A Pasteboard Crown Part 24

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 ma.s.s 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 pa.s.sionate, 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 s.h.i.+pping 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 wors.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sion-choked words.

It was a double intoxication--that of both mind and heart. For a little s.p.a.ce 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 pa.s.sions 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 pa.s.sion, such a one as none who knew him gave him credit for.

Jim Roberts writhed miserably, crying: "She thinks he loves her! Great G.o.d! See her wors.h.i.+pping eyes! But it's not love with him--it's the joy of the pursuit; d.a.m.n 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 wors.h.i.+p, 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'--G.o.d 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 grat.i.tude for his 'teaching and help,' are expressed openly, fervently, and as yet cause only concealed amus.e.m.e.nt.

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 a.s.sociate further with her told her spiteful cats.h.i.+p 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 coa.r.s.e appet.i.te 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 pa.s.sion 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 gra.s.ses 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 pa.s.sage 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 ap.r.o.n--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 empress.e.m.e.nt 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-cla.s.s 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 rus.h.i.+ng back to the stage like a madman.

CHAPTER XXIV

"I WILL NOT DIVORCE YOU"