CHAPTER XXI

SEEKING REFUGE FROM THE STORM

The first appearance of the new Juliet was but one week off. Sybil had spent the last fortnight with Mrs. Van Camp, and some very hard work had been done in the quaint old drawing-room, for be it known there are few more difficult undertakings than the proper coaching of an inexperienced girl for the playing of a great part.

The actress who has made her way gradually acquires, all unconsciously, a hundred nameless graces, little tricks of manner, movement or expression, poses, poises, flutterings, the turn of the head or the glance of the eye, and all seem so natural, so spontaneous; but try to teach them to a novice and both coach and pupil will find their work cut out for them.

The process is an unnatural one, and the result is a forced blossom, that, however brilliantly beautiful, has a frail exotic air that makes even admirers wonder if the plant has sufficient strength ever to bloom again.

Stewart Thrall knew perfectly what drudgery coaching meant, and perversely told himself, up to the very last moment, that he should send, in a day or two, to-morrow, next day, for "Mother Mordaunt" (whose home was irreverently termed "The Hatchery," because of the numbers of amateurs she ever had in training there), and place the Crown Princess in her hands, "for drill, tuition, and discipline," and with insidious self-deception he went so far as to write a note to summon her. Then he caught at the word "drill" to hang his changed opinion on. He did not want her "drilled" out of all the bright spontaneity that was in her now; and, come to think of it, all Mrs. Mordaunt's pupils were trained to the same pattern--they were merely weak copies of herself. He believed, after all, he would undertake the task himself, and he tore to bits the note summoning Mrs. Mordaunt, and wrote instead that line to Sybil, which had caused her so much surprised gratitude, and then remarked casually to Jim Roberts, who sat in the private office with him and carefully polished the metalled gauntlets that belonged to a coat of mail: "I don't know but what young Fitzallen is too inexperienced to do Romeo with a green-girl Juliet. It's rather too great a risk. Maybe I had better go on for it myself, though I suppose I'll scarcely look the part now, even in some new and youthful toggery?"

Roberts looked up from his task, with a queer expression of blended admiration and anger on his face, and answered: "You'll look the part all right, just as well as you ever did, but--what's the use of trying to deceive yourself, for you wouldn't condescend to try to deceive me surely. You know well enough that as long ago as when you telegraphed me to bring Miss Lawton back from the West you had already decided to play Romeo to her Juliet, and I knew it as well as you did, so what's the use?"

"Indeed! Why, you are becoming clairvoyant! Isn't that what they call the fellow who lies about seeing things that have never occurred? Jim, you're off your base!"

"Easy, Thrall!" answered Roberts, in a low tone. "A sneer more or less doesn't matter much, but we will draw the line at 'lying!' And if I'm off my base no one knows why better than you do!"

With a muttered oath Thrall left the room, but he took the note that summoned Sybil and mailed it himself.

They had worked hard and long in the old-timey drawing-room, for only the very last rehearsals were to be held upon the stage with the full company. Sybil had rehearsed until her head ached, her throat throbbed, and her lips were dry and parched. High-spirited, restless, quick-tempered, she forced herself to docility, and patiently repeated, went back, and began over, bore criticisms with hard-won meekness, and when she received an approving word her tired lips curled into the lovely smile that thrilled her teacher's nerves.

Then her patience, her determination to succeed, her passionate desire to understand the part, added to her keen appreciation of the beauty of the language, all appealed to the artist in him; while her attitude of reverent admiration toward himself touched even while it humiliated him, in that he knew he was not worthy of such reverence. Yet, in some strange way, he seemed to see in her the reincarnation of his own youthful sincerity, passionate ambition, and eager, loving labor, before the testing fires of life had found so much dross in him; and, with a great wave of tenderness swelling in his heart, he vowed she should not "lose the way," as he had done; that her dainty imaginings, her original ideas, should not be frightened back by sneer or sarcasm; and that her reverent love for the mighty playwright of the ages should not be ridiculed or "guyed" into a mere question of which of his plays had the most money in it.

