STAGE-STRUCK; OR, She Wotild be an Opera-Singer. BY /^% BLANCHE ROOSEVELT/'^ AUTHOB OF "marked 'in HA8TB,"» "lONGFELLOw'S BOMB LIPB," «TC. ' Oh quanto h. corto '1 dire e como fioco Al mio concetto ! e questo, a quel ch' io vidi, E tanto che non basta a dicer poco." — // Paradiso. Canto xxxiii. \ >r>0^ Of THS •>^ oar NEW YORK : FORDS, HOWARD, & HULBERT, London: Sampson Low & Co. 1884. ■ Copyright, 1884, By Blanche Roosevelt Macchetta. A II rights reselrved. The Chas. M. Green Printing Co. 74 and 76 beekman street, NEW YORK. London, April 27, 1884. Dear Uncle Ferdinand: I dedicate this book to you. The road is long be- tween Montana and London, but the recollection of your many kindnesses to me bridges it over. I want to persuade American girls who come over to Europe to study music, that they might be wiser to stay at home. Probably my advice will be thrown away, and we shall still see hundreds, e^ch year eager to waste their time and other people's money on the wild ex- pectation that they will in a few years blossom forth as prima donnas, and have the whole world at their feet. If they do, it will not be the fault of Your affectionate niece, Blanche. To F. C. Roosevelt, ^ Fort Benton, Montana. (p ^fSf PREFACE. It is easier, I believe, to write a book than a preface. And why? Because one can write a book without giving a reason for doing it ; whereas, in writing a preface, one is supposed to suggest a reason for writ- ing the book. From the criticisms of one's friends, it would seem that they consider a book should be writ- ten solely to please them. I love my friends, but I love Art better; and of all art, I love the art of music best. It is with the hope of strengthening this art — especially in relation to my own country — that I submit " Stage-Struck'* for pub- lic judgment. As the theatre is the finishing-school for the drama, or the conservatory for musicians of every grade, so is the opera-house the true finishing-school for the singer. An American is patriotic in everything but music. He will subscribe thousands to enable a speculating manager to pay fabulous amounts to Patti, but he will not pay units to establish a national opera-house, or a real "Academy of Music." I look forward to the day when our professors, instead of telling their pupils that they must go to Europe, will be in a position to say: " Now you are sufficiently ad- vanced to go — not to Europe, but — round the corner to the finishing-school that has been provided for you 6 Preface. by your fathers, your brothers, and your Nation." It is the old story of every boy in the public schools fully expecting some day to be President of the United States. But we have our White House in America, and do not send him to Europe to hunt for it. The ambition of the Italian woman is to sing at La Scala; of the Austrian, to sing at the Imperial Opera; of the French woman, at the Grand Opera; of the German, at the Royal Opera at Berlin; of the Spaniard, at Ma- drid; of the English woman, at Covent Garden: but of the American, as matters are at present — well, where she can! It is this fact which places all ambitious American singers at such a disastrous disadvantage; and it is this that has induced me to write " Stage-Struck," with the sincere hope that it may serve the double purpose of a guide-post showing my country-men what should be done, and a danger-post warning my inexperienced country-women what to avoid. Beyond saying this, I make no appeal for toleration. I put forward no excuses for having "rushed into print." For the sake of my country-women, I regret the fact that the story is a true one; but, if this narration of truth in the form of fiction serve to warn others of the dangers of being "stage-struck," my work will at least have had the success I wish for it. I knew Annabel. Her experiences were precisely what I have related. I have told them plainly, because I wished them to be plainly understood. Blanche Roosevelt. London, April 27, 1884. STAGE-STRUCK. CHAPTER I. La Crosse is one of the prettiest towns in Wiscon- sin. It takes its name from the prairie on which the first settlement was made, more than forty years ago, by Colonel Nathan Myrick. Whence the prairie took its name is not known unless from a tribe of Redmen who at some remote date claimed it for their hunting- ground. In front, on a level with it, flows the rapid Mississippi, while beyond and behind rise hills, or ** bluffs" as they are commonly called, which form gigantic barriers and nestle both river and town in their protective embrace. The situation is beautiful. Islands gleam here and there in the river, and in sum- mer when seen from the town look like small specks of emerald green. A little below the city, and abut- ting on the bank, is a picturesque old mill. Close by, there is a long strip of sanded shore; and here the workingmen's children on summer afternoons play, and wade out into the river, dressed in long old- fashiorfed cotton frocks, which they borrow of their grannies when they go down by the mill to paddle. Here the crystal waters run up and down the sand like silver serpents, licking and kissing the white 8 Stage-Struck, grains, which glimmer with diamond-like brightness. In winter the river is frozen over, and there are fre- quent sleighing-parties on it. Usually these parties take place at night, when the atmosphere is so still and clear that sounds travel for miles, and the calm air is made merry with the sound of sleigh-bells and of laughter. On a bright night in the latter part of December, a party of young people glided over the ice. They were going down the river about sixteen miles in sleighs to Smith's Landing, where the evening was to wind up with a candy-pull and a dance at Deacon Hart's. But this was not all: an important ceremony was to take place. Annabel Almont, of Smith's Landing, who since her childhood had ** never missed a Sunday going up to La Crosse to sing in the church- choir," was to be presented with a purse of money to aid her in going to Europe to be an opera-singer. La Crosse is a go-ahead city. Its lumber interests are enormous. It has direct communication with St. Louis and New Orleans through the steamboats which ply on the " Father-of- Waters," and its com- mercial importance is great. It has stores, churches, high-schools, grammar-schools, a fine court-house, and many rich dwellings, surrounded by trees and flowers or parks, built by the successful tradesmen and lumber- merchants. It is also a music-loving city, and looks with pride on its fine opera-house, which yearly at- tracts the best talent " on the road." But Smith's Landing is a poor place, and can boast of little save that it is so near La Crosse and the home of Annabel Almont. Its people are old like its houses (the Stage-Struck. g younger members having migrated " up the valley") and the two places present one of those strong con- trasts so often met with in the New World, and which is the inevitable result of promiscuous settlement. The last of the sleighs had filed through the main street, and all were drawn up before the deacon's door. Len, the deacon's son and pride, glanced proudly at the house as he led the way inside. And well he might, for it was the finest at the Landing — substantial, square, and three-storied. The founda- tions were of stone from the neighboring bluffs; the upper part was of wood painted white with green blinds; and the ground-floor had two bay-windows. The interior was richly decorated. The drawing- rooms, or, as they were called, the parlors, were fur- nished with a suite in carved rosewood and cherry satin, protected by various " doyleys" in tatting, cro- chet, and the celebrated "Afghan stitch." It was the envy of every housewife in Smith's Landing. A young girl came out on the steps to welcome them. Turning to the deacon's Len, she essayed to speak. He interrupted her. "Not a word, for Heaven's sake! Think of your voice, and be silent. Nod, nod freely; I know that means 'Thank you.' This is the great night of your life, and you must sing the tops of their heads off, just to show 'em that Redmond's girl is nowhere. Come on in," he continued, turning to the others. " We are home at last, and the show'U soon begin." Annabel Almont, the young girl who was to sing the tops of her friends* heads off, was the pride of the church where she sang and worshipped, and was about lO St age-Struck, to be sent abroad to study for the opera. From early- childhood she had been the mainstay of the choir. Every " professor" who had come to the town had solemnly opined that such a voice had never before been heard, and the elders in the congregation of St. John's Church believed it to be rather superior to that possessed by an angel. When, therefore, it was de- cided that she should go to Europe, it was felt that some slight testimonial ought to be given to one who was likely to shed such a lustre on La Crosse and Smith's Landing. The deacon and his wife stood at the door, welcom- ing the youths and maidens as they poured in. The arm-chairs in the " best parlor" were already tenanted by stately prim old ladies, and by some of the younger matrons who, having the right of way, had made im- mediate good use of it to secure the most comfort- able places. Annabel was, of course, the star of the evening. Old and young looked at her with envious eyes, and, as she walked here and there amongst the guests, many were the remarks which followed her. Preparations were being made for the ceremony, which was to be something very imposing. In the mean while, the stream of small-talk ran fast and furi- ous. Three old women sat in three chairs. As Anna- bel passed before them, Mrs. Redmond, from * * ^^ the mother of a girl who had already gone abroad to learn to sing, was speaking to Miss Hetty, the "tall- est" gossip in the town, and to Miss Hopkins, an acid- ulated old maid who delighted to " hear anything." " Look at her," she said, "going to Europe just be- cause my gal's gone. She wouldn't take me with her Stas^e-Struck, 1 1 *^> because I am* too sea-sick; and besides, it is a false notion that American girls can't go off to Europe alone. When they travel from Maine to Californy with- out pertection, I guess they can cross the herrin'- pond without anybody runnin' off with 'em. But I must say, I am lonesome without her sometimes. I used to get lots of epistolary letters from her, but now she hardly ever writes. I don't say much, 'cause I must keep a stiff upper lip; but I kin tell you, if I had a thousand girls I'd never let one of 'em go to Europe again — no, not even to be an opery-singer." Miss Hetty patted her friend's shoulder affection- ately, and chimed in, " My dear, don't say so. You know you would ; and if you wouldn't, they would — it's all the same. But how will Annabel live ? That's what beats me. Lord bless me, them Almonts is poor and stuck up ! There hain't a hen-coop in my garden as rickety as their old house. The father is a poor sort of a man. But I won't say nothing more, only how long will this purse hold out, and — and — Well, I sha'n't say no more; only if I wanted to, I could tell—" Miss Hopkins giggled and drew her chaii* closer to Miss Hetty's. Insinuatinga very withered small hand under her pocket-handkerchief, which was spread out catty-cornered on her lap, she began cooing in broken snatches — "Do tell; do tell.. What is it ? Of course we won't mention it again. Anything told me is sacred. And as to Mrs. Redmond — why, she is the salt of the earth; wild horses wouldn't drag anything from that woman." 1 2 Stage-Struck. Miss Hetty, thus importuned, began. " It isn't much, but I overheard her talking one day with Len, the deacon's son. He said he was going to Europe as soon as he could, to learn to sing. She said she would like to go, but didn't know how she could. Now, this was only last fall, and I believe that it is cut and dried. My dears, they are going to elope; that's what it is." " Oh, Hetty, Hetty, how can you ?" sobbed Miss Hopkins. "But oh, oh! don't talk so loud. Goon; do go on. Of course I won't breathe a word of it. We won't breathe a word of it — will we ?" and she nodded to Mrs. Redmond, whose black eyes danced like those of a rattlesnake. " Breathe it !" she muttered. '' I should think not." Hetty went on. " She spoke about Canada and her uncle — all stuff, of course. They both talked up the singing business together, and how they got on in the church-choir. You know they are both in it. She said her mother could not come away at once with her; but that she would do anything to be an opera-singer — would make any sacrifice; would leave her family and home at a moment's notice, and — and — " "And go with him," said Miss Hopkins, trium- phantly. " I knew it. Oh, you may as well tell the truth; of course she said it." "Well, I presume she did. I could'nt take my Bible oath that she did say it; but I — I — You are sure that you won't repeat what I've been telling you ? I am a little anxious." "Anxious, my dear ?" said Mrs. Redmond. " Noth- Stage-Struck. 13 ing could induce us to even hint the slightest shade of the substance of the shadow of such a thing. What do you take us for ?" ''Well, I heard this, and. I firmly believe that — Now, do I look like a woman who would invent ?" " Stop, Hetty," said Miss Hopkins. " I won't say anything, but when she has fled with her purse and her — her — no, I will not say the word — may I break the news to her mother, and to a few of my intimate friends ?" Miss Hetty was about to reply, when the folding doors were opened, and Deacon Hart appeared, lead- ing Annabel by the hand. There was a stir, a hush, and a burst of applause. The deacon bowed, then waved the young girl into a seat. He hemmed and hawed, and at length commenced. " Sisters and brothers, we are gathered here on a solemn occasion. I am not used to public speaking in my own house, and I ask your indulgence. But the occasion is a very solemn one. I may add that it is also a joyful occasion. I — " He stopped and looked around. A dead silence followed his words. He took courage, and continued. "A joyful one. Our young friend — our sister in the Lord, I may say — has given much pleasure by her sweet voice, and has caused the choir to assert itself as the leading choir in any church of La Crosse or any other town. The congregation, wishing to show an affectionate regard and appreciation of the talents of this young lute- voiced soprano, has made up a purse, which I now have the honor and pleasure of presenting to her." Annabel was nudged violently by Miss Hetty, who 14 Stage-Struck, was near. "Get up and bow," she said; "get up, quick." Annabel half rose and looked around. A flush of pleasure tinted her soft cheeks, and her eyes deep- ened with excitement and pride. Deacon Hart took her by the hand, and then the applause became tumultuous, deafening. He hemmed and hawed, and began again. " On this auspicious occasion, I feel it my duty to say a few words. Years ago a family came to our Landing from La Crosse, a family whom we have all grown to know and respect. In this family was one young girl. At the age of six she was one day dis- covered in a tree, singing — singing like a mocking- bird— " *0 woodman, spare that tree.' But to proceed. A man passing by heard her. This man was a famous singing-master. He came to vil- ages; he discovered voices; he stirred up dormant lambition; he set the music-ball a-rolling; he demon- strated to us that, although a new town, we had the mighty instincts of art which make us the equal in everything to great cities. He got up classes, and then things culminated in grand concerts. The girl sing- ing in the tree was Annabel Almont. The learned singing-master who first heard her has been gathered to his fathers, but by a special Providence another took his place, and yet another. " When I heard Annabel, at the tender age of six, in' Those Evening Bells;* when at ten she led her class in * I want to be an Angel;' when, later on, she had mastered * 'Way down upon the Suwanee River/ Stage-Struck. 1 5 and 'What is Home without a Mother ? ' my breast glowed. I said to myself, we must give this voice to the world. Have we a right to keep trammelled in our choir a talent which is bound to paralyze the universe ? This girl is destined to become a great star on the lyric stage, and a star which will rise from our own sky. But for this she must go to Europe. She has little money; still, what is vulgar lucre compared with talent ? We will give her of ours — ahem — a moderate amount of ours." The deacon paused to refresh himself with a glass of water. He then continued: "When La Crosse's name shines in history, will it be for her mills, for her river commerce, for her new post-office, for her town-hall, for her mighty levees against which the great leviathan Mississippi vainly dashes in awful and sublime frenzy ? I say, No. Nine cities claim to be the birthplace of Homer; hundreds will vainly claim to be the birthplace of Annabel Almont. But History will do justice to La Crosse; she will say that it was her native town. God bless you, my dear" — giving her the purse. "And now, as a parting favor, sing the song which stamped you yet in youth as the one upon whose shoulders Molly Brown's" (he probably meant Malibran's) " mantle was to fall. We will afterwards proceed with the candy-pull. I see all of the young folks are waiting for their taffy." The deacon sat down, perspiring and wiping his brow. Annabel was trembling and anxious, and she held the purse tight in her hand. Len whispered, "Courage. Isn't it perfectly ele- 1 6 St age-Struck. gant ? Sing for dear life. Do you know how much you have got in your purse ? I will accompany you. What shall you sing ?" "Oh, I don't know," answered Annabel; "lam so frightened, and I can't see mamma. Where is she ? and where is father?" "Mamma! father !" said Len. " Nevermind them; you belong to the world. You must bear up. How can you ever expect to be a singer, when you have time to ask about your family at this critical moment? But there they are, bowing and smiling, and urging you to go on." Sure enough there they were, hustled in a corner. For a moment the authors of her being were for- gotten. She took heart; and Len, seating himself at a new brown melodeon, commenced a few chords. The deacon arose. " I think that I represent the wish of all present when I ask for the simple song which goes straight home to all our hearts, which re- calls our earliest past, and reminds us of our eternal future." Len struck the prelude to " I want to be an Angel." " Come, Annabel," he said, " if you wait any longer, father's wings will have time to sprout." She commenced, but emotion almost choked her voice. When she got to " A harp within my hand," she thrilled all over. A loud murmuring of applause went up. She clasped her purse, and went bravely on. Before the song was over, her lovely voice soared up like a young lark. At the lines, *' There right before my vision, ^ So glorious and so bright,'* Stage-Struck, 17 there was not a dry eye in the house; nothing but music, laughing, and crying. Annabel was overwhelmed with congratulations, and all crowded so around her that her mother could scarcely get near. Elder Watson stood by her, and pressed her hand in his moist palm. He was an unctu- ous man, although a good one, and was called the boss musical critic of the town, owing to his profound knowledge of botany. " My dear," he said, " you've wilted us all. Patti can't touch you with a ten-foot pole. Go and conquer. When you feast at kings' tables, when queens call you by your first name, when princesses treat you like a sister, when the boiled-down aristocrats of the Old World grovel at your feet, do not forget the choir where you first knew fame, or that John Watson bet tall dollars that you'd lap over all of 'em;" and he im- planted a paternal kiss on her brow. The deacon then asked a benediction; and no sooner was it finished than all poured into the great dining- room, where preparations had been made for the candy- pull. The huge kettle, with quarts of molasses in it, was already simmering over the fire. The usual "frills," as Miss Hetty called them — namely, some maple-sugar, a little salt, a chunk of butter, and a little soda — had been already added to the brew. Well-greased plat- ters were on the long table, with the fresh butter shining on the porcelain. There was a pile of plates, and the butter was passed round so that all might grease their hands. When the molasses was consid- ered well boiled, it was ladled out into the huge plat- l8 Stage-Struck. ters. The hot molasses now became a gluey paste, divided up. All stood anxiously around the table whilst the butter was distributed, and the pulling pro- cess commenced. Each had a liberal portion. The hot paste was pounded, rolled, beaten, stretched, massed together again; and loving couples got slyly into corners with their lot of candy between them. What flirtation would not thrive under a quarter of a yard of yielding candy-paste acting as a bond of union ! '* Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell." There were occasional screams of, " Oh, how hot !" " I am burning my fingers." " Come and help me pull mine." And each girl adroitly managed to burn her fingers precisely at the moment when the youth came near whom she wanted by her side. ' Soon the critical moment arrived. Whose candy was the best, the whitest, the most brittle, and the quickest made ? A jury was impanelled to decide. As soon as their verdict was delivered, the elders came in. A rosette was solemnly pinned on the breast of the victor, and supper was announced as ready. Then there was a cry, " O, let's have some pop-corn with our candy !" Len spoke up. " No; supper first — supper first. Those who are in favor of supper hold up their hands." " No, no," said another voice; "that isn't the square thing. Annabel must decide, because she is going to be an opera-singer." Stage-Struck. 19 Annabel accepted the umpireship shyly. " I should say," she said softly, " that those who are hungry should eat, and those who want corn-popping should have it now." This decision was received with acclamation. Some went off to supper, and others — amongst these Anna- bel — were for the pop-corn, Len, who had changed his mind, went to the kit- chen, and came back with the corn-poppers — little closed pans made entirely of wire net, with long handles, very like miniature warming-pans. Some shelled corn was distributed, and in a few minutes the little yellow kernels were browning and snapping over the fire in their wire cages, and then bursting into white flakes, like orange-blossoms or a four- leaved clover. *'Go ahead, anybody," said Len. "This is Liberty Hall." He was vigorously shaking his popper. " Don't wait for me, although I'll soon have mine done." Annabel stood next him. She took the handle of the popper. " Let me shake it," said she, insinu- atingly; then she whispered, "Did I sing well?" " Yes," said he, yielding up the wire cage, ** ele- gantly. What a lovely evening! I shall never forget it till my dying day, and that will be years and years from now. When will you go to Europe — before me ? I intend starting as soon as possible; at a minute's notice. Don't say anything, but I'll spring it on this community like a patent trap, so everybody's head'U swim. Oh, there is nothing mean about me ! I do as I please; that comes of being a P. I. G. — perfectly 20 Stage-Struck. independent gentleman. It's different with girls. But you can't complain; you are in clover." , She dreamily agitated the corn-popper, and mur- mured, " I wonder if — if I shall ever become a great singer." " A great singer !" he echoed, amazed. " Why, you are one now. When the money was taken up, there wasn't a human being who didn't allow that you were the best they ever heard; and some, you know, have been to Boston and all over." She held out her popper. " Mine is ready," she said; and they went towards the table. The flaky corn was emptied into a white bowl; then it was prepared, with a little salt sprinkled over it, and a little drawn butter. After this, handfuls were rolled in the hot molasses. In no time the balls began piling themselves up, and supper was an- nounced as quite ready. There was a sound of ham- mering in one corner, where some children were crack- ing hickory-nuts. The room was filled to overflowing. In addition to the children's voices, the deacon's, Miss Hetty's, Miss Hopkins's, Annabel's mother's, and those of the other guests chimed in. Every one was talking at once, and the supper disappeared as if by magic. The tables groaned with home luxuries. There were great loaves of spiced bread, gingerbread cookies, marble-cake, pies, sandwiches of every kind, cider, coffee, and home- cured cucumbers, salted before sunset and pickled at just the right time, not to speak of various relishes and preserved fruit. When Miss Hetty sat down, she sighed, saying, Stage-Struck, 21 " Well, Deacon Hart, I must say this affair has been a success, and we owe it all to you." The deacon smiled blandly, but disclaimed any spe- cial credit to himself. He said, " It was in the cause of art, dear Miss Hetty. Annabel's a sweet singer. You know what Shakespeare said about the man who had no music in his soul. I am not like that man. I adore music. Even an accordeon sends me off into ecstasies, and I lie awake nights to listen to the cal- liope on the steamboats. I want to see Annabel suc- ceed, and no one can say I believe in a girl spending her life knitting stockings when she has a voice worth cultivating. Len is also a singer. He's good for nothing else; so I expect he'll want to be starting abroad soon, although he may never go on the stage. I'm fond of my boy; but if Art calls, he must obey." All now was being prepared for the dance. The table was put away, the melodeon was dragged near the door, and the " Virginia Reel " was coaxed out of it in wheezy but emphatic measures. Annabel danced once. '* It will be for the last time," said Len, " until we dance together in Europe. Never mind spoiling your voice for to-night. You haven't to sing in the next few days. Annabel," he said suddenly, *' are you sorry that you are going away ?" " No. I — I mean that I shall miss all of my friends — you — " " Thanks. But you won't miss me long; I am going to Europe myself. We will both fetch up stars in some great foreign opera company yet. I suppose my voice 22 St age-Struck. really is about the best in the town next to yours." He led her to a seat. " There is no doubt of it. I—" Annabel's mother came towards her just then. "My dear, you must go home; you are so tired." " Yes, mamma." She rose obediently, and, after bidding every one a tender farewell, they started to go. This was a signal for a general breaking-up of the company. All the women and most of the men kissed her. She was to leave the next day, and there was nothing but con- gratulations and cries of " Good luck" and " Don't for- get us when you become a great artist." When the final farewells were over, they went away. The door opened once again, and an old slipper came flying after Annabel. " That's for luck," shouted a voice. The slipper had been thrown by Elder Watson in person. It hit her upon the head with a little thud. There was a shout from the party as she snatched at it; but she did not pick it up, as she feared her doing so would spoil her luck. And this was her farewell. The next day she started with her family to New York, the first stage on her way to Milan. CHAPTER II. Annabel found that a stay in New York for a Western girl was not to be despised. Instead of the intended three months, she spent over a year in Gotham. Len had gone to Europe close upon the heels of the candy-pull. He was now, he wrote, " a great star, and had sung in Italy in * La Sonnam- bula ' more than sixty times." She was anxious to get away, yet half sorry. She had been studying hard all these months. Her mother had gone to Canada to " Uncle Jim," to see if he would not help her. The purse had long since been exhausted; they had even known real poverty in Gotham; yet she had lost neither courage nor ambition. At* last her father managed to scrape together a little money, and she Was on the eve of departure for Europe. Going alone, of course; but all American girls did that. Still, as the last moments of her stay ap- proached, she could not help feeling a little sad. She went down to the steamer with her father and a few friends, and she was almost glad that her mother was not there to bid her a second farewell. They had parted before she went to Canada. There was the usual crowd at the dock to see the steamer off, and the usual number of bouquets were hurled on to the deck. Annabel stood leaning over the bulwarks. Her father shouted out to her, 24 Stage-Struck. "Write from Queenstown." " Yes." " Don't forget the cure for sea-sickness." "No." " Do you iiear me plainly ?" " Yes." " When the ship puts off, we shall all be on the outer pier. Look for three white handkerchiefs all flying at once. They will belong to our party. Look — " The voice was lost in space. There was a horrid din, a crashing of iron chains, a grating against the dock, and the huge steamer left her moorings. Slowly she put out to sea. On the extreme end of the pier were thousands of moving forms and eager eyes all strained to catch a last glimpse of the de- parting loved ones. There was a shout amongst the crowd. " Here we are; look this way, Annabel, Annabel!" Then three damp white handkerchiefs floated off from a pale bamboo stick which was held in the hands of a tall young man. What if the linen were damp! It was more than that: it was wet. But this was not the fault of the washerwoman. The handkerchiefs had been honestly dried. They had since seen service in the wiping away of tears — genuine tears that would fall, all because Annabel Almont was going to Europe. She still wanted to be an opera-singer. Even in New York girls wish to go to Europe. There was no help for it; she was at last en route. A slender creature, she leaned against the ship's side. She saw the handkerchiefs, she heard the Stage-Struck, 25 voices, and a faint smile broke over her tear-stained face. Now that the moment of leaving her country had come, what cared she for ambition ! The recol- lection of the thousand-and-one almost forgotten scenes of her childhood came back to her. She re- called even the incident of her last evening at home — the candy-pull, the purse, and the lucky slipper. The faces which looked so eagerly at her from the pier were all beautiful in her eyes. Her heart beat fast. Would she ever see them again? Last of all to take a parting look was her father. He had cap- tured the bamboo stick. He waved it at her as he smiled a farewell to his daughter, who was leaving her native shores, to be away perhaps for ever, be- cause she wanted to be an opera-singer. The girl nodded and smiled. She could no longer distinguish his words. Her father's voice mingled with the deafening cheer that went up from the thousands on the dock. At last the pier is positively out of sight. This is too much. She knows that she cannot now go back. The terrible thought that perhaps she may never see her father, her mother, her friends again, passes through her mind. This time she is overwhelmed; she breaks down completely. The tears come, but do not fall. Her heart beats, her brain whirls; she is choking, suffocating with a thousand emotions. She hears a roaring sound in her ears, and suffers such violent spasms that it seems as if she were dying. The sensations in her chest are frightful. She almost sobs aloud, but the sound dies away in her throat. Great Heaven! had she already lost her voige? It 26 Stage-Struck. would not be surprising. All the leave-takings dur- ing these last few days of continuous excitement were enough to tell upon the stoutest heart. Yes, it must be so. She had heard of great artists who, overcome by sudden emotion, had lost their voices completely. Last night, and indeed for the last few days, she had sung badly. She could not conceal it from herself. Her upper C had failed once ; her A natural broke on a sustained tone ; and she now remembered with appalling distinctness that an ordi- nary B flat had come to complete grief in a simple cradle-song. This will never do, she thought. Girls who wish to be opera-singers must not cry. It ruins the voice. There is nothing more injurious. She tried not to sob, but with the effort the tears came. No one is near as she bravely attempts a few notes, just to see if her voice is really gone. In an ecstasy of dread she begins " Ah — ah — ah-ing ;" a soft little scale gurgles in her throat. It goes up, up, and it stops. She tries again. Another, half a tone. Alas ! in her preoccu- pation she goes at least a note higher than she had intended. The result is even more disastrous. Her tears suddenly cease. Has she lost her voice ? She tries again, and lo ! a sound breaks forth — a peculiar sound. It might not be in harmony with Radcliffe's flute, but it is something, and she has not lost her voice. Her face wears a smile, her eyes brighten, and she lifts her head ; but just at this moment she sees a man approaching. He, too, is smiling. The owner of this smile is a man probably about Stage-Struck, 27 fifty years of age. He is gray, and looks kindly at her. "You felt pretty bad," he said, "when we left the pier." "Yes. It's quite disgraceful in any one who wishes to be an artist to show her feeling to the first passer- by ; but—" "I suppose that was your father whom you left, and those were your sisters." " Yes ; that was my dear father." " Poor child ! He must hate to part with you. But cheer up. We are on a stanch old steamer, and you will be across before you know it. There is not the slightest danger. You don't feel afraid, do you ?" "No. I wasn't afraid of the steamer. I feared — " "I thought I heard you scream." "Scream !" she thought. He had been listening to her, the mean thing ! He had heard her few notes, and called it screaming. A blush came to her cheek when she discovered that he had heard her. It was on the tip of her tongue to say something brusque ; then reflection calmed her. Perhaps he was right. All people do not love music ; all men cannot appreciate fine voices. This man was one of those who could not. He did not appreciate hers. It was very simple, and nothing to get mad about. She looked up amiably, but still blushing. "Scream?" she said. "I didn't mean to scream. I thought that I would try my voice, to see if — if I had not lost it." " Try your voice ?" "Yes." This Malibran in embryo then divulged 28 Stage-Struck. her great secret. " x am going to become an opera- singer." The man appeared surprised. He looked at her slight form, pale face, and lustrous eyes. He seemed positively startled. " Impossible !" he ejaculated ; " another one !" Then he bowed strangely and, turning on his heel, left her. Annabel stared curiously at her extraordinary ac- quaintance. She could scarcely understand his re- mark and his abrupt way of leaving her. What could he mean? She repeated the words *' another one" with an expression half of wonder, half of fear. It then struck her that he had referred to the fact of her wishing to be an opera-singer, and her wondering ex- pression turned to one of pride. "I suppose he thinks that I shall fail," she muttered to herself. " But he can form no possible idea of my ambition and determination to succeed. I will work so hard that I shall overcome all obstacles. Talent has not half so much to do with success as some sup- pose. Will-power is everything ; is all, in fact. Alice Redmond hadn't even a voice ; and look at her now, at the top of her profession !. Why, she could not for dear life read or sing an ordinary psalm-tune without putting out the whole congregation ; and now! Now princes are at her feet, royalty is sending her auto- graphed photographs, and dollars are rolling into her lap. She calls herself Raimondiy and she can't sing half as high as I can. Of course, I must change my name ; I shall call myself Annabellad'Almonti. Capi- tal ! I can see myself now on the bills — starred^ of Stage-Struck. 29 course — 'Signorina Annabella d'Almonti. The dis- tinguished cantatrice will make her first appearance in — ' Let me see — well, say as * Lucia ; ' that gives me a chance to show off my voice with the flute. My success cannot come all at a jump. But before I know where I am, I shall be returning home to America in state, in receipt of a thousand dollars a night just like Nilsson, with all the world at my feet. It is worth working for ; it is well worth leaving home for — " She stopped suddenly. She had nearly said " for ever" — words of ominous portent. Was it worth while to leave her home and her friends ? Was suc- cess so certain ? Were energy and determination enough to make her an artist ? For a moment she hesitated ; then, like a true American, she rejected even the possibility of failure. The chief characteristic of her race is a determination to succeed in whatever they undertake. Be the career what it may, they never follow it half-heartedly. An American has ambition, pride, industry, indomitable will, shrewdness, energy, perseverance, always tact, and often talent. The last he accounts the least of all. His determination to get out of the common rut of ordinary humanity, to be somebody or something in this world, is the one motive of all his actions. What others have done he may do. Let him slave night and day, what cares he if only he progress to- wards his goal! He believes, in the end, that he will hit upon the something for which nature has specially qualified him. Should he fail in one thing, he at- tempts another with the same illusion and exuberant hope which characterized his setting out on the first. 30 Stage-Struck. Americans cannot be crushed. Gray hairs, lined faces, and even bankruptcy see them still on the alert, ready to undertake any new task, no matter how difficult — still firmly believing in themselves and their power to command success. They are a brave race who ignore the possibility of ultimate failure. The shores of Long Island and Staten Island had long since faded from sight. The beautiful entrance to the harbor had grown into a faint line against the horizon. The air was soft, and the waves broke coyly about the ship. It was the 24th of May, the Queen's birthday, and it was queen's weather. Gay bits of bunting floated at the mast-heads. The Union Jack was run up, and sailed in the air with such assurance that it seemed to command allegiance from Neptune himself. At the stern of the ship fluttered the stars and stripes, which told the old tale of the New World. Annabel was alone, yet not alone. Her mind was filled with imaginings, and her heart was troubled with the events of the last few days. No matter, though, what her regrets were, her ambition was still stronger. The die was cast; she would attain her end or perish in the attempt. Yet it was hard leav- ing father, mother, home, and friends, from a vain longing to be something in this world, and a desire to be able tt) help those at home. Night fell upon the sea. The deck-stewards went "for'ard and aft" with astonishing celerity. Camp- chairs had been adjusted and blankets spread, only to be neglected the next moment. Everybody went below to see about their staterooms, their luggage, Stage-Struck. 3 1 their flowers, and, above all, to discover if they had been assigned places at the captain's table. Of two hundred first-cabin passengers, each fully expected that distinguished honor. Twenty who cared least about it found their names neatly written and placed with a pretty bouquet at the chief's table ; one hun- dred and eighty felt hurt, and said, "I don't care about the captain's table, but I had just as lief be there as not." Often on board ship people are more *' at sea" than they expect to be. Annabel heard a bell. What, dinner already ! Was it possible ? Had she, then, been musing so long ? She hastily started, and made for the companion-way. As she did so her head swam. The ship gave a lurch ; she went with the ship. Her gait was unsteady, her mind was in chaos, her ears were filled with a roaring noise, and her knees knocked together. Her mouth was drawn. She tried to utter a sound ; none came. Her eyes blinked, her face commenced to burn, and a terrible faintness came over her. Was she dying? Could this be death ? No. Then a voice which she thought she had heard be- fore said, " Take her to the state-room. Poor thing ! I guess she's sea-sick." CHAPTER III. The next morning the weather was still fine. They were well out at sea. The deck was crowded with chairs, yet nevertheless many blooming faces of the previous day now wore through the regulation gauze veil a look of helpless woe, suggestive that their re- spective owners were feeling *'a little under the wea- ther." Each lap held a paper-bound novel, each hand a bottle of "inexhaustible." A little apart from the rest sat what looked like a bundle of wraps. A pale face gazed out upon the scene, and the future opera-singer looked as much like her fellow-passengers as one sea-sick female looks like another. This distinct malady is no respecter of per- sons, for everybody who is ill has the glazed eye, gray skin, and lack-lustre air peculiar to mal de mer. Annabel raised her eyes just in time to catch a friendly glance. Her acquaintance of the day before was standing close by, looking compassionately at her, and upon the point of speaking. She would have blushed, but it was impossible. Her skin was as tightly drawn as the parchment on a drum. '' Well, how do you feel ? Better than yesterday, I hope. I don't understand how any one can be sea- sick this weather. The ocean is like a mill-pond." She smiled faintly. " I am half ashamed of myself, but — but I have been awfully ill." Stage-Struck. :j3 "Come and try a walk on the hurricane-deck." " Me ? I can scarcely stand. The deck- steward brought me here." " Try." " But—" By this time he had deliberately unpacked her from the chair. Evidently he was a man unaccustomed to take " no" for an answer. There was a horrid cheerfulness in his voice which made her shudder. Why should he enjoy such rude health, while she was ill ? And yet she could scarcely feel angry. She was on the point of protesting, when the recollection of yesterday flashed over her. She was undoubtedly ill, but she had life enough left to allow her to inquire into his strange way of parting from her when she had spoken about music. She was not curious, but she would like to know what his reasons were. He smiled encouragingly. " There, now ! I knew you could get up if you tried. There is nothing like trying. You who have courage to become an opera- singer ought not to give up to this. There ! How do you feel ?" Her strength was not herculean, but she tried to appear very brave. She smiled as she accepted his arm, and to her amazement walked with tolerable firmness. The sea-air had already revived her. They found a quiet corner on the lee side ; there was scarcely a breeze. Annabel decided not to try the upper deck. She had not yet got her sea-legs, and trembled at the thought of scaling the very narrow iron ladder, Her sturdy companion seemed ready to 34 Stage-Struck, humor her slightest wish, and no more mention was made of upper decks. After one or two turns, they decided to sit down. She was not exactly sea- sick, but felt queer ; besides, she could talk better when not walking. She scarcely knew how to broach her subject. It was no slight matter to ask a man what he had meant when possibly he had meant nothing ; but she must know. Looking up into his face with childish simplicity, she said, " Why did you say ' another one ' yesterday ? You know when — the time I spoke about being an opera- singer." He looked half displeased. " Must I tell you ?" "Yes." " Because — because I felt sorry for you." "Thanks. I don't need any one's pity." " You think you don't." " I know that I don't." " Shall I prove to you that you do ?" " If you can." He looked sadly at her. " I cannot tell you now — that is to say, I do not think that I ought to tell you. Perhaps, when we become better acquainted, I may. In the mean time, tell me why you wish to become a public singer. There are heaps of them, but you look too young and too delicate." " I am very strong," she said, craning her slim neck, "You must not judge my strength by my outward ap- pearance." " Answer me first three or four questions, and I shall see how much you need any one's pity." She hesitated. He saw her hesitation. Stage-Struck. 35 ** You mustn't mind me ; I am old enough to be your father, and I have known lots of girls who sang, also one who might have been celebrated. It's all very- well to start out saying, ' I want to be an opera- singer,' but have you the first qualification towards ever becoming one ?" She was interested. Why should she not converse with this very cheery man, who was old enough to be her father ? He seemed to know about music, too, and he had ideas about " first qualifications." She would answer him at once. " I think I have. You mean voice. My — " *'No ; I don't mean voice. That is very necessary ; but the first thing to be thought of is health. Have you a good digestion ?" "Sir! Mr.—!" "Why, certainly. I had forgotten to give you my card. My name is Randolph, and I come from * Ole Virginny State.' " He smiled pleasantly. " And yours ?" She replied somewhat stiffly, " Annabel Almont." " Well, Miss Annabel, I meant what I said. Can you digest tenpenny nails ? In other words, have you a good sound body ? and do you eat lots while you are running this musical business ? If not, you cer- tainly can never expect to be a singer." " Mr. Randolph, I cannot say that I can digest nails, or that I have very good health at present, but I have a wonderful constitution. Real wear and tear. Why, I can nerve myself up to do anything, and even if I don't eat much, I take the rest out in singing, and I never get tired — that is to say, very tired." 36 Stage-Struck, " Humph ! May I ask another question ?" "Yes." " No. On second thoughts, I will tell you what is requisite to become an artist : Health, money, perse- verance, hard work, good masters, and — and a voice. Have you all of these ?" " Perhaps a little of each ; and I am going to work very hard." " Hum ! Kill yourself in no time, I suppose. But — have you ever sung in public ?" " Oh yes ; at plenty of concerts, and in a church- choir—" He groaned — groaned audibly ; then supported his head with his hand. She looked up. " Don't you like choir-singers ?" " Well, I can't say that I hanker after them. How- ever, you may not be thoroughly saturated with it yet. Go on." " Every one thinks that my voice has great promise ; besides, I compose some things, and — and — " " Play a little, too, no doubt." " How funny you are ! Of course, I play a little; not 'Warblings at Eve,' or 'Falling Leaves,' but Mozart, Chopin, and — " " A tarentella or two ?" with a grimace. His accent was peculiar, like that of many from the Southern States. Still, she decidedly liked him. What matter if he were quizzical ? his meaning was all right. "Yes; now and then a tarentella," she answered. "But I intend giving up instrumental music. I must devote all my attention to my voice; besides, I must Stage-Struck. 37 learn the different languages, study dramatic action, go to the opera nearly every night, learn how to Solfege and phrase in the Italian fashion, sing scales every day, then prepare for a debut. I have already learnt Faust, Martha, Rigoletto, Trovatore, Valentine in the Huguenots, Traviata, Lucia, with the famous flute accompaniment for the mad scene, Sonnambula — " " Stop, stop! don't tell me any more. I don't wonder you are pale, cramming a young head with all that. May I inquire your age ?" "Mr. Randolph, I think that you may; also, if it would interest you to hear it, I can tell you some of my life. I am just eighteen. My father has been ill, and has lost all his money. A year ago my church gave me a purse to go to Europe. I am at last go- ing there to complete my musical education; my mother will follow me shortly. In about two years I shall have finished my studies, when I can return home, earning many thousands of dollars, and make every one of my family happy. I used my purse up in New York, but an uncle has been very kind. He has given my mother a sum of money which ought to be quite enough to defray all our expenses whilst we are away. I am going to Italy to study, because one can live there for nothing." "For nothing?" " Oh yes. Italy is dirt-cheap, and all of the best masters are there. We stop in London a little, in Paris a little, then go on to Milan. I shall begin work at once. It seems as though I could hardly wait till we get to Italy, but I must; at least until mother joins me. She is coming from Canada. My 38 Stage-Struck. uncle lives in Canada. He has one child — my cousin, of course — but, strange to say, she hasn't a jot of music in her whole composition. A pity, isn't it ?" " I should say that it was a blessing." "Mr. Randolph!" " One in the family is enough. The mania seems to have broken out on you like the measles. No; to tell the truth, I am no believer in girls going to Eu- rope to prepare for the stage." She almost lost her patience, but would not give up. She spread her slim hands on her lap, and said, " Mr. Randolph, would you not like to hear my voice before telling me what I cannot do ?" She spoke with soft accents. "My dear child, don't ask me to hear any one's voice. I am sorry that you or any young girl should go so far away on a mission which smiles in prospect, yet often brings only bitter disappointment. In real- ity, there is too much of this emptying of America of young voices and hearts. Without ever having gone beyond the first rudiments of music, without money and without brains, they dash off to Europe to study for the stage, and impoverish family, friends, and relations. I believe in every girl trying her level best, but I should like more promise at home, that they may become something great before going so far away. It's all well enough to say Til work;' it is so difficult to change old habits. You meet new people; you have to adapt yourself to new customs and to learn new tongues. Say that you go to Europe for general culture. That would be very good; but do not set your heart on^hat many circumstances Stage-Struck, 39 may alter. The conditions of life are not always the same in a foreign land — " " Why do you discourage me ?" she interrupted, looking at him indignantly. He glanced kindly at her, and replied, " I do not want wholly to discourage you, but you must realize that there are two sides to a question, even when you hear but one. So it is with this music business. You young things only see the gold and glitter of the stage; hear reports of certain stars making their thousands nightly; and you ignore that, for every one who succeeds, thousands fail. A singing-master has hundreds of pupils; all more or less talented. He will never tell you of those who have made a ship- wreck in the struggle, but always of the one who has sailed triumphantly into port. When one thinks of the number who study under the most celebrated masters, in comparison with the few who really suc- ceed, the percentage is so small that it is infinitesimal. A master should be ashamed to merely say, * So-and- so is my pupil ; I made him; I made her.* Let him also tell his admirers of those whom he did not make, who worked perhaps as hard. Pupils should know that failure is infinitely more probable than success. If they still keep on spending the best years of their lives in search of fame and fortune, although they know at the outset what lies before them, so much the more honor when they do succeed. Their courage, ener- gy, and perseverance will have commanded success." "You seem to know a great deal about it." " Miss Annabel, I have seen little of you, but I have seen more of this singing business than any one to 40 Stage-Struck. look at me would imagine. _ am the last in the world to predict failure to any one starting out in life. All professions are more or less arduous, more or less precarious. A musical career is worse than that; it is perilous. In any other trade one can get an idea of ultimate results. In music — Well, one may have everything in one's favor, with beauty thrown in" — he half-glanced at her — " study for years, spend money, and then fail. Do it; only be prepared for the other side of the medal." " I would rather study ten years and fail in the end than wait as many, always thinking what I might have done had I only tried. At least, I shall have the con- solation of knowing that I have done my share to- wards success, and I shall never feel regret. Failure would be misery — I don't deny it; but — I will take my chances; I cannot fail." "Bravely said, my child; bravely said. That is the right way to look -at it. Do your best, and don't break your heart if you are not Nilsson or Patti in a day, and if you finish by being — nobody. Thank your stars if health, voice, and friends don't desert you in the long-run. Learn to chatter in all tongues like a magpie, and to warble like a mocking-bird; then come back to America, and let those two bright eyes shine in some good man's home and make him happy. That's my advice." "Good advice, Mr, Randolph; but I can't possibly take it." Then she laughed, and continued : " In spite of all you have said, I have marked out my course in life, and must follow it. Don't you know that Ameri- cans cannot even spell the viovd failure ? Are you not Stage-Struck. 41 ashamed of having tried so hard to discourage me at the outset ?" ** No; you will remember my words when you least expect to. But for the present we will drop the sub- ject; if you like, for ever." " For evert No, indeed. I shall make you tell me all about the girl you mentioned, who might have — " His face clouded over. He answered her with almost painful deliberation. " I cannot tell you now. Some other time. In Europe, perhaps, when you have become a celebrity, or—" " Or a failure ?" " Yes, or a failure. But we must not anticipate that." " Is the story gay or sad; truth or fiction ?" ^* Sad, and but too true. Now, don't look at me in that beseeching way. Curiosity always tempts me, but this time I shall take no notice. I sha'nt tell, so don't ask questions. Let us change the subject." " Do you like the sea ?" "Yes and no." "How many times have you crossed the Atlantic ?" " Fifty or more." " Dear me! Are you never sea-sick ?" . "Sometimes; but that reminds me. How are you now ? All right ?" " Yes, indeed. Since you spoke of music — " "Yes — well, we will drop that, please; besides, here comes the captain. My time's up, I suppose. Aurevoiry "No; he is not coming this woyy' she answered. 42 Stage-Struck. At that very moment the gallant commander stopped to speak with a knot of Americans, who were standing as nonchalantly as if on shore. Talking, smoking, and blowing faint rings of cloud-like vapor into the already cloudy sky, they looked as much at home as if sauntering down Broadway, or standing on the steps of their clubs. But then men are at home anywhere. It is a peculiarity of the sex. CHAPTER IV. In spite of Annabel's surmise, the captain suddenly- turned round and came towards them. He nodded to Mr. Randolph, and then addressed the lady. "I am sure this must be Miss Almont?" She bowed affably. " You have been specially placed under my care, and it will be my pleasure as well as duty to look after you. By the way, you did not appear at dinner last night. Not sea-sick, I hope, with this weather ?" She was almost ashamed to confess it, but she had been a little — well, just a little sea-sick. Both men laughed. Then the captain said, "We cannot allow any more of that. We'll make a fine sailor of you in no time; but you must keep on deck every day and walk about until you are quite strong, and do not fail to come to table. Once you get your sea-legs on, you'll become so used to this salt water that — " " That I shall be sorry to leave the ship.' " I hope so; I hope so." It is etiquette always to speak with regret at leaving a ship to its commander; but the expression is generally nearer the truth on the last day than on the first. Captain Rivers was as fine a man as ever trod the deck of an ocean steamer. When a little boy, a Yorkshire bight, as he often called himself, he had 44 Stage-Struck. run away to sea; and, some years later, had the proud satisfaction of returning to his native town master of the vessel which had borne him away to seek his for- tune. Now he commanded the good steamer Arigona^ about the fleetest and finest plying between New York and Liverpool. He was considered one of the most careful and experienced of officers. His ways were sympathetic, and his voice just deep enough to show a slight suspicion of having had many a previ- ous discussion with the elements. He stood six feet in his stockings. His blue eyes continually smiled out from beneath bushy dark brows; while a heavy, close-cut beard of salt-and-pepper color compactly hid the lower part of his face. He was an able officer and a cheery man. Everybody liked Captain Rivers, and the ladies all fell in love with him at once. The weather continued fine; day succeeded day, being only diversified by the usual amusements of the little floating world. Occasionally a full-rigged vessel sailed gayly by, which always elicited the remark from the commander that "the prettiest sights in the world are a full-rigged sailing-ship and a handsome woman." Ungallantly, he put the ship first. When th« cry "A sail!" is heard, there is a general stampede; new faces are discovered, field- and opera- glasses are brought into requisition, and the excite- ment is general.* A day at sea is not considered lost when any ship is seen, and it is wild dissipation when one is "spoken;" but one rarely sees two ocean steamers on consecutive days. Annabel appeared the third day at dinner, showing no traces of indisposition. After soup she looked Stage-Struck. 45 about, and, to her pleasure, discovered Mr. Randolph. He was already an old friend. There were some dis- tinguished people at the captain's table, as there al- ways are: one a fine military man, called Major Alex- ander; another a famous barrister, who had oft wheedled jurymen in many a celebrated trial — in fact, none other than the well-known Sergeant Scotpress. There was a clever young litterateur, who spoke on every subject, including Mormonism; and, last but not least, there were a couple who excited curiosity, if not distrust. Annabel was soon at home with all, and chatting cheerily. She discovered that the lawyer was de- cidedly English; that the young litterateur, a Mr. Stuart, was enthusiastic as he talked of the Salt Lake gods and goddesses ofMormondom; and that the ma- jor, who spoke many languages, had a "as So-and-so says" always apropos to every remark. Sometimes it would be Heine, sometimes Shakespeare, sometimes Byron, sometimes Dante; and then, on better acquaint- ance, she noticed that he not unfrequently " sprung a little Latin on them when no one was looking," to quote Mr. Randolph's expression. At the farther end of the table was a veritable Cap- tain Cuttle. He was deaf but, alas! not mute. He had been an officer in the British navy, had taken part in the Crimean war, and, through standing too near the guns when discharged, his ear-drums had been shattered. He had two orphaned nieces, and, in order to entertain the little things, he used, he ex- plained, to read aloud to them, which accounted for the marvellous way he had preserved the power of speech. 46 Stage-Struck. Like most deaf people, he shouted when he thought he was whispering, and thundered when supposed to be speaking in moderate tones. Usually, in the midst of the pathetic tale of some other passenger, this marine phenomenon would attempt to confide his views to his neighbor, and with the result that the innocent started, the guilty quaked, and conversation came to a dead stop, while all the glass and crockery in the saloon began to ring and vibrate as though it had thundered. Although absolutely ignorant of the full effect of his voice, he could not ignore the fact that something now and then disturbed the equanimity of his fellow- passengers. On these occasions, with a calm smile and an apologetic Captain Cuttle sort of movement, he would say to his neighbor, " I hope I don't talk too low. Of course you hear me, although there does seem a racket of some sort. And," he would sometimes explain further, "I try to speak with a full voice, so as not to lose it. I must keep up my practice. I think that I manage to make myself heard; but in case I don't, just let me know." As he said this he would modestly look down, each word having a crescendo tendency. Before the end of the voyage, he became a universal pet on board, and some, to escape from his thunder, even mastered the deaf-and-dumb alphabet. CHAPTER V. The days passed, and the weather broke. The clouds banked themselves up, it began to blow, and it rained hard. The passengers, who were obliged to stay in the cabin, began to know each other as if they had lived together for years. One who has never been at sea can little realize the degree of intimacy between passengers that ocean travel necessitates, especially when bad weather comes on. Happily, the present company was nume- rous, and among them were many charming people. At sea, fortunately, most people try to make them- selves agreeable. There were card-parties after dinner, and one night there was a great benefit entertainment for the Seamen's Orphan Institution. By the way, they always have benefits ; those orphans ought to have a good deal of money in the bank. Just as the Arigona was nearing the shores of " Merrie England," the weather became terrible — so bad that the captain never left his bridge for forty- eight hours, and the passengers began to long for land. The ship was in much peril. They were near a lee shore, to judge from soundings, but it was im- possible to say where. Most of the passengers being old sailors, and every one having perfect confidence in the captain, little alarm, however, was felt. The companion-way of the Arigona was one of the most delightful parts of the ship, and there discussions 48 Stage-Struck. always ran high. Annabel talked over every subject on earth with Major Alexander, except music. Al- though a perfectly refined and cultured gentleman, he did not seem to her a musical man; she could not understand it. She was interested in the ship, and took a lesson in navigation. She made notes about foremasts, main- masts, and mizzens; learned the meaning of a jigger ; discovered the position of the various sails, their names ; and, in fact, the whole ship's anatomy was soon on her brain's small dissecting-table. What she learned one day she forgot the next, so that the charm of novelty never wore off. In the evening she listened to the pool-making, the betting on the run, the auction of numbers, and once went so far as to buy three hundred and thirty-three for seven shillings. It might win, and there was luck in odd numbers. There was chess in the afternoon, and there was whist in the evening. She tried a rubber once or twice, and was told that she had spoiled the game by her bad play. She could not see that she had been very guilty, though she had done things which the fond whist-player never pardons. For instance, she had not followed suit ; and when she was Scotpress's partner, she had ignored that great lawyer's lead. She also had trumped his ace a few times, and roused his ire by refusing his " call for trumps." She did not quite know what this meant, except that the third hand played a high trump and then lectured her for not leading one. She began to feel uneasy, as she had thought whist Stage-Struck. 49 a game of amusement ; on the contrary, no one was allowed to speak. They made a serious business of playing ; and when her opponent, who had not dealt, coolly laid an ace on the table, her heart died within her. This was evidently a conspiracy, and the great lawyer and her opponent were whist-fiends. She struggled on, and finally felt that the game was any- thing but an entertaining one. She worked like a galley-slave — but, then, most ladies do who play whist. Still, she tried to look cheerful, and continued without compunction to take her partner's ace, lead the wrong suit, and throw away cards when she should have trumped. The blank look of horror of the sergeant, after he had been a second time her partner, was appalling. A ''revoke" nearly broke his heart. "You may. Miss Almont," he said, as he rose from the table, "become a famous prima donna, but you'll never be anything but an infamous whist-player." She felt like a criminal. Mr. Randolph tried to cheer her up, but his words were less consoling than his manner. " When I want fun, I never play whist. It's a lasting disgrace to play a bad game. The whist-fiend never forgets it. He lays it up against you, and, no matter how much he may meet or know or like you in after- life, he always remembers that one rubber, and says, * Yes, he's a nice man, but — he plays a bad game of whist.'" The ladies had a fine cabin, and congregated there in force. Mrs. John Dawson, who was Annabel's right at table, usually entertained the company with the gossip of the day. 50 Stage-Struck. She retailed all the saloon talk — knew how many families there were aboard, how they had made their money, and how much they had to spend in Europe ; and the last day, about lo a.m., she announced "that there was a man dead in the steerage." The story which the steward told them was a touching one. The man had been ill but a short time, and only that morning he had felt better. " You see, about seven bells this morning he called me, and I gave him some soup. He looked quite bright, and said he would be thankful to get home. * My wife,' says he, * 'ill be a-waitin' at the dock when we git into Liverpool. Won't she be glad to see me ! I've been to America for two years, and have worked myself nigh unto death in the bargain, so as to bring home some money for her and the little ones. 'Tain't much, but it's all here. I can just see her a-waitin' for me, and I know once I'm home I'll be as sound as possible.' Then he spoke of the weather, and I told him 'twas clearin' up. He coughed feebly and said, 'Thank Heaven ! This has been a sorry time to me, flat on my back and the storm a-ragin'.' Then he asked me to put his head a little higher, which I did. Poor man, he looked quite smiling and comfortable, so I turned away. In a few minutes, while I was workin' round the cabin, I heard a gurgling sound, a few short gasps, and some mumbled words like 'wife ' and 'children;' then he just let his head drop on his breast like a baby. I rushed up to him, but he had passed in his checks, poor fellow, and he'll be buried this afternoon at five. Hard lines, mum, on a man who was as lively as a cricket at ten this mornin', to be dead and thrown into the sea afore sunset." CHAPTER VI. Immediately on the arrival of the steamer at the docks, a bustling American boarded her, with the re- mark, " I am looking for a young lady who has been placed in my charge to London. Tall, fair — name Almont." "Almont?" said a clear voice, accompanied by a bright smile ; " why, I am Annabel Almont." "Miss Almont, how do you do?" and the stranger vigorously shook her hand. "Glad to see you. I am Jameson — Captain Jameson, here to look after all Americans, and especially after you. Had a good trip ? Of course you had. Lord bless me, I envy one who crosses the Atlantic in the Arigona. I tell you she's a stunner, and the best sea-ship afloat. Any boat that is introduced to an iceberg only to bow and knock it into a cocked hat is good enough for me. Fine weather all of the time ? Bad ! Dear me ! I am surprised. Fog ? Naturally, off the banks. No ! — near Liverpool ? You don't say ! You're slightly overdue. Only five days ; but Heavens ! that's noth- ing. We thought you were all having' such a good time that you didn't want to come ashore — in fact, refused, actually refused, to leave the ship. Passenger died ! You don't say ! Poor devil ! Dropped him, of course. Ah ! it's a nasty thing — buried at sea. I 52 Stage-Struck, should shiver. One of the steerage ? Oh ! I s'pose 'twas the only thing to do. However, it's no use cry- ing. No other sick aboard, I suppose ? That's good. Going to London to-day ? Well, you're just in time for the 1 1. 20, and I can stow you away in one of Pull- man's best cars. Glad to land? I'm not surprised. It is a long trip." How long the ciieery, loquacious Jameson would have continued these outpourings, history saith not. He was interrupted by arrivals, each of whom knew the good-natured American and had a " Good-day" ready for him. Jameson was a sort of institution bustling around like a' whirlwind, and running straight away from the point as rapidly as quicksilver. He was the kind of man who offers to do anything on earth, remembers and accomplishes perhaps one tenth of what he has offered, and consigns the rest to his book of promises. On the next meeting he receives reproaches for his forgetfulness with so bland a smile that he disarms all anger. Then he performs some spontaneous ser- vice, perhaps valueless in itself, but executed with such extraordinary aplomb and celerity that one feels one's self his debtor for life. In a short time Annabel arrived at the station. The captain's airy manner had so much of contagion in it that all who were gathered around him soon felt the effect of his sunshiny presence. He made two new friends on the spot. He gave secret instructions to the Pullman-car porter regarding every passenger, so that each thought himself the special object of atten- tion. In a few moments he was quite at Annabel's Stage-Struck. 53 service. Her luggage was found, and speedily booked for London, and she and her fellow-passengers were soon whirling on towards the great city. Major Alexander and Mr. Randolph were seated near her, and the party was completed by the Daw- sons, their late travelling companions on the Arigona. England was well known to all except Annabel. She was startled from a half- reverie by the voice of Captain Jameson. " Well, Miss A., what do you think of this ? How does it compare with America? Isn't it just lovely?" She smiled. " Compare ? It compares with Amer- ica as green trees compare with other green trees, and grass with other grass. This is so cultivated that it seems to me like going through a series of magnificent private grounds. Nature is equally beautiful in Amer- ica, perhaps more so than here, but it is more savage." Jameson laughed. " Permit me to get a word in here," said Mr. Ran- dolph. " Scenery is scenery the world over, but I won't hear America called 'savage' without a reason. All this is good enough, but .'tain't a patchin' on Cali- fornia, or even Virginia, or, for the matter of that, Pennsylvania." Annabel spoke. " How can you say so ? Look at those hedges ! See how beautifully every inch of ground is cultivated ; and those flowers growing up against the bridges. Why, the whole of the landscape is as smooth as my uncle's lawn. I have never seen the country like this in America." ''You are right," responded the major; "and as my friend Milton said : 54 Stage-Struck, " 'This desert soil wants not her hidden lustre, gems, nor gold; Nor want we skill nor art from whence to raise magnificence.' Grandeur of scenery, picturesque falls, graceful cas- cades, deep ravines, and heathery hills are well known to all who travel in the United States. The country is too new, however, to admit of care being expended on a railroad. Weeds, brambles, briers, and shrubs grow in savage luxuriance up to the very rails. The grass comes up in patches, vegetation accumulates here, there, and everywhere in a wild profusion ; but no one seems to want a civilized landscape. Rail- road kings and corporations are interested in cutting through the country and laying tracks for the purpose of making money. Provided that their railroad does this, they do not care what it looks like. Utility, not adornment, is the motto of an American. He cannot see any reason in trimming hedges, making symmetri- cal fences, or turning wild patches of grass into a lawn. And he is right. Why should wild-flowers bloom other than as nature intended ? Why deck a railroad out like a garden ? When an American goes into art-decoration, he sticks to his own private prop- erty, and does not waste time or money on that of a corporation. Demagogues pretend that their financial schemes are for the good of the people, but this is clap-trap. They have no sentiment, and it would be sentimental to think of cultivating the land near the railway-track, when no one but the world in general could have the benefit of it." Mr. Randolph then spoke. " People ought to be thankful to be carried safely, without accident to life or limb, and should not expect to have a flowery pan- Stage-Struck. 