact. I fear the effect upon my own mind were I to give you wholly up. I ask but one promise from you. I would pray you to attach your name to a contract which my eyes can look upon and drink in comfort from. When I feel something dangerous battling inside me, when I have caused to fear that my blood begins my safer guides to rule and passion having my best judgment recalled assays to lead the way, will you promise me never to give your hand while I live without my consent? Yes, gladly replied Elma without hesitation. She rose and placed upon the table materials for writing. Mortimer dashed off a few lines and handed her the paper. She perused it, subscribed her name, and returned it with a brighter smile. A sound from the inner chamber sent Elma to her father's bedside. He was awake. His first inquiry was for Mortimer, who immediately answered in person. Mr. Ruthen begged his daughter to retire. Mortimer asked permission to watch beside his friend all night. The proposition was received with grateful acquiescence. Elma sank to rest with a lighter heart than had throbbed in her bosom since the death of her mother. She was spared the utterance of lip vowels uneckled by her soul. She was saved from the commission of that legal sin which daily stains the life of thousands. She asked not the yearnings of her spirit might be accomplished, their fulfillment lay with the great ruler of events. Whatever was best for the perfecting of her spiritual state, whatever would promote its healthfulness here and progression hereafter, that would surely be. In this confidence she was content. When she re-entered her father's chamber at an early hour the next morning, she found him conversing in a cheerful tone with Mortimer. Behold my physician, and the effects of his mystical power, was Mr. Ruthen's greeting as he pointed to Mortimer. With an affectionate frankness which she had never invents towards him before, Elma placed her hand in that of the Tragedian and looked in his face with tender gratitude. Our project, tell her our project, Gerald, while I spare speech, said Mr. Ruthen hilariously. We only wait for your consent, Elma, but the plan is your father's. He says that Dublin and the familiar scenes recalled old memories which have grown painful to him since your mother left us, that his health is broken, that he desires to travel, but he is too feeble to travel without, um, a friend. A son, a son, a dear son, interrupted the old man warmly. True, a son, at least one who will delight in performing a son's duty, he proposes a round of engagements in England and Scotland for you, Elma, and myself. Assisted, assisted by me when I have strength or I will have, added the invalid. Of course, assisted by your father when his health permits, we will travel through the British provinces. Perhaps go to England! No fear of Elma's not being appreciated there. Gerald has had so many solicitations from London managers, and it will be such an advantage for you, my child. Mortimer's countenance fell. He was unwilling to thwart the old man's whims or wishes. He had invariably declined all overtures from the Metropolis. Time enough to decide about that, my dear father, said Elma, for she saw that it gave Mortimer pain to utter a denial. Then you consent, my child? Willingly, if we can obtain permission of Mr. Villers, we are under contract to him for the rest of the season. I have a disoer to make him yield up his claims, replied Mortimer. Trust me, the matter can be arranged. And it was arranged, though not without some difficulty, for Elma had become a sterling value to the theatre. But Mortimer conducted the transaction with the manager, and what arguments he used did not transpire. Mortimer's engagement had been commenced on Monday. He absented himself four nights. Saturday evening alone remained. Upon that night he appeared with Elma. More than once he fancied that her eyes strayed to the box where, as usual, Lord Orinmore sent. But he was now convinced that their direction was accidental. On Monday, Gerald Mortimer, with Mr. Ruthven and his daughter, started for a provincial tour. End of Section 20 Section 21 of Mimic Life This Libra box recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor The Unknown Tragedian by Anna Cora Moet Ritchie Chapter 5 We do not purpose step by step to fall Mortimer and Elma's career in the provinces. They were everywhere and received with enthusiasm. To these audiences the Tragedian was already familiar. He brought Elma before them with exultant pride. Mortimer's habitual eccentricity ceased to be painfully manifested. The erratic comet now moved in a fixed orbit. She was the sun around which he revolved with steady light. Managers, whom he had hitherto kept in a constant state of fear and doubt, rejoiced and set beneath their painted vineyards and fig trees in peace. No word of love ever fell from Mortimer's lips. No allusion to the contract he held. No half-breathed hope for the future. The blissful present filled life's goblet to the brim, and mirrored in its sparkling juices but the day and the hour. Mr. Ruthven's eager desire once more to tread the boards remained unabated but ungratified. His voice