She had the fire, the magnetism, the imaginative power of the artistic temperament, and, in guarding her from the banalities and the cheap cynicisms that are so deadly in their effect upon the enthusiastic young beginner, he somehow felt as if he were making reparation for the wrong he had done that younger self, who had hoped for fame, but had been given notoriety instead.

Nor was that the last excuse Thrall found for his willing work in training this young actress. The manager, the money-getter in him, was appealed to also. More and more plainly he saw in this young gentlewoman of the unusual beauty, whose very imperfections were just enough to humanize, to attract, the public--not to repel and chill as absolutely statuesque perfection has a way of doing, a "card" of great value. More and more surely he knew that there was "money in her," and he meant that every dollar she could be made to draw should roll safely into the box-office drawer. And so he told himself that in order to discount the dulled edge of a curiosity gratified she must be taught really to act--to act well. For that was what they would have to rely upon at the last--beauty and acting combined, when the drawing power of mere novelty was exhausted. Therefore, it was simply good, sound, business tactics to train and explain and repeat--repeat--repeat! and to be very stern sometimes, because a drooping figure and a white, tired face made him long so to gather the weary young body into his arms and whisper: "Rest! poor little queen to be! rest!"

All these reasons for coaching Sybil himself, instead of engaging Mrs. Mordaunt to do it for him, he acknowledged, and if there was yet another one, he ignored its existence until that morning when the first performance was but one week off.

Leslie Galt, the grave young lover of Dorothy, had from the first found a friend in Sybil, and she had been a willing screen for hardly secured hand-pressures at sundry partings; had made swift and fairly reasonable excuses for brief, but to Mrs. Lawton unaccountable, absences from porch or parlor; had given many a vital hint, that he had followed to his profit, and, in consequence, he had fallen into the habit of depending upon her sisterly advice in his love-affairs. "When in doubt, consult your Sybil!" was his way of describing the situation; and on that morning, being in doubt, he had appeared at Mrs. Van Camp's and had sought an interview before work began.

After greetings and a few commonplaces had been exchanged, a slight pause was broken by Sybil saying, briskly: "Brother-to-be! you are evidently on the anxious seat about something, so rise up like a little man and tell me all about what brought you there! Do you know [she cocked her head to one side in a ludicrous imitation of old Poll], you look like a young person who, having gone and done something he is half sorry for, is now in search of a friend who will brace him up and tell him how wondrous wise he has been?"

Galt laughed rather nervously, rather flatly, and a dismal "Ha! ha!" came in quick response from beneath the sofa.

"There!" the speaker went on; "did you hear that? There's the same clear, mirthful ring in that laugh that yours had just now--so hearty!"

He threatened the girl with the walking-stick he was rolling restlessly across his knee. "Upon my word," he said, "you are wonderfully well named. I believe you are a true descendant of the mighty Cumaean Sybil of old, whose peculiar business methods worried Tarquin of Rome--just as you will in all probability worry Mr. Thrall! Sybil, do you see what that wretched bird is about? He is cutting the buckle off your slipper."

"Go away!" exclaimed she, pushing the ancient torment from her.

"Scratch poor Poll!" hoarsely suggested the bird, cocking his head to one side in just the manner she had been imitating a moment before.

"I won't!" she refused. "I scratched your treacherous old head for half an hour, and had to trim my nails for my trouble! Go away, Poll! Oh, Leslie! take him off, he's getting cross, and he'll bite my skirt full of holes if you don't!"

And, after some little manoeuvring, the green tyrant was induced to clamber laboriously and profanely on to the stick, and was thus carried to Mrs. Van Camp, who cried: "Come to his mamma, then, and stop his naughty damning! and let dear mamma scratch Poll's pretty head!" adding aside to Galt: "It's so odd, he always speaks so much more distinctly when he swears. Just hear how plainly he is damning me now, yet words that I have been trying with all possible care to teach him he gives in such guttural tones that only a loving ear can comprehend them."

"Yes," replied the young man, "it's probably an inherited preference, since it is common to all parrots. Sailors have told me that even the females--who do not talk, you know, save in the exceptional case that makes the rule--even they are capable of saying 'hell!' with apparent appreciation, though they never learn another word."