55 orama provided for them ; they can get that here, but we haven't time. Of course, this is a good country to stagnate in, and Fm very fond of it ; but give me a little more go, and this I get in America." "Well," said Captain Jameson, who thought it about time, as he mildly expressed it, to "dip in his oar," "I suppose I represent the average man or the average American. When I am going to any place I just rush for the train, get into my seat, and my mind runs on everything like a whirlwind. I have built three or four railroads, I have set up a yacht, I have built a brown-stone in New York, I have drained the Chicago River by a new system, I have been to Lead- ville to look after my mines, I have invented a patent fire-escape to just float like a cloud from a tenth-story window, I have made a million in Wall Street — in fact, I spend my time in the train thinking and scheming just as any honest American should. Im- agine me looking out of windows and enjoying my- self ! Why, my good people, I haven't time. I may see the thing, take it all in at a glance, but the next minute I couldn't tell whether I'd seen grass or gravy, posies or potatoes. Of course it's lovely, but we wouldn't feel at home in America if we were to see nothing but this. It's too tame ; it's too cut-and-dried ; in fact, it's too civilized. When I first came to Eng- land I vowed I'd never live here. Why, I didn't dare to go to sleep for fear some night I'd walk off into the water. I don't mind saying that, like most Ameri- cans, I am a somnambulist, and this place is too small. Why, America — America ! there you can roam and roam — " 56 Stage-Struck, " It strikes me that one can roam here as well ; eh, captain ?" said Annabel, and she gave a malicious little intonation to her voice. " I declare I shall say- nothing more about cultivation or the refined beauty of the English landscape. Now, confess that you really do like the country." "Well, well," he admitted testily, "I s'pose I do; but I can't ever place any country bolt upright with America." The conversation momentarily ceased. The train was going at such a rate that things were positively spinning in the drawing-room car. It was hot — so hot that air was at a premium. Some imprudent but independent soul opened a window. Dust came in with the faint breath of June roses, and with an odor of hay from the green meadows. In a moment Mr. Randolph sneezed, in another he coughed ; then he moved his solid body somewhat petulantly, but too late. He had been sitting in a draught, and draughts are nature's Shylocks, always wanting their pound of flesh. He coughed again, and discovered to his astonished travelling companions a well- developed commencement of hay-fever. Jameson laughed, and patted him on the shoulder, saying, " Heavenly hope, Randolph ! you'd better trade that cold off for a horse. A June cold's a caution ; I'd hate to clutch one on — " Another sneeze. " Who opened that window ? My friend, whoever you are, you are too previous." No one at first answered. In a case of this kind few mortals would have dared Stage-Struck. 57 to avow themselves culpable ; but the major coolly announced that he was the guilty one — he had opened the window. Jameson shook his finger at him with a kittenish gesture. "We might have known who did it," said he, gayly. "Look out, or there'll be a procession towards a graveyard, and one man's name less on my visiting-list." The window was closed, and the rest of the journey passed without incident. On arriving in London, Annabel felt that she had fairly completed the first stage of her long trip. Oir CHAPTER VII. Annabel was amazed at the sight of London. What magnitude, what magnificence, what solidity ; yet how gray it all was! The sky was gray, the houses gray, the towers gray, and a heavy pall of something impenetrable, gray and darker still, hung like a bat with gigantic wings outstretched over the city. It was a London fog. She had left sunshine, sum- mer air, and the breath of green fields ten minutes since ; suddenly she had been transported into a world where even the sunshine had grown into som- breness. She was in London, and this was "London town." The great cities of the United States had seemed to her as something beyond compare,- but what a world was here ! Captain Jameson was charged to take her to a friend of his, an officer's widow, who had a house near the Embankment, and who had already received instructions about Annabel. She would be mother and sister to the girl until her own mother came. This was a providence to any young woman arriving alone in a great city. They were just about to put out for her house, when a fair young man rushed up to Jameson. He Stage-Struck. 59 seized his hand, he intoned a lusty "How are you?" and then as hastily announced his departure for Paris. "Paris! But stop; where do you come from just now ?" gasped the captain. *' My dear fellow," said the fair man, " I came in the train from Liverpool. Just been on to meet my brother who was expected from America and did not come. He changed his mind at a minute's notice ; but that's nothing. You see, he'd forgotten a dinner- engagement in San Francisco. He'll come by the next trip of the Arigona^ no doubt. I nearly missed the train, and couldn't get into your car, but I saw you, as usual, surrounded by the fair sex." This blonde man deliberately bowed to Annabel. " Good Lord ! you take away my breath," said Jameson. " But here ; I'll introduce you. Of course that's all you came up to speak to me for. Miss Almont, let me present you to Mr. Angel — Mr. Victor Angel, once as nice a fellow as ever lived, now mad as a March hare — mad to be an opera-singer." Then he went through the usual formula, while the young lady blushed with pleasure. I may here say that Americans usually present ladies to gentlemen. I never knew why, but have always remarked that they do. However, this is a matter of little importance. In a thousand years or so they may know better. It has taken other nations nearly as long as that. Why should politeness have a premature birth in America ? Annabel looked with much friendliness at the young man. 6o Stage-Struck, "What is your voice?" said she, without another word of preliminary. " Basso profundo." She looked pleased. He read something in her eyes, and ventured, " But you, yourself ? I'll bet a dollar you sing too. What is your voice ?" " High soprano." " How high do you go ?" "Well, when I am in trim, up to Jenny Lind's high G, and—" " Good Lord ! there you are, already chinning on the music business, and the * growler' a- waiting on his cab." Captain Jameson looked impatient. Then he added with a vague sort of politeness, "You'll meet again, and I have no doubt will even have time to perpetrate many duets together; but don't let us wait here any longer." " I am going ; I am going," laughed Mr. Angel to the captain ; then he said deliberately to Annabel, "You did not finish telling me how high you sang." "I was going to say, 'G in alt,' but it seems I couldn't get the chance." The captain began to bustle nervously about. While Annabel was yet talking, Mr. Randolph came up also, and at last Major Alexander. Before separating, a rendezvous between the men was arranged at the American Exchange, in the Strand. All agreed to see each other there, except the major, who was almost a Briton and knew London even bet- ter than New York. Stage-Struck. 6 1 He asked Annabel how she liked the looks of the city, so far. In response to her remark about its being a little smoky, he added, smilingly, " Ah ! quite true. Let me see. What does Byron say? " * A mighty mass of brick and smoke and shipping, Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye — ' " "Finish it," said Mr. Randolph, coming up at that moment. " ' A huge dim cupola, like a foolscap crown On a fool's head — and there is London town.' However, no matter ; such as it is, here we are, and I hope, Miss Annabel, to come soon to see you. My address is *The Grand.' " She gave hers to Mr. Randolph. " I hope you will come ; and remember that you promised to tell me a — a story some time about — some one." "Good-by," said he, briefly. "I have not forgot- ten my promise. Be good to yourself." The adieux finally over, the captain started for his four-wheeler. Annabel was packed inside, luggage was put on the top, when some new people came up to the captain. "Heaven preserve me!" said he, glibly; "more peo- ple to speak to. But I am non est, simply nonest. Let's get out of this. Nice man, that major; a real thor- oughbred; knows more in a minit than I ever will. But some are born that way. Randolph's a rough 62 Stage-Struck. diamond; and them Dawsons have got more money than brains. As to Angel — " " He is fine-looking. I hope he will succeed — " "Succeed!" shrieked the captain. "He's thrown up a good living to be a singer. He'll ruin himself, that's what he'll do, and bust the whole family beside. And you — you sly Miss Lark, you sing too. Why didn't you say so?" "Did you not know it?" She spoke gravely. "No; but I suspected you. I thought as much. Don't tell me any more. You all do it. Steamer- loads of 'em coming every year. America will soon be depopulated; but who is to blame ? No one knows. You're all stark mad on the subject; and blessed if I don't think that a law ought to be passed preventing you all from coming to Europe in that fashion!" The captain heaved a sigh and ceased. Annabel was about to speak, when he interrupted even her thoughts. " I suppose you'd like to know more about where you are going, eh ?" She nodded a "Yes." "Well, it's to my old friend Mrs. Edmonds. She is a widow; her husband was an officer. She has three daughters living with her, all charming — charming; they all sing. I have children, too; but if one of 'em ever says the word 'sing' to me, I'll snatch him bald- headed quicker than a monkey would crack a pea-nut. Yes, Mrs. Edmonds' girls have voices, and — " "Oh!" "Don't interrupt, please. They are all fond of singing, at least, and you'll hear music talked until Stage-Struck. 63 your hair curls. They live near the Embankment" (she scarcely knew what that meant), " in Salisbury Street, Strand; and I promise you that you will be almighty comfortable and happy in that house. I have told her about you and 5^our family. You know I had a 'gram and letter from Treherne, your uncle. They very seldom take any one to live with them, but Mrs. Edmonds will look after you just like one of her own." "How thankful I am!" murmured the girl. "It is indeed most fortunate to find such a home." Then conversation ceased for the moment. They rattled along past numbers of squares, where thickly leaved trees cast their shadows in the street. These squares or parks were neatly enclosed. Where does one see such bits of green in the heart of a great city, except in London ? One thing puzzled Annabel. She thought them all alike. The captain told her the name of the first; and after circuitous turnings she said, surprisedly, " Why, here we are back in the same square again! The coachman is making a mistake. Stop him!" "Not I. This is all right; but they are as like as two peas in a pod. I thought so myself when I first saw London; but wait until you see modern London. If you're the woman I take you to be, you'll know how to distinguish these squares by instinct. All of the female population hit on the swell part of a town just as quick as they would find out whether their neighbors' bonnets are of last year's or of this year's fashion." "Are we going to a fashionable quarter?" 64 Stage-Struck. The captain start ** Bless you, child, no! It used to be tremendous. Near Salisbury Street is Cecil Street. There's a house on the corner where old Queen Fuss-and-Feathers Elizabeth used to visit or live; but, Lord! I wouldn't take you to it. There's a bed that Bess used to sleep on. No one doubts that statement. The posters shake like a cat with the dumb ague; and once a young widow whom I sent there to lodge came near being killed. The whole of the lower part of the bed gave way in the middle of the night, and came within one of making her two feet shorter. She has had enough of living in historical houses, especially the Strand, and super-especially the aforesaid mansion; in fact, she eschews them now and for ever. She has had a genteel sufficiency." At that moment they came in sight of Trafalgar Square. Annabel gave a cry of delight. She saw for the first time the monument to the great Nelson, the granite fountains, and the wonderful Landseer lions ; she saw the long gray stone building devoted to the National Gallery, with its ridiculous pepper- pots on the top; she caught a glimpse of Whitehall, and felt impressed, as all do who see for the first, nay, for the hundredth time this historical part of London. The captain told her the name of each object as they passed. They turned abruptly into a street where hundreds of cabs and omnibuses were passing. This was the Strand, or the beginning of it. As the "'buses" stopped, she heard men shouting, " Bink! Bink!" She looked up wonderingly. Stage-Struck, 65 "What does it mean?" said she to her companion; then she blushed. She thought that she understood English. Foolish, innocent young American! What a delusion ! " He means * Bank! ' " said the captain, coolly; " but, like most Englishmen, he never says what he means. Why should he trouble himself to speak any plainer ? He knows there is always some one around obliged to explain. I happen to be that some one just now, and — and I am obliged to explain." She laughed, but still looked a little mystified. " Do all speak like that in London ?" "No; not all." "Do they all have that accent?" "No; not all." "Better?" "No; worse." "Why, how shall I be able to understand?" opening her eyes to their widest. " You won't, at first." "What did you do?" " Got the first word, and guessed out the rest. Oh, it's easy — like unrolling a tape-measure." " How queer ! Will it take me long to learn ?" "Oh no; those musical ears of yours will pick it up in no time. It's a mistake if you think your English is English in London. It may be English over the other side of the pond, but once you get here it's a long way from being the language spoken in Eng- land." "I shall call it American." "Call it whatever you like — heavens and earth! 66 Stage-Struck. you won't be far wrong. Hallo !" to the driver; " what are you doing ? Steady, please." Cabby jolted them past four omnibuses, turned around in front of a dirty-looking little theatre, and into so very narrow a street that going into it seemed like pouring wine through the small part of a funnel — downhill, too. They would surely be upset. No; nothing of the kind. Ah, there's none like the London whip ! Even a poor cabby is capable of being a fine driver. So growler No. — got along without any upheaval, and finally stopped at one of a row of dingy brick four-story houses. " Here we are, and there is Mrs. Edmonds at the window ! This is your new home for the present." CHAPTER VIII. The door was opened by a tall dark-haired girl. Her eyes were like stars, her face wreathed in smiles, and even her hair seemed combed in a friendly fashion. The captain tapped her on the cheek as they walked in. "Ah, Belle, you minx! where's mother?" saying the words as the young girl led the way straight to where the mother was. It was only a way the captain had. He had been there fifty times. He always addressed either of the girls as "You minx!" or "Mischief!" and the mother, Mrs. Edmonds, was always waiting in the lower " drawering-room," as it was always called. Annabel was ushered in. A tall, fair woman gave her one look, then opened her arms without a word. The young stranger was somewhat taken aback by this, but naturally walked into the arms. They were opened for her, and the next thing she was hugged close to Mrs. Edmonds, and a warm kiss imprinted on both cheeks. "There, my dear, I hope you feel at home;" then, standing her off at arm's length, "Great Heavens I how like she is to her mother 1" Mrs. Edmonds' voice was tender, friendly, and ac- 6B Stage-Struck. centuated with a surprise that any parent might have felt upon noting the resemblance to one of his own in another's child. "Like her mother!" echoed Jameson, aghast. •* Why, where on earth did you ever see her mother ? I thought you didn't know her ?" "Neither do I," retorted Mrs. Edmonds, stoutly; "but isn't she handsome? isn't she fair? and didn't you tell me that her dear mamma was fair and hand- some ? So any one who wasn't a fool could conclude at once that she resembles her. Girls ought always to take after their mothers" — drawing herself up proudly — "and I know mine look more like me than they do like their poor dear, dead father." Mrs. Edmonds broke down. The bare remembrance of the gallant 19th footer (we refer to his regiment), now no more, was enough to lacerate her breast and almost inundate the small "drawering-room" with tears. Annabel, becomingly distressed, immediately went up to her. " I am so sorry — don't think of it — and — and, you know, I don't look a bit like my mother — don't sob like that — and I am my father's image. However, to console you — " " Well, well, it comes to the same thing," broke in Jameson. " Your father and mother look alike, and you look like both of them. It's all right. I say, Mrs. Edmonds, if you go on like that, there'll be salt water enough here to save a season at Margate. Cheer up, and let's look a bit after the luggage !" Mrs. Edmonds arose with one great sob, said Stage-Struck. 69 faintly, " I am better now," and resumed an air of cheerfulness quite amazing. As she left her seat, something fled from beneath her skirts. It was a cat. " Ah, Thomas ! there you are," said the captain. " How goes it, eh ?" Thomas came up to be stroked. He was an old pet of the captain's. Just then there was a faint miauling, and seven smaller cats came from under the table. They leapt playfully about; one into Mrs. Edmonds' arms, the other into Belle's lap, on to the window-sill, one into the curtains, and the rest dexterously climbed up to the table-cloth. Preparations had been made for five-o'clock tea. A dish of cream, some jam, and some thin slices of bread and butter were already distributed on their respective plates. To Annabel's horror, the cats attacked the cream, and their tails wagged lawlessly in the jam; and it was all Mrs. Edmonds, the captain, and the family could do to save something from the wreck. Their efforts were not wholly successful. This episode reminded the hostess that the young stranger might be hungry. It had never entered her head that she could have any distaste for cats, or any objection to eating with them or after them. Annabel was invited to seat herself at the hospi- table board, but evidence of an inward struggle must have shown upon her features. Her eyes took in the scene — the cats, the cream, the cloth, the tout ensemble — and they showed that she did not quite like it. Belle, watching her slyly, had remarked this expres- 70 Stage-Struck. sion. She had a great deal of sang-froid^ and imme- diately took away the dish. " What a pity ! This happens so often" — seeing the increasing horror in the guest's eyes — "as it chances to-day. We have quarts of cream always in the house; I will bring some more at once." "Do, Belle, dear, there's a darling," added Mrs. Edmonds, languidly. " I will now make the tea; and Annie" — to the youngest girl — " you may fetch dear mother some hot muffins" (stooping to kiss her fondly). Affection was not wasted in this house; it was utilized. " Captain, will you not join us ?" The captain could not. He had fifty things to do, and fifty Americans to look after; but he would drop in to-morrow to see how Miss Annabel found herself. He was off for Liverpool by the 2.40, and in the mean time was quite at their orders. Did they require anything? could he be of any service? No? Then he would say ta-ta until to-morrow. In the mean time the cab had been paid and dis- charged, Annabel's luggage stowed away to the second story front, and the party could now sit down to tea. Just as they were comfortably seated, a faint whine was heard outside the door. Mrs. Edmonds fairly sprang from her seat. " Bless him, mother's darling angel! left out in the cold. He should have something, the sweet love." Then she admitted a white-by-nature mongrel who had just escaped death in the street from a butcher's cart, and who, to the thousand flecks of smut which Stas'e- Struck, yi had so darkened his original silk, added a few swabs of mud and a conglomeration of filth only to be reaped after a harvest of smart sowing in the London streets. This was the new-comer. He was dirty, but wel- come. A Chinese embroidered towel was whipped off from the back of a chair, and the poor little mongrel's legs were tenderly wiped. The extreme outer layer of excrescence disappeared. The large lovely eyes of the creature looked his gratitude; but his lawless habits could not long keep his manners in check. He jumped into Mrs. Edmonds' lap, and from there straight on to the table. The slices of well-buttered bread were the indubitable attraction, and he proved their magnetic influence by immediately seizing upon the nearest " at paw." Annabel shrieked, " Oh, stop him!" But little Annie had already taken him in charge. By this time the despoiled cats cried for vengeance. What ! a mongrel to have something and they nothing ! It was a shame. Then ensued a fight between them, but such a battle and such a conglomeration of sound as Annabel never remembered to have heard in her life before. Five-o'clock tea was not only a delusion, but a snare. The scene waxed so warm that a separation had to be effected. The door was opened, a piece of something thrown into the hall, and the seven cats, like seven leopards, sprang tumbling over each other into the entry. 72 Stage-Struck. The mongrel's agility being somewhat lessened since his tilt with the butcher-carts in the morning, he was left so far behind in the chase that the door was shut prematurely, and the squalling tabbies be- came masters of the outer breastworks. Mrs. Edmonds sighed, and Miss Belle looked slightly mortified. She thought their guest did not like cats, and, perhaps, she cared as little for dogs. She remembered that Annabel had eaten nothing, and commenced at once offering her food. Annabel shuddered. She had heard of hardships in a singer's life, but nothing like unto this. She remembered how Malibran's father beat her because she sang false notes; how Sontaghad to wash, starch, and iron a white 'gown each day in order to sing properly dressed in the evening; and how Wilt's avarice obliged her to scrub her own stone staircase: but she had never heard of any singer living with cats. Some tea was given her in the cup which Thomas had so gallantly knighted with his tail. She felt squeamish. Mrs. Edmonds saw it. " I believe I am sea-sick !" ** Nonsense ! Do try some tea." "It's the cup; Tom switched his tail in it," said little Annie, with bland and child-like vigor. Mrs. Edmonds smiled. "My dear Miss Almont, pray forgive me. You won't ?" — playfully. " Ah, well, I know of one way to earn your forgiveness. Belle, open that buffet; to the left you will find the Farranti's cup. Our young friend shall drink out of it — the first one not of the family who has ever had that honor," Stage-Struck, 73 " She handed Belle a bunch of keys, and she brought forth a cup of rare Sevres. It had alining of gold, a saucer with a wreath of finest flowers, and on the cup were painted cupids, youths and maidens singing with golden harps. Calliope and Apollo were on a throne, while around them played all of the musical gods and goddesses. Mrs. Edmonds handed it to her in triumph. " There ! Bellini, Rossini, Malibran, Vaccaj have drunk out of it, and last, but not least, my dear, the great contralto Farranti herself. It was presented to her in Cairo, after singing 'Romeo,' in Vaccaj's * Romeo and Juliet.' " " She — is it possible ?" gasped Annabel; "and am I to drink from her cup? Oh, let me have it at once, and — and please tell me all about her." Mrs. Edmonds smiled. " I knew that would bring back your appetite, if anything could; and, as soon as you commence to eat and drink, I will begin to talk." Tea in a great singer's cup ! It was a good omen, and she was lucky to have the first draught in the gilded tasse of so renowned a woman. Her thoughts sailed on, with all the impulsiveness of youth; her blood thrilled with high-soprano fervor. Could the presence of seven hundred cats or seven thousand mongrel curs disturb her? even though every one of them put its fore paws into her plate ! She was already in another world. Her fancy led her on to scenes of triumph, to splendid achievements in the glorious world of art and song. She drank her tea hysterically; she ate slices of but- tered bread with jam; she expressed no surprise when 74 Stage-Struck. a fine joint came in from the kitchen; she only half heard Mrs. Edmonds' apology, " It was so late, they were having tea and dinner in one;" and only little Annie's remark brought her back to the stern realities of existence. The child watched her anxiously, then said, " We never have three helps of jam. Mother treats you just as she does Tramp." Tramp was the mongrel. ^^^H CHAPTER IX. Long before the tea was finished, Mrs. Edmonds began to talk about " The Farranti," as she called her. Annabel had quieted the first pangs of hunger. She had done more than that, but it had been a very mechanical performance. Her anxiety to hear about the artist had not lessened her appetite; it had simply subjugated it. Little Annie's remark about the jam positively stupefied her. She had no idea that she had been helped even once. She was eating — anything, and thinking everything; but her everything was embo- died in the one word "music." " Look at that picture," said Mrs. Edmonds, " the one hanging in that corner" — pointing to the right of the window " Whom do you think it is ?" Annabel rose hastily. " I know; it is the Farranti." She then went up to it. " How beautiful! And was it thought like ? I mean, did it resemble her? How lovely she must have been!" ''Like! It is as like as my two thumbs, only she was even handsomer. Belle has her eyes and hair, but that is all. The Farranti was tall and slim, as you are. I never knew a man to see her without fall- ing in love with her at once. She had a beautiful neck, as you see; notice it. Long, and with such ^(> Stage-Struck, sloping and rounded shoulders, my love, that even an India shawl pinned across them v^rould scarcely hold on." Mrs. Edmonds w^as continuing her description. " And when she warbled, you could see her throat go in and out like a canary's." "What was her voice ?" " A deep contralto; as deep as a river, and as high nearly as the Alps. She studied like mad to get on. I never knew a woman work harder. But, my dear, you must be tired after your journey from Liverpool. We will talk of her some other time." " No, no; let me hear all now. I am not a bit tired. In short, I would rather hear now; then, when I go to my room, I can think of her." "Dear soul!" Mrs. Edmonds' ejaculation was short, but she made up for this by her affectionate manner, and got up at once to kiss the little enthu- siast. " It is no wonder that you should be interested in hearing about her; but every one loved her who knew her. She's dead now — dead these ten years, and the world going on just the same." In consideration of this fact. Belle ventured to make a suggestion. She also feared that tears would fall if the subject were continued. " Dear mother, mayn't we clear away the tea-things and go up to the drawing-room ? You can talk there just as well, and — " Then she went up to her mother and whispered something. Mrs. Edmonds arose directly. " My dear Miss Almont, let us go to the drawering-room, and then I shall continue about the Farranti. " As she said this she led the way upstairs. Stage-Struck. 77 The stairs had a narrow carpet almost in rags^ which seemed to give great pleasure to the cats. The seven were bounding about, with two stranger tabbies from the neighboring houses, come to pay them a visit. This was enough for Tramp. Having main- tained silence, or nearly that, for some little while, it was fully time for him to join in the sport. He sprang upon the strangers. Tommy seized his string, and gave him a sharp thwack with his diminutive paw. This raised mutiny in the camp, and there ensued a battle which recalled all the characteristics of the high-tea fray. Now that Annabel had no longer to defend her food from their attentions, she could enjoy a hearty laugh at their antics. It was almost impossible to get up the stairs, but the grand move was finally effected. Mrs. Edmonds seized Tramp; the stranger cats were worsted; and the attention of the seven others was called towards the dining-room, where little Annie stood smiling, with a lump of sugar in her tiny hand. Most ladies wore trailing gowns at that epoch in London, and Mrs. Edmonds dragged two good yards of mottled silk after her. On Annabel " nearly walk- ing up her back," as they reached the drawing-room she turned with a gracious smile of forgiveness and explanation. " My train is a little long, but I am so fond of trains; then, too, it's more imposing. I always wear this dress, or another like it, when I expect the lawyers. You must know that the children are wards in Chan- cery, and to-day I expect one of their trustees to come 78 Stage-Struck. with the lawyer. It is most important, so of course I am prepared in the way of toilet." Annabel bowed ; but as she walked after the lady she stumbled. The dog had torn the edge of the car- pet near the door, and she had not perceived it. She nearly fell arm's length, not because she didn't see the rent, but because she was wondering, " What are wards in Chancery ?" Before she could avoid the hole, one foot had already caught up in it. Mrs. Edmonds glanced quickly towards her. "There!" said she, with provoked accent; "there is a proof of what I said. Everything going to ruin be- cause they are wards in Chancery. I can scarcely buy bread without asking the lawyers. The water- pipes are out of repair, the kitchen is flooded, and all of the Farranti's valuable manuscripts of Rossini, and the like, are rotting. The sewerage is bad ; and the house needs blinds, and new paint and paper. I would furnish it outright, but I can't. The money belongs to the children, and they can't get hold of but so much at a time, and that paid over every quarter. Do you see these gray hairs ?" Annabel did not know whether she was really ex- pected to see them or not. Hesitating between polite- ness and honesty, she stammered, " I see a — a very few ; not enough to mention." " Well, you are polite. I see hundreds, and all — all since I have had to do with lawyers. My dear, what- ever you do, never leave your children wards in Chan- cery. I — " " Mother, mother ! Here's Mr. Woolson and Mr. Stage-Struck. 79 Beak. I had my head out of the window and saw 'em comin'." Annie's little voice was shrill, but youthfully so. She came up two stairs at a time, with waving " Mil- tonian locks" and dancing eyes. Her haste to un- burden her mind of this tremendous news was fatal. A clean pinafore, donned for the expected visit, caught on a nail in the door, and was torn to ribbons. Even the flounce came to grief. It had been sewed on a chain-stitch machine, and the first thread giving way, the whole structure followed suit. The child was dismayed and disheartened. Mrs. Edmonds good-naturedly soothed her, gave her six- pence not to cry, told her to throw it into the rag- basket (not the sixpence, but the pinafore), and hur- ried her off in search of another one. " This was my prettiest," whimpered Annie; "and — and I haven't another clean." At this moment Belle appeared. "Here are Mr. Woolson and Mr. Beak, mother," she breathlessly cried. "They are coming up directly. Oh, what a shame !" glancing at Annie's ruined pinafore. But there was no time for looking about. The child was dragged up a pair of stairs, Annabel was requested to follow immediately, and in another moment the three found themselves in the guest's bed-chamber. Her boxes were ranged about, and, to her delight, things wore a surprising aspect of neatness. Belle suddenly realized that Annabel might like to be left to herself. Hastily apologizing for thus " piling into her room," as she expressed it, she made her 8o Stage-Struck. coming there an excuse to see that everything was in proper order. " We have two maids besides the cook," she said ; "but one never likes to trust wholly to servants." " You are kind," faltered Annabel. " And now we will leave you. Come, Annie." She drew the little girl away by the hand. " If you want anything, do ring." " Thanks." "The wire is broken," she continued, in a somewhat mortified tone ; " but we always hear the vibration below when any one pulls the rope hard enough, so it's all the same ; one of us will surely come up to see if you want anything. Au revoir. You see, I know two words of French. Can you speak French ?" she continued. " No ? Well, good-by. Come, Annie." The girl left with so cheerful a smile that she seemed to take all the brightness away with her. Annabel was alone at last. It had been a long day, and fraught with a totally new experience. This was the first time she had ever found herself in any home not her own ; the first time that unfa- miliar voices had sounded in her ears. She felt a little dreary and lonesome. She looked at her watch, and found to her surprise that it was nearly eight o'clock. Eight ! nearly nine. How time had flown ! and it was still broad daylight. She had never before known what an English twilight was like. She raised her eyes with wondering awe. A feeling of reverence came over her, and a heavenly calm pervaded her soul. The wraith of day had de- scended upon the town. The young girl sighed. She Stage-Struck. Si felt that this was day's better self. She mused upon the scene, and leaned from her casement to look at the river, which was already darkening oven Lights here and there appeared on the opposite shore. Ghostly barges glided by. The bridges threw long shadows athwart the stream. She murmured softly, " And so this is the twilight of which I have heard so often." Passing vehicles ceased rumbling. The quiet of Salisbury Street was at this hour almost provincial. There was only the distant sound of deep-toned bells, the chimes of some church which rung out a descend- ing scale with mellow accents ; then another bell seemed to answer, and yet another. Suddenly she heard a voice rise from the street. It came from a girl. She was slovenly-looking and in tatters ; the voice was shrill and starved. She was singing "Auld Robin Gray." The words carried Annabel back to her home. How many times she had sung it in America ! Dear Amer- ica ! would she ever see it again? Tears sprang into her eyes. Was she really going to cry ? No ; she would think of nothing sad — of nothing which could bring even a shadow of regret to her mind. She must live only for the future. To divert the current of her thoughts, she turned to her boxes, woman's great consolation. They were examined carefully, and, as they had been in the hold of the steamer, she thought it would be as well to see if everything was all right. The ransacking then commenced, but did not go very far. A letter from her mother lay in the tray of the first 82 St age-Struck. box, and she seized upon it with as much avidity as if the post had just brought it. She took it up with the greatest tenderness, saying, "Dearest mother! I shall read it over again; it will seem like talking with her." Then she sat by the window and commenced. " Quebec, May 20th. " My darling Annabel: " We have succeeded. I was too near dead to write you on my arrival, and purposely kept you in ignorance of affairs until I could tell you exactly how things stood. Your uncle was bitterly opposed to your going on the stage, and would not hear of your going to Europe to study; but at once I told him how determined you were — that nothing on earth could stop you. When I told him, in fact, that you were going to sail the twenty-fourth in the Artgonay I expected that he would fly into a rage. What do you think he said ? * Little monkey ! Just like her pluck, to start off alone; but she knows her Uncle Jim won't let her starve. And you — I suppose you must go, too?* " Well, dear, imagine my surprise. Heaven knows I never would have permitted you to go without me had I even dreamed that I could come on so quickly; but so it is. He has arranged everything, and we are to have one hundred dollars every month, and I can make the rest up by my writing. Anybody can be a foreign correspondent for American newspapers, so I am sure to get on. If your father was like any other man, he might help, too; but it is quite useless Stage-Struck. 83 depending on him for anything. If he can only take care of himself, I shall be thankful. "I am sorry that I couldn't come with you; but you see how wise it was in me to send you, any way. Once gone, I knew he would not have the heart to tell you to come back without having studied a little. I shall start for Europe in three weeks, and, in the mean time, the Lord knows that I have enough to do. You will get this the day of sailing, so I know you will carry a cheerful heart abroad. " Dear child, I hate to part with you, and I send you a thousand kisses. The letter seems cold, but I never was a demonstrative woman. Although I do love my dear Annabel, I find I haven't one fine speech ready, except 'God bless you.' I think I talked my- self hoarse in New York, and I certainly cried buckets of tears when I said good-by there. I won't reopen old wounds. You will have fine weather. The steamer is magnificent; and Uncle Jim has already telegraphed to an old friend in New York to provide you with letters, and to place you in the captain's care. Now, my dear child, things have gone thus smoothly; remember, it is too late now to back out. After having done all in my power to persuade you not to go on the stage, I feel it my duty as a mother, now that you will go, to stand by you; and I beg you, never be faint-hearted, never lose confidence in your- self,] and believe in your success. Remember, *As your faith is, so shall it be unto you.' A cable, and also a letter, goes in this post to Captain Jame- son, in Liverpool, who will meet you at the ship's landing, and see you safe to a Mrs. Edmonds, in 84 Stage-Struck. London, who takes lodgers. Everything has been prepared for your comfort, and I do trust that noth- ing will prevent a safe arrival and your being very happy until I come. Uncle Jim sends his love, and a five-pound note to buy you a dress in London. How good he is, and what a kind brother to me ! And to think that he has not kith or kin in this world besides us, except your cousin, who, since she ran away, is having a hard time — children, a drunken husband, and so on. But don't let us talk about her. You will hear from me by the next steamer. In the mean time, keep up a good heart, and think how dear you are to all of us — to all, and above all to your loving mother, who kisses you a thousand times, and wishes you yet again Godspeed. Do not forget to pray for us; all our prayers are with and for you. " ^ver your affectionate, devoted mother, " Hester Almont." CHAPTER X. The letter cheered her heart, and renewed all her ambition and hope. Her first feeling was one of sadness; her next, joy; and the next, one of profound thankfulness and gratitude. She threw herself upon her knees, and prayed with heartfelt fervor. She prayed for everybody, with that large-heartedness which is the characteristic of youthful minds. This soothed her; and when she rose from her knees, her mind was in harmony with all the world; indeed, she even felt less fatigued. She put her boxes in order; then she donned a fresh gown, and was about to write to her mother, when there was a tap on the door. Little Annie stood outside, with a smiling face and a bunch of roses. " I bought them with the sixpence mother gave me," she said. " I came to the door before, but you were on your knees" — this with awful solemnity. "Mr. Beak was a-jawing mother in the drawing-room; but I ran away, and now I am here again. Are you glad to see me ?" " Of course I am glad; and thank you ever so much for the flowers." "Oh, you have changed your frock! Eulalie al- ways does when Brak comes." "Who is Eulalie, and who is Brak?" Annabel spoke idly. " Eulalie is my sister Lallie, and Brak is short for 86 Stage-Struck, Brakenston. He is related to a lord. He is in love with Lallie, and ma hates him. She says he's a good- for-nothing — only fit to sing and play the piano, which he does beautifully." Annabel was curious. Heretofore her idea of a good-for-nothing had not been that of a man who played the piano beautifully ; so the explanation a little surprised her. "But," she interrupted hesitatingly. She did not know whether she should stop the child or permit her to go on. She considered the affair no secret, from the matter-of-fact way in which Annie spoke of it. "But," she repeated, "if your mamma does not like him, why does he continue to come ?" " Ma can't help herself. If he does not come to the house, ma says Lallie will go out of it to meet him. She talked it over with Belle, and — and they agreed that he had better come here. Perhaps he'll get tired of coming. Then, he sings so beautifully. Oh! oh!" — rushing to the door — "that's him now. He has just come, and the lawyer hasn't gone yet. Will you come down ?" "I? Certainly not." She rose, half indignant. The idea ! But the child meant it well enough, and — and Annabel commenced wondering how Brakenston sang. Just then there was a sound as of some one going away. The drawing-room door was opened, then shut. Tramp began to bark with fury, and Mrs. Edmonds' voice was heard on the staircase, saying, " He would not be mean enough for that. How- ever, no one knows. This is little, but — ** Stage-Struck, 8/ " But it will have to do." "Yes, I suppose so" — with a deep sigh. " Oh, that my children were ever made wards in Chancery !" Annie screamed over the stairs, "Good-by, Mr. Woolson ! Good -by, Mr. Beak!" — this last with a solemn intonation. Then the child threw up her curly head, kissed Mr. Woolson, and dashed off as the lawyer was about to kiss her, "I don't like you," she demurely observed; "ma says that you will finish by robbing — " Mrs. Edmonds cried, " Oh, stop her !" as she tried to clap her hand over the little mouth before the rest of this perhaps truthful but uncomplimentary sentence had oozed out. Mr. Beak blushed as much as any lawyer could; that is to say, a faint hectic glow pervaded his nose. He was slightly mortified, because the old adage, " Children and fools tell the truth," rose in his mind, and he feared lest this might occur also to the others. Annabel had heard Annie's explanation and those leave-takings. It dawned upon her that she was in the bosom of a curious family. Still, they were all so kind, warm-hearted, and sympathetic that she de- cided at once that she was sure to like them; although she felt certain that she would have to put up with many little things which did not please her. To be sure, their ways were somewhat outspoken, the cats were numerous, and the house was fearfully untidy; but perhaps this would not always be so. Mrs. Ed- monds' motherly welcome had already gone to the girl's heart. That settled it. She would be pleased in spite of all drawbacks. 88 Stage-Struck, The landlady's face appeared at the door. Annabel sprang forward. " Oh, how kind of you to come to see me — up all these stairs, too !" "My dear, I am tired. What with talking with those men, arguing and the like, I had scarcely a breath left in my body. However, I would come up to see if you had everything you needed." " Everything, thanks. I like my room so much. I have been looking from my window. What a splen- did view ! and twilight is my favorite hour, I had no idea, however, that it could be so beautiful as in Lon- don. It is marvellous, indeed." "I knew you would like your room. Besides, just about now a number of men go to their club near Adelphi Terrace. Belle often sits here, and Eulalie used to enjoy it before she took up with Brakenston. You don't know him ?" '' No. How should I >" " Well, he is the nephew of a lord. He is very handsome. He has not a shilling to bless himself with, and, to my thinking, is a regular good-for-noth- ing. He sings like an angel, and plays the piano so your flesh crawls. He has heard that Lallie's got a bit of money, which will be hers when she marries, and he is after her. You have not yet seen Eulalie ?'• " No — yes. Was she not — ?" "No; I remember, She went to the top of the street before you came, and she took tea with a neigh- bor. She got back a few minutes ago, and is prob- ably dressed by this time to receive Brakenston. I wish to heaven he would keep away !" " Is — is she fond of him ?" Stage-Struck. 89 " Fond of him ? Why, I had not thought about it. I suppose she is; but that is not the question. I don't like him; neither does Belle; no more does Annie. We distrust him, and always feel as if he was not the right sort. Without knowing anything positively against him, we still have taken a dislike to him. But you shall see him and tell us your opinion. We have a little bit of supper every night, and he usually drops in." " Mrs. Edmonds, would you mind talking a little with me now? It's — it's about my room, my board, and so on. Excuse my changing the subject and coming to business so abruptly, but I shall feel more comfortable when everything is arranged. The price — " ** My love, I wish I could invite you to stay and be one of my own; but you see how it is, and — and, thinking it all over, you will pay me only two pounds ten a week, everything included. Surely that is not dear ?" "Two pounds ten !" Annabel was aghast. " Dirt-cheap, my dear, for London during the sea- son; and besides, the comforts of a home which will be yours. I really cannot take less." Annabel was staggered, but felt thankful that she would not have to remain long in this expensive city. With an inward sigh she succumbed to the inevitable. She turned to Mrs. Edmonds, assuring her that she was quite willing to accept the terms. Then she told her about her mother; when she was expected, and concluded all of her arrangements with the exactitude and solemnity of a little housewife. QO Stage-Struck, Mrs. Edmonds was delighted, but most regretful that her guest was to stay so short a time. Little Annie's voice was heard outside the door, shyly asking if she might not come in. She an- nounced that supper was ready, and they started to- wards the room. Annie at once began chattering. " Brak is there, and he has got on a new necktie. Lallie is mad at him, and won't speak. ''She's got on her blue silk dress, and Tramp's in her lap. I am awful hungry, but Belle won't get the beer till you come. She's got the toothache, and says she will have her tooth pulled out to-night if you will let her." " My dear Annie, will you stop chattering ? I can't hear myself think. Is — is there any cress ?" " Lots, as green as anything ; and Belle's got a pasty from the top of the street." " I hope you are hungry." This to Annabel. " I do think supper the nicest meal of the day, especially in hot weather. The Farranti always wanted hers after the theatre, and we easily got into the habit." They were at the lower stairs by this time, and Mrs. Edmonds ceased speaking. Annabel responded. "Yes, I am hungry. And the Farranti ? Do you not remember that you were to tell me all about her ?" "My love, yes; but not to-night, for a thousand worlds. I am that upset and queer-like that I could not command my feelings. To-morrow, dear, you shall see all of her things — her crowns, sashes, music, and so on. The poor thing ! Ah ! she wasn't always happy, and — and — Bless me !" — brushing away a tear — "I can't speak of her to-day without crying. Stage-Struck, 91 She has been running in my mind to that extent, I — " "Pray, forgive me, dear madam. I won't speak of her again until you do. But she was so lovely, and I am so interested in her. You know" — naively — " I am going to be a singer, too — a great artist ; and I am anxious to know how they all have looked, how they sang, and everything about them." "Dear heart, so you shall." Then the door of the drawing-room, was flung open, and Belle, with a smiling face, drew Annabel towards her. CHAPTER XL By this time it was night. The room looked very tidy and cosy. There was a lamp on the table, which gave a subdued light and unsubdued smell of petro- leum. In one corner of the room sat a fair girl, with a gentleman by her side. She had a skin of blush-roses, masses of yellow hair, soft blue eyes, and a dollish face. A gown of pale-blue silk, rather ill-fitting covered a very plump figure; wax-white hands glis- tened with cheap rings; and in her lap there was a mongrel. He had every appearance of ease and non- chalance. The young lady half rose and smiled. **My daughter Eulalie," said Mrs. Edmonds, "and — and Mr. Brakenston, Miss Almont." So this was " Lallie," and this was ** Brak." Annabel bowed gravely, and looked at the young man a second time. He was very handsome, but, she thought, sleepy-looking, and one of those persons who delight in doing nothing and accomplish the task to perfection. He bowed very low with a sulky inclina- tion of his head. When he was being presented. Belle laughed. " As you are up, you may as well come to the table. We are all starved; aren't we, mother? Lallie. do come, and don't be in such a pet." Stage-Struck. 93 "What's the matter, Eulalie ?" said her mother. "Nothing." "Nothing?" Mrs. Edmonds looked curiously at her. "You are looking smart, I must say." That was enough for Eulalie. "Smart! I should think I am. Why shouldn't I be ? I have dressed for 2ifete at the Botanical Gardens, and — and Brak, like a stupid, has forgotten the tickets! He says that he left them in a hansom with — " " With a bouquet and some bonbons," interrupted the young man. " How could I help it? A fellow came up and stopped me with such a precious bit of news that I forgot all about them. Come, Lallie" — turning to the girl, and looking in a half-mortified way towards Annabel — " don't be cross, and we will all go to the opera to-morrow night." " The opera ?" "Yes; Covent Garden." " I'd rather go to Cremorne." "You, Lallie!" Mrs. Edmonds' voice rose to a shriek. "Well," Lallie continued, "just to see once what it looks like; or to the Alhambra. I love a ballet; but the opera! It's sure to be * Martha ' or *■ William Tell.* One bores me, the other sends me to sleep." The young man seemed greatly delighted even to hear her speak a word. He got up eagerly. " You shall go to any theatre your mamma likes. If she says the Alhambra, why, Alhambra it shall be." Lallie was mollified. She smiled with content, and slipped into her place at the table. 94 Stage-Struck. What a gay little supper it was! Belle forgot her toothache. Brak asked if he might have a cigarette. Then he sat down to a little cottage Broadwood in the corner, and commenced playing — playing " quite like a professional," as Mrs. Edmonds said. He swept his fingers over the keys, bringing forth fragments of sweetest melody. He wandered into a reverie of Schumann; then, as they were all ready to cry, he dashed into the Chopin mazurka, "Aimes moi;" and finished his performance by singing one of De Lara's delicious songs, as well — almost as well as the com- poser could himself. In the midst of the music, the curtain was rattled from without most vigorously. "Mrs. Edmonds! Mrs. Edmonds! Are you at home ? May we come in ?" The window had been opened after the supper, and Annabel saw an old head peering in. " Gracious Heavens! it's Uncle Johnny. Come in ? Of course." Annie, who had recognized the voice, had already opened the door. A slight, middle-aged Irishman, with twinkling eyes and beardless face, came forward, followed by a taller man. The latter was round- headed, heavy-featured, with a ruddy and storm- beaten complexion, light laughing eyes, a thick mot- tled mustache, a cheery voice, and a rolling gait. His dress was peculiar: his trousers were abnormally wide; his coat was abnormally creased; his shirt was abnormally white, but frayed; and a black satin stock which he wore round his neck was abnormally large. "Uncle Johnny," said Mrs. Edmonds, "indeed, this is an honor; and Lord Henry Ascot, too! I thought Stage-Struck. 95 that you had quite forgotten us. It is an age since you were last here." "My dear lady, you are right; but, considering that I have just arrived from India, it isn't strange that you haven't seen me before. I've been away for ten months; but I am glad to see that you are all looking chirpy. Belle, Eulalie, little Annie. And whom have we here? A stranger?" He boldly surveyed Annabel, taking her in from top to toe. "Yes, your lordship, a stranger. One — ahem — but one of the family for a little while. Miss Almont, allow me to introduce Lord Henry Ascot." Annabel rose and curtsied, blushing deeply. The gentleman stared at her. Stared perhaps is not a polite word, but, as that is what he did, his action can- not be otherwise expressed. " American ?" he asked, still taking her in. She smiled a "Yes." How nice to be taken for an American at once! " Have you been in London long ?" " I arrived to-day, at five o'clock." "No! By Jove, that is doing things up in a hurry!" Eulalie broke in. " You have interrupted the music, and—" "And, I say, it's rude," said Brak, coming up. " How are you, Johnny? and you, Ascot ? I am glad to see you." Uncle Johnny looked at the table, and said, " My dear, I just came to take you out to supper." " Supper ! Why, we have just finished," said Mrs. Edmonds. "Will you have something?" 96 Stage-Struck, " Faith, I don t mind if I do. What do you say, Ascot, to a bite of something ?" Belle was happy. Her special pleasure seemed to be in helping people and making them eat. In honor of two such guests, Mrs. Edmonds thought of the contents of the buffet. A tub of Norwegian anchovies was brought forth, a bottle of Burgundy, and some olives, which added greatly to the sumptu- ous air of the feast. Uncle Johnny set the example, and Lord Henry helped himself with right good will. Annabel was slightly surprised. She had heard of lords and peers, but she had always supposed them different from other human beings — not exactly different, but not quite the same. This gentleman looked like the tall-hatted pilot at New York, and there was no false pride about him. He was hungry, and ate with an excellent appetite and no superfluous ceremony. While the second supper was going on, Brak went back to the piano. " That's right, my boy," said Johnny; "now give us * Wearin' o' the Green.' " Brakenston readily complied, and they all com- menced humming an accompaniment. Belle, whose toothache was quite a thing of the past, even went so far as to trill out, *' Oh, Paddy dear, and did ye hear.* " Then, of course, everybody joined in, until Annie's shrill voice rang out higher than any one's, clear and strong, two notes off the key. Stage-Struck, gf "Great Heavens !" said Mrs Edmonds, "isn't that child in bed yet ?" This was the first time any one had thought of the hour. Annabel rose hastily, saying, " I am beginning to feel a little tired, madam. I think I must say good- night." She nodded pleasantly to everybody. Lord Henry came up to her. "Surely not going Little Lady! You do not look a bit used up." She replied, " Really going." Then he shook hands with her, as though she were one of his oldest friends. Uncle Johnnny "my dear child-ed " her at once, and wished her pleasant dreams; Mrs. Edmonds kissed her fondly; Eulalie smiled a good-night; Brak bowed very stiffly; Tramp set up a furious barking; and little Annie took her hand. " Belle and I are coming with you," she said. Then she trotted off in the gravest way. As the door was opened, four cats bounded in. One dragged along the remains of a fine leg of mut- ton, the other three wildly disputing the spoil. Tramp saw his opening here, and sprang at the cats. Annabel left them to settle it. Annie laughed, and Belle chattered, as they went up the stairs. " What a charming evening ! Was she very tired ? Did she like Brak's playing ? Wasn't Uncle Johnny a dear; and could any one be nicer than Lord Henry ?" Annabel said "Yes" to everything. She bade them good-night, and absolutely tore off her clothing. Then she sighed, and, with a brief and broken " Now I lay me," her head sank upon her pillow. Some way, the evening, as she thought it over, did 98 St age- Struck. not quite please her. Then she pondered on the ap- pearance of Lord Henry, muttering, " It is true. I thought that they were different, and he's just exactly like any other man, although perhaps a little kinder and franker. I must say, however, I like him.*^ She raised her head once more, but she had for- gotten that she was sleeping for the first time in a strange bed. Up she jumped, and commenced a per- formance which is never omitted by American girls under similar circumstances. She called the three corners of the room each by the name of one of her friends, but to that which was nearest her heart she gave no name. Then she returned to her bed, and stepped in backwards, gazing intently at the nameless corner. It is believed by every American that if this ceremony be gone through properly, the true love in the then nameless heart-corner will make his appear- ance in a dream CHAPTER XII. A VOICE called at the door, "Are you alive or dead ?" Annabel rubbed her eyes, and sprang from her bed. Who was talking? Surely not Brakenston? Was she still dreaming ? " Are you alive or dead ?" The voice was louder this time, accompanied by a violent shaking of the door. No, it was no dream, and the tones were Belle's. She remembered all, and went to her door, which she had locked the night before. The dark-eyed girl came in. "What is it ?" asked Annabel, hastily. " What is it ! Why, we positively thought that you were dead. It's nearly eleven o'clock, and — " " Eleven o'clock ! Impossible ! Why, I have slept all of the night through, without once waking." " You must have been pretty well fagged. Don't you want some breakfast? We finished ages ago! Will you have yours now ? What would you like ?" "Oh, anything. " "Tea or coffee ?" "Tea." " We have bloaters to-day. Do you like bloaters ?** Annabel smiled. "I like anything; but I don't lOO Stage-Struck. know what a bloater is. I will have just w'lat you have had." "All right. " I'll see to it at once." Belle went down three steps at a time, carolling out a bit of " Non piu Mesta." Annabel was delighted. She said to herself, "Just think of being in Europe ! She hums ' Non piu Mesta ' as naturally as I would ' When other lips and other hearts.' " Belle had reached the second flight. "Accanto il fuoco" came floating back with a little cadence, fol- lowed by a hop — a decided hop. She had evidently reached the "lower drawering-room." Annabel felt that she must hasten her toilet. A cold bath was most refreshing. She thought of don- ning di peignoir, but decided not to. It was so late. How she had slept! and her dreams! How strange, that of all the people she had ever known, this young man alone had appeared to her ! She could not quite remember what she had dreamt ; everything was indistinct ; but he was the central figure, turning up at every moment, and making his presence felt in the most provoking manner. She brushed her long brown hair, which was glinted with golden threads, and looked at her reflection in the glass. Not a bad reflection — an oval-shaped face, large gray-blue eyes, dark brows and lashes, a skin of satin smoothness, chased with the faintest pink flush in her cheeks. Her mouth was small, with very red lips. The whole face bespoke angelic sweetness, except that the corner of the short upper lip gave evidence St age-Struck. loi of a disposition to sarcasm. This the girl herself had often noticed. She looked long and earnestly at the fair image reflected in the glass, and then pondered on her mouth. "I wish it would not turn up so much. Happily, my nose is one to be proud of. I — I wonder if that Brak thought me pretty? I am alone in my room. I presume I may say what I think to myself, and I suppose I am pretty; but I must hurry and dress." She finished her toilet without more ado, and went downstairs. Breakfast was indeed welcome. There were eggs ; a rasher of bacon crisp, as crisp as possible ; the famous bloaters and muffins ; and tea — such tea as one can get only in England, where the worst one gets is better, almost, than the best elsewhere. Anna- bel felt quite at home. She rejected the small fish, as she always got the bones in her throat, and life is too short to spend in extricating fish-bones. She drank her tea, chatted gayly with Mrs. Edmonds, and drew little Annie up to her. Insinuating a hot muffin and some marmalade with serpent-like persistence upon the little girl, she finally induced her to share the breakfast. Annie, nothing loth in this as in everything else, proved most companionable. Mrs. Edmonds con- tinued chatting with great vigor. "After you went to bed, my dear, we all strolled down to the Embankment. Such a heavenly night ! I wished that you had been with us. Lord Henry thinks you simply beautiful. He is perfectly aston- ished that you are going to be an opera-singer, and 102 Stage-Struck. says that the Farranti would have been alive to-day had it not been for the — " "Farranti again." This time smiling. " Oh, I mean to tell you all about her ! You have finished — Ah, here's Tramp. Mother's darling angel ; come here, the blessed sweet !" It is unnecessary to say to whom these interruptions were addressed. Tramp had a nature not unlike some people I have known. Should they meet and part ten times a day, the ceremony would always be sweet- ened by affectionate words and abundant caresses. Tramp had been in his mistress's lap all the morn- ing, but ten minutes before he had slipped into the gutter while chasing Thomas, who still managed to excite his ire on every possible occasion. He was not as recklessly bedaubed as on the occa- sion of his presentation to Annabel, but still enough to leave the mark of one paw on Mrs. Edmonds' fresh print gown, and his joy at being recognized by the new member of the family knew no bounds. In fact, this reckless mongrel was as faithful as he was filthy. "Mother's darling! How gay he is! But where was I ? Ah, yes. If you have finished, we will go to the room which the Farranti once occupied. All of her things, poor dear, are there, and I will tell you all about her." Adjoining the dining-room was a smaller apart- ment. They went in there, and Mrs. Edmonds drew up the blind. There was an old chest of drawers in one corner, and she directed her steps towards it. She took a key from her ring, and attempted to open the middle drawer. The key grated in the lock, which St age-Struck, 103 finally yielded. As the drawer opened, a faint odor of sandal-wood stole from it. Annie and Belle came forward with eager eyes but hushed voices. Annabel felt as though she were en- tering a sanctuary. Mrs. Edmonds filled her arms with faded silks, laces, and objects seemingly of littU intrinsic value. She deposited the contents of the drawers on the bed. Annabel drew near, and looked on wistfully. Mrs. Edmonds was nearly overcome. Her eyes dimmed, and a heavy mist obscured their blue. When the things were all deposited on the coverlet, she drew up a chair, motioning to Annabel to sit by her. "Indeed not. I will stand and be one of your chil- dren." Then she seated the elder lady with infinite tenderness, and the others drew near. " Belle next to the bed," said Annie, " because she looks like auntie ; you next, and me next." So she arranged it all. " Me on the outside, nearest mamma, because I love her most." The child sealed this avowal by a soft little kiss. She was fully convinced that no one loved her mother as much as she did, and they let her have her way. Mrs. Edmonds began. " The Farranti — " There was a piteous whining outside. " It's Tramp. May he come in ?" Annie's voice was hushed, but anxious. "Would- you like him here?" Annabel looked at Mrs. Edmonds as she spoke. "He can't do any harm," she said apologetically, "so I think we may take him in." 104 St age-Struck. **Here he is. One more in the room," said Annie; and she placed the mongrel in her mother's lap. " Now about the Farranti," Mrs. Edmonds went on. "She was always different from everybody else." Mrs. Edmonds was softly smoothing Tramp's silky head as she spoke. "When only a little thing she went around reading about singers in old musty books, and before she was six years old she attracted the attention of every one who came to the house. She took lessons on the piano, and her master said that no one had so sweet a voice. When she was only fourteen, she was as tall as Belle, there, and felt bound to go on the stage and sing. She sang at a great con- cert—" Annabel interrupted. "Why, so did I. I com- menced about that age. Did she ever sing in a church-choir?" She asked this anxiously. " Did she ever eat ? Naturally she sang in choirs and out of them; indeed, I don't know where she didn't sing. You see, this was a long time ago. Then she went to Italy, and commenced studying with the best masters. Old Romani in Florence taught her, and in a few months after her arrival there she made her dibut. She sang in Gluck's operas, and in 'Tancredi;' but to my mind there never was such a Romeo. Why, ske studied the part with old Vaccaj himself in Mi- lano. He raved over her voice, and said that Romeo might have been written for her. She had not a single weak note, poor dear, and I think I can just hear her now. *" Ah^ se iu dor mi sveglia-ti.' This is in the last act, you know, where Juliet is dead, and—" St age-Struck. 105 "Yes, yes; I know. Go on." " Well, she sang it like an angel. Vaccaj used to cry on hearing her. Then her Arsace in 'Semi- ramide'! It was something wonderful. She sang all over Italy. She went to Cairo; and this scarf — " fumbling amongst the things on the bed — "Yes. Oh, how lovely!" — all in a breath. Annabel then inspected the scarf, which was indeed beautiful. Mrs. Edmonds continued. " This scarf, with a lovely bunch of flowers, was thrown to her from the royal box. The donor was a great personage, and it seemed that she could not do enough to show her delight at the Farranti's singing. When the opera was concluded, she sent for her to come to the royal box, as they always do to great singers; and Her Highness — she was a Highness, of course — presented her with a bracelet set in diamonds, most valuable, my dear — worth about two hundred pounds. Ah, that was a happy night ! The Farranti often spoke of it. After singing with continued success, she re- turned to Italy, and met Lumley. He went crazy over her, my dear, and nothing would do but she must sing in London. She came home, and made her first appearance at the Haymarket. My dear, what's the matter?" Annabel interrupted. " I — I should so like to have heard her. Was she not a great success ?" " Great ? Well, I should say so, love. But a strange thing happened. There were so many intrigues against her, and she had so many professional jeal- ousies to contend with, that she almost grew afraid to go upon the stage. The kinder Lumley was, the io6 St age -Struck. worse the other professionals treated her. It was worry, fuss, and scheming from morning till night, until the day of her debut arrived. That night she kept getting more and more nervous, until finally, the orchestra having begun the overture, there was no help for it; the opera must go on. When she came before the footlights, she commenced trembling, and — would you believe it, love ? — she was that overcome by emotion that she fell in a heap on the stage, in such a faint that ^every one thought she was dead. Shall I ever forget it ? Well, we finally brought her to, and, after a short interval, the opera went on. Fancy any one being so nervous! The public waited breathlessly, and when she reappeared, such applause was heard as would give courage to even a bad singer. When she began, and they heard her voice, I thought the house would come down. It was a great success; none ever had a greater. She kept on singing here until her health gave way. She was heart-broken with the continual struggle — scenes with managers, scenes with artists, jealousy, intrigue, and I don't know what. Poor dear!" Mrs. Edmonds wiped away a tear and fondled Tramp. " Has she been dead long?" *' Nearly eight years, and this is the first time a stranger has ever heard as much from me about her." Mrs. Edmonds had perhaps forgotten that no one had ever been with her above ten minutes without hearing the same tale. "To-day, in London," she went on, " they say that no one has ever seen such talent and beauty united. All of these things" — and she pointed to the heaped St age-Struck. 107 bed — "are only a drop in the bucket compared with what she had. I keep these. I don't know why; but because she did, I suppose. When she was unhappy, she used to look them over, and say, * Do you see this ? Can you ever forget that night how I sang, how gay we were, or the success I had ? ' " Mrs. Edmonds sobbed and ceased talking, and An- nabel looked with quickened pulse and bedewed eyes on these speaking relics of this great singer, who, ac- cording to Mrs. Edmonds, would have made Grassini rise in jealous frenzy from her tomb. There were Roman scarves sufficient to cover every sofa and chair of the largest drawing-room in London; and dozens of sashes, enough for the entire female population of a village in the Abruzzi. There were nurses* coiffures, and laurel wreaths with floating streamers, on which the golden-lettered sonnets still sighed adoration. There was a gilded and battered diadem in hollow mockery of that Fame whose king- dom is as ephemeral as the metal circlet which crowns his brow. There was a garish chatelaine of stones, their lustre dimmed in their tarnished tinsel. There were heaps of trinkets and ornaments, and dried bou- quets in chased holders. There were fichus and flesh- ings, stockings and sandals: all old, faded, tawdry tokens of many a feverish hour of triumph in the roseate past. Annabel's hand moved caressingly over the mass. She drew a discolored ribbon through her fingers, on which was embroidered, in golden letters, " Serata Vonore delta distintissima bella^ adorata FarrantiT " Ah, when I look at all of these things," said Mrs. io8 St age-Struck, Edmonds, ''and think of you so young, so beautiful, going in for such a life, it breaks my heart." Annabel looked again at the bed, and said, with profound surprise, " What ? Could she have been un- happy ?" " Ah, my dear, she was one of the successful ones, yet her head drooped with untimely sorrow. She was a most unhappy woman — a blighted being." Then she burst into tears, continuing, " And, like most great singers, her life, the whole of her career, is summed up by these" — pointing again to the bed. At this moment Tramp, who had surreptitiously slipped away from Mrs. Edmonds' knees and jumped upon the coverlet, was discovered trying to make a lunch out of the sacred relics of the departed prima donna. All screamed with horror, to the accompani- ment of a cheery voice which was heard calling in the entry. CHAPTER XIII. "Where are you," the voice said, "for goodness' sake ? I have been ringing till the bell's busted — or the rope, any way. Where are you all ?" "It's Captain Jameson!" gasped Mrs. Edmonds; and they all hurried out, to find him in the drawing- room fussing and fuming, with the broken bell-rope in his hand. "Good-by. I am off," he said. "Mrs. Edmonds, take good care of this child, not because she's the only one, but because her loss would break up the family set. I shall be in town next week. In the mean time, have a good time, and don't forget the captain. Miss Annabel, I hope you will enjoy Lon- don, and have good health, and that in a short time we shall see the mother here. Should you want any- thing — anything whatever — let me know, at my Liver- pool address, and it shall be forthcoming. Lunch- eon!" — this to an invitation from Mrs. Edmonds — "luncheon! Why, if Nature didn't keep my breath- ing apparatus going, I'd have to pass in my checks. I wouldn't have time to run the machinery myself, that's sure. I never was so hurried before in all the course of my life— with this heat, too! I should not be surprised, everything is so hurried, were even the blood to rush to my head; I am in such a stew. But no Stage-Struck. Americans must be looked after, and they all ask for me. It's flattering, but it's awful. Well, good-by again. Halloa, Tramp! You here ? And Thomas ? Come, Annie, kiss the captain, and he will be off. Good-by. Ta-ta! Good-by." The gentleman went out as he had come in, like a tornado. But no sooner had he left the house behind him than he lit a cigar, and leisurely strolled to the top of the street. The worthy captain had, indeed, not exaggerated when he said that his time was passed in looking after Americans, though it is true he had spent the morning playing billiards, and his next pressing engagement had been to take a drink at the American bar in the Strand, where he was now returning to meet a California millionaire. Annabel wrote long letters home after luncheon, and was just finishing her last ten-paged epistle when Mrs. Edmonds appeared. "Something for you, love. A box at the opera, Covent Garden." " Me ? What, not Mr.