Clever little Berry had taken the one romantic chapter out of her own
life’s history and made a romance out of it, such as her sad heart and
simple experience prompted--a trite little story enough, save for its
tragic ending.
And as she had considerable histrionic ability, she was able to take
the leading part with much credit to herself, winning enthusiastic
applause from her audience.
She could not have acted so cleverly had she known under whose roof she
was, and what eyes were gazing on her lovely face as she entered with
whole-souled spirit into her part.
Charley Bonair stood apart to Berry in a little world of his own. She
scarcely connected him with the millionaire senator of California,
and his lovely sisters she had never seen. It was only the home of
a stranger to her, this palatial house where she had come with her
company to act for the pleasure of the ball guests.
Life had been a whirl to Berry Vining since the night when she had
been carried senseless into the company of actors, who, charmed by her
exquisite beauty, had easily persuaded her to join them on the road.
Gifted with much natural dramatic talent, she had quickly “caught on”
to the art, and now earned a subsistence by her work. In this arduous
life, too, she could more easily put from her the memory of her
shattered love dream, so brief, so bitter-sweet.
Yet in quiet moments it returned to vex her soul, so that she wove the
beginning into a story of love and sorrow that grew and grew until her
morbid fancy shaped it into a tragic romance.
Meanwhile the death of the leading lady gave Berry her position, and
she had a chance to act her romance on the boards of the Bonairs’
private theater.
It was easy to put her heart in it so wholly that the audience seemed
to her like so many lay figures, and she dreamed not that Charley
Bonair’s eyes watched her, eagerly, from far back at the door, where
an artificial palm half hid him from sight, while from a prominent box
Rosalind Montague gazed in startled wonder, almost as if Berry had
risen from the dead.
For it must be the little village beauty, the coincidence was too
striking to admit of a doubt.
There sat the girl singing at the vine-wreathed window, just as on
that September morning, when the gay cavalcade of riders went past,
and Charley Bonair had turned her curly little head with his flashing
glance and bow--singing, too, the same sweet lay of love and longing:
“My heart with joy would thrill if you loved me,
’Twould give this life of mine its fill of ecstasy;
Each golden moment spent with you on wings of Joy would flee;
The sky would be a ceaseless blue if you loved me.”
The gift of the roses followed next, and as Rosalind saw the fair girl
in her white gown kissing the flowers, and fastening them in her hair
and breast, she trembled with anger and jealousy.
“The little minx! She has dared make a play out of her silly flirtation
with Charley,” she thought; “she dares even to play it in his own home,
hoping to meet his eyes again, but, thank Heaven, he is far enough away
from here, he will never know.”
If a look could have killed pretty Berry, she must surely have fallen
dead upon the boards, so deadly was the hatred with which Rosalind
watched her, for she thought:
“It is just as I suspected between Charley and her, the little hussy!
He eloped with her, and, perhaps, was with her until he went on that
yachting trip to shake off her fetters. It is doubtful if there was
even any pretense of a marriage between them. No doubt she was eager
enough to go without a wedding ring, thinking of the money she could
cajole out of her rich lover. Oh, I see just how it is now! She is
very clever, this Berry Vining--she came here trying to win him back,
thinking he may have got home again! Oh, how glad I am he is still
away, for he would easily fall into her toils if he were here, the weak
fool, carried away by every pretty face! How well she acts! I never
dreamed it was in that cottage girl, such cleverness in writing a play,
and then acting it. She is indeed a rival to be dreaded, and I must do
something to get rid of her, that is clear. Even if Charley tired of
her once, he would love her again in this pretty play that shows her
off to so great advantage! Oh, what wretches men are, as mamma says!
How they make a girl’s heart ache with jealousy over their fickle love!
If I did not love him myself, I would not care so much, but he’s all
the world to me, my Charley! What shall I do to get rid of her before
he returns to the city? If mamma were here she would tell me not to
mind, that it could never come to aught but a light love. But I do
mind; I will not endure his unfaithfulness! If I thought no one could
even find me out, I believe I could almost strike her dead before me, I
hate her with such intense fury!”
“Rosy, how strange you look! You are pale, and your eyes gleam with
blue fire. The poor girl’s trouble seems to be getting onto your
nerves! But she is really a very clever actress, and enters well into
the part,” exclaimed Marie Bonair, with a suddenness that made her
start and tremble.
But she rallied herself, and murmured back:
“It’s really quite thrilling, and I almost forgot where I was, dear.
This was the third act, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, and I’m almost sorry; I have been so interested. Every one else
is, too. See how eagerly they keep their eyes on the stage. Our play
was a great success. Well, we will soon come to the banquet, and then
the dancing. Do you know that we have spread an elegant collation for
the actors, too, in the small dining room?”
“How very nice of you, Marie!” murmured Rosalind, but to herself she
added viciously:
“I wish I could poison that girl’s wine undetected! I wish some of the
stage properties would get on fire and destroy her beauty, anyway. Oh,
anything that could happen to that girl would be welcome to me, so that
he never saw her face again.”
The fell spirit of murder had entered the jealous girl’s heart!
The curtain rose again on the fourth act, and although the introduction
of horses on the stage was a very difficult feat, still it was quite
well done. The lovers died, gracefully, in each other’s arms, and
the widowed bride clung fondly to the attentive best man. In the
vernacular of one of the troupe, the play had been a “howling success.”
The company was called back to receive the plaudits of the spectators,
and the audience rose at the leading lady with enthusiasm, pelting the
little beauty with flowers and jewels.
But one man far back in the theater, hurried away with his hat before
his face.
“I hope no one has recognized me, for I really am not fit to join my
people to-night. I must get away and collect my thoughts,” muttered
Charley Bonair.