SEEKING REFUGE FROM THE STORM
The first appearance of the new Juliet was but one week off. Sybil had
spent the last fortnight with Mrs. Van Camp, and some very hard work had
been done in the quaint old drawing-room, for be it known there are few
more difficult undertakings than the proper coaching of an inexperienced
girl for the playing of a great part.
The actress who has made her way gradually acquires, all unconsciously,
a hundred nameless graces, little tricks of manner, movement or
expression, poses, poises, flutterings, the turn of the head or the
glance of the eye, and all seem so natural, so spontaneous; but try to
teach them to a novice and both coach and pupil will find their work cut
out for them.
The process is an unnatural one, and the result is a forced blossom,
that, however brilliantly beautiful, has a frail exotic air that makes
even admirers wonder if the plant has sufficient strength ever to bloom
again.
Stewart Thrall knew perfectly what drudgery coaching meant, and
perversely told himself, up to the very last moment, that he should
send, in a day or two, to-morrow, next day, for "Mother Mordaunt" (whose
home was irreverently termed "The Hatchery," because of the numbers of
amateurs she ever had in training there), and place the Crown Princess
in her hands, "for drill, tuition, and discipline," and with insidious
self-deception he went so far as to write a note to summon her. Then he
caught at the word "drill" to hang his changed opinion on. He did not
want her "drilled" out of all the bright spontaneity that was in her
now; and, come to think of it, all Mrs. Mordaunt's pupils were trained
to the same pattern--they were merely weak copies of herself. He
believed, after all, he would undertake the task himself, and he tore to
bits the note summoning Mrs. Mordaunt, and wrote instead that line to
Sybil, which had caused her so much surprised gratitude, and then
remarked casually to Jim Roberts, who sat in the private office with him
and carefully polished the metalled gauntlets that belonged to a coat of
mail: "I don't know but what young Fitzallen is too inexperienced to do
Romeo with a green-girl Juliet. It's rather too great a risk. Maybe I
had better go on for it myself, though I suppose I'll scarcely look the
part now, even in some new and youthful toggery?"
Roberts looked up from his task, with a queer expression of blended
admiration and anger on his face, and answered: "You'll look the part
all right, just as well as you ever did, but--what's the use of trying
to deceive yourself, for you wouldn't condescend to try to deceive me
surely. You know well enough that as long ago as when you telegraphed me
to bring Miss Lawton back from the West you had already decided to play
Romeo to her Juliet, and I knew it as well as you did, so what's the
use?"
"Indeed! Why, you are becoming clairvoyant! Isn't that what they call
the fellow who lies about seeing things that have never occurred? Jim,
you're off your base!"
"Easy, Thrall!" answered Roberts, in a low tone. "A sneer more or less
doesn't matter much, but we will draw the line at 'lying!' And if I'm
off my base no one knows why better than you do!"
With a muttered oath Thrall left the room, but he took the note that
summoned Sybil and mailed it himself.
They had worked hard and long in the old-timey drawing-room, for only
the very last rehearsals were to be held upon the stage with the full
company. Sybil had rehearsed until her head ached, her throat throbbed,
and her lips were dry and parched. High-spirited, restless,
quick-tempered, she forced herself to docility, and patiently repeated,
went back, and began over, bore criticisms with hard-won meekness, and
when she received an approving word her tired lips curled into the
lovely smile that thrilled her teacher's nerves.
Then her patience, her determination to succeed, her passionate desire
to understand the part, added to her keen appreciation of the beauty of
the language, all appealed to the artist in him; while her attitude of
reverent admiration toward himself touched even while it humiliated him,
in that he knew he was not worthy of such reverence. Yet, in some
strange way, he seemed to see in her the reincarnation of his own
youthful sincerity, passionate ambition, and eager, loving labor,
before the testing fires of life had found so much dross in him; and,
with a great wave of tenderness swelling in his heart, he vowed she
should not "lose the way," as he had done; that her dainty imaginings,
her original ideas, should not be frightened back by sneer or sarcasm;
and that her reverent love for the mighty playwright of the ages should
not be ridiculed or "guyed" into a mere question of which of his plays
had the most money in it.