"Dear me, how interesting!" smiled Mrs. Van Camp, who then sweetly asked: "Are you, by any chance, concerned in the establishment of Sunday-schools in your river town?"

Amid general laughter Leslie returned to Sybil, who gurgled: "Oh, dear boy; never again try to poke fun at my god-mother! But now that Poll has gone, what is the matter?"

"Just this: day after to-morrow is Dorothy's birthday, and----"

"Oh!" murmured Sybil, and drew nearer with brightening eyes. "You want to get a present for her. Well?"

"I've already got it," said Galt, anxiously, "and now I'm wondering what she will think of it. May I show it to you, and will you tell me honestly whether I should offer it or get something else?"

She nodded her head, and first he drew from his coat-pocket a cabinet photograph of Mrs. Lawton, which he returned, thanking her for its, to her, mysterious loan. Then he took from its tissue wrapping a locket.

"Oh, how pretty!" cried Sybil. "A 'D' in pearls on one side, and on the other"--she gave him a roguish glance of understanding--"a violet in enamel!"

But his face kept its unsmiling, anxious look. "Open it," he said.

"Is there a picture, Leslie? Oh, I am glad! An empty locket always seems such an absurdity. Oh!" For two pictures were within. She gave a startled glance, and continued, "Mamma! Such a good likeness, too, and--" a pause, and, in a lower tone, she added, "and _your_ mother!" For, looking at that fair-haired, gentle-faced woman, one saw at a glance from whom Galt had obtained his steady gray eyes.

"You don't think Dorothy will misunderstand, do you?" he asked. "Yet it has just occurred to me that some people shrink from reminders of, of-- Sybil, there is just that one cloud upon my perfect joy that my beloved mother cannot know and love my promised wife!"

Raising big, tear-brimmed eyes to his face she said, gently: "Very likely Dorrie will tell you that she can, for _her_ faith is absolutely boundless."

"God bless her!" whispered Galt.

"Amen! to that," answered her sister. "Leslie," she went on, "your gift is an inspiration! I did not know a man was capable of such delightful sentiment. And Dorothy will be touched to the heart by your pathetic little effort to share your happiness with the dear mother who is absent."

His face cleared. "Thank you!" he said. "I see no one wears lockets at the throat now, so I got this to suspend it from." He rose to bring from his pocket a box. The bell rang, but they did not notice it, and the man going to the door in his ancient and wonderfully cut mulberry livery for once failed to wring surreptitious laughter from the young visitor. The box held a heavy chain bracelet of gold.

"Goodness!" cried Sybil, "don't put that on Dorrie's left arm, or you will break it again!" Then, as he slipped the gifts back into his pocket, she said: "Leslie, dear, they are beautiful! Dorothy will be delighted, and I love you because you are so good to her!" She took his face between her hands, and, reaching up, kissed his cheek, and Stewart Thrall, unannounced, entering the front room, saw her, and stood stock still, while a sick qualm of jealousy drained the color from his face and turned his hands to ice.

Then, like one cruelly wounded by a treachery, he recalled, with fierce anger, those seemingly honest words, "I never had a lover in my life!" and, out of a momentary darkness about him, came the clear voice of Sybil, saying: "You are not looking well this morning, Mr. Thrall."

Being coldly assured he was quite as well as usual, she went on: "Let me introduce Mr. Galt, of whom I am very proud, because I never had a brother until Dorothy presented me with this one."

The sudden lighting of the new-comer's face, was startling as he turned his brilliant eyes on Galt and crushed his hand in hearty greeting. "Let me offer congratulations," he smiled. "Indeed, you should be doubly congratulated, your position is so much more secure and agreeable as a brother to this young lady than it would have been had she 'been a sister to you.'"

"Oh!" laughed Sybil, "he never gave me a chance to make him that offer! There's no flitting from flower to flower about a Galt! They may be a bit cool and hard, but they are true!"

Thrall winced at the unconscious thrust. She slipped her hand under Leslie's arm, and, giving it a little squeeze, added: "You see, I've been studying up your family records along with those of the Montagues and Capulets."

