Section 16 of Mimic Live This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Read by Kelly Taylor. The Promptor's Daughter by Anna Cora Molland. Chapter 7 Five months had elapsed since the night of the appalling catastrophe. Tina had not regained her former elastic vigor, but she persuaded herself and her parents that she was restored to health. Had her constitution been strengthened during these first seven years of her life by a close obedience to physical laws, the recuperative powers inherent in childhood might have affected a thorough restoration. It now became evident that the high cultivation of her precocious mind had sacked the springs of vitality. Her so-called recovery was simply toe-healing of the burns. The returned facility of locomotion, not the ruddy glow, the bounding pulse, the functional activity of positive health. Christmas was approaching. The usual pantomind which celebrates Christmas festivities was in preparation. One character Mr. Tuttle found difficult to cast that a fairy queen whose duty it was to transform the young lovers for a certain disobedient conduct into the customary Columbine and Harlequin, and metamorph those crabbed fathers into clown and pantaloon. The fairy was only required to exhibit herself at intervals during the pantomime and pronounce a few doggerel lines as she dispensed her favors or dealt out retributive justice. The role was one technically called a light part, but demanding judicious representation. Mr. Higgins became particularly anxious that this fairy queen might be personated by Tina. As audiences had fallen off of late, her return to the stage would give new impetus to his flagging business. She would be an special attraction to merry juveniles who thronged his boxes during the holiday season. Mr. Higgins himself called at the lodgings of the true hearts and made the proposition to the child. He at once declared herself quite able to resume her duties. The manager left the house exulting. The fairy queen first appeared surrounded by her attendants, Coral Branch, Dew Drop, Rose Lips, Cal Slip, Twinkle Star, Rainbow. Susan was cast as Coral Branch. She would have the felicity of standing on the stage beside her child, a privilege rendered doubly dear by long privation. Tina had not yet entered the theatre since the night of the accident, yet she betrayed no emotion at the first rehearsal of the pantomime. Perhaps she was too feeble to be subject to excitement, or it might be the love of her art returned with a strong tie that swept away painful recollections. She always experienced a deep internal satisfaction when the gifts with which she was endowed were brought into use. She was welcomed joyfully by the whole company. Coldness, indifference, professional jealousy, all melted away in the general sympathy awakened by her sufferings. Her presence seemed to spread gladness wherever she passed. Dressers, basket carriers all left their employments to throng around her and rejoice over her return. Boxing night, as it is termed, arrived. It is the night succeeding Christmas, the first on which the theatre is opened after its first close for a fortnight or three weeks during the preparation of the pantomime. On Christmas Eve and on Christmas night there is no performance in any theatre in England, a rule not observed in America. According to the old established uses, some gloomy, terror-inspiring tragedy always precedes the pantomime. George Barnwell, Jane Shore, Bertram, Douglas, Vitis Preserved are greatly in vogue on these occasions. But, although the tragedy is expected, nay, required by the audience, and faithfully represented by the actors, do not one single sentence do the occupants of the pit, gallery, or boxes ever listen. The two former keep up a continual uproar, which would not be tolerated on any other night. Sometimes humorous conversations are shouted out between the individuals aloft and their acquaintances below. No attempt is ever made to prevent this violation of decorum. It is one of the traditional licenses of boxing night. The tumult continues until the pantomime commences, and then, strange to say, a dead silence, only broken by occasional peels of laughter, reigned through the theatre. Silence, while the performance on stage is principally in dumb show, a deafening clamour, while the tragic actors are straining their lungs to render audible their wrongs, miseries, and heroic resolves. Once more, Susan arrayed her child in the glittering apparel of the stage. Many and many a time did she kiss those poor little feet, now covered with purple scars before she drew on the silken stockinette and tied the silver slippers. But when she tried to fasten the transparent wings on the child's shoulders, an icy bolt shot through her heart, and she thought of those aerial wings that had turned to wings of flame.  She turned away her blanched face, and silently motioned to the dresser to secure the fairy appendages. When she was equipped, Tina stole to her father's side, and attracted his attention by gently touching him with her silver wand. As he dropped his book to take her for a moment in his arms, a deep shadow passed over his face, and he looked upwards as though internally praying for strength to bear some impending affliction. The theatre was densely crowded. The tragedy was over. The pantomime commenced. In the second scene, the fairy queen is discovered in a crystal bower, surrounded by her nymphs. Tina's appearance was a signal for a perfect hurricane of acclamations. While she curtsied in acknowledgment, Susan, who was standing beside her as coral wrench, could not help glancing at the round, rosy, laughing faces that clustered in the boxes, and contrasted them with the pallid, wasted child who received the juvenile greeting with a languid inclination and faint smile. This prolonged clapping of the little dimpled hands, this rapturous welcome, was all in honor of Susan's precious one, and yet it struck upon the mother's ears with a sound of mockery. Her heart sank as it had never sunk before. When the boisterous greeting was over, the pantomime continued. Tina's role was not one that displayed her dramatic abilities, yet the audience was predetermined to be delighted with her most trifling efforts. Her step had lost its springiness. Her movements were undulating, but nervous. Her voice was low and tremulous. Its clear ringing tone had quite gone, yet all these losses seemed to have no effect upon her popularity. There was a great deal of laughter elisted by Matthew's humorous clown. Hot codlins, as usual, excited the riotous mirth of the pit. Pantaloon was duly buffeted and bullied. The stereotyped traditional jokes played off upon him created as much amusement as though they had not been repeated every Christmas since the grandfathers and grandmothers present were chubby urchins themselves. Columbine and Harlequin and Sprite danced through the scenes at unanticipated moments, and there was a liberal expenditure of blue and red fire at the grand finale when the fairy queen ascended in a gilded car. Accidents had been carefully guarded against. Everything passed off smoothly, but Tina was thoroughly exhausted by her light exertions. Unable to walk, she was carried home in her father's arms and remained for a long time in a state of semi-consciousness. After the first night's performance, a pantomime is not rehearsed again. This was fortunate for Tina. She lay almost motionless the whole of the next day, with one cheeks and lusterless eyes that bespoke her utter prostration. Yet, as the evening drew near, she roused herself with a strong effort and rose cheerfully, and said she was better and ready to go to the theatre.   The little girl went through her part with minute carefulness, but her actions were all mechanical and bore little resemblance to her former fresh and spirited delineations. Her fatigue was not so great as on the previous evening, to use a theatrical expression. She was getting back into the traces. The pantomime ran thirty nights, and every night the heroic child conquered her lingoire and went through her duties without a murmur. But she faded visibly. Her attenuated forms seemed the lightest, most transparent, fleshly temple that could enshrine an immortal soul. The pantomime was announced for the last time. Tina found herself scarcely able to taut her through the first scene. She struggled, struggled desperately. The words died away unuttered on her parched and powerless lips. Then she smiled mournfully and shook her head. Those who were acting with her comprehended the signal. They no longer waited for their cues, but spoke when she was unable to proceed. Mr. Gildersleaf stood watching her at the wing. From her earliest infancy she had entwined herself closely about his honest heart. He now left his post and hurried to the back of the stage, behind the scenes. There stood the bed used for Juliet's chamber. With thoughtful kindness he took the small mattress and carried it to the old property room. As Tina staggered from the stage into her mother's arms, the good men lifted her up gently and carried her to the couch she had prepared. And there she lay in that same property room where nearly seven years ago she had lain as an unconscious infant about to be launched into a life of weariness and toil which seemed her heritage. There in the self-same corner stood the old cradle, somewhat hacked and scratched, in which she had been placed as Dot's baby. And there was the young mother kneeling beside her, even as she had knelt upon that memorable night. And now, as then, hopes and fears were struggling for mastery in that fond maternal heart. But hopes seemed then victorious. Fears now had gained the vantage ground. You cannot finish the part, my child. It is impossible, said Susan. I must try, mother. I must try. It is only tonight, and this will be the last night of the pantomime, the last night of—she saw her mother's look of anguish and did not finish the sentence. Restoratives were administered, and the child gradually revived. One after another the members of the company stole in to catch a glimpse of the general favorite.  