She had the fire, the magnetism, the imaginative power of the artistic
temperament, and, in guarding her from the banalities and the cheap
cynicisms that are so deadly in their effect upon the enthusiastic young
beginner, he somehow felt as if he were making reparation for the wrong
he had done that younger self, who had hoped for fame, but had been
given notoriety instead.
Nor was that the last excuse Thrall found for his willing work in
training this young actress. The manager, the money-getter in him, was
appealed to also. More and more plainly he saw in this young gentlewoman
of the unusual beauty, whose very imperfections were just enough to
humanize, to attract, the public--not to repel and chill as absolutely
statuesque perfection has a way of doing, a "card" of great value. More
and more surely he knew that there was "money in her," and he meant that
every dollar she could be made to draw should roll safely into the
box-office drawer. And so he told himself that in order to discount the
dulled edge of a curiosity gratified she must be taught really to
act--to act well. For that was what they would have to rely upon at the
last--beauty and acting combined, when the drawing power of mere novelty
was exhausted. Therefore, it was simply good, sound, business tactics to
train and explain and repeat--repeat--repeat! and to be very stern
sometimes, because a drooping figure and a white, tired face made him
long so to gather the weary young body into his arms and whisper: "Rest!
poor little queen to be! rest!"
All these reasons for coaching Sybil himself, instead of engaging Mrs.
Mordaunt to do it for him, he acknowledged, and if there was yet another
one, he ignored its existence until that morning when the first
performance was but one week off.
Leslie Galt, the grave young lover of Dorothy, had from the first found
a friend in Sybil, and she had been a willing screen for hardly secured
hand-pressures at sundry partings; had made swift and fairly reasonable
excuses for brief, but to Mrs. Lawton unaccountable, absences from porch
or parlor; had given many a vital hint, that he had followed to his
profit, and, in consequence, he had fallen into the habit of depending
upon her sisterly advice in his love-affairs. "When in doubt, consult
your Sybil!" was his way of describing the situation; and on that
morning, being in doubt, he had appeared at Mrs. Van Camp's and had
sought an interview before work began.
After greetings and a few commonplaces had been exchanged, a slight
pause was broken by Sybil saying, briskly: "Brother-to-be! you are
evidently on the anxious seat about something, so rise up like a little
man and tell me all about what brought you there! Do you know [she
cocked her head to one side in a ludicrous imitation of old Poll], you
look like a young person who, having gone and done something he is half
sorry for, is now in search of a friend who will brace him up and tell
him how wondrous wise he has been?"
Galt laughed rather nervously, rather flatly, and a dismal "Ha! ha!"
came in quick response from beneath the sofa.
"There!" the speaker went on; "did you hear that? There's the same
clear, mirthful ring in that laugh that yours had just now--so hearty!"
He threatened the girl with the walking-stick he was rolling restlessly
across his knee. "Upon my word," he said, "you are wonderfully well
named. I believe you are a true descendant of the mighty Cumaean Sybil of
old, whose peculiar business methods worried Tarquin of Rome--just as
you will in all probability worry Mr. Thrall! Sybil, do you see what
that wretched bird is about? He is cutting the buckle off your slipper."
"Go away!" exclaimed she, pushing the ancient torment from her.
"Scratch poor Poll!" hoarsely suggested the bird, cocking his head to
one side in just the manner she had been imitating a moment before.
"I won't!" she refused. "I scratched your treacherous old head for half
an hour, and had to trim my nails for my trouble! Go away, Poll! Oh,
Leslie! take him off, he's getting cross, and he'll bite my skirt full
of holes if you don't!"
And, after some little manoeuvring, the green tyrant was induced to
clamber laboriously and profanely on to the stick, and was thus carried
to Mrs. Van Camp, who cried: "Come to his mamma, then, and stop his
naughty damning! and let dear mamma scratch Poll's pretty head!" adding
aside to Galt: "It's so odd, he always speaks so much more distinctly
when he swears. Just hear how plainly he is damning me now, yet words
that I have been trying with all possible care to teach him he gives in
such guttural tones that only a loving ear can comprehend them."
"Yes," replied the young man, "it's probably an inherited preference,
since it is common to all parrots. Sailors have told me that even the
females--who do not talk, you know, save in the exceptional case that
makes the rule--even they are capable of saying 'hell!' with apparent
appreciation, though they never learn another word."
