Miss Bretherton

[ CONTIMDKD.l ""ren,'l siui, balf laoghing, too, 'il is very wtonishing. And you tuow ;t i-an't go on if you are to do wuat 1 tlunk you will do. Frenen you positively must leurn, aud learn quickly. I don't mean to sa y tuat mihaven'i good plays and a traditioa of ourown; but for the moment Frasee is the center of your art, and you cannot remain at a distance from it! The French havo organized their knowledge; it ia available ior all who come. Ours is still floatiug and amateurish' "And so on. You may imagino it, my dear Eustace; I spare you aay more of it verbatim. After I had talked away for a lons time, and brought it all back to the absolute necessity that she should know French and become acquainted with French acting and French dramatic ideáis, she pulled mn up in the f all career of eloquence bydemanding with a little practical air, a twinkle lurking somewhere in her eyes - " 'Explain to me, please, how it is to be donel' " 'Oh,' I said, 'nothiug is easier. Do you know anything at all f " 'Very little. I once had a term's lessons at Kingston.' " 'Very well, then,' I wentcn, enjoyingthis little comedy of a neglected educaiioo, 'get a French maid, a French master and a novel; I will provide you with "Consuelo" and a translation to-morrow.' " 'As for the French maid,' she answered, dubiously, shaki g her head, 'I don't know. I expect my old black woman that I brougbt with me from Jamaica wonld ill treat her - perhaps murder her. But the master can be managed and the noveL Will none of you laugh at me if yon see me trailing a Freneh grammar abouti' "And so she has actually begun today. She makes a pretense of keeping hor novel and a little dictionary and grammar in a bas aQd hides them when auy one appears. But Paul Uas already begnn to tease her about her now and mysterious occupation, and I ioresee that ho will presently spemi the greater part of hii mornings in teaching her. I never saw auybody attract uini so much; she is absoluteïy different from anything he has seen bef ore; and, as he says, the mixture of ignorance aud genius in her- yes, genius; don't be startled! -is most stimulating to the imagination." "August 22. "Duritig thu last few days 1 have aot been seeing so mach of Miss Bretherton as before. She has been devotiug herself to her familv and Paul aud 1 have been doing our picture. We cannot persuade her to taLe any very large dose of galleries ; it secms to me tliat her thougbts are set on one subject - and one sabjeet aly- aud while she is in this first stage of intensity it is uot likely that anything else will have a chance. "It is amusins to study the dissatisfaction of the unele and aunt with the turn things have taken since they left London. Mr. Wonall has been evidently accustomed to direct bis niece's life from top to bottom- to choose her plays for her, helrd by Mr. Robinsor. ; to advise her as to her fellow-actors and her behavior in society, and all, of course, with n shrewd eye to the family profit and as littlo regard as iieod be to any fantasfl.cal conception of art. "Now, however, Isabel has asserted herself in several unexpected ways. She has refused altogother to open ber autmnn season with the play which had been nearly decided on before they left London - a flimsy spectacular performance, quite unworthy of her. As soon as possible she will make important changes in the troupe who are to be with her, and at the beginning of September she is coming to stay three weeks with us in Paris, and, in all probability (though the world is to know nothing of it), Perrault of the Conservatoir, who is a great friend of ours, will give her a good deal of positivo teaching. Thi last arrangement is particuiarly eiasperating to Mr. Worrall. He regards It as gure tobe known, a ridiculous confession of weakness on Isabel's part, and so on. However, in spite of bis wrath and the aant's sullen or tearful disapproval, she has stood firm, and matters are so arranged." "Saturday night, August 36. "This evening we persnaded hor at last to give us some scènes oí Juliet. How I wish you conld have been herel It was one of those experiences which remain with one as c sort of perpetual wituess to the poetry which life holds in it, and may yield up to one at any moment. It was in our little garden; the moon was high above the houses oppoeite, and tbe narrow canal running past our side railing into the Grand canal was a shinIng streak of silver. The air was balmy and absoluteïy still; no more perfect setting to Shakespeare or to Juliet oould have been imagiued. Paul sat at a litfle table in front of the ret of us; he was to read Romeo and the Nurse in the scènes she had chosen, while in the background were the Worralls and Lucy Bretherton (the little crippled sister), Mr. Wallace and myself. Sho did the balcony scène, the inoraing scène with E.omeo, the scène with the Nurse after Tybalt's death and the scène of the philter. There is an old sundial in the