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'—God 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 gratitude for his 'teaching and help,' are expressed openly, fervently, and as yet cause only concealed amusement. 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 associate further with her told her spiteful catship 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 coarse appetite 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 passion 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 grasses 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 passage 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.