"Dear me, how interesting!" smiled Mrs. Van Camp, who then sweetly
asked: "Are you, by any chance, concerned in the establishment of
Sunday-schools in your river town?"
Amid general laughter Leslie returned to Sybil, who gurgled: "Oh, dear
boy; never again try to poke fun at my god-mother! But now that Poll has
gone, what is the matter?"
"Just this: day after to-morrow is Dorothy's birthday, and----"
"Oh!" murmured Sybil, and drew nearer with brightening eyes. "You want
to get a present for her. Well?"
"I've already got it," said Galt, anxiously, "and now I'm wondering what
she will think of it. May I show it to you, and will you tell me
honestly whether I should offer it or get something else?"
She nodded her head, and first he drew from his coat-pocket a cabinet
photograph of Mrs. Lawton, which he returned, thanking her for its, to
her, mysterious loan. Then he took from its tissue wrapping a locket.
"Oh, how pretty!" cried Sybil. "A 'D' in pearls on one side, and on the
other"--she gave him a roguish glance of understanding--"a violet in
enamel!"
But his face kept its unsmiling, anxious look. "Open it," he said.
"Is there a picture, Leslie? Oh, I am glad! An empty locket always seems
such an absurdity. Oh!" For two pictures were within. She gave a
startled glance, and continued, "Mamma! Such a good likeness, too,
and--" a pause, and, in a lower tone, she added, "and _your_ mother!"
For, looking at that fair-haired, gentle-faced woman, one saw at a
glance from whom Galt had obtained his steady gray eyes.
"You don't think Dorothy will misunderstand, do you?" he asked. "Yet it
has just occurred to me that some people shrink from reminders of, of--
Sybil, there is just that one cloud upon my perfect joy that my beloved
mother cannot know and love my promised wife!"
Raising big, tear-brimmed eyes to his face she said, gently: "Very
likely Dorrie will tell you that she can, for _her_ faith is absolutely
boundless."
"God bless her!" whispered Galt.
"Amen! to that," answered her sister. "Leslie," she went on, "your gift
is an inspiration! I did not know a man was capable of such delightful
sentiment. And Dorothy will be touched to the heart by your pathetic
little effort to share your happiness with the dear mother who is
absent."
His face cleared. "Thank you!" he said. "I see no one wears lockets at
the throat now, so I got this to suspend it from." He rose to bring from
his pocket a box. The bell rang, but they did not notice it, and the man
going to the door in his ancient and wonderfully cut mulberry livery for
once failed to wring surreptitious laughter from the young visitor. The
box held a heavy chain bracelet of gold.
"Goodness!" cried Sybil, "don't put that on Dorrie's left arm, or you
will break it again!" Then, as he slipped the gifts back into his
pocket, she said: "Leslie, dear, they are beautiful! Dorothy will be
delighted, and I love you because you are so good to her!" She took his
face between her hands, and, reaching up, kissed his cheek, and Stewart
Thrall, unannounced, entering the front room, saw her, and stood stock
still, while a sick qualm of jealousy drained the color from his face
and turned his hands to ice.
Then, like one cruelly wounded by a treachery, he recalled, with fierce
anger, those seemingly honest words, "I never had a lover in my life!"
and, out of a momentary darkness about him, came the clear voice of
Sybil, saying: "You are not looking well this morning, Mr. Thrall."
Being coldly assured he was quite as well as usual, she went on: "Let me
introduce Mr. Galt, of whom I am very proud, because I never had a
brother until Dorothy presented me with this one."
The sudden lighting of the new-comer's face, was startling as he turned
his brilliant eyes on Galt and crushed his hand in hearty greeting. "Let
me offer congratulations," he smiled. "Indeed, you should be doubly
congratulated, your position is so much more secure and agreeable as a
brother to this young lady than it would have been had she 'been a
sister to you.'"
"Oh!" laughed Sybil, "he never gave me a chance to make him that offer!
There's no flitting from flower to flower about a Galt! They may be a
bit cool and hard, but they are true!"
Thrall winced at the unconscious thrust. She slipped her hand under
Leslie's arm, and, giving it a little squeeze, added: "You see, I've
been studying up your family records along with those of the Montagues
and Capulets."