Even Mr. Higgins made his way to the property room. Come, little music shell, we shall get you well again before long. We shall have to put another little girl into Prince Arthur tomorrow night, and she can't hold a candle to you. But your father says it's not possible for you to attempt the part. What do you think? How could Mr. Higgins have asked that question of the almost lifeless child? The dominant passion was never silent. The voice of interest was stronger within his breast than the pleadings of humanity. He would have encouraged the public's darling to make the mad attempt for his benefit at the obvious risk of her very life. I fear not, sir. I wish I could get through it, but I fear I shall never act again. Nonsense, nonsense. Don't talk so. You're only a little low-spirited and worn out.  Never fear. We'll soon set you to write. But if not, if I am going away as I think I am, if I never see you again, don't forget what I now beg. Be kind to my poor father, my dear mother. They will miss me so much. Miss you? We should all miss you, the sweetest music shell, and the noblest Roman of all. But we're not going to miss you. We won't consent to anything of the kind. We must all consent to the will of God, replied Tina, in a tone so full of grave humility that even this ungodly man could not frame a reply. There was something shining in his hard eyes as he gazed at her. It could scarcely be called a tear, but it was the first moisture those eyes had known for years. The callboy stood at the door. Fairy Queen called. Tina rose with difficulty, and Susan, who seemed too much exhausted herself to remonstrate in Mr. Higgins' presence, readjusted the light wings and smoothed the spangled dress. Mr. Higgins, wonderful condescension on his part, took the child's hand and led her to the wing. How she went through the scenes that remained was a matter of wonder to herself. Strength seemed imparted according to her need, and she resolutely roused herself to make one last effort. The panemime was over. Tina's stage clothes had been thrown aside for the last time. She was at home again, and Dr. Weldon standing beside her couch. It may be a temporary exhaustion. She may revive, were his comforting words to her parents. Robin knew better. Susan knew better. But neither gave voice to their fears. The next morning it appeared as though the doctor might be right, for she rallied wonderfully, yet Robin was not deceived.  Every word uttered by the new Prince Arthur brought back Tina's tones, her looks, her pretty actions, the burst of applause that they had evoked. Robin could hardly keep his seat. But when Queen Constance broke forth in her frantic lamentation, grief fills up the room of my absent child, lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, remembers me all of his gracious parts, stuffs out his vacant garments with his form, then I have reason to be fond of grief. The wretched prompter dropped his head upon the books and wept uncontrollably. When that book was used long years afterwards, Hood saw those blistered pages, divine, with what tears they had been scalded. On his return home he found Tina and her mother lying side by side, talking cheerfully. It was so pleasant to have a night of rest away from the exciting sights and sounds that appertain to a theatre. Robin stook down to receive their united caresses, and for a moment he forgot the menacing clouds about to burst on his head. Henry VIII was the tragedy selected for the ensuing night. Susan was cast as patience, the attendant of Queen Catherine. In Act III, patience sings to the Queen when her soul grows sad with troubles. And in Act IV she sings the hymn which precedes Queen Catherine's death. A hymn introduced on the stage, though, according to the Shakespearean text, solemn music is played, and a sort of spirit dance mutely enacted. The character of patience was not of sufficient consequence for Miss Mellon to be persuaded to undertake its personation, and there was no one else in the theatre but Susan to whom the music could be entrusted. And she must leave her child, the child whose earthly hours she feared would be so few, to appear upon the stage, to sing. Never had inexorable duty made a harder requirement. There was no appeal from its stern demands. She prepared to depart. Instead of dressing at the theatre, according to her usual custom, she hurriedly arrayed herself at home. No mirror reflected her form as she donned the flowing white robe and graceful drapery suited to the Queen's handmaiden. She stood at the foot of the little bed, gazing upon the child, while her unsteady fingers fastened the bands, clasped the girdle, and looped the long pendant's sleeves. Miss Armory entered while the task was nearly completed. With instinctive kindness, she offered to assist Susan, and the latter did not refuse her service. It was a singular sight, the young Sunday School teacher, who regarded a theatre with horror, helping to attire the actress for her part. Singular, but in thy angelic light, heaven-born charity, how beautiful. I shall be back soon, though it will seem long, said Susan, pressing her feverish lips to her child's chili-brow. Go, mother. Miss Lucy will stay with me. Go, dear mother, and don't think of me any more than you can help. Susan opened the door, but twice returned for one more parting kiss, then tore herself away. An actress of high distinction personated Queen Catherine. The Queen's death is one of the most touchingly eloquent scenes upon the stage. Who cannot picture to themselves Susan's emotion, as she sang to handle solemn, awe-inspiring music, the words. Angels ever bright and fair, take, oh, take her to your care. Speed to your own courts her flight, clad in robes of virgin white. Queen Catherine wakes at the close of the strain, exclaiming, Spirits of peace, where are ye? Are ye all gone? And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye?  They promised me eternal happiness, and brought me garlands, griffith, which I feel I am not worthy yet to bear. I shall, assuredly. Queen Catherine dies. Her death takes place in the fourth act of the play, and patience appears no more. Susan neither waited for an escort, nor to change her dress, but wrapping herself in a mantle, hastily bade Robyn adieu, and ran home as swiftly as her strength permitted. There was a fifth act, and a short after-piece, and Robyn could not leave until these were over. As Susan entered the room, Miss Armory took leave. Her carriage had been waiting some time. He and his eyes shone with supernatural light as they rested on her mother. Ah, mother, you are back. I see you again. Will you not leave me any more? It seems so long, and I am so cold. Sometime the room goes dark, and then it has suddenly lighted up. I wanted you, my mother, wanted to see you once more. Will father be here soon? The words were gasped out with difficulty, for her breath came rapidly and unevenly. Oh, my child, my child. Don't weep, mother. You know it must be. Don't weep, or perhaps in that other world. I shall think of your tears, and not rejoice enough that the Lord has called me. Mother, that heavenly world. All day I have been seeing in my mind those lovely Q gardens, the most beautiful sight I ever saw. And that world must be even more beautiful.  Oh, I trust so. Soon, very soon. And in time your father will come too. Susan had ceased to weep. Now I love to see you, mother.  The pain is all passing from me. My heart is so light. Mother, sing me the hymn you sang tonight to Queen Catherine before she died. Susan's voice was firmer and clearer than it had been on stage as she sang to her dying child. Angels ever bright and fair, take, oh, take her to your care. Speed her to your courts, her flight, flat in robes of virgin white. A portion of the strain is repeated many times, and the music is majestically slow. When the last notes died away, Susan and her child both seemed wrapped in holy meditation, a species of heavenly trance, which remained unbroken until Robin opened the door. Oh, Father, Father, you are calm. Antina rose up and almost leaped into his extended arms. My mother, sing to me now once more. Sing the hymn we all heard last Sabbath, in which we all love so well. And, Father, you will sing to me too, will you not? Susan sang, and Robin's menly voice joined in, unfaltering. Happy soul, secure from harm, guarded by thy shepherd's arm. Thy shepherd's arm. Who thy quiet can molest? Who can violate thy rest? Jesus doth thy spirit bear, far removed from anxious care. Shepherd, with thy tenderest love, guide me to thy fold above. Let me hear thy gentle voice more and more in thee rejoice. From thy fullness grace receive, ever in thy spirit live. Filled by thee my cup or flows, for thy love no limit knows. Guardian angels, ever nigh, lead and draw my soul on high. Constant to my latest end, thou my footsteps wilt attend. Jesus, with thy presence blessed, death is life and labor rest. Guide me while I draw my breath, guard me through the gate of death, and at last, oh, may I stand with thy sheep at thy right hand. While they still sang, a change passed o'er the child's countenance. Pailer, it