garden, which caught the moonbeams. She leaned her arms upon it, her eyes fixed upon the throbbing, moonlit sky, her white brocaded dress glistening here and there in the palé light- a visión of perfect beauty. And when she began her sighlng appeal- O, Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Iioineof- it seemed to me as if the night- the passionate Italian night- had fouud its voice- the only volé whieb fltted it. "Afterwards I tried as much as possible to shake off the impressions peculiar to the scène itself. to think of her under the ordinary conditions of the stage, to judge her purely as an actress. In the love scènes there seemed hardly nnything to flud fault with. I Ihought I cou'.d trace in many places the influence of her constaat dramatic talks and eiercises with Paul. The flow of passion was continuous and electric, hut marked by all the simpleness, all the sweetuess, all the young wmsome extravagance which belong to Juilet. The great scène with the Nurse had many fine things in it; she hadevidontly worked hard at it line by line, and that speech of Juliet 's with it extraordinary dramatic capabilities- Shall I speak ill of Uiin that is my husband? was given with admirable variety and suppleness of intouatioa The dreary sweetness of her Banishcd! that one word banished! still li es with me, and her gestures asshe paced restlessly along the little strip of moonlit path The speech before she takes th potion was the least satisfactory of all; tbs jhastliness and horror of it are beyond ber resourcesas yet; she could not infuse them with that terrible beauty which DesforeU would have giveu to every line. But where is tbe English actress that has ever vet succeeded in iti "W ereall lilent for a minute frer her great cr - Romeo. Borneo! Romeo. I drink tolli?." 'I cau't. i : . : ■ nnfwh, I cau'l do " 'It wan ■. ■■':..-■...'■.!,■. get it. 8uc tb ret was admiribl. Ton most nav worked very ham!' " 'So I have,' she smid, bri:;htening at th warmth of his praige. 'But Diderot is wrong, wrong, wrong ! When I could once reach th feeling of th Tybalt speech, when t coaM once bato him for kitliag Tybalt in tbe same breath in wbicfa I loved him for being Romeo, all was easy; gestare aod movement carne W m; I learned thm. and the thing was done.' "The refereuee, of eourse, meaut tUat Paul had been readiiig to her bis favorito 'Paradoxe sur le Comedien,' and that she had been stimulated, but not converted, by the famous contention that the actor should be the mere 'cold and tranquil spectator,' the imitator of other men's feelings, white possessing none of his nwa. He naturally would hare arguod, but I wouii not have it, and made her rest. She was quite worn out by the effort, and 1 do not üks this excessive fatigue of hers. ] often wonder whether the life she is leading is not too exciting for her. This is supposed to be her holiday, and she is really going through more brain waste tban she has ever done in her life before! Paul isthrowing his whole energies iato one thing only, the training of Miss Bretherton, and he is a man of forty-eight, with an immense experience, and she a girl of twentyone, witli everything to learn, and as easily ezcited as he is capable of exciting her. I really must keep him in check. "Mr. Wallace, when we had sent her homo across the canal- their apartment is on the other side, further up towards the railway station- could not say enough to me of hU amazemeat at the chacge in her. "What have yon done toherí' heasked. 'I can hardly recognizo tbe old Miss Bretherton at all. Is it really not yet f our months since your brother and I went to see her in the "White Lady?" Why, you have bewitched herl' " 'We havedone'something, I admit,' Isaid; 'but the power you see developed in her now was roused in her when months ajo she flrst came in contract with the new world and tho new ideal which you and Eustace represented to her.' " 'There, my dear Eustace, have I given you your dueï Oh, Miss Bretherton says so many kind tbings about you! I'll take especial painsto teil jon some of them tiext time I writA' WALLACE TO KENDAL. VENICI, Aug. 27. JIy Dear "exdal- This has been a day of events which, I believe, will interest you as much as they did me. I told Urne. de Chateauvieux i nat I should write to you tonight, and my letter, she says, must do in place of one from her for a day or two. We have been to Torcollo today- yonr sister, M. de Chateauvieux, Miss Bretherton, and I. The expedition itself was delightful, but that I have no time to describe. I only want to teil you what happened when wegot to Torcello. "But first you will, of course, know from vnnr frister's letter - she tells me she writes to you twice reek- how absorbed we have all beea ie the artistio progress of Miss Bretherton. I myself never saw such a change, suoh an extraordinary development in any one. How was it that you and I did not see further into her? I see now, as I look back upon her old