THE WOMAN IN THE BOX
At the Globe Theatre they were settling down to a long and brilliant
run. Thrall had staged the old play splendidly, costumed it royally,
rehearsed it to exact precision of movement, and cast it with such
knowledge, such consideration for the requirements of each character
that the fiery Tybalt, the stately Prince, the benignant Friar Laurence,
and the grotesque Peter were not more judiciously placed than the
Apothecary, Gregory, or the Page. "Romeo and Juliet" had "caught the
town"; for once the matinee girl had two idols in the same theatre.
Never, never had Thrall been so raved over. In his desire to make
himself look as youthful as possible for the early acts, he had
permitted the Lefebvres to costume him in white, from his cap and
floating ostrich plume down to his shoes; but shoes with yellow
leathered heels, cloak lined with a golden yellow satin, that reappeared
in such trunk puffings and love-knots of yellow lustre that all
suggestion of coldness was lost in extreme richness and delicacy.
Indeed, in grace and beauty and extravagance, he was the ideal courtly
young popinjay of Verona--the idolized only son and heir of the mighty
family of Montague.
And Juliet? Truly they were a pair to joy the eye of poet or of
painter! From the moment when she appeared upon the scene and the
laughing mockery of her "How now! who calls?" to the Nurse, had changed
into the respectful "Madam, I am here!" to her mother, the public had
been enslaved by the vividness of the dark and changeful beauty of her
girlish face.
For Thrall's was the artificial youth of the wig, the grease paint; of
skilful costuming and brilliant acting; a youth that does not care to
come quite down to the footlights. But Sybil was so young that even some
of the dear gaucheries of the still growing girl showed faintly in her
and made tender tears start to some very worldly eyes; therefore but
little was expected from her in the way of acting. So, when at the end
of the first act Juliet learns from the Nurse that the young masker is
really a Montague, her moaning words,
"My only love sprung from my only hate;
Too early seen unknown, and known too late!"
were given in tones so helpless and amazed, and she stood so dazed and
motionless under the shock of her discovery, that with a great roar of
applause the audience hailed the actress in her!
Sybil had given much thought to her part, and she had advanced some
ideas of her own now and then when Thrall was teaching her the
"business" of the play, as, for instance, in the potion scene. The
Juliets generally rave and wildly scream the line:
"As with a club, dash out my desperate brains!"
and, if they have strength left, scream louder still the
"----Stay, Tybalt, stay!--"
and then, having swallowed the potion, declare it has
"----chilled me to the heart!"
that their "senses fail" them, etc., but still in fullest voice cry
they:
"Oh, Romeo! Romeo!"
and collapse.
When this was being explained Sybil asked gravely, but with dancing
eyes: "Where were the rest of the Capulet family that night, I wonder?
Such a dreadful row would bring the entire household, maids and
stable-boys included, to the rescue. I thought this potion-taking was a
secret between the Friar, Romeo, and Juliet? I believed she was half
suffocated with the horror of the scenes she conjured up, and gasped the
words out. Then that scream would be just as effective, I should think,
if she fell on her knees near the bed and stifled her shrieks in the
pillows or the bed-clothing. Would not the suppressed, almost
whispering, voice add to the sense of secrecy--of danger?"
And Thrall, whenever it was possible, permitted her small innovations,
was even proud of them, as evidences of her natural ability. And so it
came about that this new Juliet had a tang of originality about her that
was delightful to the old theatre-goer; while the remarkable
appreciation of the public for sheer physical beauty was shown night
after night in the rounds of applause it bestowed, one after another,
before a line was spoken by the ill-fated lovers as they were
"discovered" in Juliet's chamber.
Thrall had taken his idea in part from a picture he had seen abroad. The
balcony of Juliet's wide-open window, all swathed in vines, lay before
the audience. The silken ladder, plainly seen between the tubbed
oranges, dangled from the ledge; the room in some disorder; the
bed-curtains drawn close; low burnt candles on the dressing-table;
Juliet with feet thrust into small Turkish mules, all free from pearls
or ornament of any kind--a sort of idealized robe de chambre, white,
trailing voluminously, frothed with lace, its open wing-like sleeves
touching the floor, fell free from chin to foot, while all the dark mass
of hair tumbling riotously over shoulders and clouding about her level,
tragic brows suggested the new dear freedom of the nuptial chamber.
In the picture, then, that the public loved, Romeo, close cap on head,
long travelling cloak depending from his shoulders--being under the ban
of the law--was secretly about to leave his few hours-made bride. Out on
the balcony, with right foot on the silken ladder, he rested the left
bent knee upon the balcony's ledge. With right arm aloft he steadied
himself by holding to the vines above, while with his left arm he
crushed the slender, white-robed figure close. Upon his breast her face
was resting, with maddening lips and glowing eyes uplifted, her round
young arms wreathing his neck; the warm, soft hair flowing over his
hand and arm, seeming to him magnetic, alive, tingling!
