FOR HIM ALONE.
Doris went home, her heart throbbing with an emotion which was half
pain, half joy.
Lord Cecil Neville had asked her to meet him to-morrow. “I promise
nothing!” she had said, and when she said it she fully meant that she
would not come; and yet, now, as she walked hurriedly to the lodgings,
she knew that when the morrow arrived, she would feel drawn to the spot
as the steel is drawn to the magnet.
But if she had promised nothing, he had promised. He had said that he
would be at the theatre that night, and she remembered how her heart
had leaped at his words; even now they rang sweetly in her ears.
Heaven only knows with what delight she dwelt upon the thought that he
would be present, listening to her as she spoke the passion-laden words
of Juliet.
All this was joy, but the pain came on. Alas, that all our joy should
be attended so closely by that grim companion.
“Love’s feet are softly shod with pain.”
says the poet.
For the first time in her young life she had a secret from Jeffrey. It
had been difficult to tell him yesterday of her acquaintance with Lord
Cecil Neville; she felt now that it would be impossible to tell him,
for she knew that she could not recount the incidents of their meeting
without letting him know how interested she had become in this young
nobleman, whose head had rested on her knee, and whose face haunted her
night and day.
And she knew that once she had told Jeffrey, he would forbid her even
to see or speak to Lord Neville again. And this seemed too dreadful for
her to bear.
Yes, it had come to this: that the great actress, with the heart and
purity of a child, had become so interested, so fascinated--if that is
the right word--with this stranger, that the thought of not seeing him
again, or hearing his voice, was intolerable.
Her steps grew less hurried as she neared home, and her thoughts had
crystalized into this shape.
“After all, where is the harm? He is good and kind, and I have so few
friends--no one, excepting dear old Jeffrey!--that I cannot afford
to lose him. Besides, I shall act better if I know that he is in the
theatre. I don’t know why that is, but it is so. And Jeffrey ought to
be glad of that. Oh, if I could only tell him! But I cannot!”
Once during the day she did make the effort; she began to talk about
the fields and the beautiful on-coming of spring, but Jeffrey would not
listen. He was full of the business of the theatre, full of expected
offers from the great London managers, and paid no attention to what
she was saying, merely remarking that, after all, the open air was the
place to study in.
To study in! Yes, she knew that! It was in the open air that she
had first seen Lord Neville, and learned the way to speak Juliet’s
“Good-night!”
She did not leave the house again that day, but spent it studying her
part. There were one or two points that she had missed, so Jeffrey
said, and she went over them again and again.
And how do you think she mastered them? By imagining that Lord Neville
was the Romeo, and it was for love of him she suffered and died!
“It was wrong?” Yes, but life is full of wrong, and it is not until
youth is passed; and experience is gained, that we learn to distinguish
the wrong from the right.
The night came, and with it the fly to carry them to the theatre.
There was an immense crowd collected outside the pit and gallery doors,
and the manager met them with the glad tidings that all the reserved
seats were taken.
“An immense success, my dear Miss Marlowe. You have hit them hard!” he
said, smiling and nodding.
That he had only spoken truly was patent from the welcome which she
received when she made her first appearance. A roar went up and shook
the very chandelier, as the slim, graceful, girlish figure entered from
the wings.
As is usual, I believe, with actors, for some minutes she could not
see beyond the footlights; but presently she began to distinguish
faces in the hazy glow, and she saw the handsome, tanned face she had
expected--and longed for!
He had come then, as he had promised!
He was in the box he had occupied on the preceding night; leaning
forward, his hands clasped on the velvet edge, his eyes following her
every movement.
She lost all consciousness of the rest of the audience, and played only
to those rapt, attentive eyes.
Every word she uttered she spoke to him, every glance of the blue
eyes--which grew violet when she was agitated--though bent upon the
Romeo on the stage, was meant for the one face in the vast audience.
She played, if anything, better than she had played last night, and the
manager came to her to tell her so.
“Better and better, Miss Marlowe!” he said, bowing and smiling. “If you
go on like this----”
“The house is crammed,” said Jeffrey, who was standing near the wings
with a shawl to throw over Doris’s shoulders, for like that of most
country theatres, the Barton one was rich in draughts.
“Yes,” said the manager, “and a first-class audience. Did you notice
those two side boxes?”
Jeffrey looked.
“They have both got the curtains drawn,” he said.
The manager laughed.
“Yes. They have been drawn like that since the first scene. I expect
that a London manager is behind each, eh, Miss Marlowe? Ah, I shan’t be
able to keep you long!”
Doris smiled absently and passed on to her dressing-room.
But in the next act she happened to look up at the right-hand box, and
she saw that the curtains had been drawn aside.