self, that the new solf was there in germ. But I think perhaps it may have been the vast disproportion of her celebrity to her performance that blinded us to the promise in her; it was irritation with the public that made us deliver an over hasty verdict on her. "However that may be, I have been making up my mind for some days past that the embas3y on behalf of Elvira which I thrust upon you, and which you so generously undertook, was a blunder on my part which it would be delightful to repair, and which no artistic considerations whatever need prevent me from repairing. You cannot think how divine she was in Juliet the other night. Imperfect and harsh, of course, here and there, but still a creature to build many and great hopes upon, if ever there was one. She is shaking off trick af ter trick ; your brotherin-law is mercile8s to them whenever they appear, and she is forever working with a view to his approval, and also, I think, from two or three things she has said, with a memory of that distant standard of criticism which she believe to be embodied fn youl "M. de Chateauvieux has devoted hlmself to her; it is a pretty sight to see them together. Your sister and she, too, are inseparable, and Mme. de Chateau vieux's quiet, equable refinement makes a good contrast to Miss Bretherton's mobility. She will never lose tbe imprint of ber f riendship with these two people; it was a happy thought which led you to bring them together. "Well, we went to Torcello, and I watched for an opportunity of getting her alone. At last Mme, de Chateauvieux gave me one; she carried off her busband, Ruskin in hand, to 3tudy the mosaics, and Miss Bretherton and I were left sitting under the outer wall of San Fosca till they should come back. We had been talking of a hundred things- not of acting at all ; of the pomegranates, of which she had a scarlet mass in her lap; of the gray slumberous warmth of the day, or the ragged children who pestered us for coppers - and then, suddenly, I asked her whether she would answer me a personal question: Was there any grudge in her mind toward me for anything I had said and done in London or caused others to say and do for me? . "She was much startled, and colored a good deal, but sbe said very steadily: 'I feel nosortof grudge; I never had any cause.' 'Well, then,' I went on, throwing myself down on the grass before her that I might really see her expression, 'if you bear me no grudge, if you feel kindly towards me, will you help me to undo a great mistake of minef "She looked at me with parted lipsand eyes which seeraed to be trying to flnd out from my face what I meant 'Will you.' I said, hurrying on, 'will you take from me "Elvira," and do what you like with itp And then, do you know what happened? Her Ups quivered and I thought she was on the point of tears, but suddenly tbe nervousness of each of us seemed to strike the other, and we both laughed- she long and helplessly, as if she could not help herself. "Presently she looked up, with her great eyes swimming in tears, and tried to impress on me that I was speaking hastily ; that I had an ideal for that play she could uever promise to reach ; that it was my f riendship for her that made me change my mind; that there might be practical difficulties now that so many arrangements had been made, and so on. But I would not listen to her. I had it all ready; I had an actor to propose to her for Macias, aud even the costumes in my mind, ready to sketch for her, if need wera Forbés, I suggested, might and would direct the setting of the piece; no one could do it with more perfect knowledge or a more exquisite taste ; and for her, as we both kne w, ha would turn scène painter, if necessary. And so I rambled on, soothing her shakeu feelings and my own until she had let me beguile her out of her attitude of reluctoncs and shrinking into one at lesst of common Interest. "But by the time the others caiuo back I bad not got a direct consent out of her and all tbe way home she was very silent I, of course, gotahxiWit, aud 4s?jao to think that my blunder had been irreparable; b it, at any rete, I was determinad not to let .he thing linger on. 80 tuat wheii the Cbateauvieux aaked me toitay an1 sti; irltb tïteiti and her, I upped, and fterwarijj In (ha garfin boiill j brought it out bef or tlwm alt and appealed to ynur Uter for help. I knw tbat botb sh and her huiband were acquainted wlth what had happtned at Oxford, aod I suppoeed that Mlss Bretherton would know tbat they rere, so that it was awkward enough. Only that women, when they please, hare such tact, guch an art of nnoothing over and lgnoring the rough places of life, that ona of ten with tbem geta through a difflcult thiag without realizing how difflcult it is. M. de Chateauvieux smoked a long time and said nothing then he asked me a great many questions about the play, and finally gave no opinión I was almost in despair- she said so little- until, jast as I was