 Section 7 of Mimic Life. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. Stella by Anna Cora-Mawet Ritchie. Chapter 7. The cast of Evadni was as follows. Mr. Tenet personated the noble Kolona, brother of Evadni. Mr. Swain enacted the lover Vincencio. Mr. Belton indulged the audience with an amiable and irresistibly comic assumption of the licentious and remorseless villain Ludovico. Mr. Conklin assumed the weak-minded king. Stella was Evadni. Miss Doran embodied Olivia, the false friend who meanly crept into Evadni's soft and trusting heart and coiled herself around her. This young lady was bred to the stage, and had been carefully instructed by her father, the second old man of the theatre, in all its conventionalities. Her familiarity with traditional stage business almost supplied the place of talent. Her acting was bold and melodramatic but lacked delicacy of a conception. She was often boisterous, never intense. The impress of a reflecting mind was wanting throughout all her personations. Acoustic critic once designated her performances as a mingling in equal portions of thunder and pap. Her personal attractions inclined to the Amazonian order, but she possessed in a high degree all the physical elements of beauty. An effective piece of scene painting contrasted with a finely executed portrait in oil would have aptly illustrated the distinctive styles of Stella and Miss Doran. When the two young girls, they were about the same age, met at rehearsal, the petty envy of the narrow mind betrayed itself in Miss Doran's manner. She treated the novice with supreme scorn, seldom deigning to reply to her remarks, and never losing an opportunity of shrugging her shoulders and indulging in a short derise of laugh if Stella appealed to the stage manager for instruction when the business of the scene chanced to be particularly complicated. If there were any truth in theatrical reports, Miss Doran was affianced to Mr. Swain, the undisguised jealousy which she invents when his vocation forced him to enact the lover of another gave colouring to the rumour. The rehearsal of Evadny concluded that of Love's triumphs commenced. Mr. Percy, as he entered on the stage, silently bowed to the company. He at once singled out Stella. While the prompter was making some necessary arrangements, the young author ventured to address her. Mr. Belton broke up the brief conference by summoning him to his seat at the manager's table, but his eyes still sent her speechless messages. The prompter held one copy of the manuscript, Mr. Percy another. Strange was the phase of theatrical life which now revealed itself to the two neophytes. The presence of the author was wholly ignored by the murmuring actors. After the delivery of a few lines, some malcontent made a dubious pause, then came queries of, what does that passage mean? What's the sense of that? Followed by unreserved comments upon the absurdity of certain situations, Mr. Percy sat pailing and flushing, writhing beneath the sharp thrust inflicted by those puny whipsters, and watching Stella's countenance, as though one look of disapprobation there would have annihilated all his hopes. Several times he rose from his chair and endeavored to explain, but the actors were possessed with the idea that they knew what he intended far better than he did himself, and that his meaning was sheer nonsense. He resumed his seat in dumb mortification. Rock's picture of Pegasus struggling with the plow was brought forcibly to his mind. Mr. Finch proposed to cut certain speeches. Mr. Percy started up again and held back the hand armed with his inky weapon. Those were the gyms of the play he could not consent to have them suppressed. Mr. Finch looked towards Mr. Belton. Finch, without attempting to argue with the perturbed author, ruthlessly struck his pin through the lines over which the poet had labored for days, over which he had gloried, which he had pronounced his most felicitous effort. Mr. Percy ground his teeth at this severing of the golden locks of his theatrical offspring. Ella and Miss Doran were rivals in the new drama, as in Evadney. They were constantly brought on stage together. Miss Doran divided her talents for tormenting between the hapless novitiates. When not engaged in rehearsing, she stood at the wing with Mr. Swain, descanting aloud upon the ignorance and egotism of all novices, without exception. And the manifest conceit of all playwrights. Stella felt her cheeks tingle, and she became conscious of more wrathful sensations than had ever ruffled the smooth current of her life. She had never imagined that so much anger could be excited within her rest. Is it not in accordance with divine order a decree of omniscience providence that every mortal is thrown into a situation where his inner evils can be brought forth to his own view, that he may know them, acknowledge them, struggle against them, and put them away? When rehearsal ended, Mr. Percy asked permission to accompany Stella home. His request was not denied. It was quite late before Stella and Maddie left their dwelling for the theatre that night. But Evadney does not appear until the second act. Fisk was standing at the door of the star-addressing room, with a bouquet in his hand. Here's a nose-gay from your bow. I thought you'd catch one by and by. Who's your claw,'d I wonder? There's a little billy out amongst the leaves. Don't let him drop out. Stella made a signal to Maddie, who took the flowers. The note was tossed into a dressing-case, unopened. Stella did not leave her room that evening until she was summoned to the stage. Evadney enters, gazing upon a miniature. Her rapturous reception proved how firmly the young actress was established in the good graces of the audience. Again, again, and again, she gracefully bent to their repeated plaudits. Just as she was curtsying for the fourth time, she heard a malicious voice explain. Oh, look! She has found out the catch-a-plaws curtsy already and is begging for more. Stella involuntarily looked around. Miss Doran stood at the wing, ready to appear as Olivia. The latter enters at the close of Evadney's soliloquy. Most assuredly, Miss Doran exhibited her thorough acquaintance with the catch-a-plaws curtsy for just as one round of clappings subsided, she commenced a new inclination, which brought down another, repeating the wily process as often as the audience could be lured into prolong their greeting. The bewitching salutations over, Miss Doran proceeded with artistic self-position to back up the stage so far behind Stella that the latter was forced to turn her face from the audience whenever she addressed her. Through the whole scene Miss Doran maintained this position. After the exchange of pictures Olivia makes her exit, and Vincencio enters. Miss Doran stationed herself at an entrance where she could overlook the entire stage. Her dark eyes flashed with hatred as Evadney accosted Vincencio thus. Are you then? Come at last. Do I once more behold my bosoms, Lord, whose tender sight is necessary to my happiness as light for heaven? My Lord, Vincencio, I blush to speak the transport in my heart, but I am rapt to see you. When Vincencio gazed on Evadney with a look of unsimulated admiration and gave significant utterances to the appropriate lines, let me peruse the face where loveliness stays, like the light after sun is set. Sphered in the stillness of those heaven-blue eyes, the soul sits beautiful, the high white front smooth as the brow of palace seems a temple sacred to holy thinking, and those lips where the sweet smile of sleeping infancy they are so innocent. Miss Doran bit her own lips until the blood started, but fruitlessly she attempted to distract Stella's attention or force taunting remarks upon her ears. Stella, when she once succeeded in throwing herself into a character, forgot all else. Miss Doran made a point of following her about behind the scenes, endeavoring to convey, by her manner, an insolent fear that Stella would imagine herself Evadney still, and whole sweet converse with her beloved Vincencio. The novice took refuge in her dressing-room. She did not venture forth again except when required upon the stage, but, as often as she appeared before the audience, her eyes invariably encountered the sinister gaze of Miss Doran at the wing. In spite of this disturbing influence, she achieved a victory far transcending her former triumphs. Everybody is acquainted with the grand climax of the play. When Evadney rushes to the statue of her father and clasping her arms around its neck, bids the king for whom he died, when who would dishonor his subject's child to take her vents if he dare. The fifth act in which this scene occurs represents a vast hall in Colono's palace, lined with statues, moon-like streams through gothic windows, and falls upon the sculptured forms. Before the curtain rose, Stella stole upon the stage to examine the statues of Evadney's ancestors, which she was about to describe to the king. She desired to assure herself of their locality. As she passed down the aisle, she caught a glimpse of Miss Doran, who was standing upon the pedestal of a statue which supported Evadney's father. The actress leaped down in obvious confusion, hastily concealing something in the falls of her dress she ran towards the green room. Stella had cause to remember the circumstance afterwards. There was no time for her minutely to examine the statues before the curtain rose. Evadney's interview with her brother was enacted with the dignified composure that befitted a being firm of purpose and sustained by the conscious strength of innocence. At his sister's request, Colono conducts the king to her presence and retires. The insulting proffers of the latter are answered by Evadney with a prayer that he will look upon the reverent form surrounding him that keep the lightness of her ancestors. She puts them out in turn until she comes to that of her father. There she pauses and, after gazing reverently upon the beloved image, rises to her full height and she turns her glowing face upon the king and proudly asks, Who was my father? She describes him, his services, his death upon the battlefield in shielding his monarch, then rushes to the statue and fervently clasps her arms around its neck. The action was made with reckless impetuosity. What was it that caused Stella to start and stifle a half shriek as she drew back? What face was that pressing forward at the wing with an exulting sardonic expression that seemed to say her best point is ruined? Stella reclassps her half-withdrawn arms. There were drops of blood rolling down the neck of the senseless statue. The arms by which it was encircled had been lacerated by sharp nails, disposed with their points dexterously projecting outwards to accomplish that cruel office that the actress never flinched. Though they pierced deeper and deeper as she passionately exclaimed, breathless image, although no heart thought to beat within that breast, no blood is in these veins, let me enclasp thee and feel thee at my bosom. Now, sir, I am ready. Come and unloose these feeble arms and take me. I take me from the neck of this senseless stone and to reward the father with the meat. And wanted reccomense that princes give make me as vile, as guilt and shame can make me, the king replies. She has smitten compunction through my soul of Adne. Approach, my lord, come in the midst of all my ancestry, come and unloose me from my father's arms, come if you dare, and in his daughter's shame reward him for the last drops of the blood shed for his prince's life, king. Thou hast wrought a miracle upon thy prince's heart, and lifted up a vestal lamp to show me my soul in its