First, let us glance at the open windows of Cassandra’s reception-room. The vine-clad balcony, behind which waved soft lace curtains, appeared cool and inviting in the stillness of that warm, star-lit evening. Soft rays of rosy light from shaded lamps streamed out upon the floor.
Lying back in a large chair, in all the glory of jewels and fleecy lace, was the lovely Clovis. Her large dark eyes had a dreamy, far-away look, for she was thinking of the one man in all the world whom she loved. Yes, with her whole heart, her whole soul, she loved Neil Emory.
Years ago, let me tell it now, she ran away from home and married a handsome, worthless fellow, who, when he died, left her nothing. She was of English birth. Her mother was dead and her father married a second time. An uncle, a stage manager in America, offered her a home, which she accepted, and, for a long while, she was his housekeeper. She was frequently at the theatre, occasionally assuming some minor part in the play; but she was never considered an actress—she was merely a “responsible lady.”
One day her uncle fell sick and she was compelled to take his place. He became almost an invalid, so it happened that for a long while she was virtually the manager. Yet so efficiently was the business conducted that the world never suspected the real manager was rarely behind the scenes.
About that time an actress of some note was engaged for thirty nights on her uncle’s boards. When she had played fifteen nights, and each time to an admiring audience, she caught a violent cold and lay dangerously ill.
Now a strange thing happened. The sick actress sent for the manager’s niece and informed her she must take her place in the bill. There was a wonderful resemblance between the two women; in form and feature, hair, eyes and brow, they were alike. The almost dying woman pleaded that she should assume her very name and finish her engagement, urging that, as the girl had watched her performance for fifteen nights in the wings and had even understudied the part, she ought to be able to play it.
“Keep my engagement for me,” she begged, “for, far away over the water, I have a little child dependent on me.”
It would require too much space to give all the particulars, but that night the girl walked the stage in borrowed name and robes, and, when the curtain fell, had achieved a triumph as an actress. Such is the public. It paid blind tribute to her and she was content. None knew the difference. Night after night, she played her part, and long before the thirty days expired the sick actress had passed away to the unknown shore, bequeathing her name and glory to another.
Thus, as Cassandra Clovis, the girl began life anew and constantly sent to the child across the water all she needed.
One night, the theatre at which she was playing caught fire and was destroyed. In the red glare of the flames a woman threw herself in front of Clovis and begged to be saved. They were in a dressing-room beneath the stage.