After a few courteous words the men saluted, and Sybil went on out into
the hall with Leslie, to give some final message for Dorothy before
saying good-by.
And Thrall walked to a window and leaned his head against the cool
glass. He closed his eyes and muttered to himself: "Good God! Good God!"
and yet again, in utter helplessness, "Good God!" He recalled that sick
jealousy, the almost insensate rage, that had possessed him at the sight
of that innocent caress, and said to himself: "It is useless to deny it
longer, I love that child blindly, stupidly, senselessly!" Then he
lifted his head quickly, indignantly saying: "No! no! that would mean
infatuation--the besotting, mere physical attraction, that men who are
not Galts yield to, and repent of so swiftly! No! In her, I love the
dear ideal I sought and dreamed of in young manhood. It is the purity,
the joyous spirit, the high ambition, the unawakened power of loving,
and the beauty--the sullen, smiling, changing beauty--that charms,
holds, and fascinates me! Oh, yes! I love her--no doubt left of that.
And principally because she has no right in it at all she is becoming
the ruling factor of my life. I knew the danger to myself of this daily
close companionship; yet that being the devil's plan and he my honored
master, I pretended doubt of Mordaunt's skill, and took the task of
training into my own hands. And now--well, self-deception being over, I
must trust to my powers of dissembling to hide from her the longing love
that may only speak through lips dead three hundred years ago. Ah, Will!
sweet Will Shakspere! you were ever a warm lover; but, depend upon it,
your glowing words will not be the cooler from my delivery of them!"
He laughed at his own fancy, and Sybil, returning, said: "I'm glad to
hear that laugh, Mr. Thrall; for positively, when I saw you first, I
thought you looked almost ill. And, see how unconsciously selfish one
can be, I was quite aware of a fleeting regret for a lost rehearsal,
when my better self came forward in sympathy for you! But you will
observe that I thought of my own interests first. Humanity must be very
disappointing to its Creator! What on earth is the matter with
god-mamma?"
Mrs. Van Camp, with ringed hands high in air, was summoning them both to
come to the extension-room, from whence she distantly chaperoned all
their many and prolonged rehearsals. "Come! come quickly!" she cried.
"You, neither of you, really appreciate him! And you will doubt my
assertions unless you hear him your own selves! Hush! hush!" She lifted
a warning finger, and they drew cautiously near to the big sun-flooded
window, where, on his perch, standing on one foot, the other curled up
into a bluish gray ball, stood Poll, his head on one side, a white film
drawn over his vicious old eye, while, in a rasping voice, he said, over
and over again: "'Omeo! 'Omeo!"
"Is he not wonderful?" whispered his adoring mistress.
"Why? what?" began Thrall.
But Sybil shook her head warningly, and even while Mrs. Van Camp's eyes
flashed ominously at him he understood, and exclaimed, in tones of
amazed admiration: "If he is not calling Romeo, I'm a sinner!"
"'Omeo! 'Omeo!" rasped Poll, and Mrs. Van Camp, unable to restrain
herself longer, clasped him to her bosom, whereupon he yelled and swore
and screeched, and swallowed two buttons from the front of her gown.
"Perhaps they will kill him?" hopefully whispered Thrall.
"Not a bit of it!" laughed Sybil; "they do him good! He has bolted
nearly half a string of beads for me since I've been here! Oh, is he not
awful?"
Mrs. Van Camp was finally forced to put him in his cage for punishment,
and to quiet him a blanket was being wrapped about the top, when
suddenly, with surprising distinctness, he croaked "Dead! dead!" then
"'Omeo! 'Omeo!" again. And Mrs. Van Camp, with emotion, pressed Thrall's
hands and kissed Sybil, and blessed them for their long rehearsals, that
were ending in instructing her dear, dear Polly! And the pair writhed in
a very anguish of suppressed mirth, until Mrs. Van Camp went back to her
embroidery, and their laughter in the drawing-room could be laid to the
account of "acting."
* * * * *
Next day Sybil had been presented to the company, on the stage of the
Globe. She was being announced as an amateur, and people were filled
with wonder that a young girl could pass from the drawing-room directly
to the stage. But her first scene was not over before some knowing
smiles and glances were being exchanged, and one of the actresses was
saying: "Amateur--drawing-room? Well, she is from the drawing-room, no
doubt of that; but she has halted at some other theatre before reaching
this one, for she is no amateur!"