She glanced at it with the pre-occupied look of an actor, and saw that
the only occupant of the box was a young and very beautiful girl, with
dark, flashing eyes, and bright, golden hair.
The other box remained screened, and the occupant invisible.
The play proceeded, and then came the shower of bouquets.
Now, Barton is not a floral town by any means, so that the bouquets
which fell at the feet of the girlish Juliet must have been procured at
some pains and trouble. The Romeo filled his arms with them, and one
only remained lying on the stage.
It was a magnificent bouquet of white and purple violets, and as it
fell, Doris, looking up, saw the handsome face of Lord Neville close to
the stage in the orchestra stalls.
She stooped and raised the bouquet and glanced at him, but this time
she did not lift the flowers to her lips.
As she passed off, the manager touched her arm.
“I’ve found out who it is that’s got the box on the prompt side,” he
said; “it’s Lady Grace Peyton, the great London beauty. She’s staying
at Barton Towers, the Marquis of Stoyle’s place, you know.”
“At Barton Towers!” said Doris. Then she went to the side of the
proscenium and looked at the box in which Lady Grace’s face was just
visible. “How beautiful she is!” she murmured.
“Yes, I should think so!” said the manager. “Why, she’s the
professional beauty of the season; it’s an honor to have her in the
theatre! And who else do you think is here?” he added, exultingly.
“I don’t know,” said Doris, moving away.
“Why, Lord Cecil Neville, the marquis’ nephew, and he was here last
night! What do you think of that? It isn’t only the pit and gallery
that have gone mad over you, Miss Marlowe, but the gentry, too! Just as
I said last night! Lord Cecil Neville; I daresay you haven’t heard of
him, but he’s the best-known man in London. I wish I knew who was in
the other box, but I can’t find out.”
“Perhaps it’s the marquis himself,” said Doris, with an absent smile.
“Oh! no!” said the manager; “he’d be with Lord Neville or Lady Grace!
No, it’s not the marquis!”
She went and dressed for the last and great scene, and when she came
out found Jeffrey pacing up and down.
“Better than last night, Doris,” he said nodding, and glancing at her
under his thick frowning brows. “You have made all the points to-night;
that’s right! Keep cool! Don’t let your head be turned by the applause,
and the bouquets. What! Violets again to-night? Very kind, very
characteristic! Let me hold them for you,” and he held out his hand for
the bouquet, which, unthinkingly, she had brought out with her.
She extended them to him, when, her eyes dwelling on them, she saw a
mark of white among the purple blossoms.
Then she gave them to him, saying hurriedly, “Take care of them: they
smell so sweet,” and went and took her place at the wing, crushing the
piece of paper into the bosom of her dress.
She had to wait some few minutes, and with a quickly throbbing heart
she took out the paper and glanced at it.
A scribble in pencil ran across it:
Will you meet me in the fields to-morrow? I must speak to you.
CECIL NEVILLE.
That was all. She replaced the paper in her bosom, where it seemed to
burn like a living thing and went on the stage.
If her performance in this scene on the preceding night was good, this,
to-night, was much in advance of it. Her voice seemed to thrill the
vast audience, and, with her face, moved them to tears.
But Doris was conscious of only one spectator and auditor, the one who
leaned forward in the centre box, with the rapt attention of a devotee
at a shrine.
The curtain fell amidst a thunder of applause, and, pale and quivering,
she was led on by the Romeo to receive the enthusiastic expression of
approbation and delight.
“Wonderful, Miss Marlowe!” said the Romeo. “Miles ahead of last night,
and that was good enough.”
She was about to acknowledge the frank and generous compliment, when
she felt her arm seized, and saw Jeffrey standing beside her.
His face was white and drawn, the sunken eyes blazing with passion.
“Doris! Doris!” he gasped.
“Jeffrey!” she said, half frightened. “What is the matter?”
“Look, look!” he panted hoarsely, and he drew the edge of the curtain
back and pointed to a box on the right-hand side.
Doris looked and saw a fair, pleasant-looking man standing in the front
of the box. He was watching the dispersing audience with a gentle
smile, and his fat white hand was softly smoothing his long, fair hair
from his forehead. He looked benevolent enough to be a bishop, and
Doris stared from him to the white ashen face of Jeffrey.
“What is it, dear Jeffrey?” she asked.
“Look! look!” he repeated hoarsely. “There stands your greatest enemy,
save one! Your greatest enemy in the world! Look at him, Doris! Look at
him and remember him!”
She turned her eyes to the box.
“That fair gentleman with the long hair, do you mean, Jeffrey?”
“Yes, that is him! Curse him! Curse him!” he muttered. Then suddenly he
seemed to recover himself.
“Come away!” he said brokenly. “Don’t pay any attention to what I have
said. It--it is nothing!” and he let the edge of the curtain fall.