—" " Yes," she coolly replied. "I sent a little note to Mr. Gye. He's a prince of managers, dear, and he re- turned the box at once, with his compliments. So you may go to-night to 'Traviata ' with Adelina Patti, and you will be sure to enjoy it." Annabel blushed. She had almost said "Brakenston" outright. This was hardly strange, for he had spoken of the opera. How was she to think of any one else ? She thanked Mrs. Edmonds with genuine sincerity. Covent Garden! At last she was to see it. She scarcely dined, and was as excited as on the occasion Stage-Struck. 1 1 1 of her first appearance as a church-choir singer at a public concert in La Crosse. Brakenston came in after dinner with a box for the Princess's. As it was not for the Alhambra, Eulalie decided on going to the opera; so the party set out, leaving Mrs. Edmonds and Annie at home. Lai lie split her gloves as they were en route^ and they had to drive to a shop in Regent Street to get another pair, which made a little detour in their jour- ney. Annabel had never before seen such a sight as the Haymarket at night. Numbers of women, apparently intoxicated, roamed about. Some were old, and some seemed quite children. They all looked haggard and wan, as though the streets were the only home they had ever known. They were dressed much alike. Ragged skirts and tattered shawls; paper flowers on debauched and degraded hats, which had a recent air of the neighboring dustbin; alpaca petticoats with dangling ribbons once rose-pink or heavenly blue, now discolored with stains of gin or beer; shoes re- duced to sieves; reckless designing flounces, gathered in shame and fashioned for filth, — all this breathed an e?tsemble which struck a chill to Annabel's heart, and she asked herself, "Is this the London of which I have heard so much ?" When they reached the theatre, the opera had be- gun. She found it difficult to realize that she was so near the scene through which she had just passed. Here everything charmed her eye and delighted her sense of the beautiful. Around her were the wealth and beauty of the world's metropolis; but what struck 112 Stage-Struck. her most was that all were dressed as if they were going to a ball. At the moment they came in there was a slight murmur, and all eyes were turned to the royal box. Annabel saw a lady entering a loge at the other side of the house. " Look, look !" said Belle ; " the princess. Isn't she lovely ?" The lady on whom all eyes were fixed was a slender woman. She wore a blue gown, profusely trimmed with lace, and her bouquet was of narcissus and ste- phanotis. Annabel noticed that she had regular fea- tures, dove-like eyes, and an expression combining graciousness and sweetness with dignity. She was indeed a lovely woman. By her side was the prince, a heavily bearded man, with a handsome face, full clear eyes, and a genial good-natured look. So these were England's future king and queen. Her interest turned to a feeling of pity. Every opera-glass was directed towards the royal box ; and she felt sorry for its occupants, for their future subjects stared as if they were looking at prize animals in a show. " I am sure I should not like it," said she, turning to Belle. " It must hurt their feelings dreadfully." " Like it !" echoed the young lady. " I don't sup- pose they care ; they are so accustomed to it. They are always at the opera ; everybody likes to see them. Once I was quite close to the princess, and she smiled at me. I have loved her ever since. It was at 2ifite in the Botanical Gardens. Oh, here's Patti ! What a gown !" Annabel felt dizzy to see so many celebrities all at St age-Struck. 113 once. There she sat, opposite a real prince and prin- cess, in Covent Garden, and her favorite opera was being sung by Patti ! No, it was almost too good to be true. Then the glorious notes of the prima donna rang out. High above orchestra, chorus, and principals, this velvet-toned voice soared aloft ; then a very cas- cade of golden tones came falling, falling like precious jewels, each one a gem of purity and beauty. Her diamonds ran like rivers of light over her corsage ; and when she came to the footlights to sing the *' Brin- disi," she threw up her glass, spilling the wine, which streamed away quite down to the heads of the orches- tra. " Too good a brand to be wasted like that," said Brak, coolly, deliberately reading the etiquette with the aid of his glass. " I wish I had some," said Lallie, laconically. " I trembled for the gown," said Belle. "And you ?" said Brak, turning to Annabel. " I — I thought of nothing but the singing." He looked at her curiously. Her face was lit up, and she. seemed to forget everything but the stage. The house rang with applause, and even the royal- ties were forgotten for the queen of the hour. Anna- bel sank in her seat, a prey to violent emotion. This was singing such as she had never before heard. Brakenston alone seemed indifferent, and kept his eyes fixed on Annabel, who sat absorbed and uncon- scious of his gaze. The curtain fell on the first act. There was a murmur of voices, and he seized this op- portunity to address her. 114 Stage-Struck. " Do you like the opera ? It's a great favorite now ; and to think that it was almost a failure the first night in Venice !" ** Yes, I love it," she answered. , " Love ? That is a strong word." He spoke pleasantly. " By the way, I have not thanked you for last even- ing's pleasure. You play magnificently, and sing so beautifully." " Humph ! nothing particular ; there are many in the world bound to be nonentities, and I help to make up the number. I suppose that I am a fair amateur. Do you think Patti handsome ?" " Yes, very ; such splendid eyes." " Fine eyes ; but she is not quite like the genuine Violetta, — Marguerite Gautier, — I should say." " Not the genuine ? Why, how can one tell ?" " Oh, easily ; I have a portrait of the real one. She was tall, slender, with raven black hair, dark eyes, an oval face, and, strange to say, an innocent look which Patti has not been able to catch. But does it interest you to hear about Dumas' Camellia Lady?" " Indeed it does. Pray tell me all about her." "Well, you know, she really existed. Her name was Alphonsine Plessis, and she is buried in the ceme- tery of Montmartre, in Pa,ris. To the left of a shaded avenue is her tomb, known as that of La Dame aux Camelias. She really lived out her own sad life and died before her second life in Dumas fils' world- renowned romance. As you know, she is Marguerite Gautier in the story, but the tomb bears her real name. I felt some curiosity about her when the guide pointed Stage-Struck, 115 out a bouquet of fresh white camellias lying on the marble slab. I said to him, * Oh, then there is still some one who has not forgotten her ?' He replied, * For many years an old man has come here, on each anniversary of her death. He always brings a fresh bouquet of camellias, which he places on her tomb, and before he goes away he gives money to provide oil for the lamp which burns continually to the Virgin's image overhead, and to buy fresh flowers to decorate her grave. He seems so sad, and cries so, that it must be some one who loved her very much.' ** We gave our informant some money, and remarked that it must be a iriste fate to be always showing the graves of distinguished dead. * Yes,' he answered ; * but near the anniversary of her death it keeps me busy showing this one alone. Even I feel touched when old and young, grave and gay, come to see and weep over it ; and I seem to know at once by instinct those who wish for the tomb of the Camellia Lady.* " This story always comes into my mind when I hear * La Traviata.' Poor thing ! * she loved not wisely, but too well.' Conspicuous on her tomb were wreaths of immortelles and several bouquets. I took away a bit of immortelle and placed it beside her pic- ture. Sentimental, wasn't it ?" Before Annabel could answer. Angel, who had entered the box unperceived, and who had caught the last words of the story, broke in — "What have you two been saying about her ?" Brak looked surprised at this interruption, and Annabel hastily presented her friend. He was at home with them in a moment. Ii6 St age-Struck. "So," said he to Brak, "you, too, were a victim? ' He spoke scoffingly. "That old humbug knows how to play upon one's feelings. I was touched myself at the time, and squeezed out a few tears at the rate of a franc apiece. I know that I gave him five francs in a burst of enthusiasm, but I heard afterwards that he was the only one to weep — he, the old man who placed flowers and wreaths of immortelles on her tomb." Belle laughingly remarked that Mr. Angel was very matter-of-fact. " Matter-of-fact ? Well, when you know the French as well as I do, you will appreciate even this tomb-shower's idea of legitimate commerce. He knows very well that — " " Stop, stop !" cried Annabel. " You shall not shatter my idol. I am determined to believe in La Dame aux Camdlias in spite of all you say. Some part of the story must be true." She spoke with great warmth, and Brakenston came to her aid. " You are quite right. The old man may have been a humbug; but there is much more truth than fiction in the story. However, for to-night we will listen to * La Traviata,' and think of Verdi's music, Violetta's charms, and — " " Patti's diamonds," interrupted Lallie. Mr. Angel continued. "Her diamonds any one could buy; but her voice simply laps over any that I have ever heard." "Speaking of voice, you must come to see us," said Annabel, "and we will have some music." Angel took the address; the day following was Stage-Struck. 117 fixed upon, and his adieux were made as act second was about to begin. Annabel could never quite define the sensations of that evening. In Violetta's duet with Germont she saw only an unhappy young creature, bidding fare- well to the only man whom she had ever really loved, and sacrificing herself, her only pure passion, to inexor- able fate. It was a supreme effort towards atonement, and her recognition of duty was the first leaf budding in her laurel of repentance. Violetta's farewell brought tears to her eyes. The banquet was a splen- did tableau of light, glitter, and gayety. The scene at the gaming-table was one of stirring reality ; and the grand Jinale was sublimely sung and acted. No wonder that, while the sound of the music was still vibrating in the air, the house rang with unbounded applause. Belle and Lallie were very quiet. Brakenston had hardly spoken. Ever and anon his eyes were irre- sistibly attracted to Annabel's face. In spite of him- self, his glance constantly returned to her. He did not know why, but there was something really touch- ing in her innocent and heart-whole absorption of the opera. Brakenston was a curious instance of a man of the world of the approved English pattern, who considers sentiment in public misplaced. Such a man may weep in private, and Brakenston himself had once carried home a bit of immortelle from a courtesan's tomb. It is true that he told it of himself, but he would have been mortally offended had another alluded to the subject. No one must be deceived by 1 1 8 Stage-Struck. the icy Briton's exterior. He has a heart, but, be it large or small, it is quite hidden from the gaze of the gaping world, and he rarely " wears it upon his sleeve for daws to peck at." The prelude to the last act of " La Traviata" is un- doubtedly one of the saddest, most inspired, and most touching pieces of music which has ever been written. The strings of Covent Garden orchestra render full justice to this great page, for one rarely hears such playing as is customary at this theatre. The band was at its best, and the curtain rose upon the well-known scene with Violetta sleeping in her curtained bed, and Annina lying in the chair near by. Patti is, in this scene, unapproachable. Her voice lends itself peculiarly to the sometimes unnatural but always sympathetic character of Verdi's music; the sensational shrieks and exaggerated intervals find re- deeming grace in the splendid way that she sings them. In fact, her voice graciously harmonizes with everything in vocal music, even though it be in de- fiance of all rules of art. Violetta may die, scream- ing " O Gioja" on an upper B flat; but when Patti is the Violetta, this seems so perfectly natural that no one has any fault to find. Annabel was quite dazed when the opera was fin- ished. Her hands were almost blistered through ap- plauding the singers. She noticed that ladies did not applaud in general, but this was quite indifferent to her. She was still American enough to follow the bent of her inclinations, without regard to what others thought or did. " May I oUer you an arm ?" Stage-Struck, 119 She started. Brakenston was smiling and speaking gravely. She had put on her cloak, taken up her fan and opera-glass, and now there was nothing for her but to go home. She felt sorry that the opera was over. Belle and Lallie were already waiting at the door. She accepted Brak's arm, and they walked on without a word. The worst of going to the theatre is the getting home, etc. The lobby at Covent Garden is a trap for concealed pneumonia, bronchitis, and so on. The rain was pouring ; ladies were shivering ; there was a rushing, pushing crowd; footmen were flying back and forth, and were almost constantly screaming, " My Lady 's carriage blocks the way." A wind cold enough to freeze the very marrow was roaring around the vestibule. Annabel shivered, and Belle laughingly cried out, *' My dear, we are used to this. There is scarcely a theatre in London which is any better. I expect to get my death of cold some time. Now, the clever thing to do is to come in a carriage, but never keep it; then rush out of the house, and one finds plenty of cabs; but take my advice, never wait inside and hope to get one." Brakenston led the way to the outer portico. In spite of rain, it was safer being quite out of doors. In a few moments a convenient growler bore them home. The rain stopped with scant ceremony. Lallie said ingenuously, " I believe it does it on purpose. The bell no sooner rings down the curtain on the last act than it begins to pour. I think that 1 20 Stage-Struck. nature is sometimes, or always, in league with the cabbies. We have never yet been able to walk home from the theatre. Living so near, it's a shame. Many's the shilling that I have thrown away because it would rain at ten minutes past eleven the very evening that we were going to the play." " I am very hungry," Belle observed. " I should be glad of a smoke," sighed Brak. " The opera takes it out of one. Mother will have a good supper, I know." Eulalie spoke with a voice of calm assurance. " I will tell you the regulation meal," said Belle, gayly. "After Meyerbeer, a steak or something hot; game, cheese, with quarts of wine. After Verdi, salads, cold meat and pickles, with half-and-half and cheese. After Marta or Don Pasquale^ sandwiches, cress, and soda-water or light beer. Now I must say that I like a glass of bitter as well as — " " Beer!" said Lallie, with disgust. " Thank Heaven that I have the taste to prefer wine when I can get it!" "There's nothing mean about you, as we say in America," said Annabel, laughing. " I don't care much for either wine or beer, but I agree with you that an emotional opera is a little wearing on one." " On any one who listens and takes it to heart, as you do," interrupted Brak. " Home at last!" shouted Belle, delightedly, as they drove up to the door. Mrs. Edmonds, Annie, Tramp, and the seven cats were waiting for them, Mrs. Edmonds drew Annabel forward. " Well, love, I hope you liked the opera. Touching story, is it pot f St age- Struck. 121 Patti sings like an angel. I do hope that they had a carpet on the floor for the death-scene. Just imagine a Frenchwoman dying with the luxury of a lace gown, diamond rings and bracelets, yet not even a rug in front of her bed, and walking on the bare floor as far as her toilet-table. I saw that once, but I suppose the prima donna had had some falling out with the property-man or stage-manager, and it was done on purpose to spoil the scene and put her in a rage. You are hungry, of course. There's a good supper: cold meat, lobster-salad, — I made it myself, — pickles, some cheese, and half-and-half, unless you prefer — " " It's sure to be perfect," replied Annabel. "And I am very hungry," Belle said. ** Didn't I tell you so ? The Farranti said that * Verdi took the place of curagoa after dinner.* And she smiled, as a woman always does when she can say, *I told you so.' ' CHAPTER XIV. The days passed by with little change. Angel paid his promised visit. Brakenston was, as usual, a con- stant visitor. Lord Ascot and Uncle Johnny had called several times. Mrs. Edmonds' mind had been undergoing some change. She found Brakenston each day more agree- able; but she began to doubt whether, after all, his attentions to Eulalie had been serious. Any way, he was so very easy-going that, as Annie said, he wasn't a man, " only an eighth cat." Two weeks after Annabel's arrival, she received a letter from her mother. After all sorts of home gos- sip and loving messages, the letter went on: " I sail positively on the 20th. When this reaches you (D.V.), I shall already be nearly at Queenstown. I do hope that we shall have fine weather and no ice- bergs. You know that June is a favorite month for them. How glad I shall be to see you again! Your father sends such a world of love. He has abundance of affection, if no other collateral. Look out for a telegram from Queenstown! I am coming in the Spain, one of the finest and most comfortable of the steamers that belong to the National Line. The passage, first cabin, is cheaper than that of any other trans-Atlantic company, besides being equally safe. It is an ignoble Stage-Struck, 123 thing to say, but money is now an object with us, and I commence my trip by economizing. " Good-by, my love. God keep you, is the prayer of your ever-affectionate mother, " Hester Almont. "P.S. — I add this to say that I think I have said everything. If I have omitted anything, you shall know on my arrival. Again good-by. " Yours ever, "Mamma." There was much excitement in the house when it was known that Mrs. Almont was probably so near England. The hours were counted until the day ar- rived on which the steamer was due. Annabel's eyes filled with tears of joy when a little yellow envelope was put into her hand. She opened it, and said breathlessly, "Mother has come, and I am to meet her at the station. Who will accompany me ?" " I," said Belle. " Yes, Belle shall go," said Mrs. Edmonds. "When will Mrs. Almont get here ?" "To-morrow, about four. I am to have another message from Liverpool." "Belle shall go with you; for — Lord love us! — she knows her way about London as well as about her own pocket." It was thus arranged, and the following day the young couple stood on the great platform at Euston Station. How Annabel's heart beat, as she saw a well-known form descend from one of the carriages ! 1 24 Stage-Struck, Quickly she flew into her mother's arms. Belle was presented, and the luggage was claimed, as there was no amiable Jameson this time to attend to them. ' Mrs. Almont was a handsome woman. She was fair, tall, and slender. Her hair was so long and thick, and her head was so small, that there was scarce place on it for the whole of the mass. It curled, too, and rippled and waved away from the white parting. It always attracted a second glance, and to this she never demurred, for she was not more averse to admiration than a young girl. She was a woman of fine presence, and her face bespoke many good quali- ties. She looked almost as young as her daughter, but Annabel's features had little of her mother's ex- pression. They might have been taken for two sisters, and none would have suspected that they were mother and daughter. Mrs. Edmonds did not kiss Mrs. Almont. She seemed to realize at a glance that she would scarcely take kindly to such familiarity. The cats were present in startling array. Tramp had the post of honor on Mrs. Edmonds' lap, and a " high tea" was ready. Annabel was forcibly reminded of what had occurred when she made her appearance three weeks ago. All of her hopes and fears were now at rest. Her mother had come, and life was to begin in real earnest. When they had gone upstairs, Mrs. Almont spoke. "Annabel, I don't dislike the people, nor this house; and their having been so kind to you already places us under a deep obligation to them. There are many things which money can buy. Kindness is one of Stage-Struck. 1 2 5 them; but you seem to have obtained a good deal of it at a very reasonable cost. The concerts, theatre, opera, and companionship are not always included in bed and board at so much a week, even in a London lodging-house. You have been very fortunate; but I confess that I do not like the cats. They remind me of the old poem, * We are Seven ' — a poem, by the way, which I never could learn to recite. I always broke down at the third verse." "Dear mamma, you will get used to them; and Tramp is not at all a bad animal." " I never had any love to waste either on dogs or cats." If truth must be told, the good lady had little love to waste on mankind or womankind in general. The limited powers of affection which nature had bestowed upon her were divided in very unequal parts between herself and Annabel. In a few short moments Annabel had given details of her three weeks in London; in fact, of her life since she stepped aboard the Arigona. In turn, Mrs. Almont had lightened her home budget of all its weightiest news. " It is decided, my dear, that you are to study in London until the end of the season, or, any way, until the latter part of July. Your uncle will not hear of your going to Italy before September, at least. He wishes you to work with Garcia, and we will see about beginning at once." " Oh, mamma, I am so glad ! I have taken a real fancy to London; and I would rather study with Garcia than with any other teacher in the world ! How I love Uncle Jim !" 1 26 Stage-Struck, "So you have been to the Crystal Palace, have heard Nilsson, Patti, Tamberlik, and I do not know who else besides ? But who — who is this Brakenston? He seems to color all your conversation." "Brakenston! Why, he's a gentleman. He plays the piano divinely, and he is engaged, we think, to Mrs Edmonds' daughter Eulalie." " Do you like him ?" "I? Me?" "Yes, you." " I don't know. I have not even thought about him. Y-y-yes, rather. I don't dislike him as much as I expected to." Then she related what she had heard on the evening of her arrival. "They have evidently changed their minds about him." Mrs. Almont spoke dryly. " Yes." "And this Lord Henry Ascot and Uncle Johnny ?" " I like them both very much. But Ascot isn't a bit like a lord — he is as amiable as possible; and Uncle Johnny is a great writer. They have only been here three or four times." "Quite enough, I should say. I don't like your be- coming intimate with every one whom you may meet. Remember that you are a student, and that life with you will be no bagatelle. This round of amusement may do for a little while, but you can have little to do with society; and, above all, your uncle warned me against your falling in love.'* " Me in love ! The last thing, I should say, which would come into my head." " So much the better. Think only of — of your goal Stage-Struck, 127 and your work. Now that you have cut yourself adrift from the whole world for the sake of your art, it would be a disgrace to fail. It must be all in all to you — father, mother, brother, lover, and friend. Ah, my dear, what we call Ambition is a hard task-master and brooks no divided homage." Wise Mrs. Almont ! Wise Uncle Jim ! Wise Anna- bel ! Exacting ambition ! How easy to dictate to heart or head ! Wolsey ''charged" Cromwell, but after the cardi- nal's fall. Eve appreciated her Eden only when, at the archangel's command, she had to leave it; and to- day many of her descendants only value what they have lost when it is gone from them. Mrs. Almont warned her daughter not to fall in love; but was it not too late ? Annabel thought of her dream. Her mother's questions awakened strange feelings in her bosom. Could it be that she was really in love with Brak ? She liked him, certainly. It was not strange. She had seen him day after day; he was certainly charm- ing, and he played — She drew a deep breath. Yes, that was it. It was not the man, but the music. She was in love with the music. Dark eyes, wavy hair, a voice of such fascination, when speaking, that she could often hear it ringing in her ears; a mobile manner, and a deference that indifference sometimes implies. These masculine assets were nothing com- pared with his talent. Nero would be a success in London drawing-rooms to-day if he appeared with his fiddle, and would entirely eclipse the good Titus, who could only make men happy. This was the expla- 128 St age-Struck. nation of her feelings, and she was delighted to ac- count so easily for them. What could she have been thinking of, to have felt alarm even for a second ? She kissed her mother very softly, and said, " Dar- ling, don't be afraid ; I shall never fall in love. I shall not disgrace you, nor make Uncle Jim, nor father, nor friends lose faith in me. I am wedded to my art, so in all likelihood I shall never have any flesh-and-blood husband." " Don't say that, my dear. We do not ask or ex- pect such a sacrifice. Only now is the time to study ; and when you are a great singer, then you may think of men. They are too selfish, my love, to enter into any one's life, excepting it be to monopolize it for their own convenience and amusement. Our whole life is but an episode in theirs. Had you been brought up like girls in Europe, in a convent in France or Italy, or in a foreign school, you would do like them all. Poor things ! When they are let loose, they fall in love with the first man they see, whether it be the marquis or the marquis's valet, and look upon him as a deliverer from hated bondage. In America, boys and girls go to school together and associate to- gether. In consequence of this youthful intimacy, one sex has not that desire to adore the other. You are a sensible girl ; and had you not been just what you are, I never would have permitted your coming to Europe alone." " Just what I am ? What am I, mother dear ?" "A cold-blooded American, I hope." "Are Americans really more cold-blooded than other women ?" Stage-Struck. 129 "Yes. But, in justice, I must own that English girls run them pretty close." " How strangely you talk, mamma !" "Not strangely, but knowingly. Remember that I am half English myself." " And I am a sort of a cross. Were I a horse, they might call me a * piebald.*" " It's almost the same thing." "Dear mamma, how you do go on to-day ! What can have come into your head ?" " Nothing ; only I hope that you will never have cause to remember your uncle's warning. Love is the least polite of all contagions. You can't even be brought down with typhus without some sort of pre- monition ; but love-fever makes a clean sweep of it, before there are any outward symptoms. Promise me one thing, dear : that you will confide in your mother, if you ever catch it. Will you promise ?" Annabel gave the required promise without hesita- tion. At the same time she congratulated herself that her diagnosis of what she felt for Brakenston had been so completely satisfactory. "I promise, mamma," she replied gayly. "But let us hope for the quart d'heure de grace j then I shall be forewarned. I shall have the fever lightly, and — and I will drink saffron-tea, just as I did when I was a little girl and had the measles. The tea was to bring out the rash." " Yes, dear ; keep the rash on the surface. It is dangerous only when it strikes in. But it is time to change the subject. What did you think of Jame- son?" 130 Stage-Struck. Oh, the captain ! He is a type. I knew him at once, when he came aboard at Liverpool. He was fall of business ; treated me as though we were at least foster-brother and sister ; had a discussion with a Mexican who crossed with us, and whom he rated soundly for doing nothing. *Man alive,' said he, 'for Heaven's sake, do something ! Look at me ! I'm a self-made man, and — and I believe in my Maker.' " "Just like one of his speeches. He is the most ex- traordinary man, but really good-hearted, and very kind to Americans." They were interrupted by a tap on the door ; then a little head showed itself peering through the slight opening. "May I come in ?" " Yes, dear, seeing that you are in already." Anna- bel kissed the child as she spoke. Annie was one of her prime favorites. "We are going to have supper" — she spoke shyly to Mrs. Almont — "and such a grand supper, too. Will you come?" " With pleasure. I am so hungry." " Mother likes you ; and Lallie wonders if your hair is false." The child peered well into Mrs. Almont's face as she spoke. The lady laughed pleasantly. "Show it to her, mamma ; do." Annabel spoke eagerly. This beautiful hair was one of her mother's weaknesses. She never lost an opportunity to let her friends see it. She turned with a half-negative gesture, but she commenced, never- theless, to undo it. She pulled out an amber comb, Stage-Struck. 1 31 and the mass rolled down to her feet — rolled, nay, rather floated around her, like a golden cloud lined with light. Annie cried aloud with astonishment. "Why, it's three times as long as Lallie's ! What will she do ? I love Lallie" — she said this anxiously — "and I only wish that she had it. -Brak said that he loved her hair, and I know he would love her twice as much if it were twice as long." Mrs. Almont looked somewhat surprised. "You must not talk that way, dear. No doubt, Mr. Brak- enston would not have your sister's hair changed for the world. He likes it because it belongs to her and is a part of herself." "I do not understand," she rejoined timidly; Mrs. Almont patted her head affectionately. "You do not understand ? No, I suppose not ; but you will one of these days, and you will realize that, when one loves, one loves everything which belongs to the adored object, whether it be handsome or homely." "Yes. But Lallie's hair isn't homely; it's only shorter than yours, not quite so thick, and of a differ- ent color." " Shall we go to supper ? "Yes. I am very hungry; I am always hungry. Mother says it's because I am growing. My sisters have weak chests; she hopes mine is strong" — tap- ping it sturdily. "I should hope so; but at your age you must not think of such a thing." Mrs. Almont was amazed to listen to a child of her 132 Stage-Struck. years speak so indifferently of such a terrible weak- ness. Annie interrupted her thoughts. " The one who dies first, the others have her money. I heard the lawyer talking about it. I don't want to die. I would give them all of mine, so that I might live for ever. Oh, oh!" — jumping down the last two steps — "here's Tramp; he is come to meet me. Do you love dogs? Every one loves Tramp; and mother won't eat without he is in her lap. You must love him, or I shall be unhappy." Mrs. Almont was about to reply, when Tramp set- tled the question. He sprang at her, put one paw through a frill of old Valenciennes, licked her face, and would have continued his playful tricks had she not demurred. "I do not love dogs." She spoke and turned to Tramp decidedly. " I promise, however, to tolerate you, provided that you never come at me again in this fashion." Tramp wagged his tail; he had evidently under- stood. But alas for canine promises! He was only tolerated for one little half-hour. CHAPTER XV. " Mr. Garcia ?" " Yes, 'um. Walk in to the right. He is just alone this minut*." A clean^ bright-looking maid was speaking and standing in the door of a house in Bentinck Street. Annabel had received Signor Garcia's letter making an appointment, and she was here with her mother to keep it. They turned to a door opening to the left, and saw a man standing beside an open grand piano. After a few words of introduction, they entered into business at once. While he was arranging details, Annabel looked at the famous teacher. So this was Manuel Garcia, the brother of Malibran and Pauline Viardot, the teacher of the great Jenny Lind, and the famous inventor of the laryngoscope. The signor was of medium height, but had an air of being much shorter. His face was a long oval. He wore a slight gray-black mustache, which scarcely concealed a very earnest but mobile mouth. His dark eyes, once evidently piercing, were now dimmed with the mist of age stealing over and veiling their sombre depths. In spite of their faded color, they blazed with almost unnatural brightness, every now and then glancing upwards with an expression which 1 34 Stage-Struck. betrayed the true Spaniard. His forehead was higli, narrow, and wrinkled. His complexion was a clear olive, and his cheeks were covered with a network of minute lines. His hair, of unusual fineness, clung with scant ceremony to his shapely head. Annabel knew that he was over seventy, although it was scarcely credible, he seemed so much younger. His manner was simplicity itself, and he had all the vivacity of a southern nature. He was very spare, his clothes hung loosely about him, and his shoulders had a very slight stoop. There was a great deal of talk before the lesson be- gan. Mutual acquaintances to be remembered (the signor's relations were world-wide), the different artists, the Americans, their voices, and the necessary course of studies — all these things were exhaustively discussed before the professor seated himself at the piano to hear the young girl's voice. She commenced singing a group of arpeggio to show its compass. She sustained some tones to show her power of lungs and way of taking breath; then she ran over the simple scale. The master laughed good-naturedly. He stopped her after the fourth note. "Let me hear that again," he said. "In ascending the scale, always accent the note which is the weakest and which is the likeliest to slip. Sing very slowly, listen to yourself, and stop when you produce a tone which sounds badly to yourself. Never persist in a thing which is wrong. If even the second note is weak, stop at the second, and begin again. It is only in lending the ear to each sound as it comes out that Stage-Struck. 135 you can gain an idea where the fault lies. Your scale is very bad; the fourth note being flat, the sixth sharp, the seventh weak, and the eighth or first alto- gether uncertain. The intervals'are not properly de- fined." Annabel recommenced, but with little better suc- cess. He stopped her once more, this time at the sixth note. She had remembered only the first part of what he had said. She began again and again. With a gesture he stopped her, as she was passing from the seventh to the last note. This time he spoke. "When I tell you what is to be done, be sure that you understand my meaning before you attempt to do it. Think well over what I say, and get well hold of the sense of my words. People should sing with the head as much as with the throat. They must use their brains as well as their voices." Annabel blushed. No wonder. He had not said that she was a fool, but he had made her feel like one. They tried a few more different exercises, some with the shake, and scales were abandoned for that day. After twenty minutes' singing, the professor stopped her. "Rest," he said briefly; "then we will recommence. No voice can or should stand more than twenty min- utes' consecutive exercises. If you will permit me, I will answer some notes while you repose." He went to a long high desk or table, and, seating himself, wrote three or four letters. Having sealed and addressed them one after the other, he rang the bell, and they were sent away at once. He had con- 1 36 Stage-Struck. eluded all with more despatch than the secretary of a prime minister could have done in twice the time. He was one of those sort of men with whom to think was to act. "Now, my child, have you brought any song with you to sing?" Annabel handed him the grand air from " Beatrice de Tenda," for soprano — ^^ Ma la sola oimi son to.** The master started. He was struck with the coin- cidence, and murmured, "The first time Jenny Lind came to sing to me, she brought this same air; and at the first lesson she ever had, this was the study." Annabel was radiant. " Oh, dear master, how glad I am that my first les- son recalls hers ! I remember that she was your pupil. Do tell me of her." "Yes, yes, with pleasure; all in good time. Now for the aria." He seated himself, and they com- menced the first recitative. *^ O mio fedeley" vfOiS got through with much timid- ity. Annabel went on to the andante, was stopped occasionally, and then they came to the allegro, which the master played with great spirit. She sang it through without interruption, which surprised her. "I did not stop you," said the master, "until I had heard how you had been taught. You sing neither well nor badly, but your style is what we call in sing- ing ^ robe de chambre* It will never do for a profes- sional." He then recommenced the andante, and gave her a change the second time of singing the same phrase which had been sung and was composed by him for Stage-Struck, 137 Jenny Lind. He explained the passage, played the notes over, and Annabel, who fancied that she under- stood him, immediately attempted it. She failed; she tried again, and failed a second time. ** Listen," he said. " If we study together, we must begin by understanding each other. You asked me about Jenny Lind. I will tell you in what she was greater than any pupil I have ever had. I would play over a cadenza or a phrase, saying, * Do it so.' She always listened very attentively, never interrupted; then, when I had finished, she said, *I have thought it over, and do not quite understand. Would you tell me again ? ' I would tell her a second time. She studied it slowly, minutely, and then had the courage to say, * I think I have some comprehension of your meaning, but it is not yet clear.' I have any amount of pa- tience, and I told her a third time. She at last seized upon the true meaning, and, although slow in learn- ing, she never forgot. The reason of Jenny Lind's enormous progress in so short a time was this: that, after a first and thorough explanation, she knew how to apply herself in the right way to study. I do not remember to have repeated the same thing a second time to her after the one lesson. In consequence, she learned more in one year than other pupils will in ten years or in a lifetime. Ask me any and everything, but be sure that you have mastered the meaning of any musical phrase or cadence before you attempt to sing it. Notes" — pointing to the aria — " are black or white, but should not be otherwise colorless. What are you singing about ?" " About ? Why about * Beatrice de Tenda.' " 138 Stage-Struck. " Very good. Now, this succession of small notes are made to represent some particular sentiment. Recitative is vocal speaking; but when you sing a melody or a cadenza, it becomes more difficult to give expression to the sentiment contained in the words, and at the same time to that in the notes. I want to hear no ah — ah — ah-ing. Sing the words, but first of all know what they mean, and try to express that meaning when you are singing. Do you speak Italian? Of course not; I should not have asked." This rather hurt her feelings, as she had been told by many Americans that her accent was pure Tuscan. The master began an explanation of the opera, and the scene of this particular song where Beatrice cries out to her people and bewails her shame and unhap- piness at having given up her country as a prey to the tyranny of such a man as Filippo, whom she had raised to so great an estate, and whom she had hon- ored with such affection. " This is the end of all her hopes," he explained. " This long succession of sobbing notes is meant to express her utter despair; and the last words, ^O mio rossore^ convey, as only Bellini could express, the sentiment of shame and horror which filled her soul." Annabel was touched. The master spoke with such feeling, and described the scene so graphically, that it seemed as if they could see Beatrice before her sub- jects, and hear the cries of ^^ Misera ! Mtsera!" She, without understanding anything of this, had dashed into andante as if it had been an Arditi waltz. It was sacrilegious ! She had only thought of time and tune, without exactitude in either, and she had totally ig- Stage-Struck. • 139 nored every other fact but that she was Annabel Al- mont come to Europe to be a great singer ; that she was studying with Garcia, and singing Jenny Lind's first song not at all badly. How little had she realized what she had been doing ! She colored with shame, for the master had evi- dently understood all that had been passing through her mind. He motioned to her that the lesson was finished. "Go, my child, and come the day after to-morrow," said he. "You must not mind my scolding. The next time forget that you are pretty, and, while we are studying this same song, remember that you should be only unhappy Beatrice." This lesson was simply one of many. The days flew by, and three times a week Annabel went to study with the great teacher. She tried to remember his advice about how to study. It was, however, not quite so easy as she had at first imagined. She sang her exercises with great care, and was obliged to write them out from memory, and then at each lesson she brought her manuscript to the master to be corrected. He was very good- natured, and applauded her efforts, although no one realized better than she how little worthy of praise they really were. One day her sheet was particularly unintelligible. He questioned her. "Do you hear the sounds in your head as you write them down ?" " Yes ; and no." "I thought so. This drawing or group of eight 140 Stage-Struck, notes looks like the antics of a drunken spider. Poor thing ! he must have become entangled in his own web." Then they would all laugh at his quaint conceit, Garcia would again correct, and the lesson would continue. The air from Beatrice was finally pronounced pass- able, and Annabel commenced to study Rossini. She had heard Nilsson sing Desdemona with Tamberlik, and longed to attempt the great scene in which the Swedish songstress was pre-eminent. The master questioned her closely as to Nilsson, and then decided that he must go himself to hear her in this part. Slipping to his bookcase, he drew out a huge volume, old, yellow, and bethumbed. It was an. Italian copy of " Othello" which had belonged to Malibran. " Here ; you shall study from my sister's book. Le4; us hope that, like her, you will also find inspiration." Annabel was deeply touched by the master's deli- cacy and kindness. How could she do otherwise than profit by so much attention? The lesson began in the usual way. This time she was more in sympathy with her work. Did she not know " Othello" by heart ? Had she not, time and again, sighed over the lot of the Moor's ill-fated wife ? She began to sing. The recitative of this scene is elaborate and lengthy. Desdemona sighs, Emilia re- sponds, the gondolier sings, and Desdemona breaks in with the words, "(9 tu del vtio dolore" which intro- duces the minor melody, *^ assis* al pie d'un salke** Annabel dashed into it. Garcia had been very patient during the usual pre- Stage-Struck. 141 liminary exercises, and with the recitative. He al- lowed her to sing this scene almost through, and then stopped her abruptly. " Listen to me. You said that you knew this. You are mistaken ; you have no conception of what you are doing. You exercise only your will and not your brains. I do not expect you to be Nilsson or Malibran. If you were, you would not come to me to teach you to sing. You think perhaps, with all the world, that Malibran moved people by the beauty of her voice. Nothing of the sort. My sister had as vile a voice as ever a woman was cursed with ; but whatever she did was done in earnest. Any one could perceive at once that she knew exactly what she was singing about. It was not alone a question of throat. I have seen audi- ences uncontrollable until she came upon the scene ; then, after hearing one phrase from her lips, they be- came spell-bound. She was not alone a singer, but she was a great actress, and, above all, a great musician. A cadenza which she wrote for Desdemona was heard by Rossini. He listened, and struck his head with his hand, exclaiming, *To think that I was so stupid as not to have written that myself ! ' But it is not enough to write a cadenza or change an air. This change must be made in accordance with the charac- ter of the music. Besides her ' virtuosity,' she was always the character she represented. So you see, then, that her voice had little to do with her success. She sang and she acted, but all the tiitie her audience felt she was Desdemona. " Once in Paris — I shall never forget it (I must speak of her talent, although she was my sister) — she sang 142 St age-Struck. the andante, and had worked the audience already up to a pitch of extraordinary enthusiasm and emotion. It was too real. She commenced the recitative, * O cielo che mai strepito e questo," then she stopped. Covering her face with her hands, she finished the phrase, ^ quale presagio funesto,' with so terrible an ac- cent of alarm and horror that every one felt on the eve of some frightful calamity. " Emilia calms her fears when again she sings. This time, before taking her note from the orchestra, she got up stealthily, nervously, and then began search- ing about the chamber. She did this as a woman half dead with fright would if she imagined that some evil thing was lurking in her apartment. She tore at the curtains of bed and window ; she rushed to the/^r- ti^res, examined everything, and then crawled back to her chair. She fell fainting into it, her head drooping in utter exhaustion against the back. Her hands twitched nervously, and she muttered, breathed rather than sung, in a voice broken at every syllable, ^ lo cre-do-vo-che al cu7to. O ! come il cielo s' unisci a met lamenti* Then there was a dead silence, and she lay back in her chair apparently lifeless. Every one felt cold with horror." The master acted out and sang all of this scene. Although he had not much voice, and that little was cracked and trembling, he imitated his sister so closely that it was almost painful to witness. He stopped, half exhausted,*but continued his recital of how she had finished the great scene. " The applause went on," he continued, " even after the commencement of the prayer, and drowned both Stage-Struck. 143 voices and orchestra; and yet she produced this won- derful effect with a bad voice. When she had finished, there was not a dry eye. I cried, as I always shall when I think of it. Ah, my dear, she worked like a slave. She was intelligent, she had even genius; but she depended on neither. She never sang the simplest ballad without first mastering its sense beforehand. She knew exactly what every word meant, and before she gave it sound her heart had uttered it. " Now, Jenny Lind was not much of an actress, and her only genius was in the power of continuous ap- plication. She had, too, a veiled voice, with the ex- ception of one octave from G to C in alt, which was as clear as a flute, and of a beautiful quality; but she was so clever and tricky that she deceived even my father. Her medium notes were very bad, but she used them so skilfully that I have often been amazed, and many times I have heard great critics speak of the equality and beauty of every register of her voice. That is to be what may truly be called an artist." "Dear maestro, what a lesson I have had to-day! How can I thank you enough ?" "■ By trying to profit by what I have told you. You often sing a thing well the second or third time. Remember that the public cannot wait for you to correct yourself; you must do it right the first time, then you will be asked to give them a second or third repetition. Never sing carelessly; so long as you do so, you will never be a singer. You must not fancy that you are making real progress until it never oc- curs to you to hum out aloud about your house. Always suppose, at every one of your lessons, that a 144 St age-Struck. thousand persons are about to pass judgment upon you, and that you are being tried for your life." The maid brought Garcia in a bowl of milk, which he drank eagerly; and when the lesson was finished, he accompanied them into the street. As they passed along, he took ^ little French roll from his pocket and ate it hungrily. *' I have been so busy all day," he explained, " I could not breakfast, and had forgotten to lunch. Now I am going to the country to teach a pupil who is too ill to come to me. I must hurry to catch my train. Adieu; au revoir until the day after to-morrow. Study, be patient, and remember that the world was not made in a day." Annabel watched the old maestro until he was out of sight. She admired his conscientiousness and his utter lack of egotism. Most men at his age, tired out with a long day's work, would at least have sighed for rest; but he seemed as devoted to his art and as en- thusiastic for it as if his reputation were still to be made. Manuel Garcia was indeed one of the greatest men of his day. CHAPTER XVI. As soon as they reached home, Mrs. Almont retired to her room. Annabel went into the little drawing- room, to try over her last lesson whilst it was yet fresh in her mind. She had been seated at the piano but a moment, when Brakenston came in. She did not run away, as she would have done a month since; they were so used to seeing the young man that no one made any ceremony with him. She had at first felt shy in his presence after talking with her mother- but knowing or thinking that he occupied himself but little with her, she soon got over her embarrassment; besides, she thought that he was engaged to Eulalie. He came forward smiling, and held out his hand. She slightly leaned away from the piano, and gave hers with the words, "Excuse my left hand; I am too lazy to be polite." " The left, you know," he answered laughingly, " is nearest the heart." Although the words were com- monplace, his voice strangely stirred her. "I ought to leave the piano now that you have come. Few can have the courage to play before you, or even attempt to fill your place." '*My place!" he said idly. "That's a fact. It is an important one in art. Once my friend Monsieur Lionard said, * Mon cher, you are the best fifth-class 146 St age-Struck. pianist I ever heard.' Lionard was Garcia's cousin and he ought to know; but I haven't touched the keys for days. What are you studying?" He looked at the opened score. "Ah! Desdemona's great scene in 'Othello.' What a curious old book!" She explained that it was a copy of Malibran's, and how Garcia had taught her from it that day. '' What! at work still ? Are you not tired ?" " Tired ? Yes, I suppose I am; but I like to fix my lesson on my mind as soon as I get home." "Do I interrupt?" "Oh no, indeed." " No ? May I study, too ?" "You study! Rather say, May I sit and bore my- self with a stupid young student who murders Ros- sini ? But I am in love with this music. Poor Des- demona! poor Desdemona!" " I am not so sure about her being * poor ' Desde- mona." " What! smothered by a brute of a black man!" He laughed lightly. " Your remark was so like an American girl. But let us talk it over. You must think of your lesson, you know." He said this apologetically. " What is your opinion of * Othello ' ?" " That it is about the best of Shakespeare's works." "Yes; but I never could comprehend why and how Desdemona came to love him. Perhaps I am pre- judiced, but — he was black, you know." " Come, sit in this arm-chair. I will take your place and play you something." The change was effected. Stage-Struck. 147 Brak ran his fingers over the keys with the instinc- tive carelessness of a man who is their master. " Desdemona is always supposed to be a weak crea- ture," Annabel continued, with hesitation. He was still playing, and he answered, ** That is the great mistake made by many. In choosing Othello for a husband, Desdemona showed proof of anything but weakness. She must have died happy, knowing whose hand killed her." " Explain yourself." "Rather hard lines on her, perhaps," he continued, "but it was a proof that he loved her. There is no crime that a woman will not forgive, even her own murder, if it is the result of love for her." " There was more jealousy than honest love in Othello's crime; but, as I have said, what I cannot understand is how Desdemona came first to care for him. You know he says that she loved him for the dangers through which he had passed." "Othello says so, but I am not obliged to believe him. I suspect that it was love at first sight; at least, if not love, it was a sneaking regard for him. I feel sure she died happy, for she must have known that the Moor cared more for her than for any other woman. You know, women all protest that they can die for love." "Yes, but not be smothered for love. I should think it would add to my misery to be killed by one who loved me. Oh, if she only could have dreamt of lago's villainy!" "I am sure we ought all to be thankful that she didn't. Had she suspected anything, we should never 148 Stage-Struck. have had this magnificent tragedy. She would have explained her conduct satisfactorily: women always can. lago would have been promoted to a high post in the diplomatic service, on account of his talents, and would thus have been got out of the way. You would not have had this touching scene to sing, and I should not have had the pleasure of sitting here with you and discussing the unhappy Desdemona. Had the handkerchief been restored, had things gone right, had the play ended with a dance, you would have been less impressed, and would have gone to your room without a thought of fixing your lesson in your mind." " Do you not think that Othello's great speech begin- ning, * It is the cause, my soul; it is the cause,' repays us for the shock of knowing that his words doom Desdemona ?" Brakenston softly murmured, "This sorrow's hea- venly." His hands kept up a running accompaniment to the words, "It strikes where it doth love." "She wakes." " One woman was sacrificed to give a last- ing lesson of the force and passion of man's love. All other women should rejoice." "Happily, there was but one Othello." "One was enough; yet there are many, only they are not likely to have their lives written by a Shake- speare. Tant pis'* " So you never felt sorry for Desdemona ?" "No, no; I cannot say that her loss ever troubled my rest. Think of Othello's provocation, the chain of circumstances, the handkerchief — how everything compelled him in honor to act as he did. But per- Stage-Struck. 149 haps, as you are an American, you think that he might have got a divorce. Isn't there some place in a Western State where the train stops and the porter shrieks, 'Fifteen minutes for a divorce * ?" Annabel flushed. " You are well informed." "Thanks. Is it Indiana or Illinois? I forget. It is so hard in London to keep the run of those Ameri- can show-towns. What! are you angry ?" "I? No; only you ought to be more serious. Fancy Othello getting a divorce in Indiana! Why, even lago would have cut his acquaintance. It's — it's—" " How unreasonable you are! You don't want Desdemona to be killed; yet you want to sing a scene which never would have existed had she not been."^ ** I never could have loved Othello." " Perhaps Romeo would have been more to your taste." She looked at him for a moment, and said, " Have — have you seen Lallie lately ?" He looked up with a laugh. " Lallie! Is she not gone to the country for two days ?" " Ah! Surely ; yes. I had forgotten. Will you have tea ? I can't think why they don't bring it; it is past five." A maid answered the bell. ** Please, mum, they're hall out. Mrs. Halmont takes tea in 'er room; and you are to have yours 'ere, if you like. And Mrs, Redmonds ordered dinner for height o'clock; and if none of 'em comes in, you are to dine without 'em." "Thanks." 1 50 Stage-Struck. The woman disappeared, but returned directly with tea. Brak began to play softly, softly. Unconsciously, Annabel drew near his chair. She was like a poor moth wlio had only to see the light to flutter into it. He sang a tender Spanish love-song; then began the beautiful introductory from Gounod's "Romeo et Juliette," where Romeo comes first to stand beneath his love's balcony. He played with a weird fascina- tion, going rapidly from one melody to another, with- out permitting Annabel to interrupt. When he came to the marriage-scene, he commenced to repeat the words, still accompanying himself, "Ah, Juliet ! if the measure of thy joy." The words ''dear encounter" found an ominous echo in Annabel's heart; and as she repeated them to herself, she raised her eyes and caught Brakenston's gaze. He was looking at her as he had looked but once before. She rose precipitately, wishing to fly. The act was a confession. She had too little knowledge of the world to know that it was; and only when he seized her hand did she realize that she had betrayed her- self. "Stay," he said softly; '"dear encounter' means you and me. Why do you run away ? Do you know that — that I love you ?" What had she done! Another woman's promised husband speaking to her of love ! " Listen. Do not draw away your hand. I came to-day longing to see you." He looked into her eyes so earnestly that she was Stage-Struck, 151 startled. His words awakened a feeling she had never before known. It was wrong, all wrong, yet he loved her. He continued speaking in a tender under- tone. Could this be the cool, indifferent Brakenston ? Brak ! and telling her that he loved her? He kissed her hand. He was no longer at the piano, but was close to her, and leaning over her chair. His warm breath fanned her cheek, and she felt his eyes, which glowed with passion and love burning into her very soul. " Listen," he whispered. " I came in hopes of find- ing you alone. I love you with all my soul and heart. Give up the idea of going on the stage; you are un- fitted for it. You are so delicate, so innocent; you — " "Hush! hush! -how can you?" and she tried to withdraw her hand. " How can you talk so to me ? You are Lallie's — " " You are mistaken," he interrupted coldly. " I had, and always shall have, a warm friendship for her. Now it can never be anything else." "You say now; why now? Then, you once did care for her, and — and — " "Well, perhaps I have paid her some attention; but she does not love me, and I never can care for any one but you." "This is sudden." "Not so sudden. The first time I saw you I felt something which I cannot describe. Do you remem- ber the night at the opera ?" "Yes, yes." She spoke hurriedly. "When I told you about the * Dame aux Camelias,' I really fell in love with you. Before then, I never 152 Stage-Struck. had known what real, true love was. Dear Annabel, do you, can you, care for me ?" She whispered to herself, "Care for him! care for him!" when the thought that he loved her had sent the blood coursing wildly through her veins. She was about to answer him "Yes," to tell him how dear he was to her, when she remembered the promise to her mother. The recollection of this kept her silent. Brak continued to murmur words of love. She heard him as if in a dream; the more tenderly he spoke, the deeper was the pain in her heart. He was so sure of her affection; she did so love him, and now she had to decide upon all her future life. She was called upon to choose between her art and her lover. Why could she not have both ? But her word had been given to her mother. She snatched her hands from his with a smile upon her features, and her calm accents belied her heart, as she said, " You ask me if I care for you. I am honest. I say Yes; but I cannot, dare not, think of — your having any place in my future life. I shall never marry." 'You are mad; or is it that you are only trying me?" He laid a heavy hand upon her shoulder, and looked very pale as he spoke. She never stirred as she answered, " I am not doing this to try you. I only tell the truth. It costs me, alas ! more than I can ever say. Do not press me further; take the only answer I can give you, and — " The last words were sobbed rather than spoken. She trembled violently. " My own love, you are all trembling. You do love Stage-Struck. 1 53 me. Ah ! I felt it; I knew it. Say that you love me; say it once, only once," he pleaded. "'I have so often dreamt of this moment ; so often, sleeping and waking, longed to hear your voice. Is there to be nothing more? Say, darling, that you love me." He pressed his lips to hers. His voice died away into a faint whisper. There was a magnetic charm in his touch, in his voice, and even the homely room seemed beautiful by his presence. Had he spoken? Was she dreaming? Was it, could it be, true ? Yes, too real. She loved and was beloved. The world for her could hold but one, and he stood beside her; nay, was at her feet, as he im- plored her to say the one word which to him was all in all. For one moment she forgot her promise. "Yes, yes," she murmured, almost inaudibly; "yes, yes, I love you; I do love you. Can you doubt it?" He threw himself at her feet. She begged him to rise. Her heart suddenly died within her. She could not leave him in illusion: yet how to tell him? He pressed her in his arms. She gently disengaged her- self, murmuring, " I love you ; but — " " No buts" — gaily. " I will not listen. I shall over- come all your objections when you are my wife. I shall have to teach you not to be obstinate. You love me; that is enough for me to know now." " But—" " I will not listen. I shall tell Mrs. Almont—" "What! tell my mother! Oh no; I pray you do not!" she cried aloud with fear. He looked amazed. " You do not wish me to speaK 1 54 St age-Struck, to her? Oh !" — reflecting—**! understand ; you wish to tell her yourself. It is but natural." " Yes ; no. I — I must think it over. Do not ask my reasons ; and remember, I said that I loved you, but—" "Again that 'but.' I will not have you repeat it." *'Well, I mean, let things remain as they are for the present. I cannot say more. Give me time to think." "You are right, perhaps. I have taken you by surprise. Will you consider, and tell me to-morrow whether you will have me for better or worse ?" " Yes, to-morrow. In the mean time — " ** In the mean* time I love you, you love me. You have said it ; at least you cannot unsay these words ?" " No," she repeated gravely, " I can never unsay them." " And you never will ?" He looked anxiously at her. " No, I never will." "God bless you." Then, changing his tone, "You know that you are making a bad bargain. I am ut- terly good for nothing, and almost a pauper, too." She blushed. " Do not speak so of yourself. I love yoUy not what you may possess ; but — " "I will not hear that word again. Miss Almont, as you have given me your heart, pray add to the obliga- tion by giving me some tea." " Tea ? Why, I had quite forgotten it ; and now it is as cold as a stone." ^* Yes, or — as an American." Stage-Struck. 155 " Do not slander ; it is unbecoming a man. Besides, I have nothing in common with a teapot." ** No. You have been at me with your * buts ' until I have half a mind to withdraw my proposal. The future, at this rate, looks anything but promising." How joyful he was ! She sighed. Well, she would be joyful, too. It was only for this once. To-morrow she would tell him that she could only be his friend ; but — ah ! again one of those "buts." " So you wish already to withdraw your proposal ?" she said. " It might be wise. Were these muffins ever hot ?" "I think not." "Why should you trouble yourself to think of such a thing? Yes or No will do for an answer to most questions, especially one regarding such a thing as a muff—" "That is what I thought." ^^ Petite mechante ! I understand you. Thanks for having said *Yes.*" " I have not yet said it." "Annabel — Miss Almont, do not contradict; it is unbecoming a woman. I hope when I am married that I shall not be made to drink cold tea, and — and — do you know what time it is?" " I fear that it is very late." He took out his watch with provoking calm. " I wish to state that it is nearly seven o'clock ; and this is the first time, to my knowledge, that I have ever seen the lower drawing-room denuded of cats. You charmed them away. You have charmed away the hours. You would charm away a demon, as you 1 56 Stage-Struck, did from me — the demon of despair. When I came in here to-day, I was considering two questions." "Yes?" "One whether I should throw myself into the Thames ; the other, whether I should propose to you." "Thanks. Between two evils, choose the — " "I am not at all sure that I have chosen the lesser. I — " A violent knocking at the door interrupted him. "Come in." ** Please, mum, no one's comin* *ome to dinner, and you har to dine alone. Mrs. Halmont has shut 'erself up with an 'eadache." " Cheerful company," said Brak, carelessly. " With an 'eadache," continued the maid. "Hand I told Mrs. Halmont that Mr. Brakenston was 'ere ; and she said she would leave you to 'is care, but that you must not disturb 'er, has she is tryin* to sleep." " Poor mamma ! she suffers from terrible head- aches." "Humph!" "What can you mean ?" "Have you never suspected that attending your singing-lessons might be a little wearing upon a delicate constitution?" "Nonsense !" she said, laughing. "Barber, how do you know that no one is to be at home to dinner?" "They telegraphed, mum, from the Crystal Palace, and no one will be back till late. Will you dine soon, miss ?" " I will ring when I am ready." Barber nodded and disappeared. CHAPTER XVII. The young people looked at each other. Braken- ston drew his chair close to the girl, expressing his delight that they were still to be left alone. " It seems a Godsend — every one away. I never knew such a coincidence. How shall we pass our time ? I know. Have you ever been on the river ?" " Never. But it does not seem right, my being alone with you the whole evening, and poor mamma ill. I dare not disturb her, for I know so well what her headaches are. It seems strange, does it not, that every one should be away, and Annie, too ? I wonder where she is. Stop; I must ask Barber about her." The woman appeared, in answer to a second ring. " Please, mum. Miss Hannie 'as gone to play at a neighbor's at the top of the street, and will be 'ome hearly. She bought to be 'ere now." ** Indeed, I should think so." No one had thought of the child; but, as if to verify the old adage of " speaking of angels," at that moment she came in. Brak let a naughty word escape him. He did not dislike Annie, but at that time she was not precisely welcome. She ran to Annabel as usual to kiss her, and held out her little hand to Brak. 158 Stage-Struck. She explained that a friend had come to take the whole family to the Crystal Palace. Lallie had gone to the country for two days. " We will spend the evening together," she said simply to Annabel. "I love you so, and we all like Mr. Brak much better than we used to." The young man slightly reddened. He turned to Annabel, saying hurriedly, " Say anything to her, but come on the river." Annie, who had overheard the word " river," cried, " Oh! Mr. Brak, will you take me ? You always said that you would some time." An idea struck him. He spoke again to Annabel. ** Will you come if she is with us ?" " I — why, yes. I might, if mamma — " " Your mamma is asleep. Now, Annie, what do you say to a row on the Thames ? We can take our din- ner with us in the boat. It will be capital fun." He called down the stairs, "Barber, Barber! make us up a basket of sandwiches, or anything, and some wine or beer; we are going out for the evening." Annabel tried to remonstrate. She wished to speak to him alone, but how ? "Annie, dear," she said, " you go softly to mamma's door and see if she is asleep." Naturally the little thing ran to do her bidding, and then, finding herself alone with Brak, she spoke very hastily. " I think I ought not to go. If I do, promise me that you will not say one word of love. I am not bound to answer yout ill to-morrow, and I should die if that child were to suspect anything. Will you Stage-Struck. 159 be careful ? Will you promise ? If I go, you will not think that I am leading you on — '* ** Leading me on! Well, it might look something like it," he added laughingly. "Oh! then I cannot go." " What do you mean, Annabel ?" he cried sharply. " You are trifling with me. You do not love me." He clasped her hand and gazed passionately into her face. Was he trying to read her answer in her flushed cheek and drooping eyelids ? " No," she faltered, " it is not that I do not love you; but — let things remain just as they were." " You mean that we go upon the river as acqqaint- ances ? Miss Almont, will you do me the distinguished pleasure of letting me have the charge of your precious self for this evening ? I keep a small boat at Kew, and I shall have the honor to row you and Miss Annie Ed- monds in it, if you can trust yourself to me." She changed color. " You are not serious. How can you joke so ? I will not come. No." " No ?" — smiling. " No ?" — coming closer. " Yes, you will come" — kissing her. " I shall not bore you with protestations, but I shall look them. You cannot care for me if you refuse me so slight a favor. I promise to be circumspection itself, and to-morrow you will tell me that — that I may hope ?" "To-morrow — to-morrow I will write you. Hush! she is coming. Be careful. I know that you will keep your word." " She is sound asleep," said Annie, " but her face is very white, and she has hugged herself up tight against the pillow. Are we going ?" i6o StagC'Struck, "Yes, dear. Do get ready." Then she ran to her room to fetch her things. Brak gave her a look of love and sat down at the piano. He played one of Schumann's melodies very softly. The strain reached her in her chamber. How divinely he played, and — how she loved him! She scarcely dared to realize all that had happened; and now they were going to spend the evening — the whole evening — together! Why not their lives together ? What if she were to say Yes! But then, what would become of her music, her singing, her ambition, and her career ? No; it could not be. She must reflect; but she did so love him! She would pass this one evening with him, and then perhaps give him up. She excused her weakness by a thousand little artifices. She must see more of him, she must have a chance to study his character; above all, for once it would do no harm. She would go and enjoy the fleeting pres- ent. The temptation was too great. "This is a lark!" said Brak, ten minutes later; "I with this basket, and you two girls trotting along by my side." Annabel was as delighted as any child. "Let us take a hansom; we shall get there quicker than going by train from Waterloo." "I hope," said Annie, as they walked along, "that we sha'n't upset. I don't want to have a collision, or to be drowned just yet." The word collision reminded Annabel of the terror of all ocean-travellers. " Don't speak of such a thing" — hastily. " Drown- St age-Struck. , l6i ing is said to be an agreeable death; but I am not at all anxious to try it." "It may be agreeable," said Brak, "but ah — Here, cabby, just take us to Kew; and look alive, as we want some time on the river before it grows dark." They jumped into the vehicle. " By the way," Brakenston continued, " on the subject of drowning, as I said, it may be an agreeable death; but it is what the French would call une mart bHe^ especially when out pleasur- ing on old Father Thames." As they rolled along, Annie first broke the silence. " Please, Mr. Brak, may I have a sandwich now ? I am very hungry." " My dear child, of course; but would you not pre- fer waiting until we are quite comfortable in the boat ? It ought to taste better then." " I think it would taste better now, because I am so hungry." Annie's reasoning was indisputable. Like most children, she did not understand how waiting for a thing could make it taste any better. Brak gave her the sandwich, and soon afterwards they were seated in a pretty boat, steering up the river. He took the oars, and Annabel sat beside little Annie. She would only think on the events of the last few hours. How little she had dreamed of such an end to her day ! — so true is it that our lives are on the point of turning when we least imagine it. Every now and then Brak looked at her. In his eyes she read volumes, all of which might be summed up in the one word — love. The sun was verging on the horizon; not a breath 1 62 St age-Struck. stirred the air; the water was like a mirror, with a faint tinge of color, which had descended like a mist from the roseate clouds. Annie amused herself by dipping her tiny hand and taking up some of the water. She expressed infinite surprise as she let it fall through her fingers. "When I take it up, there is nothing but whitish drops; when it's all together, the river is tinted like aunt's red hair-oil." Brak gasped. She went on. "Annabel, dear, do pray tell me a fairy-story; some- thing about a river. I do so love fairy-stories." "I, my dear? I don't know one. Stop; let me see. Yes, I think I do. You have heard of * Undine' ? " "Yes; it was a ballet at the Alhambra, and Brak said the dancers all had thick ankles. Didn't you say so, Mr. Brak ?" " Your memory, dear, is one of your strong points. I think I did make some such remark,an age or two ago." "Did Undine have thick ankles?" Annabel laughed. "My dear, you must not think of ballets or dancers now. I will tell a story, but it is about another lady, named Lorelei." " May we have our dinner first ?" "I should say so." Brakenston, as he answered, rowed towards the bank and secured the boat by its painter to a tree. Then the basket was opened. What a merry little feast they had ! " Mr. Brakenston, are you not sorry that Lallie is away? She would have enjoyed this so much." This remark, it is almost needless to say, was made by the enfant terrible. Stage-Struck. 