After a few courteous words the men saluted, and Sybil went on out into the hall with Leslie, to give some final message for Dorothy before saying good-by.

And Thrall walked to a window and leaned his head against the cool glass. He closed his eyes and muttered to himself: "Good God! Good God!" and yet again, in utter helplessness, "Good God!" He recalled that sick jealousy, the almost insensate rage, that had possessed him at the sight of that innocent caress, and said to himself: "It is useless to deny it longer, I love that child blindly, stupidly, senselessly!" Then he lifted his head quickly, indignantly saying: "No! no! that would mean infatuation--the besotting, mere physical attraction, that men who are not Galts yield to, and repent of so swiftly! No! In her, I love the dear ideal I sought and dreamed of in young manhood. It is the purity, the joyous spirit, the high ambition, the unawakened power of loving, and the beauty--the sullen, smiling, changing beauty--that charms, holds, and fascinates me! Oh, yes! I love her--no doubt left of that. And principally because she has no right in it at all she is becoming the ruling factor of my life. I knew the danger to myself of this daily close companionship; yet that being the devil's plan and he my honored master, I pretended doubt of Mordaunt's skill, and took the task of training into my own hands. And now--well, self-deception being over, I must trust to my powers of dissembling to hide from her the longing love that may only speak through lips dead three hundred years ago. Ah, Will! sweet Will Shakspere! you were ever a warm lover; but, depend upon it, your glowing words will not be the cooler from my delivery of them!"

He laughed at his own fancy, and Sybil, returning, said: "I'm glad to hear that laugh, Mr. Thrall; for positively, when I saw you first, I thought you looked almost ill. And, see how unconsciously selfish one can be, I was quite aware of a fleeting regret for a lost rehearsal, when my better self came forward in sympathy for you! But you will observe that I thought of my own interests first. Humanity must be very disappointing to its Creator! What on earth is the matter with god-mamma?"

Mrs. Van Camp, with ringed hands high in air, was summoning them both to come to the extension-room, from whence she distantly chaperoned all their many and prolonged rehearsals. "Come! come quickly!" she cried. "You, neither of you, really appreciate him! And you will doubt my assertions unless you hear him your own selves! Hush! hush!" She lifted a warning finger, and they drew cautiously near to the big sun-flooded window, where, on his perch, standing on one foot, the other curled up into a bluish gray ball, stood Poll, his head on one side, a white film drawn over his vicious old eye, while, in a rasping voice, he said, over and over again: "'Omeo! 'Omeo!"

"Is he not wonderful?" whispered his adoring mistress.

"Why? what?" began Thrall.

But Sybil shook her head warningly, and even while Mrs. Van Camp's eyes flashed ominously at him he understood, and exclaimed, in tones of amazed admiration: "If he is not calling Romeo, I'm a sinner!"

"'Omeo! 'Omeo!" rasped Poll, and Mrs. Van Camp, unable to restrain herself longer, clasped him to her bosom, whereupon he yelled and swore and screeched, and swallowed two buttons from the front of her gown.

"Perhaps they will kill him?" hopefully whispered Thrall.

"Not a bit of it!" laughed Sybil; "they do him good! He has bolted nearly half a string of beads for me since I've been here! Oh, is he not awful?"

Mrs. Van Camp was finally forced to put him in his cage for punishment, and to quiet him a blanket was being wrapped about the top, when suddenly, with surprising distinctness, he croaked "Dead! dead!" then "'Omeo! 'Omeo!" again. And Mrs. Van Camp, with emotion, pressed Thrall's hands and kissed Sybil, and blessed them for their long rehearsals, that were ending in instructing her dear, dear Polly! And the pair writhed in a very anguish of suppressed mirth, until Mrs. Van Camp went back to her embroidery, and their laughter in the drawing-room could be laid to the account of "acting."

* * * * *

Next day Sybil had been presented to the company, on the stage of the Globe. She was being announced as an amateur, and people were filled with wonder that a young girl could pass from the drawing-room directly to the stage. But her first scene was not over before some knowing smiles and glances were being exchanged, and one of the actresses was saying: "Amateur--drawing-room? Well, she is from the drawing-room, no doubt of that; but she has halted at some other theatre before reaching this one, for she is no amateur!"