could not grow, but its parlor became transparent. The limbs quivered slightly and then were extended to their utmost length. The eyes open wide as though they saw something invisible to others. She smiled serifically and then her features gradually assumed a marvel-like rigidity. There was a gurgling, rattling sound in her throat, which the music did not wholly drown. The hands clasped upon her bosom slowly relaxed. All was very still. Father and mother saw all, heard all, but they sang on. They feared to disturb the parting spirit by word of anguish, a rebellious look. They sang on and neither wept. The hymn ended. They knew that the angel of death had borne away their child before its close. Susan fell upon her husband's breast and was folded to his heart in one long embrace. She then calmly turned to the child and kissed the icy lips many times, and motion robin to do the same. They stood side by side, gazing on the angelic countenance. But it was not until kind Mrs. Gildersleeve entered the room that either of them found utterance. Then Susan closed the gazing eyes, bound up the falling chin, and, in spite of Mrs. Gildersleeve's remonstrances, insisted on performing the last offices. She had not once thought of herself or even cast aside her stage attire. She robed the pure limbs in white vestiture, smoothed the bright hair for the last time, wound its soft rings around her fingers, folded the tiny, transparent hands upon the cold breast, fastened them together with a white ribbon. But when all was over, when there was no more that could be done for her child, her unnatural strength gave way with a sudden shock, and she was seized with violent convulsions. I knew it, oh I knew it. Thou hast taken thy flight, my birdie, and she shall follow thee, groaned robin, as he gently chafed the clinched hands. The convulsion lasted several hours, and when they ceased, the seal of death was on her dewy brow. She faintly returned the clasp of robin's hand. How hard, how hard for you, she said, you will be desolate, for I am going to. Going to be with her. Going to our child. Going to receive the rich reward of all your gentle goodness. No, no I will not. I do not wish it to be otherwise. Do not think of me. It is wise so, best so. You will suffer no more, will labor no more. You will be happy. I am content. I yield you up, my wife, my heart's love, as I did her. I bless the Lord for the strength he gives me to yield up both my life's soul treasures to his will. Susan could not reply. Again a convulsive spasm distorted her features. The struggle was short, but violent. When it ceased, her face was calm as that of the child, which appeared to be slumbering on its own little bed. Her limbs as composed, her frame as pulseless, mother and child were reunited. For thee, poor hunchbacked proctor, with thy great upright soul, not bowed to the earth, but lifted heavenward by thy mighty sorrows, go on thy way unmermering, toil, suffer, struggle, plod through thy thankless duties day by day, night by night. Let the bigot revile thy calling, the self-righteous, pass on by the other side.  Thou hast taken up thy cross and burdened it memfully. Thine was the true heroism of self-pernunciation. Thine the heaven descended love, that preferred the joy of those beloved to thine own, that willingly accepted misery as the purchase of their felicity. Thine will be the crown of glory, worn in eternal youth, when thy deforming hump shall be shaken off with thy mortal coil. The Lord has taken all from thee, but to pay thee back a thousandfold. God bless all our gains, we say. But God bless all our losses, better suits with our degree. End of The Promptor's Daughter. Section 17 of Mimic Live. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Kelly Taylor. The Unknown Tragedian by Anna Cora-Mawet Richie. Chapter 1. Oh, I could tell you, but let it be, Horatio, I am dead. Thou livest, report me in my cause aright to the unsatisfied. Hemlet. Will you give me your candid opinion? It's a little short of suicide, you have it. But return the aged man who had demanded that rarest of commodities a candid opinion, and who, having received it, was ready after the fashion of the world to question his truth. But you do not know how immovably her mind is fixed on this farewell. You are not an actor. You can have no adequate conception of the reluctance with which we lay down our dramatic mantle, even when our shoulders are too feeble to carry it longer, how fiercely we wrestle against the infirmities of age, which admonishes that the hour of our scenic triumph is nearly expended. You sneer, that's natural. For none but an actor can comprehend what the stage is to those whose hairs, as mine and my wife's, have grown gray in the blaze of the footlights. She made her debut when she was so young that she cannot even remember the occasion, and now she is seventy, just seven years my junior. How then am I to forbid this leave-taking of the public in whose presence her life has ebbed away, upon whose favor she has existed? If science may be trusted, her disease must end fatally, coolly replied the thematic Dr. Duff. The exertion of a last effort on stage will shorten her days, but on the other hand, the agitation consequent upon boarding her wishes may produce the same result I leave you to choose between the evil. Then my choice is main, said Mr. Ruthfunt. She shall appear. This farewell to her is rendering an account of her public stewardship before she resigns her office forever. If it be true that I must loose her, though I cannot think it, let me not be haunted by the recollection that I denied her these last wishes. Mr. Ruthfunt rose, and, followed by the physician, entered the adjoining apartment. In an armchair, propped up by pillows, set Mrs. Ruthfunt. Even a close observer would not have pronounced that she had, by many years, reached the age which her husband had just declared. Is there some invisible media that waits upon the steps of actors, and, when the frosty hand of age is laid upon them to congeal their blood, who pours into their shrunken veins, as did that niece of Cersei in the old days of Jason, the juices of precious herbs which renews their youth? It is a singular fact in dramatic history that, in spite of the late hours, endless exposures, incessant fatigue, constant excitement, and systematically irregular habits, performers preserve a rare degree of personal freshness and intellectual vigor until nature reaches the very verge of her confine. Whence comes the talisman, with which they, despite love ages fiat, resist decay? This lingering of youth in age is perhaps attributable to the daily and mental physical exercise of all their faculties. It is through disuse or disease, rather than by nature's law, that the powers of men are early impaired. The traces of severe suffering are apparent upon Mrs. Ruthman's countenance, but they had not wholly dethroned and banished the beauty for which it was once famed. The rows of youth had not dropped off all its leaves. Fever lent its repairing glow to the faded cheeks, its delusive light to the once brilliant eyes. These, at a bright animated expression, concealed the thefts of time. Mrs. Ruthman was a daughter of an Edinburgh manager. Before she had reached her 30th year, she was distinguished for her consummate skill and the personation of comic and pathetic old women. This was the line she preferred. No petty, unartistic vanity marred the fatality of her delineations. Her personal attractions were unconcernedly obscured beneath a series of well-executed disguises. She was a perfect mistress of the effects produced by elaborately painted wrinkles, snowy locks, the dowry of a second head, antiquated costume, and a tottering gate. It was, however, somewhat strange that in her youth she assumed, with all alacrity, all venerable roles. But after her years numbered half a century, she invents a strong preference for the most juvenile heroines in her repertoire. Mr. Ruthman was one of the leading members of her father's company, the representative of all the heartless, remorseless, hideous stage villains. For a good villain, if we may be excused for the joining of opposites, which theatrical parlance unites to convey its meaning, is one of the necessary concomitants of a successful play. Mr. Ruthman became such an adept in portraying the different shades of navery that the audience constantly confounded the man with the characters he assumed. It cordially detested him, and not unfrequently visited the unoffending actor with signal marks of disapprobation. But the hiss bestowed on the villain is a demonstration very nearly as complimentary as applause lavished on the hero. Mr. Ruthman wooed and won the manager's daughter. Their positions in her father's theater remained unaltered by this union until his death. Mr. and Mrs. Ruthman then traveled in the provinces for a few seasons, and finally crossed the channel and settled in Dublin. They had now been members of the Dublin Theatre Royal for fifteen years. Husband and wife were alike enamored of their profession. Though no longer spurred to its pursuance by necessity's sharp pinch, it possessed allurements to their minds which few considerations could have compelled them to resist. Upon them both, the infirmities of age had crept very slowly. These were chiefly apparent in the diminished physical strength and impaired memory. Loss of memory it could not be charmed, for the language of numberless characters which they had enacted in their youth could be recalled without effort. But to commit the context of recent productions now became a sisyphus-like labor ever frustrated the