163 Brak started. Lallie ! He had forgotten her very- existence. He felt Annabel's eyes upon him. She had been as much startled as he at Annie's abrupt question; yet nothing could have been more natural. The only wonder was that she had not before blun- dered in some such way. Brakenston lifted his glass. **You are right, Annie, to think of Lallie. Let us drink to her health, and future happiness." He looked very grave -as he spoke. In vain did Annabel try to read his countenance as she joined in the health. Annie's eyes were constantly seeking hers. Lallie ! — she thought of Lallie ! And she had taken away her lover ! Her heart throbbed painfully — so painfully that she felt a choking sensation in her throat, but was determined not to show her emotion. She went on. " Shall I tell the story now, dear ?" "Oh* yes; but let me lay my head on your lap. I can listen better so." Annie pillowed her golden hair upon Annabel's gown. Brak watched them curiously as he blew faint rings from a cigarette into the air. They say words are given to conceal thoughts; but were not cigarettes given to conceal words as well as thoughts ? CHAPTER XVIII. Annabel began her story. " Once upon a time, many, many years ago, there lived a famous siren of the Rhine, called Lorelei. She was so beautiful that every man who saw her fell in love with her at once. She lived at the bottom of the river; her bed was of pearls, and her frocks were woven from the fine grasses which grew all round her home. One day there was great rejoicing in the little river-side village of St. Goar. Bertha, the daughter of a prince of Nottingen, was engaged to marry Count William — such a handsome count." " What was his father's name ?" said Annie. "I — his father's name? I don't know. You must not interrupt." "The count and Bertha were both very rich; and besides, they both loved each other very much. He was drinking in the village with some gay young friend, when a fairy appeared, first faint and vapor- like. This fairy was Lorelei. In answer to the ap- peal of the young nobleman, she had come forth. She was standing on the edge of the water on a great high rock, and holding a harp in her hand, combing her golden hair; and as she began to sing, she smiled at William. He kissed her hair — " " How like Lallie and—" " Annie, do not interrupt," said Brak, half angrily. Stage-Struck. 165 Annabel went on. " William thought her so beauti- ful that he forgot all about Bertha, and fell all at once in love with the fairy. She kept on singing and smiling; and William, hardly knowing what he was doing, went up towards her. He pressed her hand, and she threw her arms round his neck; then they kissed each other, and her arms closed tight round him, and she drew him on, on, until they both dis- appeared into the river, and no one ever heard of William again." "What did Bertha do ?" asked Annie, already half asleep; "did she die of grief?" " The story ends there," answered Annabel, and she sighed. Brakenston laughed uneasily as he knocked the ashes from his cigarette and said, "That's a very cheerful tale of yours. Decidedly fairy-like, and no doubt conveys an excellent moral to the youthful mind. Still, I presume that Annie understood a great deal of it. Have you quite finished ?" " No, not quite. Shall I tell the probable end ?" "Assuredly." " Bertha dies. William comes back to the village, and deserts Lorelei." Brakenston reflected on her words. "Strange end. Are those your sentiments?" Brakenston eyed her curiously as he spoke, light- ing a fresh cigarette the while. " My sentiments ? I wasn't thinking of myself. You forget I was telling a fairy-story to amuse Annie." "You have charmed us both," he said. 1 66 Stage-Struck. Annie sighed, but did not move. She had fallen asleep. Her head had gradually sunk much lower; she had been thus unconsciously drifting into dream- land. Annabel made a quick movement, as if to awaken her. " Stop," said Brakenston, softly. " Do not disturb her. It is a special dispensation of Providence. May I not say now how much I love you ? Do not be so cruelly cold. What put so frightful a story into your head ? I see it all. You wish to try me. Will you not let me love you ? Everything around us breathes peace and harmony. The thousand voices of Nature echo a new tale to her old, old tune — that which I am telling you, dear, and which you hear so coldly. Your hand is cold, your face is like that of a marble statue; even a fold of your gown loses its softness when my fingers touch it. Why this lack of sympathy ? Is it natural that I should sit by a girl who is all in all to me and not speak of my love ? Listen to my plead- ing. I love you truly, honestly, earnestly. Say now — now — that you will be my wife. Why wait for to- morrow ? Say this, and our future shall be one long dream of happiness. Follow your heart. Follow your heart, not your head. Do not sacrifice everything for a dream. Ambition! There should be only one in the world. To be loved. I would reject Michael Angelo's quadruple diadem of greatness and glory, to be crowned only with your smile. While you — you — can you not feel that I offer you more than public applause and fame ? Let me be your life as you are mine — your only ambition. I love you — I love you! I swear it ! " Stage-Struck, 167 Annabel looked strangely at him. His words seared her heart; yet the story of Lorelei persistently pene- trated the mazes of love. What should she answer ? "Did you hear what Annie said ?" He raised his head brusquely. "Annie? What is Annie to me — to us ?" " She asked whether Bertha died of grief." " Bertha ? I do not understand you." She continued, " Girls have before now died of grief when they have been deserted by their lovers," There was a pause; then she abruptly continued, "You say that you never were in love with — Lallie; but are you sure that she is not in love with you ?" Brakenston was startled, but evidently annoyed. "She does not know what love is; no more do you, I think," he replied; and turned from her to light his cigarette. She looked humbly away. He threw his cigarette into the river, and seized her hand despe- rately. "My God! Annabel, don't trifle with me. Is this your only answer to my love ? Do you care for me ? Yes or no." She was honest to herself. Come what may, she would tell the truth. She answered, " Yes." The sun had long since set, the evening was closing in, and a mist covered the river. Annabel's face still burned with his kisses. She shivered, but with emo- tion. "We must not linger here any longer," said Brak; "you will take cold. I should never forgive myself should anything happen to your precious voice. My own love!" Then he untied his boat, and resumed his place at the oars. 1 68 Stage-Struck . As they glided down the stream, not a word more was uttered. Brak seemed buried in thought. Annie still slept as he rowed on, lazily puffing clouds of smoke from his mouth. Annabel sat apart. Would she, could she, marry him ? She hardly knew. Did she love him ? Yes, she knew that. What could she answer but Yes ? While he had been speaking, her heart overflowed with hap- piness. Could she resist the prospect of such a future ? Could she put away untasted from her lips this virginal cup of nectar ? Ah! it was too much to ask. She felt that he was now inexpressibly dear to her. One word from his lips was more to her than pearls or diamonds. The only riches which the earth could henceforth hold for her were this man and his love. She had answered " Yes" to his question when he asked if she cared for him: that was but the truth. Did he still think that her '* Yes " meant that she would be his wife? What to say? — how to tell him? He was still looking on the river, and puffing away at an- other cigarette. Her heart leapt into her mouth. She would say more than a simple " Yes." "Brak!" He started, and nearly dropped the oar. At that moment Annie awakened. His eyes outburned the brightness of the stars as they sought her face, and she knew that he had heard. He looked once again at her as they turned into Salisbury Street. He pressed her hand and muttered, " A demain** and he was gone. CHAPTER XIX. It was nearly eleven o'clock when they reach home. Annabel went at once to her mother's room. She found her sitting up in bed. Her headache seemed to have left her. She was excited, and spoke in a loud harsh voice. She hardly paid any attention to Annabel's account of where they had been. The girl entirely omitted one thing. She could not yet bring herself to talk of him. It was so new, so strange a situation. She already suffered for her love, because her ambition had received a rude shock. She had yielded so easily. But had she yielded ? Was it irre- vocable ? So she was to settle down a married woman; bring children into the world; have a hearthstone lit by only one pair of eyes; her home to be her world, instead of the stage which had heretofore so fasci- nated her. Her representation of heroines and vic- tims was to be broidered only in the tapestry of domesticity. She would never have a public weeping at her feet; never stand knee-deep in bouquets from royal hothouses; never rival Nilsson, and never earn a thousand dollars a night. In short, she would never be an opera-singer. She thought of all this with a certain regret. Still, she was so deeply enamored of Brakenston that these thoughts made no impression on her. She heard but one sound — his voice. The words, " I love you — I 1 70 St age-Struck. love you!" repeated themselves to her, and re-echoed through the mazes of her mind with troubled ecstasy. " I love you — I love you!" The voice kept saying the words, and her heart responded in silent acquiescence. Yes, it was just; it was right. She had thought other- wise, but destiny had shaped her life. " Annabel, dear." " Yes, mamma." " Here are two letters; one from your father, which has greatly distressed me. We were born to misfor- tune. I am too weak to tell you; you had better read it yourself. He never was practical, but I am afraid there is only too much truth in what he writes. Oh, my dear Annabel, all our hopes are now centred in you. Never marry. If you do, be sure at least that one or the other have enough to keep you in inde- pendence. Look at the misery which follows love- marriages. In nine cases out of ten misfortune comes. Alone one may struggle on; for two it is very difficult. But read the letter." Annabel opened the sheet. " * My dearest Hester — ' " " Your father always wants something when he says 'dearest.'" Unheeding her mother's interruption, Annabel con- tinued — " ' I am very sorry that I cannot send you any good news. First of all, I am utterly down. Bennett's plans for the new Cognac Refinery have proved abso- lutely worthless. In addition to this, a serious ac- cident has nearly deprived me of my eyesight.' " Oh, poor papa I" Stage-Struck, 171 " I should think so. Ill-luck ! My dear, did you ever know of such a vein of misfortune ?" She continued reading — "'My eyesight. The chemicals exploded ' — Oh, how horrible ! — * while I was in the laboratory; and here I am, laid up for months. You will have to send me some money, or I shall be obliged to go to the public hospital. Ah, dear wife, I am indeed ashamed to write this to you. Instead of being a help, I am only a hindrance. Be- sides this, I suffer greatly, and Tcannot stand physical pain. I know I am ungrateful, but I envy any one who is happy. I believe I would change places with a negro. "'Only yesterday I met Bennett's black boy; he was humming a tune; and when I asked him why he was so cheerful, he said, "I am in luck; I have a bunkum wife and a dear little black baby. Massa's very kind to me. I have just 'herited my uncle Washington Irving's barber's pole and complete 'stablishment. The only thing I do want I know I can't have, and the only thing I'd like to be I know, like a sensible cullud man, that I never can be; them two things are, Massa Almont, to be white 'stead o' black, and President o* the United States 'stead o* Massa Bennett's niggah. Knowin' fer sartin that things can't change, I'm content with my lot; J was born and I'll die a gen'man o' color." " * Contented with his lot ! Ah, were I but con- tented ! I have a wife and child — thank Heaven they are not black ! — yet a sea divides us. Why this cruel separation ? Dear Annabel ! how I long to see her ! I never before realized what a comfort she was 172 Stage-Struch to me. Yet she followed her ambition, and, God knows, I hope that her wildest dream may be realized. I, too, was ambitious; yet what has my ambition brought me ? Old, ill, disabled, almost helpless, with my only future that of my child. I wish her success in her chosen career: may it be all that even she could ever desire. She might marry a fortune, she might inherit millions, but it would never be the same to her as the realization of fame and fortune earned by the means of her own talent, by her honest in- dustry, and by her unswerving ambition to place her name high upon the roll of opera-singing fame. It is a laudable if not an enviable career. I under- stand her nature so well that I have consented to this cruel separation because I believe in her. She must work hard and think only of her art, which is a jeal- ous taskmaster. I shall not worry about anything. Write often and tell me all about yourselves. In a short time she will come back a rich and beautiful prima donna. I shall be her proud, jealous old father. She is to build up all our fortunes. We will forget all our unhappiness in her triumph, and I shall be the first to welcome home my own brave girl. God bless you both ! " * Ever the same, " * Your loving husband, '''Henry.'" CHAPTER XX. Annabel finished reading her father's letter in a voice quite choked with emotion. Mrs. Almont was also affected, but in a much more moderate degree. " My dear child, why cry ? I am terribly cut up about this affair. Of course it is not his fault; but Henry Almont is so unlucky that he would pass a spring of pure water and quench his thirst in a mud- puddle but a yard further on. This refining business — only another scheme ! Why not stick to one thing at a time ? At least one stands some chance in the long-run of getting ahead. Now the climax to his misfortunes is reached. He will probably be laid up by this awful accident, if he be not in danger of en- tirely losing his eyesight. I never knew so unlucky a family. He has had as many as ten different specu- lations on hand, one after the other. Nothing has ever succeeded. Money — of course — I will send him all I can; and then what ? We shall all finish in the poor-house unless — " " Unless you trust in me, dear mamma," Annabel said. Her resolution was taken. Farewell to dreams of love! She must renounce all thought of Brakenston. It was bad enough caring for a poor man, but to think, in her position, of marrying one was indeed madness. Yet she could not give him up easily. 1 74 ' Stage-Struck. There was one awful moment when the resolution was taken. Do we need multiplied days in which to live years of sorrow ? In an instant Annabel had thought for a lifetime. To give him up ! She believed her heart broken; but her resolve was taken, her vow irrevo- cable. She decided, if possible, never even to see him again. He would think it cruel, but she felt that was her only safe course. She would beg her mother to leave London at once. She would urge her anxiety to get on in her profession, which would explain her frantic haste to get away. In the mean time she as- sured herself that she was in the right. After talking with her mother for some little time, she bade her good night, and retired to her chamber. There she penned the following lines to Brak. As she wrote, a deathly faintness crept into her heart. Her purpose never faltered. " When you receive this I shall already be leaving London. Our dream of happiness was too truly but a dream. You must forget it, and I too; we can never be anything to each other. Do not think me capricious or unfeeling. Now that we may never be more than friends, I confess that I love you very dearly. We shall never, I hope, meet again; so now I can tell you that I love you — that the future can never be free from thought of you. I dare not meet you. Not that my resolution could fail, but in order to spare both useless pain. We have parted in glad- ness; why meet again to part in sorrow ? " I do not attempt to soften my refusal with Stage-Struck, 1 75 words. It would have been my greatest pride and happiness to have called myself your wife, had this been really possible. You ask me to share your fate; I may do so only in thought and remembrance. Good-by, and God bless you. " Ever your best friend, "Annabel. " P.S. — I do hope that you will be happy." The next day found Mrs. Almont down with a sharp attack of intermittent fever. Annabel never left her mother's side, and naturally the moment of illness was no time in which to broach the subject of going away. At nightfall she received an answer to her letter. " Thanks. I do not accept your refusal. I know that you cannot go away now, as your mother is too ill. You must meet me once — only once. Do you think that you have only to throw me over as you would fling away an old glove ? Do not be so cruel. I swear that I will submit to any reasonable delay, but I will not take this immediate answer of *No.' Ask for a week — for a month, even, if you insist; but do not expect me to leave you for ever without your even telling me why. Were I to, you would have a right to say that I do not really love you. Meet me once — only once, dear. You say that you love me; prove it by granting this one request. " Will you meet me in St. James's Park to-morrow afternoon at five ? You will find me at the end of the lake opposite the palace. Do not say No. This I "j^i Stage-Stritck. is a simple request, and one which I have the right to make. I know that you will not miss your lesson, and to-morrow is the day. You can meet me on your way home. I shall expect you, my love. A thousand kisses from " Your future husband, " Brak." Annabel felt a momentary thrill of pride when she read the letter. She could not bear the thought of his believing her to be cruel and capricious, and only remembering her to hate her. She longed to tell him how dearly she loved him, and how willingly she would have married him, had it not been that not only she but her father and her mother were depend- ent upon her success as a singer. But could she trust herself? Her heart told her No. Were she to see him once more, were she to hear his soft accents, were his pleading eyes to look once again into hers, she knew that all her resolutions would melt like snow beneath a summer sun. She folded up his letter, and laid it away with her most sacred treasures. Three days later, Annabel and her mother arrived in Paris. CHAPTER XXI. Paris — beautiful Paris ! What heart, sick or other- wise, can resist its fascinations ? Since many days, Annabel had taken but little interest in the outside world. Our minds and hearts are sometimes so sore that we magnify the devotion which we owe to mem- ory. It seems wrong to find trees green and flowers fragrant, to admire nature or art, to permit ourselves any consolation; and yet — the womanly breast of eighteen cannot hug the idea of sackcloth and ashes, but the womanly nature of eighteen will expand in response to its very nature's call. Youth impercepti- bly obeys the voice which brings us to gray hairs and resignation. Everything was strange to them in Paris. They were at a small hotel, where Mrs. Edmonds had told them they would find the comforts of a home at an exceedingly moderate cost. They found it neither cheap nor comfortable, and they remained indoors as little as possible. The day after their arrival they went, like all good Americans, to the Bon Marche. " Well," said Mrs. Almont, critically surveying the shop, "Stewart's cannot compare with this! Upon my word, I must give in. New York is nowhere." " Oh, mamma !" interrupted Annabel, "as sure as I 178 Stage-Struck, am alive, there is Mr. Angel laying in a stock of neck- ties ! I wonder if he will see us ?" " Naturally. We will go and speak to him. I have heard so much of him. Besides, it will do my heart good to hear the sound of the white tongue in this babel of parley-vous-ing." At this moment Mr. Angel looked up, and caught Annabel's eye. He advanced towards them. His delight on meeting them was unfeigned. " Well, I do declare ! In Paris at last. How is your voice ? Your mother, I presume ? Please intro- duce me to her." He grasped her hand, and, after wringing it heart- ily, went on. "Madam, I am delighted. I've often thought I'd give a heap to know you. You are the image of your daughter." Then he turned to Annabel, and, before Mrs. Almont could speak, he rattled on. " How dii you find the teachers ? Some like Garcia and some Randegger. He is a great, a first-class artist — com- poser, teacher. One may know everything, yet still learn of him. Well, well, well; so here you are at last. I am glad." Mr. Angel ran on in his usual fashion, and asked question on question. He was soon au courant of everything — the master, London, Mrs. Almont's recent illness, the proposed short stay in Paris, and their contemplated departure in a week for Italy. He announced himself as their cavalier, and quite at their service. They would make the most of their short stay. They must go to the opera, to concerts, and to the theatres, and pay visits to singing-teachers; Stage-Struck, 1 79 and above all, he must present them to his friends Enrico and Lucia. "Enrico, Lucia?" said Annabel, aghast. "Why, they are also my friends, and the only people in Paris whom I really cared to see. What a coincidence! Are they still in town? I know, when I last saw Lucia in America, she always spent the summer at Etretat. How does it happen that they are here so late this year ?" " Happen ? Why, they were undecided as to where they should go. Time has passed while making up their minds, and you will just have the luck to catch them. But, Miss Annabel, you haven't asked me about my voice." He spoke with a slightlyinjured air. "No; but I had not forgotten. Is it all right? Are you progressing ? Shall we see in you some day a Lablache ?" "Lablache, indeed! Well, I should say not. Do you know that I am now a tenor?" "A tenor? Impossible!" "Yes, a tenor. It is very simple to understand. In America they are all fools. The idea of calling me a basso profundo! I had no sooner arrived here than I met a man whom I thought a perfect god of wisdom. He heard me sing. 'What! you a basso?' said he. * Never! Why, man alive, you have a superb high bari- tone! ' Well, I thought that man knew everything. Why, he was a perfect fool like the rest. My voice kept getting higher and higher, and every one was astonished that I sang baritone. I had to leave this man. I found another in Passy, who is a positive wonder. He declares that they have all been wrong. l8o Stage-Struck. I am a tenor. I have been a tenor three days, and I like it; in fact, I have always been inclined that way. They didn't understand a voice like mine, with its variated perfect registers and extraordinary compass. I have high notes like Rubini, my medium has a per- fect baritone quality, and my low notes even old artists would take to be those of a basso." "How wonderful! What a change! But — but are you sure that this time you are quite right?" "Sure? Am I sure that I am alive; that I am here talking with you ? Why, I got the deadwood on my affair this time, and you may believe I am as happy as a clam in high water. I shall sing Manrico to your Leonora. I eschew the rdle of villain and conspirator, to adopt the more agreeable one of stage-lover. Am I not right?" " Right ? Of course, you must know yourself. Your ideas seem perfect." "You must hear me sing. Will you come to my teacher's ? You may assist at my lesson, and you will soon realize that beside my master all others are charlatans." Mrs. Almont interposed. "I am sure, Mr. Angel, that there are a few others. You petrify me. Here, in Paris, no teachers! Where are the great Viardot, Leonard di Mendi, Wartel, Dupres, Jules Cohen, Mar- chesi, and the rest? No, I am sure you are in earnest, but you are not right. There is a difference. But we have not come here to talk music, and we are dying to do the Bon Marche completely." " Be careful that it does not * do ' you because it is called a cheap shop." Stage-Struck. i8i "So I suppose," interrupted Annabel; " and, like all cheap establishments, it becomes very dear. Buy- ing what one does not want because it costs little is a poor economy. I am the one woman in the world who never had time to shop. For me change in the sea- sons never means change in the fashions." Angel insisted. " It is quite impossible; you are like all other girls. Besides, no one can resist the wonder- ful bargains of the great Magasin (they call them occasions)^ or their minimum prices. Note, however, that each article is marked in this fashion. " Look," taking up a little object: " three francs and ninety- five centimes. One concludes at once that the cost is three francs. Those wretched centimes are enough to make gray hair a drug in the market. In reality, ninety-five centimes means nineteen sous, and one less than another franc. This I have learned by bitter, not wholly bon fnarch/, experience. Since I have been * dead broke ' with lots of other students, the sight of a ticket marked francs and quatre-vingt-quinze centimes is enough to freeze my young blood. N.B.: Beware of cheap shops. A propos — " '•^ A propos of what ?" Annabel interrupted. ** After so much bon marchi are you not hungry ? Let us lunch at a little restaurant in Rue Neuve des Petits Champs. It is as good a place for a square meal as I know of. One can get everything French there, and everything United States — principally the latter." " Ah!" said Mrs. Almont, dryly. "Ah! yes, you are patriotic. I don't see why I should eat United States food while in Paris simply because I am an American. 1 82 Stage-Struck. Thanks, but we cannot lunch with you to-day; there are still a thousand things to be done, and one always wastes time over an impromptu luncheon." " Wastes time ? Come, that is scarcely fair. Still, if you prefer a more ceremonious invitation, we will fix the day, the hour, the place, the entertainment. Oh, I am famous for cut-and-dried affairs, although nothing, to my mind, is more agreeable than a pleasure snapped at upon the spur of the moment." " The moment ? You believe in the Persian poet, Mr. Angel ?" " Naturally — which one ? I never heard of him. I never knew that Persia ever furnished anything be- yond shahs, shawls, and sheep; ruffians, rhubarb, and rugs. But what does the poet say ?" "Stop," said Annabel, laughing. " Mamma cannot quote; she never could. It is something about 'dies;' the rest is, Mies.' Time flies — " " I should think so; and my lesson at — at any time," said Angel, taking out a huge repeater. "Time flies. But what about this poet? It's mean to commence a thing, to excite my curiosity, then never to finish. What were you going to say ?" " I shall take pity upon you, but I will quote only a few lines. Listen: " ' Oh, threats of hell and hopes of paradise! One thing at least is certain : this life flies; The flower that once has bloomed, for ever dies.' Strange, is it not ?" " Madame, ne desire-t'-elle pas des bibelots ? Voici une boite 2i gants. Quatre francs et — " Stage-Struck. 183 " Ninety-five centimes, naturally," said Angel, inter- rupting the vendor; "that settles me. The flower that once has flown, etc. etc. Thait means many things, Mrs. Almont, but principally flown. I am off. May I come to your hotel to see you to-day? I am going now." "Yes; come to tea, at five. Hotel Duviley." "All right. But one thing must be understood. Don't spring any more Persian poets on me. I did not know they existed. Your Persian has given me ideas which upset all my other calculations. I hate being upset; I hate having ideas — I don't need them. I am going to be an opera-singer. If a poet has said anything about music, I don't mind hearing a few metres; but sentiment, philosophy, poetry! Bah! I don't need it. All I want now is to get my voice posed, and my high C a little more velvety. Good- by. At four — no; five. Never mind. I am like all good Americans. I'll just drop in and wait till you come. Make myself at home, whether you are there or not. Ta-ta! Any time after four count upon seeing me. Good-by." He made a way for himself through the crowd, pushing people to right and left. He was a fair man, tall and handsome, with a frank, meaningless smile, and a head as beautiful to look at as a hair-dresser's model. They remained four hours in the Bon Marche, and then returned home. Mrs. Almont heaved a sigh of eminent satisfaction. While awaiting luncheon she reflected upon their morning. "Thank Heaven!" she said, "the Bon 1 84 Stage-Struck. Marche did not ruin us. It's well enough to look around in; but I am not the woman to be reduced by their trumpery tawdries. Of course, no lady can go to a shop and leave it without buying something. I bought this fan because it was cheap, and — a fan! In August weather, my dear, one may afford the luxury of an extra eventail, if it only costs one franc and ninety-five centimes — well, let us say two francs. I rejoice that I was not inveigled into buying anything except this cheap and really lovely occasion. One really runs across bargains now and then, although I seldom have that luck; and then I generally end by paying double what other people do. Now, for in- stance, at Maxy's, in New York. There are two pocket-books lying on the counter. My friend, whom I have brought there to buy cheap things, seizes upon one of the books. She takes it. How much ? One dollar. Good. I pick up the other. It's exactly the same thing, Annabel; no human being could tell the difference. I ask the price. Answer, One dollar and seventy-five cents. In vain do I protest that there is no outward difference. It is useless. The girl shows me a stitch served one way, a thread another; the leather is softer; the — in fact, a dozen reasons: and I declare no human being could tell the difference be- tween those two pocket-books. It's all luck, my dear. •I am like Angel. I go to those shops because every- body else does; but I make up my mind to * be done ' before going. This morning, however, I must say, and it is one of Heaven's marvels, in this fan I have the worth of my money." The good lady took up her purse and tablets. The Stage- Struck. 185 one to count her "wealth," the other to enter the first of the day's expenses. " Heavens! how silver flies! Mercury in person could hot go faster. Let me see" — noting on her tablets — "this morning. The letter-paper, one franc; hair- pins — What, hair-pins again ? My dear Annabel, you and I would be richer with false hair. What I spend for those miserable steel slivers! However, hair-pins, sixty centimes; stamps, seventy-five centimes — you know, a double letter to your father; and the fan, one franc ninety-five centimes; and — and — What else?" "You forget the carriage, mamma." "So I do. Carriage four hours, at two francs an hour, with pour botre — another vile robbery. And that voiturej why, I took it on purpose to go to the Bon Marche, and kept it, as I thought we would stay a few minutes. WhatI nine francs and fifty centimes!" She almost sobbed with annoyance. " Dear mamma, it is heart-rending. Think of taking a carriage to a cheap shop, keeping it four hours, turning over everything in the store, then finishing by buying, in all, a fan which costs but two francs! As you say, it's all a question of luck; but it is funny. Your fan is indeed a bargain." CHAPTER XXII. Artists find each other out as unerringly as quick- silver picks up gold from the ore. In a few days Annabel was acquainted personally, and by name, with the whole colony of American musical students in Paris. She heard of every teacher, bad or good, in the city, and had the advantage to sit by whilst many of them were giving lessons. She went to the Grand Opera-house, and to concerts, and to American musi- cal soirees. In fact, her time was fully occupied. Did she ever think of Brak ? Did she ever regret him ? Did she ever seriously question whether her art would entirely replace him ? Could he be all to her, and forever ? Yes ; for she was but a woman. Youth, the novelty of her position, the momentary satisfaction which she had felt in her strength of purpose, confirmed her in her resolution. She thought of him, and yet she con- tinued to find pleasure in the routine of her daily life. Music was her idol, and at its shrine she offered up almost willingly every tender feeling — Qui a bu, boira. To have sung in a church-choir, and to have once said in all seriousness, " I want to be an opera-singer," was, with her, to move heaven and earth to become one. She had heard something of the musical mania in London, but she now had experience of the same St age-Struck. 187 with a different race. Gallic enthusiasm is not British. The home of Auber, Rossini, and Meyerbeer was not the fog-clouded land where Handel and Haydn societies trill out, "All we like sheep have gone astray," with ten thousand voices, all of which are false in sentiment, and nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine in tone ; where a Crystal Palace spas- modically groans under colossal provocation, and where whole towns and provinces, on a certain day of a certain week of a certain year, give themselves up designedly and resignedly to what they are told is music ; where the Capital's most cultivated audiences applaud cracked tenors and voiceless sopranos with touching gratitude for favors to their grandmothers. In England — oh, calf ! oh, lucre ! — music is not in the air, but in the Bank. In Paris, people are different. Were the city to be half destroyed by an earthquake, it would only sug- gest a new theme for an opera. If there were a revo- lution, the dispute between the rival merits of the artists in the " Huguenots" and the " Muette de Por- tici" would be as eagerly discussed as between those of the combatants at the barricades. Not an event could take place, but they would seriously consider which composer ought to set it to music. The real world, to their mind, is but one gigantic scenario, created by Providence for special adaptation to fiats and sharps. Of this world, Annabel was already a denizen. The French, it must be admitted, understand a little more about music than the English. Paris is already 1 88 Stage-Struck, one step towards " that land of song." A chamber- maid may not hum *' Norma," but it is just possible that she will forget her work over a few bars of the " Mascot." Once, however, the other side of the Mont Cenis, Elvino will brush your coat, Figaro will shave you, Rosina will mend your linen, and Lucrezia Borgia will give you your black coffee in the morning, drug and nectar in one. England, with true commercial instinct, has annexed composers as she does colonies. She will for many a year remain but a large importer of the high art-music. At present she does not pro- duce enough raw material for her home consumption. Annabel was soon in the midst of all the music- students who work conscientiously and devotedly in the hope that one day their names will be written high on the roll of fame, and that in future years their untiring efforts will be summed up in the one word "Success." Who ever thinks of failure? The life of the student is one long April-day, in which clouds and sunshine alternate. Yet to the student are there not more clouds than blue sky ? The study- ing time is indeed the rainy reason, and the golden fruits only ripen with autumn. Annabel and her mother went with Mr. Angel to spend the evening with Enrico and Lucia. Her old friends received her with affectionate warmth ; they sympathized so entirely with her that, although they had not often met, they were like friends of years. Angel was at home in the apartment of Boulevard Malesherbes, and Annabel soon made herself so. Madame Lucia looked smilingly at her, and, u^on entering the salon^ said, Stage-Struck.. 1 89 "Well, so it is decided. Seeing you here can mean but one thing: you have come to Europe — " "To be an opera-singer, dear Mrs. Severn. How can I but choose the career which you have so honored ?" CHAPTER XXIII. Mr. and Mrs. Severn were the happiest couple in Paris. Their home was charming and beautiful, and they had the rare faculty of making their friends im- mediately feel welcome in it — a special American at- tribute. Their apartment was precisely the sort of place where one would expect to find two retired artists. In the little entrance-hall there was a lovely statue; in one corner there was the umbrella-rack, with an image carved on the top. The little window had a bit of tapestry to keep out the light, and the feet be- came at once entangled in soft rugs, even before en- tering the salon; even the very atmosphere seemed friendly. The walls of the salon were hung with rare paintings, many the work of Madame Lucia's own hands. The room was filled with costly vases and an innumerable quantity of bibelots and bric-a-brac^ with a beautiful couchant Venus, in marble, lying full length, on the chimneypiece. The artistic hand of Signor Enrico showed itself in the arrangement of a bracket here, a shelf there, a pedestal somewhere else, all covered with knick-knacks and articles of virtu. Heavy curtains draped the stained-glass windows; there were comfortable arm-chairs everywhere in orderly confu- sion, and the room looked as cosey as it was pretty; in fact, a perfect artist's nest. Stage-Struck. 191 We must not forget the cheery maid, who was a treasure. As she opened the door, she knew at once whether the visitors were English or French, even before they spoke. She had a very pretty " Oh yes; please walk in, "for everybody on this particular even- ing. Enrico came smiling to the threshold. " Bless my heart!" he said, as soon as he saw them, "come in; delighted to see you. Have you been long in Paris ? No ? This is a pleasure. Lucia, give Mrs. Almont the arm-chair. You pretty thing" — looking at Annabel — " so you are going to be an opera-singer ?" Annabel blushed, but answered readily, " I am going to try." "Try! try! Of course, trying means work; work- ing hard means to succeed. Doesn't it, Lucia ?" Madame Lucia smiled. Now when she smiled, she looked very handsome. She had a classic head, oval face, a mobile, sympathetic mouth, fathomless dark- blue eyes and a low forehead, a white skin, and dark hair, which rolled in natural waves, quite away from her sensitive temples. Lucia had been a famous prima donna, and when a young girl she made her first debut Sit Naples. The Nea- politans, who had never seen an American on the stage, were disappointed because she was not, as they had anticipated, a black woman. Since then she had sung all over the world — made herself a fortune; but she never forgot Italy, the scene of her first triumph. "We shall soon be a complete party," she said. " I am expecting another little girl, with her mamma. She is studying with Madame Viardot and Leonard 192 Stage-Struck. de Mendi, like you intending to be an opera- singer." Angel interrupted. "Oh, I know: the blonde Isa- belle Stanley. I hear some one coming. Yes; it must be Isabelle." The bell rang twice. " It is Isabelle," said Enrico. " She has her special signal: she rings twice sharply; then our maid never can say that we are out. We are always in to her. " A slender girl came into the room, accompanied by a mutual friend, Mr. Gratiot Warburn. She embraced Lucia, and brought her face suspi- ciously near to Enrico. Angel received the welcome of an old friend. Soon the new-comers were quite at home with An- nabel and her mamma. Isabelle looked at her with a half-jealous eye, but soon smiled affably, saying, "You are going to be a singer? I wish you all success; only you must never supplant me in this house. I could not stand that; I am become positively a pillar of the household, and the most important member of the family. N'est ce pas, Enrico ? Mamma cannot come this evening; she is writing an article for an American newspaper. But here I am; you know nothing could make me miss my soiree with you." " What is the news in the colony ?" asked Enrico. " Enrico, you are curious. There is this only: Dr. Brattle's wife is getting desperate. He won't let her sign any engagement to sing without him, and he won't let her appear in any rdle where she has to wear tights or sing on Sunday. She says it is because he does not appreciate the real beauties of the profession. Stage-Struck. 193 and she must do something to begin her career. She insists on accepting pages' roles at any rate for St. Petersburg." All were soon comfortably seated. Mrs. Almont was not like her daughter, music-mad; but all the others were; they had but one thought in common — music. " So you are a tenor, Angel ?" said Enrico. Turning to his wife, he continued, "Lucia, do you not know how often I have thought I discovered that quality in his voice ? and now every one agrees with me. Well, I am not jealous; my singing days are over. I re- member that when I was near your age I had been singing the top of my head off, was thousands of dol- lars in debt, did not know which way to turn; but I would not give up. However, reminiscences are al- ways ridiculous. How can it interest you young folks to hear about two old retired singers ?" There was a chorus of voices. Isabelle went to Enrico with a playful movement. "Interest us? Indeed, you have often promised to tell me all about your first singing days; now we in- sist upon hearing about them. This is the very time of all others." " Cielo ! I feel like it, but I cannot. Lucia will; she knows more about it than I do. If she agrees to be the story-teller, I will be prompter; but this is non- sense. I am sure that you do not really care. You — " "No, we don't care. We only do it to be polite. Don't we. Angel? We are Americans; but as sure as my name is Isabelle Stanley, I avow that I am dying to hear all about your career." 194 Stage-Struck. Annabel then begged Lucia to tell them all about her voice and her learning to sing. Lucia was so pressed that she had to yield. She began by twisting her slender fingers. " When I commence, I never know where to stop. Still, if you will hear about our singing days, I don't mind recalling a few things. But you must imagine everything double. It makes no difference whether I speak of myself or Enrico; we were so closely allied, so exactly alike in our tastes and ambition. What I did as a woman, he did as a man; and what I struggled over, he has struggled through. But one thing is sure: we never gave up, and we never admitted that there could be such a word as 'failure.' "From earliest childhood I loved music, and after once facing the footlights I loved the stage. I liked the glitter; I liked the dulness; I liked the old wings, the dusty flies, the machinery, the properties, the dirt, the traps, the scenery, the footlights, the — in fact, every minute part of the stage. To me one thing was not more than another. It was all part of the whole; it all went to make up the world which I adored. The rehearsals, mounting the pieces, and any human being connected with the stage, from the ' call-boy ' up, had some claim upon my affection. I studied singing in Boston with dear old Padden. Then I sang in con- certs. But I soon tired of America, and longed to go to Italy. There I was to become great; there I was to earn gold and glory. "My voice was a light high soprano; like most American voices, thin as a needle, through working it St age-Struck. 195 to death; while I myself was a slight little thing, and weighed a little over — " Her husband interrupted. " Great Heavens! Lucia, does it ever seem possible that your normal size meant an eighteen-inch waist and ninety pounds avoirdu- pois ?" Enrico's voice was incredulous. Lucia laughed, as she continued, " Possible, and positively so. I sang the flesh off my bones; I worked night and day like a slave; and, with the character of every American, the flesh I did not work and sing off I fretted off — anything, so that I got it off; for I had, like all of us, a mania for perpetual motion and con- stant action. You see, we are all alike. This present far-from-eighteen-inch waist came only when I took time to breathe without being in a hurry, and to rea- lize that waists, like the world, were not made in a day. " A singer's life in 1853 was not what it is now. I went from the north of Italy to Naples, where I was engaged to sing at the Italian opera. My life was that of a slave. I was so bound to the manager, or impressario, that whenever I went even back and forth in the town, I was sent about in a closed carriage. I could not absent myself from the city, even for an hour, without special permission. A singer's life was such a servitude then that artists had to resort to all sorts of tricks to get a holiday. One I remember in particular. No matter how we felt, we had to toil on, and the manager did not care. Ill or well, we had to appear; but the only thing he dreaded was fever, for that was catching; so when a prima donna wanted a 196 St age-Struck. holiday, she used to put great pieces of garlic under her arms. This quickened her pulse, and, with a doc- tor's certificate, secured an off-night. The singer was suffering from an attack of high fever, according to the medical bulletin. Result, a holiday of three days, at least.'* " Lucia, you never did that ?" said Enrico. " Did I not ? Ah, mio carol Why, have you not re- marked how fond I am even now of garlic ? Yet I would not have the old days cut out of my life for anything. I would not change them now. It was alternate toil and triumph, and the darkest days always had their recompense in the evening's success. I loved Naples, where I had the great pleasure of knowing Mercadante. He had just finished his opera of * Violetta,' and the Teatro Nuovo was to produce it. I created the role of the heroine. I shall never forget the first night!" " Was it a success ?" Annabel interrupted. " No" — calmly. "Perhaps the second night?" " No," she said. " Well, the third ?" Mrs. Almont looked anxious, while Lucia smiled knowingly. " If you must know, I will tell you. The third night, only, Mercadante kissed me on the forehead, and said, * My child, I thank you.' " "And didn't he say anything at all the first night, the mean old wretch ?" Isabelle looked and spoke daggers. " Poor old man! He turned his back upon me, and Stage-Struck. 197 walked away without a word. His heart was almost broken at what he thought the total failure of his new opera. You see" — she spoke naively — " they had hopes of me which I did not realize; but after that I made it up to him. During one whole year I sang * Violetta * every night, and it seemed that the run of the opera would never stop." Annabel interrupted. " Did you look lovely ? I suppose you had on all your fine clothes ?" "Oh, my dresses were beautiful; and the Neapoli- tans took such a fancy to me that they nicknamed me la brutta simpatica.'' "What does that mean ?" asked Annabel. Lucia laughed. " Well, in French it means la jolie laider " Give Mrs. Almont the United States for it," broke in Angel. " Of course I understand everything, from Greek to Latin down; but — Well, what does it mean, any way ?" " Well, I think that it meant that if I wasn't hand- some, I was nice; but I really did look uncommonly well as Violetta. Didn't I, Enrico ?" He assented cheerfully. " Do hum a little of your part," said Isabelle. " Hum a little ! My dear" — stroking Isabelle's hair, (Isabelle was already sitting on a footstool at Lucia's feet. Annabel might have coveted the place, but she could not get it) — " My dear, I am old." " No, not old." "But not so young as I was ; and as I have just dined, it would be impossible to get out a note." "Well, if you won't sing, tell us something more about your career." 198 Stage-Struck. '' Enrico, shall . ?" " '• Enrico, shall I ? ' " — mimicking. " That's the way with women. They ask permission, fully intending to go on all the while. ' Shall I ? ' Why, I know of no earthly power that could stop you, now you have once commenced. Shall you go on ? Why, of course." " Where did I leave off ?" " Leave off ! Well, that's cool. My dear, you haven't left off. You have never stopped. You have talked like a blue racer for an hour, and you're good for another twenty-fourth part of the day. Go on. When you have finished, we will have some music and re- freshment." " Yes, dear ; my throat is dry enough now to blow away." " Blow away ! I have nothing to say ; but. Angel, what has she been doing for the last hour ? Lucia, you have nothing or little of the thistle about you, unless it be — " " Enrico, you shall not traduce your wife. Let her finish." Isabelle's voice was determined. Attention ! After Naples." * Ah yes ! After Naples, I sang in an English opera in London ; then I went to America with a troupe. We all came to grief ; the management smashed." " I was the management," groaned Enrico. " Yes ; but I would not give up. We went to Cali- fornia, where we commenced an Italian opera, with serious performances, on Sunday nights. I wore an old ulster during a year ; I used to sing any rok needed; I was scene-shifter; if occasion required, I was property-woman ; I was stage-manager, prompter, St age-Struck, 199 accompanist, leader of the chorus ; in fact, I don't know what I did not do in San Francisco in the way of work. With my old ulster buttoned up to the chin, my umbrella and music-roll, they dubbed me '■ General,' and to this day my second nickname sticks to me. I commenced my nest-egg in San Francisco. We went from there to Australia, where we stayed for eight years. We had more struggles, more work; but success and — " Annabel thought she might speak. " We know the rest. Australia eight years, steamer back to San Francisco, train to New York, steamer to Liverpool, train to Paris. House in Boulevard Malesherbes ; comfort, content, plenty, and no rehearsals called for twelve o'clock every morning. No more opera, no more struggles, no more of anything but a good time, with 'the wolf from the door,' and so on. Madame Lucia, you are not to be pitied. Signor Enrico is not to be pitied. We are to be envied, starting out upon your career ; although who knows how it will finish?" ** Finish !" interrupts Angel — "finish ! How it will begin ! When I see the world of stydents, here in Paris ; when I hear of the fiascos the great artists con- tinually make, I lose heart." " Better that than your voice," said Enrico. " Upon my word, Victor, those breaks of yours, from basso to tenor, have been startling enough. But let us hope in the future." " Enrico is jealous — jealous of me. That is the way with all artists, retired or otherwise. Were I to get up now and have a small go at ' The Star of Love,' one 2(X) Stage-Struck, of his old successes, he'd cut me the next time we met on the Boulevard." '■'■ That's what it is to be born a tenor," Mr, Gratiot interrupted. " You know what George Eliot said : *When God made a tenor. He spoiled a man.* It's in the blood, however. Tenors would sacrifice every one to their jealousy. Probably Jean of Leyden denied his mother because he had heard her sing, and was not going to have one of the family running in op- position to him. I only wonder he did not cut her throat instead of cutting her acquaintance." " Give him time," said Angel. "Lucia and I have seen sunshine and storm to- gether, and we are not like other artists. When things went wrong, we pulled together. Didn't we. Gen- eral ?" Enrico sighed happily as he spoke. " For Heaven's sake, don't spoon ! You remind me of the Pharisee. Of course you were not like others, but — " Isabelle looked appealingly around. "Am I not right? At their time of life making love to each other, and not on the stage 1" Enrico looked up gravely. " I hope we shall never be too old. She is Lucia ; and I shall always be her faithful Edgardo-Enrico. I do not know of a better time to make love to one's wife than this very minute. We have had more than a sneaking regard for each other all these years. Eh, Lucia ?" He deliberately kissed her. "Oh, oh! how compromising!" Lucia answered. " Yes, dear, all of these years. But I am thirsty, and know you are all tired out with my talk. Eugene has something ready for us. Enavanty Stage-Struck, 201 Angel spoke up. " Ah, the General. Hear her giv- ing orders. Of course we will follow her lead. We bow to our superior officer. We will drink the health of General Lucia Severn, avanti tutti. To the flowing bowl and so forth. We go, we go." CHAPTER XXIV. ''Ah, good enough; good enough!" said Enrico, as he placed his guests. Then they began to talk all together, but the voice of Mr. Gratiot was loudest. ''By George! it is a pity Mrs. Reata is disgusted with old Wartel. The doors of the Paris Grand Opera were to be thrown open to her. This is the sequel. Nature made her a contralto; Wartel im- proves her at his third lesson into a soprano. At the fourth he discovers her also to be dramatic — what she wanted to be, you know. This is the routine. Les- sons daily with Wartel; daily preparatory lessons with Jennings, an accompanying minion; lessons daily in French, Italian, and solfege; dramatic lessons with Regnier of the Frangais ; nights at the opera; Sunday afternoon at concerts. One must live and breathe Music, you know. When Reata went one day for a lesson, she was told that the master would have 2ifete on the morrow." "Birthday?" said Isabelle. Her voice betrayed curiosity as she interrupted. " Birthday ? Never ! That is the dernier ressortW\X\\ the Parisian master. No; this time it was a simple fite. The bonne gently hinted to Reata that of course it could not make any difference, but it would so de- light the master to receive some little souvenir^ some trifle, anything — some little attention. What could Stage-Struck, 203 she do ? Her pliant, amiable husband realized that though it could make no possible difference, still, to please the master — " ''Champagne, or claret, or what?" Enrico inter- rupted. " Thanks. Claret. I always drink red wine." Con- tinuing — "Still, to please the master, to please his wife, he goes to the Palais Royal. Result, a pair of candlesticks said to have been found in the ruins of a Pompeian palace — " " How many of these fetes does he have ?" Mrs. Almont, as mother to a young student, asked this with an anxious voice. "Oh, not many. Every year he has one; his aunt has one; his son has one; the accompanist has one; the bonne has one; the concierge has one. And then come the birthdays. He has one; his aunt has one; his son has one; Jennings has — " " Stop, stop ! You are joking ?" "Joking? I can assure you Mr. Reata found it an expensive joke. What with lessons, birthdays, and mmor fetes and candlesticks, his business in New York burst up; and the worst of it all was that, at the end of two years, the old humbug told her that she had profited so little by his lessons that she could never expect to see the door of the opera open to her; and he hoped if ever she did sing, that she would be good enough to conceal that she had been his pupil." "He taught Nilsson, did he not?" said Annabel. "Yes; another of his farces. Nilsson was her own teacher, and after gurgling, gargling, and ah — ah — ah-ing for three years, she was engaged at the 204 Stage-Struck. Theatre Lyrique, and had to commence lessons im- mediately with Madame Carvalho and Delle Sedia, in order to be able to pronounce words and sing any- thing beyond *ah.' Her scales were good when she said *ah,' but of the real art of phrasing she was ut- terly ignorant. She had studied at a time when she could teach old Wartel; yet he of course claimed her as his pupil." "And now about Madame Reata?" "Why, it was a perfect swindle." Enrico looked the disgust he felt, but continued. " How different it was in our days ! Then few came abroad to study. The Continental singing-master in no country is im- maculate; but he now commences in Europe to look upon the Americans and foreigners who come abroad to sing as legitimate prey, and he cannot resist the temptation to secure to himself so much money for so many months. He is not wholly dishonest, and actu- ally hopes to redeem his promises in the end. You young things are all alike. Paris is a good place to study in — " " Better than Italy ?" Mrs. Almont was again anxious. " No. Italy is the only place for any one to study who wishes to sing in Italian opera. If in French, why, study here. That is natural. I am interested in all musical students. Music is the most alluring, but the hardest, of all careers. You come from America by thousands. Homes are broken up in the East and West; the world is in an uproar over artists, opera- singers — what they do, how they live, what they eat, what they drink, how they breathe. The enthusiasm St age-Struck. 205 is just, but is it serious ? Isabelle thinks she is a soprano; Angel has been basso, baritone, and tenor for the last week; and Miss Annabel — " **I am — I think that I am — a light soprano." She spoke humbly. ** Good. You are here, young people, on the thresh- old of an operatic career; you are all mad over music, yet you can give but one answer to any ques- tion: *I am studying for the opera.' Do you suppose any musical student can give a real practical reason for giving up everything to enter a profession which of all others has the fewest prizes ? You do not real- ize how much hard cash you spend. In my time one could live with little ; then, too, everthing was cheaper. Look at both sides. Suppose you fail: your hair will be gray, your ambition will have consumed your life; you will be old, soured in disposition, and think that music has been your ruin; you will have wasted your best years, and will curse your ambition. But you all make the same answer: ' I cannot help it. I am sure that I would give up everything for the sake of being an artist — friends, home, all — to study music' " "All ! Oh, Enrico !" — chorus of voices. " Yes, you think so now. Lucia said it, and I myself did it. We are all the same; what is the use of talk- ing ? Angel is a tolerable civil engineer, but he thinks himself a better tenor. Perhaps he may be; but what I have said is true. You get but one answer. In one sense it is easier to learn to sing to-day than it was a hundred years ago. The only difference is that stu- dents nowadays lose their heads on the subject of 2o6 Stage-Struck. teachers. They go to American soirees tired out after a day's work, sing at least a Bel Raggio before they have mastered a simple scale. Result: they break down, and decide that as their teacher is a fool they will try another." " That is the secret — the teachers," said Gratiot, speaking dogmatically. " Why, certainly, the teachers. One comes to Paris and thinks that Wartel is the only real master in the world; another swears by Tontana, Angel by Latone, Isabelle by Viardot, and Miss Annabel — " " Oh, of course if you ask my opinion, I think Manuel Garcia the very greatest master of all." An- nabel's voice was very determined. " Naturally. You see how it is. Every teacher has his admirers, as he should have. Now listen. There are four hundred teachers of music in Paris; each of them has at least ten pupils; and, what is still more absurd, every one of these four hundred masters thinks the other three hundred and ninety-nine idiots. There are forty towns in Europe where music is taught as it is here. In every one of the towns there are pupils under their particular masters, and masters believing in themselves alone. I suppose there must be at pres- ent at least forty thousand young men and women starving, in the hopes of becoming operatic seraphines sooner or — what is more probable — later." "You were saying," cried Lucia, " that I am always talking. You have been lecturing without a corona for the last half-hour." He -continued, not heeding her interruption. " It is a strange anomaly, and one which cannot be accounted Stage-Struck. 207 for, how people can be so courageous in coming abroad, yet lose all will, spirit, and good sense when they get here. There were many teachers before Wartel, and many singers before Patti. If students would only realize that they must work even harder at home than with their teachers, all would be well. " Will monsieur the lecturer give us a rest ? We promise never to become opera-singers. Had we only struck something like this in loved America, we should never have wanted to become artists." This was a general chorus. Enrico smiled majestically. ** Ungrateful scholars! No; I won't stop until I have finished." Annabel quietly helped herself to nuts. Isabelle stretched out a wavering hand, and spoke. *' Rash woman, nothing is so bad for the voice. Never touch nuts." Angel sighed. *' Oh, for the dear old days in Amer- ica, when we jumped off the tables for our digestion, drank quarts of cider, ate pints of hickory-nuts, and pared bushels of apples before the fire in the sitting- room! Oh, to be able now to stand in a good cool draught, to rub over faces with snow, go to candy- pulls, eat a few icicles, go a-sleighing, sing all of our repertoire of home-made songs in the chill night-air! Oh, for a return of those days, of those delights! But, alas! they can never come back. We are, we are — " "Are going to be opera-singers;" Lucia finished the sentence. " It is, indeed, a life of self-sacrifice, but one in which the sacrifices are voluntary." Angel protested. "You think it is; but it isn't. You are deceived. Why, the worst cold Nilsson ever 2o8 Stage-Struck. caught was through sitting with her back to a key- hole. As a child that key-hole would have made no difference; but it was most ruinous to Nilsson, the artist. We are slaves; we cannot even sit with our back to key-holes." " No; all the simple delights of life are gone," said Isabelle. **One must think, before doing anything, before eating anything, ' Will this spoil my voice ? * " " And I have to carry a shawl for her everywhere she goes," said Mrs. Almont, indicating who the "her" was. Angel continued. " We can drink no ice-water, nothing too hot or too cold, nothing too strong or too .weak, no spirituous liquors, no pure wine, no cham- pagne; our bouillons must be clear of grease, our salades without vinegar; no beer — it makes us grow stout." " So it does," said Lucia, in a stage aside. " Eat no sweets, no bonbons, and never touch cheese under penalty of a crack on a high note. Ah, dear Isabelle, you know the rule: no cheese. Well, to continue: no brandy-cherries, no smoking, no cigarettes — the paper is bad for the throat. Santo cielo I there is nothing left for us to live upon, except- ing—" "Excepting faith," suggested Mr. Gratiot, who always knew how to console at the right moment. " Faith ? Excepting faith ? Well, and when one hasn't that ?" said Angel, " Go back to your trade," said Enrico, glumly. " Lay tramways in the Canary Islands; do anything you like; but never attempt without faith to become an opera-singer. That is half the battle, and about all Stage-Struek, 209 you will score." He smiled sardonically. Enrico had got a chance to let fly this final shaft. He was still thinking about Victor Angel's becoming a tenor. " Still jealous," said Angel. " He cannot get over my being a tenor. Mes enfants, what time is it ? What! Never! Lucia smoking? Cigarettes, you know, spoil the voice." ** Thanks," said she, taking a second. "There is no rehearsal called for to-morrow. I am a free woman, and — and I am used to cigarettes. I have discovered that they are good for digestion." " In fact, all of those things which we avoided as opera-singers we now affect as human beings. As artists we knew sacrifice; as individuals we now have a good time," said Enrico; "and our voices — " "Never were better," Isabelle answered both with appropriate calm. " But we must go. If it were not so late, I would insist on the lovely Mercadante duet which you do so beautifully together." " Late!" said Annabel, " why, it's early; the stars are all out." Angel smiled. But not as much out as I was once, after singing at a concert in Indiana. The manager had fled with the till—" " Managers always do," said Enrico, forgetting that he was once one of them. "By George! no interruptions, please. It was a bitter cold night. Why, even the rails were dead broke, and we sat humming on a fence, waiting for a wild freight-train to carry us to the next station. It came — and, heavenly hope! we got through by the skin of our teeth only. When the conductor saw us, 2IO Stage-Struck, he waved his hands. 'What!' said he,, 'strolling singers and a fiddler ? I'll take you to Chicago free. Of course you haven't any money, but you had better select your berths in the poor-house if you intend to run this operatic business. I never knew an actor or singer yet who ever had surplus money enough to buy a postage-stamp even to write to a rich relation. Of course, you know they all have high-toned relatives rolling in wealth. In America all belong to the F. F. V.'s; in England, nothing less than the peerage, of course.' " Gratiot decided that this conductor had had some experience of life, and especially of companies "on the road." " Must you go ?" Lucia seemed insensible to fatigue, and she would have sat up with pleasure all night to talk music. "Go! I should think so. I don't know when I have dissipated so wildly." Mrs. Almont spoke with great earnestness and regret. " Who knows when we may see you ? We go so soon to Italy." "Ah, beloved Italy!" Lucia sighed as she spoke. " My student-days were spent in the land of song. Enrico and I always envy any one going to Italy." "Let's all pile on to Italy. I am sure," Angel said, " my teacher here is not a good one. What do you say. Miss Isabelle ? What would the Paris colony do without us ?" " Do ? Oh, they would continue just the same. They will be well looked after. Trust Doctor John- son to bring back any lost voice with his disinterested Stage-Struck, 2ii care and gargles. There's Bing to 'arrange their mouths, and make them as pretty as snakes ' (to use his own words); there is the American Exchange to spend a stray half-hour in; there are all of the masters and the never-ending jealousies amongst the pupils to keep up the excitement, not to mention the soirees. There will be missing but two bright particular stars — your- self and myself." " I protest, you must not go," said Gratiot; " but, seriously, it is very late — two o'clock — and * we ' girls still up." "It's shocking." Lucia looked very tenderly at her young friends as she spoke. " Wrap up warmly, do; night-air is always chill in Paris. Have you foulards for your throats ? No ? Why, that is part of the profession. How can you ever expect to be artists if you have ever once been seen without one ? Necks are so re-* bellious; never forget your /ot au feUy 3ind the signora adjusted her lace cap. Everything seemed in commotion. "A strong voice," added the master, "and a diffi- cult one to modulate. Robusto si ma tenore — ?" He turned to his pupil. " Now, Rubini — " " Was his voice as strong as mine ?" " It — it was not quite the same thing, caro fanciullo mio; besides, he knew how to modulate it. You will, one of these days, I hope; but — patience, patience." 248 Stage-Struck. " I suppose where he beat me was in the accent ?" "Yes; it was naturally softer. He was an Italian, you know." This half-apologetically. " Do tell us about him," interrupted Annabel. The maestro seemed not unwilling, and com- menced. " What can one say? He was Rubini. He had the loveliest voice in the world. He studied hard, very hard, at first. He was the kindest man I ever knew. He has taught me many a time when he was so tired that he could scarcely stand. After a long fatiguing opera, he would say, 'Now, listen. You heard me sing so and so?' " ' Yes.' "'Well, I did that to-night, but it was a tour de force; you must always sing that phrase this way.' He would show me, and we would go to supper. Rubini always ate enormously, but drank little. He never gave his free tickets but to poor people. One night, after the scene in the Sonnambula, his servant was crying bitterly. 'What on earth is the matter?' he asked. ' I am sorry that this woman treated you so badly,' the servant said. ' How could any one so treat a man who sings like an angel?' 'Idiot!' said Rubini. ' So you thought it all true ? ' The man had been waiting in the wings, and had heard him sing for the first time. ' Yes,' he said piteously, ' I know it is true. There were tears in your voice. Women are all faithless, but I — I ' — slapping his breast — 'will be QVQY Jidele. I am sorry for you, davero.' " Rubini could not persuade him that he did the same thing every night. He sent him to his room, St age-Struck. 249 and gave him money. The next performance all of his relatives and friends had free tickets. ' I like their praise,' said Rubini. 'It comes from the heart.' " The maestro wore a wondrous expression when speaking. He no longer seemed to suffer, and one soon became accustomed to his peculiar movements. Annabel was already accepted as a prime favorite. Mrs. Almont was unusually amiable, and seemed to understand the simplicity of this artistic house. Mari- etta brought some sweet wine and cakes, also some coffee for those who preferred it. She gave the maestro a bowl filled with a sort of pap, made of milk, water, or mistra of syrup of anise-seed; it was slightly warmed, and diffused a delicious odor. Anna- bel handed it to him, and, slightly raising himself, he drank with eagerness. In the mean time, the signora had brought an album filled with old faded pictures and photographs taken from daguerreotypes or old portraits. Annabel was interested, and Alice, too, for she had never before seen the album. There were pictures of Grassini, the two Grisis, Rubini, Lablache, Trivulsi, the Signora Bellini, Madame Pasta, and Madame Barilli, Patti's mother. Federico was the one to ex- plain. " The first is Grassini — " " My aunt," interrupted the maestro. " She was the first Italian woman to sing contralto. Before her time, that part was always taken by young boys. She was a beautiful woman, with such a voice." Annabel looked at the Grassini. Indeed, she was beautiful. A small shaped head, with waving masses 250 Stage-Struck, of dark hair, full gray e3^es, shoulders and a bust which Helen of Troy might have envied, a slim waist, and a pair of hands lying in her lap which might have served as models for Murillo's madonnas. " Why, she is like Grisi," Annabel said, seeming surprised. '■'■ Giulia was like her. Zia Grassini listened to her one day, and told her that she would be the greatest of all the family. She was a child then; I remem- ber it well. She studied faithfully, and at the end of ten years she was engaged in the chorus — " "What!" There was a general scream from McBuffin, Alice, and Annabel in one breath. "What! Grisi a chorus-singer ? Never!" "Oh yes, cara mia Annabellina," he said, looking kindly at her; " in those days one studied years, and began at the bottom of the ladder. She was very proud, too, to get a chance to begin that way. She studied the same scales for six years, and the Zia always said, 'Giulia mia^ study slowly, carefully; round your voice, and some day you will have my place; ' but she did not stop in the chorus long, and you know the rest." " Yes, well; and Madame Barilli ?" "Ah, the Barilli. Such a woman! I do not know how she ever learned anything. She was beautiful, gay as a linnet, and wishing to do nothing but prome- nade. She sang like an angel. She never had a sore throat; her voice was like gold. She gave herself up to every sort of dissipation, and it had no effect what- ever on her voice. The more reckless she was, the sweeter she sang." Stage-Struck. 