“It is not all over yet!” he said, warningly. “There is the last scene. Remember what I taught you! It is the last scene in which a Juliet, who is a Juliet, declares herself! Do not let their applause make you forget what is due to your art! I would rather that they remained mute and silent, Doris.”
And for answer she simply smiled. She did not tell him that while she could see a certain face in the centre box all would be well.
The pause before the last scene arrived. The whole house was talking in excited whispers. To the Barton folk, ardent theatre-goers as they were, nothing like this had befallen them. A twitter of excitement ran through the house, and amongst the crowd that thronged the lobbies Lord Cecil walked about, as excited as the rest.
Suddenly, as if he had been stricken by an idea, he turned up the collar of his coat and made his way through the press to the streets, and looked about him eagerly.
Some women selling oranges came hurrying up to him, and amongst them a woman with a basket of violets.
He bought the whole contents of her basket, and bade her tie them together; then, with the flowers in his hand, he went back to the theatre; but, instead of going to his box, he made his way to the stalls and stood close to the orchestra.
The last scene came on. Again it is unnecessary to describe it; the grim and solemn vault, the beautiful figure of the girl in the death throes, the terrible agony of Romeo, were all here, rendered real and lifelike by the genius of the actors.
Spellbound, the house watched and listened in profound silence. Listened to the passionate, despairing plaint of Romeo, and the deeper agony of Juliet, who awakes to find her lover dead.
Never, perhaps, since the play was played, was actress more touching, more tear-compelling than Doris Marlowe that night at the Theatre Royal, Barton; and as her last words died away in solemn silence, a great sob seemed to rise from the crowded house.
Then the sob gave place to a thunder of applause. Once more the sober audience seemed possessed by a spirit of delirium; men sprang to their feet and waved their hats, women rose and waved their handkerchiefs with which they had wiped away their tears; and cries of “Juliet! Juliet!” resounded through the theatre.