had grown feeble and piping, his gait tottering, his form bowed, his mind infirm, and yet his profession could not lose its strong fascination. He strolled about nightly behind the scenes until the play commenced, and then took his seat with the audience, listening with entranced ears to the eulogums drawn forth by Mortimer's vivid delineations or Elma's sculpture-like embodiments. Not unfrequently it was the aged actor who started the applause at some delicate point, which would have escaped the uninitiated audience. The personations of the villains invariably excited his ire. They imitated humanity so abominably, so at least he declared to his accidental neighbors. Between the acts, his learned dissertations upon the true mode of making up, and depicting a genuine rogue, his illustration of the effects of crime upon the facial muscles nightly drew around him a group of wandering auditors. Impelled by love for his art, he indulged them with a small, uncowered performance of his own, which certainly combined instruction with entertainment. It was two months since the travelers left Dublin. They were now performing in Glasgow. Mr. Ruthven, according to his custom, sat in front of the theatre. He was too much interested in Mortimer's gangster, and his daughters Mrs. Beverly to observe who occupied the seat adjoining his, when the curtain fell at the close of the first act, a familiar voice saluted him with, Ruthven, how are you? Glad to see you looking so well, and his neighbor warmly grasped his hand. Lest my heart and soul, you don't say so. I had the least idea of seeing you here, my lord. Very glad I assure you. Is that Mr. Edmonton, by your side, exceedingly glad, sir, to meet you again, an unexpected reconnoiter I declare. When did you leave Dublin? Only three days since, arrived in Glasgow this morning, are making a brief tour of pleasure. I need not ask after Miss Ruthven's help. I never saw her look more charming, and she has gained dramatic power. We may expect a fine performance tonight. What father is not gratified by economists bestowed upon his child. If any such there be, Mr. Ruthven was not of the number. He conversed freely with the young man of Elma, until the individual who assumed that double-distilled villain, Stucky, awakened his wrath. For the rest of the evening he would only discourse with garrulity of age upon his favorite thing. When the play ended, Lord Orinmore, courteously ignoring the past, expressed a desire to pay his respects to Miss Ruthven. The father assured both gentlemen that they would be welcome. Mr. Ruthven rejoined his daughter to conduct her home. She was standing near the green room door beside Mortimer. He was consulting her upon the best selection of a play for his benefit night. Do you know that you have been acting for some hibernarian friends? asks Mr. Ruthven, galing. No, replied Elma. No, who are they? asked Mortimer. Lord Orinmore and Mr. Edmund, mercy on me, what's the matter with Elma? As her father gave utterance to those names, a deadly parlor spread over her face, her eyes half closed, her head sank back, her pulses stopped. But only for a second she recovered herself almost before he had ceased speaking, and made an effort to reassure him by a forced smile. Are you weary? has Mrs. Beverly overcome you? asked her father. Elma was the soul of truth. She could not have stooped to subterfuge. She answered, though with an unsteady voice. No, I was not. I am not more fatigued than usual. Mr. Ruthven looked puzzled, as he conducted her to the carriage, followed by Mortimer. When they returned to the hotel, the latter seized an opportunity while her father was at the supper-table to say, Elma, confide in me. I implore you. Disclose to me your heart. The pin-stroke upon that paper binds you to nothing more but confidence in me. What have you to fear, Elma? What would I not sacrifice for you? Life itself is but a breath I would gladly yield up. Were your happiness to be secured thereby, only confide in me freely? I have nothing. There is nothing I can confide, replied Elma. But her eyes were not raised to his with their wanted, ingenuous clearness. Strange, said Mortimer sadly, and rising as he spoke, that I have so seldom failed in reading hearts, hearts that were indifferent to me. And that I have no power to scan yours, which is dearer than my own. And he left the room. Read my heart, Elma slowly repeated. How should he, when I dare not turn my eyes inward and view it myself? The mislight gloom that for two months had melted from Mortimer's brow regathered in a night. When they met the next morning, Elma perceived the ominous cloud, but she had no power to strike it with sunshine and dispel its darkness. Some invisible hand had troubled the congliding, heaven-reflecting stream of her own life. She was no longer queen over herself, all her emotions in subjugation to her will. Every time the door opened her eyes turned that way. The sound of a knock caused her to bound from her seat, her color varied at every approaching step. During rehearsal she was strangely distraught. She made several unaccountable blunders, forgot her entrances, took wrong stations, grew