own deformity. The effect produced upon the audience was electrifying. The walls reverberated with prolonged acclamations. Mr. Belton, as the curtain fell, threw off his politic reserve and warmly commended the young actress. He had noticed her torn and bleeding arms and now severely reprimanded the property man who had the statues in his charge. Stella made no remark, while the man protested that they contained no nails when he arranged them upon the stage. But as she triumphantly swept by Miss Doran to reply to the enthusiastic summons of the audience, she darted at her a look which both comprehended. Could so much scorn flash from Stella's gentle eyes? Could so much bitterness, so much enmity find room within her loving breast? She was startled at herself when she found that such fierce passions were developed in her spirit. Look at them, reckless girl, with self-scanning eyes. Admit all their hideousness. Marvel that those wolves and tigers could intrude into the lambfold of thy heart's tender's affections. Then pray the Lord for the strength to drive them out. So shall thy untried soul leap with its first impulse towards regeneration. When Stella returned to her room, the note lying in her dressing case chanced to attract her attention. She sat down, half-disrobed, to break the seal. The paper contained a poem of some length. She was tossing it aside with a careless, I have no time, in the signature Edwin Percy caught her eye. A soft smile, companioned by a blush, threw its radiance over her face as she read. Some lines she appeared to re-peruse many times. When she had sucked the honey of these music vows, the verses remained lightly clasped between her palms. She neither rose nor spoke. She moved quietly about the room, folding the young girl's stage attire. Everything was in order for their return home. Still Stella remained unconscious of her presence. Presently there came a sound of bustling feet rushing up and down the stairs. The farce was over. In twenty minutes more the gas, according to Mr. Belton's strict rules, would be extinguished throughout the establishment. I know you are weary, Miss Stella dear, and it goes against me to disturb you, but it's getting very light. Won't you put on your dress to go home? Stella immediately complied. And the poem? Of course it was restored to her dressing case. No. It found a far-fairer receptacle, where quick pulses beat against the fair lines, which warmer pulses throbbed in penning. Manny had taken up the bouquet, but Stella caught it from her hand. I will carry those flowers. They are so exquisite. I think this is the most beautiful bouquet that was ever sent to me. I know, Miss. Those you received yesterday were a good deal more beautiful. I never saw anything equal to me. But, dear me, you hardly looked at them. They did not seem to me so beautiful as these, replied Stella. Holy unconscious of the dawning sentiment her words betrayed. When they returned home, Stella could not seek her couch. The new drama had only been in perfectly calm. There was no time for a mellowed conception of her role, but the language of the poet must be fixed in her mind. She bathed her burning brows and gas-dazzled eyes, and slowly paced her chamber with the play in her hand. All the house but Manny and Stella had lain their burdens in the lap of sleep. The one plied her needle on a rich brocade designed for the morrow's wear. The other drank in the inspirations of the young poet. As she stored his glowing thoughts in her memory, she dreamed herself the envoy sent with palms of honor for his hands. What hour breaks the stillness with its loud strokes? One, two, three. Soon the gray-eyed morn will smile upon the frowning night. Three hours and no more may Stella's heavy eyelids be folded down. On the day of the benefit, the well-filled box sheet, the din's crowd collected around the boxkeeper's office, were sure prognostics of an overflowing house. The appointed time for rehearsal had passed by a full hour, and Mr. Tennant was still absent. How anxious and restless the young author must have been. No, not in the least. His seat was on one side of the manager's table. On the other stood two chairs by theatrical courtesy reserved for the stars. One of them was occupied. Artedly, as Edwin Percy coveted success as a dramatist, that ambition weighed lighter than a butterfly's wing, when balanced against the new, life-absorbing desire that asserted its supremacy over all other hopes. His thoughts wove themselves closely around Stella, and drew her into the sanctuary where the holiest things had residence in his spirit. Her manner towards him was more reserved than it had been on the day previous. The eyes which she now and then lifted to his had taken their softest bluest hue. But they were not raised long enough for him to peruse their mysterious depths. Her answers were so brief and constrained that one less sanguine than Percy would have deemed her cold. Mr. Tennant now entered. His wife continued dangerously ill. That apology was readily accepted by all. It was no wonder that the GDN only had a very vague idea of the author's language. It soon became apparent that he could not matter the reword, and to the horror of Mr. Percy was compelled to refer to his part. Several of the actors followed his example. The use of parts at a last rehearsal is, however, against stage rules. Stella and Miss Doran were the only two of the company who delivered the words of the play unmutilated. Mr. Doran had bestowed more than usual pains upon his daughter's tuition. He lingered at the wing, and watched all her movements chiding or commending every time she made her exit. He was resolved that she should compete for laurels with the new favorite. Mrs. Fairfax had no great affinity for her part, nor was it suited to her style. Had not, sweet Charity, tempered all her thoughts, she would have wished the play a brief existence. Mrs. Pottle was perfectly odious in her royal role. She converted Justice dispensing Majesty into a scolding market woman. The actors prophesized the failure of the play. Their tacit conspiracy against its success was well calculated to bring about the prophecy's fulfillment. Mr. Percy, despite the theatrical torments to which he had been subjected, despite the lashings and buffets and football treatment which his dramatic offspring had received from those scornful players, was still buoyed up by high expectations as he made his way that night through the crowd and secluded himself in a private box. His elaborate toilette betoken that he was prepared to bow from his retreat in acknowledgment of certain enthusiastic demonstrations or perhaps to appear before the footlights and deliver a neat speech, expressive of his overpowering emotions. Stella found in her dressing room at the theater a wreath of fresh white roses. The note attached to them contained these words. One who would scatter thornless roses in the path of genius prays you to wear this flowery coronal tonight. Stella hesitated a while. She hardly knew why and then bound the roses a fitting symbol on her pure brow. The curtain rose. The dialogue commenced between two courtiers whose duty it was to apprise the audience of the history of certain individuals concerning whose welfare they were expected to become solicitous. But this interesting communication was delivered in tone so confidential that the listeners remained in ignorance of the praiseworthy intention. The author only now and then recognized an expression to which he could conscientiously lay claim. Characters of more importance now made their appearance. A mental scuffle for words and ideas ensued. Mr. Percy's box communicated behind the scenes. The author rushed out and implored the proctor to give the word loudly. Was the audience to suppose that he had been guilty of perpetrating such offenses against grammar, good taste, common sense, as were being committed in the trash just uttered as his? It was distracting. It must not be. Miss Doran's entrance gave a diversion to his feelings. She was sumptuously costumed and looked magnificently beautiful. Stella soon followed. And now the wandering attention of the audience became fixed. Mr. Tennant entered at a critical moment and interest increased. But that portion of the dialogue which fell to the share of the troubled actor was supplied by rapid improvisation. All the flowers of poesy and dew drops of fancy were ruthlessly stripped and shaken from the original stem. Mrs. Fairfax played languidly. Her personation raised up no supporting pillar beneath the tottering dome of the author's dramatic edifice. Mrs. Pottle next strutted on the stage. Her stunted, shriveled-up figure was almost concealed in the foals of her far-spreading train, fashioned a flame-colored cotton velvet. She had prodigly adorned her diminutive head with a large crown. Cut out of gilded foil. It was her own tasteful manufacture, and being somewhat limp in its construction, shook and rattled at every movement. Such a peel of laughter as broke from the audience when she turned towards them her wizened face. Mrs. Pottle had been occupying her leisure moments in the green room in the laudable pursuit of plain sewing. She chanced at the moment when Fisk made his call to be more deeply engrossed by her house-wifely abocation than her professional triumphs. The Queen had pompously stalked upon the stage without removing the spectacles which glittered just beneath her guilt-paper crown. The hand which she lifted to give point to her declamation showed one finger armed with a shining brass thimble. The unconscious Pottle smiled benignly. And when the diversion of the audience found vent in mocking applause, she curtsied in the style in which she thought Queens were want to curtsy. It may be well to state that her conception of royalty was chiefly derived from the regal dame chronicled in Mother Goose. As diverting herself in the kitchen with the consumption of bread and honey, some individual in the gallery waggishly inquired whether her majesty had quite repaired the aperture in her royal consort's stalking. Mrs. Pottle's attention was consequently attracted to her thimble. She plucked off the tell-tale armor and hunted for a pocket, but pocket to her newly-made queenly garments there was none. She clutched at her spectacles. They were entangled in her hair, but after several furious pulls gave way, dislodging the wonderful crown. It sent forth a tinsel sound as it lightly dropped on the stage. The merriment of the audience was now at its height. Mrs. Pottle was decidedly crestfallen. Her majestic airs melted away. She poignantly felt that with the loss of her fine top-knot feathers she could no longer pass for a fine bird. Her attempts to scramble the crown on her head as though it had been a nightcap were saluted with fresh shouts of hilarity. The little woman with her crown awry, her frightened face, her long train presented an object irresistibly ludicrous. The words of her part were all startled out of her so lately discrowned head. The second act abruptly concluded before the audience had received a clue to unravel the tangled plot of the drama. At the second fall of the curtain Mr. Percy, hurried about behind the scenes, pleading with the prompter, remonstrating with the actors, imploring them to rouse themselves to have pity upon his feelings. Some laughed in his face. Some turned away without a reply. Some answered savagely that they comprehended their own business and should hardly go to him for instruction. In the third act, the tide of disorder suddenly turned. The play progressed intelligibly. Stella and Miss Doran again occupied the stage. Mr. Percy's frost-nips laurels