With his hands folded behind him, his head bent upon his breast—his favorite attitude—he paced up and down the narrow limits of the room, like a tiger in its cage, waiting for his supper.
“Will the house be full, Jeffrey?” asked Doris, presently.
“Yes,” he replied. “The pit and gallery are full now; they were waiting at the doors as early as six o’clock. They are not fools, these Barton people. In some places you would be sure of playing ‘Romeo and Juliet’ to empty benches, but not here. It is a flourishing place, and they are intelligent and educated. They have a theatre they may be proud of, and they are proud of it. In some towns the theatre is a neglected barn, and when that is so, you may take it that the people are uncultivated and barbaric. Yes—you will have a fair and patient hearing; I knew that when I chose Barton for the scene of your great trial. In London there are so many new Juliets that the critics and the audience have got incredulous and suspicious—they have seen so many failures that they go prepared for disappointment; here, it will be different. They love Shakespeare, they know you, they will hope for the best, and you will not disappoint them,” and his eyes glittered down upon her.
Doris smiled.
“Perhaps they will hiss me off the stage!” she said, but she did not say it very fearfully.
He shook his head, and went on in his monotonous pacing; and presently a familiar sound struck his ear.
“The curtain is up on the farce,” he said. “You had better begin to dress. Is there anything I can do—anything I can suggest—anything you would like to ask me?” he inquired, with his long, thin fingers on the handle of the door.
Doris shook her head.
“No, Jeffrey, dear; I don’t know of anything, unless you would get into my skin, and play Juliet instead of me.”
“You are not nervous?” he asked.