But that leaden weight at my heart was too great for gratified vanity to lift. "Bother the tears," she added; "I heard Mr. Barras say the tears of all actresses were in their handkerchiefs."
"Oh, yes, I heard him, too," I answered, "but he was just talking for effect. There must be something else, something more. You can't move anyone's heart by showing a handkerchief."
"Well," she exclaimed, a bit impatiently, "what do you want to do? You don't expect to shed real tears, do you?"
"N-n-no!" I hesitated, "not exactly that, but there's a tone—a—Hattie, last Wednesday, when you quarrelled with young Fleming—I was not present, you know—but that night, a half-hour after our light was out, you spoke to me in the darkness, and I instantly asked you why you were crying and if you had been quarrelling, though you had not even reached the sobbing stage yet. Now how did I know you were crying?"
"I don't know—anyway I had no handkerchief," she laughed; "you heard it maybe in my voice."
"Yes," I answered, eagerly, "that was it. That curious veiling of the voice. Oh, Hattie, if I could only get that tone, but I can't, I've tried and tried!"
"Why," she exclaimed, "you've got it now—this very moment!"
"Yes," I broke in impatiently, and turning to her a pair of reproachful, tear-filled eyes, "yes, but why? because I'm really crying, with the worry and the disappointment, and, oh, Hattie, the fright!"
And the landlady, a person who always lost one shoe when coming up-stairs, announced dinner, and I shuddered and turned my face away. Hattie went down, however, and bringing all her blandishments to bear upon the head of the establishment, secured for me a cup of coffee—that being my staff in all times of trouble or of need, and then we were off to the theatre, Hattie kindly keeping at my side for companionship or help, as need might be.
I did not appear in the first act, so I had plenty of time to receive my borrowed finery—to try it on, and then to dress in my own white muslin, ready for my first attempt at a crying part. It was a moonlit scene. Miss St. Clair, tall, slender, elegant, looked the young French gallant to the life in her black velvet court dress. I had to enter down some steps from a great stone doorway. I stood, ready to go on. I wore a mantilla with my muslin. I held a closed fan in my hand. My heart seemed to suffocate me—I thought, stupidly, "Why don't I pray?" but I could not think of a single word. I heard the faint music that preceded my entrance—a mad panic seized me. I turned and dashed toward the street-door. Mr. Ellsler, who had just made his exit, caught me by the skirts. "Are you mad, girl?" he cried; "go back—quick—quick! I tell you—there's your cue!"