instant it seemed accomplished. Every page in memory's huge volume appeared to be filled. The aged pair were forced to wing, as it is called, all-new parts, that is, con them at the wings until summoned to appear upon stage, and then resume the study at every exit. Even this drawback could not render their profession less fascinating. They resided in a handsome but unaustentation mansion in Marin Square. The smiles of five children had brightened their hearth for a short space, and then the homes of four were exchanged for a heavenly erode. One daughter remained. Elma, her name was a compound of Elizabeth and Mary, the respected appellations of her mother and grandmother, had just completed her twenty-second year. Her infant feet had trodden the boards for the first ten years of her life. The ensuing ten were passed in studious seclusion of a justly celebrated London seminary. Her twentieth birthday had brought her back to the paternal roof. That she should become an actress was certainly not a matter of necessity, but to the minds of her parents it was a matter of course, regarded the stage as her legitimate and most desirable destination. Elma did not inherit their attachment for the theatrical profession, nor could a fondness for dramatic representations be engrafted upon her mind by stage triumphs. She shrank from the display of her talents for the entertainment of an incongruous crowd. She felt humiliated when she reflected that the privilege of gazing upon her face and passing judgment upon her endowments could be purchased. Such thoughts never disturbed the brain of a genuine and enthusiastic artist who wholly separates herself from her vocation divides her actual life from her stage existence, but Elma had not been gifted by this faculty. There is a certain affection very prevalent among performers which induces the larger portion to affirm that they detest the stage, hate acting, that they can't abide plays. This assumed contempt is looked upon as a mark of theatrical aristocracy. When Elma communicated to her parents her repugnance towards the career they designated for her, they imagined that she had adopted the cant of the theatre and laughed at her declaration. She perceived how deeply they would have been wounded, how seriously disappointed, had they believed her distaste unfaigned, and submitted without further argument. Filial devotion was one of the most strongly developed attributes of her nature. To suffer in silence was less painful than to oppose the wishes of her parents. Had they not called her the balm of their age, the sole thread of their own lives, that balm should not by herself will be turned to gall, nor that tender thread be changed to an iron band tightening around and eating into the hearts that cherished her. Thus she became an actress. She had made a successful debut at the Dublin Theatre Royal. For two years she discharged the duties of a leading lady in that company. But to return to Miss Ruthfynne, as her husband and physician entered her chamber, she asked in a cheerful tone, Well, doctor, do you intend to humor me? I have left the decision with Mr. Ruthfynne. And as Arthur is not in the habit of denying me anything, we may look upon the farewell question as settled. Is it not so, Arthur? Dr. Duff thinks there is no danger, Mary, replied her husband, as he carefully arranged the pillows and supported her and seated himself by her side. Danger! The bow is bent and drawn, the shaft must fly. That much he has already intimated, answered Mrs. Ruthfynne. And I have already said, Amen, if it must be, and only ask that you will not refuse to let me bid my friends adieu. At that moment a young girl entered the chamber. Her exquisitely rounded form was several inches above the Medici height. Her half-stately bearing, her queen-like tread, the classic pose of her head on her shoulders, the chiseled regularity of her features befitted a Juneau. But the face itself was more suited to a Madonna, if the arbitrary old masters would allow us to imagine a Madonna with a rich olive complexion and shining dark hair wound in a cornet shape around a broad, low brown. She bowed to the doctor, quietly removed her bonnet, drew a chair to the invalid, and fixed upon her accountants a pair of soft brown eyes, sweet earnest eyes of grace, with an unspoken inquiry. Alma's silence had always been a tongue as eloquent as the thoughts had been made vocal. The mother replied to her daughter's look. Yes, I am better, darling, a great deal better, for they will let me have my own way. The farewell is settled upon. Oh, no, mother, my father, you will not consent. Doctor, surely you will not permit this in my mother's state, pleaded Alma. Alma, exclaimed Mrs. Ruthfyn, in a troubled tone, but her husband interrupted her. Alma, do not disturb your mother's serenity. You shall not comprehend her feelings. Her earnest desire shall be gratified. Mrs. Ruthfyn was holding her husband's hand in one of hers, and her daughter's in the other. She drew both fondly to her bosom. The remonstrance that rose to Alma's lips remained unuttered. Mr. Ruthfyn says you expect the great tragedian. Do you really think that he will be here for your farewell? asked Dr. Duff. Mr. Mortimer is so uncertain, so eccentric, that he can never be depended upon. The rest of the world may have no cause to rely upon him, said Mrs. Ruthfyn, but we have, for here is metal more attractive than the whole world can offer. She smiled upon her daughter as she spoke. But the delicate bloom on Alma's cheek deepened not to crimson as it was want to do on maiden's faces at the sound of a name inscribed in the innermost center of their hearts. Her eyes sought the ground, but their lids veiled a look of pain rather than one of sweet confusion. Here is Mer's letter, in answer to mine, point as himself, read it, continued Mrs. Ruthfyn handing a note to the doctor. He perused aloud. What so poor a man as Hamlet is may do, to express his love and fringing to you, God willing shall not lack, Gerald Mortimer. Those were the only words the paper contained. The minds of actors are so often richly stored with poetic lore that their lips borrow the language of dramatists almost unconsciously. The student of Shakespeare in particular finds his wondrous teeming treasury, every passion, every emotion, every aspiration, almost every situation in which humanity can be thrown, clothed with fitting and forcible expression. Truly has a humbler menstrual saying that words of power flung from Shakespeare's bolder hand went vibrating through all the land and found in every heart a tone that seemed an echo of their own. Mortimer was an acknowledged devotee at the shrine of this Apollo of the drama and constantly sounded notes from his lyre in the strains of everyday life. The history of Gerald Mortimer was enveloped in impenetrable mystery. Five years previous to the period of rewrite, a star suddenly burst upon the dramatic firmament of Dublin and the gazing crowd sank down within voluntary homage. Whence came this potent magician? What is his history? Has he worn the buskin before? These were questions no one can answer. Gerald Mortimer took his audience by storm, towered above criticism and in a single night leapt to the drama's highest eminence. He was eagerly sought by managers throughout Great Britain. In obeying or declining their summons, he appeared to be actuated solely by Caprice. His fame reached London. Offers from Drury Lane, Covent Garden, the Haymarket, the Princesses, poured in upon him. All solicitations from the metropolis were briefly declined. No reason was vast saved. It was generally acceded that the name of Gerald Mortimer was assumed for stage purposes. There were numberless rumors afloat concerning the Tragedian's probable parentage. Many asserted that noble blood flowed in his veins. Others soared higher and whispered strange tales of the devotion of one of the England's kings to an actress. If majestic presence, an eye like Mars to threaten or command, a brow shadowed by Hyperion's curls, were insignias of illustrious blood, he bore about him his patent of nobility. Certes, his name stood high on nature's peerage roll if upon no other. From his earliest acquaintance with Mr. and Mrs. Ruthven, Mortimer entertained for them a venerating esteem. In their presence he often laid aside his grave demeanor, habitual reserve, and laconic intercourse. Their devotion to their art, which he confessedly shared, was perhaps the first uniting link of sympathy. A stronger chain was forged when Alma appeared before him. Admiration quickly mellowed into attachment. Mortimer, before he addressed the young girl, declared his hopes to her approving parents.  