So he stood, a gracious shape, with regular fine features, with heavy
amorous lids and sweeping black lashes that, downcast, helped to soften
the almost savage love burning in the blue depths of his bold eyes.
No more perfect picture of physical beauty and passionate, romantic love
could be imagined, and it was nightly received with admiring applause,
beneath which his whisper came to her: "My beloved! my beloved!"
And her eyes would sink and all her throat flush red, for she had lived
a lover's life-time during that one storm-shaken kiss--and she
understood!
Others, too, there were who, though they heard no whispered word, saw
the lowered lids and moving lips of Thrall, and, knowing him of old,
guessed the rest.
And Roberts groaned and Manice was so like a spitting cat that poor Jim
said wearily one night: "Look out, Thrall! I know the wrong side of
woman pretty well, and that bleached friend of yours is going to play
you a trick before long--either you or--or--" He could not force himself
to speak the name, but looked so piteously at the manager that Thrall
nodded, answeringly: "All right, Jim! all right! She can try all the
tricks she likes on me! The--the other person's safe enough--they don't
come in contact, you know! Why, you're all to pieces, and imagine
things!"
"She's dangerous, I tell you!" persisted Jim.
"She's a coward!" contemptuously replied Thrall. "Besides, if you must
know, I've succeeded in shipping her. She's to be starred in a comedy
next season. Jake Huntley takes her out."
"Humph!" said Jim, "that must cost you something?"
"Well, yes! But better pay your piper quietly when your dance is over,
and not stop to count your pennies. I'm mighty lucky to get rid of a
firebrand so peaceably."
"You look out, Thrall!" repeated Jim, nervously. "Don't you see that's
unnatural conduct for her? She is laying a trap for you--look out, I
say!"
"Oh, come out and take a nip of something. You want bracing--come on!"
But in a fortnight's time Thrall saw Roberts's fears justified.
Miss Manice, enraged by her "release"--theatrical synonym for
"dismissal"--even when profiting most by the managerial generosity, was
making secret use of that coward's weapon, the anonymous letter, and
each foreign mail day was watched for eagerly, and Thrall's face studied
covertly with treacherous feline eyes that sought there some reflex pain
or fear from the wounds she was dealing to another--until at last she
was rewarded.
Sybil was living in a sort of trance. Stewart Thrall had become her only
law. This great success she accepted as a direct gift from him. She had
been so helplessly poor, friendless! He, only, had discovered some
talent in her, and she had been at first ashamed because she was
dependent upon him for all the means of making anything of herself
until--until, oh, pride! oh, joy! wonderful! inexplicable! he loved her!
Then all was changed. She could go to him in every difficulty--she could
accept help, instruction, everything, without thought of shame. Before,
she had simply regarded him as the master of a beautiful art, as a stern
and exacting teacher, whose approval was hard to win--until love came to
glorify and lift her up to the high throne of his heart.
And so absolute, so unquestioning was her faith and pride and trust,
that she had as yet no thought at all of shame or of wrong done, but
breathed the incense of public worship and read and re-read her printed
praises, and saw the turning heads in the street, the nudging elbows,
heard the swift whisper: "There she is--there's Sybil Lawton!" and all
day long dreamed of that moment on the balcony when they two were as
alone as though they stood upon an island and the applause was surf
thundering an accompaniment to his passion-choked words.
It was a double intoxication--that of both mind and heart. For a little
space her life was pure joy, without one clouding thought of--_after_;
without conscious knowledge of the envy and calumny, the conflict and
detraction going on about her. Occasionally she heard allusions to the
"Missus," as when some one would "wonder how the Missus would like this
or that," and once or twice she had intended to ask Jane Stivers whether
it was a nickname or just a slang term. But what did it matter--what did
anything matter?--save to win the approbation of Stewart Thrall, and
consequently the public.
And Thrall, spoiled by the world, looking back along the twenty arid
years between them, saw dead passions cast aside like so many outworn
gloves; knew the price of every illegitimate whim, and had seen his own
danger. Yet instead of flying from it he had trusted to the strange new
desire he felt to help, to guard, to advance the interests of another,
and now he found himself dominated by a great passion, such a one as
none who knew him gave him credit for.
Jim Roberts writhed miserably, crying: "She thinks he loves her! Great
God! See her worshipping eyes! But it's not love with him--it's the joy
of the pursuit; damn him! Why, oh, why do good women always love such
men? Even if I were a man instead of a miserable wreck, just trembling
to the fall--my reverent worship, my humble, waiting, devoted love would
stand no chance against him or one like him! But why?"