budded anew. Mr. Doran stood at the first entrance, watching his daughter, and now and then giving her directions in an undertone. Stella's spirited performance caused Miss Doran's line and meter acting to appear tame. Mr. Doran was determined to arouse her to greater exertion. As she passed close to the spot where he was standing, he exclaimed in a vehement whisper, Fire! Fire! Maviana! Fire! At the same time, working his arms up and down in an excited manner. Her majesty happened to flip by at the very moment. She heard the terrible words Fire! Fire! And suppose Mr. Doran was giving his daughter timely warning of a conflagration. Fire! Fire! Fire! The theater's on fire! Shrieked the literal Mrs. Pottle running wildly to the green room and then to her dressing room to make a bundle of her theatrical belongings. Fire! Fire! Fire! Echoed voices on every side. Everyone following her example gathered up whatever he could see and rushing into the street. The direful words reached the audience. Fire! Fire! Fire! Resounded from the pit to the dome. There was a general rush towards the doors. Screams, oaths, mad ejaculations went up mingling with hundreds of voices repeating the awful words Fire! Fire! Fire! Some even fancied that they saw the flames and were becoming stifled with the smoke. The theater was cleared in front. Not a being was left behind the scenes. The fire bells were ringing voceriferously. The engines thronged the streets. The crowd waited without to behold the bursting flames. That were every moment expected to dart from the windows of the building. None appeared. Where is the fire? Who gave the alarm? asked Mr. Belton of a shivering group of actors who in their fantastical costumes were huddled together on the sidewalk. I heard it from Mr. Finch. I heard it from Mr. McSwain. I heard it from Mr. Tennant. Mr. Tennant. Where is Mr. Tennant? Whom did you hear it from, sir? Mrs. Pottle was the first person who gave me the alarm, said Mr. Tennant. Yes, I started the alarm that I did. Mr. Doran. I heard it first from Mr. Doran, said Mrs. Pottle in a self-congratulating tone. I gave the alarm on the instant. Oh, I took care to do that. I do believe it's owing to me that you are all saved. You heard it from me, madam, said Mr. Doran. Never. I know nothing of fire until half the people had rushed from the theater. Yes, yes I did. You knew it well enough. I found you shouting out fire, fire, fire to your daughter and trying to warn her first. Mr. Doran's emphatic but somewhat profane reply may better be imagined than set down on paper. An explanation ensued. Mrs. Pottle was driven about by a whirlwind of reproaches. The actors returned to the theater. Only a portion of the audience could be lured back again. After a short interval, the play proceeded, but its doom was inevitable. The performers were more unfitted than ever to personate their parts. The audience was out of humor. In the fourth act, a solitary hiss made itself audible. More appalling was that snakey sound to the young author's ears than the terror-inspiring cry of fire, fire. The hisses increased. Some of the author's friends tried to drown them with laborious applause, but in vain. The disapprobation became general, and several of the company, unfortunate Mrs. Pottle among the number, were greeted with cries of off, off! The manager ordered the curtain to be abruptly lowered. The denouement of the play remained in mysterious obscurity. The mortification of the maltreated author needs no description. A friend who joined him in his private box jocklessly advised him that he should join in the unanimous condemnation, a practice not unknown to dramatists, but Mr. Percy had not learned worldly lessons sufficient to profit by the sage council. As the curtain began to unroll, he made his way out of the theater and betook himself to flight. Two hours later, a wearied young girl, upon whose brow a wreath of white roses slowly withered, stood for a few moments at her chamber window before retiring. Who's was the muffled form promenading up and down on the opposite side of the street? Who's the countenance so often turned to that casement? It was too dark for the features to be distinguished. Possibly she was deceived, but a low, sweet voice within her whispered that it was the young author. End of Section 7. Section 8 of Mimic Lies This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor. Stella by Anna Cormall at Richie. Chapter 8 One day without a rehearsal. One single welcome day in that toilsome week. Virginia's was announced for repetition on Saturday night, and, having once been acted during Mr. Tennant's engagement, no further rehearsal was required. The brilliant comedy of Much Ado About Nothing was selected for Monday night. The hours usually occupied at rehearsals, Stella passed with her tutor. Her second embodiment of Virginia was a more artistic performance than the first, yet characterized by equal freshness and freedom from mannerism. The evening would have been one of unalloyed exultation, but for the determined persecution of Miss Doren. Though she had no character to personate in the tragedy, she chose to remain behind the scenes and sought in a hundred trivial ways to annoy the tested novice. Mr. Swain enacted Asilius as before. It was very obvious that he entertained a growing admiration for the representative of Virginia. The unfeigned jealousy of Miss Doren gratified his vanity. Stella was surprised and mortified by the preposterous airs that he now assumed, the insinuating tone in which he ventured to address her, his languishing glances, and assiduous attentions. These impertinent advances were repelled with the most frigid hoture. In that short week her character had developed with gigantic growth. Dark shadows were introduced into the picture, before all light, and by their somber aid its distinguishing features were more strongly revealed. Sabbath, blessed Sabbath, never had this day been so welcome to Stella. When life was but a pastime, existence a holiday divided between the pursuit of pleasure and the struggle against ennui, she had too often looked upon Sunday as a period of weariness, an interruption to the amusements of the week. The rigid observance of the sacred day in New England grew irksome, and she listlessly moved through a round of cold, vitality-lacking formalities. She might have said, with the unrepenting king, my words fly up, my thoughts remain below, words without thought never to heaven go. But, now that her mind had been chained to the rack, that all her faculties had been summoned into use, that she had experienced fatigue even to exhaustion, the Sabbath was truly a day for rest, a day for devotion, a day for spiritual instruction, such as her heart expanded and craved to receive. For the first time she recognized its holiness and was penetrated by that calming influence produced by the absence from labor and all around her. Maddie entered Stella's chambers several times that Sabbath morning and found her in a refreshing sleep, a smile just parting her lips, no playbook, but a Bible lying upon the pillow. One delicate finger was closed in the volume as though she had fallen into a trance-like slumber as she read, and angels were repeating to her in dreams the scriptures' holy promises. She did not rise until the inviting bells had ceased their solemn summons to morning worship. When her mother returned from church, she found her looking calmer and more invigorated than she had appeared for weeks. The change in Stella's mode of life, the energy she daily displayed, had wrought a marked effect upon Mrs. Rosenfeld. Her apathy had partially disappeared, her mind was no longer wholly absorbed in rebellion against her sorrows. The sluggishness induced by a constant contemplation of self was dispelled. Through the daughter's incessant activity, there were helpful mental influences communicated to the mother's spirit. She was forced to think of her child to take some interest in the stirring events of her theatrical career. Mrs. Rosenfeld even began to hint at a period when she might witness one of her daughter's performances. Her hours were no longer passed in utter idleness. She not unfrequently found Maddie and her assistant so hurried in preparation of the new costumes that even Mrs. Rosenfeld's inefficient aid was gratefully welcomed. Ernest had written to his sister several times. The instant that he found his remonstrances were unavailing, he encouraged and sustained her by his advice and countenance. But her first marked successes did not alter his original opinion. He still regarded the steps she had taken as fearfully hazardous, still looked forward, tremblingly, to evil results. Stella accompanied her mother to the afternoon service. Never had the anthem sounded so holy. Never had her spirit been so lifted up by prayer. Never had she been so touched by the exhortation of the preacher. She had set under his ministry from childhood and often thought him dry and dull. Now he appeared inspired. The change was not in him but in herself. Her perceptions were quickened. Her heart softened. Her mind became receptive. As Mrs. Rosenfeld and her daughter returned home, they encountered Mr. Percy. He started, as though some phantom of his thoughts had suddenly risen up before him, the flush that suffused his manly countenance was reflected on Stella's face. As he bowed, hesitated, and then with a confused, unintelligible apology, joined them. A few steps more brought them to Mrs. Rosenfeld's residence. The door was opened. He lingered, conversing with Stella. Courtesy compelled the mother to invite him to enter. The joyful alacrity with which he complied somewhat shocked her strict rules of propriety. Let those who will deny that love is the spontaneous rushing together of two kindred spirits which belong to each other, which, when united, form a perfect whole, which oftentimes recognize their internal infinity, the instant they meet. The attraction Edwin Percy experienced towards this young girl, from the moment when he first gazed upon her, can be defined by no term, but the hackneyed, misapplied, often profane word, love. If Stella's heart throbbed with answering pulsation, she was not conscious of their stroke. In this one instance, the knowledge that flashes upon men penetrates slowly, piercing many a veil and barrier to woman's recognition. Percy's unfortunate initiation into a theater His brief acquaintance with the discordant elements at war within its walls added to the failure of his own play, through conspiracy of the actors, created in his mind a strong distaste for the theatrical profession. He could not endure to think that a being so peerless in her purity and loveliness should long be exposed to the jarring influences, to the selfishness, the malevolence, the dreary intercourse with inferior nature she must preforce encounter in a career which she had so rashly chosen. His hand would snatch her from such desecration. The myrtle and the iron blossom would woo her to forget the soul bewildering laurel. Love's tender breathings would fill her ears with richer music than the thousand-tongued acclamations. Such was his dream. They had conversed on many subjects before Stella delicately alluded to the misadventures of the Friday night. What intolerable mental torture you must have endured, she remarked sympathizingly. The poet's dark eyes were passionately eloquent, as he answered. What living man could fear the worst of fortune's malice worth thou near? Stella looked confused for an instant. Then with womanly tact she turned the conversation into commonplace channels. As the young dramatist walked musingly to his home that night, his