AN IDEAL JULIET.
The hour was approaching. Doris, still in her hat and jacket, sat in
the tiny apartment behind the stage which served as her dressing-room.
She was paler than usual, and her eyes looked of a deeper and darker
blue than usual; but she was calm, with a calm which Jeffrey could not
attain to.
With his hands folded behind him, his head bent upon his breast--his
favorite attitude--he paced up and down the narrow limits of the room,
like a tiger in its cage, waiting for his supper.
“Will the house be full, Jeffrey?” asked Doris, presently.
“Yes,” he replied. “The pit and gallery are full now; they were waiting
at the doors as early as six o’clock. They are not fools, these
Barton people. In some places you would be sure of playing ‘Romeo and
Juliet’ to empty benches, but not here. It is a flourishing place,
and they are intelligent and educated. They have a theatre they may
be proud of, and they are proud of it. In some towns the theatre is a
neglected barn, and when that is so, you may take it that the people
are uncultivated and barbaric. Yes--you will have a fair and patient
hearing; I knew that when I chose Barton for the scene of your great
trial. In London there are so many new Juliets that the critics and the
audience have got incredulous and suspicious--they have seen so many
failures that they go prepared for disappointment; here, it will be
different. They love Shakespeare, they know you, they will hope for the
best, and you will not disappoint them,” and his eyes glittered down
upon her.
Doris smiled.
“Perhaps they will hiss me off the stage!” she said, but she did not
say it very fearfully.
He shook his head, and went on in his monotonous pacing; and presently
a familiar sound struck his ear.
“The curtain is up on the farce,” he said. “You had better begin to
dress. Is there anything I can do--anything I can suggest--anything you
would like to ask me?” he inquired, with his long, thin fingers on the
handle of the door.
Doris shook her head.
“No, Jeffrey, dear; I don’t know of anything, unless you would get into
my skin, and play Juliet instead of me.”
“You are not nervous?” he asked.
“Not a bit,” she answered; “and that is strange, isn’t it? No, I feel
as calm and easy as if I were going to play a waiting-maid’s part; but
I shall be all on the quiver when I am standing at the wings, ready to
go on.”
He nodded, as if he understood, and went out, sending her dresser to
her.
Doris dressed quietly and slowly. Jeffrey had impressed upon her the
importance of avoiding all hurry just before her appearance, and she
had finished, and was sitting before the glass, not looking at herself,
but musing, as it seemed, when he came in again.
“Dressed? That is right! The house is crammed! The manager says it is
the best house he has had since Mr. Irving was here. The boxes look
like London boxes, people in evening dress, and ladies with flowers.”
He stood in front of her, and scanned her dress and get-up keenly.
The dress was of white satin, made quite plainly, with a long train,
its only ornament a row of pearls, which were not stage jewels, but
real, and of great value, and a present from Jeffrey himself. Her dark
hair, looking black by the light, fell round her exquisitely-shaped
face like a frame, and, caught up by a white ribbon behind, swept in
curving tresses to her shoulders. The faint touch of rouge--every
actress must rouge, whether she likes it or not--gave the intense blue
eyes an added depth and brilliance, which the long dark lashes veiled
now and again, but to rise and render the brilliance and color more
marked by their temporary concealment.
It was not his way to praise her beauty, but as he turned away he
muttered something that sounded like approval.
“Did you see any one you know, in front, Jeffrey?” she asked.
“No,” he said, almost impatiently. “I know no one! I suppose all the
people in the boxes are county people, I do not know! I only care for
the pit and gallery; it is from them you must get your verdict, the
boxes and stalls will follow suit.”
“Poor county people!” she said, with a smile, but absently.
“Of what are you thinking--the third scene?” he asked.
Doris started, and the natural color forced its way through the powder
and rouge. She was not thinking of Romeo and Juliet at all, but of the
handsome face that lay in her lap yesterday afternoon, of the young
fellow whose name was Cecil Neville.
“I--I don’t know,” she said, faltering a little. “I think I was
dreaming, Jeffrey.”
“Then you must wake up,” he retorted firmly, but not unkindly. “I heard
the curtain go down on the farce. Will you have a glass of wine?”
She shook her head, and looked at him with smiling surprise.
“And you, who are always preaching against it!” she said.
“I know,” he admitted; “but to-night----”
The manager knocked at the door. He was a keen business man, just
and not ungenerous, and he nodded and smiled at the beautiful vision
admiringly and encouragingly.
“Beautiful house, Miss Marlowe,” he said, “and in the very best of
tempers; a child might play with them to-night.”
“Ah, it is only a child who is going to play to them, Mr. Brown!” said
Doris.
He laughed approvingly.
“By George, that’s good! I must remember that. How do you feel?”
“Frightened out of my life!” said Doris. “Do not be surprised if I
forget my part, and am hissed off!” but her smile belied her words.
“If you are I’ll close the theatre and take to--market gardening!”
retorted the manager.