"Oh, I don't know!" argued the "old woman," who was, of course, cast for
the Nurse. "I find her quite novicey in the 'business' of our scenes."
"That may be," replied the other speaker, a blonde person, referred to
by Roberts as "that devil divorcee!" the first term alluding to her
malicious temper, the second to the scandalous divorce that preceded her
appearance in New York. "It may be that she is not familiar with the
'business' of Juliet, but did you see her awhile ago looking for her
boa? The carpenter told her it was hanging across a chair on the 'o. p.'
side, and she crossed over instantly to get it? To an amateur the 'o.
p.' side would have been Greek. And when something was said about 'the
borders,' did you see how quickly she looked up at them? Amateur? Call
up the marines to listen to that yarn, but I was not born yesterday!"
"No, dear!" pleasantly acquiesced the other. "No one who has seen you
would make such a charge, I'm sure!"
"Oh, don't be too clever, for your own good! You shouldn't waste such
brilliant bon-mots on a mere actress!"
"Merest mere!" interrupted a voice from behind her. "Don't glare so,
you'll spoil your beautiful expression. Good Lord!"
For the angry face had suddenly wreathed itself in smiles, and the
divorcee advanced with outstretched hand to meet Sybil, who, the scene
being over, was hesitating which way to turn.
"Come and sit here by me," she cooed. "Does your throat get dry from
long speaking? Mine does." And she offered a beautiful little
bonbonniere, saying, "Try these French paste troches, they are
delicious."
And the actor, Joseph Grant, who detested her, said, aside to old Mrs.
Elmer: "Do you see that? Manice is not getting ready to pump, is she?
She'll know that pretty girl's history clear from the very day of her
birth before the next act is set."
"Not if Stewart Thrall is as clever as I think he is. There!" chuckled
the old woman. "What did I tell you? Oh, do look at Manice's face!"
For Mr. Thrall had suddenly called out, seeing who was talking to her:
"Miss Lawton! Here I am in the parquet. Your aunt would like to speak to
you during this wait!"
And no one guessed that the white-haired, upright old person attending
Sybil, as watchful chaperon, was really only Mrs. Van Camp's ancient
maid, who, at the instigation of Thrall, had been commanded thus to
masquerade. And the papers duly noted: "That the young society bud, who
had abandoned all social delights for love of art, had arrived promptly
at the stage-door, an aristocratic, white-haired lady--a
relative--accompanying her, and waiting patiently during the entire
rehearsal, thus disposing of the rumor that her family was bitterly
opposing the step she was taking."
Truly Thrall was pulling the wires, even the very little wires, for
small people must be made to dance as well as great ones, if your
ballroom is to present a really animated appearance.
Miss Cora Manice was not in the bill, and her unnecessary presence at
rehearsals met with such frowning disapproval from Thrall that she
withdrew, but with a furious face that fully presaged, to those who
understood, the tempest that burst later on, in that private office,
whose secret, shade-hung door was never used.
The other members of the company were wholly indifferent as to whether
the interloper sank or swam. Jim Roberts stood afar off, and watched
with burning, eager eyes every movement the young girl made, and his
swift anticipation of her slightest wish soon attracted attention and
comment; and one day some fellow said: "I believe Jim's gone back on
Thrall, at last, and has taken a new master."
"No," replied Joseph Grant, "you mean a new mistress!" and this
exquisite joke almost strangled maker and hearer with laughter.
The rehearsals were almost over. Scenery and properties took up much
time, and made them very wearying, but there was a delightful break when
Thrall made coffee in his office, and with Margaret, the ancient maid,
doing propriety, in the corner, he served his "queen to be" with all the
skill of a French waiter, and all the tenderness of a mother, while,
with a hearty girl's appetite, she disposed of dainty sandwiches,
coffee, and fruit--save on that one day when she ran out and gave every
blessed sandwich there was to a poor waif whom she saw from the window.
"Why did you not give him money?" Thrall asked.
"I had none," she frankly answered.
"You should have told me, then I would have given him something for
you."
She frowned a bit, and answered: "He would not have dared enter any
place about here, and I could not put him to the torture of
waiting--forgive me!"