failing play appeared the enchanted key to life's dearest triumph. The mourn again brought to the novitiate actress the necessity of study. The sense of oppressive responsibility, of nervous excitement, which had been banished for a day, returned. The most thorough familiarity with Shakespeare's quaint phraseology is requisite in the personation of Beatrice. Stella appreciated the value of her author's text to the full, but she had been forced to memorize with great rapidity, more than once at rehearsal her memory proved treacherous. She had been warned by Mr. Oakland against the slipshod habit of gabbling in a senseless manner over the language of a part without an effort to embody the character. But when she endeavored to assume the tone and mean befitting the joyous Caustic Beatrice, the attempt proved signally implicitous. Miss Doran enacted hero, and her presence exerted some stupefying influence. In the stage versions of Shakespeare's plays, a large portion of the original text is omitted. Numerous passages which were tolerated in the lax days of the Virgin Queen are suppressed as a matter of course. Yet not a few objectionable phrases remain. These are delivered or expunged at the discretion of stars, but the regular members of the company are expected to follow the copy in the prompter's hands. Mr. Oakland had erased from Stella's volume of much ado about nothing certain witty but offensive lines. Stella passed them over at rehearsal. Mr. Alsop, without reflecting upon their import, prompted her in his usual business-like manner. I do not speak those sentences, was her mild reply. Miss Doran thought this an admirable opportunity to hold up her rival to ridicule. She hid her face in her hands with the air of mock confusion exclaiming, Oh dear, how modest we are. Mr. Alsop, I am shocked. How could you? How could you, you naughty man, prop such dreadful lines? Oh, what a blessing it is that we've got such a saint among us. I'll order ascension robes to be made in the wardrobe at once. We're all safe to go to heaven, hanging onto her train. Everybody but Stella laughed. The angry sensations to which she had twice before been betrayed were akindled anew. The wrathful reply which sprang to her lips was stifled with difficulty. Mr. Finch now called everyone to order, and the play proceeded without further interruption, except an occasional sneer from Miss Doran whenever Stella threw a touch of lightness into her part. Unequal to the task of representing Beatrice as Stella deemed herself in the morning, she was not prepared to be weighed in the scale and found so lamentably wanting as she proved at night. The personation of a dashing comic part requires greater ease and a more thorough stage knowledge than a sublime tragic embodiment. Stella made a vain effort to depict the sparkling, rollicking brilliancy, the half-spiteful mirth, the meeting glances, the ringing laughter of the merry lady who mispriced all she looked upon. The exuberant witticism of Beatrice fell pointless upon the ears of her auditors. Stella tried to laugh, but the notes died hoarsely away in her throat. Her arrow-force gaiety might have been mistaken for affectation rather than mirth. Even her step, which should have been rapid and elastic, was slow and almost heavy. Her countenance owed half its beauty to bright, rapidly varying expression, but this evening her visage was, at times, a perfect blank. It had never looked less lovely. A constrained unnatural smile only touched without rething her lips, while her eyes were clouded by a most opposite expression. Her Beatrice was, indeed, heavy lightness, serious vanity. Miss Doran had outdressed her. The rich brocade with its scarlet flowers interwound with vines of gold embroidery, the coquettish-spanish hat, and the long-waving plumes threw Stella's less costly blue and satin and plumbless headdress into the shade. She was painfully conscious of the inappropriateness of her quiet costume to her lively role, but in the midst of her perplexity her eyes more than once rested upon a talismanic bouquet which she carried, and then for a moment the wanted radiance returned to her face. Those flowers had been found in her dressing room at the theatre. The few lines which accompanied them Stella had not tossed into the dressing case, nor had she confided to her watchful dressing maid from whence they had came. Every time the young actress was required to appear upon the stage she notified Maddie whereabouts she would make her exit and made her be there with the book. The instant Stella passed out of sight of the audience she seized the volume from her attendance hand and studied without pause. In one scene alone did she, in some degree, redeem the somberness and feebleness of her delineation. It was that in which Beatrice indignantly defends her friend and urges Benedict to espouse the injured hero's cause and call Claudio to account. Throughout the whole of the play, which had seemed to her to drag its slow length unendingly along, it was the only time that a hand was raised in testimony of encouragement. She learned that if public favour may be won by brilliant efforts it is as rapidly lost, or at least jeopardized, by a single night's insufficiency. Will you permit me to escort you home? Ask a well-remembered voice as Stella and Mattie emerge through the stage door into the street. Stella mutely accepted the proffered arm. In vain, Mr. Percy ignored her failure in Beatrice. His praises did not remove her deep sense of mortification. She entertained too great of iteration for her art to be satisfied in the absence of self-approbation. Can I not make you think as little of tonight's performance as I do, he asked, as they parted? No, I fear not. I might, if I can make you think more of, of me. Good night, was Stella's unsatisfactory reply as she entered her home. That night she lay awake for hours, re-enacting Beatrice in thought. Now she wondered how she could have delivered such a passage so stupidly, how she could have been guilty of such blundering readings. Now she felt indignant with Miss Doran for out-dressing her, for out-shining her. Yes, out-shining her, for the simple but lovable character of the wronged hero had been invested with such a prominence which left a dull Beatrice in the background. Stella could not banish the play from her thoughts. It seemed as though some invisible being turned over the pages by her side and read aloud in her ears. At last, thoroughly exhausted, she sank to sleep but woke stifling with the successless attempt to execute a mirthful laugh. When she slept again, the dream was only repeated with increased vividness and a hilarious variation of the torment. It was too dreadful. She would not dare not sleep again. She rose, seated herself by the window, and looked out into the silent gas-lighted street. Immediately beneath the lamppost stood a theatrical placard bearing her own name and that of Beatrice in huge letters. How she loathed the very sight. She turned impatiently away, threw herself on the bed and wept until morning. When she joined her mother at breakfast, Maddie brought in the daily papers. Stella seized them with avidity. There was no cautious friend at hand to shut her from the sight of all indiscriminate, haphazard condemnation or blame. Both are pernicious to the youthful artist, who is too apt to be wildly elated or unduly depressed. In the very first journal she opened, Stella found her name linked with the severest strictures. The critic was merciless but she was forced to acknowledge that he was just. This gall tasted the more bitterly because the honey of unqualified praise still lingered on her lips. As she walked to rehearsal with her veil thickly folded over her face, her eyes bent on the ground. She felt like some guilty creature whose misdeeds were the theme of every tongue. She could not bear to encounter the members of the company. She was certain they would triumph over her threatened downfall. The repetition of a bad knee was selected for that night. The rehearsal was of Romeo and Juliet. That tragedy was to be enacted on the succeeding evening. Mr. Belton had called a rehearsal both on Tuesday and Wednesday that Stella might be familiarized with the varying character of Juliet. What else, you my dear child, inquired Mrs. Fairfax, who was representing Juliet's garless nurse, a masterpiece of acting. Stella drew her aside before she replied, You did not see last night's shameful failure. You were not here. No, but of course I heard of it, one hears of everything in a theater. A novice should not have undertaken Beatrice, but as Mr. Tennant selects the plays, of course you had no choice. I have never suffered so much in my life. I did not know that I could endure such frightful sensations. My head has felt as though it were bursting ever since, and I hardly know what I'm doing. My dear Miss Rosenbelth said the experienced actress, taking both of the young girl's hands into her own. This is the ordeal through which all who attain eminence must invariably pass. Do not let it conquer you, rouse yourself, and you will be victorious over these trifles. Stella was not consoled. She exclaimed in a tone of anguish, Oh, I feel so humiliated. I cannot bear to lift my eyes to any face. What a presumptuous fool all these people must think me. How evidently they scored me. Not exactly, but give actors a fair chance, and they are sure to ridicule one another. They particularly rejoice over the dimming of a star, because it proves that there is not such a decided superiority of the greater luminaries over the lesser. Act greatly tonight. Personate evadently as they tell me you did a few evenings ago, and your Beatrice will sink into oblivion. All memory of it will be lost in their admiration. See, said Stella, bearing her lacerated and now inflamed arms, we fight for favor here, and may glory in our scars, it seems. There were nails purposefully thrust into that statue to tear my arms when I clasp it, and to hinder my delivering Evadney's noble rebuke to the king. But the nails did not make me flinch. They could not have stopped me, had they pierced the very soles of my feet. What a cruel act! Who could have done that? Was it not perhaps some carelessness of the property man? Stella communicated her suspicions concerning the perpetrator of the deed. Mrs. Fairfax sighed. I know too well that the tendency of this profession is to generate the bitterest sensations of envy in narrow natures. I have even seen husbands and wives so envious of each other that when their dramatic talents were unequally contrasted, the most ramporous hatred seemed to exist between them. But to liberal and well-regulated minds these passions find no admission, or they are only called forth to be conquered. And this, this is the life, exclaimed Stella bitterly, which so many young, light-hearted beings who watch the brilliant actress through her brief hours of triumph are panting to adopt, which they believe to be so full of allurements, of bewildering delights, this life which nurse and Juliet debt debt, shouted Fisk, and Stella could not proceed. Mrs. Fairfax had not given her falsely flattering hopes. Her shortcomings in Beatrice were not only forgotten by the actors, but by the audience, when they beheld her grand performance of evadny, forgotten by everyone but herself. But the excited state of her mind only intensified her embodiment. She was deaf to Miss Doran's sneers, unconscious of her impertinent surveillance. The spectators rewarded her with an unprecedented ovation. But did Stella's former, exultant state return? No. While she stood before the audience, she lost all recollection of herself. But the