251 Annabel spoke up. "Why, Adelina Patti is just like her, and looks exactly like her. Any one who knew the mother would notice the relationship at a glance." The maestro had never heard Patti; so Annabel told him all about her. They continued their talk upon artists and singers. The pictures were further dis- cussed; and when Mrs. Almont insisted upon their taking their leave, Alice had even forgotten her lesson. But not so the maestro; he insisted upon her doing her exercises at least. He also heard Annabel's voice, and, to her amaze- ment, he made her sing the same exercises that she had learned with Garcia. She expressed her surprise. " Dear child, it is not strange. The Italian school is the Italian school the world over. We have all been taught in that same way. You have been started right. It is a grand beginning for a young artist. We shall make great progress, working together." Arrangements were made to commence on the mor- row. The afternoon had worn away with an indescrib- able charm; whither had the hours flown? Annabel had her hour named for the next day. She kissed the old master's hand with real emotion, and, after an affectionate greeting, the three students wended their way from his house. The sun was setting behind the Lombard hills as they passed out from the Porta Garibaldi. Annabel was enchanted with the master. CHAPTER XXIX. The next day, the Almonts went to the American boarding-house in Corso Vittorio Emmanuele. They had two large rooms, wine and everything found, for the modest sum of fifty dollars, or two hundred and fifty francs, a month for both. This was not ruinous. The maestro's lessons cost ninety francs a month; they had an ex-countess to teach them Italian at two francs fifty centimes an hour; an excellent acting teacher, Ronconi, who was also very reasonable. And before twenty-four hours had passed, their lives were as or- dered as if a previous routine of ten years were staring them in the face. The house was kept by a certain good-natured little woman named Mamina, or the little mother. She filled it from cellar to attic with students. There were at one time no less than forty, mostly Americans, with some few English. The rest varied from the exiled Polish prince to the haughty Spaniard, the mild, spec- tacled blond Teuton, with one gentleman from Bra- zil who, in America, would have had a hard time not to pass for a full-blooded negro. He was a tenor, named Kuffee. Imagine that boarding-house! There were ten pianos, all going at one time, and during every hour in the day. There were no less than fifteen pupils singing at one time at the pitch of their voices, in dif- Stage-Struck, 253 ferent keys — some tenor, some soprano, some oasso cantanto, and contralto of every shade, mezzo, soprano, soprani sfogatt, and Heaven knows what. We have omitted the baritones: there were seven in the house, each with a different kind of voice. Some were singing scales, others staccati; others were trilling; one was yelling on ** Aida," another rupturing a blood-vessel over " Oh mio Fernando,'' another underground with qui odegno, another tripping on the " Shadow-song of Dinorah," another doing Galletti's great scene in " Dolores," until she had cramps; two had paired off by some unique chance to study the duetto of the ** Huguenots," each singing it in his own way, well out of tune, time, and temper. But each one knew more about music than the other. His or her master taught such a scene in such a way, and in such a way was it to be sung. At noon the yelling ceased. It was the hour for the meat-breakfast; and a very good breakfast it was. There was plenty of good-humor, and no hand-to- hand conflicts about teachers; there were musical dis- cussions, of course, but mild and reasonable. The students were usually too hungry at noon to discuss music fully; but at night, at the six-o'clock dinner, the scene was rather lively. Withal there was an enchanting spirit of bonne cama- raderie amongst the Americans which was delightful to see. Amongst so many young people so far away from home, all studying the divine art, hoping against hope, working like slaves night and day, always patient, always cheerful, and always good-tempered. 254 Stage-Struck. ready to help each other, and making the best of every ill in life, there were some petty spirits, but few and far between. Mrs. Almont soon became acquaint- ed with everybody. There was a Miss Genevieve Raynal, a tall, handsome blonde with a fine voice, lovely face, and lovelier manner. Gen, as she was called, was a star amongst the Americans, and the Italians called her the Lady Scatolung. She was con- sidered une boite a surprise. There were Mrs. Manners and her daughter, who was called the Paolina. She was a pupil of San Gia- como, and was the particular pride of the students. She had "made" dozens of theatres, always singing with the greatest artists, and her execution was something marvellous. The palm was yielded with- out jealousy to "the Paolina." There were a Miss Belrin from Cincinnati, a Miss Hatton from Cleveland, and a number of others — all handsome, with beautiful sweet voices, each studying with a different master, each expecting to become a Patti or a Nilsson, each thinking in her heart that the other was wrong. Johnny Chaston was a " star" amongst the tenors. He had already his stage-name of Cherubini, called Cheru for short. There were two charming singers from the West; one Annabel's old friend Len, who had now been three years in Italy, and the other named Phippo. They were theatrically known as Urbini and Felseni. McBuffin we have already heard; and the others were Marios, more or less. Frank Fay was a fine basso from Boston, at present suffering from an extinction de voix, consequently not aiding the bassi Stage-Struck, 255 in the general daily studies. Georges Jean Halden was a charming, talented blond baritone from Maine. He was singer, pianist, composer, and had just left Germany, where he had imbibed a very thorough knowledge, as he called it, of " the Sour-Krout system of song." He did not like it, and he had left in con- sequence. Annabel soon became a great favorite with all. The days passed in the general routine of study and various masters. In Milan, where all the world sang it was easy to learn. Music was an absorption, and any one in the city, or certainly in the boarding-house, who did not study was looked upon as a mark for pity. ''What! not studying for the stage!" one would say. " What on earth else is he doing in Milan ?" The scenes in the streets were not less remarkable. There was a steady stream of students pouring along from noon till night. The magnificent Galleria Vit- torio Emmanuele was thronged between the hours of nine and twelve, and from that until midnight. The world seemed upside down, and in one grand musical panic. Usually the first thing each American finds, upon coming to Milan, is that his previous education has been all at fault; his voice is wrongly posed: in fact, nine chances to one, he discovers that his voice is not even what he had thought it in America — it is not the same voice at all, posed or otherwise. In consequence, one sees ex-bassos tearing through the Galleria with a score of " Dinorah" or "Trovatore" under their arms, preparing for a debut as " Hoel" or the "Count di Luna." "Azucenas" will do the 256 Stage- Struck. "Favorita" henceforth; "Aminas" gleefully stop old friends to announce that it is decided that in the future they are to be ''Valentines," " Lucrezias," and so on. A good " Fides" will deliberately stretch her voice up to " Lenora," because her waist is slim and she will look better in that part; besides, she "must get a chance to debut. The ' Prophet ' is no longer done in Italy, and her voice always has been more of a soprano dramatic than a high contralto." " Almavivas" will lay up a day in order to pay visits to the colony, to announce that their debut, as " Rha- dames" or " Raoul," is immediately forthcoming. The last theatre was to do "Elvino;" but, of course, with study, great masters, increase of lung-power and practice, their voices have at last developed into genu- ine /^«^r robustos. Addio for ever to the miserable hack- neyed rdles of the tenor di grazia! So on until the end of the chapter. There is no city in the world so well adapted as Milan to be a musical centre; there are always theatres open with operas, and at wondrously cheap prices. The great Opera-house of La Scala is seldom opened, except for the carnival season, begin- ning the 26th of December and lasting until the end of Lent. It sometimes is opened for special occasions; and this season, on account of the visit of the German Emperor, a series of operatic representations had been promised. The usual habit* of the students was to club together to go to the theatre, opera, or concert; also, when there was no opera, to spend the evenings in the Galleria, where they would sit out at cafds^ and talk as only American boys and girls can. Stage-Struck. 257 Annabel had been but a fortnight in Milan, when Isabelle Stanley arrived with her mother and a French maid. They were looked upon as giving themselves airs, because they took an apartment facing the Corse and did not go to the boarding-house. Isabelle and her mamma were Miss Raynal's oldest friends, and they were not long in becoming intimate with all the rest of the inmates of Mamina's house. Isabelle joined all of the theatre-parties, dined at the Pensione Americana, and spent her time, in fact, exactly as did the others. There were so many young gentlemen in the house that beaux were never lacking; and every night there was a sally forth to the Galleria to gossip, eat creams, drink chocolate, and talk over the masters. The young gentlemen took turns to " treat." It must not be imagined for a moment that any one was rich enough to pay for all; but this fact was, however, gallantly suppressed. The one who hinted at such a thing was indeed courageous. The affair was managed in this wise. In the morn- ing one man went to each of his neighbors to explain and collect a share of the proposed expense. When all of the students had paid over their money — for no credit was given — then the ladies were approached. Dear Mrs. Manners was almost always the one to hint to the young "Marguerites" and " Lucias" that it was quite possible that there would be a little promenade that evening to the Galleria. The invitation would come in due form, of course; would they not like to join the company ? The next thing to decide upon was what each one would take. On no occasion 258 Stage-Struck . could the consummation be changed. Coffee, with cream (panera), cost thirty centimes, a cup of black coffee twenty-five, and chocolate, with cream, fifty centimes; cakes were very cheap; panatone^ a sort of sweet spiced bread, was usually thrown in with rolls and butter, and it was very good with the chocolate. About II A.M. rose-tinted billets commenced flying about the Pensione. Annabel's first was as follows: "Signor Cherubini's compliments to Mrs. and Miss Almont, and can he prevail upon them to join the party for the Galleria for this evening ? At ten sharp the ladies and gentlemen will meet in the public din- ing-room" (there was no parlor), "where Signor Gherubini will have the honor of receiving them. He trusts that the ladies are both well and that 'the VOICE ' is all right. Sig. Cherubini counts upon pass- ing a delightful evening with his guests. *' 15, Corso Vitt. Emmanuele, Milan, Sept. 27th, 1875." Annabel was delighted. Of course they would go! The messenger was waiting for the answer. She wrote hastily, and upon some paper which she knew would strike jealousy to Cheru's heart; it was so much more " stylish" than his. "Mrs. and Miss Almont present their distinguished compliments to Signor Cherubini, and accept with pleasure his kind invitation for the evening, the 27th. The voice is in excellent condition, and both Mrs. and Miss Almont anticipate a delightful soiree. " Milan, Sept. 27th, 11 a.m." Stage-Struck, 259 The messenger was no sooner despatched than there came a rap on the door. "Come in; avantir *' It's only me, dears — Mrs. Manners. A proposito^ you have just received an invitation for this evening. You have accepted, of course. I must say, it is kind of those gentlemen. The ladies could go alone, but it would not behalf so nice. Of course we pay our way, but it is done in such a delicate fashion. No one but an American would ever have thought of such a plan. It's Cheru's picnic to-night; and — and," — abruptly — "what will you take ?" "Take!" said Annabel, aghast. "Why, I will de- cide when I get there." Mrs. Manners, in turn, looked amazed. " Oh no! you cannot do that; you must think before- hand, because each thing costs just so much. Shall it be coffee, chocolate, or an ice ? The money is all counted and collected; and if you take anything dif- ferent from what you first decided upon, you would upset the whole thing. There miglit not be money enough to go round." "But suppose lam hungry? I might have given you some money for ices, and then had a beefsteak or a hot supper instead." " Oh, you would never do that. Besides, one ought to know in the morning what one will like at night. Now, for instance, I say * Chocolate and panera ' to my- self so many times during the day that I can almost taste it. I am so used to the idea that I shouldn't even dream of changing in the evening; chocolate and panera it shall be." 26o Stage-Struck. "By the way, I think I will take that. Is it good ?" "My dear Annabel, it is delicious; good isn't the name for it. And your mother — " "I? Well, if I must decide," said Mrs. Almont. "No, I cannot; but I promise not to take a complete supper. Stop. I will give you a little extra money; then if I change my mind — " Mrs. Manners looked severe. "I can accept, of course, but it spoils the symmetry of the affair. You can sup, if you like; but it would make the others look and feel rather cheap, you eating quail on toast, they drinking — slops." " You are right"— hastily. " I— I— Well, I will take coffee. How much does that cost?" "It will cost you pretty dear, mamma," Annabel interrupted; "a night's rest. You know you never can sleep after drinking coffee." " Well, chocolate, then" — in desperation. " No, that is too rich for me. I can never drink chocolate at night; my digestion — " "Tea," suggests Mrs. Manners. "They have per- fectly elegant tea in Italy. I have often taken tea — at a pinch." "What! dry?" "Oh no. You understand: when I did not know what else to have. They have English breakfast, and very good, at Cafe Biffi." " Oh! we go there, do we ?" Mrs. Almont did not know one cafeironx the other, and this observation was made really to gain time for her decision. Stage-Stmck. 261 " I never drink tea, or rarely. It is so bad for the complexion. I — what else can one take ?" "Ices, sorbets, lemonade, sherry — " "Yes, that's it. I will take a sherry cobbler." "Now, ma, you can't change. It is quite settled." Mrs. Almont sighed, and handed Mrs. Manners some silver. "And \hQ pourboire — who furnishes that?" "Usually the gentleman who treats the company. But I insist that it is not fair; we ought all to pay our part. That, however, we settle the next day. If the waiter is very civil, he gets more; if unobliging, less, of course." Mrs. Manners took the money and put it in her purse. She then got up, and, as she was leaving, stopped for a moment with her hand on the door- knob. " You know Lara Belvin is engaged ?" " Engaged! to whom ?" " Oh, not to be married, but to sing * La Sonnam- bula * at Varesi. She has signed her scrittura'* "When does she go away ?" "Day after to-morrow, or to-morrow. I hope she will make a success of it. Her voice is very sweet." "Yes; if she only had Paolina's agility." Mrs. Almont said this last with a knowing little look. Mrs. Manners reddened with pride. "You are too kind; but of course, although I am her mother, I am forced to acknowledge that few — few great stars can execute like the Paolina; and if there is one opera she sings better than another, that opera is * La Sonnambula.' Ah, this gossip is delight- 262 Stage-Struck. ful, my dears, but I must really go. I shall see you at Colazione non e verro; and if not, we meet this even- ing. Thanks; and — oh !" coming back again, "you understand about this evening. Not a word to any one about the — the arrangement," tapping her purse. " Cheru would die with mortification were even a hint of this to get about. We all know in a general way, of course; but it is much nicer doing things up on the strict Q. T." Mrs. Manners received a double assurance of abso- lute secrecy. She came back yet again. " Now say it over, to be sure that you have not forgotten." "Annabel takes chocolate with, panera'' — glibly. " Mrs. Almont ?" " I — I — why, I have forgotten. What on earth had I decided upon ?" Mrs. Manners smiled amiably. " Naturally, I used to forget at first. Now think." She put her finger to her lip. "Ah! sherry cobbler; and I must say that I hate those things — " "Mamma!" " Oh, I won't change; I am too much of a lady for that. Dear Mrs. Manners, you may count upon me." « T »» " No, we won't forget. Au revoir until this evening." The door finally closed. CHAPTER XXX. Lara Belvini was an engaged artist, and the deference paid her at breakfast was considerable. She had only twenty- four hours in which to "get up" her part; so all the students determined to help her. Many abandoned their lessons for that day. The tables were cleared in the dining-room; the piano was dragged forth, and Halden voted himself accompanist, or inaestro concertatore, for the rehearsal. Every stu- dent "kindly consented to take a rdle for this occasion only." Len Urbini was " Elvino." He had already made a furore in the part, and had sung it sixty consecu- tive times. The Paolina kindly consented, for this occasion only, to do " Lisa." Frank Fay was the Alessio; Isabelle, the mother Theresa; and Sig. Marchmont, a young Englishman responding to the homely name of Walker, "kindly consented " to do his great part of the Count Rodolpho. Felsini gra- ciously condescended to the small rdle of the "no- tario," and all joined in the chorus. They commenced with Amina's scene in the first act. Lara was more frightened to sing before this array of critics and dilettanti than she ever had been when she appeared in the theatre. She came forward almost trembling, one arm outstretched, the other 264 Stage-Struck, quietly posed on her bosom, as all Aminas have done since time immemorial. Mrs. Manners cried out, " For Heaven's sake, do not make that conventional entrance ! Excuse my inter- rupting, but — " " Mrs. Manners is quite right," said Elvino. " You will see a hundred 'Aminas,* and they will all come bounding upon the stage in the same way: one arm out, the other on the bosom, tearing at it as if there was a concealed cancer." Lara plaintively observed, " I must put my arms somewhere." " Now, Lara, don't be pettish," continued Elvino. " Try again. We are your friends, and want you to score a big success." General chorus: " Urbini is right." Lara went out of the room. Halden gave the chord, and slyly struck the note of attack, to give her cour- age. Her second entrance was rather worse than the first. She was all arms, all body, all something quite out of place. Annabel looked up brightly. " May I suggest one little thing ?" Lara said eagerly, "Yes." "We are all friends, are we not ?" Chorus: " Of course." "Well, I should think so !" " Amina was amongst her friends, was she not ?" " Naturally." "Well, it is very simple. You, Lara, go out; come in, see us all here, and make the usual exclamation you would naturally make on seeing your friends. It gives you pleasure; you smile and say, * Care Stage-Struck, 265 conipagne, ' the moment you see them. You must remember you are Amina; but you must think of the sentiment of the piece as well as the notes." " She's right, by Jove !" interrupts Count Rodol- pho. " Now try, Lara; you have the idea. You are going to be married. You, Lara, are surrounded by friends; there is no such thing as a public. Amina is Lara, or vice versa, for the moment. Instead of * Good-morn- ing, Gen,' you rush in and say, * Care ' — the words, whatever they are: I do not know them." Annabel sat down, quite flushed. She would see what effect the Garcia method had. The scene was recommenced. The chorus kindly consented to, as usual, stand about in wooden groups, and the final word, " Viva /" was sung in a superb manner. As the last notes rang out, Lara appeared at the door. She seemed unconscious until she heard the voices and the cry of " Viva/" She came cheerily forward, seized Genevieve's hand, and said * Care com/agne" so naturally that the house came down. Theresa ran up, and before she knew where she was, Amina was singing, naively embracing her mother and casting joyous glances upon all the assembled friends. ** Brava ! brava! That's it. No one could be more natural or charming. If you act that way at the dibut, cara mia^ success is sure." Elvino spoke heartily. There was a general cry of " Brava !" Lara con tinued her scene, and everything went smoothly. 266 Stage-Struck, " It's all right, now that I know I am somebody else, and that somebody else was a human being, with a heart. Now, Rodolpho enters. I stand here." The stage-manager called, " Rodolpho ! Rodolpho !" "Here ! Must I sing my aria ? No. Cut that." " Not at all, Marchmont. We want to hear you sing it." " What are you all thinking of ? Not at all — not now, at least. First comes the duetto. No, first Alessio." There were screams for Alessio. Here, in scena^ the stage-director spoke out. " Give Amina her cues for the recitative; then comes the * notario.' The contract is signed; and then — then the count arrives. If I am to be stage-manager" (Carlo Lansini had already constituted himself director of the scenario)^ " things must be done in order. The contract is signed. Elvino gives Amina his podere — all he has, in fact — and Amina gives him—" " A letter for Elvino." Urbini hastily stretched out his hand and opened the paper. It was a pencil-sketch — a caricature of Lara. She was sobbing, and pointing to an immense heart pierced with an arrow. This was presented entire, on a platter, to Elvino by the villagers. Underneath were the words " // cor soltanto.^* Elvino started. Who had done it ? Impossible to go on with the rehearsal. Finally, Isabelle con- fessed to being the culprit. No sooner was this little entr'acte over than the opera continued. The two stars were in splendid Stage-Struck. 267 voice; the duetto^ ^^ Frendi TAnely* vtent to perfection. It was applauded to the echo. There was some de^ bate about taking the final top note together, in the second duo. Should it be a B flat or a high C ?'* " I think," said Mrs. Manners, conclusively, " that that point may be decided with the other tenor. If he is hoarse, you are sacrificed — it is a B flat. If you are hoarse, he is sacrificed — no high C. I have known that important point decided only in the dressing- room, with the curtain up on act first, the night of the first performance, and the audience wildly anxious. It happened — well, if you must know my authority — it happened to the Paolina the night of her great d3ut in Palermo. We were excited." " I don't wonder." Lara turned pale. Could such a calamity happen ? No; fate would be kinder. The' tenor would not be hoarse. Her high C was one of her best notes, and most tenors would die rather than miss a chance of yelling on one. She would trust to luck and the nature of the tenor. Marchmont caused a furore with his aria. He was recalled again and again; he bowed, but refused to repeat his solo. The phantom chorus was sung to such perfection that it was re-demanded. Here there was no refusal. It was executed really as only artists do sing when they sing for pleasure. They sang it a second time with even greater delight. Halden thanked his artists. " My satisfaction is indeed great," said he. There was a violent knocking at the door. Giulia, a pretty maid, came in. " Mamina has colic, and the cook has left. Mamina 268 Stage-Struck, is in bed, and Giuseppe has gone for a doctor. She says — " "Does the singing disturb her?" " Oh no," continued the maid, smiling; " she enjoys it, and her door is open. I came to tell you that she knows Miss Lara will have a great success; that you may stay in the dining-room as long as you like, and will you excuse a poor dinner for to-day ?" " Of course we will; will we not ?" General cries: "Yes, yes." " Poor Mamina ! Not very ill, I hope.?" said Mrs. Manners. " Oh, we trust not; but she suffers the tortures of the damned." Do not start. This is a common expres- sion with the dulcet Italian. " She takes spiced wine, and has hot flannels on her." Mrs. Manners looked interested. "If she gets worse, Giulia" — this in a contented tone — "let us know. I myself will nurse her." Cheru interrupted: " Yes, indeed. Mrs. Manners is such a good nurse, that it is quite worth while being ill just to have her take care of one." Cheru spoke with feeling. "For once in my life sore throat was welcome." " Nonsense, Cheru ! Stop giving taffy, and let us continue the rehearsal." The stage-manager hated interruptions. Amina entered in the scene for tlie beginning of act second, as the first is usually made into two acts. Everything went splendidly until they arrived at the finale. There was some laughter over the improvised bed for the Count. An old horse-hair sofa, top- or Stage-Struck, 269 head - heavy, sufficed for this important property. When poor Amina sang " Elvino, Elvino," and threw herself upon the couch, there was a general shriek, for Amina, sofa, and all came to grief. Happily no bones were broken, and Lara at last placed her head in the middle of the "concern," in order to finish her scene properly. The finale, ^^D'un pensiero,** would not go. Elvino threw Amina from him so many times that her legs were black and blue from constantly falling on Mamina's stone floor. Lara nearly lost patience. She had already lost her breath. "Come now," said Lansini, "this time it must go right ; this is the twelfth. Attention. We do this scene entire from the beginning. You must com- mence * Ove son.' Just imagine that life or death depends upon doing it right, and it will be a sure thing. Now, Lara, you are singing for your bread and butter — " "I wish I had some." Interruption from Isabelle. Chorus : "We are all nearly starved." " Never mind. Do this finale right, and the rest of the opera goes by itself. I remember when I sang in Reggio Emilia Giulini's home, on the anniversary of his birthday — " " Poor Carlo ! and was hissed like I don't know what," said Lara, who could not help laughing at the recollection. "Yes, hissed stoutly ; and I did not like it. I then appreciated what it was not to have rehearsed just once more ; and I do not care to have any of my compatriots treated as I was. So, when I can point 270 Stage-Striick. out the weak points, I will. This finale goes very badly." " Lara could not be hissed," said an enthusiast. "There is only one Reggio Emilia, Carlo, and you struck that. I remember they called ' Giulini, Giulini! ' You said he was dead, and you would be, too, if you didn't clear out. A nice man, that Giulini," Urbini continued. "When his father died, the rich tenor sent a pound towards his funeral, remarking that *he couldn't help bury all the dead bakers in Italy.' Still I will admit that this — " " Well, let's go on," said Carlo. '■^'' Uun pensiero' might be vastly improved." Urbini went up to the prima donna. "Come, little woman, don't look mortified. We are all here to help, to play * supers,' or anything you like ; but our Ameri- can P. D. must whitewash all of those Italians, the first night of *La Sonnambula,' at Varesi, October ist, in the year of our Lord 1875. I have spoken — " Lara sprang into scena " Ove sotiy chi siete vol'' Then she went on like a little major, singing for dear life; and the result was a finale which crowned the efforts of the day, and won genuine compliments from all of her unwearied assistants. How proud she was! The rehearsal was declared such a success that it was decided to do nothing more that afternoon. After dinner Urbini would go over the last act with her, and at ten they would meet for Signor Cheru- bini's evening party. The men started off in high glee to drink their vermouth before dining. The ladies separated, and Mrs. Manners went to poor Mamina. Stage-Struck. 27 1 Going down the Corso, " The Embryos" (to use a popular American expression for artists in the chrysa- lis) remarked upon the probable success of " La Son- nambula." Cherubini spoke. "Belvini is a perfect little jewel. Her voice is sweet, sympathetic, and she will look like a pink as Amina. It's a pity, Len, you are not to be her Elvino." Cherubini's regret seemed not very sincere. "It is a pity," Len answered coolly. "She is sure to have some ass of a tenor who will * take the stage ' when she wants it, who will snatch her high notes out of her mouth before she has them herself, and who, ten to one, will smell so of garlic that she will be ready to faint. If his hair-oil doesn't drip off into her face while she is embracing him, it will be a caution." " They have lovely voices, these Italians ; but as artists are usually recruited up from the surplus cob- blers, butchers, waiters, and grape-stampers in fair Italia, there is a heap of shop to a very small quan- tity of soap, and — no water to speak of. Ugh !" — shuddering — "singing on the stag-e in Italy is not all that it is cracked up to be." Cheru sighed as he spoke. " Nonsense. You are jealous because you have no immediate scrittura in view. This is the first time I have heard anything from you about the stage in Italy. Glean or dirty, the stage is the same in every country. The thing is to keep one's self clean while on it." Halden thought the question settled by his answer. 2/2 Stage-Struck. "Humph ! a difficult thing to do. No conundrums, Halden ; I am not up to them. My intelligence is at a very low ebb, and I am as thirsty as a stranded pike. The last top note of \h2X finale settled my hash. Let us seek the sustaining, invigorating vermouth. I will add a bitter to mine, just to keep me in coun- tenance. Have a cigar ?" Urbini was reckless. He concluded his words by drawing forth a very rusty-looking case and offering it to Cherubini. " N-no. When I smoke, I smoke a particular kind of weed." " Lord, Cheru ! don't give yourself airs. You can- not go through life on the sole reputation of having once been the first prize for beauty at Barnum's baby- show in the year One, although we all know about *a joy for ever.' Still about the weed. Life is no joke. This cigar cost — " "Ten centimes." "Oh no! Guess." "Twenty; twenty five." Len laughed. " Do you think I have struck a gold- mine or a carnival season at La Fenice ? Indeed not. These cigars for the price are not bad. I have even seen Italian noblemen smoking them." " How much ? Do not keep us in suspense," said Halden. "Well, these cost me — nothing. They are from a lot of samples sent around to the boarding-houses, where there are none but d^cave's. The retail price is two francs a hundred." CHAPTER XXXI. The boarding-house in the Corso Vitt. Emmanuele was in the rear of a double court, in the same build- ing as the Teatro Milanese. They were playing Fontana's delicious farce, "La Statua del Sor Incioda," and the whole of Milan came to laugh at the amusing piece. Just as Cheru's " picnic" came down the stairs, they met a number of the Milanese " jeunesse stage-dorey" who had come to exhibit themselves outside. Amongst them was a gentleman, Count Pertusini. He had been introduced to Isabelle in Paris as " the handsomest man of all Italy." He stopped to say " Good-evening," and begged to present his young friend, the Duke Prospero of St. Antonio, a handsome man, with infi- nite sympathy, of manner, beautiful estates, and model farms. There was only a moment in which to say a little buona sera. The Count begged permission to call; and it being granted, he stood with uplifted hat until the ladies had passed under the entrance of the theatre. Annabel looked at the young men with some curi- osity. They were a dozen in all, each one seemingly more attractive than the other, each one having an insouciant grace of manner which belongs only to the cultivated Italian. Mrs. Almont could not sufficiently express her ad- 274 Stage-Struck. miration and satisfaction. "Thank Heaven, as we must live for some time in Milan," she said, "that we shall see only good-looking people! It is half the battle. I must say that I do not dislike homely faces; but I like them better when they are handsome." " What would you have done, mamma, had I been ugly?" " Had you been ugly! Well, I am not a Spartan mother; but there is one of their distinguishing cus- toms which I always admired." " What are you two talking about ?" Genevieve Raynal was curious. "Oh, nothing! Only a little scheme of mamma's, which would have taken place had I been different in form and color. Think of it: I might have been drowned at birth!" " The canal is not far off," suggested Cheru. "We cannot well spare you; but to oblige mamma, we might even now rectify her little failing of — how many years ago did you say?" "Sweet sixteen. I shall never be much older." Annabel laughed as she spoke. She did not, however, look even that. She was tall — almost too tall; broad-shouldered, with a head which none could outrival for beauty. Her eyes were truly marvellous, a gray-blue, with black lashes, mak- ing a hedge of shadow quite over the clear iris — luminous, soft, seductive eyes, which even the child passing in the street tried a second time to look into. Her forehead was low; her hair a golden brown. Her brows were arched and round, a little darker than her hair. Her skin was pale, tinted sometimes with a St age-Struck. 275 shade of rose. Her profile was perfectly Greek; the head viewed from the crown to the chin being quite egg-shaped. It was the most beautiful, most perfect head imaginable. No wonder the maestro called her " Annabellina." The young people were gayly chatting, when sud- denly Cheru, who was with Isabelle, stopped. No one noticed the movement but his companion. "What is it?" she asked. "Good Heavens! I have forgotten my purse. I must go back." "Go back? Never! It brings bad luck. Here, take mine. It is all the same. Say nothing about it." "No, no; I will go back." " Nonsense! Airs with me? Take it." " Well, if you insist. How much money is there in it?" " Happy thought! But I guess there is enough. The change from a louis — something like seventeen francs left." He counted on his fingers. "Oceans!" said he con- tentedly, slipping the purse into his pocket. As usual, once in the Galleria, they gave full fling to their spirits. Such loud healthy voices! such screams of laughter! Then they made a descent upon Cafe Bifii, seizing upon the best tables, driving old habitues out of favorite corners, appropriating chairs, arrang- ing themselves to their perfect convenience, and, in fact, taking absolute possession, as they usually did, of the entire place. Signor Cherubini was lordly. When he tried to give himself airs, no one in the colony succeeded better. 276 Stage-Struck, His politeness was overwhelming. He urged this thing and that upon his guests with the recklessness of a millionaire. In no case, however, was the order of things changed. Several were invited to sup, but they held firm to their pious fraud. " You are sure, quite sure," he asked, " that you would not like a hot supper? Roast chicken, a quail on toast — anything that you can think of. Pray or- der. It is quite impossible for me to know what is your taste. What ! chocolate with panera only ! Well, if you insist, of course. Waiter — ahem — ahem — " Then the orders were given. How perfectly loyal those students were, to be sure ! Annabel whispered to her mother, " Just think of the excitement had any one taken him at his word — *a hot supper '!" Mrs. Almont raised her eyebrows, looked at Cheru, but said nothing. She even remembered to call for a " sherry cobbler." The effort was intense, as she was not one of those women who lend themselves with facility to any trifle of this sort. On the contrary, she was hard to manage; but since her arrival in Milan her character seemed completely changed. She was pliable, yielding, interested in little things, and really made herself generally agreeable. Mrs. Stanley was quite like Isabelle. Frank, simple, one of the girls, in fact. The highest possible Compli- ment had been paid both ladies by the gentlemen. Their society was as much sought after as that of the younger women; and " the boys" fought for the honor of offering an arm to Mrs. Stanley or Mrs. Almont. Halden this evening was the cavalier of the former. Stage-Struck, 277 " Those two mothers are bricks." Halden had said it; and that settled it. The Galleria is a magnificent gallery or promenade built to the right of the great Duomo. There is an octagon centre or nave, with dome, lighted by a cir- cular row of gas-jets. It is amusing to watch the "little man" or engine run around and light the burn- ers. Crowds come every night to see this. To the simple peasant this railroad of electricity is enigmati- cal, in short, an infernal machine. He watches with eyes starting from their sockets, then turns on his heel when all is finished, and walks away almost mum- bling ^^ Avez." He thinks he has had a narrow escape from being blown up. It is very wonderful, but he does not understand it. His education has never gone beyond whale-oil or the tallow-dip. Signor Cheru and his guests were enjoying them- selves thoroughly. Conversation was musical, as usual. " I am afraid," said Lara, laughing, " that he will smell of garlic. Most singers do. But it is good for the voice." She was still thinking of her d^but " Good!" shrieked Cheru. "Any man, any gentle- man who respects himself will not go on the stage smelling of — I shall not pronounce the word. It makes my mouth taste bad." "But they do not respect themselves," said Halden, as he knocked the ashes from his cigarette. " Italy is not London, or another country." /* What is your idea of the stage on the Continent, Mr. Halden, or anywhere, in fact?" Mrs. Almont spoke with unusual interest. 278 Stage-Struck. "My idea? Why, certainly. I will tell you. Ig- norance, not immorality, is the bane of the stage. In Italy and France ladies and gentlemen do not go upon the stage. They would choose any other career in preference, because in many cases it is but a mere cloak for something else. This is especially so in these countries with the women who go on the stage. Their talent is ;///, and their capacity for learning ^ niller.' But they find the boards a capital mart for tlie display of their personal charms. Artists, indeed ! The word is degraded. Many can scarcely read or write; but they can kick with appropriate gesture; can sing a vulgar chanson with a suspicion of double entente. They are paid scarcely enough to buy their shoes, and yet no lily-of-the-valley toils less and spends more. The daughter of a butcher or a con- cierge has a pretty face. The mother is ambitious and poor. She sees one of her neighbors' girls rolling in her carriage, and the neighbor herself no longer obliged to wake up for * Cordon^ s'il vous plait.' * Why,* she asks, ' should not I and my daughter be as lucky?' So, according to her ideas, she educates her child for the stage. When her offspring is fifteen, she takes her to a manager, who engages her. Sometimes he falls in love with her himself, sometimes he hopes that one of his rich patrons will. Anyhow, he calculates upon her pretty face proving an attraction to his theatre. The line of demarca- tion, you know, between virtue and vice is slighter on the stage than off it. Virtue is its own reward, they say; and there is no reason in this country why a woman should be virtuous upon the stage. She Stage-Struck, 279 never has the credit of it, and is classed with all the others." Mrs. Almont was amazed. " Do you mean to say- that—" " Yes, she is classed with everybody else. One asks, * Who is so and so ?' * Oh, she is an artist,* is the an- swer. If you make any inquiry into her private char- acter, eyebrows are raised, and the only response is a shrug of the shoulders." " And how about the men ?" asked Mrs. Almont. " The men ?" Halden responded, lifting his voice. " The wisdom of nations tells us that a beggar on horseback will ride to the devil; but where the successful tenor or baritone rides to, history saith not." There was a general protest from the men. " Come, come, Halden, let up," said Len. " We are all in the same boat." " No, no; let him go on," said Mrs. Almont. "You know present company is always excepted. Besides, I want to hear what he thinks about this musical business." " Well, as you really wish to hear, Mrs. Almont, I don't mind if I do. When Nature bestows a voice upon a man, she usually takes mighty good care that he shall be no further her debtor. A more vain, ca- pricious, exacting, pretentious, silly, insolent, weak, vacillating, unreasoning, tricky, boastful, affected, finikin, ridiculous, mincing, simpering, tedious, sick- ening, disagreeable, disgusting, ostentatious, vaunt- ing, bragging, bouncing, crowing, petulant, conceited, swaggering, supercilious — " 28o Stage-Struck. ** Halden, for Heaven's sake," interrupted Cheru, "hire a hall and give us a rest!" "Thanks. Yes; when I have finished. This is my funeral, and I am bound to see this corpse safe through. I am not exaggerating one bit, Mrs. Al- mont. As for the women, they have but one theme: how many stalled asses they have mashed; how their tights fit; and whether they are too pale or too red. The men's conversation, too, is limited to how many ladies of rank are in love with them; how many billets- doux they have from married women; and their general amiability in doing unsuitable parts just to oblige the management. I don't ask artists, while on the stage, to seize the stage-waits as an opportunity to explain molecules or protoplasms; but I would sometimes like to run across a human being behind the footlights who has a mind, a thought, an idea a little beyond or above them. An intelligent person suffers more, morally, while on the stage — " " Well, that's cool, Halden. None of us has ever yet accused you of having suffered," Urbini laugh- ingly continued. " The coat does not fit; we will none of us wear it. You are taking exceptions for the rule. Americans are different." "Some of them. But you have prize-fools amongst even them. For instance, you remember that good- looking coxcomb, Vernon, who called himself Verdini on the stage ? Well, we were in the same company. For one hundred nights he rushed on, with the words * Cesare hai vifito,' He regularly brought down the house. One night he came up to me behind the scenes, and said, 'What do I mean when I sing, Stage-Striick. 281 " Cesar e hai vinto' ? Who's Cesare ? What had he vinto'd}' * Well, 'I said, * do you mean to say that you don't know the plot of the opera you are singing in?' * Plot! 'he shrieked; 'what's that to me ? I learn the words and the music, never miss a rehearsal and Rubini himself couldn't do more! ' I longed to tell him — " " No ?" General chorus. "Yes," said Cheru, scoffingly; "you longed to tell him, of course — tell him wrong. Vengeance! An- other baritone." " No danger of that," said Paolina, cheerfully. " Halden was up in the part, lying in wait for him to fall ill." " Exactly. So that I could replace him at a mo- ment's notice. I am always watching a chance for a rise in my profession. Verdini was first, I was but second, baritone." Isabelle spoke. " I pity you, if those are your only chances of a rise. Verdini enjoys the much-despised but rude and vigorous health of the quadruped known in zoology as the donkey." " So I have discovered," he said resignedly. It was past midnight. Mrs. Almont looked like going. Cheru called in a loud voice for his bill. " Subito^ signorey The waiter disappeared, and came back with a strip of paper on a silver salver. Cheru nonchalantly laid down the bill and took out his purse. All eyes were upon him. He felt the im- portance of his position, as the host of so successful a picnic. With the air of an owner of an Emma mine he drew out his purse. It would not open, Hq 282 St age-Struck. pinched the lock, shaking it, thumbing it this way, then that; coaxing first one side, then the other. In vain: it remained securely fastened. The polite waiter eyed him in amazement, and other waiters drew near. People at other tables looked interested, and his own party shouted in chorus, "Oh, Cheru can't open his own pocket-book!" Cheru reddened. His large black eyes dilated — those eyes which had wheedled the prize for beauty from Barnum's show in the year One; his silken dark mustache twitched unconsciously with annoy- ance. It was useless; he could not master the intri- cacies of the purse. He explained somewhat inco- herently. " How strange! Those new-fangled spring fasten- ings! This purse is new, you see. The — the man where I bought it" — he kept swallowing down an in- visible something — " showed me how it opened; but" ^ — raising his voice — " I have forgotten how it opens! Here, some one try. I give up!" Cheru threw it on the table, and exhaustedly turned away. The affair was getting serious. Strangers boldly came up to look; the waiters approached, grinning; while the taciturn pocket-book was gravely passed around from one to the other, but still declined to open. Isabelle was suffocating with suppressed laughter. When it came to her turn, the excitement had reached its critical point, and it was all that she could do not to betray herself. "Let me see." She took it in her hand. " Why, yours is just like that, Isabelle," interrupted Mrs. Stanley. Stage-Struck, 283 "Do you think so, mamma?" — coolly. There cer- tainly is a resemblance. Let me see" — turning it over. " Here. No. Yes, Vittoria. Ah!" She hand- ed it to Cheru. Len spoke up. " Brava! She has opened it!" There was a general shriek. " Well, Cheru, I pity the pickpocket who strikes that purse; it is more tricky than the lock of a Her- ring safe. I began to fear that we should have to make up an — a collection." At the conclusion of his words there was universal relief. The suspense had been terrible; but Isabelle and even Cheru himself joined in the fun. The waiter had a glorious tip, and extra cigars were absolutely thrust upon " the boys." Cheru and Isabelle kept their secret well, and none of the "picnic" ever sus- pected the truth about that pocket-book. CHAPTER XXXII. Annabel went daily to the maestro's, where her lessons followed each other with clock-like precision. She grew more and more enamoured of Milan and her studies. The days flew by until the twenty-first, the evening of the great court ball to the German Emperor The American consul had kindly provided Mrs. Stan- ley, Isabelle, and the Almonts with invitations; so nothing would do but they must go. Annabel had never been to court, and Isabelle had only seen the Elysee balls under the McMahon presi- dency. Milan was gay with splendidly dressed strangers; the theatres were full; the Corso and Galleria were crowded from morning till night with an ever-moving mass. A few days before there had been a royal procession throughout the city. Old Kaiser William, Vittorio Emanuele, and his son Humbert, the crown prince, with all of the Emperor's suite and the court officials, were in superb equipages, drawn by gayly caparisoned horses. On a most beautiful October day this splendid pageant passed through the principal streets of Milan. Mrs. Stanley had decorated her apartment. Isabelle, Genevieve, Annabel, her mother, the Manners* — in fact, nearly all the Americans — were grouped in the windows. The sight from the house was grand. Stage-Struck. 285 As the royal cortege passed, superb bouquets were thrown into the carriages. The royalties kept con- stantly smiling and bowing. Behind them came the equipages loaded with civic and military dignitaries. No two uniforms were alike; but every breast was covered with glittering medals and decorations, as though each man had saved his country at least a hundred times. The Corso was alive as in carnival-time. Nature smiled; the whole city -^diS, en fete to welcome with right royal magnificence two great and popular sover- eigns. The night before the ball there were difesta da notte and a great dinner at the palace. About ten in the evening the royalties came out on the balcony to salute the people. Thousands upon thousands were in the streets, and the square in front of the Palazzo was packed with a dense mass of human beings. The city was illuminated, but Xh^ pihe de resistance was the lighting up with Bengal lights of the great Gothic cathedral, which, with its world of statues, its mina- rets, and its frosty tracery, stood out like some dream of Michael Angelo; first in red, white, and then the last of the Italian colors ran like emerald serpents in the starry sky. This was the climax of the evening. Even the Emperor stood until the last gleam had died out. The Duomo, always the most fascinating and beau- tiful of Gothic temples, was so transformed as to be indescribable. One could but look and admire, speechless. The next day was the court ball at the Palazzo Reale. Mrs. Stanley was too ill to think of going, as S86 StageStriLck. married ladies in Italy must always wear low dresses at court. She had a terrible cold, and dressing di- colletd was quite out of the question. Isabelle was in despair until she found that Mrs. Randall and Mrs. Almont both promised to play ball- mother to her. The question of dress had weighed heavily on the minds of all. Isabelle, in honor of the colony, had a special gown of white satin, made in Marguerite fashion, looped up with white silver cord and tassels; while Annabel was to wear pale pink crepe and moss-roses. On the eventful evening the rain poured in torrents so that the streets had become rivers of mud. At ten, however, the carriage was ready, and off they started. The rain-storm had by this time grown into a tempest. It was almost laughable to see the glum faces and rich toilets under the portico of Palazzo Reale. Annabel never remembered how she got upstairs, what with the mass of people, the noise, and the move- ment. Some one snatched her wraps; a ticket was given her; a gentleman in magnificent uniform offered his arm first to Mrs. Almont, then another took her, and another Isabelle. Annabel was ushered straight across an immense room. The floor was so waxed that she had hard work not to fall, for she was not used to court ball-rooms. Isabelle was soon installed in a high, square, mag- nificent chair next an aisle; Annabel was put in one of the same kind directly opposite; and Mrs. Almont was beside her daughter. They sat bolt upright, scarce daring to move for fear of doing something outri. Isabelle, who had been to one of McMahon's Stage-Struck, 287 balls at the Elysee in Paris, was considered authority on the subject; but here she felt herself a novice. She had just time to whisper to Annabel before they were finally settled. She said, " I guess that real royal balls, with real kings and queens, are different. The one I saw was in a re- public, you know; and the wisest thing for us to do here is to follow exactly what everybody else does. Then we cannot be wrong." Annabel quietly acquiesced, while Mrs. Almont nodded affirmatively. She was too clever even to trust herself to open her mouth. One word might ruin them. She remembered two old schoolmates in her youth who had discussed their relative cleverness. "The difference between you and me, Bill," said one to the other, " is this: I am a fool, and know it. You are a fool, and don't know it." The ball took place in the beautiful " Salone delle Caryatidir It is perhaps the most famous of the beautiful ball-rooms of Europe. A gallery which runs around the room was filled with a mass of people, dressed as though they were the gods of a popular theatre; and the contrast was startling between them and the grandly attired below. Annabel was about to call her mamma's attention to this, when the sight of Isabelle fairly appalled her. She had thrown up her head, and swept the full length of her satin train out in front of her. A courtier had provided her with a footstool; her Louis Quinze heels already dented the tapestry. One elbow lay laconi- cally on the arm of her chair; her hand held her open fan, and her bouquet on her lap was utterly neglected. 288 Stage-Struck, She saw nothing, nobody; her face wore an air of absolute indifference. Her manner was one of com- plete unconcern. She looked as insouciante as though she had passed her life at court balls. Annabel was still staring at her, when a band of music struck up. Isabelle's expression changed. She forgot herself long enough to look eager. She did not stir in her seat, however. All at once she saw everybody rise. The bands were playing the royal hymn. The King and Emperor were entering, followed by the royal party. Annabel and her mamma were getting uneasy; but they waited for Isabelle. At the last moment she gave them an indescribable look, and the three arose almost simultaneously. When the royal party were seated, and the band had stopped, Isabelle unbent. She went so far as to lean over and to speak across the aisle. "I flatter myself that we managed that pretty well. I defy anybody to know that this is our first, very first royal ball !" • Annabel answered with a smile? She and her mother looked at each other. They dared not trust themselves to speak as yet. In a moment the opening quadrille was danced by the royal party and the court; then everybody danced. The floor was covered by flying figures and a mass of brilliant uniforms. No two toilets were alike; all were gorgeous, and designed seemingly to outrival each other for richness and taste. In a short time there was a pause in the dancing. A beautiful Englishwoman whom Isabelle had met in r Stage-Struck. 289 Paris came up to them. She brought some Italians to present. They saw Mrs. Randall and family close to the royal party, and it was decided to attempt to get near them. Chevalier Batgim took Annabel; Isabelle had Duke Prospero's arm; and in a moment they were in a circle surrounding the King and the Emperor. "This is just lovely!" said Isabelle. She was crowded, crushed, flushed, and decidedly uncomforta- ble; but it would never do to say so. Annabel was stifled, and her face wore an agonized smile. She had more standing-room in a moment, and could then better appreciate the honor of being crushed in order to look at kings and queens. She would even have had her dress torn into fragments, rather than have missed the chance of seeing the lovely Princess Margherita of Savoy, of whom she had heard so much. The Princess looked particularly happy. She was leaning forward, bending her blonde head with the gracious movement and unconscious little air of coquetry habitual to her. Her eyes flashed like stars, and her white skin looked like the petal of a rose. Around her throat were almost countless strings of superb pearls, for her husband had presented her with a fresh set every birthday since her marriage* She was wearing them all. Annabel never tired of looking at her, she was so fresh, so innocent, so intel- ligent. Her dress was of blue crepe garnished with lilies and rare lace floating about her like a cloud in Sorrento's skies. She seemed to be enjoying herself to the utmost, 290 Stage-Struck. But she was evidently getting a little tired. The King spoke to her. She shook her head. He spoke again, smiled, and said, ^^ Ma cornel SiV Then he turned to an aide and spoke a word. Annabel soon knew what it was all about. A superb broidered cushion was brought, and his Majesty himself knelt and placed it beneath the Princess's feet. It was done with such grace that Annabel for the first time regretted that she was not a royal lady, with a king ready to wait upon her — and such a king ! Who did not admire him ? It was easy to see that Victor Emmanuel had great affection for his daughter-in-law. Isabelle had also watched the proceeding. She whispered to Anna- bel, " It may not be etiquette, but I must stare at her. And those feet ! Did you ever see anything so tiny ? Quite Cinderella-like, with slippers — blue satin to match her dress, of course — and lace open-work stock- ings the very shade of the slippers. And those buckles ! What diamonds !" The Princess turned as the Emperor came to speak to her. As she moved, a frill of lace just stirred away from the stocking, and one saw such an ankle ! round and slender. She could certainly have worn her bracelet on it. ** I don't wonder she wanted a cushion," said Isabelle. " It is worth coming to the ball just to see her sitting there as she is. A perfect picture of grace and loveliness from head to foot." They could not stand for ever in the royal circle. Annabel was asked to dance, but declined. It seemed Stage-Struck. 291 as though she would be making a spectacle of her- self. Amidst all the light and glitter her heart, some- how, was heavy. She kept constantly thinking of Brakenston. What would she not give to see him ! Her reverie was interrupted. Mrs. Randall pre- sented the English consul, Mr. Nelson, a great and distinguished writer named Kenniston, and a friend of his, Captain Williams, whom everybody already knew in Milan. He was mad on the subject of artists and music, and was called " Billy" by his intimates. They were soon discussing everything and everybody — the King; the Emperor William; the belle of the ball, the lovely Countess Dal Verni; the great Sicilian beauty, Princess Paterna; the tall, distinguished, and elegant Duchess of Mount Lion; and the host of beautiful women so well known in Milanese high life. There was an unusually brilliant array of titles and myriads of flashing jewels. Annabel was bewildered. She never could have imagined that there were so many princes or such long names in the world. She thought she would like a rest. She said to her partner, "If there is a plain 'mister' here, pray point him out. My head turns with so much nobility." Batgim laughed. " Oh, you Americans; you frank Americans! Yet you all adore titles. Why? This is a pretence on your part, is it not, saying your head turns with so many nobles ? Why do all Americans like titles? Pray answer me." " It is very simple, chevalier. We are still a race of savages, and, like many aboriginals, are naturally suspicious. We like the best and to know the best in 292 Stage-Struck. our own country. You yourselves have put the label on that which you consider the best. Your kings, your sovereigns, naturally take precedence. Then come your titles. We do not know; we have to take your word for it. In Europe, people bow down to titles and position. We are too clever to come over here and not let people see that we do exactly as others do. We merely follow your lead. Thinking that your ideas of distinction are quite good enough for us, naturally we also bow down to your choice. We are also obliged to, for another reason." " Another reason ! If it be like the preceding, I have no answer ready; but let me hear it." "We distinctly object to being taken for Commu- munists. Revolutionists, Nihilists, or Socialists. Nat- urally, there is but one thing left for us to be — in Italy we all are — Monarchists." The chevalier bowed. "Ah, signorina, that is in- deed amiable; but, c'est /gal^ you Americans don't need titles. You come to Europe to reign, — all queens as in America, — and to break our hearts." Batgim sighed — sighed and looked tenderly at her. Annabel politely ignored the glance and the sigh. " Not I " — stoutly. " I have not come to Italy to break any one's heart. I — I have not time." " You have not time ?" — laughingly. " That is amusing. Why, what should occupy such an angelo as yourself but being always pretty, going to balls and theatres, and then thinking of marrying some good parti? Yet you say that you have no time, Pray, what do you dp ?" ♦* I studjr." Stage-Strtick. 293 " Study ! Study what ? I do not understand." " I study singing. I am going to be an artist. In fact, I came to Milan to study for the stage. I am going to be an opera-singer." He dropped her arm as if she had stung him. He fell back and stared at her. " Impossible ! You — you go on the stage ! Why — you are a lady !" He then begged to know if she were not jesting. She assured him of her sincerity. " I refuse to believe you. I shall not believe you; it hurts my feelings." She laughed. " Oh, if you look at it in that light, let us drop the subject. I could not bear to hurt your feelings. And — and, besides, you have hurt mine, speaking in that way about going on the stage." " Billy" came up at this moment. "For all our sakes, don't mention * stage* or you will get me started. By the way," half dropping his voice, " I got a 'gram before I came to the ball. It's about your little compatriot * Sonnambula;' first act grand success for Amina. Baritone an — asino, and tenor—?" " I wonder," she said musingly, " if he let her take her top note in peace ?" " Poor thing ! He took his in pieces — so my friend says. Crack — positive rupture; and on an ordinary B flat. It was too heart-rending. What's this ? The royal hymn ? Oh, now they are going to make a tour of the ball-room. Stop just where you are, and you can see all of the royalties to perfection. Aston- ishing man, that old Emperor. He is hale and as hearty as — as I am." 294 Stage-Struck. There was the general crush of people trying to get nearer the Court; the masters of ceremony clear- ing the way for the royal cortege; stirring music from the band; the Princess Margherita on the Emperor's arm; the King escorting the Duchess of Genova; and the princes and the suite of court officials passing in a beautiful and imposing file. Then they disappeared through the great doors, and preparations were made for the cotillon. The great English writer, presented by " Billy," took Annabel towards the buffet. They got within about twenty yards of it, then gave up. Isabelle soon appeared, radiant. " What would I not give for a glass of my favorite Geldermann! Count Pertusini," alluding to her cavalier, " says when you are really thirsty there's nothing like good champagne. My dear," squeezing Annabel's arm, " is not the Count handsome ?" "Yes; but — they are all so handsome, those Ital- ians." " Not much like the boys in the boarding-home," continued Isabelle. " N— no," said Annabel; " but I think I prefer the boys." Mrs. Almont was happy on the arm of a marquis, a Knight of Malta. They got on uncommonly well together; neither could speak to the other. She did not even feel hungry. Such a beautiful ball ! Why did they come to the buffet i Isabelle continued: "I am having a lovely time. Just think of my luck ! Did you see me with that blond officer? A German count on the Emperor's Stage-Strnck. ±g^ staff. He gravely presented me his sovereign's com- pliments, saying that I was the only lady who, out of compliment to them, wore the ancient court dress of Germany, I was much amused. Of course I had no such settled thought when I ordered my dress; but I. did not tell him so. What a joke ! Shall we stop for the german ?" " No," said Mrs. Almont, severely. " You may look on a little, if you like; but Annabel cannot, must not dance, you know." There was an awful pause. ** Danc- ing is bad for the voice." Mrs. Almont suddenly remembered her duties as chaperon. It would be quite inconsistent with her dignity to permit the girls everything. They re- turned for a moment to the ball-room, and in another hour were on the cold stone stairs, waiting for their carriage. The rain was still pouring in torrents. Coachmen were looking sullen and sleepy from under their rub- ber visors. Footmen, yelling, rushed back and forth; and finally Mrs. Almont's carriage came up : and so ended their first royal ball. Going home in the rain ! Very unpoetic, very dis- agreeable ; doubly so, after the light and warmth of a ball-room. But even royal pleasures rarely last into the next day. CHAPTER XXXIII. The day after the ball Annabel felt as if all had not been couleur de rose. She could never forget her partner's astonished look when he dropped her arm, and said, " Gn the stage ? You ? Impossible ! You are a lady." The words rang and re-rang in her ears. She recounted the scene to her mother and to the Stanleys. They were sitting in Isabelle's little draw- ing-room, discussing the ball, and Annabel hoped to hear that the chevalier's opinion was not general throughout Italy. Isabelle looked up, and answered calmly. " You are not clever, my dear. I have discovered in Italy that ladies and gentlemen rarely or never go on the stage ; when they do, they have a genteel letting-alone ever after. Catch me at a court ball talking shop. Hav- ing discovered the level of their idea of respectability, and being myself utterly incompetent to reform so- ciety, I simply say nothing about my singing. I do iiot think less of myself. I am only — " "Only ashamed to stand up for your profession," Annabel interrupted in an indignant tone. " It amounts to about that here," she said coolly. " The fact is, I am not at all sure that I shall go on the stage. You have not heard and seen what I have, and you cannot judge so well. Coming to Italy is the Stage-Struck. 297 shortest and quickest route for disenchantment. I may go on the stage, because I should be ashamed to back out after having gone so far ; but, had I thought of it, I would have warned you before the ball not to speak of your intended career. You should not have mentioned opera-singing." " I shall never be ashamed to stand up for my art." "Don't be silly, Annabel. Artists get on well enough together in their own world ; but their special ambition is to persuade themselves that they are equally great and equally run after in the fashion- able world. They are not in it, my dear, and never will be. Artists are generally invited to great houses simply to amuse their hosts. They are paid for their services, as are any other hirelings. No one inquires into their private lives. The guests are civil to them, stare at them like flies in amber, and are never inti- mate, except in the hope of getting them to sing for nothing, or of having free tickets to the theatres. Try as they will, they never really get into society, but are always looked upon as artists, and remain out- siders." Mrs. Almont began to look uneasy. "My dear Isabelle — " "Yes." " Suppose we drop the subject. You and Annabel cannot agree." "Willingly. We don't agree. We will drop the subject." Annabel was still unconvinced. Just then a package of American newspapers was brought in. At the same moment Miss Weiss, coming 298 Stage-Struck. to pay Annabel a visit, had decided to hunt her up at Isabel's, rather than go away without seeing her. She brought in a letter from the consulate addressed to Mrs. Almont, the " special correspondent of the Bloomingdale Mercury'' The journals were opened, and she was about to read her letter when Isabelle burst out : " Listen, do. Here is an account of Violet Vanessa singing in Italy, and I must read it aloud. Annabel interrupted: "Who is Vanessa? Is she singing now ?" Alice alone could answer. "She has not sung since her debut at Genoa. A friend wrote that notice; I saw it before it went into print. Her first appearance was at Piacenza. She paid to sing. At Genoa she sang for nothing, but was to have a benefit. She only ap- peared three times ; then there was a cabal against her and she had to leave town. Since then she has studied with Lamperti, and now has no more voice at all." "Poor thing!" said Isabelle. "But how impolite we are ! Mrs. Almont, I am sure you are dying to read your letter." Mrs. Almont broke the seal. " Oh, how curious !'* Then she paused. " Annabel, I have made a mistake. This is intended for you." She handed it to her. " I suppose it is from some one who thinks that you are the foreign correspondent." " Dear mamma, Isabelle, it is from a lady whom I have never seen, who asks my advice about going on the stage. The letter comes from the far West. Listen. Stage-Struck, 299 " 'Miss Annabel Almont — Dear Friend, " * Having seen and read many of your artacles in the Art Journal, I am anxious to obtain through you infirmation in refirence to the method of vocal training in Europe, with a view that possably i might place myself under instructions at the hands of some of the masters of vocal training in Milan. " * The first item of infirmation of prime importance is the real ability of the teachers in that place to de- velup the pupils:* " "That girl is no fool," Isabella interrupted. "Perhaps not; but every second word is misspelled. She writes * develup.' " She continued : " * And of course the expense of vocal and dramatic culture, also instruction in the French and Italian languagies, and living taken into the account — ' " "Yes, living is rather an important item," inter- rupted Mrs. Stanley. " I wonder if she intended to starve — " " * As compaired to the French schools, could you give me such infirmation without to great inconve- niance to yourself ? It will be highly apreciated by me, as I intend placing myself under the instruction of the most competent master I can find. "*I think I should do so in view of the unexpected develupment of my voice within the last few months, under the very imperfect and unsatisfactory training of teachers here, it having attained the compas of (3) three octaves and three notes, reaching high F clearly and with perfect ease, and low C in the bass. Any 300 Stage-Struck. sugestion from you will be kindly received and highly apreciated. " * I may be compeled to come alone. If so, how- could I get along in that great Babel of the wourld ? I fear; I trembel when I think of it. I am informed you have your mother with you. What a comfort and pertection she must be to you! Inclosed you will find a critic from the Inter-Ocean. I have sang in several concerts scince, and have been highly received from the audience. 7 bouquets, i basket of flowers, and a laurel wreath for my head.' " " My word, did she expect it was for her heels ?" "Isabelle, don't interrupt, please." Continuing: " * My head. I came very near going then and there to Italy, but defered it uritill some more faverable time. " * With Heavens help, I hope to accomplish myself in this respect. Send me an answer as soon as con- venient to you, and all the infirmation you can. You don't know how anxiously I look for the journal every Sabbath on acct of the musical reports and your very interesting artacles. I must bid you good night, as it is bed-time, and I am somewhat ty-ard, while I re- main, Yours truly, " * Tarasa dil Vino (Smith). " * P.S. — My respects to your Dear Mother. Perhaps she will remember me for we were introduced at Sig- nor Frenzi's music sooriis. " * Please return the critic for me. It's all I have from the /. O, Direct to P. O., box 19,000, Cook Co., III., U.S.A." Stage-Struck., 301 Annabel looked up and colored. " This is so strange. I really don't know what to say. Besides, mamma should answer, not I." " Give me the letter," said Isabelle. " Ah! this is bad spelling. However, that's nothing. I have seen the time I could not spell either. That time is now. But she may have a fine voice ior all that. Answer at once, and tell her to come." " Oh no ! I could not honestly do that.