confused, and could not conceal that her wandering thoughts refused to be chained down to that charmless locality. Rehearsal was but half over, when Mortimer suddenly forsook the stage. The callboy searched for him in vain. At last word was brought that the doorkeeper had seen him leave the theater. How vexatious exclaimed Mr. Busby, the stage manager. Everything has gone so smoothly through this engagement. He has conducted himself for once like an ordinary mortal. I was just congratulating myself. Now I'll answer for it. We shall have some fresh eccentricity. No more rehearsals I warrant. I suppose something has vexed him. Tend to one if he will make his appearance tonight. Elma, on her return home, found upon her drawing-room table Lord Orinmore's card, with penciled regrets in her absence. It was still in her hand when the door was thrown open and a servant announced Mr. Edmonton. Where was all Elma's wanted equanimity and self-control? It had fled, beyond her recalling, at the sound of a name. In her agitation, her fruitless struggles for composure, how could Leonard Edmonton help perusing that page of her heart, which was most precious to the eyes of a lover? For that he was a lover the reader deed hardly be told. When Lord Orinmore proposed to make a tour of England and Scotland, his sole object was to behold Elma once more. Edmonton had been the associate of his former travels and was again solicited to bear him company. It was possible, we might say, probable, that Leonard's ready acquiescence sprang from the same hope that animated the bosom of his noble friend. The characters of these two young men were in striking contrast to each other, though their affection centered upon the same object. Lord Orinmore was a thoughtless, flippant, worldly, a tidal coxcomb. By him, Elma was more highly prized because a gaping multitude vowed down before her. To Edmonton, that very circumstance would have made her less dear, had he not known that she carried an antidote in her heart, which rendered harmless the subtle poison of popular adulation. In his pure and lofty mind, the faults and the hollow found no echoes, yet his expensive heart unfolded itself genially and embraced all that heaven created, the harsh judgments that shot with withering condemnation from self-righteous tongues never sullied his lips. He had become a student of divinity against strong opposition because he preferred to become a messenger of peace, a bearer of balm to the wounded, broken spirits, rather than to hold the highest office which the power of man could bestow. He was too liberal, too well informed, too deeply imbued with Christian charity to suppose that evil necessarily intermingled with the represented history which takes the name of the drama. He thought it no shame to love such a woman as Elma, though she chanced to bear the title of an actress, though she was the daughter and the granddaughter and the great granddaughter of actors. The lights which shone upon her life had been struck from sparks that Leonard first kindled. It was he who had taught her to seek the kingdom of heaven and its righteousness, believing that all things needful would be added unto her, all things which regarded her actual good, not her mere transient prosperity and time, but her unperishing, ineffable, ever-increasing felicity and eternity, from this source sprang her unrebellious patience, her never-failing trust. Leonard Edmonton was on the eve of declaring his attachment to Elma when he was thunderstruck by the information that Lord Orinmore had sought her hand, that he had been rejected, that she was already betrothed. Her image was interwoven with every fiber of his heart, yet he must pluck it thence. It was a hard disjunction, a cruel severing. For a time the flood swept over him, and the ararat of his existence disappeared. When Lord Orinmore proposed a visit to Scotland, Edmonton found it impossible to trample out a hope which still flickered in his breast. He would see Elma once more, make assurance doubly sure, and part with her, if needs must be, forever. And when he came, Elma, as we have already seen, forgot for the moment her interview with his father, her bond to Mortimer, everything but the joy of standing in his presence, beholding him, listening to him once again. Her manner awaked a thousand delicious hopes, and emboldened Edmonton to give them utterance. The answer at which his heart throbbed tumultuously was not syllableed in language, nor conveyed in any form that could be coldly transcribed upon paper. But when Edmonton strove to break the spell of her eloquent trembling silence, and implored her to tell him that he had not been wholly banished from her thoughts, that she had cherished some memory of him during their separation, she raised the lid of a box which stood on the table, took from an inner drawer a small packet, and laid it in his hand. He opened the paper, within which the bunch of violets fastened by a golden arrow, which had fallen at her feet on the night of her mother's farewell. But Elma checked his explanation, a rapture. Selfish in thoughts, what have I done, she cried. How totally I have forgotten all that. Oh, there