Sunday night, and I have three pictures to show you.
First, let us glance at the open windows of Cassandra’s reception-room.
The vine-clad balcony, behind which waved soft lace curtains, appeared
cool and inviting in the stillness of that warm, star-lit evening. Soft
rays of rosy light from shaded lamps streamed out upon the floor.
Lying back in a large chair, in all the glory of jewels and fleecy
lace, was the lovely Clovis. Her large dark eyes had a dreamy, far-away
look, for she was thinking of the one man in all the world whom she
loved. Yes, with her whole heart, her whole soul, she loved Neil Emory.
Years ago, let me tell it now, she ran away from home and married a
handsome, worthless fellow, who, when he died, left her nothing. She
was of English birth. Her mother was dead and her father married a
second time. An uncle, a stage manager in America, offered her a home,
which she accepted, and, for a long while, she was his housekeeper. She
was frequently at the theatre, occasionally assuming some minor part
in the play; but she was never considered an actress--she was merely a
“responsible lady.”
One day her uncle fell sick and she was compelled to take his place. He
became almost an invalid, so it happened that for a long while she was
virtually the manager. Yet so efficiently was the business conducted
that the world never suspected the real manager was rarely behind the
scenes.
About that time an actress of some note was engaged for thirty nights
on her uncle’s boards. When she had played fifteen nights, and each
time to an admiring audience, she caught a violent cold and lay
dangerously ill.
Now a strange thing happened. The sick actress sent for the manager’s
niece and informed her she must take her place in the bill. There was a
wonderful resemblance between the two women; in form and feature, hair,
eyes and brow, they were alike. The almost dying woman pleaded that she
should assume her very name and finish her engagement, urging that, as
the girl had watched her performance for fifteen nights in the wings
and had even understudied the part, she ought to be able to play it.
“Keep my engagement for me,” she begged, “for, far away over the water,
I have a little child dependent on me.”
It would require too much space to give all the particulars, but that
night the girl walked the stage in borrowed name and robes, and, when
the curtain fell, had achieved a triumph as an actress. Such is the
public. It paid blind tribute to her and she was content. None knew the
difference. Night after night, she played her part, and long before the
thirty days expired the sick actress had passed away to the unknown
shore, bequeathing her name and glory to another.
Thus, as Cassandra Clovis, the girl began life anew and constantly sent
to the child across the water all she needed.
One night, the theatre at which she was playing caught fire and was
destroyed. In the red glare of the flames a woman threw herself in
front of Clovis and begged to be saved. They were in a dressing-room
beneath the stage.
“I cannot help you!” cried Clovis. “Look to yourself!”
“I am beside myself with fright!” the woman cried.
Clovis seized her by the hand.
“Quick, then, this way!” and with difficulty they reached the street
where they were safe.
Clovis asked her companion where she would go, where were her friends
and home.
“I have neither friends nor home!” was the reply. “He has perished in
the flames! Let me go with you!”
Together they went, and thus it happened that Cassandra kept about her
the woman known to the world as “Kitty who laughs.”
She was seated, that Sunday night, on a low stool, dressed in white and
blue. A bowl of water, in which were a number of beautiful flowers,
stood beside her. She was making a wreath and humming a tune.
The flowers were to adorn their rooms next day, should Cliquot win.
“What folly!” said Clovis. “Toss away the blossoms!”
“Oh, no!” said the other; “we don’t fling aside full-blown roses, and
there are no buds here!”
“I understand,” said the actress, and went on dreaming, while Kitty
sang an old song--“Did they Tell Thee I was Dead, Katy Darling?”
Having finished the garland, she rose, and, opening a drawer, took from
it some gilt letters.
“I might as well fix it all now,” she said; “there won’t be time
to-morrow.”
She pushed a chair against the wall and began to tack the letters on
the paper. She had completed the name “Cliquot” in gold and was busy
arranging the wreath in the shape of a horse-shoe around it when a
voice cried:
“Come down! come down! A most dangerous position! I really must hold
you, for I think you are growing giddy!” and she felt two hands clasp
her waist.
“Let go, Reginald! I don’t like that!”
“But I do!”
Clovis looked up, angrily.