His confidence was kept sacred even from their daughter. If he were blessed in winning her affections, the veil that obscured his past career would be torn away before he claimed her hand. That promise was all sufficient. Mrs. Ruthven earnestly desired that the evening upon which she resigned her stage honors might be commemorated by one of the powerful dramatic efforts of her most valued friend. She had pinned him her wishes and had received by return of mail the brief but expressive reply by which Dr. Duff had just perused. After consultation with the manager, the farewell benefit, so it was called, was arranged to take place at the close of the ensuing week. Mortimer was duly appraised. His answer was concentrated in two sentences. I shall be with you. Part, Damon, GM. Mrs. Ruthven's forte was comedy. She selected Mrs. Maleprobe and Sheridan's play The Rivals for her last assumption. Mortimer never cast aside the scepter of tragic state to don the cap and bells. He would appear in the part of Damon and Pythias, which was to precede the comedy. The Dublin theatrical world was thrown into a state of high excitement by the announcement of the proposed farewell. The night would be a memorable epic in the dramatic annals. The morning of the benefit arrived. Rehearsal passed off without Mortimer. He often dispensed with its ceremonies. Actors are usually very tenacious about the sides they occupy, the exults and entrances of those who are performing with them. The unexpected change of a situation to which they have been accustomed will sometimes obliterate from their minds the context of the play. But whenever Mortimer was asked by a member of a company, on which side you wish me to enter, his invariable reply was, wherever you like, I shall find you. On several occasions, when public expectation was raised to an unusual pitch, Mortimer had failed to appear. He never condescended to account for his absence. The manager who ventured to Remonstrate was silenced by a haughty request to name his losses. Enormous penalties were paid by the Tragedian without discussion. As the protracted rehearsal drew to a close, the actors whispered their doubts of Mortimer's coming. The manager exhibited his anxiety by unwanted irritability, and even Elma and her father began to be alarmed. Mrs. Ruthven was not present. After rehearsal, Mr. Ruthven hastened to the hotel, where the Tragedian usually lodged, to learn if he had arrived. Elma returned home alone. Her hand was on the door of her mother's sitting room, when a sound from within arrested her. Those deep rich tones could belong to no voice but Mortimer's. Her mind was relieved of one anxiety, and yet she hesitated as though another had observed its place. The soft brightness of her countenance, which might aptly be likened to the subdued light of the moon, was under an eclipse as she entered. Mortimer rose eerily, and the hand she offered was classed somewhat more warmly than mere friendly courtesy warranted. She released it with a look of distress, rather than embarrassment, as she said. Everybody will be so glad you have come, they feared at the theatre that you would not be there. And is Elma included in the everybody who is glad that I have come? Of course.  I hoped I could not tell, but you must not expect everyone to have the unvalid confidence in you that my mother has. Elma concluded her sentence in as brightly a tone as she could command. Mortimer resumed his seat, without removing his dark, penetrating eyes from her countenance.  He went to inquire for Mr. Mortimer, but here is my father. Mr. Ruthen and Mortimer greeted each other heartily. Sit down all of you, said Mrs. Ruthen. I have one rehearsal more to go through, and that will be the last. Our friends will expect a few parting words tonight. I have just written down my valedictory. Listen, little audience, and I will read to you. They gathered around her, and she read, in a faint, tremulous voice, from the paper in her hand. She briefly summed up the events of a life which had, in public service, flown, from the hour when childhood's lisping tongue first became the interpreter of the poet's language, even to this, when the hand of disease had seized and aged to ready to place its paralyzing seal upon her lips. Then gush forth a torrent of things, pin up by an adieu.  Elma, as she listened, shook the holy water from her heavenly eyes. Mortimer had risen and walked to the window. When he returned, the many-colored iris around his eye betrayed that nature would not be defrauded of her custom, in spite of manhood's shame. Mrs. Ruthman fell back exhausted. Then, as she marked the signs of DeLore in the little group before her, she rallied her fugitive faculties. Come, come, good people, don't weep before time, no crying at rehearsal, you know. Now, let me lie down. Gerald, give me your arm. Arthur is hardly young enough to support me, for I have grown as old as Cibela within the last month, and I doubt whether Cibela was half as decrepit. With the tenderness of his son, the dark-browed tragedians supported the aged actress to her chamber. Elma accompanied them.  The mother gave affectionate emphasis to the last word. Mortimer turned to depart, but Elma lingered by her mother's couch, not until Mrs. Ruthman, regardless of her daughter's soliciting look, repeated the request that she returned with Mortimer to the drawing-room. Mr. Ruthman was no longer there. He had retired to deal with grief alone. Few men were better fitted to captivate a woman's heart and compel its deep fountains of devotion to gush forth responsive to his will than Gerald Mortimer. He possessed that persuasive eloquence that enthralls the ear, that impressive earnestness which fixes every wandering thought, that reverence of manner towards the weaker sex, which lures it to forget men's actual superiority and feel itself the stronger, and most potent of all, that considerate tenderness which recognizes that womanhood is derried with sufferings from which he is exempt to render her existence sacred in the eyes of man.  Very fast. And tonight, how I dread it. But no persuasions could induce her to forego this farewell. She loves her profession so passionately. It is so enigmaticle. Enigmaticle to your mind, Elma, where there is no answering chord, but it quickly translates itself to mine, which has strings to respond to this too earthly music. Yet your unaffected distaste for the stage only commands my admiration. It hardly deserves the name of distaste. I have experienced a sort of pleasure in its personations. But my imagination pictures a more delightful mode of life. I am limitably deficient in ambition. I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a queen of infinite space. My throne, a cheerful hearthstone, my scepter, too unpoetic a household badge to bear mentioning. A serene seclusion, a holy round of daily duties. Elma paused abruptly, as though the picture she was painting might reveal too many hidden thoughts. An actor's wife need not perforce be an actress, replied Mortimer, pointedly. Elma turned away. Do not fear, Elma. I will not press my suit until you grant me permission. One single word silences me forever. My happiness could not be purchased by your misery. I am content to know that this white wonder is not promised to any other. And he took her hand, which indeed was as soft as any dove's down and as white as it. It is not promised, she answered, but the hand was withdrawn. And your heart, Elma, that has chosen no Lord. A blush that has stolen its hue from the sunset sky now suffused her countenance as she faltered out. You question me strangely. You, there was a suppressed emotion, a calmness almost terrifying in Mortimer's tone as he interrupted her. Be frank with me, Elma, although your words must pierce every sense, inner like daggers in my ears, and cut my heart in twain, though all my future prove builded on sand and crumble at your feet, yet tell me truly, mercilessly, if you love another. Elma shrank away from his gaze as though she would evade the lightning scathing. What cause have I given you for such a suspicion? No cause, nor have I ever stooped to suspicion. I ask the question inadvertently. I make no complaint of your reserve, your coolness, for perhaps it deserves that name. I can exist upon the assurance that your heart is free. At this crisis Mr. Ruffin entered the room. Did Mortimer note Elma's look over her leaf? Did he remark on the clarity with which she busied herself upon some feminine trifles pertaining to her theatrical wardrobe? Could he fail to lack her presence when she thought him absorbed in conversation with her father and softly glided from the apartment? Elma's upright mind would never have premeditatedly allowed her to be placed in her present position towards Mortimer. He had poured out his own wealth of passion and claimed no return. He was satisfied to woo with Jacob-like patience if the jewel of his soul enriched no other bosom. Elma had not, therefore, been called upon to fan or extinguish a flame so self-existent, nor could she have overthrown the cherished hopes of her parents without a paying too severe to be needlessly encountered. Mortimer's high gifts excited her admiration. His magnanimity won her esteem, and, in a nature truly feminine, esteem is ever mingled with some degree of affection. But he had failed to inspire her with all-engrossing love. And why? She had scarcely acknowledged the impediment to herself. The performances of the evening commenced with the drama of Damon and Pythias, the clever production of John Venom, a youthful Irish dramatist. Mortimer enacted Damon, Mr. Ruthman, the tyrant Dionysus, and Elma Calanthe, the betrothed of Pythias. As Mrs. Ruthman did not appear until the first play was concluded, her husband and daughter were compelled to leave her at an early hour. The thronged audience overflowed upon the stage. Chairs were arranged to receive them in front of the proscenium, and the entrances behind the scenes were so densely crowded that the performers could scarcely force their way. Not a foot's space throughout the theater remained unoccupied. Hundreds never even caught a glimpse of the stage. Pressability and vivacity of the Irish character are peculiarly inspiring to actors and call forth their highest powers. No audience ever responded more instantaneously to noble and heroic sentiments, or was more quickly penetrated by the touches of genuine pathos or invents to keener sense of the humorous. Mortimer's delineations always excited their wildest enthusiasm. We will not attempt to describe the boisterous exhibition of delight with which he was saluted when he stood before them as Damon. To an onlooker, it seemed as though their manifestations could only end in the galleries descending upon the stage and bearing him about on their shoulders. But the tragedian never once vent his stately head while they vented clamor from their throats. His lips curled with a slight expression of scorn.  