is so much I have yet to tell you, that bond, a bond. Do not say that you are not free, Elma, he exclaimed, in a tone of consternation. Free, yes I am, and yet not wholly free, there is my father crossing the street. It is not possible now to tell you all. Oh, forget these few moments of happiness, I can promise you nothing. Do not keep me in cruel suspense, Elma. When am I to see you again? Let it be today. Let me know the worst today. Today? How can that be possible? The day is nearly over. Mr. Rufin, whom Elma had seen from the window, now entered the room. Edmonton lingered as long as politeness would permit, then took his leave without obtaining another word of explanation from Elma. Mr. Rufin was in a disturbed, cruel estate, because Gerald could not be found, because Elma would not account for his sudden departure from rehearsal. Well, might her heart sink as she reflected how necessary Mortimer was to her father's happiness. Her quick self-possession once restored, her resolution was quickly taken. She would not cause her aged parent sorrow. She would not render Mortimer miserable. She closed her eyes upon the vision of that calm and holy future, which had risen up before her. She would seek the earliest opportunity to confide everything to Edmonton. He was too noble-minded to endeavor to change her purpose. End of section 21. Section 22 of Mimic Life. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Kelly Taylor. The Unknown Tragedian by Anna Koromowicz Ritchie. Chapter 6. Leonard Edmonton's interview with Elma had lifted him for a moment to the highest pinnacle of felicity, then plunged him into an abyss of doubt. Certain and inevitable evil he could have encountered with calmness, but these perplexing, bewildering hopes and fears put to flight his wanted self-control. Delay became intolerable. He must see Elma that evening and entreat her full confidence. At the theatre in Glasgow, access behind the scenes was not attended with difficulty. A quarter of an hour before the rising of the curtain, Edmonton presented himself at the stage entrance and was requested to see Miss Ruthfyn. Without comment or question, the doorkeeper gave him admission. No guide was vouchsafed. Leonard entered and wandered about until he reached the back of the stage behind the flats. Here a couple of carpenters were constructing a throne. King Lear was the tragedy to be represented that evening. He had written a few words on his card and he wished to send it to Miss Ruthfyn. One of the men, without interrupting his occupation, shouted jock the call-boy. A sanded-haired lad answered the summons, received the card and walked off, deliberately perusing the penciled lines as he went. A few moments afterwards, Elma, in her Cordelia attire, appeared before her lover. The carpenters had completed their royal elevation and now bore it away. Elma and Leonard stood alone in the dim light. She was no longer the blushing, trembling girl who had been surprised into the betrayal of her heart's dearest secret. She had advanced towards Leonard with a firm step, an air of sad composure, a look of steady resolve. I fear I have committed an impropriety in presenting myself here, Elma, but I could not endure the state of torturing uncertainty in which I parted from you. I am glad that you came, replied Elma, very quietly. I have blamed myself severely for the false hope I gave you this morning. False hopes, Elma, was I wrong, then, in believing what your looks told me in such thrilling language must I doubt? Spare me, supplicated Elma. Do not try my strength. My heart may prove weaker than my judgment, my resolution. Then she added, in a quicker, more excited tone, but why need I make any concealment from you, who are worthy of all trust? I should not blush to admit that heaven could not bless me more than exchanging my uncongenial present for a future by your side. Elma, what words of Elma interrupted him? Let me tell you all while I can. My parents chose for me a husband, one whom they loved, one whom I have the profoundest esteem. My dying mother placed my hand in his. My father clings to him with the devotion of a parent. I could not, would not, rob that infirm and grief-worn father of this chosen staff of his age. But, dearest, if his consent could be obtained, it is not possible. But, if it were, an insuperable barrier still divides us, he to whom I was betrothed, Gerald Mortimer, as he is called, loves me with all the uncontrollable ardour of his strong nature. There is a mystery attached to him that I have not endeavored to penetrate. He will enfold it himself in good time. But sometimes I have fancied that there must be a hereditary insanity in that family to which he belongs. All painful excitement appear to unsettle his mind. I have exerted a calming influence over him which no one else seems to possess. Think you I could now purchase my happiness at that price, perhaps of his reason? You are, then, engaged to him. I thought you told me you were free. I was engaged to him. But the moment he had caused me to doubt my affection, he generously released me. He now holds my written promise that I will never bestow my hand while he