going away with 'Elvira' f ate still quite unsettled, she said to me witl a smile and a warm pressnre of the hand 'To-morrow come and see me and I wül tel yon yes or no!' "And today I have been to see her, and the night has brought good luck! For 'Elvira,' my dear Kendal, will be produce on or about the 20tU of Kovember, in this jear of grace, and Isabel Bretherton wil play the heroine, and your f riend Is airead y plunged in business, and alow with hope and expectation. How I wish - how we al wish that y ou wero here 1 I f eel more an more penitent towards you. It was you who gave the impulse of which the resulta are ripening, and you onght to be here with us now playing in the body that friend's pari when we all yield yon so readily in spirit. 'Teil Mr. Kendal,' were almost her last words to me, 'that I cannot say how much I owe to bis influence and bis friendship. He flrsi opened ruy eyes to so man; t'niujs. He was so kind to me even when he thought least oi me. I hope I shall win a word of praise f rom him yet!' There! I trust that will rouse a little pleasant conceit in you. She meant it and it is truc. I must go oCf and work al many things. To-morrow or next day, af ter some further talk with her, I shall set 06 homeward, look up Forbs and begin operations. She will be in town about three weeks f rom now - as you know she is going to stay first with your sister in Paris- and then we shall have hard work till about the middle of November, when I suppose the riay wil be produced. This will be more than a fortnight later than she intended to open, anc Mr. Worrall wül probably be furiou3 over the delay, but she has developed a will of bei own lately. "Au revoir, then. You must have had a peaceful summer with your book and your heather. I wish I had anything like the same digestión for work that you have; J never saw a man get as much pleasure out oí his books as you do. To me, I conf ess, that work is always work, and idleness a joy 1 "However, uo . more idleness for me for a good while to come. How grand she will be in that last actl Where ere ïny eyes last spring? I wish there wore a chance of her seeing much that is interesting in Paris. However, flat as September generally is, 6he will get some Moliere at the 'Francais,' and your sister will tt.e care that sbe sees tha right people. Perrault, I bear, is to give her lessons- under the rose. Happy man I" Kendal read this letter on a glowing Au gust morning as he walleed homeward along the side of the pond, where the shade of the ür trees was a welcome protection against the rising heat and the air was f ragrant with the scent of the ling, which was just out in all its first faint flush of beauty. He threw himself down among it after he had flnished the sheets and stared for long at the sunlit, motionless water, his bat drawn forward over his brows. So this was the outcome of it alL Isabel Bretherton was about to become a great actress - Undine had found her Hall It seemed to him, as he lay thero buried in the ling, that during the past three weeks be had lived through a whole drama of feeling - a drama which bad its beginning, its complications, its climax. While it bad been going on he had been only half conscious of its bearings, half conscious of himself. Wallace's letter had made him sensible of the situation, as it concerned himself, with a decisi ve sharpness and completeness. There was no possibility of any further self delnsion ; the lost defenses were overeóme, the last veil between himself and the pursuing force which had overtaken him had fallen, and Kendal, with ashiver of pain, found himself looking straight into the wide, hungry eyes of Love! Oh, was this Iovb - sore desire, this dumb craving, this restlessness of the whole being? The bees bummed among the heather, every now and then a little brown streaked lizard rustled faintly beside him, a pair of kingfUhers flashed across the pond. But he saw and heard nothing, responsivo every sense in him commonly was to the details of the wild life about him. HU own miserable rêverie absorbed him. What was it that had made the cbarm of those early weeks In July immediately after his parting with barí What was it which had added zest to his work, and enchantment to the summer beauty of the country, and, like a bidden harmony dimly resonant within him, bad kept life tuneful and deligbtfull He could put words to it now. It had been nothing less than a settled foresight, a deep conviction of Isabel Bretherton's failure! What a treachery! But, yes- the visión perpetually before his eyes bad been the visión of a dying fame, a waning celebrity, a f orsaken and discrowned beauty! And f rom that abandonment and that failure he had dimly toreseen the rise and upspringing of new and indescribable joy. He had sean her, conscious of defeat and of the inexorable limito of her owu personality, turning to the man who had read her truly and yet had loved her, surely, from the very