** Mrs. Almont thought it quite time to interfere. " You are wrong" — promptly. " Tell her just what Milan is like, and as there are only a thousand P. D.'s without engagements, let her take her chances. Be- sides, she is now incurable. A girl convinced that her voice is so extraordinary is ready for anything. She would make any sacrifice to get on the stage. Besides, she has studied with Signer Frenzi, and that settles it. He has broken up more homes than any other singing-teacher on the American continent." " If she comes," said Alice, " she must go to the master. I will tell him of her to-morrow." " Dear Alice, don't think of such a thing," said Isa- belle. " He will tremble so that he will break his bed down. The idea of -teaching such a voice! No, no, do not raise up false hopes. She may not wish to study with him." Mrs. Almont rose to go. Isabelle's last words made her smile; while Annabel unconsciously re-read her letter. "Come, Annabel; I have decided. I will answer in a general letter to the Art Journal — my paper" — proudly. "Then, if she comes, well and good; ther§ 302 Stage-Struck. is room for all. There will be one more American, with a marvellous voice, in Milan, the greatest music centre in all the world. A lovely ball, was it not ? I got on splendidly with the marquis. I do adore the dress of the Knights of Malta. What a pity I spoke no French, and he no English! — but that is a mere bagatelle. In high society one always gets on. The universal language of sympathy and politeness is quite comprehensive enough for me. I must go. Come, Annabel. Good-by. We shall meet to-mor- row at the maestro's." CHAPTER XXXIV. A MOMENT came of terrible impecuniosity amongst the students. No supplies from home, no scritture^ and no more valuables left to pawn. With all of this Mamina grew worse, and felt she should have to give up the boarding-house. The poor woman was so ill she had to retire from business, and the pensione threatened falling into strange hands. Six weeks had passed since the ball. Annabel had continued her lessons with unflagging vigor. There was good news from home. Her father was better; and kind Uncle Jim had written, expressing himself as very proud of his clever little niece. A letter came from Victor Angel. It was short but concise: "Dear Miss Almont: " To my joy, I am on the eve of leaving Paris. My teacher is a fool, so I must quit him. My friends agree with me that my voice was made for certain r6les. He refuses to teach them to me, so I start for Milan to-morrow. Do have them keep a room for me at the boarding-house Americana. I have a world of things to tell you. Hope you are both well and happy. I feel staving, now that I have decided to leave my master. By the way, his method was begin- ning to pall upon me. I used to commence my lesson by singing F, with my right arm up over my head; 304 Stage-Struck, then G with my left up; then A flat with both arms up. Then I put my hands behind me to take the ex- treme upper notes. After that I had to lie full length on a marble slab, flat on my back, and sing my hard- est airs, just to see how the voice worked while the body was in perfect repose. Frenetica pretends that the great development of the voice goes on while we sleep, or while our bodies are etendues full length. He is the rage now in Paris, and, to prove it, he has just bought a villa at Asnieres. I liked some things about him, but I hated the slab trick. Besides 'bust- ing ' all of my best clothes, I felt as if I were at the Morgue. Blessed if I have not had a genteel suffi- ciency of the full-length method and of Paris teachers! "Good-by, and Heaven bless you! My high C is not quite as strong as it was. " With sincere regards, " Your friend and admirer, " Victor Angel." "Well — well — well !" Annabel folded up her let- ter. There was a rap at the door, and nearly a dozen of the students appeared, headed by Mrs, Manners. " My dear, Mamina goes home to live with her niece, an Italian marchioness," she said. "She is too ill to keep on. Mr. Fay, who has lost his voice and can't sing any more, so as not to be out of employ- ment, has consented to run the boarding-house. We are so glad, as we were all in danger of starving. There is to be a complete change in all arrange- ments, and Christmas night there is to be a house- warming." \ Stage-Struck, 305 This was December the 23d. Fay was looked upon as a wholesale preserver. The following day the changes were effected. A musical student in Milan could do without a great many things in order to save money. He starved his body and went without fire in winter weather in order to pay some charlatan of a teacher for two lessons a day of an hour each, instead of one. Garcia, Trivulsi, Viardot, Leonard, in fact, all the great teachers, refuse to give more than three or four hour-lessons during the week; but in Italy there are many masters who insist that two lessons a day are absolutely necessary for any one who hopes to become an opera-singer. The only result is that pupils spoil their voices and fill the pockets of these harpies. It takes any throat three years to know what to do. Two lessons a day cannot hasten the mechanical part of learning to sing. Even singing an hour daily for a consecutive month may seriously impair the quality of the most beautiful voice. Annabel went regularly to the maestro, but she did not always study. She was his pet, his dear Annabel- lina. No pains were too great for him to take with her. The house was like her own home. The sig- nora loved her. Marietta was her devoted slave, and Federico fairly worshipped her. The instant she darkened the door the little birds flew to greet her, and she would often take them chirping into her hand. Then, when the lesson was finished, she would sit for hours by the old man's bedside. Not unfrequently did both mother and daughter 3o6 Stage-Struck, join in their humble meal; and during the evening the maestro would talk to her about her voice — about the great singers and the years he had devoted to study before hoping or thinking to sing in public. Tri- vulsi had advised her to go as often as possible to the opera, and especially to the Dall Verme, where she would hear the " Favorita" sung by Galletti, the only woman who knew how to phrase and sing in a pure old Italian style. She had just heard this great artist for the fourth time, and so well imitated her style and manner of singing, that the maestro declared it seemed almost like listening to Galletti herself. She had not been to La Scala, as it closed immedi- ately after the emperor's visit; but she had been to the Carcano and a beautiful opera-house near the Pi- azza D'Armi; also to the Teatro Castelli, another theatre where good opera can always be heard for minimum prices. By this time Annabel spoke Italian fluently. She played the piano as do few virtuose; and sometimes, when she had finished her lesson, she practised duets with Federico. These were happy hours for master and pupil. Mrs. Almont often said, " Annabel, we spend nearly half of our time at the maestro's." And this was nearly true. Christmas-eve was passed in writing letters and in helping Fay with preparations for the great house- warming. All of the guests had carte-blanche to invite their friends to the soirie. There was no Christmas-tree, Stage-Struck, 307 but the old stone walls were hung with mistletoe and evergreens, so that the place looked transformed. The " boys" had worked like slaves. Every window was decorated; the candelabra and mirrors shone like those at the Palazzo Reale.^ Following the American fashion, stockings had been hung up the night before to see what Santa Claus would put in them, and the new master of the house on entering the dining-room on Christmas-day found a substantial pair of socks well stuffed with presents. They all liked Frank; he was a prime favorite. They wished him well, and had determined that the boarding-house, with their help, should be run on the strict American plan. They regretted the loss of his voice more than the loss of Mamina; but each time they met they consoled him in the stereotyped way, " How's your voice, Frank ? — no better ? What a good thing that this scheme turned up in the mean time! It is indeed an ill wind that blows nowhere. It is a pity, but we all profit by your not being able to accept engagements." The consolations, as Fay himself said, were rather " too thin," and wouldn't wash. Still, being a good- natured fellow, he said that he was quite satisfied with the turn things had taken. So the boarding- house was opened with hope for its sole capital, and with hungry students, a few pots and pans, for its plant. Mrs. Almont and Mrs. Manners thought they would look around the kitchen before going to church. Fay was storming about, with an apron and white cap on. Two dark, sleepy-looking women dogged his glances, 3o8 Stage-Struck. and a burly porter stood against the wall staring at him. Fay raged forth. " Look at this stove! You call this a stove, or a place fit to cook anything on ? I wonder we ever got anything to eat. This is the way of getting a square meal in France or Italy. An open chimney, filthier and darker than Erebus. Two holes with a cracked grate, one match, one scrap of paper, two sticks laid crosswise, and there you have the wherewith to cook food. Give me a cheerful kitchen, with a red-hot stove; it warms one outside if it does not in. This cold, gloomy sepulchre, and those shivering sticks are enough to make a horse break his bridle with rage. I should like to interview this chimney with a little petroleum. I wish I had a can of kerosene. This fire would go, or result — one funeral in the colony announced for ten sharp, to- morrow." The ladies lifted their hands in horror, crying, "Goodness, Fay! Is this our Christmas breakfast ?" Mrs. Manners paled as she spoke. "I have seen kitchens before; but the look of this one is simply heart-rending.'* " Trust me," said Fay; " you will soon see a fire in that chimney big enough to roast an ox, or you will see the chimney * ruptured.' Here Giulia, Giovanna, Paolo! Get wood, coal, sticks, quick! I have got our Christmas in that basket; and bless me if we don't have as good a breakfast and dinner as you ever had in America, or I'll pass in my checks for a ring- tailed roarer." The basket was inspected. There were two tur- Stage-Struck, 309 keys, an enormous goose, some ducks, ana some chickens. " Look here," continued Fay. " I put a pot of beans last night to bake in this oven. I had forgotten that there was no way of keeping the fire. The beans were frozen stiff when I came down this morning; each bean looked like a paralyzed pea-nut. I guess we can get some brown bread, and the stuffing for those fowls. I swear I will make it myself rather than be without it for our Christmas. The bread's soaking in that bowl. I have oysters and white truffles, and we will have such a stuffing as no turkey ever had on any continent outside of America. Catch me! I may never be an opera-singer, but I am a good cook. I know what's what. There will be no slip up on this Christmas; not if I know myself, and I think I do." " Bravo, Fay! I was going to church; but I'll give it up if you need any help." Mrs. Manners looked the picture of self-abnegation as she spoke. " I wonder, what about pies. Have we any mince-meat?" Fay's voice rose to a shriek. " Mince-meat ?" He glanced at Giovanna, who had just entered. She trembled under his angry eye. " I got up at four o'clock this morning, thinking of that, and chopped apples, and hashed meat, until my head swam. I left my work to go to market, and when I returned that * hussy ' had thrown everything into the slop-pail. I tell you my heart stopped beating; but it was no use ' — my mince-pies to be are non est.'' He dashed up to the chimney and commenced making the fire. 3IO St age-Struck, Mrs. Almont was consoling. "It is a shame. How mad you must have been! W^ will remedy that, how- ever. I am famous at making pie-crust; we will set the girls to stone raisins, the boys to hash the meat, and Mrs. Manners and myself can make the pies in a jiff." Mrs. Manners nodded. Fay raged on. " Did you ever see such idiots ? Look at the three standing there. No one makes a move to offer me even a match. Here I am blistering my hands — they are filled with slivers. I am covering myself with smuts, and those twenty-two carat duffers are glaring helplessly at each other, then grinning at me." ^ay looked half wild. Mrs. Manners was cool- headed. She spoke sharply to the poor creatures, who were not unwilling to, but fearful of lifting a hand. They could scarcely realize that " II Signor Fay," such a sweet opera-singer, was going to be " the chief cook and bottle-washer." They were half dazed, and the unhappy mistake of throwing his cherished mince-meat into the slops had damped their general ardor. As soon as Mrs. Manners spoke they commenced bustling about. They could do every- thing. Giovanna tried to explain about the mince- meat. Her tears and her patois flowed together. " Certainly," they repeated, " II Signor Fay was angry." They clasped simultaneous hands on their bosoms, crying, " Angry ? Certo, certo, " There were soon more certos flying about that kit- chen than smuts about the chimney. Fay tried to nurse his ill-temper, but in vain. It was useless being angry. Italian servants are as irresponsible St age-Struck. 311 as kittens, and these three certainly had no malice prepense. In a few moments the great fireplace glowed like Vulcan's forge. Fay had made the fire not alone in the two orthodox holes: he had covered the whole top with kindlings and wood. A red flame shot up into the chimney; the stone floor reflected flickering shadows, and the kitchen began to look something like. Mrs. Stanley glanced at the poultry. "Now, how about chicken salad ? We must have some, you know." " By Jove, I should say so. An American Christ- mas without salad! Never! But have we time?" He sighed, then shivered. " Good Lord, this winter! this fire! — it looks as if it were going out. That's the way when one is in a hurry. It even takes eggs longer to boil in cold weather." He kept stirring up his fuel, which finally consented to ignite. Fay dragged some rugs forth from an adjoining cabinet or small bedroom. The ladies were soon seated with their feet well protected from the stone floor. They were barely at work preparing their mince-meat when the door flew open, and in came about ten of the other boarders. "Here we are." They were laughing and talking as gayly as possible. "A merry Christmas, Frank. Can we do anything to help ? What, mince-pies ? Never! Come, girls and boys, let us have a finger in this at once." " No, no, no." Fay looked wild again. " One or two may help, but it is impossible for us all to stay in 312 Stage-Struck, this kitchen. Mrs. Manners, choose your aids. The rest must go. A propos^ when shall we breakfast ?" " When church is out. Say half-past twelve. We are all going to the English chapel. You know Vis- count de Torbot is organist, but to-day he blooms as a tenor. I would not miss that for a deal." Urbini had answered for all. " He has got the whole of Milan in an uproar over his voice. We are all going. He will probably burst on the 'Cujas;* but life is long." Fay was interested. He forgot that he was the proprietor, and he deliberately whistled. "I say, boys, the viscount, eh ? I have half a mind to go my- self." "What, you go! — and our breakfast and our din- ner ?" There was a general howl. Fay looked guilty. " Sure enough I had forgotten. But missing that performance does seem a sacrifice. Still, even if he does rupture on his A flat, a friendly hand would soon pull him together." "Performance!" Mrs. Manners opened her eyes. "Have you forgotten that this is Christmas morning, and you are speaking of a church, not a theatre. I am shocked." At this there was a general murmur. " Of course we did not mean anything, only our way of speak- ing." Halden's voice was uppermost. "You are sure we cannot help ?" said Urbini. " Oh, Cheru stops and also Miss Annabel," said Fay. " Cheru, I thought you were too grand to stone raisins," said Urbini; "but we are all apt to be de- Stage-Struck. 313 ceived. Fried chicken, I suppose, for breakfast, and griddle cakes ?" — turning again to Fay. " Well, you are a brick. I — " "For Heaven's sake, clear out, all of you." He seized an enormous duster. A cloud of dust and soot darkened the air in its immediate vicinity. The kit- chen was emptied in two seconds. Fay stuck his head outside of the door. " I say, try and be home in time. Half-past twelve, and don't forget to notice each note and his general style in singing the *Cujas.* I bet a dollar Rossini would come out of his grave head first could he but hear him. He is sure to murder it; Englishmen always do: but I forgot — he is an Irishman. The same thing. Bring a man up on water-soaked potatoes cooked over a slow bog fire, then expect him to outsing Rubini!" Urbini answered back. " That's right. Fay. Look out for the inner man. We'll be here sharp half-past twelve. ' Let the breakfast savor as little as possible of the Emerald Isle. The only bogwood I have ever seen was but fit to make into breastpins and jewelry. You shall have a medal, though, if that fried chicken — O days of sweet and sunny childhood! Let us have some hash. What do you say, boys ?" " Hash, hash, by all means." "All right," Fay made a note of it. "Anything else ?" "No, I guess not. Good-by. " Good-by until breakfast." Fay re-entered his kitchen. He dropped into a chair, fairly faint from exhaustion; but there is no peace for the wicked. In a moment he was at a long 314 Stage-Struck, dissecting table where his various purchases had been laid out. The mince-meat was getting on when the door again burst open. Paolo led in a fair, handsome stranger. " Don't get up, Mrs. Almont. Don't disturb your- self, Miss Annabel. I have heard all about the board- ing-house." Fay was brandishing a chicken in the air and star- ing at the new-comer. "Good Lord, I am tired, but I am in time to wish you all a merry Christmas. This is Mr. Fay, I pre- sume? Introduce me, please." " Certainly." Mrs. Almont arose with great pre- cipitation. " Mr. Frank Fay, Mr. Victor Angel. Mr. Angel, Mr. Fay." CHAPTER XXXV. The morning passed but too quickly. Not only- had the mince-pies turned out to perfection, but a variety of cakes, custards, and "goodies" were ranged on a sideboard, awaiting the Christmas din- ner. The dining-room was indeed a pretty picture. The tables were loaded down with flowers. The glass and china were not of rock-crystal or Sevres; but everything shone, and the clean damask and polished dinner-service were good enough for any house. What a noise there was when they all came into the room! The life and gayety were something over- whelming. Forty sat down; and just as the last chair was placed, Lara came in, fresh from her triumph. "What, Lara! Where on earth do you come from ? What can have happened ?" She smiled. " The old story." Fay's head peered in from the kitchen, where he was superintending the serving-up of his feast. The unusual excitement had disturbed him. He heard and saw Lara, and then finished her sentence for her. " Manager * busted,' I suppose ? A merry Christmas ! You are just in time. Say no more. We are sorry for you, but glad to have you back." Fay's head disappeared again behind the door. Lara explained. The impresario had indeed fled. 3i6 Stage-Struck, She had managed to get back to Milan, and Heaven alone knew where the rest of the company were ! Angel was the first to speak. He was already as much at home as if he had been with them a year. He told them of Paris, the teachers, and his own ex- perience. " There is little chance of a thing like this happen- ing in France, as there are so few independent im- presarios, so many of the theatres are in the hands of the government officials; but I suppose in Italy one must take one's chance." " By the way, how did the Viscount sing this morn- ing?" Mrs. Manners was curious. " Sing ! sing !" They all spoke at once. " He cracked on even A flat. A frog came into his throat just as he was about to sing it. You should have seen the au — congregation stare at the choir." Fay's head was again at the door. " How are you getting on ? Want anything ? How was the oyster- soup ? So he cracked, did he ? I knew he would. But how is that soup ?" Carlo Lansini spoke. " Good, good ! never tasted better. But come along in, Fay. Here is a place for you. Those two madonnas can get on now in the kit- chen. You are having no Christmas dinner at all." ** That's so ! that's so !" — chorus. ** Come in, and we will wait on ourselves." Fay politely declined, but promised to join them a little later on, when the birds were ready to be served. He disappeared; the door shut with a bang; there was a sound of a crash in the kitchen, and general conster- nation amongst the guests. Stage-Struck. 3 1 7 Annabel for the first time noticed a stranger student seated at their table. He was no longer a young man — in short, he was past middle age — and seemed to know nobody. Mrs. Manners soon enlightened her. "A gentle- man, dear, travelling for health, profit, and pleasure; very fond of music; arrived a few days ago to buy silk-worms; but now has decided to cultivate his voice for the stage. He heard of this house, and came here yesterday. Fay told me that he hoped he would be pleased. His name is — " Mrs. Manners, in trying to think of his name, glanced half inadvertently at him. She bowed. He bowed with extreme pleasure, and she commenced conversation at once. "Ah, excuse me, Mr. — " "Raymond." "Of course, Mr. Raymond. I thought I recognized you, but was not quite sure." Fay had introduced them on the outer staircase. " Have you enjoyed your Christmas ?" " Very much. I have been wondering at the change in this dining-room since yesterday. It reminds one of the description of — of — " " Belshazzar's feast, I presume you would say? Well, I must admit we have all had a hand in getting ready for Christmas. Have you met any of the others ?" "No." "Pray let me present you." Then she introduced him to every one at their table. Isabelle darted a look at him. " I am sure you are English." 3 1 8 Stage-Struck, "Yes; and you naturally American." She laughed. "This is home-like ; is it not?" Just then there ensued a bedlam discussion and loud voices mingled with screams of laughter. Mr. Raymond smiled. "Home? Well, yes; it is rather home-like. You are all very gay, I must say; but my home isn't quite as lively as this." " Ah, that is the reason, I presume, you left it ?" Fay's head was again at the door. " Here you are, done to a turn. We are one duck less. Paolo, like the clumsy idiot he is, dropped the whole thing on the floor, smashed the platter, and only by a vigorous sweep of this noble right hand did I catch one duck on the fly, clutch it, and bear it in triumph to the table. I speared it with a toasting-fork ; so excuse the prongs, which have slightly deranged the skin. Now I am ready to join you." " Bravo ! bravo ! Three cheers for Fay ! A merry Christmas ! Who says that we don't know how to get up a first-class dinner ?" As Fay solemnly marched to the table with the duck, everybody cheered the hero of the hour. He bowed — bowed repeatedly, and colored with pleasure. Then he sat down with the boys, quite near to the kitchen-door, so that he could be on hand in case of need. Giulia waited at their table. She was spoiled, co- quettish, but was always respectful, never taking ad- vantage of their chaffing and familiarity. It was Giulia here, Giulia there, and the girl's head was nearly being turned. " Giulia, give us some cranberry-sauce," Stage-Struck. 319 " Conie^ signore, scusa ma non — " " Cranberries ! I say, Fay, I knew that there was something lacking. By Jove ! no American ever heard of turkey without cranberries !" Carlo Lansini and Halden groaned simultaneously. " I have made it up to you in chicken-salad, shrimps, and lobsters; salad with a whole forest of celery. Un- grateful wretches !" Such chicken- salad was a real surprise. Fay was toasted again. Giulia watched them with her eyes widely opened. After the salad had gone the round once, Urbini thought he would take a second help. Giulia was still watching. " Oh, I see; you think there will be none left for you in the kitchen ? Here, take it; there's nothing mean about me." " No, signor; you may eat it all. I do not like that kind of salad. It does not enjoy respect in my coun- try." Giulia whisked out of the room with these words, or she would have heard a general scream. "I say, Fay," said Urbini, *' just tell those three aids of yours to select amongst the viands, custards, and desserts the ones they like best, and we will take what is left. Naturally the kitchen must have the first choice; but it was kind in Giulia to leave us the salad. We are all tremendously grateful." Signor Urbini quietly took his second help. Giulia's remark went the round of the tables. Even Mr. Ray- mond looked diverted. There was a young widow present, whom no one had as yet heard laugh. She was from New York. She was studying the fine arts in Milan, and singing under a great teacher, Madame 320 Stage-Struck, Vaneri. Madame Orwald, as she was called, deigned to smile frigidly. Her frosty mirth excited Isabelle, who whispered to Raymond, " Do you see that young widow ? She is to me a living ideal of the luxury of sentiment. She is in such deep mourning that she drinks black tea, makes sketches in crayon, and for sole amusement plays the black-key mazurka. Her husband left her a fortune in coal. That is what I call lamenting him in the proper manner." " Isabelle, Isabelle ! how can you ?" Mrs. Stanley tried in vain to stop her daughter. Mr. Raymond was highly interested. "You are not far wrong. She has indeed the art of mourning down to a fine point. Does she sing also ?** " Yes, a few Moorish and darkie melodies; but never any white songs. She retires to her room immediately her meals are over; then we see her again the next day; but none of us has ever become well acquainted^ She is also very prudish. Next year she will learn * Das Veilchen-y you know why. But she is prudish." " Ah, indeed ! What do you call * prudish ' ?" Isabelle rattled on. " Oh, she never goes out alone with gentlemen to the theatre; she won't even go with them to sit out at the ^^// after midnight, or drive out on theBastione; and she refused to let Lamperti pros- pect with his stick on her, to find out where her voice was. * Why don't you experiment with your wife ?' she said. * I doubt not that the anatomy of woman is much the same in every clime.'" The method was then explained in full. "*If my voice is in xay pancia^ hers must be also/ " Stage-Struck. 321 Raymond could not speak. He looked too astound- ed. Isabelle was forced to stop. There was to be a toast, and Mr. Fay had been called upon to do the honors. Fay declined. At last Victor Angel accepted. He rose up and began : " Ladies and gentlemen — " ** Hear, hear !" " Give us ' The President ' and * The Queen.* " Angel colored. "Excuse me; I will drink to Amer- ica, if you like, but not to ' The President.' I do not belong to the Republican party, but am an out-and- out rebel. Let us say * Democrat,' for short." There was a general murmur of discontent. " I say, Mr. Angel, your sentiments don't count, now you are an opera-singer." Halden's voice was slightly husky. " Will you have the toast * America ' ?" Cries of " Yes !" " No !" " The President !" " That settles it." Angel sat down very red. " La- dies, your good health," taking up his glass. There was a general but an ominous silence. Fay arose rather perturbed. " I propose a silent toast. Let each one drink to the country and to the one he loves best. No names men- tioned, or — " " No. Let each one scream his toast out loud; then there can be no quarrel as to sentiment." This was hailed with acclamation. All arose and drank. The noise was deafening. Mr. Kenniston arrived in the midst of the excitement. Fay cried out, " Come in, Kenniston, unless you have on so many 322 Stage-Struck. decorations that you can't get inside the room. We will receive you gladly, and ask you to help in our entertainment after, provided you don't take the piano to pieces, as you once did." Kenniston promised good behavior, and the dinner was soon ended. There was a great bustle in getting the room cleared, as the other guests began to arrive. Captain Williams, Mr. Nelson, several Italians, a Madame Elsani and her husband, Mr. Stepentoft (for Elsani was the lady's operatic name), tenors, sopranos, contraltos, and Heaven knows who did not come. One end of the room was partitioned off, and the evening's entertainment commenced with a first part by the celebrated U. S. Minstrels. The boys, a double quartet, filed in, headed by Fay. All were as black as the ace of spades. How they had ever got ready in so short a time was a mystery; but burnt cork does not take long to apply. They sang exquisitely, one song after another, from "Way down upon the Suwanee River," to "Them Golden Slippers," One tenor, Lully, particularly distinguished himself. His voice was so beautiful that he almost redeemed the race. The jokes by " the end-men" were rather stale; but every one in the world can laugh a second or twentieth time at the stereotyped fun of burnt-cork artists. There was a duet from " Dolores" between Lully and Halden, which set every one off into shrieks of laughter. It was acted out, and the exaggerated scene, combined with their united falsettos, would have brought a smile to the face of Democritus himself. The middle man spoke to the end man, saying. Stage- Struck, 323 "You wake up in dead o' night. Wiiat are walls for?" "To scratch matches on." "Correct; go to the head." Fay, the other end-man, in a stage aside, "All right, Charlie; but don't try that on with me. You have the new satin-papered room." A " nigger breakdown" was then danced by Cheru, and a "clog" by Lansini. The part-songs were in- deed charmingly sung. At the end of the first part there were recitations, comic songs, and Madame Elsani gave an air from " Beatrice da Tenda." Halden and Felsini played a duet; and midnight found them not yet at the end of the programme. Isabelle was asked to sing. She chose the only thing she ever attempted — the grand air from " La Traviata." " I always break down about here," showing a weak place in her execution; "but I will try." " Oh, you may leave that out," referring to the " break." " None of us exact too much, and no one can do more than try to do her best." Isabelle commenced. At the usual place she stop- ped, threw her head up, made a few flourishes, quietly skipped the perilous point, and ended amidst great applause. She explained. "There are three things I cannot do — trill, sing a descending scale, or phrase properly. But I love the sentiment of that air, and I always sing it. I begin it and finish it well, which, according to my master, is quite enough for any one to expect to do." 3 24 Stage-Struck. Signer Cheru agreed with Isabelle. Mr. Raymond and the others liked what she had done, and she was well satisfied. A young composer played an original piece. It sounded familiar, but no one could place the reminiscence. Kenniston looked wise, and dropped his eyeglass, saying, " I think I recognize it. * Se non e Verdi, e ben Trovatore' " Kenniston was also an " original " composer. Mr. Raymond was soon introduced to nearly every one present. The formula was something like this: "Miss Belvini — Mr. Raymond." (To Raymond, in a stage whisper, " 'Belvini ' in Italy; ' Belvin * at home in Cincinnati." " Signorina Paolina — Mr. Raymond. ('The Paolina' called 'Manners' at home.) Madame Elsani, let me present Mr. Raymond." Another whisper, " ' Mrs. Stepentoft ' at home; ' Elsani ' on the boards. That fat man in the corner is Mr. S ." Mr. Raymond's astonishment was great. When he got to Felsini, Cherubini, Urbini, and Marchmont, he ventured to express surprise at the dodgy way of hav- ing the assumed names so nearly like their own. Annabel had his arm, and they were discussing the question. She explained. " The similarity in the names is on account of the linen — it is to save changing the ini- tials; although this is not New York, where all the washerwomen get rich by reading the memoranda Wall Street brokers make on their shirt-cuffs; or Paris, where they write as well as go upon the stage." "Write! Billets-doux r She laughed. "Be careful! That is a confession. Stage-Struck. 325 All single men are said to be in love with their washer- women." He looked pleasantly at her. " And I — I am single." Their conversation was soon ended. Supper was ready; but there was to be more music. Kenniston consented to play without " taking the piano to pieces." His talent was marvellous, and he was really the star of the evening. How seldom does one man combine talent, cleverness, cultivation, and gentlemanliness! Britannia outdid herself when she made this one of her sons. Annabel sang quite beautifully. There were great hopes of the young American. What a jolly house-warming it was, to be sure! The Italian guests agreed that the Arnerican " board- ing" knew how to enjoy itself. While the boys were getting off the burnt cork, the Italians spent their time making love to the belle Americaine. Amongst the guests were Captain Williams and the handsome Scotchman who had created such a sensa- tion at the court ball; while "Billy's" face was as welcome as a May morn. Mrs. Orwald, the "coal widow," unfroze, and took a turn with Kenniston. Isabelle smiled as she watched her. She motioned to Captain Williams. " The Millennium is coming. Look at the * coal widow ' dancing." Billy elevated his eyebrows. "Dancing! That is little compared with what she did yesterday." Cap- tain Williams looked wise. Isabelle, scenting some choice bit of news, begged 326 St age-Struck. the captain to tell her, in the strictest confidence, what the widow had done. "I never repeat. I never talk scandal." He was dying to tell. " We will call it some other name; but do tell me." " Oh, it is nothing — a mere trifle only. She went to dinner alone with Angel, and sat in a baignoire at the Carcano with him the whole evening. Nelson has always been preaching her up as a paragon — a model of virtue; her prudery and so forth. She never paid a visit in the daytime, to an American even, without a companion at her heels. Well, Nelson heard of this, and was amazed." " Why, how did he hear of it ?" " Oh, in the most natural way in the world. I told him, and waked him up in the dead of night to do so. I rapped at his door at half-past twelve, before I went to my room, and you may well imagine his surprise. Of course, it is nothing to me; I have no earthly in- terest in the matter; but Nelson always crowed so about her." " I am amazed. Do you care if I tell Mrs. Man- ners ? She will never repeat it to but two or three." "Well" — hesitatingly — "if you like; but I would not let it go any further." " Naturally. A poor lone widow! The last dance ? You don't say ! A lively soirie^ is it not ? Do come and see us soon — any day after five. I can't get over what you have told me about the widow." CHAPTER XXXVI. The following was the great day of Santo Stefano, and every one was on the qui vive for the opening of La Scala. Naturally, each student had a ticket some- where, although even the walk to the box-office had in many cases been preceded by one to the pawn-shop. Speculation was rife about the artists, about the new ballet, and the new tenor Gayarre, who was to appear in " La Favorita." The Stanleys, the Almonts, and the Manners' had a large box on the third tier. The stalls that were not filled with handsome officers were crowded with American and English students, while the six tiers of boxes were packed with magnificently dressed women, belonging not only to Milan, but to the principal cities in the vicinity. Besides the throng of strangers, there were present on the famous " Santo Stefano" all the old theatre- goers, who never miss a first night; and those who go but on this occasion were, as usual, conspicuous in their habitual places. They never need programmes: they have heard all the great singers since Catalani and Pasta; have seen all the dancers since Taglioni, father and daughter. They have supped with Bellini after success and failure; they have seen Verdi many a time at his conductor's place in the orchestra. They know La Scala, and everything pertaining to it. 328 Stage-Struck, by heart. In nine cases out of ten they are better musicians than those in the band, better artists than those on the stage. They come to give their judg- ment; to applaud or hiss as they honestly feel; to lend their presence to the regular annual opening of what to them is the entire world — their renowned opera-house. In short, they are a part of it. They have not dined; their pockets are filled with chest- nuts. Grave, anxious, preoccupied, they are at the theatre two hours before the opening of the doors, waiting the chance to rush pell-mell into the lobbione. There are many amongst them who, have not tasted meat for a week. The body may be starved, but never the soul. They consider no sacrifice too great to enable them to figure at the first night of La Scala. No king is prouder than one of these old and faithful habitues. No detail of toilette is neglected: hair is pomaded; mustache waxed; linen spotless; cravat tied in perfect knot; habit guiltless of dust; a flower in the button-hole — a rose or a garofano; gloves of a yellowish white, from having seen the cleaners so often; and an old-fashioned opera-glass. This ancient man stands in his place until he has seen each member of the orchestra come in. Then he sits down, unfolds his handkerchief, spreads it on his knees, and, with a friendly wave of his fingers, salutes his brother fossils right and left, as much as to say, " You see me. Here I am. The opera could not go on were I not present." Then the overture begins, and the habitui wears the same expectant, eager look which he has assumed once a year for half a century. He forgets the two hours' waiting outside, his scrimpy Stage- Struck. 329 dinner, his meagre breakfast oi polenta, and the long uneventful year. He feels himself a part of the ensemble, and believes that he is responsible for the night's success. Annabel was somewhat disappointed in the great theatre. Its magnificence was tarnished, its grandeur gloomy. In looking about she forgot this, and when the curtain went up, it mattered little whether she were in a palace or a barn. On these occasions the scene is extraordinary. The audience judge everything and everybody without appeal, often awarding praise at one moment and blame at another to the same individual. Before a note was heard there was a shout, and a pale man in morning dress appeared. It was the scene-painter. His work met with approval, and he was vociferously applauded. He was called for in the next act, but he was then hissed. The artists received loud applause for one note, for another just the reverse. In Italy a singer is treated without fear and without favor, according to the artistic merits he displays. The greatest reputation cannot save its possessor from a howl of disapproval. Woe to him if he make a "scroch," utter a false note, breathe at the wrong word, phrase badly, sing sharp, get flat, drag in the finale, be out of time or tune, fail in his corona, or even, if he sing correctly, his words be not distinct or are accompanied by an inappropriate gesture. An old favorite in London may sing off the key, may violate every rule of music, and yet he is received with a stereotyped applause, which wanes not with the century. This may be gratitude, but it is not art. 330 Stage-Struck, The Italian stage is a better school for a singer. No maestro there can humbug him about his talent. The public speedily appraise him at his proper value, and he learns that art pretenders can hope for no mercy. Singing out of tune, time, or sentiment is a personal insult, demanding an immediate vendetta from those whose ears have been mortally offended. The basso on this occasion had once been a favorite. He now sang a false note. Immediately a voice from the gallery sang it for him as it should be, whilst at the same time several others admonished him to try and do better, or he would know immediate regret. He sang another false note. A hundred voices shouted, ^^ Basta! (enough !) Al la porta! Cane^ cane r Annabel felt sorry for him. In the cavatina, ^^ Merce diletti ainici,'' the prima donna missed the syncope. She was sternly ordered to be careful. The tenor's voice was slightly foggy. In his duet with the soprano there were ominous murmurs, and it would have gone ill with him had not a friend's voice from the gallery shouted, " Let us pardon him; he has just returned from singing in London." The chorus, the supers, everything and everybody on the stage had to pass this crucial test. The first entr acte was almost a relief. Visits were interchanged, the whole theatre took a new aspect what with the gayety, the hum of melodious voices, and the beautiful heads peeping from boxes. In short, a scene ensued of such intimacy as could only exist in a city where everybody knew everybody else, where the opera-house was the social mart, and where Stage-Struck, 331 most of the boxes were occupied by families to whom they have belonged for more than a century. The Milanese, like most Italians, prefer to receive the visits of their friends in their boxes at the theatre rather than in their houses, as they are thus enabled to com- bine their favorite pleasures — opera and society. Annabel looked about, and started violently. Her heart stopped beating. She saw the English consul, and with him a person whom she thought was Braken- ston. He turned towards her, and in a moment she saw her mistake, but the shock was none the less great to one who had tried to put him out of her life alto- gether. Was this the way to forget? She had but to see a face, a form, recalling his, and her heart throbbed with the old violence. She shrank into a corner of the box, and hid herself all trembling behind the curtains. Her mamma and the Stanleys had gone into the crush-room, and in another moment she would have been with them, but on rising she had seen this man. Being alone, she hoped no one would come to pay her a visit. She was in no humor to talk common- place with her acquaintances, for she was thinking of Brakenston. It would be sweet to hear his voice once again, although she knew that they must part. Per- haps he had forgotten her. She had never had a word, a sign, from him. He did not even care to see if she had changed her mind. He was evidently quite willing to take her refusal as definite. A smile curled her lip, and her heart beat less painfully. It was well so. She was proud of herself, of her firmness. She had been right not to listen to one who could so 332 Stage-Struck, soon forget her, and in showing him that though she cared for him, she cared more for her art. Her art! She was not yet in the chrysalis; but listening to the voice of ambition, the wings were spun which were to waft her on through the empyrean of greatness. To sing, perhaps, some day at La Scala! At this moment the box door opened, and Angel appeared. *' Lovely, isn't it ? They say that Mariani has fallen off, but if she is on the wane, I ask myself what must she have been in her prime." Annabel was composed and tranquil enough to an- swer at once, for Angel was one of those practical citi- zens of the world whose very presence quenched sen- timent in others as rudely as a sudden draught extin- guishes the flame of a candle. Angel had this effect upon Annabel. He was decidedly "anti-Brak." She took up his words idly — "In her prime? I am sure I don't know. She pleases me now. I think I have never heard a finer dramatic singer." " She is a beautiful woman, too, and acts like a pro- fessional actress. But the tenor — whew! It seems as if I could do better myself. By the way, Verdi is no fool. One might say of this man what he said of an- other tenor, who was rehearsing one of his operas. You see, he was a perfect stick on the stage. Verdi got mad, and told him to try and act a little. The man answered, *I am not a Modena, but a singer.' Modena, you see, was a great actor. * Modena! ' screamed Verdi; 'you are only a sausage from Modena.' I hope I shall be able to act. How many singers there are who can only sing! By the way, I Stage-Struck, 333 am getting on superbly with Trivulsi — am quite a tenor robusto. You know we all thought that I was a tenor di grazia. When I came — " Annabel interrupted, " I should think that com- posers and librettists would often lose their tempers because the artists cannot act as well as sing. How seldom the opera-singer knows anything of his part beyond the music." "Yes; this man, for instance. But see, the second act is beginning." Angel quietly ensconced himself in a corner of the box, and conversation ceased for the moment. The opera finished with little enthusiasm. All were now on the qui vive for the ballet '' Rolla," which was to be given for the first time in Milan — not only a new ballet, but a new danseusej La Zucchi was to make her first appearance, and there was much excitement. The ballet school of Milan is as much a part of this great theatre as is the opera. After the burning of the old opera-house, or Teatro Reale, La Scala was built on the site of the church of the same name. As early as 1778 there was a melodrama called "L'Europa Riconosciuta," and a grand ballet, " The Prisoners of Cyprus." The regular ballet school was instituted in 1813, and since that time its progress has been re- markable. At present the school comprises about one hundred pupils. The aspirant is at first examined to see whether the feet are perfect and the health good. No child can be admitted to the school under eight or over twelve years of age. The first three years they work for nothing, and provide even their practising 334 Stage-Struck, dresses. After this they are paid from two hundred francs a year upwards, each year with a slight increase of salary. The term lasts eight years, after which comes the extra term, called a term of merit. This is for three years, the annual stipend being nearly four hundred francs. During the last half of the eight-years' term they are expected to take part in the ballets whenever their services are required. The method is very per- fect. The first year is one of probation, at the end of which, health and disposition being favorable, the pupil is considered acceptable. Those who evince neither willingness nor aptitude are sent away, and their places are instantly filled from the hundreds of poor children who are applicants. There are two classes — the primary lasting four years, the second be- ing the finishing term. The school commences at nine A.M. in winter and an hour earlier in summer. It is over at twelve; then there is one hour for the study of pantomime. It is the life of a slave: indeed, so hard is it, that the young creatures often become consump- tive owing to this, long before the first term is finished. The strictest regulations are laid down. They have to eat, drink, walk, and sleep according to exact rule. Their morals are also looked after. When they per- form at the theatre they are taken there and back under the wing of a duenna, and no admirers under any circumstances are allowed. The entire city is in- terested in the school, especially the nobility, who watch the progress of their favorites as one does the growth of a rare and cherished plant destined some day to give forth choice and fragrant flowers. Their Stage-Struck. • 335 career is followed with an interest which seems strange when spent upon these poor waifs, who pass one part of their lives in the slums they call their homes, and the rest amidst the paint and tinsel of the stage. Angel soon left Annabel, and went out to talk with the boys about the evening. When it was over, he came back to point out one of the prettiest of the dancers. She was engaged, it was said, to marry a butcher in Milan. "Distress is general amongst the fine^^//r," he ex- plained. " A butcher! all of that prettiness wasted! She is as modest as a daisy, too. We have been in a stage-box. I defy any one to say that those girls flirt with the public. What a difference from all other dancers! I think Niblo's and the Alhambra might well take pattern after Milan." The evening finished in the most successful way. The ballet grew more and more interesting, and the grand transformation scene surpassed anything Anna- bel had ever witnessed. It was nearly two o'clock when they reached home. The hours had flown on charmed wings. Amidst the souvenirs of the evening one thing alone occupied Annabel's mind — her recol- lections of Brak. Would she ever see him again ? and — had — had he indeed forgotten her? The next day the opera was loudly discussed. There was some enthusiasm in the boarding-house, but a general tone of discontent. The students had spent their last franc, to a man, for the Santo Stefano. The same thing would have been done over again; but empty pockets are peculiarly depressing, and the 336 . Stage-Struck. opera not having been one of overwhelming satisfac- tion the money was doubly regretted. The colony of " prepared artists" spent the day in- tervening until New Year's day at the agents. For the fiftieth time they received the same answer. ''Nothing to-day. Ah! come in a week. Your address ? Grazie, we have it. Should anything turn up, you will certainly hear from us." CHAPTER XXXVII. Mrs. Almont received a letter from Mrs. Edmonds, dated New Year's day. She wrote: " Dear Mrs. Almont: " Only a little * good-day/ with the enclosed letter, which came for you some days ago. I send it to the care of the American consul at Milan, knowing that it must reach you. We are all well, with the exception of Eulalie, who coughs terribly. Uncle Johnny always asks for you; and Lord Henry never forgets to inquire after the ' little lady,' as he still calls your daughter. He hopes she will some day sing at Covent Garden, if she insists on going upon the stage. Captain Jameson is the same good- natured friend. Oh, there's another person; you can- not have forgotten Brakenston! He has been at death's door with brain fever, but at last is able to be about. I fancy that Lallie is disappointed in him (this is very confidential). We have seen him but once, and he is now on the Continent for a long time. I think him changed. However, this can interest you but little, so I will say good-by for the present. My second floor is unoccupied. Don't forget me, should you know any one wishing the comforts of a home 333 Stage-Striick. combined with the pleasures of family life. Wishing you both a happy New Year, " Believe me to be ever " Yours very sincerely, " Felicia Edmonds." " P.S. — Dear Miss Annabel. I write this P.S., and send you both my love and a kiss from Tramp. The picture you gave me is gone. I think Mr. Brak took it the day after he came to see us. He says he didn't. Please send me another at once, and beiieve me to be your affectionate little friend, Annie. I have got a cold, and Lallie coughs awfully, and Belle sends a good hug. " Annie." After reading the letter carelessly, Mrs. Almont threw it aside. She spoke of Brak's illness with the remark, " Poor young man! I never could quite make him out. They deceive themselves. I do not think that he ever really cared for that Eulalie." Annabel made no comment upon her mother's words, but her heart leapt into her mouth. He had taken her picture; he had been ill; he had suffered; he had left London: and all for her sake. She had been unnecessarily cruel; so perhaps she would write and tell him— what? That she loved him? He must know that. Still, she could not be the first to speak. He had made no sign; he had not rebelled against her decision. No! Now that his life was out of dan- ger, it would be useless to write after so many months. Nothing was changed in her; her pride forbade her to offer herself to a man who so completely ignored Stage-Struck. 339 her very existence. Then, too, she had her art. Everything looked smiling; in a few months she might hope to make her dSut. The next mail brought news of her father. He was out of danger, and hoped soon to recommence busi- ness. A new scheme was afloat, and millions might come of it. His letter was so hopeful that Mrs. Al- mont herself almost believed in the possibility. They sat before the fire one cold afternoon in March, discussing many things, including an unfail- ing topic — the impecuniosity of the students. Anna- bel could scarcely understand why her mother was a pessimist and without ambition. " It is simply explained," said she. "I have always been poor. I had every ambition in my youth, but I have always lacked money and tact. Without that last quality the greatest talent is nil. Also, I never could button my dress up without doing it wrong. Three hundred and sixty-five days in the year I get up and dress myself; three hundred and sixty-five times I will — " The bell rang. "Who on earth can be coming at this hour?" said Annabel. "Mrs. Almont, it's I," Len said. He came in hastily. "Oh, how nice and comfortable! All alone ? I am glad to see you." He drew up a chair. " Such a day, such weather, such wind! Milan laps over any town that I have ever seen for wind. I am all of a shiver." He shook as he spoke. " And, please, may I poke your fire ? I am — well, I believe I am home- sick." 340 Stage-Struck, "Lennie!" Mrs. Almont laughed. "Of course. You are home-sick. Why, what on earth has hap- pened ?" He was poking the coals vigorously. " Happened ? Why, nothing much; but — We are old friends, are we not ?'* "I should think so." "Do you remember how we sang together" — to Annabel — " in the church-choir, and how we used to talk about going to Europe to study for the opera ?" "Do I remember? I should rather think I did. But you have something on your mind more weighty than such a souvenir. What is it ?'* Annabel was curious. "I am 'busted.' " The truth came out. " Busted ? Don't poke my fire all out, Len. Busted ? That means that you have — " " My dear church-choir companion of the sweet sunny past, it means that I haven't a red cent, and don't know where to get one. Worse than all, I have got a superb scrittura, and cannot beg, borrow, or steal enough money to take me to the town where I am to sing; so I have come to you." "To me? Oh! and we have not a penny in the house." Mrs, Almont's voice was troubled. " But to-morrow! The post may come to-morrow, or in a few days, when I will gladly give you what you want." "Too late! I must go at nine to-morrow morn- ing or I lose my chance." "Ask the Manners'." "They haven't a sou left. Why, the Paolina is en- St age-Struck. 341 gaged at Warsaw, and Mrs. M. has just been to the bank to borrow two thousand francs, so that she can go away. You know Mrs. Manners helps every one." " Is it possible } And the others ?" ** All dead broke. Cheru has not a penny. Halden has just been to the Monta di Pieta with his diamond ring, and Fay has not been paid by any one for over a month. Will you believe it ? Lara, Lansini, and myself have not dined for five days. There! The truth must come out, and it is hard enough to tell; but it is the truth. You know, since father's Mississippi steamboat blew up and his saw-mill blew down, sup- plies from home have been short." " I am amazed. The Stanleys — " "What! do you think that I ought to ask them ?" "Certainly" — speaking promptly. "You must go; you cannot lose this grand opportunity. We will ask together. No! On second thought, Annabel and I will run in, then you arrive as if you had said nothing to us before. Mrs. Stanley — " "What about Mrs. Stanley?" said a voice. The door opened and Isabelle walked in, accompanied by her mother. "What is the matter? Why was the name of Stanley taken in vain ?" Lennie hesitated. Annabel hesitated; then Isabelle spoke. " What is it ? By the way, signor, we must con- gratulate you. Engaged at the Grand Opera of Palermo. And you leave us — " Len jumped up with his hand on his heart. " I wish I could. That is it. That is why your name was mentioned." Then the whole truth came out. 342 Stage-Struck. Isabelle answered, " And to think that we have no money either ! How is it that cheap living in Milan is so dear ? Can you tell me what a green bank looks like ? It is so long since I have seen one. Where does our money go to ? How — " " How ? I know how easily enough : lessons, living, agents ; singing once or twice a year, then waiting six months before another chance comes ; the theatre — we must go to the opera, that is a part of our in- struction. But the thing now is, how am I to get to Palermo ?" Isabelle smiled. " Nothing could be easier." She took off her watch and chain, handing them to him. "Oh !" And a blush of shame mantled his cheeks. " Oh, you are too kind. But I never can consent to that." " Nonsense ! Are we not all students ; companions in misery-; poor as Job's turkeys, all of the lot to- gether? We must help one another. Would you not do the same for me ?" "No," he said candidly, "I could not. My watch and chain went to the ' three balls ' long ago ; not only that, but other things. Have you forgotten Hood's lines? ' I would that the coats of my stomach were such that my uncle might take.' He had to undress to dine. I feared that I should have to walk to Palermo in the same condition." "Oh, shocking !" Isabelle pretended to be horri- fied. She covered her face with her hands. Lennie half rose. " I hate to do such a thing ; it looks real mean. How good you are !" He seized her hands. " My own Stage-Struck. 543 sister could not have been kinder, or my own mother. You are in earnest ? Shall I take it ?" Before he had finished speaking, the watch was in his pocket. " But stop !" Mrs. Almont was interested. " Can you get money enough on it ? I have no idea what it costs to go to Palermo, or what the pieta^'' she stum- bled over the Italian pronunciation, "will give you on it." " It — is it not gold ?" he asked half wonderingly. "Gold !" shrieked Isabelle. "You do well to ask, things are so transformed in this town. It was gold in America ; but I can't swear to what it is here. However, if it is not enough, I have still a ring, and the coral on which I cut teeth in happy child- hood." Lennie buttoned up his thin jacket. Isabelle noticed it. " What ! no overcoat with such a wind as this ?" He lifted his eyebrows. It was a difficult move. He was an arch blond ; but he did it. " Overcoat ! That was our dinner the day before yesterday. But — this is a secret between us five." "I won't ask about your fine pelisse." " No, I guess you had better not. The day after Christmas I had to make a raise! You know, Fay is awfully good, but he weakened himself for that house- warming. Instead of letting our bills run on until we could pay, we had to begin an account at the end of the first week. I can tell you that was a blow to all of us. It is enough to have a room and not pay for it. I have not had the cheek to come to the 344 Stage-Struck. public table for the last month; neither have many of the others : which explains the many empty seats." Isabelle spoke promptly. " Do you mean to say that none of you has any money ?" " Not one of us. I have asked every student (friends, of course); and not only is there no money, but we have even had to sell our pawn-tickets. Oh that the churches in America had raised a few hun- dreds more ! Then we could all have divided. You see it is much longer work than any one thinks, this get- ting engagements ; and, naturally, we cannot always snatch bread away from native talent. Of course our voices are younger, and fresher, and better, and we sing like artists ; but we have not the inside track with the theatrical agents, and it is a very hard thing to get." *' I am amazed !" Mrs. Almont interrupted. " Among all these young men there is plenty of good-will, but no money ! Halden, however — he ought to be rich." " He says that he has worn out his only pair of shoes going to three balls, and that, too, without dancing. Why, the very paving-stones in that street leading to the Monta di Pieta are worn out, and the policemen know us all so well by sight that they recognize us even when they are on another beat. Oh ! one gets used to this, after the second year in Milan. I blushed the first time I went to * my uncle's;' now it is with difficulty that I can turn my steps in another direction. I am like the cab-horse going home to its stable. You see, I have been here so long." Isabelle laughed, interrupting. "So now you owe me a debt of gratitude. Think, think of the disap- St age-Struck. 345 pointment of missing your favorite promenade ; of going to Palermo — " "Great Scot! I had forgotten. I have so many- things yet to do." "Packing?" " Packing ! Packing what ?" " What ! Why, your trunk, your box, your linen, your whatever you call it." "My dear Isabelle, my dear Annabel, are you joking ? I have nothing to pack. Linen ! Why, my stock of that article is on my back. I stand in my fortune, and the manager must furnish costumes. I make my dibut as a fisherman, so luckily I can get on with what he provides; otherwise I could not have accepted the engagement." Isabelle laughed. "But, good-by; I must be off. Isabelle, you have saved my life." When he was gone, they looked at each other in silence ; then, after a moment, Isabelle spoke. "We are all poor; yes, we have been better off. But what is to be done ?" " Nothing; nothing but to wait and work in pa- tience," said Annabel, who was ever courageous. Isabelle continued. "I am overwhelmed at this state of affairs. Think of it! There are no less than one hundred American students in Milan without a cent, without an engagement, without proper food and clothing, in the dead of winter; and I wonder if their people at home ever think of them, or realize what a terrible life they lead. We are still well off; we have bread — that is to say, I had this a.m." 34^ Stage-Struck, She was interrupted. A letter for Mrs. Almont. The latter opened it hastily; then a grayness stole over her face. " Good Heavens!" She handed it to Annabel. " Your uncle Jim is dead, and we are — beg- gars!" V ' CHAPTER XXXVIII. Annabel never knew how the time passed. For the next few days they were too stunned to realize the great catastrophe which had deprived them of their benefactor. The letter announcing his death had been written by the family lawyer. It was short but comprehensive. "Madam: " I regret to inform you that your brother, Mr. Treherne, died last night from aneurism of the heart. He has left no will; his property, therefore, goes to his daughter, Mrs. Emily Duncan. We found on his table a check to you for one hundred dollars. This check, I need not tell you, would not be legally valid; but, per direction of Mrs. Duncan, we forward it, and beg to inform you that it will be cashed on presenta- tion. "With assurance of my deepest respect, " I remain, your obedient servant, " H. H. Percy. "To Mrs. Hester Almont, March 12, 1876." That was all. Annabel put a brave face upon their misfortune. She told her maestro that she must give up her lessons. They moved from the boarding- house to a tiny apartment which cost but forty francs 348 Stage-Struck. a month; and when the summer came, they were struggling as best they could. The little Mrs. Almont earned by writing kept them in bread; and the kind maestro not only continued Annabel's lessons without remuneration, but many were the days on which he even insisted that both should take pot-luck with him. The signora was not less kind: she treated both with scrupulous attention, and did all in her power to lighten their cares. It was finally decided that Annabel should endeavor at once to sing in public. Then commenced the trial of her life — visiting the theatrical agents. Mrs. Almont had to write; so she went alone to a well-known man in the Gallferia, the Chevalier Benella. He had an old-established theatrical agency. He had been sev- eral years director of a great opera-house, and was considered one of the most responsible agents in the lyric exchange. He heard her sing, and, to her despair, pronounced her utterly unfit for an immediate appearance. She might try at a small theatre; but he could not advise it. In any case, he had nothing to offer. They were interrupted by a young Englishman, a basso, who came in search of an engagement. He selected an air from "II Barbiere," "Z^ Calunniar There was nothing to be done but to wait whilst he gave a specimen of his singing. The chevalier, a clever musician and pianist, sat down to accompany the young man. He sang in Italian, and did not pro- nounce badly. As he came to the elaborate notes which Rossini has so generously distributed in this score, he coolly began a word, left it after the first Stage-Struck, 349 syllable, and lapsed into convenient vowels. Benella bounced out of his chair. " Coso diavolo fate r he shrieked. " What sense is there in * Sotto il publico flagello per grand sorte va a crepar* ? When you commence ^ Sotto il pub — ' and finish, beating tv^o notes on * ah — ah — ah,' and then finish with '/^r,' the end of another. word, what can any one make out of such phrasing as that ?" The young man drew himself up proudly. " Signor Benella, I have this to say. My tones are not good when I pronounce these words; so I do the runs on vowels and say the real words in my heart, and my conscience is satisfied." "Perhaps it may be; but your conscience does not pay, like one of the public, for its place in the theatre. You might as well bury the whole in your heart and expect me to give it and you an engagement as primo basso. Caro giovane ! go back to your master. Your theory is undoubtedly very honest, but I have no use for you — not at present." John Bull looked at the chevalier, and said, " Thanks; but you will probably change your mind. Here are my name, address, and repertoire, I have ten operas ready; can leave Milan at a moment's no- tice. Good-morning." He bowed himself out. " Leave Milan at a moment's notice is the best thing he could do." The chevalier raged. " There; you hear those calm, cool-blooded English. Thought it in his heart, indeed! I should like to see the public that would accept such an artist. Why, he does not even know what he is singing about." 350 Stage-Struck, Annabel felt rather alarmed. She almost wished that he had proved a.treasure. She thought of visit- ing the sins of the fathers upon the children. They were all related in the operatic business, although not so near as the third generation. The chevalier seemed quite ready to visit this young man's sins upon her head. With the usual Italian characteristic, he stormed until he found that there was no one to answer him back, and then he quietly simmered down. Annabel told him her position, their circumstances; so he agreed with her that she might try to sing in a small theatre at once. He gave her some very good advice, pointed out her qualities and defects, and then bade her good-day, wishing her success. He told her frankly that the opera-house for which he furnished artists was quite beyond her present reach. At all events, she could call again. Annabel went away heavy-hearted; but the chevalier had no other object than to tell her the truth. Day after day was passed in visiting the agencies. She finally went to one in the Via del Pane. This was about the twentieth door at which she had knocked. There were numbers of young women standing and sitting in the little entry. In a, moment a door opened, and a flaunting black-eyed person passed through. She smelt so strong of patchouly that the air seemed sud- denly impregnated. She laughed as she came from the inner sanctum, nodded her head, said " Ciao n'lgrazie" in a deep voice, then the outer door was opened, and she left the room. Annabel shuddered. She lifted her head as a man came, following on the heels of this bold apparition. St age-Struck, 351 His hands were in his pockets, his hair was redolent with grease, his chin scarred, and his whole appearance most unwholesome. He advanced with a loud voice, " Cosa ce^ The young women trembled, looked at each other, then at him; but before anyone could speak he espied Annabel, and smiled familiarly. She took courage, and glanced up at him. " Signorina, 1 think I do not know you. What can we do for you ?" " I wish to sing — in opera." " The name of your last theatre ?" " I — I have never sung on the stage." He recoiled. ''^ Dibutante^ ah! come st fa? What is your voice ?" " Light soprano." He shrugged his shoulders. " There are too many already." He looked again at her pretty face, then placed a soiled hand on her shoulder. ^^ Ferd, come this way." They went into the inner room. A young creature rushed forward. " Excuse me," she urged breathlessly, " but you told me to come to-day — " He looked at her as if she were a dog. ** What is it ?" He spoke harshly. " I — you remember me, a dancer." '' Premiere r " No. I have never danced as o, prima assoluta'* " From Milan school?" • " No; Warsaw." " Humph! the same thing." 352 Stage-Struck, They were well in the inner room by this time. Three men, one young and very handsome, sat on a lounge smoking. They stared at Annabel and the little dancer. As their eyes fell on the former, she heard, "Ah, bellina assai un' Americana naturalmente quanto ^ simpatica." Annabel was motioned to a chair. The first man, who was evidently the agent, spoke to one of the others, and then to the dancer. " How long have you been in active dancing ?" " Three seasons, signore." " What theatres ?" She named two well-known opera-houses. " Will you go far ? Can you accept an immediate engagement?" " Ah, signore, mille grazie^ She shuddered. " I can and will go anywhere so as to earn my bread. But it is not, I hope it is not, to South America." " What about South America," he said brutally. "We give ourselves airs." "Oh no, signore; but you remember forty ballerine went to Lima from here ? There was yellow-fever in Lima, and only three came back. My sister was one of the forty, but not one of the three." The men on the sofa shouted with laughter. One spoke to the agent. He said, " Poor thing, rassurez la, mon vteux. Lima n'est pas necessairej Von trouve la mort plus prhr The agent smiled, but very gloomily. This little affair of Lima was no joke. The shady side of it was that the agent had received his share of profit before the dancers had been shipped off. He turned to the, little ballerina. Stage-Struck. 353 " Don't worry. You are not fit for South America; but — are you well made ?" She smiled. " I think so, signore." "Have you good legs, slim ankles?" She nodded. " Show them." "Oh, signore!" She blushed, and looked at the three men, who sat laughing and leering on the sofa. The agent noticed her hesitation. " Oh, come, dia- volo, we are too modest. This is carrying things too far. We are not going to eat you. Allans " impatiently, " am I to wait all day ?" Annabel, with what she had heard, was too surprised either to move or to speak. She dropped her head thinking of Lima, and wondering what questions would be put to her. The young dancer reddened, but lifted the hem of her skirt. "Not enough !" the agent spoke brutally. She lifted it a little higher. He smiled. "Oh, not bad. And we hesitate to show such pretty legs. Come, my child, that will do. Ahem ! Call at — at eleven this evening, when you can show us a specimen of your dancing." " Put tardi n'l T" She bowed herself out, murmur- ing her thanks. Annabel scarcely dared look at the agent. He took up the thread of their previous discourse. " Light soprano. You are very pretty. American, of course?" This was not so bad; nothing surely to get angry 354 Stage-Struck, about. She smiled, and spoke, " I think that I can sing well." " Yes. Your master?" " Trivulsi." " Oh, the old cripple outside of the Garibaldi Gate. He pronounces you ready ?" Annabel took heart. She must praise herself ; she must be prepared at a moment's notice. She remem- bered that she had been told to say she could sing any opera with one rehearsal; perhaps her luck had turned. " I am quite ready with — with eight operas." She spoke proudly. " Diavolo, to go into scgna at once ?" "At once." He went to the handsome young man, and they conversed for a moment. Then he returned and said, "Count Arani is one of the directors of the Grand Opera at Pavia. They need a light soprano. You must sing page rSles,'* "Page rSles? That is—" " Oh, come, signorina, you must not object to show your pretty figure. You are a real statue. Yes, page rSles — always charming. *Ballo in Maschera' — " "Thanks. I could not possibly accept." She turned to go. " Ah, ah, not so fast ; we may yet conclude some- thing." She looked up coldly. " Yes ; but not a page rdler **Chilosa? We must commence. But, really, the great necessity now is for a singer to replace an- Stage-Struck. 355 other prima donna — operas, ' La Sonnambula ' and * Faust.'" "'La Sonnambula,' — oh, I would gladly do that; or 'Faust.'" "Yes; but there is also the Queen in the 'Hugue- nots,' and the page role beside. Will you sing for us ? and we may perhaps engage you at once." The young count nodded. They went to another room. The agent begged one of the men to play, as Annabel did not wish to be at a disadvantage by accompanying herself the first time. The count smiled, and offered himself to be pianist ; then he ran his fingers lightly over the keys, and looked tenderly at her as she approached the instrument. She sang with all her maestria and courage. Her natural taste, beautiful voice, and cor- rect method really charmed her hearers. After three consecutive airs she was told that was enough. ^^Ch^re enfant, we have decided to engage you. Now, let us conclude terms at once, as there is no time to lose. Of course, you know that you must furnish the basso vestario^ which means hose, slippers, tights, under-tights, — fleshings, of course; besides your own stage-jewels, with a tiara when you do the role of a queen ; your own wigs, your necklaces, and all the little things. We provide the alto vestario, which comprises the costumes, and sometimes the shoes which accompany a character dress. The rdle of page always belongs to the light soprano, so you cannot refuse to sing it ; but you have this chance, that the ' Ballo ' may not be given, and you will have an opportunity to make a great hit. Now about terms." 