And one day--one threatening day, when gas was burning everywhere, so
dark it was--Thrall told himself he could do no more for this creature
who had grown so precious in his secret sight. Only one thing troubled
his artistic sense: Sybil's Juliet was a trifle too frank--too boyishly
honest in her love. The soft confusion, the flushing cheek and drooping
eye, that sweetly contradict the open plainness of her speech, were
missing. He knew why it was so; and when the artist in him asked if he
would have it otherwise, the man, recalling that sick qualm of jealousy,
answered: No! no!
Rehearsal being over, Sybil had sent old Margaret home in the carriage
that Thrall had hired for them, and had herself turned downtown a few
blocks, and had then gone across to a little shop, where stage shoes
were to be tried on.
"I'm afraid Mrs. Van Camp will be angry if I leave you, Miss Sybil," the
woman had protested. "There's an awful storm coming up, too!"
"Nonsense!" said the girl, who even then had to hold her hat on with
both hands, so high was the wind. "Go on, god-mother needs you at once!
I'll be home in no time, but I can't leave those shoes another day.
Suppose they should be wrong in some way? By-by!" and, laughing, she
faced the tearing wind.
Coming from the shop she felt the rain begin to fall. She fairly flew
along the streets. Two cars passed without heeding her signal. What
should she do? The theatre? She had a right to seek shelter there,
surely, and that way she rushed. A sign came hurling through the air!
She screamed, and the next moment dashed, damp, chill, dishevelled, into
the vestibule.
At the bang of the great door young Barney, pale under the box-office
gas-light, raised his head and looked through the little window, trying
to see who was outside, but the darkness was almost that of night, and
Sybil, catching her breath in gasps, said: "I beg your pardon, Mr.
Barney, I--I have just run in here for shelter--it's awful outside!
Don't you know me? I'm Miss--Miss--" She stopped, in confusion. A tall
man was stooping to peer out over Barney's shoulder. Those well-shaped,
amazingly brilliant eyes were unmistakable. Then a voice of incredulity,
of pleased incredulity, was saying: "It's not Miss Lawton, alone in this
fearful storm, surely?"
The door was pulled open, and through the out-streaming light came
Stewart Thrall. His overcoat over one arm, and a closely furled umbrella
in the hand, whose finger and thumb also held an unlit cigar, told
plainly that he was just leaving, that had she been one single moment
later she would have found only Barney in the theatre.
Only one moment, but, oh, there are single moments full, replete, and
pregnant with possibilities--moments that may bring forth results dire
and strange! William Henry Bulkley's one moment had been sufficient for
the mad runaway of the big chestnut, and things more terrible than
horses may fiercely break away from all restraint in equally brief time.
But Sybil, shaken, breathless, and embarrassed in the dusk, made,
unconsciously, a mental, never-to-be-forgotten portrait of Stewart
Thrall standing in that informing stream of light--handsome, debonair,
stately of height, and graceful of bearing, and on his face that eager
look that made it strangely young.
He held his hand out: "Miss Lawton, is it really you? Why--good heaven,
you are wet and cold!" The wind rattled windows, doors, and signs so
that she could scarcely hear his words; but the warm pressure of his
clasping hand was comforting to her. "Where is your carriage? eh? I
can't hear you!"
Something, probably a billboard, fell with a crash against the door, and
the girl gave a violent start of terror. Suddenly Thrall turned, still
holding her hand fast. He cast his coat, umbrella, and cigar into the
office, saying sharply to Barney: "I'm not here--to anyone! You
understand?"
Barney looked up inquiringly. Their eyes met fully, and Thrall repeated:
"Not to _anyone_!" And, closing the box-office door, he felt for the
baize ones leading to the auditorium, pushed one leaf open and entered,
drawing Sybil after him by the hand. As it closed he reached up and
softly pushed the bolt.
Outside, in the office, Barney stared stupidly, then began a double
shuffle, chuckling to himself: "Oh, wait till Manice gets on to this!
But one of these days the governor will stand up to her, and then she'll
get a pointer on temper that will astonish her, I guess! He's too easy!
I wish he'd chuck her out of the company--spiteful, bleached cat!"
