“No, for your art’s,” he said, gravely. “I shall be at the wings.”
Now that she was left alone, Doris tried to concentrate her thoughts upon the coming ordeal; but she could not. Each time she tried to picture herself upon the stage and speaking the lines set down for Juliet, the voice of Cecil Neville rang in her ears, and with a low cry, almost of alarm, she put her hands to her head.
“Ah, that’s stage fright!” said the dresser. “I know what it is, miss; I’ve had it myself, in my old acting days. But it will pass off directly you face the house, depend upon it. Don’t you be afraid and nervous; for, Miss Marlowe, I’ve heard that the very first actors feel like that, some of them every night, too!”
Doris laughed softly.
“Do they, Mrs. Parkhouse?” she said. “Then there is hope for me. There is the overture over. Not many minutes now; the curtain is up!”
She bent her head upon her hands and forced herself to think of the scene that was at that moment being played, to think of the good-looking young fellow—a great Barton favorite—who was playing Romeo; but marvel of marvels, instead of his face, which she knew so well, there rose before her, as Romeo, the face over which she had bent yesterday.
“Ah, it is no use, no use!” she cried, springing up.
“Oh, don’t say that, miss!” said Mrs. Parkhouse, who had been watching her with respectful anxiety. “I’m sure—we’re all of us sure and certain that it will be a success. It will all go right directly you get on to the stage.”
“Do you think so?” said Doris, with a curious smile. “I hope so—ah, I hope so; if not——”
“Juliet!” shouted the call boy; and leaving her sentence unfinished, Doris caught up her train and went to the wings.