356 Stage-Struck, For once Annabel was glad that her mother was not with her. She would be so proud to go home "an engaged artist." "About terms," he repeated. "We offer you all this, one of the first theatres in Italy, splendid roles. Now, how much are you prepared to pay us to make your debut V* " How much will — will I pay you to sing ?" She repeated his words mechanically, scarcely believing her senses. "Yes — yes, diavolo. You did not expect that I should pay you, a debutante, perhaps to spoil my opera ?" His voice rose. " Why, certainly I expected you to pay me." He burst into a loud laugh. Then he began. " Cornel A rich American, you go on the stage from caprice. You have a pretty voice, but more personal beauty. You come to take the bread out of the mouths of honest native talent, who are old tried artists. Look at these books." He violently opened some registers. " There are a thousand prima donnas in Milan, all ready to sing, waiting for engagements, and many who will pay me to get them before a good public. And you — you — " He choked through such rapid articulation. " Look at this alphabetical list. A, thirty-five A's ; B, as many B's ; more C's, and so on to Z. No ; no quest e fin troppo'' He wiped his face vigorously with a silk handkerchief, and sat down. She was horrified. A thousand disengaged prima donnas in Milan, amongst them great artists ! What chance had she ? She turned gravely to the agent. St age-Struck, 357 " I do not doubt your word ; but I am not a rich American. I — I wish to sing for my living. I can- not pay to make a debut. Good-day, and thanks." She turned away, feeling utterly crushed and heart- sick. The count rose. He spoke to the agent. The latter expostulated ; then he tried again. ^^ BenCy bene. At least, if you wish to try you may sing for nothing, and we will give you a benefit. That is all. Do you accept?" She reflected a moment. " Yes." "Yes ? Will you sign the contract now?" " No. Come to me before six this evening, and we can conclude arrangements." "Come! The signorina jests. I go to her ?" "Yes ; to me." She gave her address. "You may count upon me. Addio^ stgnore.'' She thanked him politely, and walked towards the door. He stared after her an instant, then jumped up. Perhaps it had entered his head that he was speaking to a lady. The count also rose, and opened the door for her. He murmured a soft a revederla, and bowed low as she passed through. She thanked him with a distant inclination and a grave smile. As she walked home, she thought it all over. Her last visit to the agents had been successful. She was an engaged artist. What would her mother say ? At any rate, she was not going to pay to sing, and the benefit might bring something. Once the disgrace of being a dibutante was over, she might hope to get on in her career. Perhaps it was not so bad a chance after all, and it had not come too soon. They were 358 Stage-Struck. already nearly at the end of their resources. She pondered over the things she would be obliged to furnish. She even half laughed as she said " wig." Wigs, with her splendid hair! No, no; she would not be a tow, but a real blonde Margherita. What a sav- ing that would be! — golden hair was so expensive. CHAPTER XXXIX. Annabel signed her scrittura that evening, as her mother agreed with her that she had better accept the opening offered. This was October, and the annual fairs were being held in the provinces. At this time of the year there was always a short opera season, and if she could make a successful d3ut now, she might hope for an engagement for the ensuing carnival, when surely she would be paid something. At least, she would have faced the footlights, and have acquired stage confidence. The maestro was pleased, for the Pavia theatre was important; and, as Isabelle said laughingly, it was so near Milan, that she could walk home or come back in the famous canal-boat, called El Barchett by the Milanese. They hurried off to the little town, and Annabel found herself in the midst of a motley throng. To add to the excitement, she was informed that the season would commence with "Faust," and not " Sonnambula," which she had studied most. There was no help for it. " Faust" it was to be. There were messages to the maestro, talks and confabs; but of no avail. " Faust" it was. She was seated in the wings, when Captain Williams, the English meloma- niac, whom she had met at the court-ball, came up. 360 Stage-Struck, " What a coincidence!" he said. " Let me intro- duce to you Mephistopheles, Signor Felice Feleane, a son of a general in the British army. Music mad, a perfect artist; called Felix Felan in English, and my very, very good friend. The captain was always on hand at any first per- formance. He was kind-hearted, attentive, and the artists felt encouraged to do their best when he was one of the audience. He was au fait of a theatre, from the box office to the stage door. So nothing under the sun escaped his practised eye. No intrigue but its innermost germs were known to him; no failure but he deplored ; no success at which he had not sac- rificed various pairs of gloves. The rain poured in torrents. The theatre was dark, cold, and uncomfortable. They had rehearsed for a week, which had been very fortunate for Annabel. This was the last rehearsal, and each artist was on the tiptoe of excitement over the grand event. Felice Feleane seated himself beside Annabel. " I hope to Heaven that the trap will work properly. I have given three men each an extra franc, beside furnishing a bottle of oil for them to grease it well. Everything depends upon a good entrance. I never shall forget Faure, the great French artist. It was his opening night of the season at Covent Garden, you know, and he nearly broke his neck coming through the trap. Fancy what an upset to an artist ! Before he could regain his balance, he went through gymnas- tics unknown even to the Lauris. I trembled, think- ing such a fate might some day be mine, so I have pro- vided much oil and many francs." St age-Struck, 361 She laughed. " Your money has been well invested. There should be no danger." Then they were both called to go over Valentine's death scene. The rehearsal went so badly that, as usual, every one predicted a fine performance. There was to be no prova the day of the first representation, and Annabel was indeed thankful. She was simply exhausted. They had worked night and day. She had been in draughts and out, in cold theatres; and running about in the rain; besides rehearsing twice a day from eleven in the morning until sometimes long after midnight. She was nervous, anxious, and de- pressed. She seldom had a chance of eating a proper meal, and on the rare occasions when she had time, she was too tired. At one o'clock on the day of the performance, to her amazement she was called upon to rehearse. Valentine had been rejected by the directors, and a new baritone had offered to sing the part at a moment's notice. This was the " last straw." She had been too pre- occupied to think of sleep, but she dragged herself to the theatre, and they went through the whole opera again. At five o'clock she reached home, thoroughly fagged. They were at a miserable little hotel, colder than a barn, with stone walls, stone floors, cold madonnas and martyred saints shivering from the ceilings, sans fire, sans comfort, sans everything. Her mother had a spirit-lamp, and she made some tea. Before Anna- bel had swallowed it, there was a violent knocking at the door. She was furious. "If it is another rehearsal, I will not go. I am near- 362 Stage-Struck. ly dead. If I cannot get an hour's rest before the performance, it will be impossible to sing. I am tired, nervous, ill. I — " She burst into tears. The knocking continued. Her mother took her in her arms. "You great baby!" she said, "nothing shall disturb you. Keep quiet and try to sleep; if not, I will forget that you are eighteen, and treat you as I did when you were three. There! do you hear? Now be quiet. I will go to the door." Annabel half laughed, half sobbed. She kissed her mother, and sank back on her pillow utterly exhausted. Mrs. Almont went outside, and was confronted with a tall man dressed in sombre garments. A crepe band garnished his high hat; his gloves were irre- proachable; his coat was tightly buttoned; his eyes were wicked, and his general aspect was most impos- ing and unctuous. She scarcely knew how to address him. He saved her the trouble. " I have come to have a few words with the Signo- rina Almonti — ahem! your daugher, I presume?" He bowed. " She is too tired to see you. Will you speak with me ? Come;" and she led the way to her own room. "As I am a man of business, it may be as well to state at once the reason of my visit. I have heard all the rehearsals, for * Faust,' and am sorry to tell you that I fear a failure for your daughter. She has qual- ities, but — 2. fiasco is imminent." Mrs. Almont was too terrified to express indigna- tion. Her only dread was lest Annabel, who was in the adjacent chamber, should hear him. St age-Struck. 363 "Sh!" — putting her hand to her lips. "What have you to say ? Speak ! I — I am at a loss to know why you come here, and at such an hour. Pray tell me the real object of your visit at once." He seated himself, and spoke in excellent English. " My name is Marsowan. I represent the clandestine anonymous society agency, Dei Quattri Ve.ntt, to as- sure success or failure to artists. We are bound, upon receiving a certain sum of money, to make them a success. Without it — The public is ignorant, and only needs the proper impetus to recognize the legiti- mate qualities of an artist; but, of course, without remuneration we are not bound to instruct the public. I now tell you that the Margherita of this evening will fail for two reasons. Firstly," holding up one finger, "she has taken the engagement from the ex-mistress of Count Arani, who naturally has organized a cabal against her. Secondly," and he held up a second fin- ger, " she is ill and nervous, so will not be able to do herself justice. You see I speak unreservedly. For the sum of a thousand francs I guarantee her the greatest success of the season, a dozen recalls, and a brilliant dSut. Otherwise, although I personally shall not act against her, still I am bound to say that the principal member of our society is a friend of Count Arani's bella — " " But, signore, a thousand francs! The sum is enor- mous!" Mrs. Almont looked aghast. "Madame forgets my great responsibilities. This evening fifty faithful ones must be there to applaud and crush the counter-cabal. Besides this, I shall have to demonstrate to the critics that it will be more 364 Stage-Struck, to their advantage to praise than to blame. In this sum is included a telegram to the Milan journals, an- nouncing the stupendous triumph of the Signorina Almonti." He then cast his eyes demurely to the ground. Mrs. Almont felt that he was telling her the truth, in so far that his society could make or mar her daugh- ter's prospects. She resolved to pay blackmail; but she had not the sum he required. " Signore, your society does honor to any country," she said. " Your proposal is a generous one. There is only one difficulty in accepting your terms: I don't possess a thousand francs." His countenance fell, and his insinuating smile van- ished. " It is a pity. I had also intended a gracious surprise. The signora would have been dragged home in a carriage by enthusiasts after her performance, and for this I should have made no extra charge." There was a pause. At length he said, " What will the signora give ?" Mrs. Almont hesitated. At length she said, " If you have any heart — " He placed a black-gloved finger upon his breast, and bowed deprecatingly. "■ Will you take all that I can give you, and do your best for my poor child ?" ^'•QuafttoT' he asked, with elegant frigidity. She drew out of her purse two hundred francs. He looked at it, and shrugged his shoulders. ^'E pocol'* he said; "but if you have no more, I ac- cept it in the name of our society." As he pocketed the money, a suspicion dawned upon Stage-Struck. 365 Mrs. Almont. " But how do I know," she asked, "that you will keep faith with me?" " Signora, I am known to Pavia. If you doubt me, call the landlord of this hotel, and he will tell you that I am a cavaliere of honor. You have my word, which is as good as my bond." And he bowed him- self out with a wave of his black-gloved hand, saying, ^'- Addio a sta sera" Mrs. Almont returned to Annabel's room. She found her lying upon an extraordinary piece of furni- ture which did duty for a sofa. She looked up. " What was it, mamma ?" Mrs. Almont determined not to tell her what had occurred. '^A — a message from Captain Billy about — oh! nothing of consequence; only you must not be frightened. He predicts a great success." "Oh, mamma, I am so glad! Did he send clear here to tell you? How kind!" " Yes, dear. Besides, every one expects great things. Remember, the whole colony will be present; even the great critic Kenniston has promised to come." She looked up with pride. "I shall not fail, al- though I am so tired that I feel as if I had been beat- en. What time is it ?" "Half-past five." " Is everything all right ? — the jewels, the glass, the bouquet for Siebel, the book for the church scene ?" " Everything, dear. Do try and be quiet. I shan't answer if you speak — not another word. At half-past seven I shall come in to take you to the theatre. Un- less the house take fire, you shall not be disturbed before then." 366 Stage-Struck. Mrs. Almont covered her with a rug. After seven her mother reappeared. Annabel was calmer. She had braced herself to the ordeal. A fiacre was at the door, and they drove to the theatre. r" CHAPTER XL. Pavia is one of the most celebrated towns in Italy, and well deserves its ancient name. Like all Italian cities, it is interesting. It has an old castle, a grand Faubourg, a marble bridge, an enormous although unfinished cathedral, theatres, and the renowned college where young men come from all parts of the world to study the science of medicine. There are botanical gardens, and of course one street where everybody walks. Pavia is modernized but little. Every paving-stone seems to awaken the slumbering echoes of its famous past. The evening was clear and charming, and to reach the theatre they were obliged to pass through the principal streets of the city. The theatre was not strictly beautiful, but it was gay. They went through a mercato or market, and saw a number of medical students already gathered at the front entrance of the opera-house, waiting for the opening. Annabel, half dead with fear, came trembling upon the stage. The house was packed; the audience un- ruly, cold, and indifferent. She felt this at once. Her few notes in the first phrase, '^ No, signor^ lo non son damigella ni bella,' were sung with exquisite sweet ness. There was a burst of applause, intermingled with ominous hisses. She felt her blood run cold. Why 368 Stage-Struck, was she hissed ? Perhaps a few thought that the ap- plause had been too soon. She made her exit in dead silence. The scene of the King of Thule, in the third act, and the jewel-song, would be the critical test. She was just going on, when she espied Mephisto. He had a mournful expression. " Dear Margherita," he said, " the trap worked so well that my doublet was torn, my neck nearly broken, and my whole body as shocked as if I had been blown up by a Mississippi steamboat. The trap worked too well; those fiends fairly shot me up like a ball from a cannon. Great — Ah!" He tore away. The call-boy shouted, Mephi- sto. " I must be ready with the jewel-box." On he went, and the first thing Margherita heard were the minor notes beginning the King of Thule. She got well through the first part; then there were hisses. Why ? She was not afraid, but what an excitement! Things grew so bad that she was fairly crushed. For a second she paused, and, lifting her head, proudly sang — "Son la figlia d'un re ognun dee salutartni." The applause was deafening. The singing quality of her young voice, her rare beauty and grace, won all hearts. The act ended with rapturous recalls, one after another. Mrs. Almont was delighted; it was really so genuine a success that she had forgotten Signor Marsowan. He came at the last act to con- gratulate Mrs. Almont. She had a momentary feel- ing of disgust. He narrowly watched her. *' I told you that we would make it a success," he said. " I think we can safely leave the rest to the Stage-Struck. 369 public. Pray introduce me to Margherita; I see she is coming this way." Annabel accepted his congratulations. She was be- side herself with delight. The opera finished triumphantly. She did every- thing con amore. The prison trio was thrice sung. The recalls were unbounded, and her heart swelled with pride. She had never anticipated such a success. As she reached the stage-door a stranger held out his hand. " May I add my congratulations? Your success has been the greatest pleasure known to me for many a day." It was Mr. Randolph. He was smiling kindly, but his face otherwise was very grave. With that one exception, he was unchanged since the steamer. She saw that he was also dressed in deep mourning. CHAPTER XLI. During the rest of the season Annabel and her mother retained their rooms at the hotel, which was cheaper than taking an apartment. Even with the strictest economy their funds were fast disappearing, and they saw the moment approaching when they would be entirely without money. They would have to try and borrow ; but from whom ? Mrs. Almont was obliged to tell Annabel of Signer Marsowan's visit, and .what the success of the first night had cost them. She was greatly mortified, but she was consoled with the thought that she must really have made a good impression on the public of Pavia, for she was not only " confirmed " until the end of the season, but the management offered her a small sum for her benefit night. This was so unusual a thing that she could afford to think no more of the clandestine anonymous agency, Dei Quattri Venti. She never saw Marsowan again; he had evidently gone to find new victims. She laughed with her mother, yet they were too poor not to regret the two hundred francs. Nearly all her friends at Milan rejoiced at her suc- cess. There were a few jealous ones in the colony, but little was heard beyond general praise of the ; dibut. Annabel's opera season was finished. They re- Stage-Struck, 371 turned to Milan, where Mr. Randolph came to see them. She felt that some unusual thing had hap- pened. They spoke of the steamer, of the different compagnons de voyage^ and especially of the major. To Annabel's surprise, Mr. Randolph said that he had been to America since the last trip, and that this time his visit to Europe had been a particularly sad one. Mrs. Almont hazarded a word which at once opened the direct road to this confidence. " I am in mourning for my half-sister," he said, " Miss Annabel, you remember I once promised to tell you about an artist, a — a singer ?" " Yes, yes," she responded breathlessly. "It was of her that I spoke. When I crossed in the Arigona with you, I came here to look for her. She had left her family and friends a long time without news. She had sung here and there, and at first with great success. On my arrival in Europe, I discovered that she had been betrayed and was living with her lover. I was so shocked that I tried to blot her very existence from my memory. When I returned to Eu- rope a few months ago I felt that I had perhaps been hard and cruel. I could not bear the thought that my sister might be deserted and living in penury and shame, so I came down to Italy and learned that she was at Naples when last heard of. I went there. She was already buried. They took me to the pau- pers* cemetery and showed me a mound, beneath which she had been thrown, with quicklime on her face, like other beggars. She had been abandoned by her lover. After a bitter struggle with misery and shame, she fell sick, and had died in the public hospi- 372 Stage-Struck. tal; and I could not even get back her body, for it was unrecognizable." Mr. Randolph buried his face in his hands for a moment. What consolation could they offer? He continued : "As to this child, when I met her and she told me that she was coming to Europe to learn to be an opera-singer, I had not the heart to tell her the truth about my sister. I tried to dissuade her. I told her all was not couleur de rose; but in vain. You know now what reason I had to speak of the stage." "Mr. Randolph," Annabel cried, "it does indeed come home to us. I cannot tell how sorry I am for her, poor girl." " Yes, it was a sad fate. But I have not come here to speak of her, but of you, Mrs. Almont;" and he turned towards her. " I have heard your history and of the loss of your only stay. I beg you, in Heaven's name, to let me help you ! This is no fitting home for such as you and your daughter. I remem- ber what befell my sister, and I can't get over the thought that she, hadn't one friend in her need — not even her own brother. I have neither kith nor kin to claim anything, and I wish you to let me do for your daughter as I should have done for my poor sister." "No, no; you are too kind. Thanks, a thousand times; but I — You forget she has a father." "Dear madam, he is but that in name. I know all: he is ill and unfortunate. I wish you to accept my aid; and when you need me, call on me further." Mrs. Almont was overcome. "God has sent you. We were without the where- Stage-Struck. 373 withal to buy even our bread for to-morrow. Still, I will accept it only as a loan. You forget that obli- gation sometimes weighs heavier than want." ''Madam! this from you? I had hoped that you would look upon me as a friend, yet this is your an- swer." "No, no. I did not mean in your case; but you can understand the extreme delicacy of our position. I_we— " "I am a rough man, Mrs. Almont, but there is no question of delicacy with one American and another, when both are in a foreign land; one has plenty, and the other is without bread. For your daughter's sake." "You are right; for her sake I will accept. God bless you!" " I said to myself: ' If I can do no good in this world, my life is ended. Perhaps I can save one from her fate. Perhaps — perhaps a little timely aid may avert a catastrophe.' Now, I ask one thing: drop me a line now and then to let me know how you're com- ing on. I leave for Paris to-night, and will be hon- ored to hear from you. Remember, also, that this places you under no obligation to me; on the con- trary, I am the obliged. My address is, American and Colonial Exchange, London or Paris, and I shall ex- pect news of you. Should no word come, do not hesi- tate to write when I can be of any service. Friend- ship is a word of deep meaning; I am a rainy-weather friend. When you are in need, let me know. He went on again about his sister. " Poor thing ! poor thing ! You see, it is always 374 Stage-Struck. running in my mind. I can see her a little girl, as she played with her dolls; then bigger, when she came home from school with her satchel full of books; then when, a young lady, she left for Europe to be an opera-singer. Ah, ah ! sure enough, it was a hard fate for so honest an ambition ! Poor girl ! poor girl !" He sighed profoundly; then he said, " Good-by." His voice trembled, and left a sound of melancholy upon the air. *' Good-by, and God bless you, Mr. Randolph !" He pressed Mrs. Almont's hand, then Annabel's. Her heart was too full for words, but her eyes were eloquent with gratitude. How happy they were ! and what blessings were heaped upon his head ! Yet his sister's awful history weighed upon their hearts. To think, in a world of plenty, a beautiful creature could die of shame and starvation; could be thrown like a dog into the paupers' field ! Yet her fate was but that of many. Does it reflect aught on Americans abroad, rolling in their millions and plenty ? Annabel had finished her season at Pavia in tri- umph. Her benefit, or, as it is called in Italy, serata d'onore^ was a great success; but the incidentals, as usual, ate up more than the profit. A symphony had been composed for her " evening," and the following day the orchestra-leader calmly asked her to present him with a souvenir of the occasion. He asked for *' something of value," explaining that he knew she was a rich American, and that these presents formed a recognized portion of his salary. So Annabel gave him a few francs, which he accepted under protest. Stage-Struck. 375 A bouquet had been presented by the directors of the theatre, tied with an enormous sash, on which was printed a ** dedication" in gold letters, ^^ Alia il- lustrissima cantatrice Americana Signorina Annabella D'Almontiy She had to pay for both the sash and the golden letters. A heavy bill was presented for printing satin programmes, etc. etc., and extra adver- tisements in the newspaper: this also had to be set- tled. But now Annabel was quite a star in the colony. The next thing which amazed her was the number of theatrical journals addressed to her. In some there were fine notices of her singing; in others, the most ridiculous accounts. She received a quantity of let- ters inviting her to subscribe to these papers. The other students explained, that if she did not imme- diately take them, she would have cause to rue it on future occasions. And so ended the incident of her first appearance as a prima donna. CHAPTER XLII. Annabel would not have been able to sing at the Carnival season, even had she obtained an engage- ment. Over-work and the reaction after the excite- ment of her first appearance had made her quite ill. The weather had been bitterly cold, and the wintry- wind, which comes down from the neighboring Alps, renders the climate of Milan one of the most insidi- ous in Europe. It had blown almost continuously- through the streets. She had an extinction de voix^ then a cough, which laid her up. Mr. Randolph's money was exhausted nearly to the last sou. They almost lost heart. Annabel had fallen into the usual rut: a successful debut, American newspapers filled with the wildest and most exag- gerated accounts of her singing, daily looking for another chance, and then illness from exhaustion and fretting. Her pride alone sustained her. Count Arani, whom she had met at the agent's, and who resided in Milan, had, on her return there, perse- cuted her with his attentions. These at last had be- come so demonstrative that she had been obliged to decline his further acquaintance. Dozens had paid court, meaning marriage, besides the other hangers-on to the skirts of a pretty artist; but Annabel had never wavered in her love for Brakenston. All other men were utterly indifferent to her. She St age-Struck. 377 often wondered if he ever thought of her. Nearly two years had elapsed since they had last met, and in all that time he had never even written a word — never even made a sign of life. She was a fool to still think of him; and yet how could she help herself? Had she confided in her mother at first, she would have been happier. Often she had thought she would speak; yet when the time came, she shrank from allusion to him. The fear of appearing weak and unwomanly had not a little to do with her dread. Perhaps she also hoped that he would give some sign of life; but she had hoped in vain. A year had almost passed, autumn was waning, and still she was at Milan without an engagement. They had heard nothing more of Mr. Randolph. What could have happened to their kind friend? Surely he was not the man to promise aid and then to for- get ! What were they to do ? which way should they turn ? Oh, the sting of being poor, and of trying to keep up appearances ! Annabel suffered more from pride than poverty. She secretly envied the sewing- woman, or the lace-mender. Had she known how to do anything under the sun that would bring in money, she would cheerfully have done it. She happily recovered from her severe cold and its accompanying prostration. Every day she went the round to the theatrical agents; every day she received the same answer — " Nothing for you." One by one they had pawned almost all of their little valuables. As a climax to their misfortunes, Mrs. Almont received a letter one morning from her 378 Stage-Struck, husband, announcing that he had come to Europe, and was at present ill in London. The exaggerated reports in the American news- papers of Annabel's success had led him to suppose that they were living in comfort, perhaps luxury, while he was neglected and abandoned in America. On the strength of his daughter's brilliant success he had been able to borrow enough money to get him to London. Once there, he felt and knew that some- thing must " turn up." Being one of the deceased Micawber's direct financial heirs, he was never with- out budding hope. Mrs. Almont was obliged to go to London. This time it was the English consul who kindly came to their aid. In fact, when had not Mr. Nelson been heart, mind, and pocket at the disposition of many of the students at that time in Milan ? Mrs. Almont was deeply distressed on being obliged to leave An- nabel. The parting between mother and daughter was most tender. In prosperous days they had known and appreciated each other less; now in adversity they were drawn together. It was hard to go away, but her duty as a wife came before that of a mother. The last good-bys were said, and Annabel returned from the station with a heavy heart. She was indeed alone. Amongst her friends there remained one beautiful girl, Genevieve Raynal. Genevieve was the hand- somest woman in Milan; the most industrious, the most respected and beloved of the whole American colony. Her patience and strength of character were wonderful. Stage-Struck, 379 She had but a most meagre allowance, yet she never complained. She wore one black gown until it was threadbare; yet, for all that, she never looked less at- tractive. The Milanese youth still called her '* Lady Scatolung," and made love to her. She rejected all overtures, saying, " I love myself better than jewels and fine clothes." She and Isabelle were old and dear friends; and now that the Stanleys were gone, Anna- bel saw something of her: but it was never the friend- ship which sometimes exists between girls. Annabel understood Genevieve's nature. Like her- self, she was reserved, proud, and uncomplaining; and alluded as little to her own affairs as to those of others. She never gossiped; in fact, that quality was mo- nopolized by the men in Milan. When one of the sex has nothing to do, he develops an astonishing propen- sity for talk, — small-talk, if you will, — and his curiosity far surpasses that of woman. Men fall into mischief when let alone; they have much less real self-sustain- ing power than women. That person is very remarkable who can live in Italy and come forth unscathed from this hot-bed, where the men are even fonder than women of scandal. No one has any occupation; so the cause of this is very evident. The Milanese idler is generally a younger son of one of the old families. He lives at home, and enjoys an income of about a hundred a year. He has plenty of natural shrewdness, is quick at repartee, and his ignorance is almost regrettable. Most of his income is spent on adorning his person, and the dream of his life is to be taken for an Eng- 380 Stage-Struck. lishman, although he seldom gets much beyond the picturesque dress of his country. He rises late, and after an hour at his toilet he sallies forth to a cafe. In the course of the day he honors three or four of these establishments, as well as the Galleria, with his presence. In the afternoon he drives out to the Bastione in a fiacre; after a short visit to the club, he dines at home. During the Carnival season he visits the opera nightly, as he is determined to get full value for the hundred francs which he pays for his season's subscription, and lounges in the boxes of his various friends. Later on he drops into several salons; for, as is the custom throughout Italy, many ladies receive every evening, and always very late. At these salons he finds perhaps half a dozen ladies and gentlemen discussing their neighbors and them- selves, or playing at cards for centime points. Mid- night well over, he again drops into a cafe' and swal- lows a heavy but cheap supper; after which he be- takes himself to his club. If he has money, he gambles; if not, he follows the play of others with anxious eyes. Not till day-dawn does he gets to bed. He is perfectly well-bred, good- natured, and amusing, when he is not in a sentimental phase: in which case he becomes lachrymose. If the object of his affection turns a deaf ear to his allure- ments, he makes the entire town a confidant of his woes; even the waiters at the cafe's know when il Signer Conte is a victim of unrequited love. His mode of paying court is curious. Arrayed in his choicest habiliments, with a pink in his button- hole, and his hair well pomaded, he seldom says a Stage-Struck. 381 word, but he glares fixedly at the object of his affec^ tions, being apparently under the impression that his glances possess the fabled power of the fatal serpent, and will fascinate his Eve no matter by how many Adams she may be guarded. Annabel spent much time at the maestro's. She sang without heart, and she studied but listlessly. One day she burst into tears, and declared that she would give it up. " Everything goes wrong, dear maestro," she said. "I seem to sing worse every day; and I know I shall never be a great singer." Trivulsi looked affectionately at her; then spoke. " Come and sit beside me, dear Annabellina, and we will have an oral lesson. First of all, let us be very frank with each other. Dost thou think thyself that thou hast any talent? and canst thou define the dif- ference in singers, in studying, between a career and a pastime ? For an amateur, any one would consider thee a marvel. As a professional, thou wouldst hardly pass for one." She flushed. *' Dear maestro, I know I seem very impatient; but will you tell'me what I must do to be- come a singer; and the difference between a profes- sional and an amateur ? I should think that good singing would be good singing the world over, whether by one or the other. What is the differ- ence ?" " First let me speak of thyself. I tell thee what to do when thou art here; but there are many hours of the day when thou must study by thyself and try to apply my teaching. The mischief is done when the pupil studies alone. Before beginning to learn operas. 382 St age-Struck. there is the mechanical training required for the voice. The student should sing exercises for an hour each day — half an hour in the morning and half an hour in the afternoon. Sing first a slow scale of eight notes, then one of nine. Agility in the voice can only be acquired in one way. It all must be in exact time and measure. For example, we will say that the pupil cannot sing the scale of F perfectly. In a cer- tain tempo it may go all right. A real artist should never say, I can sing this scale and not that. If he possess the mechanical power to do one, he must be able, should his throat have been well trained, to do the other; for the note is born in his head before he gives mechanical expression to the sound by his voice. In fact, the throat is to the singer what the violin is to the violinist, the flute to the flutist, and the piano to the pianist. Usually, the moment that a singer attempts to vary the time, the execution falls to pieces. This is wrong. Excellence should not be remarked in one way more than in another. The throat has no right to do one thing better or worse than another, only as it has been taught, it being a perfectly mechanical organ. To acquire vocal agility (to use the technical term) a pupil must sing a scale very slowly in the same tempo for a week, and on no ac- count go faster the last day than the first. During the second week it must be a little faster; then during the third a little faster — this also for a week; then during a fourth week still faster. At the end of the month the pupil finds that he is able to sing four times as fast as he did-in the first week. This is the way to begin to study; but smoothness of Stage-Struck. 383 execution and perfection are only attained by singing scales and exercises in the different tempos for weeks, and months, and years. No cadenza nor exercise should be sung without putting it in specified time, accenting it, beating the measure with the exactitude of a metronome; nothing should, be left to chance or inspiration. A person may be more disposed some days than others; but the throat, if in proper condi- tion, should be trained so that it cannot go wrong on any day." " But, dear maestro, some sing exquisitely although they have studied little; though, in fact, they have neve been regularly taught. How is this?" " I never knew any great singer who did not slave for years in the beginning, and who did not keep up the most vigorous training of exercises, after even the greatest success. Chance may bring one artist to the front by his success in one particular rdle^ and he may subsequently fail in all others. He may be bad in every succeeding thing, as he had been in every pre- vious one; but if he be a trained singer, he will show his training in every part he sings, whether he win applause or not. This it is to be an artist: his throat knows no difference, but will go as it has been taught. It is always ready. He takes his part, he portions out each phrase, each measure, and commences to study. If an air comes to him. by ear, he rejects it and does not pay attention until he learns it in its place, with its proper time and sentiment. Everything is by rule and in order with the professional singer. An ama- teur may have a better natural voice than a profes- sional; but as he has not by hard study and long 384 Stage-Struck. practice mechanically reconstructed his throat and .converted it into a musical instrument, he will never be able to equal the professional. His throat will never be subservient to his talent. *' Cara An7zabelltna, amateurs rarely sing very well. They pay no attention to detail; their voices are so uncultured; that they often fail in expressing what they wish, owing to their throats being unable to re- spond to the calls that are made upon them. They have little idea of time, and no knowledge of phrasing. They say, 'Oh, I only sing for pleasure;' and they forget that one either sings well or badly. Nothing is so annoying as a mediocrity; and I sometimes think that is the real definition of the word dilettanti. In the first place, the reason is that they cannot, or will not, devote enough time to necessary study; a little hard work goes a great way, but it must be serious. An amateur sits down at the piano, and says, ' Now I will have a good practice.' One scale is sung up and down, perhaps twice, without an idea of whether it is in one tempo or another; or whether one note is ex- actly like the other; or even whether it can be of use after in a cadenza. A few arpeggios are then rushed through. After this comes a song without words, followed by some grand aria, in which the mistakes of one day are conscientiously repeated the next. Tired out after the hour's bad study, they never look at their piano until the next day; when the same thing is again gone through. Of course, when I com^ pare artists and amateurs, I mean real artists." " But the other class you named, maestro ?" " Not the besotted vain aspirants who give them- Stage-Struck. 385 selves two years in which to become singers, who learn a number of operas, who never hear a new aria but they decide it was written for their voices, and buy it at once; who mistake obstinacy for assiduity, memory for talent, and perseverance for true applica- tion; who have learned a quantity of rdles^ but none perfectly; who believe in their voices, but count still more for success on their assurance. Ferb Carina^ we have talked enough about others; let us go on with our lesson." Annabel wondered what the great performers in the choir at La Crosse would have thought if they had heard the maestro's lecture upon music, and what he would have thought had he heard their ingenuous efforts. She almost blushed when she remembered her pride whenever she sang, " I want to be an Angel." Could it really be that all the professors of music who had come to La Crosse, and who had lived at the expense of the inhabitants in consideration of inform- ing the bulk of them that they were heaven-born musicians, were nothing but greedy humbugs ? She reflected on what the maestro had said, as she went home, and " to think" that amateurs were not alone confined to America. The boarding-house was still going on, but simply kept its head above water. Angel had been study- ing with Trivulsi, and so had Genevieve, Urbini, Lansini, and a numiber of others. In fact, the dear old man had his hands full. Angel had an engagement to sing near Naples. He wrote that he had made a debut as Alfredo in " La Traviata," and finally discovered that this role was not 386 Stage-Struck, robusto enough. He signed a scrittura to go to Au- stralia, and before Annabel had time to answer his letter he was off for Melbourne. How the days dragged, and how lonesome she was, how unhappy ! "The iron of discouragement had entered her soul. The steadfast courage which had sustained and filled even her dreams with hope was a thing of the past. She found herself often asking herself whether the life she led were worth living. She often thought of Brak, but without resentment, and she wondered why her mind so constantly re- verted to him. There was little news of the outer world. Her world was Milan. Milan with its un- changing life, its restless fretful current, its monotony of impecunious students, its thousand prima donnas without work, and the same faces to be seen at every turn, in every street, in every corner. Living misery, shiftlessness, and demoralization. She could study but little in summer, for the heat was suffocating. She spent all her days in much the same way, except that she went to the agencies, Alice Weiss was a kind little friend; they met frequently, but that was all. Annabel was depressed for many reasons. She had been brave until courage seemed bravado. She had but scant news from her mother, and her poverty was such that she had to live almost entirely on polenta^ like the poorest of Italians. She still went to the maestro's, although too listless to sing. Her mother was at her father's bedside. She had told Annabel to borrow some money if she could; and she, to lighten her mother's cares, said little in her letters of her own Stage-Struck, 387 troubles. She began to lose all hope. This so startled her that she longed to die. She thought of the great artists, their struggles, their trials; and she said to herself, " I am not fit to follow in their footsteps, and any American who ever loses heart is a disgrace to the country." Lack of money undoubtedly tends to moral men- dicity. She was tired, ill, and felt herself degraded, owing to the constantly recurring scenes in which her poverty and her ambition had involved her. She still loved her art, but she began to hate its surroundings, and her heart's struggle beat with dire faintness. Almost every day she went into the cathedral, and passed hours aimlessly wandering through its dim aisles, or pausing to listen to the voice of the priest as he droned through some service. She often stopped at one of the altars, as she felt a sort of sacred happiness whenever she went into the great Duomo. One evening she found herself in one of the side chapels. She knelt down to pray. No words came to her lips, but she cried and sobbed as though her heart would break. An old priest was silently watching her. He drew near. '' My child," he said, " why this grief ?" " Mio padre r She arose precipitately, as though ashamed of her emotion. He continued: "Is there anything on your mind? Will you not lay all your, cares completely at the foot of the Cross? Will you confess ?" " My father," she answered, blushing, " I have naught to confess." She was trembling like a criminal The word "con- 388 St age-Struck. fess " had stung her. The priest looked compassion- ately at her. ^^ Figlia mia, no matter what your troubles may be, when once you have confided them to the Church, you will alone know repose. I am an old man, and have known many children like you whom the world has treated harshly. No matter how you have sinned — " "Sinned !" She drew herself up, and with a proud inclination of her head she walked away. She had remained longer than usual, and the shades of night were falling. When she passed through the great portal of the cathedral, she hurried along the street with a fast-beating heart. As she neared home she felt a hand upon her shoulder. She started violently, and found herself face to face with — Braken- ston.' Before she could realize that it was really he, these words fell upon her ear: " I once asked you to choose between love and am- bition. Do you still prefer your art to me ?" Before he had ceased speaking, her answer was given. She threw herself into his arms. *' My son !" A voice rang out on the stillness of the night. Both started. Annabel recognized the old priest who had followed her from the cathedral. Brak looked at him doggedly, then seemed to ponder deeply. He passed his hand over his forehead two or three times, then turned towards him. His eyes blazed fitfully, and a desperate smile accompanied his words. "Heaven has sent you, ^adre into. Will you marry us now, at once ?" Stage-Struck. 389 Annabel started, and the priest looked troubled. '^ Marry you now ?" he stammered. " I know noth- ing of you, nothing of her. There are formalities which ought to be fulfilled. I cannot — " "Father," Brak interrupted, "I ask you again, will you marry us ? If not, the sin be upon your own head." He turned to Annabel and grasped her hands. -" Yes, I mean it." The old man reflected. " Do you wish it, really wish it ?" he said to An- nabel. Brak still held her hands. He looked searchingly into her eyes. She returned his look with one soulful glance, then said to the priest, " Yes, padre mto'* ^^ Poverina! Take me to your own home; the bene- diction of the Church cannot harm you." CHAPTER XLIII. Brakenston and Annabel had been married a fort- night. He had told her all: how he had come there because he could no longer live without seeing her. She was supremely happy. In his presence she for- got all her cares and troubles. She could hardly believe that he was really by her side, never more to leave her. She confessed to him again and again that she had loved him from the first, and she threw the fault of their long separation on him. "On me?" he said. '* I never forgot you for a moment. I wandered far and wide, but everywhere your image was with me. I was at death's door when you left London. I have been nearly over every part of the world, trying to forget you; but impossible. Your image was always with me." " Besides that, you had my photograph, I know. Annie wrote — " He clasped her hand tightly. "Annie wrote you? When ? How long ago ? What — what did she have to say ?" "Oh, nothing much. I will show you the letter." "You have it still? Why?" " Why ? Why, can you not imagine ? She spoke of you. She said that she knew you had taken my picture. That is all I heard. No, not all. Mrs. Ed- 3tage-Struck. 39! monds wrote that they had never seen you but once or twice." "Did — did she mention Lallie ?" His voice was measured and cold. Annabel hesitated. " I— I think they thought that — that, in fact, you did not love — " " They thought right. How could I love any one, when I cared only for you ? But show me what Annie wrote." She ran and fetched the letter. He took it eagerly. " Is this the last, the only news you have had from them ? However, it is not strange. They are no longer in Salisbury Street. Who knows if they are even in *that great gathering-place of souls' — London ?'* " This is the first, last, and only letter. Are you satisfied, Mr. Curiosity? But — Lallie" — Annabel's tone was anxious — " you always speak of her. I — I am jealous." "Jealous? What! jealous now?" He kissed her again and again. " You have no cause for jealousy. You have my heart, my soul, my — my all — my honor. I am all yours, as you are mine." " Oh," she said, " if I were to lose you now !" She shuddered, and her head sank on his shoulder. He soothed and caressed her, with words of love. " Darling, you must never doubt me. If you love me, you must believe in me." Then she answered, " I do believe in you as I do in myself. I shall love you for ever, and tell you, every hour in the day, just how much I think of you." Thus days and weeks passed. They were like two 392 Stage-Struck. children. They lived on, happy in the present, " the world forgetting, and by the world forgot." One morning, Annabel sat alone. The day was stormy; the wind howled dismally. Yet within, what warmth and cheerfulness ! A fire burned brightly; some flowers were in an old vase; the painted Cupids in the frescoed ceiling seemed alive, and looking down upon her with the greatest affection. Was this the same cold, uncomfortable room where she had spent so many hours of misery ? — the old carpet where even the rags had so distressed her ? It was now as soft to her feet as arbusson. The faded hangings at the windows were no longer uncanny. They were now the faithful sentinels which hid herself and her love from the whole world. She sat pensive, expectant; and she moved only when she heard a footstep at the outer door. Her heart leapt into her mouth. Was it the fire that cast so ruddy a glow upon her face, or the heat of that inward flame which found outward expression in eye and cheek ? She sank back on the old sofa, and cov- ered her face with her hands. In a moment he was at her side, at her feet. He buried his head in her lap, murmuring soft words of love; then he lifted his eyes to hers. "Annabel, you have made a slave of me. I have been out of your sight two hours; it has been a cen- tury! I love you; I love you — can you not see how much ? Are you a sorceress, that you have managed so quickly to enchain my very soul ? When I walk in the streets, I see only you in every woman's face. When away from you, I have but one thought — to Stage-Struck. 393 come and throw myself at your feet. Ah ! Annabel, Annabel, I love yow—je f adore, tu in as ensorcele ! " She laughed gently. Her hand caressed his hair, his cheek, while she laid her own up against his face. " You are a great baby. You tell me this just to see what answer I will make. Now, listen. I have been two hours without you; the time has seemed cen- turies. I love you — can you not see how much ? I have been wandering everywhere — in imagination — and every object I saw was Brak; every man's face bore your image. You have managed so quickly to enchain my soul, I have left all the splendid chateaux en Espagne to have one man throw himself at my feet. Brak, Brak, je f adore, tu in' as ensorceUT* Then she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. " I did not know that I had been making love to a parrot," he said, with mock earnestness. " Nor I to a bird of p — " "Stop! There are three winged celebrities in the ornithology of fate, each beginning with a /. Now, which one am I — a bird of paradise, passage, or prey ? Which one am I ? To be amiable, you might call me — " " And I do — the first. But, had I to choose between the other two, I would rather that you were the last than the second." " Thanks. But what have you done during my ab- sence ? A propos we ought not to dine out ; the weather is simply vile. Do you remember the cold tea you once gave me to drink, and the picnic on the Thames — the first and only one we ever had together?" 394 Stage-Struck, " Do I remember ?" — with an accent of reproach. " How many times have I thought of it! Oh — " " What is it ?" " Nothing. I also thought of some one else at the same time." She remembered Lallie, and the story of Lorelei. "Some one else?" he said, with a jealous accent — " some one else ?" Than he laughed scornfully. " Naturally, there have been plenty to make love to you during all these months. Can you mean it ?" He seized her hand. "Do not trifle with me. Great God! women are all alike. Perhaps you were expect- ing some one else when I came to Milan ? I hope I have not returned too soon to-day to interrupt ?" He dropped her hand angrily, and went towards the piano. She followed him stealthily; then, as he commenced playing, she threw her arms around his neck. " Yes, dear, you did interrupt; and you came back too soon. Had you left me for an hour more, my joy only would have been greater when you returned. I was thinking — But tell me something first." « Yes," sullenly. " What ?" " How much you love me." The arms were still about his neck. "Whisper it, please. I don't want all this old furniture to hear." Her caresses won him over. He whispered some- thing so tender that she placed a hand over his mouth. The final words, "More than myself, my life, my soul, my honor," dropped like pearls through her fingers. She smiled, quite content, but said, "It is not Stage-Struck. 395 enough, still will do for the moment. Now, shall I tell you the name of — of the person of whom I was thinking ?" " Yes." " Well, it was — again, as always — of Lallie." His hands came down upon the keyboard with a crash. His heart throbbed with such violence that she felt his whole body quiver. She was stunned, dumbfounded. He never spoke. " What can have startled you ? Has — has anything happened to her? Is — is she dead ?" Her voice trembled with horror. He turned away brusquely. "Dead ? — no. You ask what has happened. Nothing; only I, too, was think- ing of our day on the river and your fairy-story. It all came back so vividly, I was startled. You know for two years that I have always thought of you, and — and during my illness — you remember about my brain- fever ? — I always saw you as you looked then in that boat. Ugh!" He shuddered. She placed his head on her bosom. " Poor darling! And to think that you might have died with that fever then — died for love of me, not the fever!" " For love of you," he repeated sour dement. " Now you will have to live for love of me. We shall have to live for love of each other." She kissed him as she spoke. He was quite calm by this time, and his fingers in- stinctively sought their old refuge, the keys. She still clung about him. " I will come back to Mrs. Edmonds. Tell me about Lallie, Belle, and Annie. Are they all well ?" 39^ Stage-Struck, " As I told you a week ago, I have not seen any of them lately excepting — excepting Lallie." A fine run of brilliant ^/;^^^^// followed this expla- nation. His voice was half covered by. the music. " Lallie ? — again Lallie ?" — half jealously. " Is — is she always so beautiful ? You know I once thought that you were in love with her." She spoke anx- iously. "I? Never! I have never loved but one woman, and you know well who that is. A propos of the Ed- monds' their home is broken up, and — and I tliink I once told you that they are not even in London. Lallie and I were always good friends. She never was beautiful, and now she is not as pretty as she was. But never let us speak of anybody or anything but ourselves, our love. Life is too short. You are the only woman in the world for me. Remember that I have to make up for two years during which I never saw you." And he looked fondly into her eyes. He continued. " Are you serious ? I wish to talk to you about — about affairs." "Affairs? Music? — my d3utr ' '^ DSut! No. Don't hope to take me in with that rubbish !" — pointing to some journals near by. "No power on earth could make me believe, that you are a great singer. But affairs. First of all, tell me some- thing — how much you love me." " No; I don't love you. I have changed my mind." " That is impossible. But you won't tell me ?" « N— no." " Then I will tell you coolly, madam may give her- self airs if she. likes, but nothing can prevent my Stage-Struck, 397 loving her — nothing." He sealed his words with a fond kiss. "Really? You mean it? You, then, love me so much ?" "Much? I have said nothing about much. Per- haps it is little. You know there are shades to every color. But will you listen to me ? I wish to know all about yourself, your affairs. Will you tell me or not ? You are always putting me off." "There is nothing to tell." "Are you determined to misunderstand? Must I catechise ? Your father ?" "Ah, poor papa! Yes, I may tell of him; but — " "The old word. Great Heaven! Did one ever know so proud or obstinate a woman!" He importuned her so strongly that she finally yielded. She told him everything she thought neces- sary, but barely touched on her poverty. "You are not telling me all, nor all of the truth. I found you here in this wretched house. To think of my wife living in such a way! Now there is to be a change. You are to go to a better apartment; you are to buy yourself fine dresses; you are to enjoy life. I have brought you this," taking a case from his pocket. "Annabel," — he spoke suddenly; his tone was changed, although he tried to make it care- less, — "have you written to your mother to tell her of our marriage ?" "I wrote this morning, and there's the letter." He took it in his hand. "Dearest, this letter must not go. You told me just now that you would trust me. Our marriage must be kept a secret for a while," 398 Stage-Struck, She looked at him in astonishment. " Why ? But why?" she asked indignantly. "You are ashamed of me." "How can you imagine such a thing? No; this is why. I am entirely dependent on my uncle. He is always proposing some grand marriage to me. If he thought me capable of marrying without having con- sulted him, he'd have nothing more to do with me. I must break it to him gradually." " But mamma — surely I may tell — " " Not even her." " Well, but what are we to do ? I thought that you were going to take me away from Milan." "I can remain here. We can go on as we are now. It will only be for a few weeks. I'll write to him to- day or to-morrow." Annabel sighed. She did not like the concealment. The idea of being a wife in secret, without even her mother knowing that she was married, was a shock to her. But how could she refuse him ? " I suppose that you know best. I will do what you wish, but I do not like it. I am so proud to think that you preferred me to any one else, and that I am really and truly your wife. I should like the whole world to know it." "And the whole world will know it. We shall only have to keep our secret for a few weeks, darling. I have told you my reasons; and you see yourself that our whole future depends upon our secrecy. But you have told me nothing yet of your own position. All that I know is that your mother has gone to nurse your father, and that you are living in this wretched Stage- Struck, 399 apartment, without, I suppose, even money enough to stave off want." " I was waiting — I am waiting for an engagement, and every day, as you know, I take my singing-les- sons." "There is no question any longer of an engage- ment. You belong to me, and your future is my care; so tell me exactly your circumstances. Does your mother send you any money ?" Annabel hesitated. " No," she at last said. "Then how do you live ?" " We had money at first." Then she told him about her father, who had come over to Europe fancying that she was a prima donna rolling in gold. Brak looked serious. "Let me ask you a favor," she continued. "Let me remain just as I am now. The rent is paid till the end of the quarter. We will go out to dine every day at a restaurant as we have done. I have still a little money left. When I am your wife before the world, it will be time enough then for me to spend your money." "Well, it must be as you wish; only, for the future, if you want anything, remember it will be your right — your duty, I should say — to apply to me." And so they lived on. Brak was more like a lover than a husband. He seemed to have but one thought upon earth — herself. Her health, her happiness, her thoughts even, were his constant preoccupation. Some days he was downcast and depressed; but a touch of Annabel's hand, a sound of her soft voice, brought back light to his eye and cheerfulness to his heart, 40O Stage-Struck, If he went away from her for but an hour, he came hurrying back; and before she could ask him a ques- tion, somehow, without knowing how, she was in his arms, her head pillowed on his shoulder, and her hands caressing his cheek. Sometimes in his unhappy mood he would say, "Annabel, you have given yourself to a good-for- nothing. It's all very well now, while you pretend to care for me; but wait until poverty comes in at the door. It may come, you know; then love will fly. But — but you will never forgive me for having spoiled your life, for having taken advantage of your love." She smiled tenderly. "Yes, I know I shall be a blighted being; but until I am, dear, don't fret about having spoiled my life. Only tell me that you love no one in all this wide world but me, and I shall be satisfied. Only it must be for keeps, as the children say. You must love me for ever; you can never take it back." CHAPTER XLIV. Annabel and her mother had long lived in isola- tion; that is to say, it was isolation for Milan. When they left the " boarding-house" they almost dropped out of the American society. After her mother's de- parture she continued her lessons and her life much in the same old way. When invited to go about with the students, she pleaded as an excuse her mother's absence and her own continuous studies. Her heart overflowed with the happiness of newly found love. Her life was so colored with this new sentiment that everything around her had a roseate hue. The children in the streets, the little mongrel who crept into the janitor's lodge, the enormous cat who purred on the window-sill, the monkey who skipped about the organ-grinder, the dark-browed contadina who carried his wares to the mercato — in fact, every object, animate and inanimate in nature, breathed but one word: that word was love. She would look in the faces of men and women, and say, " I wonder if they are as happy as / am; if any one in the world loves as I love, or is beloved as I am beloved ?" One day she was more than usually content. She went to the old maestro's. Tenderly she sat down beside his bed. The little birds flew to greet her. She took one in her hand. It chirped with the great- est earnestness, as if it were trying to tell her some- 402 Stage-Struck, thing; then it flew into a corner, where its poor little maimed mate dolefully sat moping. The maestro nodded and smiled; then he explained. By some mis- chance Marietta had dropped him from her lap. He had fallen under the scuttle, hence his crippled state; but the other one never left the corner. In misfortune they clung together. " Cara la mia^ Annabellinaj it is but natural they love." *' Even the little passarelky' she murmured. She had seen them a hundred times, and never before had thought of their loving each other. Now it was so plain; everything was so plain. She commenced to sing. Her voice had gained color, strength, and beauty. After the usual exer- cises, she commenced a favorite air of the maestro's, the " Qui la voce" from "I Puritani." Trivulsi, like all great teachers, never neglected the classic masters. According to him, they alone knew how to write for the voice. In this day of general emancipation, piano-players compose operds and teach singing; but the so-called modern music, which is but the mechanism of perfectly constructed scores, has little to attract or sustain the voice. An artist nowa- days must outsing a hundred instruments. She ac- companies the band; it is no longer a question of the band accompanying her. She must shriek, scream — anything to make herself heard. Verdi commenced the sensational school; but things have gone so far beyond him that his worst is now good in comparison. A modern opera means one strain of melody, begun at the sixth, finished before the thirty-second. This Stage-Struck. 403 one theme is dragged through five long acts, each act serving more completely to disguise and confuse it. One spends an evening listening, perspiring, laboring, struggling, trying to catch and retain one complete phrase; then, when the opera is ended, the listener feels a neuralgic pain in his temples, and as though his teeth were falling out of his head. When he complains, on coming out of the opera, that he cannot carry away one single air, and that there is not one glimmer of inspiration, he is told airs are vulgar, inspiration a mistake of the past; that this harmony is correct, and that perfection in music consists nowa- days in disobeying no rule of composition, and in hav- ing perfectly orchestrated scores. Annabel had always sung intelligently. She had sweetness and expression, but no real sentiment, no heart. There was something always wanting. She sang with the simplicity of a child rather than with the awakened feelings of a woman. But now, she could not tell why, she only knew that lately every chord of her being had vibrated to the slightest touch of feeling. She sang the andante^ " Qui la voce,'* 2iS Bellini in- tended it should be sung. She was Elvira, Brak was Arturo. She worked her imagination through fancied reality up to such a pitch that she saw herself mad, abandoned, and crying for her lover. The allegro was not less impassioned. When she finished the scena, Federico turned silently, and looked at her. He went to the window, and his eye unconsciously wandered over the Lombardy hills; but he never spoke a word. The maestro was in tears. He motioned Annabel 404 Stage-Struck. towards him. She went quickly and obediently, scarce knowing what she did. The poor old paralytic loved her so truly, so fondly. He took her hand, and drew her head down to his; then he whispered, " Carina mia, I have divined thy secret. Couldst thou hope to hide it from the poor old maestro, who has read the pulsations of so many a child's heart? God grant thee happiness! Nay, nay; tremble not. Thy secret is safe with me. Bend thy head nearer. Be happy, and tell him that thy master loves him for thy sake. Heaven bless you both!" Without a word, she returned to the piano, beckoned to Federico to take his place, and she repeated the final allegro of the scena. The notes rang out strong, clear, and triumphant; but, above all, there was a song of triumph in her heart. She loved and was beloved, and her dear master, her second father, had given her his blessing. The secret.no longer corroded. CHAPTER XLV. The following day she received a note from the Agenzia Benella, asking her to come and try her voice for an engagement at Nice. She showed it to Brak in the greatest delight. "I must go at once. What shall I sing? Come, try this over," taking a lovely ballad of Salina. " Then you shall choose the operatic air. I — " He threw the note in the fire. " You are not going to sing at any agent's. That is your answer." " Are you crazy ? I must. This is a great chance." "I had thought that you would give up the idea of singing; at least, for the present. I want you all to myself. Stop! Here is the answer. Write that you — that you have another engagement." "Brak!" indignantly. "I cannot treat anyone in that way. You are unreasonable!" " No, I am not. I will not let you go. We must spend all of our time together. I cannot spare my — my sposina'' " Shall I tell them that ?"— playfully. He looked up quickly. " For Heaven's sake, no!" He saw that she was jesting. " How can you say such a thing even in joke ?" His humor surprised her. "Forgive me. I believe I am nervous. Fancy a man being nervous! Shall I play to you? No. What 4o6 Stage-Struck. time is it? Nearly five o'clock. So late ? I must go and see if there are any letters. I will be back in an hour to take you to dine. We will go like two lovers to a new restaurant. I have found out a new one. I wish to goodness we could go and dine like Christians at some decent cafi. I suppose, however, that it wouldn't do, and we must go on poisoning ourselves in those wretched pot-houses outside the barriers, so as not to come across any of your friends. But I must not com- plain. There is really something deliciously captivat- ing in this secrecy: the fear that I may not have you all to myself, that I may come back and find an im- provised mamma installed at home; that you your- self, ambitious little wretch, may have gone off to sing in some one-horse town, leaving me in the lurch. This is a terrible thought! You see, I am not sure of you." " Not with this?" turning her ring around on her finger and laughing. " Perhaps that is the reason you love me so much. I have heard clever women say that the only way to retain a man's love is to treat him so badly that he feels in constant danger of losing you. What was that?" A noise, a footstep without, startled her. She trembled and went quickly to the door. Assured that it was nothing, she came back to his side. " I start at the slightest sound. What if mamma and my father were to arrive suddenly ? I always think I can hear voices. Even a brick falling in the chimney startles me." "Naturally! Enough to startle any one." "How can you jest? I am suddenly grown ner- Stage-Struck, 407 vous; the least thing makes me start. But we have not decided what I am to tell mamma; what explana- tion I am to give her for having seen you so often." "I have decided," he said coolly; "you had better not even mention my name — at present." "Not mention your name? Oh, that is nonsense! Besides, she will know — the servant, the concierge. She may have heard that you have been here; that we have been out together. Suppose she asks one or the other of them ?" "In that very thing your safety lies. The well-born domestic has a character of gold; besides which, the nature of the servant is to deny from principle, to lie from habit. As a study of nature, I have discovered that one has nothing to fear from any one of them. They will never betray us, because it is, as I said, a character of gold." She laughed, reassured. He continued. ^'■Apropos of the anatomy of that branch of the human race, were I a woman I should be much puzzled. We know the period of gestation for an elephant, for a hero, a serpent, a dog, or a rab- bit; yet great scientists have failed to discover the why, when, and wherefore of the domestic. Cest vrai- ment une nature a party " I think you might get some enlightenment from the Commissioners of Emigration, who pay five yearly visits to Castle Garden in New York; a more difficult problem might puzzle them. But they are sure to give you information on every subject out of their line of business. It has usually been not a question of how domestics come into a new world, but where 408 Stage-Struck. they are going to put them when they get there; the latest scheme is to bring the far West to New York." "My dear, are you sure ? By the way, you never tell me anything much of your country." " What! tell an Englishman anything about America? Besides, one day you enlightened me on the divorce question; the next thing I shall expect a dissertation on Mormonism." "Ah!" he rejoined indifferently. "I am not up in that American product; but I must go, or we shall have no dinner. By the way, I must put you on your guard against three creatures who might betray us." She looked pale. " Yes; I refer to the mongrel, the cat, and the monkey. They are sure to know me whenever we meet, whether in this life or in the next. Strictly speaking, they are animals, but they merit being human." " I don't know about that" — laughing. " How can we be sure that they do not consider us great fools for being human? I should hate to insult a faithful dog by having him like some people I have known." " I don't so much mind the dog; but it is the Dar- winian animal. They are so malicious. A monkey was the principal witness in one of the most famous breach-of- promise suits ever tried. He had once snatched a bunch of flowers from a lady's hat in the Zoo. The lady's companion gave him a rap, and when brought into court, four years later, the creature's demonstrations decided for the lady. The man had denied even the promenade; but the monkey was no Judas." Stage-Struck. 409 She interrupted. *' It is only in England that you have got * lawering ' down to such a fine point. Moral ladies take a promenade on Sunday in the Zoo." He made a movement as if to go. " What! really going ? How strange! I hate to have you leave me." " Oh, you call that strange! Thanks. It has come to that. Satiety is the best policy." " No, no; it is not that. But I have a — a feeling, a presentiment, a — " " Foolish Annabel! A presentiment! Perhaps it is your conscience ?" " No; I am not ashamed of my love for you." " Are you quite sure ? Suppose something terrible were to happen; that we should grow less fond; that — that I should want a divorce; that, in fact, I should leave you: would you know regret for having loved me; remorse that you did not know how to keep me for ever enchained at your side ?" She smiled. " No, no, no; I have adopted the word invented by a good friend of mine, a man of won- drous knowledge of life and the world. Major Alex- ander knows /remorse, but never remorse. If one of his natural fineness can accept and utilize the word, I also may accept and use it." " Naturally. That is a nice friend of yours. Is there any other little safety-valve in the moral branch of your education ? You have been brought up in a fine school. Decidedly ^ genre Byroriic' I must go. No, you will not let me." He rushed away. "I will be back in twenty minutes. Do be ready." She sighed and clung to him. " I wish we were not 4 1 o Stage-Struck, dining out. We have always been so happy here. I like this room, now — now that everything in it speaks of you." She kissed him, and looked lovingly around. He came back and took her in his arms. " Dearest Annabel, I see you are determined not to let me go; but — Shall we dine or not ?" "Yes." She stood near the window. He wen up to her again. " Do you remember the lines in ' Parisina* ? Your looking around; my coming back. Listen." Then he quoted, as he always had a fashion of doing: " ' With many a lingering look they leave. The frequent sigh, the long embrace, But binds them to their try sting- place. But it must come, and they must part, In fearful heaviness of heart.' " He finished: ** ' With all the deep and shuddering chill Which follows fast the deeds of ill.'" "Oh! not that. What a frightful quotation!" "Not frightful," — coolly, — "but antique. Pity poor Hugo and Parisina. They lived in the fifteenth cen- tury; your word ' premorse' was invented in the nine- teenth. But I must go." He finally tore himself away with one last kiss. " Be sure and be ready in twenty minutes." On Brak's return, Annabel had her bonnet on, and they started off to dine. All his gayety was gone, and Stage-Struck. 