"Oh, I don't know!" argued the "old woman," who was, of course, cast for the Nurse. "I find her quite novicey in the 'business' of our scenes."

"That may be," replied the other speaker, a blonde person, referred to by Roberts as "that devil divorcee!" the first term alluding to her malicious temper, the second to the scandalous divorce that preceded her appearance in New York. "It may be that she is not familiar with the 'business' of Juliet, but did you see her awhile ago looking for her boa? The carpenter told her it was hanging across a chair on the 'o. p.' side, and she crossed over instantly to get it? To an amateur the 'o. p.' side would have been Greek. And when something was said about 'the borders,' did you see how quickly she looked up at them? Amateur? Call up the marines to listen to that yarn, but I was not born yesterday!"

"No, dear!" pleasantly acquiesced the other. "No one who has seen you would make such a charge, I'm sure!"

"Oh, don't be too clever, for your own good! You shouldn't waste such brilliant bon-mots on a mere actress!"

"Merest mere!" interrupted a voice from behind her. "Don't glare so, you'll spoil your beautiful expression. Good Lord!"

For the angry face had suddenly wreathed itself in smiles, and the divorcee advanced with outstretched hand to meet Sybil, who, the scene being over, was hesitating which way to turn.

"Come and sit here by me," she cooed. "Does your throat get dry from long speaking? Mine does." And she offered a beautiful little bonbonniere, saying, "Try these French paste troches, they are delicious."

And the actor, Joseph Grant, who detested her, said, aside to old Mrs. Elmer: "Do you see that? Manice is not getting ready to pump, is she? She'll know that pretty girl's history clear from the very day of her birth before the next act is set."

"Not if Stewart Thrall is as clever as I think he is. There!" chuckled the old woman. "What did I tell you? Oh, do look at Manice's face!"

For Mr. Thrall had suddenly called out, seeing who was talking to her: "Miss Lawton! Here I am in the parquet. Your aunt would like to speak to you during this wait!"

And no one guessed that the white-haired, upright old person attending Sybil, as watchful chaperon, was really only Mrs. Van Camp's ancient maid, who, at the instigation of Thrall, had been commanded thus to masquerade. And the papers duly noted: "That the young society bud, who had abandoned all social delights for love of art, had arrived promptly at the stage-door, an aristocratic, white-haired lady--a relative--accompanying her, and waiting patiently during the entire rehearsal, thus disposing of the rumor that her family was bitterly opposing the step she was taking."

Truly Thrall was pulling the wires, even the very little wires, for small people must be made to dance as well as great ones, if your ballroom is to present a really animated appearance.

Miss Cora Manice was not in the bill, and her unnecessary presence at rehearsals met with such frowning disapproval from Thrall that she withdrew, but with a furious face that fully presaged, to those who understood, the tempest that burst later on, in that private office, whose secret, shade-hung door was never used.

The other members of the company were wholly indifferent as to whether the interloper sank or swam. Jim Roberts stood afar off, and watched with burning, eager eyes every movement the young girl made, and his swift anticipation of her slightest wish soon attracted attention and comment; and one day some fellow said: "I believe Jim's gone back on Thrall, at last, and has taken a new master."

"No," replied Joseph Grant, "you mean a new mistress!" and this exquisite joke almost strangled maker and hearer with laughter.

The rehearsals were almost over. Scenery and properties took up much time, and made them very wearying, but there was a delightful break when Thrall made coffee in his office, and with Margaret, the ancient maid, doing propriety, in the corner, he served his "queen to be" with all the skill of a French waiter, and all the tenderness of a mother, while, with a hearty girl's appetite, she disposed of dainty sandwiches, coffee, and fruit--save on that one day when she ran out and gave every blessed sandwich there was to a poor waif whom she saw from the window.

"Why did you not give him money?" Thrall asked.

"I had none," she frankly answered.

"You should have told me, then I would have given him something for you."