scene, once over, the words of the pitiless critic haunted her again. Her slumbers were not more soothing than were those of the preceding night. She was representing evadny in the place of Beatrice, but no longer acting in triumph. She imagined herself delivering the language in a ludicrous bombastic tone, now forgetting the words, now constrained, in spite of herself to adopt Miss Doran's inflated style, now pierced to the very heart by bayonet-like nails, now frantically clinging to the statue, which gave way and fell, crushing her with its ponderous weight. When Mrs. Fairfax met her young favorite at the second rehearsal of Juliet, she was struck by the strangeness of her manner, the incoherence of her reply, the wild gleaming of her eyes, her crimson cheeks and burning hands. My dear Miss Rosenveld, Stella, do try to calm yourself. These excitements are too much for you. I fear that you are ill, quite ill. Ill? No, no, last, Stella. You see, I can laugh at the very idea. Nobody here must be ill. Nobody must suffer. Or, if they do, they must seem as if they did not. One must enjoy an immunity from all mortal ills to be an actress. Such are the stage tyrannous requirements. It's quite laughable. It makes me merry. If only I could have laughed so in Beatrice. Don't look at me with such alarmed face. I'm not ill. I'm nothing but what Juliet was. Her head must have grown giddy after she quaffed the potion and swam as mine does now. But I have only drunk the draught which the kind, judicious, lenient public offered. It may be poison, who knows. But I'll not throw away the cup until I reach the draggs. There was an unsettled look in her glittering eyes and abruptness in her speech, which became more and more apparent. Miss Fairfax took Maddie a sign. I am distressed about Miss Rosenveld. She has studied too much. I am afraid of the effect this constant tension has on her nerves. Will not her mother persuade her to take a few days' rest? Ah, ma'am, how is Miss Stella to be persuaded? She will have her own way. That's her one fault. When I talk to her, she tells me that she has bound herself to the hardest of taskmasters, the public, and that the public will not allow her to rest without stripping her of the honors she has won. But would her mother's urgent entreaty have some weight? A mother could only be made to see her state. If she did, she would only grieve, but not argue with her. My mistress never could bear the exertion of doing that. Miss Fairfax was not to be discreet in her attempts to snatch this young girl from the perilous situation. She had met Ernest Rosenveld in the profession and resolved to write him and warn him of his sister's danger. Stella's state throughout the day gave Maddie deep concern. Sudden bursts of hilarity were succeeded by fits of gloom, deep abstracted silence by a voluble mirth. Her mother told her that she had grown eccentric since she had become an actress. Maddie looked at her sorrowfully and entreated her to rest. We didn't want it but at half an hour of the time at which she must leave for the theatre, she was persuaded to lie down. She fastened her watch to the pillow, in dread that the moments would slip away unnoted, that she would be late. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, then roused herself to look at the watch, then shut her eyes again, but a minute turned to the watch again, and in this manner a half hour passed. Shortly before she appeared on stage that night she encountered Perdita, weeping bitterly. Floyd was trying to console her, in a strange, affectionate fashion of his own, patting her wet cheeks, smoothing down her hair, laying his uncouth face on her shoulder and whispering to her tenderly, such a house, such a house. As though that information were a penicillia for all human ills. His language was limited to two or three phrases, and these were the only words he ever used in the theatre. His feelings were conveyed by variations of tone, as expressive as the most appropriate utterance. And why was the usually tranquil Perdita weeping so violently? Still a pause to inquire, though her question was oddly framed. Tears Perdita off the stage? Tears? What a sheer waste of dramatic material we all weep for hire here, and can afford to spend our tears for naught. Paint them this passion before the footlights, or what is the good of tears? Such a house, such a house! reiterated Floyd rebukingly. His intonation conveyed that it was very ungrateful of Perdita to weep when she had that first of the actical blessings, a crowded audience. Stella pressed the sobbing girl for an exclamation. Her father, whose duty it was to represent one of the guests at the Capulets Festival, had entered the theatre in such a episodic condition that he could not be even persuaded to dress. He would be dismissed if he failed to appear. The ballroom was so scantily supplied with guests that his absence would undoubtedly be noticed. What was to become of him if he lost his situation? Unworthy as he appeared, Perdita was devotedly attached to her degraded parrot for, like the lowly reed, her love could drink its nurture from the scantiest drill. She would rather a misfortune befell herself or even her witless brother than to be visited upon him. Where is your father? asked Stella. There he lies. He was doubled up in a corner, not very distant from the prompter's seat, sleeping so profoundly that there was very little chance of rousing him. Juliet, oh, oh, oh, oh! said Fisk, capering up to her, and then added, Look out for fun tonight. Pottles, your maternal antecedent, and isn't she rigged off within an inch of her life. Only the fun's gone out of her ideal since the night of the fire, won that a fine conflagration of her own. But Pottles got the blues. Juliet appeared upon the stage a few moments with her nurse and her mother, and then was led by Paris into the ballroom of the Capulets' stately mansion. Immediately after she entered, the dancing commenced, Stella sat watching Perdita's pliant form floating through the dance. The arreality of her motions, the pensive sweetness of her countenance, rendered her conspicuous among her less refined companions. Oh, light-blensing feet of the poor ballet girl, who, in that admiring audience, dreams of the heavy heart thou art bearing through the mazes of the dance. Who imagines that the limbs thou art moving so gracefully to harmonious sounds are weighted down by aching reariness, that the glittering gods which rise and fall with every breath are stirred by the beating of anguished quicken pulses. Juliet was the most faultless of all Stella's personations. She threw off the tremors of stage conventionalities, and struck out new beauties undiscovered by the hackney actress who treads in the beaten steps of some great predecessor. Stella's embodiment was characterized by an impassioned self-abandonment that bore respectators with her. As upon an impetuous tide, her audience became a finely tuned instruments in her hand, and responded to the plaintive sweeping, the loud smiting of the streams, shared in her dreamy musings, her ingenious, impulsive confessions to Romeo, her sportive cajoling of her nurse, her burst of petty petulance, and, as the character of Juliet gradually expands, echoed her devotion, her intense agony, her heroism, her firmness of purpose, and the horrors through which her spirit is plunged when she quaffs the friar's potion and, calling upon the name of Romeo, sinks into deathlike insensibility. The fourth act of the play closes with the interest Juliet lying on her couch, surrounded by her weeping parents, her nurse, her offianced husband, and the holy friar. The scene was near its conclusion when suddenly there was her at a crashing fall behind the scenes, accompanied by a loud cry of horror. One side of the curtain rapidly descended, but without injuring anyone upon the stage, for the performers were all gathered around Juliet's bed. A ponderous wait, by means of which the curtain was elevated, had given way. The opposite side of the curtain was now carefully lowered. Stella, though she was not startled by the sound of the heavy fall, did not stir until the audience was excluded from view. As she rose up, she beheld a crowd of actors all running towards one corner, near the seat of the prompter. She was eagerly following them when Miss Fairfax drew her arms about her and forcibly attempted to impede her progress, ejaculating, Come back, don't look, don't look, it's too horrible of a poor fellow. Stella had already caught one glimpse of the prostrate figure, the head crushed in by an iron weight, the spouting crimson stream, the limbs still ribing in a death agony. Who is it? Who is it? gasped Perdita, pressing through the throng, followed by Floyd. Not my father! Oh, not my father! He would lie there. Mr. Martin seized Perdita's arm and held her back. Floyd had thrown himself on the body, and at the sound of his piteous lamentations she broke from the actor's grasp. Stella, completely stunned, was supported by Miss Fairfax and Maddie. Mr. Finch's voice reached their ears. He was addressing the prompter. Bid the orchestra strike up quickly that the audience may not hear the poor voice cries. If they get wind of this accident the theater will be empty in a moment. The shock will hurt our business for a week. Make haste also. Don't stand there, man, as though you were petrified. Speak to them through the trumpet. Make them play loudly at once. Such was the stage manager's cold-blooded order in the very presence of death. Stella, with a convulsive movement, slipped through the arms that supported her and sank upon the ground. She had lost all self-control and broke forth in a succession of hysterical screams and sobs. Mr. Finch lifted her in his strong arms and bore her shrieking to her room. Poor Maddie was almost distracted. Mrs. Fairfax, with tender care, used her best efforts to restore the composure of the horror-stricken girl. Her labors proved quite fruitless. After a time Mr. Belton knocked for admission. He entered, took a seat beside Stella, and addressed her somewhat austerely. Mrs. Rosenfeldt, you really must compose yourself. It is absolutely necessary. You cannot be indulged any longer. The play has been interrupted for some time. Fortunately the audience has kept in ignorance of the sad accident, but the curtain has been down for such an interval that people are now being impatient. I must insist upon your exerting more self-control and preparing to finish your part. The unexpected, apparently in human requests, amazed Stella into sudden quietude. My part! I can't! I can't act any more tonight. I can't! After witnessing that terrible sight, that dying man, his wretched children, the audience cannot expect it. The audience have nothing to do with the private distresses of those whose business it is to entertain them, replied Mr. Belton, in a severe tone. The play cannot be interrupted. You have but one short scene more, in which you only have a few lines to utter. You must manage to get through them. Impossible! Very possible, if you will make the effort. Probably you thought it was impossible to stop screaming a moment ago. We are losing time, Miss Fairfax. I depend on your kindness to hasten Mrs. Rosenfeldt's perspirations. Bring her down at once. There was an intonation of command in Mr. Belton's voice that compelled obedience. He left the room, and Miss Fairfax, without a remark, commenced unfastening Stella's dress, that it might be exchanged for the rich garments in which, according to the custom of her country, Juliet is decked for her internment. Mrs. Fairfax's manner seemed to imply that there was no appeal from Mr. Belton's