Undoubtedly a very vulgar-minded boy was Barney.
Inside the red baize doors Sybil was amazed to find almost perfect
silence. The auditorium, being in the very middle of the building, was
cut off from outer sounds. Even the wild shriek of the wind was greatly
softened. The darkness seemed at first complete, but the accustomed eye
could see a faint grayness at the stage end opposite them.
A row of open French boxes extended across the back of the lower circle.
Thrall laid his hat in a chair in one of them as he passed, and still
leading Sybil, said, in a cheerful, matter-of-course tone, intended to
quiet any possible uneasiness of mind: "This way, Miss Lawton! Don't be
afraid, there are no steps. The register is right in this corner, and
there is at least enough heat on to dry your damp clothing. It would be
a pretty serious thing, my young lady, for you to catch cold at this
late hour. There, you can feel a little hot air, can't you?"
The building now fairly trembled under the force of the gale, and
Thrall, with a tightening of his fingers on hers, asked, reproachfully:
"In God's name, child, what induced you to face a storm like this? Tell
me."
But in that warm, dark silence words would not come easily. She murmured
something about "god-mamma's needing Margaret's services," paused, added
a confused assurance that her "stage shoes had proved satisfactory," and
became mute.
The empty auditorium was vast, the white linen hangings, draping boxes
and dress-circle, were mysterious as the swaying mosses of a Southern
swamp. A sense of isolation came upon her, of distance from the world.
She did not seem to think consecutively, but in broken, fragmentary,
foolish bits. She wondered why Mr. Thrall was so silent. Was it
because--. She wondered if her dress was drying all around evenly--if
her boots would spoil from the heat--her mother had thought them
expensive, and--and how many nerves and pulses did one girl carry about
with her? And why need they all quiver and beat at the same time?
She drew her hand gently from Thrall's, but he took up the other that
was still in a wet and clammy glove. Silently, deftly unbuttoning and
peeling it off, he softly chafed the little member. Sybil drew a long,
slow breath--what was it that troubled her?
The darkness seemed to hide something--secret, sweet! A strange,
evanescent perfume seemed to have been left out there by beauty, wealth,
and fashion! In the mingling odors of rice-powder, orris, violet, and
fine tobacco in the close warm air there was a sensuous suggestion of
eyes and smiles, of whispers and pressed hands! The potent perfume of
human love was all about her! She moved restlessly. "I--the heat! my
head!" she whispered, and drew away from him.
He put his foot out and closed the register. "I--I must go now," she
slowly added, when there came a sound--a steady, loud sort of even roar,
and Thrall knew a very deluge of icy rain must be descending upon the
city to be heard so plainly there.
"Go?" he queried, gently. "Go? Why, my child, you could not stand on
your feet a moment--the gale would dash you to the earth. Stay here,
where you are safe."
The silence closed about them again, yet she vaguely felt there was no
calm in it--it seemed only dormant. Then dimly it came to her to ask Mr.
Thrall to let her go to the box-office to wait, when suddenly the
building shook as a toy house might have done, and there came a
deafening, rumbling crash above their very heads, it seemed, though
truly it was a chimney falling above the stage roof, and Sybil's one
wild scream of terror was smothered on Thrall's breast!
"Don't, don't, my--!" he whispered, hoarsely, holding her trembling hand
to his lips and covering it with kisses. "Don't shiver so! 'Twas
nothing! You are quite safe--quite safe! Sybil--Princess! I'd shelter
you in my arms, and guard you with my life--always! if I might! if I
might!"
His arms were about her. The dull roar of the rain was like the roaring
from a distant world--they were alone--utterly alone--in the dimness
warm and fragrant. She was all unstrung and weak from fright. His words
seemed half real, half dreamed. She raised her head--she put two
impotent little hands against his breast.
"Please!" she gasped. "I am not frightened now! I--" A strange lassitude
was upon her. A door somewhere banged heavily--she shivered as at a
blow! Her head sank back upon his breast. He bent over her, his face all
passion-pale, his heavy, drooping lids betraying their girl-like length
of lashes.
"Sybil!" he breathed.
Her eyes, wide and startled, met his. "Sybil!" he entreated.
"Sweetheart!" His lips met hers in one long, tender kiss, and the house
rocked in the fury of the gale!