She frowned a bit, and answered: "He would not have dared enter any place about here, and I could not put him to the torture of waiting--forgive me!"

And one day--one threatening day, when gas was burning everywhere, so dark it was--Thrall told himself he could do no more for this creature who had grown so precious in his secret sight. Only one thing troubled his artistic sense: Sybil's Juliet was a trifle too frank--too boyishly honest in her love. The soft confusion, the flushing cheek and drooping eye, that sweetly contradict the open plainness of her speech, were missing. He knew why it was so; and when the artist in him asked if he would have it otherwise, the man, recalling that sick qualm of jealousy, answered: No! no!

Rehearsal being over, Sybil had sent old Margaret home in the carriage that Thrall had hired for them, and had herself turned downtown a few blocks, and had then gone across to a little shop, where stage shoes were to be tried on.

"I'm afraid Mrs. Van Camp will be angry if I leave you, Miss Sybil," the woman had protested. "There's an awful storm coming up, too!"

"Nonsense!" said the girl, who even then had to hold her hat on with both hands, so high was the wind. "Go on, god-mother needs you at once! I'll be home in no time, but I can't leave those shoes another day. Suppose they should be wrong in some way? By-by!" and, laughing, she faced the tearing wind.

Coming from the shop she felt the rain begin to fall. She fairly flew along the streets. Two cars passed without heeding her signal. What should she do? The theatre? She had a right to seek shelter there, surely, and that way she rushed. A sign came hurling through the air! She screamed, and the next moment dashed, damp, chill, dishevelled, into the vestibule.

At the bang of the great door young Barney, pale under the box-office gas-light, raised his head and looked through the little window, trying to see who was outside, but the darkness was almost that of night, and Sybil, catching her breath in gasps, said: "I beg your pardon, Mr. Barney, I--I have just run in here for shelter--it's awful outside! Don't you know me? I'm Miss--Miss--" She stopped, in confusion. A tall man was stooping to peer out over Barney's shoulder. Those well-shaped, amazingly brilliant eyes were unmistakable. Then a voice of incredulity, of pleased incredulity, was saying: "It's not Miss Lawton, alone in this fearful storm, surely?"

The door was pulled open, and through the out-streaming light came Stewart Thrall. His overcoat over one arm, and a closely furled umbrella in the hand, whose finger and thumb also held an unlit cigar, told plainly that he was just leaving, that had she been one single moment later she would have found only Barney in the theatre.

Only one moment, but, oh, there are single moments full, replete, and pregnant with possibilities--moments that may bring forth results dire and strange! William Henry Bulkley's one moment had been sufficient for the mad runaway of the big chestnut, and things more terrible than horses may fiercely break away from all restraint in equally brief time.

But Sybil, shaken, breathless, and embarrassed in the dusk, made, unconsciously, a mental, never-to-be-forgotten portrait of Stewart Thrall standing in that informing stream of light--handsome, debonair, stately of height, and graceful of bearing, and on his face that eager look that made it strangely young.

He held his hand out: "Miss Lawton, is it really you? Why--good heaven, you are wet and cold!" The wind rattled windows, doors, and signs so that she could scarcely hear his words; but the warm pressure of his clasping hand was comforting to her. "Where is your carriage? eh? I can't hear you!"

Something, probably a billboard, fell with a crash against the door, and the girl gave a violent start of terror. Suddenly Thrall turned, still holding her hand fast. He cast his coat, umbrella, and cigar into the office, saying sharply to Barney: "I'm not here--to anyone! You understand?"

Barney looked up inquiringly. Their eyes met fully, and Thrall repeated: "Not to _anyone_!" And, closing the box-office door, he felt for the baize ones leading to the auditorium, pushed one leaf open and entered, drawing Sybil after him by the hand. As it closed he reached up and softly pushed the bolt.

Outside, in the office, Barney stared stupidly, then began a double shuffle, chuckling to himself: "Oh, wait till Manice gets on to this! But one of these days the governor will stand up to her, and then she'll get a pointer on temper that will astonish her, I guess! He's too easy! I wish he'd chuck her out of the company--spiteful, bleached cat!" Undoubtedly a very vulgar-minded boy was Barney.