decision. His voice was all potential. Stella was so much awed, bewildered, astonished, that she could not resist. Despite her rapid toilette, the wild expression which had before attracted Mrs. Fairfax's attention returned her eyes. This came to the door, but his voice was subdued to a husky whisper as he announced that Mr. Belton had sent him with his compliments to say that the curtain had risen. Maddie noted that the boy's face was blanched, and he shook from head to foot. He was standing so near the spot when the accident occurred that his shoes were stained with the spurting blood. Come, my dear, let us go down, said Mrs. Fairfax. The scenes are not very long before Romeo bursts open the tomb, and I want to arrange you comfortably. Assisted by Maddie, she almost carried the young girl down the stairs. They laid her upon the narrow, sable-covered couch in the supposed ancestral vault of the Capulets. A square enclosure formed of darkly painted scenes, an antique lamp which set forth a lurid light was suspended from the roof. Stella looked around with a shutter. Mrs. Fairfax, after arranging her dress in smooth folds and whispering a few encouraging words, prepared to close the sepical doors upon her. But Stella sprang up with a cry and said, Don't leave me. I can't stay here alone. Indeed, I can't. I cannot get through with the part. In a moment the scene would be changed, and the tomb would be disclosed to the audience. The doors could not be opened until they were broken through by Romeo. Fastened the doors, said Mrs. Fairfax, to the carpenters, who were waiting to complete their duty. I will stay with Miss Roosevelt. I can hide myself here. She pressed round to the side of the couch, which was distant from the audience, and there crouched down in a painful position but with her hand clasping Stella's. The scene unclosed. They listened to the touching tribute of Paris to the memory of his lost Juliet as he scattered flowers before her tomb. Sweet flower, with flowers I strew thy bridal bed. Sweet tomb, that in thy circuit dost contain the perfect model of eternity. Fair Juliet, that with the angels dost remain. Accept this latest favor at my hands. That, living, honoured thee, and, being dead, with funeral praises, do adorn thy tomb. Then came the warning whistle of the boy followed by Romeo's entrance, the combat between the lovers and the death of Paris. Now courage, brave girl, in a moment more he will break open the doors. Do not stir. Think how much depends upon your proving that you have not miscalculated your powers, that you are fitted for the profession you have entered. Mrs. Fairfax drew her hand away and wholly concealed herself. The doors were forced apart. Juliet and her bridal robes lay motionless in the sight of the audience. In defiance of good taste the original scene was here supplanted by a stage version, which is preferred by actors but denounced by all critics. According to Shakespeare Juliet does not wake until Romeo is dead. In the version sanctioned by the stage custom the agonies are piled Olympus High through the meeting of the lovers after Romeo has swallowed the poison. He bears the waking Juliet from the tomb and after a scene made up of frantic demonstrations expires. Juliet has but a few incoherent lines to deliver during Romeo's death struggles. These Stella attempted to utter but not one word was intelligible. After Romeo's death she prayed no heed to the friar's entrance, made no answer to his queries, spoke not a single line sent down. She seemed to remember but one act which she was to execute, that which would conclude the play. She silently seized Romeo's daggers, rose up, stabbed herself, and sank beside her lover's body. The woeful haggard expression of her face, her inarticulate utterance, her evident mental and physical exhaustion, gave effect even to this abrupt and original termination. The curtain fell amidst a tumult of applause. Not till then was Mrs. Fairfax released from her painful captivity. Mr. Belton requested Stella not return to her room until she had acknowledged the summons of the audience. She answered him by a vacant stare but allowed herself to be led across the stage in front of the curtain. Her look as she made a mechanical obeisance was almost ghastly. Her lips had not yet been taught to assume the professional smile with which the suffering actress veils her real emotion. Stella was unable to walk home. Maddie went in search of a carriage. She encountered Mr. Perry who awaited Stella at the stage door and related to him the terrible accident of the evening. He entreated her to return to Miss Rosenfeld and to allow him to find a conveyance. Stella seemed scarcely cognizant of what passed around her, but as someone lifted her with tender solicitude into the carriage she recognized the voice which said, You are suffering and I cannot leave you yet. Do not refuse me a seat. Her silence was not construed into a denial. She was totally unable to converse. Mr. Percy would not have disturbed her by a question though he exchanged a few more remarks with Maddie which were chiefly designed for Stella's ear. Poor Perdita, poor Perdita, sighed Stella several times, but those were the only words she uttered. End of Section 8 Section 9 of Mimic Life This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor Stella by Anacor Amalic Richie Chapter 9 Faithful Maddie, without communicating her alarm to Miss Rosenfeld, watched without Stella's door that live long night. She could hear the young girl tossing restlessly upon her pillow and now and then muttering unintelligible words. Poor Dita, poor Perdita, were the only distinct sounds that reached Maddie's ear. Towards morning there was an interval of perfect stillness. She's fallen asleep at last. Thank heaven! thought the distressed watcher. And then she stole with light tread to her own room to lay down to rest. It seemed to her that she could not have slept more than a few moments when she was awakened by a touch. Stella stood beside her. Is it too early to go yet, Maddie? No, it cannot be too early. They cannot have slept through this fearful night. To go where, Miss Stella, dear? How ill you look! You're as white as a sheet, and your eyes have grown twice their size in the night. Don't, don't look so. You frighten me sorely. Get up then quickly and let us go. Go where? To Perdita. At this hour, Miss Stella, why? Maddie, what is the use of arguing with me? You know I am headstrong. I don't heed remonstrances. I can't heed them. I wish I could, but I was never taught in the days when childhood's plastic mind may be shaped at will. It's too late now. Affliction is the only tutor whose lessons I shall ever heed. Go back to bed, dear, for a little while. No, do you get up. I must see those wretched children. I shall never rest until I do. You know where they live, for you went with the last piece of lace. It's quite a long walk for you. A couple of miles at least. They live quite in the suburbs. The more the reason that you should make haste, we need not return home. I can go from there to the theatre. But breakfast. I can't eat. If you can, you may go back while I am at the theatre. Make haste! Maddie was ready in a few minutes. Stella left a hasty line to explain her absence to Mrs. Rosenvelt and then set out. Stella took no notice of the distance they walked, and Maddie's occasional remarks were unheeded. This is the place, said the latter, stopping before a very humble tenement, the door of which stood open. Kedita's family lodged upstairs. They entered the close, untidy dwelling and ascended to the second story, a low, continuous moaning told in which room the mourner lamented. Stella's repeated knocks were unanswered, though the plaintive sound still reached her ears. She lifted the latch softly, and they entered. The body of the deceased lay on a mattress in the centre of the room. A sheet covered all but one arm. Floy was extended on the ground beside the corpse. The lifeless hand was clasped in his, and he lifted one cold finger after the other and let them drop again, wailing piteously as everyone fell. How fondly he touched that very hand which turned the fatal key and locked the light of reason from his brain. He seemed to be struggling to comprehend that this hand was powerless now, powerless forever. Kedita said at the head of the corpse. The tears that rolled slowly down her wand face glittered upon the shroud she was making. She was as still, as collected as ever. Her spirit had long been nurtured by adversity's sweet milk patience. With her, each grief through meekness settled into rest. Inevitable affliction awakened no to mulchwa sorrow. There was one other occupant of the chamber. In the furtherest corner, sleeping in the chair, Stella recognized the homely features of the kind-hearted but eccentric Mrs. Puddle. It was not until Stella accosted Perdita that she looked up. I should not rest until I had seen you, Perdita. Stella sat down at her side. I could not rest until I knew how you had borne this misfortune. It does not break my heart that cannot break or it would have broken long ago. But of all, all the other trials, this is the most fearful. To die without one parting word, one blessing, to be hurried away so unprepared and in his state, that is the most dreadful of all. Stella knew not what to answer. Her silence seemed to imply that there was no consolation that could be offered. And yet he could not have died, continued Perdita, as if she devined her thoughts, even by what people call an accident, if the fittest moment he could have ever known on earth had not yet arrived. The summons that comes unawares to a man is known to God. There are no accidents but of his permission. He overrules them all for good. He chooses the best hour for all of us, though it may not always seem so. No, my father could not have died, had not death been better for him than life. Do you believe that? Asked Stella, doubtingly. I do. My mother taught it to me. It was the consolation she gave her children when she was dying. Something within me bears witness to its truth. Stella was silent again. Perdita fancied she was pondering upon ill reports that she had heard of the departed. Do not judge him harshly, pleaded the devoted daughter. God will not judge him so, for he knows the heart and tempers all judgment with mercy. We are commanded, judge not, and do not, do not you who knew nothing of his trials, his temptations, his sorrows, judge my poor father. Heaven forbid, I only came to comfort you, Perdita. Your coming itself, your presence, comforts me. But my brother, Floy, Floy, will you not speak to Miss Rosenveld? But Floy raised not his face. He continued crushing the frozen hand and lifting one by one the stiffening fingers and letting them drop again, moaning as before. Maddie had taken the half finished shroud out of Perdita's hand and went on with a sad task. The hybrid maiden and the humble ballet dancer set side by side, conversing as sisters. Perdita's full heart unclosed. Her sorrows were poured freely forth. She pictured her mother's struggles in the theater, her wasting away, yet laboring to the last, her placid death, the husband's anguish, the envies and injustice through which he lost his position in the profession, the revolution in his temper, the mad infatuation which lured him to seek relief oblivion in the bowl. And have you no friends? Ask Stella, none. What time could we have to devote to friendships? We are always so busy, but that, pointing to the slumberer in the corner, that is one of the kindest friends we ever had, odd as she is. But how do you expect to live now? We can only go on as before. That good