Poor Jim did not know that it is the bold man, who, not restrained by
deep respect, pushes past the reverent waiting one, and speaking first,
is first loved; and worthiness all unconsidered!
But now he judged Thrall from his conduct in the past and groaned to
himself: "He will leave her, just as he did my little Bess--not so soon,
perhaps. This girl is many-sided and fascinating, and will not pall so
soon, but the change will come. Not to her, though--Heaven bless her!
She's as true as steel. Hot and fierce of temper if much tried, but
loyal for life! No, the change will be in him. But when he puts her away
from him--I'll put him away from the world he ko-tow's to so devotedly!
I will, I swear it! in spite of threatening chair or noose! How cleverly
he played his cards in placing the poor child under the
'protection'--God be merciful to the protected!--of that smug-faced,
lynx-eyed hypocrite, Stivers, who would sell her soul for money! Had he
really wanted Miss Lawton guarded, guided, and watched over, why did he
not place her with old Mrs. Elmer--as good a woman and as true a lady as
ever lived? But no, she is not a servant; she could not be dismissed or
sent away on conveniently important matters of business. Sometimes I
think Mrs. Elmer begins to suspect Thrall of a new treachery to the
Missus, whom she is really fond of, because they are both English, I
suppose. And I can see how sad the good old actress's face is as she
watches the by-play between manager-actor and his beautiful young
'find.' But no matter what she may think, there'll be no scandal of her
starting. And so far Sybil Lawton's own frankness has been her perfect
concealment. Her immeasurable admiration of his 'manly grace and fine
eyes,' her unstinted gratitude for his 'teaching and help,' are
expressed openly, fervently, and as yet cause only concealed amusement.
But Cora Manice is not deceived. Jealous eyes are as sharp as they are
cruel. I should know, for my own show me many torturing things that
other people are quite blind to; and when her sugary words of
compliment became but vehicles for wounding sneer and cutting
criticism, Thrall's cold anger and his expressed desire that Miss Lawton
should not associate further with her told her spiteful catship all
there was to tell. And if she does not drag this poor girl's name into a
scandal, it will not be for want of stealthy trying. She dare not
antagonize Thrall openly. If she did, her chance of starring would soar
some hundred feet higher than 'Gilderoy's kite.' But oh, poor little
girl! your beauty and your genius, like the bloom and perfume of the
flower, act as lures to the roving, inconstant seeker of nectar. Your
life will be spoiled--if it be not already. Why could Stewart Thrall not
leave you alone? You would have made your way slowly, but surely and
naturally. But it's no use to speculate now on what might have been.
Thrall, who finds it difficult to say 'no' to anyone, could not say it
to himself to save his immortal soul from burning fire! And so he wins
your dear love, and by and by he will cast it away, and then my
beautiful--I'll----"
Jim laughed unsteadily; his pale eye had a greenish animal glare. "I'm a
mere wreck--a poor broken-down, drunken actor; and yet it's curious how
often it happens that the shaking, unaccustomed hand sends in the
killing shot!"
But Stewart Thrall loved Sybil with a difference. His life had become a
drear, monotonous triviality. He had been sick to death of those brief
amours that ring truest to the sound of gold. Love had so long
degenerated into a coarse appetite that it had at last become veritable
dead-sea fruit to him. But this little girl had thrilled him into life
again, had aroused his ambition, touched his heart to tenderness and
respect and love--real love, that made him try to be the man she thought
him, that made him shake with fear lest she find him unworthy--as he
knew himself to be. His passion was so adorned with poetry and grace and
charm, so surrounded with every illusion his intellect could invent,
that a wiser than Sybil Lawton might well have been swept
unquestioningly into his arms.
He knew the abyss he faced. He knew there was that "afterward," but he
had trusted blindly to his own powers of concealment--to his
self-control. Stewart Thrall's self-control! Truly, the devil has many a
jest offered him in all gravity!
But right or wrong--and it was all very wrong--he loved her with heart
and brain, and being what he was, the immediate moment was sufficient.
He was careful of the conventions, but so far as he dared he surrounded
his Princess, his beloved, with the enchantments of luxury. Her rooms
were bowers of flowers (they bore various cards on arrival), rare books,
precious bibelots; but his fierce jealousy denied her a living pet. And
in this fool's paradise they were walking, their feet among the grasses
and the flowers, their beautiful mad heads high in the clouds, when the
curtain rose on the play one night.
The crowded house watching for Juliet's coming, at her laughing "How
now, who calls?" broke into welcoming applause, which continued so long
that she was forced to acknowledge the greeting. As she turned again
and faced her mother, Lady Capulet, she saw a woman in the stage-box.
She was alone. She leaned forward a little and looked intently,
piercingly straight into her face, and Sybil noticed that the woman's
hand resting on the box ledge clenched itself hard.