beginning, and flnding in his love a fresa glory and an all sufficient consolation. This had been the inmost truth, the center, the kornel of all his thought, of all his life. He saw it now with sharp distinctness - now that every perception was intensified by pain and longing. Then, as he went over the past, he saw liow this consciousness had been gradually invaded and broken up by his sister's letters. He remembered the incredulous impatience with which he had read the earlier ones. 80 Marie thought him mistaken! "Isabel Bretherton would be an actress yet" - "she had jenius after all"- "she was leorning, growng, developing every day." Absurd! He iad been able to keep bis critical estímate of ;he actress and hU personal admiration of ;he woman separate from one another. But evidently Marie's head bad been confused, misled by her heart. And tben little by lit;le his incredulity had yielded and his point of riew had changed. Instead of impatience of Marie's laxity of judgment, what he had jeon fiercely conscious of for days was jealousy of Paul de Chateauvieux- jealousy of lis opportunities, his influence, his relation owards that keen, swoet nature. Tbat, too, iad been one of his dreams of the future - the dream of tutoring and training her young, unformed intelligence. He had done someihing towards it; he had, as it were, touched the spring which had set free all this new and unexpected store of power. But, if be bad planted, others had watered and otbers would ■eap. In this great crisis of her fortunes he had been nothing to her. Other voiees and other hands had guided and directed ber. Ier kindly, grateful massages only stung and tortured him. Thoy seemed to him the merast friendly commonplace. In reality her if had paased out of his ken ; her nature iad flowerad into a new perfection, and h hd not been there to see r to help. Sb wouM nTer contMCt üftn witu th Incident! or the inSuences whlch bad transformad exUtence to her, and would probably Irrevocably changa the wiiole outline of hér fature. Ono b had wounded and sUrtled her and had despaircd (or awhile of undoing the impression made upon her. But now he feit no quick aniiety, no fear how things might turn, only a settled flat consciousness of división, of a Ufe that had once been ncar to bis swept away from him forever, of diverging roads whieh no Windly fate would ever join again. For, by the end of this time of solitary waiting, his chanjaof attitude was complete. It was evident to nlm that his anticipation of her failure, potent as it had been over his life, had never been half so real, half so vivid, as this ncw and strange foreboding of her trae success. Marie must be right. Ha had been a mere blind, h&ir splitting pedant, judging Isabel Bretherton by principies and standarda which lef t out of count the inborn energy, the natural power of growth. of such a personality as hers. And the more he had once doubted, the more he now beheved. Yes, she would be great - she would maka her way into that city of the mind iu which he hünself had made his dweiling place; she, too, would enter upon the world's vast nheritance of knowledge. She would beoome, if only her physical frame proved equal to the demands upon it, one of that little band of interpreters, of ministers of the idea, by whom the intellectual life of a society is fed and quickened. Was he so lost in hisown selfish, covetous need as not to rejoice? Oh, but she was a woman - she was beautif ui and he loved her I Do what he would, all ideal and impersonal considerations feil utterly away from him. Day by day he knew more of his own heart; day by day the philosopher grew weaker in him and the man's claim üercer. Before him perpetually were two figures of a most human and practical reality. Ha saw a great actress absorbed in the excitement of the most stimulating of lires, her power ripening from year to year, her fame growing and widening with time; and beside this brilliant visión he saw himself, the quiet man of letters, with tho enthusiasms of youth behind hiia, the calm of middle age before him. What possible link could there be bet ween them? At last Wallace's letter cleared still f urther the issues of the conflict, or rather it led to Kendal's inakin; a fatalist compact with himself. He was weary of the struggle, and it seemed to him that he must somehow or other escape from the grip in which his life was held. He must somehow deaden this sense, this bitter senge of loss, if it were only by postponinc the last reminciation. Ile would go back to his work and f orce himselC not to hato it It was his only refuge, and he must cling to it for dear life. And he would not see her again till the night of the first performance of "Elvira." She would be in London in a month's time, but he would t&ke care to be out of reacli. He would not meet those glorious eyes or touch that hand again till the die was cast- upon the fate of "Elvira" he staked his own. The decisión