“Stop that child’s play!” she said. “You’re always at it!”
“Don’t you think you are a little cross to-night, Miss Clovis?” the
man asked, going over to where she sat. “It must be that, for you’re
never jealous.”
“Of you?”
“Hardly,” he muttered; “but wasn’t it saucy of her to be sticking that
(pointing to the decoration) in your very face?”
“I don’t know what you mean by that!” she replied. “A lot of letters
and flowers will never bring him success!”
“Let us see.”
“Oh!” cried Kitty, “please don’t pun; you know it is the lowest order
of wit.”
“I beg your pardon,” replied the young man; “I did not mean it as such.”
“Did you come to tell us about the race to-morrow?”
“Yes, I can tell you of it now I am here, though I really did not come
for that. You know I am fond of you myself after a fashion, Cassandra!”
and he gave her a bright, half-impudent look.
“He’s a handsome sort of a fellow, and I wish I could have loved him!”
thought the woman.
“Of course, you’ll both be out on the track. Everybody is going,
and there’ll be great excitement. I wish to Heaven,” he exclaimed,
whirling towards Clovis, “that you would persuade Emory to part with
that beast! He will ruin him!”
“I persuade him! I, indeed! Are you mad? What influence has Cassandra
Clovis over your friend that you bid her do this thing? Oh, no!”
“Perhaps Kitty has more?”
“Bah!” said the girl, shaking her mane; “he don’t even know me!” and
she laughed, yes, laughed even longer and sweeter than usual--and the
night sped on.
* * * * *
In another part of the city I have a second picture for you. A young
man of dark complexion, magnificent eyes, close-cut black hair,
moustache the same color, a tall slender figure as graceful as
possible--altogether, a handsome fellow--sat in the bright light of an
unshaded gas-jet, ruthlessly tearing up old letters and throwing them
into an open grate to be fired by a match before he retired.
The room was intensely hot, though three windows were opened to the
floor. The furniture was ordinary, the carpet worn. The door of a
bed-room stood open, and a bath-room beyond showed them to be a suite,
occupied by a person you have met before--Mr. George Clayton, a young
lawyer, who was a spendthrift and a gambler, a lover of the real
“Cliquot” and a gentleman born. The pretended lover of Gwendoline was
he and the real lover of Clovis he would be should she allow it.
That night he was destroying all evidence of a past folly, rending
apart the tender wordings of a woman’s pen and tossing them away as
though he had never cared a straw for them.
At length he reached the last note that lay at the bottom of the box in
company with the woman’s picture; this he opened and glanced at. A slow
smile broke over his lips.
“A deuced handsome girl! I think I’ll keep it!” He thought the eyes and
brow lovely--who did not?--with the brown hair brushed well back.
“I don’t think she’s breaking her heart, wherever she is!” he murmured.
“I’ve seen her but once since that night, that awful night! I hope she
enjoyed my letter of dismissal. I wonder where she is?”
He tore the last envelope to pieces and stuffed the picture into his
coat-pocket, little dreaming how much harm it might bring him.
* * * * *
About a mile outside of the city stood a blacksmith’s shop, and near
by its owner’s hut. Under a large tree, in front of the door, sat the
man and his wife, enjoying the coolness denied to those who dwelt in
mansions in the city. The woman held a bundle on her lap, examining its
contents by the faint light which came through the open door.
“Do you think they’ll fit?” asked she.
“I told the girl to do her best, bein’ as how we couldn’t find the
lad at the right time. She had t’other pants to go by,” said Peleg,
shortly. “You can’t expect a chap to keer much how his jockey’s clothes
fits so they hangs all right.”
“Well!” sighed the woman, “I only hopes and prays as they won’t turn
out to be his burial clothes, as you tells me it’s a mighty bad horse
he is goin’ to ride.”
“It is a pretty bad ’un for them as don’t know nothin’ about horses;
but I guess this chap is all right. You know, Mandy, some has a way wid
a critter as you can hardly account for.”
“Yes, so they has, so they has!” and she grew silent, as her thoughts
went back through many years.
* * * * *
The city’s hum grew less, and the clocks chimed the midnight hour as
the dark curtain rolled down before the footlights of the stars--to
rise again in the glory of day.