Mrs. Pottle has promised to raise a subscription in the theater for my father's—she seemed choked by the words—his funeral. Day after tomorrow it will be over. On Monday I will be forced to return to the theater. So soon? Yes, we are too poor, too miserably poor, to be able to give up even a weak salary. It was the same when my mother died. They gave me no time to recover from the shock. The public did not care. How could the manager? All goes on the same. My place in the ballet must be filled. If not by me, someone else is engaged, and I may be left to starve. Maddie had completed the shroud. This caused Stella to look at her watch. The hour for rehearsal had already arrived. She took a hurried leave after kindly pressing Perdita's hand and trying unsuccessfully to rouse the morning boy. Mr. Tenet, oblivious of his own example, remarked somewhat severely upon Miss Rosenfeld's want of punctuality. It was a bad sign, he said. In a novice such carelessness did not awe her well for her future success. Come, come. There has been delay enough. Also be so good as to go on with the rehearsal. Make your calls, Fisk, said Mr. Finch, in a displeased tone. Stella made no apology. The play was hamlet. Mrs. Fairfax enacted the Queen Mother. She was the only person to whom the young actress that morning paid the slightest attention, whom she even deigned to answer. There is something very singular about Miss Rosenfeld, whispered Fairfax to Belton. Do you not see her eyes glisten? For several days I have thought she was in a high fever. I am sure of it now. I dare say she is so excitable, and has not been trained to govern her feelings. Will she be able to get through a failure tonight? That's the question. We have no substitute. Miss Doran can't sing a note. Stella will get through, I have no doubt, but I am troubled about her. She is such a lovely being, so full of soul, of genuine love for the art. She is everything that the stage needs most. Do give her some rest as soon as you can. She is over task. Don't crowd her brain with fresh study. You are right. As soon as Tenant's engagement is over, I will advise her to recruit for a week. No doubt she will stand the wear and tear of three nights more. The peculiarity of manner which she had remarked at rehearsal became even more apparent to Miss's Fairfax at night. Stella's unwanted, meaningless, burst of merriment as she wandered about behind the scenes even attracted the observation of the actors. During her brief professional career she had hardly exchanged a word with any of the company, save Mrs. Fairfax, Perdita, and Fisk. Now she talked at random with everyone whom she met, sometimes jokingly, sometimes in a vein of biting sarcasm. In her restlessness she entered the green room. Mr. Martin was extended on his customary bench. He was dressed as Ophelia's grave digger. Stella abruptly accosted him with. Are you a Catholic? Yes, and no, replied Mr. Martin, surprised and gratified at her desire to converse with him. A Catholic but not a Roman Catholic. Why do you ask? Did you imagine that I was one? Yes, because you are accepting your purgatory here. What a glorious life you lead with your dark enemy, the rheumatism, dragging you one way and your tyrant, the public forcing you the other. Glorious. How many years have you sang over your mock grave digging to make the reflecting audience laugh? I believe I first played Ophelia's grave digger about twenty years ago. Twenty years digging and you haven't buried Ophelia yet. Nor your own wits. Make an end of her tonight. Very struggles and hopes and dreams. Very self-will and madness all together. Mr. Martin placed his crutches on the ground and, supported by shaking hands, rose up in consternation. Miss Rosenfeld, I am afraid, he looked her steadily in the face and could not finish the sentence. She laughed until the walls rang with clear piercing sound. It reached the very state. That's the Beatrice laugh. Do you hear? I have learned it at last. What a misery it was to not be able to laugh before. But I shall do nothing but laugh now in this merry, merry place. Last night a man was killed here, and didn't we all laugh as his spirit was taking its flight? An actor's laugh is an actor's fit of snail. There was no acting in good Mr. Martin's emotion. He turned to Maddie and whispered, Take her home for pity's sake. She can't get through. Where's Mr. Belton? I will try to find him. The old man regarded Stella once more with a look of mingled tenderness and pity, then hobbled in search of the manager. Ophelia called, said Fisk. It was the first time he had ever approached her without a monkey gamble. The impression left by the appalling accident had not yet worn away. Called? What for? What is it? Ophelia, yes, I remember. Maddie, where's the book? I have forgotten every line. Quickly, quickly, the book! I'll fetch it, dear, from your dressing room, replied Maddie. I have a copy, said Fisk. He ran off and returned immediately with the play, found the right place, and gave the open volume into Stella's hands. This was done with a grave, thoughtful kindness, very different from Fisk's usual manner. Stella's thoughts were quickly concentrated on the part before her. As her cue was given, she smiled upon Fisk, returned the book, and walked calmly onto the stage. Not a single syllable of the language was obliterated from her memory. She spoke and moved as Ophelia might have done before her mind became, like sweet bells jangled out of tune and harsh. Mr. Martin had summoned Mr. Belton and stood with him at her first entrance regarding her. Really, Mr. Martin, you are growing fanciful yourself, said the latter. There is nothing at all wrong with Miss Rosenbelt. She is delivering those lines beautifully, and she goes through the business of the scene with perfect propriety. If you had seen her in the green room, you would have thought that, like poor Ophelia, she was divided from herself and her fair judgment, returned Mr. Martin positively. She almost frightened me out of my senses. I tell you, this character has made a fatal impression on her mind. At all events, she has overworked. Nobody can deny that. It's downright cruelty to my thinking. If she were a child of mine, I, why, Martin, this girl has bewitched you all. You're as bad as Mrs. Fairfax, who loves her as though she were her own. But make yourself easy. As soon as Tenet's engagement is over, I will give her a holiday. She will stay two nights more, very well. Take care how you laid the last feather on your camel's back, growled Martin, as he limped back to the green room. When Stella appeared upon the stage in the Fourth Act, her hair unbound and disheveled, her eyes dilated until they appeared of the jettiest black and luminous with the peculiar light of insanity, her white drapery disordered, her movements rapid and uncertain, her personation of the distraught Ophelia became painfully real. As she sang, he is dead and gone, lady, he is dead and gone. At his head a grass screened at his steel sustain, wide his shroud as the mountain snow larded all with sweet flowers, which wept to the brave deco with true love's showers. The spellbound spectators asked each other, was ever reasons overthrow so vividly counterfeited that her madness was but a thrillingly illustrated picture seemed apparent from the correctness with which she delivered the text and her exit made at the right moment. Maddie awaited her at the wing with Ophelia's crown of straw, visced near her his arms filled with loose flowers. With these Ophelia is decked before she returns to the stage for her last scene. Stella laughed as the fantastical coronel was placed on her head, and she snatched at the bright flowers from Fisk and laid them in the ample scarf which half enveloped her slender form. Oh, don't, don't! pleaded Maddie. When I hear you laugh so, it makes me feel as though it were all real, as though you were, for all the world, a poor mad thing like the one in the play. Mad! Mad! Yes, that's it! cried Stella, tossing the flowers in the air and catching them again in her scarf. Who is it mad here? We are all mad! All mad! A jolly mad set! And she laughed once more and fastened the reddest blossoms in her floating hair. How now, what noise is that? exclaimed Laertes. Stella recognized her cue, gathered up the scattered flowers and glided upon the stage. They bore him barefaced on the bier. Hey, no, Nani, hey, Nani! And in his gray, rain-mini, ah, tear! she sang. The audience once more listened in trance. Then came her touching distribution of her floral garden. There's Rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you love, remember. And there are pansies, that's for thought. Laertes, a document in madness, thoughts and remembrance fitted. Affilia, there's fennel for you and columbines. There's roue for you and here's some for me. We may call it herb of grace of Sundays. You may wear your roue with a difference. There's Daisy. I could give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died. They say he made a good end. For Bonnie, sweet Robin, is all my joy. Laertes thought and affliction, passion, hell itself. She turns to favor and to prettiness. Then she broke forth more wildly and plaintively than before, singing. And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead. Go to thy death bed. He will never come again. His beard was as white as snow. A flaxon was his pawl. He is gone, he is gone. And we may cast away mom, Gramercy on his soul. Kneeling on the ground, she shaped a coffin with her long scarf and strewed it with flowers, as she sang. She rose up repeating the words, Gramercy on his soul. And of all Christian soul, I pray heaven, heaven be with you. They are the last sentences Ophelia speaks. Every last syllable fell from her lips slowly, solemnly. Her arms were extended as though for a worldwide benediction. Ophelia should make her final exit, but Stella stood, immovable. Her arms outstretched, her eyes fixed. Mrs. Fairfax gently took her hand to rouse her. She uttered a cry that was a mingling of a laugh and a shriek and fell upon her friend's bosom. Gracious heavens, whispered the actress. She does not know what she's doing. Mr. Swain, carry her away. Help me take her off the stage. Mr. Swain, who enacted Ophelia's brother, attempted to raise Stella in his arms, but she violently resisted. She would allow no one but Mrs. Fairfax to touch her. The latter, with some difficulty, bore her from the stage. The tragedy proceeded without interval. The dethronement of a young girl's intellect was too trivial a circumstance in theatrical estimation to interfere with the regular movement of the play, to deprive the public of their purchased amusement. But there were those presents who never, in afterlife, forgot her eloquent world-embracing attitude, her loving yet stony countenance and the electrifying tone in which she said, For a mercy on his soul, and of all Christian souls, I pray heaven, heaven be with you. Edwin Percy sat in that audience. His mind convulsed with distracting doubts. The instant Stella was no longer in sight, he hurried to the stage door, and entreated admission of the theatrical service. It was against rules to enter. Percy pleaded, threatened, offered a large bride, but the doorkeeper was inexorable. Disregarding of orders in Mr. Belton's establishment was a forfeiture of situation. Meanwhile, Stella was conveyed to her dressing room by Mrs. Fairfax and Maddie. The former was forced to return to the stage in a few moments, to recount the hapless Ophelia's watery end. The self-risk control acquired by years of discipline hardly sufficed the dismayed actress to go through the her scene without betraying