lives, unsanctioned by him. His consent, I well know, would be granted at a single word of mine, but that word which must seal his misery will never pass my lips. Be content with the confession I have so frankly made, that you are dearer to me than all else upon this earth. Though I will not ring my father's heart, I will not wreck Mortimer's happiness by becoming your wife. Never, never. At this moment, a groan, so full of mortal anguish, seemed the severing of a soul from its earthly tenement reached their ears. They turned. Elma recognized the kingly robes of Lear. No face was visible, for the clenched hands were pressed upon the brow. The figure passed silently on its way to the green room. It is Mortimer, exclaimed Elma, in accents of consternation. He must have heard my words. Leave me, I pray you. Let me go to him at once, else some terrible consequence may ensue. One word more, Elma. I honor, yes, with all my whole soul I reverence your modus. I will not, even in thought, seek to alter your heroic resolution. I would be unworthy of you, if I could do so. Only grant me the privilege of sometimes seeing you still as the dearest of friends. But come what may, even if we never behold each other again upon this earth, there is a realm where we must meet, and, until the day of that blessed reunion, be sure that my heart is true to yours. As mine will ever be, answered Elma, in a scarcely audible tone. With one confiding clasp of their hands, they parted. Elma, sought Mortimer in vain, feared that, in the rash madness of the moment, he had rushed from the theater. Just as the curtain rose to her great relief, he joined the group who stood ready to take their situations on the stage in King Lear's Hall of Audience. His mean was placid, his thoughts were apparently engrossed in his part. When the act concluded, Elma approached and addressed him. He answered mildly. His manner was even calmer than usual. Elma began to doubt that he had overheard her words. But she could not rest without assuring herself, and timidly asked, Was it not you whom I saw a few moments ago when I was conversing with Mr. Edmonton? Mortimer regarded her in amazement, then answered with forced composure. Probably. I was near you for a few seconds. Oh, Elma, Elma, why is it so hard for me to say, yield up, oh love, thy crown and hearted throne? Why are you so dear that the strength of a giant will cannot tear you from my thoughts? But do not fear, do not look so troubled. You have nothing to dread from me. I know it, Gerald. You have made a noble choice, Elma. His love is not a mere toy in the blood. Was the fanciful passion of Lord Oranmore? I have heard the praises of Leonard Edmonton from tongues that delight only in censure. Could Elma prevent the dawning smile that unconsciously stole over her countenance? Could Mortimer help the icy pang that smile shot through this heart? Do not say my choice, replied Elma, recovering herself. Mr. Edmonton is aware, expects nothing from me. Mortimer made no rejoinder, and Elma was at a loss in what manner to continue the conversation or to construe his silence. Lear was called to the stage. When the play concluded, Mortimer returned with Elma and Mr. Ruthven to their hotel. Elma could trace nothing unusual in the Tragedian's conduct, no changeful fits and starts, no evidences of the great confulsion of spirit which she had caused to anticipate. When they parted, there was so much tenderness in his adieu, so much confiding affection in hers, that the aged parent, who set continually gazing upon them, drew happy auguries from their mutual cordiality. As he pressed his lips on Elma's forehead and bestowed his nightly benediction, he said, Best of daughters, what a source of unmingled joy you have ever been to me, a joy that is ever increasing. You leave none of my wishes unfulfilled. It makes me glad at heart when I see you so kind to Gerald. You will not keep him much longer in suspense. Even these old eyes can see that plainly. My father, my father, exclaimed Elma, in a tone of deep anguish as she clung to him and hid her face upon his shoulder. What does that mean, Elma? God only knows the future, she answered, as she released her hold and with slow steps retired to her chamber. End of Section 22. Section 23 of Mimic Life. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. The Unknown Tragedian by Anna Cora-Mollett. Chapter 7. The tragedy of Bertrand by the Reverend Charles Maturin of St. Peter's Dublin was the play selected for representation on the ensuing evening. The thrilling personations of Edmund King first imparted to this highly wrought drama a decided but transient popularity. The more fastidious taste of audiences at the present day rarely demands its performance. Mortimer and Elma met as usual at rehearsal. The anxious questioning eyes she raised to his countenance were withdrawn with an expression of grateful content. Mortimer's face was unruffled as on the night previous. It was fixed almost rigid in its placidity. While a scene in which she was not concerned was rehearsed, Elma sat beside the prompter's table, her head leaning upon her hands, her eyes half closed. She was thinking of