A Peep Behind the Scenes

by Mrs. O. F. Walton

What happened in the theatre that night Rosalie never exactly knew; it all seemed as a horrible dream to her. She said the words and acted her part, but she saw not the stage nor the spectators; her eyes all the time were on her mother's face, her hand all the time felt her mother's dying grasp. And yet, as she danced and sang, there were many there who thought her happy, many who envied her, and who would have gladly changed places with her. Oh, if they had only known! if they had only had the faintest idea of the anguish of that little heart, of the keen, cruel, cutting sorrow with which it was filled!

Troubles some of these people undoubtedly had, cares and vexations and worries not a few, yet none of them had known anything of the heart-misery of that little actress; not one of them had ever been torn from the side of a dying mother, and been compelled to laugh and sing when their very hearts were bleeding. From such soul-rending agony they had been saved and shielded; and yet they would have chosen the very lot which would have exposed them to it.

Oh, how very little they knew of what was going on behind the scenes! how little they guessed what a tumult of passionate sorrow was in little Rosalie's heart! So wild was her grief, that she hardly knew what she was doing, and, after the play was over, she could not have told how she managed to get through it. Instead of going out on the platform, she darted swiftly out of the theatre and into her mother's caravan, almost knocking over several people who were passing by, and who stared at her in astonishment.

Her mother was not dead; oh, how glad Rosalie was for that! but she did not seem to hear her speak, and her breathing was very painful. Rosalie bent over her and cave her one long, long kiss, and then hurried back into the theatre just as her father had missed her.

And when she next came into the caravan, all was still; her mother seemed to be sleeping more quietly, the painful breathing had ceased, and the child hoped she was easier. She certainly seemed more restful, and her hands were still warm, so she could not be dead, little Rosalie reasoned to herself.

Poor child, she did not know that even then she had no mother.

Weary and aching in every limb, little Rosalie fell asleep on the chair by her mother's side; and when she awoke with a shiver in the dead of night, and once more felt her mother's hand, it was as cold as ice. And Rosalie knew then that she was dead.

Trembling in every limb, and almost too startled to realise her sorrow, she unfastened the caravan door, and crept out into the darkness to tell her father. But he and the men were sleeping soundly on the floor of the little theatre, and, though Rosalie hammered against the gilded boards in front, she could make no one hear her. Again and again she knocked, but no answer came from within; for the theatre people were tired with their night's work, and could not hear the tiny little hands on the outside of the show. So the poor child had to return to the desolate caravan.

With one bitter cry of anguish, one long, passionate wail of grief, she threw herself on her mother's bed. Her sorrow could not disturb that mother now; she was gone to that land which is very far off, where even the sound of weeping is never heard. The Good Shepherd had carried her safely over the river, and, as Rosalie wept in the dark caravan. He was even then welcoming her mother to the home above; He was even then saying, in tones of joy, yet more glad than before, 'Rejoice with Me, for I have found My sheep which was lost.'

But Rosalie—poor little desolate, motherless Rosalie!—had the Good Shepherd quite forgotten her? Was she left in her sorrow alone and forsaken? Was there no comfort for the orphaned lamb in her bitter distress? Did He pass her by untended and unblessed? Or did He not rather draw doubly near in that night of darkness? Did He not care for the lonely lamb? Did He not whisper words of sweetest comfort and love to the weary, sorrowful Rosalie?