Long live the star of the world, lessons be on the bones of his body and all the hairs of his head. Never was the likes of him seen. These and singular ejaculations mingled with the uproar. At the first majestic uplifting of his hand silence fell upon all around, like the sudden stealing of tempestuous ways. He spoke. The words rolled from his lips in a gush of mellifluous sound that seemed the mingling of trumpet and bugle tones. They stirred or melted, fired or calmed the hearers at will. Mortimer's imposing presence dignified, ennobled, idealized the most insignificant character he assumed. But to such a role as the self-sacrificing warlike daemon, he imparted a heroic grandeur that was indescribable. At one moment he plunged into the profoundest abysses of passion and brought their strong workings to view. The next, his melting tenderness, struck the rock of stoniest hearts and sent its waters to the subdued eyes. Daemon's soul harrowing, parting with his wife, his fury with his freedmen, his thrilling meeting with pithias upon the scaffold, were almost terrific in their sublime intensity. Yet, while the actors seemed to hold the heartstrings of the audience in his hands, while he strained them to agony at pleasure, he either was not or affected not to be moved by his own personation. He compelled those who occupied the stage with him to believe that his most powerfully portrayed emotion was a counterfeit, that the painting of a sorrow a face without a heart. While the spectators cheered until they were hoarse, the stoical tragedian in a tone of irony uttered some humorous sarcasm, which excited the uncontrollable merriment of the players, a mirth which was often difficult to conceal. From the same audience who were so clamorous in their demonstrations to the tragedian, Elma won a silent respect even more flattering, and to her peculiar temperament far more acceptable. They never broke out to a noisy admiration until she had passed from their presence. They never addressed to her an audible criticism, eulogym, or comment. Calante is a subordinate character, yet one that enlists sympathy. It is difficult to define the exact order of Elma's scenic talents. Her performances lacked vivid coloring. They might have been deemed cold, but it was a marble coldness of statuesque beauty. They were carved, as it were, in alabaster, but sculpture was not dumb. She never rose out of herself, but she filled her assumed characters with her own inseparable loveliness. If they were narrow, she seemed to compress her nature to enter into their contracted limits, reminding the beholders of a butterfly struggling to force itself into an empty chrysalis shell, but failing to hide its bright, tinted wings. She never descended to stage trickeries, nor ever, like Mortimer, courted the applause which she disdained. The extreme polish of her delivery lit one great charm to her personations. Never was the saxon tongue more musically syllable than by her lips. Every word was cut fine and sharp, and invested with a value and a meaning which be tokened intellect, though unalied with an ardor. The much abused practice of flinging bouquets at the feet of a favorite performer had not in those days reached a height of absurdity. A floral token might fall upon the stage without awakening the suspicion that this was only a portion of the performance prepared by the manager, possibly by the receiver. In the first act, while Damon and Pithias were conversing, Calante stole in upon them. The instant she appeared, a couple of bouquets dropped upon the stage. The one was a magnificent collection of exotics, the other a bunch of woodland violets, the stems of which were confined by a golden arrow. The representative of Pithias gathered up the flowers and presented them to Elma. Mortimer's gaze was fastened upon her as she received them. He detected the involuntary direction of her eyes, though the look was as brief as a flash. That glance had sought the stage box. In the seats nearest to the stage set young Lord Oranmore and his relative, Leonard Edmonton. The fiery eyes of the Tragedian rested upon the countenance of the nobleman with an expression which might have been interpreted as wrathful menace. Then he turned them again upon Elma. The bouquets were in her hands, but her face was innocently raised to that of Pithias, who regarded her saying, By the birth of Venus when she rose out of the sea, and with her smile did fill the Grecian Isles with everlasting verdure, she was not fresh from the soft creation of the wave more beautiful than thou. Mortimer's fierce look gradually changed one of trustful confidence. We pass over the stirring action of the play which abounds in fine situations. When the curtain fell, Elma found her mother, attired as Mrs. Malaprop, seated in the green room. Her antiquated attendant, Winifred, stood fanning her. The members of the company crowded round with welcomes and kind inquiries. A gleam of the olden light fired in her fading eye. Departed vigor returned her in feeble frame, and to the voice so faint and hollow for a few hours before. Its clear, far-sounding tone was restored. The sensations of the aged actress on the eve of her farewell were so fitly expressed in the touching adieu delivered by John Kimball but a few years previous. As the worn war horse of the Trumpet sound, Erex's mane and nays and paws the ground, disdains the ease his generous lord assigns, and longs to rush on in battle lives, so I, your plaudits ringing in my ear, can scarce sustain to think our parting near, to think my scenic hour forever past, and that these valued plaudits are my last. Elma could only spend a moment at her mother's side. The young actress was allowed but a brief space to exchange her grecian costume for the more modern or dormants of Lydia Langrish. As the comedy of the rivals is deficient in a nave, Ruthman's labours for the night ended with Dionysus. The accomplished stage villain was metamorphosed into the most worthy and devoted of husbands. The welcome which the audience bestowed on Mrs. Ruthman might almost have been said to surpass their tornado-like greeting of the Half-Eyed Lies Tragedian, it was not received by her with Mortimer's scornful horture. Blessings be with you, the best of luck to you, long life to you, resounded on every side, at her oft-repeated obeisances. The dog very like the applications of Mrs. Malaprop, who asserts that if she reprehends anything in the world it is the use of her oracular tongue and a nice derangement of epitaphs, never elicited heartier merriment. As the play progressed it became apparent that Mrs. Ruthman's suddenly restored powers were but bright flashes of life's expiring flame. During the fifth act she could not stand without support. She leaned heavily on the arms of the performers who chanced to be nearest to her. And if the exigencies of the play required them to alter their situations, others took their place. Every moment she grew feebler and her limbs wholly refused their office. She was placed in a chair and remained seated during the final scene. The actors, regardless of the parts they were representing, gathered affectionately around fanning her, bathing her brow, making her inhale pungent odors. The comedy was hurried to its conclusion. The curtain fell. The audience received the impression that their favorite was on the verge of a fainting fit produced by fatigue. After a few moments of compassionate silence the exhausted actress received the usual summons and the eager crowd awaited her last adieu. Mr. Ruthman placed the paper upon which the address was inscribed in her hands. She endeavored to rise but in vain. Do not make the attempt, remonstrated Mortimer, who had hastened to her side the instant the curtain fell. Sit still, just as you are. Let the curtain be raised, but do not try to stand. Mrs. Ruthman smiled consent. Elma stood beside her mother's chair as the curtain was slowly lifted to the expected multitude. One loud peal was followed by a silence so profound that the hard-drawn breath of the suffering actress was distinctly audible. Every ear was strained to catch the last words they might hear from those lips by which they had so often been charmed. There was a strange, nervous twitching about the mouth in its desperate effort to articulate. The eyes that wandered slowly around the theater with a long glass look of regret grew filmy and glassy. The face had become thin, sharp, and ghastly. Within a few hours the paper dropped from the powerless hand.  A voice reached the audience from behind the scenes. Let fall the curtain. They will never hear her speak again. Everyone recognized the deep, sonorous tones of Mortimer.  One of them for the last time, for this her place would never know her more. End of section 17. Section 18 of Mimic Life. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Kelly Taylor. The Unknown Tragedian by Edda Korah-Mollett Richie. Chapter 2 For nearly a week, Ms. Ruthven laid in a semi-stupor. Elma's filial love proclaimed its strength and depth by her thoughtful, all-inticipating, untiring devotion, as it had never done by words. Her nature was undemonstrative. She ever shunned the display of emotion, however real. Her profoundest, tenderest feelings were always voiceless. Her character had a strong affinity to that of Lear's gentle daughter, Cordelia-like. Her love was richer than her tongue. Nor could she heave her heart into her mouth and make boast of its pulsations. Even her sorrow recalled from outward show.  