“Let her alone! I do not want her to talk!” growled Jeffrey, and Mr.
Brown, shrugging his shoulders and making a grimace behind the bent
back, glanced at his watch and hurried off, saying--
“Ten minutes, Miss Marlowe!”
“Ten minutes!” said Doris, dreamily. “Leave me now, Jeffrey, dear.”
He laid his hand on her shoulder and looked down at her with a world of
wistful tenderness and pride and loving anxiety.
“Do your best, Doris!” he said.
“I will, for your sake, Jeffrey!” she responded, touching his hand
caressingly.
“No, for your art’s,” he said, gravely. “I shall be at the wings.”
Now that she was left alone, Doris tried to concentrate her thoughts
upon the coming ordeal; but she could not. Each time she tried to
picture herself upon the stage and speaking the lines set down for
Juliet, the voice of Cecil Neville rang in her ears, and with a low
cry, almost of alarm, she put her hands to her head.
“Ah, that’s stage fright!” said the dresser. “I know what it is,
miss; I’ve had it myself, in my old acting days. But it will pass off
directly you face the house, depend upon it. Don’t you be afraid and
nervous; for, Miss Marlowe, I’ve heard that the very first actors feel
like that, some of them every night, too!”
Doris laughed softly.
“Do they, Mrs. Parkhouse?” she said. “Then there is hope for me. There
is the overture over. Not many minutes now; the curtain is up!”
She bent her head upon her hands and forced herself to think of
the scene that was at that moment being played, to think of the
good-looking young fellow--a great Barton favorite--who was playing
Romeo; but marvel of marvels, instead of his face, which she knew so
well, there rose before her, as Romeo, the face over which she had bent
yesterday.
“Ah, it is no use, no use!” she cried, springing up.
“Oh, don’t say that, miss!” said Mrs. Parkhouse, who had been watching
her with respectful anxiety. “I’m sure--we’re all of us sure and
certain that it will be a success. It will all go right directly you
get on to the stage.”
“Do you think so?” said Doris, with a curious smile. “I hope so--ah, I
hope so; if not----”
“Juliet!” shouted the call boy; and leaving her sentence unfinished,
Doris caught up her train and went to the wings.
The Barton Theatre was a properly conducted one, and none but those
who had business there were permitted behind the scenes; but Doris
had to pass through a small crowd of actors and supernumeraries and
carpenters, and she felt rather than saw the curious glances bent upon
her.
But instantly Jeffrey was by her side.
“It has gone well, so far,” he said. “Mr. Brown was right; the house
is in good humor, notwithstanding the heat and that it is packed. You
played well, Mr. Garland,” he said to the Romeo, who came striding up
and bowed to Doris.
“Did I? Thanks. Not nearly so well as I shall do when I have Juliet to
play to. May I, without offense, say that you are looking your part
most beautifully, Miss Marlowe?”
Doris inclined her head with a smile.
“Romeo should pay compliments, Mr. Garland, and that is a very pretty
one. But I want to do more than look my part!”
“Don’t be afraid,” said the young fellow, gallantly and seriously. “I
haven’t the slightest fear of the result. It will be a big hit; I have
said so all along.”
“And you should know!” said Doris. “I wish I felt as sure.”
“Your cue!” said Jeffrey in a solemn voice, as he touched her arm
warningly.
She started slightly, then with the light, careless gait of a
light-hearted, careless girl, who has no forecast of the doom hanging
over her, she went upon the stage.
A greater part of the audience knew her, but they were astonished by
the sight of her beauty, rendered more beautiful by the exquisite
dress, and they led the thunder of welcome which the strangers, who saw
her for the first time, followed as heartily.
Doris had been taught by Jeffrey that to stop the business of the scene
to acknowledge applause was a cardinal sin, and commenced at once, and
the crowded house fell into instant silence, in which her sweet, clear
voice rang like a silver bell.
A round of applause marked the close of the scene, but there was not
much enthusiasm in it.
She had looked a very typical Juliet, had played her part well, but
there was nothing extraordinary in her acting.
“That’s right, Miss Marlowe!” said Romeo, as she passed him at the
wing. “Saving yourself up! Reserve force, and all that! Quite right!
You’ll let yourself go in the later scenes!”
“Well?” she said to Jeffrey, as he threw a silk shawl over her and drew
her into a corner out of the draughts.
“It is for you to answer that,” he said, quietly. “It was well done;
quietly and with self-possession.”
“I see!” she said, growing pale. “I have failed!”
“No!” he almost shouted; then, in a low voice that quavered: “It is
not your best scene. It ought to be cut out. It is sometimes. You have
nothing to fear. Did you see the house?”
She shook her head.
“No, I did not look.”
He nodded approvingly.
“That’s right. Take no notice of them! Don’t look beyond the
footlights, and--and--the next scene is a trying one--but I don’t want
to make you nervous!”