brougut him a strange kind of peace, and he went back to his papen-and books like a man who has escaped from the grasp of soma deadly physical 11 into a period of compara Uve ease and relief. CHAPTER VII. It was a rainy November night. A soft, continuous downpour was soaking the London streets. without, however, affecting their animation or the noctural brightnes3 of the capital, for the brilliaaeo of the gas lamps wasflashed back from innumerable patches of water, and every ray of ligbt seeined to be broken by the rain into a hundred shimmering reflections. It was the hour when all the society of which an autumnal London can boast is iu the streets, hurrying to its diuner or its amusements, and wheu the stream of diners out, flowing through the different channels of the west, is met ia all the great thorouguf ares by the stream of theatre goers setting eastward. Tho western end of D etreet was especially crowded, and so was tbe entronco to a certainnarrow street leading uorthward f rom it, in which stood tbe new bare buildings of tho Calliope. Outside the theatre itself there was a dense mass of carriages and human beings, only kopt in order by the active vigilance of the pólice, and wavering to and fro with kaleidoseoplo rapidity. Tho line of csrriage3 seemed Interminable, and after those who emerged from them had run the gauntlet of the dripping, curious, good tempered mullitude outside, they had to face the sterner ordoul of the stniggling well dressed crowd within, surging up the doublé stair case of the newly decorated theatre. The air inside was full of the hum of talk, and the whole crowd had a homoge neoua, almoat a family air, as though the oontents of one great London salon had been poured into the theatre. Everybody seemed to know everybody else; there were puliticians and artists, and writers of books;known and unknown; thero were fair women and wise women and great ladies; and there was that large substratum of faithf ui, but comparatively nameless, persons on whom a successf ui manager learns to depend with soiue confldence on any flrst night of importance. And this was a first night of exoeptiouable interest. 60 keen, indeed, had been the onmnt,it.mn fnr tintf-a t.haf. ,mmtr tf tWa present had as vague and confusod an idea of bow they came to be among the favored multitude pouring into the Cailiope as a man in a street panic has oí the devices by which he has struggled past tho barrier which has oyerthrown his neighbor. Miss Bretberton's flrst appearance in "Elvira" had been the subject of conversationfor weeks past among a f ar larger nuaiber of London circles than generally concern themselves with theatrical affairs. Among those which miglit be said t be within a certain literary and artistic circnmference, people were able to give definito grounds for tha public interest. The ?lay, it was said, was an umisuaUy good one, md the progress of the rohearsals had let oose a flood of minors to the effect that Misa Brethertou's acting in it would be a great surprise to the public. Further, from the inllectual center of things, it was ouly known ihat the famous beauty had returned to the scène of her triumphs; and that now, as in iheseaaon, one of the flrst articles of tha social decalogue laid it down as neo6sary hat you should, first of all, see her in the theatre, and seoondly, Imow her- by fair means, if possible, if not, by crooked ones - in society. It was nearly a quarter to 8. The orchesra had taken their places and almost every seat was full. Ia one of the dress cirelo oxes sat three peopla who had arrived early, and had for some time employed themselTds n making a study of the incoming stream hrough their opera glasges. Thoy wera iustaca Kendal, his sister, Mme. de Chateauviíux, and her hosband. The Chateauvieux ïad traveled over Paria expressly for tha occasion, and Mme. de Chateauvieux, her ;ray blue eyes parkling with expectatioo ind all her smal!, delicate features alive with nterest and ammation, was watchiug for the rising of the heavy velret curtain with an eagerness which brought down upon her he occasional mookery of her husband, whu was in reality, however, little le excited han herscl'. It wai bat thcte weeks sine bey had partod witb IsaUl Bretherton in 'aris, and they were feeling on this fint lizbt somethiuï of tlje ailety ad responsi bility whi.