Why, she could not have told, but at that movement her heart gave a
frightened bound, and she was glad to get off the stage. She found
herself strangely nervous during the balcony scene, but she could not
see the strange woman from that side, and was happily forgetting her.
But no sooner was she in line with the box again than its occupant fixed
her as a basalisk might. No matter what went on, no matter who was
speaking, those slowly moving pale-blue eyes with their whity lashes
followed her, measuring her height, movements, her very heart-throbs, it
seemed to the puzzled, distressed girl. She felt that there was
something threatening, inimical, in the very air about her. When the
chamber scene began, as she stood on the balcony with Romeo, she was
instantly aware of the new rigid clasp of his arm, of the pallor about
his mouth, and the sternness that shone in his erstwhile amorous eyes.
Sensitive and quick, she translated these signs into disapproval of her
work; her nervousness must have made her lose some point, blur some
delicate passage or slur over some all-important sentence, she thought,
and she tightened her arms about his neck, and whispered with dark eyes
wide, like a pleading child: "Master, are you vexed? Is my work
ill-done?" The rigid arm grew flexible and drew her close. The stern
eyes fell to the level of her glance. "It's not negligence," she went
on, "it's that woman with the cold, pale eyes--she frightens me!"
He whispered swiftly, "Pay no heed! Ignore her! Let others tremble who
have cause!"
Tenderly he drooped the black-lashed, heavy lids which his followers
adored, and, looking on his Juliet's face, he thought her mouth was like
a fresh red rose, all dewy sweet and pure; and suddenly, for them, the
applause was pierced by a short laugh--sneering, cold, and wounding. It
might have been the sharp, cold thrust of an icicle, so violently Thrall
started at the sound, and as the act moved on and Sybil faced again the
occupant of the box, a slow, contemptuous smile grew about the woman's
lips--a smile so injuriously significant that a flood of color rushed
over Sybil's face and breast and arms, and her confusion and
bewilderment were so great that those who shared the scene had once or
twice to prompt her. Indeed, she might have failed utterly had she not
recalled the tenderly whispered words, "Pay no heed; ignore her."
Stewart's word was law. He said "ignore" this cruel, sneering creature,
and she would obey and play her best--but, oh, she would be glad when
the play was over!
Sybil next became conscious of a certain amount of
excitement--suppressed, yet evident, behind the scenes--whisperings and
nudges and smiles that were gone the moment Thrall appeared; and,
somehow, she felt that she was involved in what was going on; it was
all vague, unreal, like a dream.
Stivers, thin of figure, in black gown and white apron--her flat, hard
chest covered with a sort of breastplate of neatly quilted-in needles of
all numbers and pins of all sizes--had sidled into an entrance that
commanded a view of the stranger's box, a most unusual thing for her to
do, who rarely left the dressing-room save to carry Juliet's train as
far as the stage and at once return. But there she was and Jim Roberts,
dressed and ready for the Apothecary, stood shaking like a leaf beside
her, and as she approached she heard him say: "I knew it! I knew she had
some devil's trick in mind! That's Manice's work over there, bringing
her back from London! Oh----"
He stopped at sight of Sybil, and moved away a bit. She was just opening
her lips to send Stivers for Mr. Thrall when a door slammed opposite,
and she glanced across.
It has been said that Thrall was a man who never forgot appearances,
never disregarded the customary, regular social conventions, and now he
was doggedly doing "the proper thing" in full view of the admiring
public and the observant critic. For in his stage costume he, seemingly
taking care to keep well back, was greeting with empressement the chill,
flaxen blond woman there, leaning toward her to catch her valued
remarks, and doing the agreeably surprised with such inimitable grace
that Sybil's pained amazement at the sight wrung from her the question:
"Who is that woman in the box?"
Stivers slid quietly away. Miss Manice, who had been "in front," came
back just then, her mean little face all aglow with satisfaction, and
she it was who answered: "That, my dear? Why, that's the Missus."
Sybil looked almost stupidly at her. Manice laughed. "Don't you
hunderstand low-class Henglish?" she jeered, "or have you really never
heard of her before?"
"Who is the Missus?" slowly asked the girl.
And Manice answered, sharply: "She is Mrs. Stewart Thrall!"
It was Jim Roberts who caught Sybil as she fell, and, as he carried her
past Manice, he whispered: "I'd like to kill you, you viper!"
"Y-e-s?" she sneered, "I suppose your boss is too big game for you to
tackle; but he's the party you ought to kill, if you will insist on
being so melodramatic."
And over in the box Mrs. Thrall, who had seen the fall, remarked,
coolly: "There seems to be a commotion over there. Oh, I wouldn't leave
the box suddenly if I were you; it might not look well, and you are
always so careful of appearances." But Thrall was rushing back to the
stage like a madman.