“You will not make me nervous,” she said, almost sadly. “I wish that I
could feel it more than I do----”
She turned away, and her lips quivered.
The ballroom was set, crowds of supers were hurrying on to the stage;
the orchestra was playing the familiar music; the audience were
applauding the really handsome scene. Then her time came, and she
went on, and the house listened and watched with rapt attention. When
she went off, there was a distinct round of applause, but still not
enthusiastic; the fire was wanting yet!
There were two London critics in the stalls, and they exchanged glances
and comments.
“Awfully pretty girl!” said one.
“And a lady. Plays well, too,” responded the other.
“Ye-es,” assented the first. “Not at all badly, but, somehow, doesn’t
she strike you as being out of the part, so to speak? Seems as if she
were going through it in a dream! But she’s as beautiful as a dream,
too!”
The balcony scene came on--the scene in which a Juliet, who is a
Juliet, can display her powers to the best advantage. In this scene are
opportunities for the display of love and tenderness, maidenly fear and
modesty, and womanly passion, which no other play can afford.
Jeffrey, pacing to and fro behind the wings, with fingers lacing and
unlacing themselves, was devoured by anxiety, mitigated by hope.
“Now or never!” he muttered. “This is the scene! Oh! Doris, Doris! Now
you raise my heart to the seventh heaven, or break it!--break it!”
“Awfully pretty scene, Miss Marlowe,” said Romeo, as they stood
together for a moment or two; “you’ll let yourself go now, I expect!”
“Shall I?” she said, dreamily, almost absently. “I don’t know.”
He looked at her curiously.
“Yes, I think I’d put all I know into this,” he said, gently and
respectfully. “It’s a big scene for both of us.”
“Yes,” she said, in a low voice. Then she glided past him and took her
place on the balcony.
The scene began, the audience was as silent as the grave, as Romeo
entered and made his well-known speech.
Then Doris moved forward to the edge of the balcony, and into the glare
of limelight that poured down upon her.
And then a strange thing occurred. As she sighed, that well-known sigh,
she raised her eyes and all unconsciously looked toward the house.
It was almost darkened; but a single light had been left in the
chandelier, and it fell upon the handsome face of a young man sitting
in the centre box. He was leaning forward, his eyes fixed upon her
face, a strange intent expression in them. His face was pale, his
hands clasped tightly on the velvet lining of the box-edge, his whole
expression that of one surprised, amazed, bewildered and fascinated.
She saw the face for a moment only, but she recognized it.
It was the one over which she had bent on the preceding day; it was
Cecil Neville’s!
The color rose to her face, and her hands, clasped tightly on the
balcony edge, trembled. Then she went pale again, and her eyes were
raised to the moon.
Then she spoke, and again, marvel of marvels! the very tones of her
voice seemed altered. There was no longer any trace of the cold
abstraction which had marred the preceding scenes.
Melting, ravishing, they fell upon the audience like drops of dew upon
sun-baked travelers.
A thrill seemed to run through the house. Romeo, experienced actor as
he was, felt the change, the difference, and actually almost faltered.
Then they took up the scene. No need to dwell upon it; every one knows
it; there is no other like it in the whole range of English literature.
Like notes of music, sounding the full depths of a girl’s pure passion,
her words dropped from her perfect lips. Her face was like a poem
of Dante Gabriel Rosetti’s; pale, passion-pale, yet eloquent. Every
gesture--as she swept the dark, silky hair from her forehead with an
impatient movement; as she bent forward in the keen hope of touching
Romeo’s hand; as she kissed her fingers to him; as she pressed her
throbbing heart, full to o’erbrimming with love--every gesture was
noted and dwelt upon by the enraptured audience, and when the scene
closed, a wild and unanimous burst of applause rolled like thunder from
pit to boxes, from boxes to pit!
They clapped, they stamped, they cheered. It almost seemed as if a
crowd of rational beings had taken leave of their senses. In plain
truth, she had witched the hearts out of them, and they were fascinated.
Romeo stood, for the first time in his experience, at a loss what to
do, till there rose from the pit a cry, “Juliet, Juliet!” Then he went
to the wings and, breathless, grabbed at her hand.
“Come on!” he said, excitedly.
But Jeffrey held her fast by the arm. He was pale and trembling, but
his voice was stern and grim.
“No!” he said. “Not yet! This is nothing. Let them wait till the last
scene; then--then, if they want her, she shall go, but not till then!”
The two London critics in the stalls exchanged glances.
“Wonderful bit of acting,” said one. “Really wonderful for so young a
girl!”
“Yes,” assented the second; then he added thoughtfully, “I wonder what
made her wake up. It came quite suddenly, did you notice?”
There was one person in the theatre, one out of the whole crowd,
however, who neither clapped nor cheered, but sat perfectly silent. It
was Lord Cecil Neville. He sat, breathing slowly and heavily, like one
under a spell, his eyes fixed on the spot where she had stood, all his
senses in thrall.