Those who beheld her ministering with unruffled brow, tearless eyes, and tranquil mean to a dying mother might have deemed her deficient in the very attitude which she possessed to the highest degree. Why was it that life's strange or sad mutation stirred not, overcame not her, as they overwhelmed stronger, prouder, more aspiring spirits? Her adjesus was heaven-descended, and against it the powers of earth could not prevail. In her perfect trust to the divine providence, visible agencies, like the penetrative atmosphere, pervades all creation, the workings of whose secret springs hourly made manifest, redeem life's humblest trifles from insignificance, the providence which watches over, the fallings of a sparrow, which shapes our end, rough you them as we will, in that lay her might. She felt that absolute reliance is the condition of receiving angelic influences, that they are attracted by the trusting spirit, can approach and enter in where faith opens the door, but have no power to pierce the barrier of unbelief. She knew that to live in accordance to the laws of natural and spiritual order is to float on the divine current, which bears all upon its tides to a haven of peace. Tossed by the stormiest seas, her eyes ever looked beyond the hour, and beheld the beacon of promise shining in the distance. Eye through the gloom of sorrow's darkest night, the placid daily beauty of her life could not be ruffled or conquered by circumstance, because she ignored the existence of chance. Such a being could never become the sport of fate, a pipe for fortune's finger to sound that stop she pleas. Alma sat musing beside her mother's couch, pondering over such reflections as we have just pinned. She looked up after a long abstraction, and saw the invalid's eyes fixed upon her face. A smile parted the livid lips. It was the first look of intelligence that had lighted her countenance since the hour when she fell into slumbrous insensibility. For a few seconds Alma moved not, nor uttered a word. Mother and child spoke to each other's hearts with their eyes alone. You know me, my mother, at length Alma asked in a low, loving voice. Mrs. Ruthfyn was still speechless, nor could she reply by the affirmative motion of her head. But the lids of her dim eyes closed and opened again, and her smile grew brighter. These gave a scent. Alma, without turning her face from her mother, rose and opened the door of the adjacent apartment. There set the aged actor and the tragedian. Mortimer was expected to fulfill an engagement in Liverpool two nights after his appearance at the farewell of Mrs. Ruthfyn. The following curt epistle conveyed to the infuriated manager a change of plans. You will not see me on Monday. Name the damages, Gerald Mortimer. My father, said Alma, will you come in? My mother seems quite conscious again. Mr. Ruthfyn and Mortimer hastened in the room. The filmy eyes of the invalid became clearer as they rested upon them. The old man embraced her with deep emotion and laid his withered, tear-stained visage on the pillow beside hers. It was a strange sight to behold the being who had betrayed stern and ruthless villains until he cheated an audience into believing that he had himself no sense of natural ties, no tenderness, no heart, now playing the woman with his aged eyes. Mortimer had reverently taken the hand of the sufferer and raised it to his lips. She feebly stretched out her other hand to receive Elmas, then laid the hand of her child in that of Mortimer, clasping both together with a look of import which was unmistakable. Mortimer sank upon his knees and drew down Elma beside him.  That expression remained stamped upon her countenance. The affianced pair still knelt with their united hands yet clasped in hers as she sank to sleep. Yes, to sleep, for her breathing stirred a snowy lock of the head that laid beside her. And now the silvery threads moved less and less. Now they glittered motionless on the pillow. The hand which grasped that of her daughter and of the son she had chosen became a bond of ice. Oh, most sad, prognostic. She is gone, said Elma, and a solemn whisper. Support my father. Our father, Elma. She has confided you to me. My gnome, my gnome forever, answered Mortimer. And Elma, who could not misinterpret her mother's dying wish, recoiled not. We will not dwell upon the ceremonies that can sign the soul's unjeweled casket to its native earth. In spite of reason, they are fraught with the bitterest anguish to all mourners, even those who feel assured that life's true receptacle descends not to the dark mold where sods above it close. Who do not blindly confound this moldering dust with the true person, with the inner form which gave the outward all it had of fair, which is no kindred of the worm, no warrant for despair. Mortimer had taken his place beside the bereaved husband as an acknowledged son. Elma's countenance wore throughout a serene mournfulness. Her grief never once found vent in loud lamentation. A week passed on. Elma sat pouring over a box of treasured mementos which she had gathered up from her childhood. I have come to say farewell, said Mortimer, entering the room. She closed down the lid with unusual abruptness. You did not tell us that you were about to leave, she remarked. I was not aware of it myself. You know I am a creature of impulse, and often cannot attempt to account for my own sudden fancies. I start for Liverpool in an hour, and will try to satisfy Wilcox by acting a night or two with him. Perhaps Mortimer did not peruse Elma's countenance right, but he imagined that she looked, at the moment, more cheerful than of late. Elma, dearest, this is no fitting season to talk to you of my joy and the promised possession of the hand your dying mother placed in mine. Elma looked at him with such deprecating eyes that he checked himself, then added, I will not talk to you of plans for the future, but Elma, there is one subject to which I am bound to elude. I ought not to leave you without. You divine the topic, do you not? Yes. A man has no right to conceal what nearly concerns himself from his offiance bride, yet it must cost me dear to repeat the history to which your mother listened, with which she was content, for after hearing it she bestowed her child upon me. I do not ask to hear that with which it will pain you to relate. Generous Elma, I thank you for this confidence. I may postpone the hour then. You will be satisfied with the assurance that there is no blemish upon the name which I ask you to share, and which I have only renounced for a season. The one I now bear is assumed, my own befitted not a profession to which I was not born. I do not mean that I was destined for any other. Islandness was one of my inheritances, the one of which I grew most weary. In my early youth a teaching of that immortal bard who can inform the world struck deep root in my mind. The words are these. What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed, a beast, no more. Sure he hath that made us with such large discourses, looking before and after, gave us not that capability and godlike reason to rust in us unused. Those lines converted a whirling drone into an actor, for I had always that passion for the stage which you cannot comprehend. Need I tell you more? No more. Are you satisfied, quite satisfied, Elma? With your history? Yes. I believe that no blot can attach itself to your fair frame. I did not mean that, but our relationship to each other will be a source of joy to you. Our hearts will make no discords. Windtime's potent balm has soothed the poignancy of your present sorrow. When I return to claim you, pray, that single word broke from Elma's lips so supplicatingly that Mortimer ceased. In a I am content. How poor are thee that have not patience. I was a selfish root to press this subject upon you at such a moment. Nor should I ask for words or assurances from such a woman as you are. You bear too strong a likeness to her of whom the brave blunt old Kent declared. Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound reverbs no hollowness. Farewell. He stooped over her. His lips lightly touched her smooth forehead, and without another word he departed. Why did not the maidenly blood mount in confusion to the brow which received that unwanted impress? Why did it become paler than before as though the ruby current had retreated from the touch? And now that he is gone, why does Elma clasp her hands together so tightly, and why does that deep agonizing groan break from her lips? She turns again to the box which she hastily closed when he entered.  She gazes on them sorrowfully for a while, then stoopes her head involuntarily as if she would press them to her lips, but no. She drops the faded token with a shutter, as though she has been tempted to commit some deadly sin, shuts down the lid, and resolutely walks away. After the death of his beloved partner, Mr. Ruthven grew rapidly and firm. A deep melancholy settled on his spirit. At times he seems on the verge of dotage. The only relief he could find lay in his profession. But his scenic powers seem to have departed.  