more emotion than befitted Hamlet's mother at the untimely death of the maiden whom she thought to welcome as her son's bride. When Mrs. Fairfax returned to Stella, she found her talking in a wild strain. The horrors of the previous night were re-enacted in the young girl's imagination. Park, do you hear the heavy crash? She muttered. See, his brains are quite dashed out. Look how the blood gushes. It is spouted up to Perdita's bosom, and Floyd's hands are all doves. Must she play Juliet after that? Was it she or I? And then she sang, They bore him bare-faced on the beer. But suddenly stop. No, they won't carry him bare-faced. It would be too horrible a sight. Strew the flowers over him, hide him, hide his mingle head from the staring crowd. And she took off the flowers that were fastened about her dress and flung them with a frantic gesture. It was not possible to change her attire, nor would she permit the crown of straw to be removed, nor her loose entrances to be gathered and bound. Mr. Belton consulted with Ms. Fairfax and the almost broken-hearted Maddie. It was necessary that the young girl should be conveyed to her home without delay, and medical attendance summoned. Mr. Belton seized an opportunity when Stella sank back exhausted and powerless, and bore her down the stairs. Mrs. Fairfax longed to accompany her at home, but she was compelled to appear on the stage in the fifth act. If Mrs. Rosenfeldt will permit me, I will come to you as soon as the play is over, she said to Maddie. Stella seems to recognize me. I may be of assistance. As Mr. Belton placed his unresisting burden in the carriage, Mr. Percy, who stood at the stage door, grasped Maddie's arm. Merciful powers, what has happened? She is not ill. She is not dying. No, no, replied Maddie soothingly, for his terrified manner touched her accessible heart. But she no longer knows us. This horrible life has been too much for her. Let me go with you. She will know me. Stella, Stella, he murmured, leaping into the carriage. But Stella gave no sign of recognition, though she was now sitting quite erect beside Mr. Belton. When they reached her residence, she seemed able to walk. Percy had alighted from the carriage first and received her as she descended. She took his arm mechanically, preceded by Maddie, and followed by Mr. Belton. They entered the house. Mrs. Rosenfeldt rose in surprise, but not in alarm. Mr. Belton introduced himself. She saluted the gentleman courteously, then turned to Stella. You have come home in your Ophelia dress to show it to me, she exclaimed, with a gratified air. How very picturesque! I am much obliged to you gentlemen for accompanying her. Maddie hit her face in her apron. Mr. Belton bent his eyes sorrowfully on the ground. Mr. Percy looked the very incarnation of mute despair. Stella stood vacantly gazing into the distance. Stella, dear, why do you stand there? How strangely you look. Stella, my child, why don't you answer me? Maddie, what ails her? What have they done to her? Hush! Hush! whispered the young girl, and the muscles a moment so rigid, so now relaxed. He's dead, quite dead. His brain crushed in. Why am I lying alive in Juliet's tomb while he is waiting for a grave? Here's one ready made. Lay him here. Mrs. Rosenfeldt turned towards the perturbed manager. Is that her part she is rehearsing? I have heard her rehearse often, but not in this manner. Why does she not notice anyone? What ails her? She's not, not, oh God, not mad. Tell me, my child is not mad. Give me the dress of your medical attendant, madam, that I may go for him myself. Her brain has been over-tasked. No doubt rest, and a physician's care can restore her. The mother, stupefied by the sudden shock, was incapable of giving the desired direction. Fortunately it was remembered by Maddie. Mr. Belton wrote down the street and the number, and departed. Mrs. Rosenfeldt lavished upon her daughter the most tender epithets, but words of endearment bore not their healing sweetness to her wandering mind. Mr. Percy had gently placed her in a chair. She had removed her straw garland and was tearing it into bits. She offered him a fragment, repeating, There's rue for you, and here's some for me. He clasped the sad token to his breast and gazed upon her, as though his tortured soul would rush through his eyes. Then turned to the afflicted mother and asked, Is there nothing, madam, I can do. My son, send for my son, write to him by tonight's post. These incidents occurred before the telegraph was in operation. Percy almost regretted his question. To comply with Mrs. Rosenfeldt's wish, he would be forced to leave Stella. He bent over her, whispering her name, and imploring her to bestow upon him one word, one look. Mrs. Rosenfeldt noticed that he lingered and said, You want his address? Ernest Rosenfeldt, New York will reach him. Tell him, prepare him for this blow. Do not lose time right at once. Mr. Percy was forced to take his leave. Mrs. Rosenfeldt and Maddie were kneeling on either side of Stella's chair, when Mrs. Fairfax entered. At the sound of her voice the young girl looked up and stretched out her hand. You are staying with me. You are so good. You will not leave me behind in this dark tomb alone. Hold fast my hand. Don't draw it away. I know the cue and will loosen it at the right moment. The combat is not over yet. Paris is not dead. Romeo will not burst open the doors until then. She clung eagerly to Mrs. Fairfax, who, after many attempts, succeeded in luring her into her mother's chamber before the physician arrived. Brain fever, produced by injudicious mental stimulus, pronounced the man of science, after examining his patient attentively. The most absolute quiet is necessary for her recovery. But neither quiet nor medicine seemed likely to affect that promise restoration. For three days she lay wildly raving and recognized no one. Now she had managed herself triumphing on the stage, floral showers falling around her, and the plaudits of a delighted multitude ringing in her ears. Now failing in some grand, laborious part, overwhelmed with shame and confusion, now subjected to Miss Doran's merciless persecutions, now witnessing again the appalling death of the captain of the supernumeraries. Mrs. Fairfax was constantly by her couch. It was marvelous how the actress could discharge her morning and evening duties at the theatre, and yet watch beside Stella night after night with undiminished strength. Mrs. Fairfax had never experienced the pains and joys of maternity, but her heart adopted this young girl almost from the moment when, at rehearsal, her arm unfolded that trembling form. Mr. Percy had, every day, many brief interviews with Maddie. The shattering of Stella's intellect had raised from its dream-laid foundation and dashed to Adam's, his mansion built of many hopes. Ernest, apprised of his sister's perilous illness, obtained leave of absence for a few days and arrived in Boston on Sunday morning. His presence awakened no harmonious cord in Stella's unstrung mind. As he sat by her couch, in tearless anguish, he could not help saying to Mrs. Fairfax, I foresaw this. I dreaded the effect of this turbulent existence upon her, but she would not heed my counsel. God grant that she may listen to it better when she recovers. When she recovers, Mrs. Fairfax sadly repeated to herself, when alas, alas! The next evening, towards sunset, about the hour that, one fortnight before, the novice had been robed in her Virginia attire, prepared to be ushered upon her perilous stage-life, the watchers noticed a decided change in their beloved invalid. She slept calmly for the first time during her illness. The mother and son were seated near the head of the bed. Mrs. Fairfax a short distance from them. Maddie stood at the foot but not alone. She had hearkened to Perdita's earnest pleadings and allowed the soaring girl to come gaze once more upon the lovely features of her almost-worship friend. Only a few whispered words were spoken, but those breathed of hope. Stella lay as white and still as sculptured marble. The arms that had been incessantly tossed about were folded on her breast. The features so constantly distorted had settled into a holy calm. The burning glow on her cheek had faded out, and the labored breath was now lightly drawn. She moved feebly, then, with a deep sigh, opened her eyes. The glittering light, the vacant expression, the wild stare, had gone from them. My mother! Thank God, thank God! murmured Mrs. Rosenfeld sinking upon her knees. She knows me. She will recover. Ernest, is that you? How came you here? I was rash. I did not heed you. If I can but prove to you how much I—but it's too late. Who is that by you? My friend, my kind friend, kind to everyone, but kindest of all to the headstrong novice. All that could be done to help her, to smooth her rough path, you did. Maddie pressed forward, but Perdita shrank back behind the curtains. My own fateful, uncomplaining Maddie, how I have made you suffer, God bless you. Don't forget that I have loved you always. You were so patient, so devoted. Brother, take good care of my Maddie. A low sound of weeping now issued from one at the foot of the bed, and the curtain shook. Who is that? Who moves the curtains? Is it? Can it be? And her face became suddenly effulgent with the hope which her tongue refused to betray. Those words Perdita issued from her concealment, and bathed the outstretched hand of her friend with the dewy messengers of love and gratitude sent from her heart. What Perdita? You? It was not of you of whom I was thinking, and yet I am glad you are here. Brother, this orphan and her poor brother, I hoped, but cannot now. I thought to help them. You will? And Maddie, you will never forsake them. My memory on the stage. Let it be embalmed by one, this one good deed. There is something else I want to say, but I cannot speak it. Someone else. Lift me up. I'm stifling. The terrified earnest raised and supported her. She looked imploringly into his face, struggled to speak, but her lips moved without producing a sound. Her eyes rested with a look of love, unutterable, upon every countenance in turn. Fainter and fainter grew her breathing, more and more glassy became her distended orbs, and now the heavy lids drooped slowly over them. Never more would those eyes be dazzled by the glare of stage lights. Never more would that stilled heart swell or sink at the world's applause or blame. The meteor, which flashed its resplendent luster for a moment afoot the dramatic horizon, moved in a heavenlier sphere. Ernest led his mother from the bed of death to Stella's unoccupied chamber. A volume of Shakespeare lay open upon the table. The hand, now lifeless, had marked those passages which the young girl loved best. Ernest pointed out this book to his mother. In the violence of her grief she would have pushed it aside, as though it had some conscious instrumentality in her sorrow. But her son gently prevented the action and pointed out the unclosed page which bore the trace of Stella's pencil. A voice from the unseen world seemed to whisper in the ears of the mourners, as, through their blinding tears, they perused the inspired lines. Heaven and yourself had part in this fair maid, now heaven half all. And all the better it is for the maid. Your part in her you could not keep from death, but heaven keeps his part in eternal life. The most you sought was her promotion, and was your heaven she should have advanced. And weeping now, seeing she is advanced above the clouds as high as heaven itself. Oh, in this love you love your child so ill that you run mad seeing that she is well. End of Stella by Anna Coromollet. End of section nine.