Inside the red baize doors Sybil was amazed to find almost perfect silence. The auditorium, being in the very middle of the building, was cut off from outer sounds. Even the wild shriek of the wind was greatly softened. The darkness seemed at first complete, but the accustomed eye could see a faint grayness at the stage end opposite them.

A row of open French boxes extended across the back of the lower circle. Thrall laid his hat in a chair in one of them as he passed, and still leading Sybil, said, in a cheerful, matter-of-course tone, intended to quiet any possible uneasiness of mind: "This way, Miss Lawton! Don't be afraid, there are no steps. The register is right in this corner, and there is at least enough heat on to dry your damp clothing. It would be a pretty serious thing, my young lady, for you to catch cold at this late hour. There, you can feel a little hot air, can't you?"

The building now fairly trembled under the force of the gale, and Thrall, with a tightening of his fingers on hers, asked, reproachfully: "In God's name, child, what induced you to face a storm like this? Tell me."

But in that warm, dark silence words would not come easily. She murmured something about "god-mamma's needing Margaret's services," paused, added a confused assurance that her "stage shoes had proved satisfactory," and became mute.

The empty auditorium was vast, the white linen hangings, draping boxes and dress-circle, were mysterious as the swaying mosses of a Southern swamp. A sense of isolation came upon her, of distance from the world. She did not seem to think consecutively, but in broken, fragmentary, foolish bits. She wondered why Mr. Thrall was so silent. Was it because--. She wondered if her dress was drying all around evenly--if her boots would spoil from the heat--her mother had thought them expensive, and--and how many nerves and pulses did one girl carry about with her? And why need they all quiver and beat at the same time?

She drew her hand gently from Thrall's, but he took up the other that was still in a wet and clammy glove. Silently, deftly unbuttoning and peeling it off, he softly chafed the little member. Sybil drew a long, slow breath--what was it that troubled her?

The darkness seemed to hide something--secret, sweet! A strange, evanescent perfume seemed to have been left out there by beauty, wealth, and fashion! In the mingling odors of rice-powder, orris, violet, and fine tobacco in the close warm air there was a sensuous suggestion of eyes and smiles, of whispers and pressed hands! The potent perfume of human love was all about her! She moved restlessly. "I--the heat! my head!" she whispered, and drew away from him.

He put his foot out and closed the register. "I--I must go now," she slowly added, when there came a sound--a steady, loud sort of even roar, and Thrall knew a very deluge of icy rain must be descending upon the city to be heard so plainly there.

"Go?" he queried, gently. "Go? Why, my child, you could not stand on your feet a moment--the gale would dash you to the earth. Stay here, where you are safe."

The silence closed about them again, yet she vaguely felt there was no calm in it--it seemed only dormant. Then dimly it came to her to ask Mr. Thrall to let her go to the box-office to wait, when suddenly the building shook as a toy house might have done, and there came a deafening, rumbling crash above their very heads, it seemed, though truly it was a chimney falling above the stage roof, and Sybil's one wild scream of terror was smothered on Thrall's breast!

"Don't, don't, my--!" he whispered, hoarsely, holding her trembling hand to his lips and covering it with kisses. "Don't shiver so! 'Twas nothing! You are quite safe--quite safe! Sybil--Princess! I'd shelter you in my arms, and guard you with my life--always! if I might! if I might!"

His arms were about her. The dull roar of the rain was like the roaring from a distant world--they were alone--utterly alone--in the dimness warm and fragrant. She was all unstrung and weak from fright. His words seemed half real, half dreamed. She raised her head--she put two impotent little hands against his breast.

"Please!" she gasped. "I am not frightened now! I--" A strange lassitude was upon her. A door somewhere banged heavily--she shivered as at a blow! Her head sank back upon his breast. He bent over her, his face all passion-pale, his heavy, drooping lids betraying their girl-like length of lashes.

"Sybil!" he breathed.

Her eyes, wide and startled, met his. "Sybil!" he entreated. "Sweetheart!" His lips met hers in one long, tender kiss, and the house rocked in the fury of the gale!