They lacked the diabolical element. His memory failed. The prompter's voice could not reach his age-dull ears, parts with which he had longed and familiar he was forced to have copied in large characters, and the pages on which they were inscribed hung upon the wings out of the sight of the audience. The old man constantly wandered from his situation on stage to consult these suspended documents. Sometimes he painted a speech that played on the fugitive in his mind upon the palms of his hands, or wrote a few of the most important words on his nails, erasing one impression and substituting another when he made his exit. Elma was seldom absent from his side. He grew restless and fretful when he missed her. In her deportment there was a marked and touching change. Her reserved manner invited no sympathy. She never discounted upon afflictions, which were too heavy to be borne. But there was an alarmed, troubled expression on her countenance, as though some constant dread were ever present to her thoughts, some inevitable calamity ever menacing her. But for the mild submission that softened that look it would have become one of settled despair. She had received no visitors since her mother's decease. One morning her father entered her bourgeois most unexpectedly accompanied by Lord Oranmore and Mr. Edmonton. Mr. Ruffin had encountered them on his return from rehearsal and invited them to his house, where they were in the habit of visiting. The father of Lord Oranmore was an Irish nobleman who at an early age abandoned his estates and took up his residence in London. In that metropolis one son and three daughters were born and educated. It was through the representations of his relative, the Reverend Erastus Edmonton, that self-exiled Lord had been gradually convinced of the wrong and injustice of an absentee towards his tinnetry. He harkened at length to the wailing cry sent up by England's sister country and remembered that it was his own. Two years previous to the period of which we write he returned to his extensive estate on the outskirts of Dublin. The Reverend Mr. Edmonton, who was now a widower and in declining health, was induced to exchange his pastorate for the lighter duties of the private chaplain at the castle. The living thus left vacant was promised to his son. Leonard Edmonton had been educated with young Lord Oranmore, who, being an only son, lacked companionship. The youthful nobleman and his father had used their best effort to induce Leonard to enter the army. He resisted all entreaty and became, by choice, a student of divinity. But when the season for his ordination arrived, with unaccountable capriciousness he postponed the ceremony, assigning no cause. Alma greeted Lord Oranmore with dignified cordiality, then bound to Mr. Edmonton without offering her hand, without lifting her eyes to his face. Here was a striking difference in her salutation of the young men. A casual observer would have said that the florid, fair-haired, dashing young nobleman so wholly absorbed her attention that she had not a glance to bestow upon the chaplain's son. Yet the fine oval of that mild, thoughtful countenance, that open brow from which the raven locks waved back and gave its loftiness to perfect view, those singularly dark eyebrows arched over deep blue eyes, those bland, delicately curved lips were not unworthy, a fair lady's note. Leonard Edmonton lacked Lord Oranmore's buoyant, perceptive manners, but a polished ease took their place. The vivacious nobleman nearly rendered the conversation a monologue. Mr. Edmonton addressed Alma but twice, and drew from her only monosyllabic replies. The visit of the young men was necessarily brief.  Even this charming creature cannot thaw you, and yet it's odd when she was acting you never missed one of her nights at the theatre.  A feat you never once performed yourself, I believe, returned Edmonton, his laugh but half-concealed that he winced at the random thrust. No indeed I forced her to think of me because I cannot help thinking of her. You are always accusing me of hunting after-new fancies, but I have been constant to this ever since I first saw Alma Ruthen one whole year. I then became infatuated with her personations, but herself is far more charming than all the poetic and dramatic angels she assumes. Now it is the woman that I am overhead and ears in love with. In love with, Edmonton ejaculated those words in a tone of horror, and your intentions are? Well, really, I never ask myself what they are. I do not know that I have any fixed intentions at all. I leave the future to bring forth what it will. But if you should find that Alma Ruthen returns your affection, I shall be deeply indebted to her, shall feel highly complimented, greatly delighted, and, as I have said before, let the future bring forth whatever it has in store. I suppose a man may be pardoned for a little vanity if he discover himself to be the object of consideration to this divine creature whom destiny has rendered an actress. Alma Ruthen, in her chaste loveliness, is not a woman whose name should be irreverently uttered, nor can her character be lightly estimated by anyone who has been granted the privilege of knowing her in private. The man who is crowned with her love will become the monarch of a heavenly realm and may well be proud, but that her preference should excite vanity, in the sense which you seem to imply, is a thought as humiliating to her as it is unworthy of you. Hey, day Edmonton, have you just waked up? I never heard you launch out in her praise before. Why, you are not in love with her yourself, are you? I shall begin to think it is the actress who is keeping that living vacant and has postponed a certain ordination for which you are duly prepared. You are afraid of disgracing the cloth, is that it? What has fired you so suddenly? I believe I was a little warm, returned Edmonton, relapsing into his usual quietude. But you know what reverence I have for womanhood. I cannot bear to hear the name of a woman such as Alma Ruthen lightly used, or the rich gift of her affections, which can only be bestowed, accompanied by her hand, rated so carelessly. That is my excuse. No harm done, Leonard, only don't grow so sanctimonious before the time. No offence in talking of an actress as though she were flesh and blood, is there. Don't separate the flesh and blood from the spirit that animates and gives them life, which makes the pulses temperately beat in response to all noble aspirations, making such holy music as Alma's—but here comes your groom.  Are you going directly to the castle? Edmonton answered in the affirmative. Then jump in the faton and spin the little of your judicious whip and bridling upon the horses yourself. Your lessons will do them good. Wish I could say as much for their master. Terrence, I shall not dine at home. Ring the horses to the club by ten to-night.  Lord Orinmore turned his steps to the principal bookseller's shop in Dublin. I must have some pretext for the visit, he said to himself as he entered. He tossed over a number of richly bound annuals, and at last selected and purchased a volume of standard plays, which contained a portrait of Mrs. Ruthen as the widow racket. The clerk was ordered to follow him with their book as he purposed to deliver it in person. It was conveyed into Elma's presence. She was alone. Lord Orinmore pointed out the portrait, said that he met with it accidentally, that he found the likeness of Mrs. Ruthen so striking he could not refrain from bringing it himself, that he might witness her daughter's pleasure. He begged that the volume might be left for her father's acceptance. Lord Orinmore was very sorry, he added, not to find Mr. Ruthen at home. No, he corrected himself. He would be frank and say that he was rejoiced, for there was a subject upon which he wished to converse with Elma. Time, he declared, had dragged very heavily with him during the four weeks in which he had not beheld her. What was life out of her presence? Would that his life could be passed at her side? Existence would be Elysium, and could not this be? Would she not give him hope that it might be? Elma made a fruitless attempt to check him. In spite of her chilling mean, his ardent temperament hurried him on. There was a touch of regal scorn in the look which she turned upon him, as she replied. Is it because I bear the name of an actress, my Lord, that you have ventured to address me thus? What in my conduct has ever given you the right? I have only to request that you will leave me to the privacy upon which you have intruded. Lord Orinmar, in an instant, saw his error, and at that moment she became more dear than ever. He would not lose her thus. Ms. Ruthven, beautiful Elma, how you have misunderstood me. You could not for a second imagine me capable of insulting you. How often has the stage given up its heroines that coronets might gain additional lustre by encircling their brows? I asked to place one upon yours, where partial nature have already bound a brighter circlet radiant beauty's own. Let me rob the public to enrich myself. You have no love for this stage. Will you not abandon it for my sake? No. Why is your manner so frigid? Have I unconsciously offended beyond pardon? No woman has the right to be offended by the honourable addresses of an honourable man, but your offer is one that I cannot accept. I should not were I free. I cannot, for my hand is already promised. The last word Elma uttered with a violent effort. Lord Orenmore started up in dismay. Elma silenced the remonstrance on his lips. It was the dying wish of my dying mother. That must be sacred. My Lord, you will excuse me if I put an end to this interview. She moved towards the door. One moment, Elma, I cannot yield up all hope, but Elma had passed from the room. I will not relinquish her, exclaimed the impetuous young nobleman, as he darted out of the house. End of section 18