her father and of the stormy grief and displeasure which would be conjured up by the knowledge that she could never become the wife of Mortimer. She was asking herself whether waywardness and selfishness were not largely intermingled with her affection for Edmonton. She was hearkening to the reproaches that cried out in her heart with clamorous accusing tongues and drowned love's low-voiced timorous defense. Mortimer stood contemplating her for a brief space. Then he drew near and said, Elma, I cannot bear to see a shadow upon that dear countenance. Look up and smile, for the darkness is passing away. Listen while I play the astrologer and tell you of the fortunate star that shines over your head. It gleams through a cloudless sky and rests above an earthly abode of peace and love where Elma will dwell. Do not cast the poor prophet of today quite out of your thoughts when you stand on the rose twine threshold of that home and look up to that star. You speak in riddles, said Elma, trying to laugh, and I am the very dullest of diviners. Time will solve the enigma. When it does waste the thought upon one who will not be by to remind you. What do you mean, ask Elma, in a startled tone? You are not going away. You do not intend to leave us? No. Yes. I cannot tell. Do not, I can treat you. Think of my father of his happiness. I have thought of his, and of yours. I would not secure his with yours and through yours. Bertram and Imogene are called, cried Jock, saucily thrusting himself between the pair and widely grinning with delight at breaking up the conversation of supposed lovers. Mortimer did not again approach Elma while the rehearsal lasted, nor did they meet during the rest of the day. Bertram does not appear until the second act. In act one, scene fifth, Imogene is discovered sitting at a table with a miniature in her hand. The character of Imogene, the lady of St. Aldebran, was not faithfully interpreted by Elma's chaste and unimpassioned delineation. As she made her first exit at right, she passed by Mortimer, who had stationed himself where he could survey the audience. He is here, he murmured in a strange, unnatural tone. Not an atom of coquetterie was infused in Elma's nature. She did not ask who, as other women might have done, nor did she effect surprised. She had not once turned her eyes in the direction where Edmonton sat, yet she was instinctively, magnetically conscious of his presence. That night Mortimer surpassed all his grandest efforts in the depiction of fierce, frantic, startling, and appalling passions. In the last act, Imogene dies in the arms of Bertram. Mortimer, during this scene in particular, appeared wrought up to frenzy. Cold drops poured from his burrow. His face was livid. His whole frame quivered with strong emotion. After the death of Imogene, instead of snatching a sword from one of the knights, according to stage direction, drew a dagger from his own girdle. The steel glared for an instant as he pronounced the words, Bertram has but one fatal foe on earth, and he is here. Then violently plunged into his breast, sank upon the ground, exclaiming in an excellent voice, lift up your holy hands and charity, I die no felon death, O warrior's weapon freed, O warrior's soul. Elma's eyes were closed as she lay upon the stage. She marked not the red current that flowed upon the ground, even till it reached her white raiment. The actors beheld it and looked aghast. The audience saw it with mute horror. Mortimer lay motionless, wiltering in blood. The curtain fell. His companion stooped to raise him. Gently, gently, he groaned, you are carrying a dying man. They bore him to the green room and laid him upon a sofa. Is he fatally injured? How came he by a sharp dagger? Was it an accident? Were the whispered quarries of padded lips on every side? Elma knelt by the couch, and with firm and skillful hands assayed to bind up the wound. He shook his head as he regarded her and said hoarsely, past all surgery. Then, with a painful effort, he lifted up his hand, felt his bosom, took this astained and crumpled paper, and thrust it into her hands. His voice was so faint that she could scarcely distinguish his words, so she bore testimony afterwards. But she thought they were. It is annulled. Let the sacrifice not be in vain. Pardon, oh my God, pardon, for her sake. A portion of the audience had rushed behind the scenes and now thronged the apartment. From there midst, Mr. Ruthven pressed forward, with tottering limbs and a horror-stricken countenance. When he saw Elma bending over Mortimer with crimson hands and garments, he would have fallen, had not a manly arm supported him. It was that of Edmonton. Mortimer's glazing eyes turned to his aged friend, and to him by whose arms he was sustained. He motioned them to draw near. The old man appeared stupefied by grief. He seemed incapable of a main Mortimer's gesture. It supplicated him to bend down that he might catch the words the dying man could with difficulty articulate. But Edmonton bowed his head close to the pale and stiffening lips. When he raised his face again, Mortimer had expired. Whether the fatal blow had been deliberately given, or whether