-'i lai-'j: :rtTien Zctj nruncn ehild u].in Ai..:i rr.j "Tiwnfd their best efforti in) iri.i :il worid As for K i k) bu m.ii ■ nootia-.TiveJ i;. I. i i.i i Ficha. I bwn paying mlong diii the north, and ha I sta ■ i i out, In cconiancc irith Um whiai kuicIi i d taken possessmn of inm i.i Surrey, töat l.e liad missed all tiiH prepara! bad arrivrd upo i ■ uiment whcn ::ui txm i vered. Miss BretlitTt. m liad li ■;■ en note of riviUitioH. ,■'..; i i u an nr.l tho flrst night and in u;i il and "judje pie a you." And lie bRil - ■ tiatever happened , b the CaliiojK' ontken vember. And now bere Ire ■ ■ . . precisely tb i ,.j pectation as tboe around bim, a i i all t li time conscious iuwardly i'.ut tu him alone, of all tlie human bel :!ieatre, the experience of the efi;i;iv; irould l.oso vitally and desperately iinjn : . Ufu on the Other sido of t won] Mark of it forever. it .: al. : ;, that tít sister susoc!r;l nothiog of lisáute of fecling; it t.ouM I ;) that sbc should know It, but ii leanwd to him impo sible to teil ber. "There are the Stuurts, " iie said, bending down to her, as the orchestra sti-uck up, "in the box to the lef t. Forbe?, I suppose, will join tbem when it begius. I am told he bas been woriiiug like a horse for this play. Every detail in it, they say, ü perfect, artistically and Uistorically, and üj.9 time of preparatiou has been exccplionully short. Why did she ref use to begin again itU tho 'White Lady,' to give herself inora timef' "I cannot teil you, except that she had a repugnance to it which could n:t ba got over. 1 believe her assooiations with the play were so painful that it would have seemed au evil omen to her to begin a new season witb it ' "Was she wist1, I wonder!" "I think she did well to follow her uucy in the matter, and she herself has liad plenty of Mme. She was workiug at it all the weeks she was with us, and youiig Hartiug, too, I think, had notico enough. Some of the smaller parta may go roughlv to-night, but they will soon faü iuto shaie." "Poot Wallace!" said Kendal, "he rjiust le wishing it well over. I never sa w a house better stocked with oritira." "Here he is," cried Mme. de Chatcauvieux, betraying her suppresseU exeiteuient in her nervous little start. "Oh, Mr. WalUce, bo do you do! and how aro tuln( Poor Wallace threw h:.:iíulf into hU seat, looking the pieture of ruisery so far as bis face, which Nature hud molded in one of her cbeerfulest moods, was oapable of it. "My dear Moca de Chateauvieux, I have no more uotion than the man in th moon. Miás Bretherton is au angel, and withont Forbe we should have collapsed a hundred times already, aud that about all I know. As for the other actors, ! suppose they will get throub their parta somehw, but at present I f eel like a man at the f oot of the gallowa. There goes the bell uow for it." The sketch for the play of "Elvira" had been found amons the papers of a young penniless lta)la.u bo hul 4ied, alfnost of starvation, in h Uonin sarret, during those toeming years after 1830, when poets grew on every hedge and thé romantic passion was abroad. Tlio sketch had appeared in a little privataly printed volume whicb Edward W allace bad plcked np by chanco on the Paris quays. fie bad read it in an idle bour in a railway, bad seen its capabilities, and bad forthwith set to work to develop tba sketch into a play. But in developing it be bad carefolly preservad the eharaeter of tbe original conception. It was a conceptiou strictly of the Romantic time, and tbe execution of it presentad very little of that variety of tono which modern auditnces have learned to expect. Tbe play told one rap 't. breatbless story of love, jealonsy, despair and death, and told it directly and uninterrnptedly, without any lighter interludas. Author and adapter alike had trosted entirely to tbe tragie f orce of tbe si tuation and the universality of tbe motives annealed fc). The dictiou of the piece was the dictioo of Alf red ds Vigny or of th school of Vtetor Hugo. It was, indeed, rather dramatic love poem than a play in the modrn sense. and it depended ajtogether for its succes upon the two cbaracters of Macias and Elvira. In duviilng the character of Macias the Italian author had made use of a traditional Spanish type, which has its historicalsources, and has inspired many a Spanisb poet from the Filteenth century downward. Macias is knight, KK't and lorer; his love is a kind of Southern madness which withers every other feeling in its neighborhood, and bis tragic death is tue only natural ending to a career so fierce and uncontrolled. Elvira, with whom Maeias is in love, the daughter of Nuno Fernandez, is embodied gentleness and virtuc, uutil th fierce progress of her fate bas tauglit her tliat men are treacherous and the world cruel. For lier love bad been prosperous and smooth until by a series of evento it had been bronght into antagonlsm with two opposing interests - those of her father and of a corUiu Fernán Pérez, ths tooi and favorite of the powerful Dute of Villena. The ambition and selflsh passion of these two men are enlisted against her. I'erez is determlned to marry her; her father is determined to sweep Macias out of tbe path of bis J own poütical advancement. The intrigue devised between tho two is perfectly successful. Macias is enticed away; Elvira, forced to belleve that sho ia desertad and betrayed, is half dri ven, half entrapped toto a marriaga with Perez, and Macias, returning to claim her against a hundred obstadee, meeU the wedding party on tbeir way back to tha palace of tha Hnt' [TO Dl OONTItnnCD. 1