it was purely accidental, whether it had been inflicted in a state of uncontrollable excitement produced by his portrayal of Bertrand's stormy passions, none knew to a certainty. If it were but a deed of a willful crime, God alone could judge him. God alone beheld the maddening throes of his loving yet renouncing, clinging yet despairing spirit. The history of Gerald Mortimer remained unrevealed. If Mr. Ruthven possessed a clue by which it could have been traced, this last shock had so far impaired his memory that the questions of the coroner fell to discover the missing thread. One year after that night of the tragic horror, a thronged audience were collected in the Dublin Theatre Royal. They had assembled to receive the adieu of one who was dear to them for her mother's sake and honored for her own. Elma would have glided unmarked from a profession which she had never loved, the world forgetting and by the world forgot, but for her reverence to the wishes of her father, who obstinately punctilious in all professional and public observances, the unruly waywardness, infirm and choleric years bringing with them, rendered even his daughters in treaties powerless, he would not allow her to dispense with this formal farewell. Since Mortimer's tragical death, Mr. Ruthven's mind was gradually weaned from its fondness for the stage. He had slowly consented to Elma's casting off the glittering chain that had long pressed heavily on her unambitious, unworldly heart. Elma had personated the maid of Merendorf, one of the few characters which she loved to represent for the last time. The curtain had fallen. When it rose again, she was standing where, less than two years before, her mother had set, hearkening to the farewell plaudits, which sounded musical even to her dying ears. They had no such melody for those of her child. A serene joy lighted Elma's countenance as with quiet, courteous dignity she bowed her adieu. No accents passed her lips. What had she to say? She had done her duty. They had rewarded her. She thanked them. That was conveyed without words. The injudicious few were not content, and demanded a vocal farewell. Elma met the request with a smile that softened her denial, that gave no hope of compliance and silenced entreaty. The descending curtain shut out that gay throng forever, and Elma rejoiced. She was no longer an actress. She turned to her former associates, her fellow laborers, and gave her hand to everyone in turn, and spoke a few gentle words even to the humblest. They gather around her, uttering tearful adieu's and blessings and thanks for past kindnesses. Then her father led her away and proudly told her she had done all things well. Scarcely had they passed their old threshold when she was folded to a heart as true as ever beat in mortal breast, and her own leaped joyfully at the fervent whisper, the world's no longer mine holy mine forever. The voice was that of Leonard Edmonton, her affianced bridegroom. In a parish church near Dublin, youthful pastor was preaching his first sermon to a little flock entrusted to his care. Heaven had gifted him with wondrous eloquence. Oratory was applied to its highest holiest use. Persuasion's golden flood, gushing from depth of heart and brain, rolled o'er the slush multitude in turbid wave on wave amane. The messenger had chosen for his text, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy. As men a divine dropped from his lips, his face shone almost as a face of an angel, or rather as though the angelic host who inspired his thoughts had shed upon his the reflection of their own radiant countenances. His listeners grew light of heart as they harkened. Darkly despairing minds received array of hope. The sad were comforted, the faint-hearted grew strong, the struggling were touched with peace. Drew laborers tasted of the precious grapes that grew in the vineyard of their lord. There were but three occupants in the pew nearest to the chancel. At the further end said an aged man with his face upraised, in rapt attention, gratefully welcoming those good tidings, which had only come to him after the snows of 80 years had fallen upon his head. Could this be the stage villain at whose portraitures of crime men once trembled? His venerable companion at the opposite extremity of the pew was some ten years younger. Few and pleasant were the lines that time had traced upon his benignant countenance. Those good tidings had been inscribed upon his heart in youth, and they were ever new. More than once he turned from the preacher to gaze fondly upon one who sat between him and the other occupant of the pew. It was that young pastor's wife, the old man's newly bestowed daughter, he watched every change of her soft and lovely visage as now and then an ample tear trill down her delicate cheek. While the peaceful smile upon her lips seemed indeed not to know what guests were in her eyes which parted thence as pearls from diamonds dropped. Was Elma happy? Had she made a rich exchange? The answer was written upon her countenance in characters so luminous that even the blinded eyes of airing mortals could not misinterpret them. End of Mimic Life by Anna Korah-Mawet Ritchie