41 1 on their way he hardly said a word. When they reached the restaurant, he abused the waiters, and the food, and everything else. Annabel felt that something had annoyed him. She spoke. " What is the matter, Brak ? You seem in a bad temper." "When is your mother coming back ?" he answered curtly. *' Oh, I don't know. I suppose in a fortnight. You remember that it will be necessary then to tell her that we are married." *' Annabel, I repeat again you must tell her nothing until I give you permission. You must not even say that I have been here." She opened her violet eyes to their widest. " Have been! Why, you still will be here. You are not going away ?" He went up to the fireplace, and leaned moodily against the chimney. "Yes. I — I must go away at once — to England — " "Oh, Brak, you're not going to leave me!" She rushed up to him, and threw her arms around his neck. " It will not be for long." He unloosed her arms. "Mind, the waiter may come in." Then went on. " You know I told you about my uncle. I found a telegram at the post-office, telling me that he was ill, and I must hurry back at once." Annabel could scarcely restrain l^rself from burst- ing into tears. It was not so much the surprise as something in his manner that seemed strange and unnatural. 412 Stage-Struck, "Could you not take me with you? I will promise that no one, not" even mamma, shall know that I am in England, until you allow me to say that we are married." Brak hesitated. Then he took out a cigarette. He lit it and reflected. " No," at length he said; " it will be better for you to remain here. I shall not be away one day longer than is absolutely necessary; and per- haps when I come back all concealment will be at an end." She sighed. His going away was terrible; and to keep their marriage a secret filled her heart with dread. Still, she thought, she was his wife; she must obey. Little more was said during dinner or as they went home. Once there, Annabel busied herself about the room, which no longer looked cheerful now that Brak was going. She went and put her arms around his neck. "Oh," she said, '*how little we thought when we were last here that we were so soon to be parted!" The tears welled into her eyes. " Must you really go ? Can't you put it off ?" " You little silly! do you think I would go if I could help it ?" Annabel had so hastily pulled off her bonnet that her hair had fallen over her shoulders. Brak care- lessly took up a lock and gently drew it through his fingers. Then he pressed it to his lips. " Darling, I must take this away with me." " Why should you ? You'll only be away for a few days. Besides, I am superstitious about it. I have always heard that it brings bad luck to give away a Stage-Struck. 4 1 3 lock of one's hair. What if I should never see you again ? Oh, I can't bear the thought!" Her arms stole softly around his neck. Brak was torn by conflicting emotions. He thought, what if they never should meet again ? and he realized to the full that if this were to be, life would be a blank indeed. She murmured, " Why will you go ? I love you so, I can't live without you. Yet if you must go, can't you take me with you .?" " Oh, if I only could! But do not urge me, darling. It is difficult enough to leave you." He kissed away her tears. " Don't cry. I can bear anything but your crying. Now, don't make a scene. You know I am coming back very soon." He threw himself moodily into a chair before the fire. For long he was absorbed in thought, smoking cigarette after cigarette. At length she could bear it no longer. "Speak to me, Brak," she said. "Tell me that you love me. What shall I do while you are away ? It seems so soon, so soon for us to part. Something may happen. I feel as if I should never see you again. It is like a dream, all that has happened." Brak pressed her again and again to his arms, and tenderly smoothed her hair. " Cheer up, little woman ! You know that I would not go if it were not absolutely necessary. Don't fret, and don't talk nonsense about our never seeing each other again. I shall be back soon, and then I'll never leave you. Don't you know that I have but one real thought in the world — your- self? Yet you fret." 414 Stage-Struck. " I don't complain, dear; but it does seem hard. Will you promise to think of me everyday, and every hour, and every minute while you are away ?" " You know I will, and every second too." He an- swered this half smiling. *' Never has a man loved a woman as I love you." "Will you promise not to even look at another while you are away ?" " How could I ? Besides, you know, I have your photograph. It has never left me since I took it from Annie." " Have you got it with you ? Let me see it." He drew it from' his cigarette-case and showed it to her. Then one arm slipped half unknowingly around her slender waist — slipped there and stayed there. The very unconsciousness of the gesture was a proof of his love. " Why! is it possible I ever looked like that ? But then that picture never did do me justice. I'll give you a better one — at any rate, it's much prettier. But before I get it, tell me something — how much you love me." For answer he kissed her, fondly murmuring, " As though I could ever tell how much! But give me the other picture." She ran to fetch it. He looked at it. " By Jove! that is a jolly good one. But I like the old one. I had that first, you know. However, I'll keep them both." " As you will. But pay me. You know how." He paid her in love's small currency, and she went on; Stage-Struck, 415 " When will you write to me ?" " Oh, in a few days." *'A few days! How can you be so cruel! Now, Brak, I sha'n't let you leave me unless you promise me faithfully to write at least twice a day; although, if you really care for me, you need not tie yourself down to this." " But what can I write about ? I shall have no fresh news to tell you so often." " News! I don't want to hear any news. Tell me the same thing in every letter — that you care more for me than you ever cared for any woman before; and repeat it in a P.S., if you like." "Oh, that will be easy enough, that's the truth; and I am like a woman : I always add a P.S." Then he lit another cigarette. " If you only cared half as much for me as you do for tobacco, I should be happy." " Nonsense! I smoke because — because it's a habit, I suppose." " And habit, they say, is stronger than love. You must get into the habit of loving me." And so the evening wore away. It was much the same with them as with other lovers. It was the old, old tale. They quarrelled and made up again; they vowed and they swore eternal love; they planned and mapped out the future; they kissed and they coaxed; they flirted and they coquetted, as though the world held but them, and that no two human beings ever could love as they did. Annabel had been, as usual with women, the one to show the most feeling. Brak was very thoughtful, 41 6 Stage-Struck, however, and at the last, to her surprise, he showed that he was really cut up. Then, of course, she broke down. He wound his arms about her and kissed her for the last time, murmuring again, " Cheer up, little woman! I don't want to go. I swear I love you more than I ever loved any one in this world before. Can't you see ? Haven't you seen it from the first ? Be a good girl, and let me find you, when I come back, the same cheery Annabel I have always known; not as you are now." She clung about his neck, sobbing. *' Don't make a scene." He kissed her tears away. " Now, do be brave, and I'll be back before you've had time to realize that I have been away. Good-by. Don't fret. God bless you. I love you more than ever. Don't forget to write." When she heard the door close after him, she fell sobbing on her bed. How she loved him! And he was gone! The next morning Brak left Milan. CHAPTER XLVI. " Annabel, Annabel !" " Yes. What is it ?" " It's I — Alice Weiss. Can I come in ?" Annabel got up.and unbolted her door. Alice came in. She looked about timidly, then seated herself. "I hope I don't disturb you. But we were anxious, — the maestro, Federico, and I, — so I have come to see what is the matter." It was the day following Brak's departure. " I am well; but I have had a terrible headache. How kind of you to come, and how sweet of the maes- tro! I won't miss my lessons to-morrow." Alice drew up to the chimney, in which a few logs were cheerlessly smouldering. She poked the fire vigorously. "It is real mean of this wood not to burn more brightly; on such a cold day, too. By the way, you have not been out. I stopped to see the cathedral. You know it is the fete of San Carlo Borromeo. I never saw anything so splendid." "Oh!" "Yes; all the church is hung with superb paintings, — scenes in his life, you know, — with gorgeous red ban- ners, and I don't know what else; the whole Duomo looks red. I went down into the crypt to see his body. There he lies, my dear, with his funny little head on a 4 1 8 Stage-Struck. cushion, in a gold and silver coffin. Such robes, such exquisite jewels, all buried in a tomb! There is across of emeralds that Maria Theresa sent; it is worth half a million francs. It dangles over his body." She con- tinued, poking the fire: "It's a lucky thing I hate emeralds, or I should surely have envied that cross. I suppose he was a great man. You remember about the pest in Milan ages ago, and so on ?" "Yes." ^^ A propos of pest, Lara has an engagement, or thinks that she has, to sing * \ promessi sposi^' at Piacenza. She will look funny with a nurse's head-dress; won't she ? I cannot make out how on earth a woman can ever lie down with those silver things braided in her hair for a year at a time, and those winged spikes protruding behind each ear; and then to be obliged to wear hid- eous wooden shoes besides ! Annabel ! Annabel ! Are you not well ?" " I — yes — no. I have the blues." " Come out and walk," she added quickly. " Come and see the red hangings in the church. They are so cheerful. It will do you good. But I have brought you something." "Dear little Alicia, what is it?" " Nothing much; only a medal of San Carlo. It has been blessed by the cardinal, and — and it is intended to bring peace and comfort." Annabel snatched it. "Alice, you dear child !" kiss- ing both her and the medal; "how could you think to bring me so sweet a souvenir ? " "Because it was the nicest thing I could get for my five sous. I wanted to bring you something." Stage-Struck, 419 " You dear, unselfish child ! It has done me good to see you. I am indeed lonely to-day," she sighed. "When does your mamma return ?" " In her last she said that she might come in about a fortnight; my dear father is much better, and she can now leave him." " Won't you be glad to have her back ? How lonely you must have been ! We have seen you nowhere lately." Annabel started. Could Alice, could any one sus- pect ? She awaited breathlessly Alice's concluding re- marks. " Nowhere. Of course I knew you were studying in the evenings, and that you spent your days at the maestro's. I dined with Mrs. Manners last night at the boarding-house." " Did any one speak of me ?" *' Oh, they all spoke of you, and wondered what had become of you. I told them. It was a very good din- ner," Alice gossiped on; "and we had some blown-up stuff for dessert which would have been perfectly ele- gant, but Paolo burned it. Mr. Fay's voice has come back beautiful. But something very triste is happening. Do you remember that lovely dark-eyed girl who came here with a friend to study singing ? She had been in Milan three months, when she came to the boarding-house." " Yes; I remember her. What about her ?" " She is very ill; the doctors say she cannot get well. Genevieve and Lara watch with her day and night. She is so beautiful. I went to the door, but she was delirious and did not recognize me. Her 420 Stage-Struck, black hair rolled all over the pillows, and her hands kept picking at the bedclothes. They wondered where her rings were — you know she had beautiful jewelry. There was an Italian baron hanging around — " "A baron? Was it not a count ?" Annabel then remembered to have heard something about Count Arani's attention to another American. "Count Arani, was it ?" " He may be a count in some place else, but he is a baron at the boarding-house. He comes so often to ask about her that every one is enraged. Do you know what they say about the affair ?" Alice dropped her voice to an awful whisper. She continued: " They say that she was in love with him; that he has taken all of her money, and made her sell or pawn all of her jewelry; that he promised to marry her, and he never will. And," the voice still lower, " something else has happened — you know what." Annabel started sharply forward. " Alice, how can you say such things ? This is horrible ! horrible ! And do they really believe that — that at the Pensione ? Poor thing ! poor young woman ! I have often seen her. Such a pretty name — Letty Morris; such a lovely, good girl, too !" Annabel walked about the room with quick, ner- vous steps. How strange that she should hear this to-day ! The story struck a chill to her heart. She clasped her hands tightly together. Surely an all- wise Providence had thrown a gentleman in her path — a man of lionor. That vile count ! She shuddered, still speaking. " Poor thing !" her thoughts immedi- ately reverting to Letty. St age-Struck. 42 1 AKce continued. "Every one is so interested; but they are all angry with Mr. Randall, the consul. No one knows why. He has been so good and kind to dozens of Americans. By the way, the Amorino is going to sing here in Milan. Did I ever tell you about her d&ut at Malta ?" Annabel was not unwilling to change the subject. Alice went on. "When she sang in * La Traviata,' her success was wonderful. She changed her cadenzas every performance, and people came just to hear that. It was what Malibran did, you know. People would say, * I wonder whether the Amorino will finish on upper E flat to-night, or trill on D and E above the line.' She had beautiful scales, — yards of them, — and she sang them going up just like a rush of wind. That was Lamperti — Lamperti's diaphragmatic method, you know. And the strange thing was that she did this without realizing what it meant, for she had not yet studied with him. Her voice was then so natural and sweet. He*- death-scene was so wonderful and real that the whole of Malta was excited over it. You know there are lots of officers in Malta, besides a large colony of English. The theatre was always jammed, and one night there were twelve great doc- tors to decide on her acting. The last scene was so real that they thought she was dead. These physi- cians were in different parts of the house, so as to judge impartially the scene from every point. A great scream rose from the audience when she died. You know she was such a natural actress that when but three years of age she recited a dramatic piece so well that every one under his breath said * Rachel ! 422 Stage-Struck. Rachel !' when she passed by. Naturally she did *La Traviata ' in this same way. She always refused to come before the curtain after the last act; it spoiled the illusion. So they kept applauding, screaming, and waving handkerchiefs, and there was such fright and excitement in the house, as she was thought to be really dead, that the twelve doctors went on the stage and insisted that she should come to the front, to show that she was alive. They said they had seen death in all its forms at the hospitals, but never any- thing to equal her scena^ and she acted it to the life." " What a triumph for an artist !" said Annabel, interestedly. " I wonder they omitted the post mortem" The word staggered Alice; but she continued bravely, " I don't think they omitted anything; and she finally had to come to the front. Why, the whole audience sat there. They refused to leave the house, thinking her dead; but finally they got them all out of the theatre. Lovely success, wasn't it ?" " I should think so. She must be a wonderful ar- tist. But are you quite sure? It seems a trifle — ^just a trifle — exaggerated. Who told you about it?" "Am I sure? Who told me? Why, she told me herself; otherwise, how^ could I ever have known it so accurately ? I had the whole story from her own lips. But any one else will tell you the same thing. All Milan knows it." Annabel sighed. She wondered if she would ever have twelve doctors consulting after one of her scenes to know if she were really dead. It was just possible. It sometimes takes quite as many to consult on a less extraordinary case, and even I Stage-Struck. 423 then they cannot agree. The wonderful thing was that these twelve agreed — appalling case of unanimity, quite enough in itself to prove fatal to the patient. She said as much. Alice spoke. '' E/i effet. She has never sung since. Oh !" — jumping up — "I am an idiot ! I have a letter for you, sent to the maestro's care, and here it is. I had nearly forgotten it." Annabel took it eagerly. " It is from Australia — from Victor Angel." Alice interrupted. " Please may I have the postage- stamp ? I am making a collection for my little brother." Annabel handed it to her, and began aloud. It was a long letter, quite in his well-known style. "Melbourne, September, '76. "My dear Miss Annabel: " I have been here so long without writing that I am almost ashamed now to send a letter. But here goes. We had a fine trip — lovely. Met dozens of whales and shoals of dolphins. Sea like a mill-pond most of the way. We got to land, and put in Port Philip, after a splendid sail up Hobson's Bay. For the first time in my life I saw a moon worth looking at — I never saw anything so big, and never expect to again. I tell you that the Australian moon beats the American all hollow. They ought to have it for Central Park. It would save those mile-apart lamp- posts I last saw there, and give the foot-pads a heap more light, more legitimate encouragement. This is a lovely place — God's own climate. Of course you want to hear about my voice the first thing. Tell all 424 Stage-Struck, of this to the maestro, because I have not had time to write him, and I don't want him to think me mean. I don't hide from you that I owe him a debt beyond that of gratitude — as my last lessons are not paid for. • Well, about the voce. You remember, I sang near Naples before leaving Europe; and you knowthat Al- fredo is a low, miserable, abominable rdlel Natural- ly, a man with my artistic temperament and instincts could make nothing out of it; that failure never scathed me. I would have felt hurt to have 'bursted * as Manrico. But, now I think it over, it would be a lasting disgrace to have been a good Alfredo. He is the most aniipatico of all stage-heroes. I opened here with a lower-pitched rdle — as Fra Diavolo, in fact. It is more robusfo, and it would have scored a triumph but for one thing, or perhaps two. I caught cold coming from the last rehearsal; and then the boys and I had a supper, to celebrate the success I was to have the next day. My throat got choked up; and the night-air, always heavenly in Australia, was something vile on that special occasion. Just my luck. Even Nature seemed to conspire against me; it was hatched up purposely to spoil my debut. I only sang once, and even my friends thought it was not a big success. In fact, it was such a failure that no one but an American would keep on after. Well, we know that success is built on failures. Perhaps you think I took it to heart? On the contrary, I was almost glad. A bad beginning makes a good ending. Imagine what a triumph when I do succed! (which, of course, will be in my next r6le.) The phoenix rising from her ashes will be nowhere as compared to it, etc. etc. The St age-Struck. 425 manager is an awfully good fellow. I had another chance, which doesn't count. To oblige him, I con- sented to a thing which no circumstances should have induced me to consider. I sang Hoel — high baritone transposed — and — will you believe it? — the extra effort of working my voice into another groove, and chang- ing my sentiments, making love as a baritone instead of being a tenor, so upset me that I had a real nervous crisis before I went upon the stage. Had to jab a circular row of morphine punctures from my thighs to my knees. In consequence, not being in my normal condition, I did not create ih.Q fanattsmo I should other- wise have done. Besides, I hate that part ! Hoel's a fool, and Dinorah a mad woman ! A nice couple, taken all in all, with that idiot Correntin thrown in gratis for all the family party. " Since the last few days, I am beginning to feel a little depressed. As I am not the star, I cannot boss the managers and impose myself upon the public. The theatrical career is only possible under those cir- cumstances. Of course, later on I shall be able to command. Oh, the joy of that thought ! I am also a little down, now, because of a poor devil whose body has just gone back to Europe. People come here to get cured of every disease, particularly consumption. Those who get well are quite content; but it must make a man mighty mad to go sixteen thousand miles out of his way to die. That's what this poor fellow did. His brother, Bayman, could well be spared to take his body back. Lestun, the manager, called him a nice man, but a twenty-four carat duffer as a singer. Thank Heaven ! no one ever said that about 426 Stage-Struck. me. There are some remarks which even blood could not wipe out: that is one. The opera, to return to the strict legitimate, is perfectly elegant, and the thea- tre just scrumptious. People are somewhat mixed, but charming; audiences, tip-top. " The old house, built of corrugated iron brought from England, and called 'The Iron Pot,' was burned down, years ago. It was in that theatre that Catherine Hayes sang, and they gave polyglot opera afterwards, with Madame Anna Bishop. The solo artists sang in Italian, American, German, French, Belgian, and Swede; the chorists, in all tongues. By George ! I would like to have heard it. They had a good orches- tra of about eighteen; and one man who played with Jenny Lind in America. N.B. — History does not tell how many accompanied her, yet I swear he is at least the nineteenth flutist whom I have known personally to have played all of her solos on Barnum's famous tour. However, that is a mere bagatelle. The man plays well now, when he is not full — full of anything you like — conceit or beer. "The first time I saw Melbourne, it reminded me of Tottenham Court Road on a Saturday night. Lots of things for sale; and such quantities of delicious fruit; so cheap. I carried home an armful. It is a charm- ing place. Besides, the whole of Australia is a big scheme. There's lots of money to be made here, engi- neering; but, of course, I am such a long way out of my old track. I have done with that for ever. " I don't ask how you are. I know that every one in Milan — the Americans, I mean — are getting on well. Oh, I forgot poor James ! What was the matter ? Stage-Struck. 427 Which madhouse did they send him to ? Lansini wrote me all about it. I said he was half-cracked when I saw him; besides, he came from Indiana, and I never yet knew any tenor to leave that place alive without he left either brains or voice behind him. How is your mother, your father, and everybody ? I send my kindest regards to all, and my very best wishes. This is a pretty long letter for me, but I only inflict yearly epistles. I await my next appearance with anxiety. I never know two days ahead what I am going to do. You see, they make use of me. I am such a quick study. A manager throws me a part, as he would a bone to a dog. I never advise any one to have a phenomenal voice like mine, added to my wish to make myself useful. What rdle do you sing next ? I hope you will have a lovely success. I suppose the students are all just the same — no money, no scrttiur as ^ to speak of. What a life — always waiting for another Carnival ! Thank goodness ! at least, I am out of Milan. I had rather starve in Australia than have a piano nobile over the Duomo. The climate and the people are just lovely here. Good-by at last. This is a tearing long letter, but I will send it just the same. Best wishes again, and regards to all. Love to the Severns, if you ever write. " From your ever-devoted friend, "Victor Angel, " Prima Artista, Royal Opera, Melbourne." Annabel had read the letter with the greatest in- terest. Alice was delighted to hear from Mr. Angel. Such a good fellow ; so frank ; always the same ! 428 Stage-Struck, "It is only a pity," she said, "that a man with his talent can never get a real chance; and even his voice keeps changing." Alice was really interested. "I think," answered Annabel, "that that is the kind of voice he has. There certainly is variety enough about it. What! are you going?" Alice was draw- ing on her one-franc dog-skin gloves. "Well, good- by. Thanks, so much, for your visit. I shall be at the maestro's early to-morrow, and this evening I am going to the boarding-house. I must pay Paolina a visit. She is such a dear, good girl. Good-by, then, until the morning." CHAPTER XLVII. " To Noel Brakenston^ Esq.^ Gar rick Club, London : " How strange it seems to write to you, to say on paper all that I have been used to say by word of mouth ! Yet I suppose I ought to be thankful. Even to be able to write to you is something. First of all, let me tell you how much I love you ; how dear you are to me ! It seems that I have bound up all my life in you. What a thing to be in love ! It also seems that I have always known you, or that I just know you. One thing is certain : until now I never knew myself. I look in the glass very often. It seems that my great happiness must show on my face so plain that all the world must read it. Yet that would not do — would it? I have a real satisfaction in know- ing that our love is hidden from everybody. Of course I would not always wish it so ; but at present I feel a longing to commune with none but yourself. I should be jealous if any one in the world even imagined our happiness. Your telegram from Paris was so welcome, I read it fifty times ; then I hid it in my bosom. The words burned into my heart. Is it true ? Do you really love me so much ? How I wish you were here ! I would make you repeat it a thou- sand times, all in one breath, and in the way I love so well. Ah, dear, if I could but see you for a little moment, I would be so happy ! 430 Stage-Struck, "I know I am not to annoy you by fretting; only it ought to please you to think that I am very un- happy when you are not near me. Mamma returns to-morrow. Only think how glad I shall be to see her. I — I wonder if she will find me changed. Ours is a great secret to hide from a mother. I have been to my lesson to-day ; my voice was reedy and un- steady. I tried to find pleasure in my singing, but it was very hard. However, do not think, sir, that I am going to be in this way all my life. I expect to take wild delight in many things, and, above all, in my singing. Once the world acknowledges that I can sing, I will cheerfully give up all thought of the operatic stage ; but I must first be known as a great artist. I await a letter from you — oh, so eagerly ! Don't forget to write to Poste Resta7ite. I shall go alone to my lessons, even when mamma is here, and call there on my way. I wonder what you will say to me. Something very nice, of course. By the way, darling, did it ever strike you that our conversation was not very original whilst we were together? Every hour, every day. the same thing to one and the other, Dis-moi que tu m'adore. Are you not ashamed ? At least I spoke quite under my breath. I only say this now because — because I am going to repeat that — I love you so much. There ! it is out, and I will not tell you it again in this letter. There were a thousand things which I wanted to say while you were here, but the time passed, always talking about ourselves and our great happiness. Oh, how selfish I am not to ask a word about you, your trip, or your uncle ! I do hope that your telegram was too St age-Struck. 431 urgent, and that he is quite out of danger. Are you well yourself ? Are you happy ? No, don't say that you are happy without me. I don't want you to be really unhappy, or to suffer ; but I do want you to miss me very much. You must write long letters — tell me all about yourself, and mind you put in as often as possible how — how much you think of me. I can scarcely realize that the last few weeks have not been a long dream. No, I am indeed a married woman. Here is the ring on my finger, and here am I writing to my darling husband. It is hard to tear myself away from the paper, — this wretched sheet of which I am already jealous. It may see you and I not. Ah me ! could I but see you, but hear your voice to-night — this very moment — otherwise than in my dreams! Yet I have a very vivid recollection of a pair of dark eyes, a strong sweet voice, a tall form, an indescribable face — by the way, a face from which one reads nothing. It is quite impenetrable ; and now that I think of it, I am not sure that you are very good-looking. I never cared to marry a hand- some man, but — " Dear me ! some one is knocking. I can't write any more. This will catch the post in ten minutes. We four send love — the monkey, the mongrel, tabby, and your loving, devoted wife, "Annabel." "November 8th. " Dearest Noel: " I have just read your first letter. How sweet ! how like yourself ! But what a short note. No; I 432 Stage-Struck, want nothing only you and your love. Mamma is here, and she has discovered — nothing. One thing, the janitor is ill, and the monkey starring it in the pro- vinces. Giuseppine had to go to the country, and behold ! there is no one to tell her in case she should ask questions. My father has had great luck. He has met a man who is interested in him, and who has advanced a sum of money for some patents to refine something. Oh ! I am stupid, but I cannot tell what it is, only that we are very happy over the affair. Happy ! We — that is to say, I am relatively so. How can I be happy without you ? Mamma is changed. I find her silent, preoccupied, and we have little to say to each other. Besides, she keeps on with her newspaper-writing. I do long to tell her that I am married ! I wish I might. You know you told me to ask you anything I wished for very much. I wish for that. I do so want to tell her ! Do not be offended with me. You will think it over; and if you can, do let me. Dear mamma I she has always been so devoted to me, and I know she always liked you, too. Just fancy ! she went all over London to find the Edmonds'. They seemed to have disappeared as com- pletely as if the earth had opened and swallowed them up. She even spoke of you. How I trembled when she said that no one had heard from you ! The man who helped papa is named Normand. Again I thought of you. Mamma did not meet him; but he certainly must be a very kind person. I hope the affair will turn out well, for all our sakes. No; you have no cause to be jealous. I have not seen any one to make love to me as yet. Still, I must say that a strange Stage-Struck. 433 ugly man is always in my path. At the theatre he stares; in the streets he does not follow exactly, but he keeps me in sight. Of course he admires me, which ought to flatter you immensely; but I cannot say that I admire him. He is about forty, ugly, and wears a horseshoe mustache dyed black. A horseshoe mustache would condemn any man in my eyes from the outset. I am often at the boarding-house, and see a great deal of Gen, who is a lovely girl. There is much excitement in the students* colony over the ill- ness of Miss Letty Morris. The circumstances are mysterious, so I do not dare as yet to say what one may or may not think. Poor young creature ! Ill, away from home, alone, and unhappy. The care she receives from every one in the boarding-house is something quite touching. Gen and Lara watch by her day and night, and there is but one topic of conversation — Letty. " I am sure that you would like now to have me tell you how much I love you. I think that I am like the children who discriminate their affections by pecks and bushels of love and an armful of kisses. There ! am I not a loving wife ? But I send you all — pecks, bushels, armfuls ! Still that is not enough. I want to see you, to talk to you, to look at you, to feel that you are near me. I am not at all happy without my Brak; also, I do not quite make out your plans. Your uncle is better, but you must still stay in England. You goto Brighton because you must goto Brighton; and not a word of when I am to see you. Oh, if I had only been an Englishwoman ! The calm, the tranquillity of English people ! I don't believe you 434 Stage-Struck. love me at all. There you are flirting at Brighton, and I am fretting in Milan. I ought not to fret. I am jealous. This is the season at Brighton, and English- women are so insinuating with their smooth hair, smooth brows, and smooth manners. They produce more mischief in the improvised drooping of one eye- lid than an American continent of pretty but untu- tored women could with a week's thorough artillery pr::ctice. No; I am decidedly jealous, and I cannot bear to think of this Brighton scheme. I shall go away and sing, and allow the tenor to make love to me. I will flirt with that handsome Scotch officer. Captain Skancy, whom I met at the ball; and in the mean time I take back my premature bushels of love and armful of kisses. " Your indignant " Annabel. " P.S. — Do you remember just how I look ? I haven't changed except that I am paler. I washed all the color out last night by crying, and salt water does not improve any one's skin. I want to see you, to hear you tell me how much — " No, I won't finish. You are a cold, calm, cruel Englishman. You don't love me. At least write; and — and don't flirt at Brighton. " A. A. B." CHAPTER XLVIII. " To Noel Brakenston^ Esq., Gar rick Club, London, "Dearest: A refusal is always a refusal, put in no matter what terms. I shall not ask you again if I may tell mamma about our marriage. It seems that no one suffers but myself. Naturally, mamma, knowing nothing, cannot be affected in any way. You repeat my words, that * she seems preoccupied and changed,' as a reason why I should not startle or worry her by such a confidence. Perhaps you are right. To your often expressed wishes, and in obedience to my promise, I shall not broach the sub- ject again. You shall be the first to say when the world is to be taken into our confidence. My faith in you is only equalled by my love. Dearest, that is saying a great deal. You have been kind enough to express interest in the young American who is ill, and all that interests me — even the smallest detail of my every-day life. As you have asked me, I will tell you. The story is sad enough. " Poor Letty ! She died two days ago, and I have just come back from her funeral. It was the most touching thing I ever witnessed. While she was dying, the Italian count, who was the ultimate cause of her death, came again to the boarding-house — cried on the staircase, and begged to see his 'wronged, loved Letty'! The boys threatened to tar and 43^ Stage-StrucL feather him if he did not leave not only the house but Milan. They gave him until the next morning to get out of town, or he would be handed over to the police. To think that the law cannot reach such wretches ! My heart ached when I saw her. She was never conscious towards the last, and died seem- ingly in the greatest agony, although she had one gleam of reason, and tried to talk. She had taken so much chloroform that death must have resulted sooner or later. The news that all was over caused the greatest excitement. The house was draped in black ; the boys all put weeds on their hats and crape on their arms. I saw her on her bier. She was as a sleeping goddess. Her skin was like white wax ; her black lashes lay on her cheek ; her brows were smoothed with that supreme peacefulness which death gives to all. Her beautiful mouth looked strangely red, and wore an expression, almost a smile. Her hair, long and blue-black, reached quite to her knees ; it made both coronal and cushion to her head — her poor, tired head, which has at last found eternal rest! The girls "had placed flowers in her hands and on her bosom, and her pillow was one mass of rare white blossoms. Just think of it ! Not one in the house but sent some floral token. Many, I am sure, went without bread that day; but no one missed sending his last souvenir to the poor girl, a compatriot — abandoned, yet not wholly friendless, in a foreign land. The ceremony was so impressive, I cannot write about it without crying. Every one was in tears — men, women, and children ; and the scene in the house was absolutely heart-rending. It has been Stage-Struck. 437 a lovely day, soft and mild. Even the sun was not glaring, and a gentle air just stirred the branches of the trees. The fine weather rendered it easier for all to accompany her to the cemetery. The funeral pro- cession was very imposing and beautiful ; the pall- bearers were numerous ; and all of the boys and men walked uncovered to the grave. It was quite touch- ing, and was not less impressive. The boys tried to sing a hymn, but all of their voices were strangled by emotion. Some children threw masses of flowers on the coffin, and it was lowered into the grave under a fragrant cloud of virginal blossoms. Poor, poor Letty ! And so ends the history of one more unfortu- nate — of one more beautiful American who has found, not honor and glory, but dishonor and death in this famous land of song. Some seem fated, destined to misfortune. It is not enough to be beautiful, gifted, loving, and amiable. When I think of Letty, I say to myself, * What is ambition, when it leads to such an end as this ? ' Oh, Brak, only think if it had happened to me ! I am sure I should die, like her, were you to desert me ; but I have no fear of that, only the days do pass so slowly while you are away. I wish you would come. Do you think that you will be able to, very soon ? I am so lonely, and so sad. Do come to "Your own " Annabel." CHAPTER XLIX. " To Noel Brakenston, Esq,^ Garrick Club, London. " Dearest : Your letters are the joy of my life. I little thought the time would ever come when I should be so wrapped up in any man. My whole happiness hangs upon getting a few lines from you. Dear, I wish you would write oftener ; I would, only you tell me never to do so except in reply to one of yours. No, I cannot obey you any longer ; now I am going to write as often as I can, whether I hear from you or not. There, my dear husband ; I hope you will begin to realize that you have married a woman with a will of her own. I am not going to be de- prived of the pleasure of writing to you because you ^are a poor correspondent,' and Mazy' about writing — your very words, sir ; in fact, the old story. I am afraid you love me less. You are too sure of me ; I was too lightly won. But you remember, Juliet promised to prove more true than one who had more cunning to disguise her sentiments. "So you would scold me for having told you about poor Letty. I did not do it to indulge in * morbid sentiment.* Why did you ask me to tell, if you didn't want to hear ? Now I think of it, it was a great deal to write you about one in whom you could have no possible interest. Still I say, poor thing ; poor fated creature ! Perhaps it is true, * whom the gods love Stage-Struck. 439 die young.' I must tell you of no one in the future but myself ; speak of nothing but our love. How much I miss you ! How lengthy the days ; how dreary the nights ! I long to walk straight into your club this very minute, and put my arms around your neck before all the world. What would the men say ? I shouldn't care a bit ; in fact, I'd rather enjoy it. I have half a notion of coming. What are clubs, any way, but traps for men, and enemies to women ? *'What do you think? I am going to sing at Florence. Now don't say I can't go, for I am going ; it is already settled. The money isn't much ; but I shall be quite a star to sing at the Pergola, and only my second theatre, too. Now I must run off to re- hearse. Good-by, darling ; a thousand thousand kisses. " Your own " Annabel. "P.S. — Do write oftener. My voice is less reedy, and I have a lovely role. I wish you were the tenor. Wouldn't I hug and kiss you ! — Vtde * Lost Heir.' " CHAPTER L. Annabel was much admired, much sought after. The attentions of Count Arani had been replaced by those of a more formidable and persistent suitor — the man with the horseshoe mustache. She had remarked him, and had already taken a dislike to him. How distasteful the sight of an admirer was! Besides, she was a married woman, and loved the ground her husband walked on. This double life was terrible; yet her position was such that she must treat all the world alike — wear a smile when she felt like crying, and receive attention here and there and everywhere. A pretty woman going to be an opera-singer must have more than talent; she must have tact and diplo- macy. If unmarried, she must show no preferences. She is supposed to be a demoiselle h marier ou a se lais- ser f aire la cour ; at least, she is an artist, and must have a smile for all the world. Brakenston had a rival, a distinct rival, in a man with a horseshoe mustache. One day Mrs. Almont received a letter thus con- ceived: (Annabel often went out with Genevieve, and several times they had met this persistent admirer. The letter was from him, addressed to her mamma.) " Madame: '* I wish to propose myself for the hand of tne younger of the two noble young ladies whom, if I do Stage-Struck. 441 not me deceive, are your daughters. I have fallen in love with her, and depose at her feet my heart in hon- orable marriage. For not to follow her when she promenades, I have arrested an apartment in your face, from whom it will be permitted me her to watch according to my convenience. My means permit me to offer myself; they mount to a hundred thousand francs of rents, of which the half I will depose under the table for her. My family is of the most noble, and loses itself in the night of times. If the sky bless our union, I consent of advance that the children may be baptized in the religion of mademoiselle, which, although I have not the honor to know it, I am lifted to believe is as beautiful as that of herself. The Ameri- can consul, who is of my friends, will carry himself guarantee, This afternoon at four hours I will to be seen on my balcony; at five hours I will have the honor to present myself at you, and formally to de- mand the hand of your maiden. In attending, agree in the assurances of my most high consideration "Francesco Francatestone, " of the Princes of Francatestone." Mrs. Almont was furious. "The idea!" said she; "an American permitting her daughter to marry a total stranger!" She fairly raged; and one may im- agine what her daughter's sentiments and feelings were. At four, however, they could not help peeping, when they saw at the window of the house opposite the horseshoe stranger. Annabel was so provoked that she did not venture out that day. The following^ 442 Stage-Struck, she went to her lesson, and stayed purposely until dark, when they met him in the entrance, just coming from their door. At five o'clock, Signor Francatestone called; he was shown into the sitting-room. He bowed to Mrs. Al- mont, and asked her in Italian if she spoke that lan- guage. "Annabel," said her mother, "what is he saying?" She asked this, drawing herself up, and looking at him as though he were Don Juan in person. " He asks if you speak Italian." "Tell him I can't." Annabel began. " My mother, signor — " "Signorina, I am not addressing myself to you, bui to madame your mother." "Annabel, I insist on your telling me what he says." " Why, certainly, mamma. He says that he was not addressing me." " What are you saying to your mother, mademoi- selle ?" " I was trying to translate to her what you said." "Yes; but why does she speak to you in that lan- guage ?" "Probably because it is the only one she knows." " What! She speaks no Italian, no French ?" " But surely you understand English, signor ? Your letter—" " I combined it, and many friends at my club helped to translate it." " Annabel," interposed Mrs. Almont, " T insist on your telling me this tpinute what that vile man is say- Stage-Struck, 443 ing. Say to him I want to have nothing to do with him, and that we do not buy and sell our daughters in America; besides, we don't receive men we don't know, and whom we have never been presented to. Tell him to go. I consider his proposal indecent; tell him that." " Oh, mamma! I can't say that; it wouldn't be — " " Mademoiselle," broke in the Italian, " I entreat you to tell me what madame your mother says." " Signor, my mother wishes me to say that she has read the letter you did her the honor to write, and that she regrets infinitely that she must decline the proposal contained in it." Signor Francatestone stared helplessly at both mother and daughter, as if he could hardly believe the evidence of his own senses. " Did you read the letter, mademoiselle ? Ah!" sighing profoundly, " why did I not address you at first ?" " That would have been more natural, considering that I am the person most concerned; but the answer would have been the same." " Annabel!" screamed her mother,** will you tell me why, in the name of goodness, you are still keeping up a conversation with that man ? What is he saying ? Why doesn't he go ?" Signor Francatestone entirely ignored this out- burst. "Mademoiselle, I am noble, I am rich," he said. " and I am distingui. Thousands of my countrywo- men would imagine no greater honor than an alli- ance with the noble house of Francatestone. I have 444 Stage-Struck, offered to marry you, to make a lady of you; can it be possible that you refuse ? The American consul — " Mrs. Almont caught the last words. She here in- terrupted : " What is that about the American consul ? I don't believe he knows him. Tell him that." "Mamma, I can't tell him that he doesn't know a man when very likely he does know him; and how do you know that he doesn't know him ?" Mr. Francatestone interrupted: "Signorina, will you kindly translate what madame is saying to me ? Have you told her all that T have said ? What objection can she have to me ? I am a gentleman — Mr. — " Her mother caught the last word, and laughed sar- castically. "Gentleman! I understand that word, at least. Tell him that a gentleman does not remain when his company is not wanted. Tell him that." Annabel said nothing. It dimly dawned on the no- ble scion of the house of Francatestone that his alli- ance was not appreciated. He determined to make one last effort — this time to Annabel herself. " Signorina," he said, " I think I have already placed before your mother the advantages of a marriage with me. I now appeal to your heart. I offer you the burning love and wild devotion of the hot- blooded Italian. I am your slave; do what you will with me." " Really, signor, I am most highly honored, but I must refuse your offer." " Refuse my offer ! Then I refuse to accept your refusal. You shall hear from me again." He glared at them, bowed profoundly, and without another word precipitately left the room. Stage-Struck. 445 "Well, Annaoel, has he really gone ? I feel as if I had been doing a hard day's work." Her mother sank back exhausted on a sofa. They had not heard the last of him. He sent let- ters, flowers, and bonbons daily. He stared at Anna- bel in the theatre and in the street. Although she regularly returned his presents, still with equal regu- larity the next morning his letter would come, at noon the flowers, at night the bonbons. She grew ashamed to send back the things, and already the concierge began to look interested in this love-affair. The man's assiduity and persistence passed belief. He was a clever writer. His previous letters had been keen, despairing, satirical, friendly, loving — everything. He wrote one final epistle, refusing to give her up. It was the climax. Even Mrs. Almont gave in. " I never before knew such persistence ! Annabel, you will have to marry him to get rid of him," she said. Annabel only smiled when her mother said this; but she was glad when her departure to Florence cut short these ardent attentions. Brakenston wrote very seldom. His letters were brief, but couched in such loving language that she did not like to scold him. Life in Milan was the same. Some of the students had obtained brief engagements at some minor thea- tres in Italy, and were living on in the old way, just keeping soul and body together, yet never neglecting their duties. When one master did not seem to get them ahead fast enough, off they went to another. Faces looked pale, and coats seedy. There were 44^ Stage-Struck, no more parties in the Galleria, and Fay had to give up the boarding-house. The boys talked gloomily to- gether. Their numbers had diminished, for some of them had at last borrowed enough money to get back to America. CHAPTER LI. " To Miss Annabel Almont, Post Restante^ Milan: " What can I say to you, darling, to prove that you are never out of my memory, and that I long more and more to see you ? It is true that we have been separated a very long time. But I need not seek for words to tell you how much I care for you; you know it as well as I do. I really had no idea that I could ever be so much in love. I do not think a mo- ment passes in the day without my wishing that you were with me. My friends all chaff me and say that I am distrait. Perhaps they are right. For when I am talking to them, my thoughts stray away to you. I re- call every circumstance that happened while we were together. I hear your voice, I see your dear face; your eyes look fondly on me; and I almost fancy for a mo- ment that your hand is in mine. Oh, Annabel, dearest! I know that you love me; but care for me as you will, believe me, you never can love so deeply and devoted- ly as I do you. I am jealous of everybody and every- thing. I should have been even of your music, had you turned to it after me; but I know how fond you were of it; and had you not been fonder of me, I should not have had a chance against it in your affections. It is useless telling me not to flirt; every woman here bores me. I compare them to you, and they do not seem as pretty or as nice by a long way. 44^ Stage-Struck, The truth is, you have spoiled me for every other woman. No; I will not give up my smoking. It soothes my nerves; and were it not for it, I should be doing something desperate when I think by how many miles we are parted. And so you did not get on very well at Florence. I am delighted to hear this. I do not want managers to engage you. I object entirely to your singing on the stage. I am sorry for you, if you were disappointed; but, dear, I cannot help feel- ing that if you had thousands applauding you as a prima donna, I should not be all in all to you. You say that my existence is aimless, and that you are ambitious for me; when once we are together I will try to make you proud of me. You speak of my talents. Well, all summed up, what are they ? I write poetry, badly; I paint, poorly; I play the piano, fairly; I speak many languages, none to perfection. I am not really good-looking, my character is also incom- plete, and myself all that is most useless in man. These half-qualities I feel are not enough to amount to anything; besides, I have not the American push in me. I come of a slow-blooded race. Still, I prom- ise you that one of these days I will do all that I can to make myself a name in the world. Just now I have neither time nor inclination for schemes of ambition. God bless you, darling ! Could I but be with you always! Women like you are rare, very rare. I only love you the more for your strength of will, and un- swerving ambition. It is but natural that you should wish your husband to make a name in the world. "What a long letter ! You cannot complain that I have not devoted myself to you to-day. It is cold. Stage-Struck. 449 very cold. I think we shall have snow. London in March is far from agreeable, yet it is preferable to a provincial seaside resort. I am tied to the sick- bed of a fretful invalid. I am in the country, and sel- dom able to get up to London. Great Heaven ! only to be free — free to follow my heart, which says, * Go to Annabel; go at once !' " Now, dear, I understand your reproaches, your anxious moments, your doubts, your fears; I under- stand all, because I am sure you love me as I love you. By the way, do you never tire of this old word ? Yet to the woman I adore what else can I say ? Ah, dearest, I might write you volumes, and I should never tire repeating the phrase, * I love you.' What is this history of a cold ? Coughing and fretting, and — oh wonder of all wonders! — tired of Milan ! I am not surprised, from the little I saw of the centre in which the American student lives. I, too, got an insight into the Inferno. You ask if I ever see Mrs. Edmonds. Never. I can appreciate your persistent interest in them — it was at their house we first met; but, dear, it is not so pleasant a souvenir for me in one sense as to you. Remember, there also I had to leave you, then my illness, and so on. It is strange, the caprice of women for souvenirs of the first time they ever met their lovers, even if at first they hated them. Senti- mental ! Yes, and no. Never fear, darling; above all it is extremely womanly, and I can testify that you are all which is most feminine. Am I tired of this life ? Yes, yes, a thousand times yes; tired, disgusted, despairing. Many things that I cannot explain to you at present render my existence unbearable. But, 450 Stage-Struck. believe me, the most cruel thing of all is our separa- tion; is being in love with one woman and being obliged to — live away from her. I am almost tempted. Shall I leave my uncle and come to you ? What can it matter about consequences ? My prospects will be ruined. What are prospects ? But what is life with- out the person one loves ? Tell me what you wish. Shall I come to you ? I scarce know what I am writ- ing. How can I have patience any longer? But shall I ? Yours ever, "Brak." CHAPTER LII. " To Noel Brakenston^ Esq.^ Gar rick Club, London : " What a dear long letter! I was almost glad that I am away; otherwise I never could have seen in words how much you think of me. I see you are trying to make my conquest de nouveau. Flattery is useless, sir; I am a serious woman. I must allow, however, that could you make me fall in love with you over again, I certainly should do so, because of your letters — not this one, which is strange and almost enigmatical. I do not pretend to be able to answer you in any way other than the one indicated in the last of your precious epistle. I flatter myself, dear, that I love you quite as much as you do me; nay, more, and that that is possible. Women always, as the children would say, ' love harder than men.' You have paid me the rare compliment of call- ing me a woman e tutto dire. My occasional French or Italian expressions remind me of a concert once in Pa- ris. I was with a dear old friend who wished to tell me an amusing bit of gossip, — harmless, of course. He looked calmly at me, and said, * Let us speak in French; then no one can understand us.' Perhaps I may succeed in giving even you a wrong impression, although, frankly, I think I am a little more proficient now in foreign tongues. I am flattered — yes and no — that you find me beautiful by comparison. My self-love may be flattered that in the world you compare other 452 Stage-Struck. women unfavorably with your wife; but, on the other hand, my heart is troubled that you feel yourself obliged to go into the world to prove the truth of the comparison. I would rather take it for granted (mo- dest me), or I would rather be homely than have you look at others. There is safety in numbers. When you speak of any one in particular, I shall dwell with a green-eyed monster. What have I not suffered in my lifetime — from everything but jealousy! I have had occasional touches since I knew you, and from the little I have felt I imagine what pain it must be. I am determined to have confidence in you. Had I not, great Heaven! what would my life be? No, no; I shall not listen to that voice of arch discord, jealousy. I must believe in you ever, ever. Of course I am not jealous. I have no idea of such a thing; but I do hope that you see very few of those other beautiful women of whom you spoke — few and rarely. Of course I trust in you completely, otherwise I would not even mention the fact; but — let us drop the subject. You speak of being at an invalid's bedside. Poor darling! it is hard; but to show you that I love you beyond words, I will say, be patient. Only the day you say to me, * Annabel, the world is ours; we have done with secrets,' — I dare not deny it, that day will be the hap- piest of my life. It is marvellous how not the slightest word has ever reached mamma or papa. She is much preoccupied, and my father has gone to a little place in France to see about a liquor-refinery. Mamma talks to me a great deal about my art. One would say that she, not myself, was or wanted to be the opera- singer. I do not interrupt. Why lead her thoughts St age-Struck. 453 into another channel ? I am really disappointed over my venture near Florence, which, however, perhaps means that I shall do better next time. I begin to realize the enormous difficulty under which foreigners labor. When singing Italian operas, we have to study much which comes naturally to the native artist — the language. In Italy one must say the words well. It is hard to us to have to do everything in a given space of time. Then, too, we go out of our way to change our natures, instead of trying to do the best we can with the little'we have. " I am quite clever enough to understand why you are depressed. These things are unusually disagree- able. I am not with you, you are not with me; we are not together. Together! The dear word! What could matter howling wind or wave ? We would fold our- selves in our love and laugh at the elements. We would repeat our own follies a thousand times over, and the world might wag as it would. "A dream, dear. I sigh as I write. My sigh is longer than my sheet. I am at the end, and must say good-by for the present. How happy I am, thinking of you! and yet, patience; we must soon meet. How ? when ? where ? Oh, that I could take you in my arms this moment! Instead, I embrace — ^partition compRt piano et chant' Fear your rival. May this find you and yours better! God bless you and them always! With a thousand kisses. " Your own loving " Annabel." CHAPTER LIII. " To Noel BrakenstoUy Esq,y Garrick Ciuby London : "Three weeks without a letter. It is a burning shame. Three weeks — three centuries! Are you ill ? Can anything have happened ? Are you forgetting me ? I am ill to-day — ill, wretched, miserable. If I could but see you! Music; bah! As we say in America, *It has got itself disliked.* It does not suffice. I want you — you. Cold, indifferent, forgetful! Brak, I am sure that you love me less. Three weeks without a line; or are you ill ? Great Heaven ! can it be possible ? Take care of yourself, dear; do, for my sake. London. Those fogs. Every one has bronchitis. Perhaps you have had an attack. How foolish I am to say you are ill! I dare say that you are quite well, amusing your- self with your friends, and that you have quite for- gotten me. Whom are you in love with now ? I sup- pose I ought not to complain. We have been married so very, very long — five whole months. Is she pretty ? It is too bad of you. You must know how anxious I am, when I don't hear from you. I consented to everything you asked. I am your wife, and I cannot even tell my mother. Brak, dear Brak, do write to me. I imagine all sorts of things when I don't hear from you. Your affectionate " Annabel. "P.S.— Do write; do, do, DO." Stage-Struck, 455 "March 4th. " To Noel Brakenston^ Esq.^ Garrick Club^ London : " Love, what can this silence mean ? A week ago I implored you to send me one line, and you seem to have forgotten my very existence. You told me when you left that you were going to see your uncle, and that he was dying. I know neither his name, nor even in what part of England he lives. It was painful enough to part with you so soon after our marriage, and to be obliged to keep it a secret from every human being. But I thought that you would soon be back, and I was certain that I should hear from you very often. Are you ashamed of me? How is your uncle ? Is he better ? It was a mistake, counting as we did on his fortune. You are clever, and I don't care for money, only for you. I would rather be the wife of a poor man, who is doing something in the world, than wait like this for a dead man's shoes. But if you don't like to work, I can work for both. All I want is, dear, to be with you. Thart is the only place for your wife. A manager has just been to see me. I have arranged something with him, but I won't tell you what it is until I have had a letter from you. If you only knew how unhappy I am at your silence, you would not be so unkind. — Your affectionate wife, "Annabel. " P. S. — I can't be unkind. I love you so dearly. Perhaps you are ill. No; that cannot be — bad news travels fast; but if you are forgetting me, the monkey will accompany me to America. We two can swear 456 Stage-Struck, out a divorce in any well-bred Christian town. Per- haps you have been — gambling. I never knew you to play at anything but — love, and caring for me. Of course it was only that; otherwise, how could you leave me so long without a line or a scratch. I think you treat me real mean — there! ** P.P.S. — Do write, very soon, to your loving "Annabel." CHAPTER LIV. Annabel was in London, engaged to sing at the opera. This was what she had promised to tell Brak, if he wrote. She had not heard a word from him. She could not understand his long silence. Her mother was fortunately occupied with details of her toilet. She went to his club. She was told that he had not been there for some time, nor was his address known. It was a terrible blow to her; but what could be done ? She thought of the Edmonds'; but she might as well look for a needle in a haystack as try to find them in London without any address. She was told that she must sing at once. Artists engaged at a theatre like Covent Garden are sup- posed to be ready at a moment's notice. Half the company were ill. She was set down for a subscrip- tion-night, and was informed that she must take ad- vantage of such a chance. It was the same old story. Meagre rehearsals — almost none at all; and even on the day of the per- formance, the baritone, who could not be at theproz'a genera/e, had to come to her in the greenroom, to try over their duet. She had hoped so much for a thorough rehearsal. This was a vain dream. Managers care little how many voices they sacrifice, when they are in a tight corner. At the beginning of 458 St age-Struck, the season the debutantes are all tried. If they are fortunate, they get through; if they are not, they go under. It is not always a question of talent. Old artists, of acknowledged reputation, insist upon thorough rehearsals; but such demands from begin- ners would be ignored. They are used as stop-gaps; they have to appear at a moment's notice and with- out any preparation. The wonder is, not that many fail, but that any succeed. Annabel's opera was " La Traviata." How strange! That work of all others! A flood of recollections came over her. How well she remembered her first visit to Covent Garden; Patti's spilling the cham- pagne; Brak — ah! always Brak — and his story of "La Dame aux Camelias"! Perhaps he may have seen in the newspapers that his wife was going to ap- pear. Would he be angry — pleased — what ? She felt that she would have such a success this time that he would be proud of her. Then how happy she would be! She reached the opera-house at half-past seven. She went down a long passage, and found herself un- der the stage. A dresser came forward, and said, ** Here is your room, my dear, all nice and warm. It's the prima donna's dressing-room, and the best, of course. Can I help you with your cloak ? How white you are, to be sure! Can't I get you a drop o' some- thing? You are in good time; but the galleries are already full." Annabel found herself in a square, good-sized chamber, with two windows covered with dark cur- tains. It was furnished in red rep. There were a Stage-Struck, 459 comfortable sofa, some chairs, and Z-fauteuil: also a very fresh, dainty toilet. There were two immense glasses from floor to ceiling, lighted on either side by brilliant gas-jets. On the sofa and over the chairs were her dresses. The ball-dress had to be tried on, as it had but just arrived from Paris. Mrs. Almont handled it with reverence. " Well, my dear, Patti couldn't have a lovelier,** she said. *' Delannoy has outdone herself: all white and silver — you will be quite like a bride. I like camel- lias, but they haven't a particle of odor. However, I suppose you must wear them." Annabel shivered as she said to herself, " A bride ? yes, so I am; but where is my husband ?" She was so unhappy, she would have thrown it all up if she could. To think that she had not heard from him. How cruel! and she could not even cry now. It was time to " make up." Mrs. Almont could help but little; so she went to sit in the wings. Annabel was so very nervous that she couldn't bear her in the room. The excitement was general. There was the noise of the orchestra coming in, people were talking on the stage and under it, the call-boy was shouting, and the manager in person came every few moments to see whether she wanted anything — everything was hurry and confusion. This was to be the test of her operatic career. She knew her opera backwards; everything had gone well at the rehearsal, and even the orchestra had applauded her grand aria. No; failure was impossible, if only she could keep calm and do herself and her old maestro justice. 460 Stage-Struck. Her make-up box was on the dressing-table. In her haste she had forgotten several little things, amongst others hair-pins, a very essential thing. The coiffeur had not yet come; so Barnes, the good-natured dresser, offered to run and get them. She found just the kind wanted in a little shop in a street adjacent to the theatre. She brought in several packages, hastily wrapped in pieces of old newspapers, and laid them at hand. She was not back a moment too soon. Then commenced the excitement of dressing. The coiffeur did her hair and got it all wrong; so she had to do it over again herself. Her first dresses were half- basted on her, her rouge was retouched, her jewels adjusted, fan, gloves, everything was ready. The call-boy said, " Violetta en scenaj" and before she knew what she was about she rushed up the stairs, with the costumiers and the dresser holding up her train to keep it from getting dirty. She stopped for her cue to go on, when she heard a voice; a man perched by the curtain-rope said, "Well, thank Heaven you are a beauty, or this night would see a fiasco.** She was half-amused, half- shocked. Then, as she was thinking, '' Oh, that is the man who wanted to sing Alfredo; he is jealous," the stage-manager seized her hand — "Quick! quick! you've missed your cue." She ran forward, singing the notes " Flora amicV* with the chef^ who had taken them up. Then there was a great noise in front. The leader of the orches- tra said, "Bow, bow! You must be civil to the public; ac- knowledge your reception." Stage-Struck. 461 Then she heard something at her feet rushing along like a train of cars. That was the orchestra. Soon she was at a table, singing and laughing. Her hand shook so that she spilled her wine, and after the brindisi she gave a camellia to Alfredo, and she found herself finally alone on the stage, beginning her grand aria^ ^^ Ah fors e lui.'* This time she could distinguish the tones of the orchestra. Had she made a success so far ? She did not know. Was — was Brak there ? Her voice sounded weak, faint, far away. That was emotion. She wondered if he were there. Ah, what a beautiful house! Then she took cour- age and sang with all her soul, so well that the theatre rang with applause, and at the end of the act she went twice before the curtain. There were some beautiful flowers; she wondered if he had sent them. But there was no time for thinking; the next change had to be made. She dressed rapidly. It had been a grand success so far. The first part of the second act went fairly well. Germont took the stage when she wanted it: natu- rally old artists are always jealous. She interrupted one of his endless coronas, and he said a very terrible " A me'' to her as she went towards a harmless chair. The duet was fair, the scene with Alfredo quite a triumph, and she rushed off to don her silver-flow- ered ball-dress. She got ready very quickly, and had drawn on her gloves waiting for the call-boy. It was the first moment of rest she had had. Mrs. Almont was enjoying the opera from the wings immensely, and Annabel sat alone in her room. 462 Stage-Struck. She was at her dressing-table; her rouge was right, the eyes were darkened quite enough, when, in turn- ing, she caught sight of the scrap of newspaper which had been wrapped around the hair-pins. It was an old copy of the Morning Post. She took it up mechanically, but started as she read. There was the column for births and marriages. On the first line she saw — " Married, on the 7th of June, at St. John's Church, Kensington, by the Rev. W. Keen, Noel Brakenston-Norman, only son of the Hon. William Brakenston, of Horneforth, Oxon, to Eulalie, second daughter of the late Captain Ed- monds, Brighton. No cards." The newspaper, everything swam around her. Was she dreaming ? had she gone crazy ? What was this paper, this farce? No, no! She read again. Could it be true ? Too true ! And she, what was she ? Noel Brakenston, Lallie Edmonds: his name and hers; there could be no possibility of doubt. Ah, this was the secret! The call-boy rapped at the door. " Violetta, quick on the stage." " Yes, yes; I am coming." What was it all about •* True, she had forgotten she was singing at Covent Garden. This was the night of her great triumph, and — and she could not tell what was happening. One thing — she must hide the paper, were it true. No one should know, and then — She hastily pinned it under her corsage. " Violetta ! Violetta !" "Yes, yes; I am coming." She went to the front; admiring glances followed ' Stage-Struck. 463 her. Her eyes blazed fitfully, and the deathly pallor of her face under the rouge gave it a ghastly appear- ance. She bit her lips unconsciously, and in her ears she heard but one sound, singing, ringing louder than noise of chorus or orchestra — married, married, Noel Brakenston to Eulalie Edmonds; married, married ! And she — what was she? How she sung Xhcjinale she never knew. She acted it with desperation and with courage, and her scream of agony when Alfredo threw the purse at her feet seemed to pierce the air. She felt like dying; had she really fainted ? When she opened her eyes, they went directly to a box on the grand tier. She saw Brakenston looking at her with a dark, despairing face. He was standing, and by his side sat Lallie, his wife. She drew in her breath sharply, shortly, and then laughed half bitterly. So it was true, and — and her life's dream was ended. Her love, and such love, to have been given to a traitor ! She must not think; she was singing badly. He was listening, and she would show him that — that it was nothing strange to see him with Eulalie. They were old friends; had he not always said that they were old friends ? Then the grand measures of the finale began. She sang for everything that life could now hold dear, and it seemed a great success. The curtain fell. She left the stage without a glance at the public, and hurried to her dressing-room. There was no call. Had she failed ? She could not tell. Her despair was intense; the terrible words that she had read were burning into her heart — burning like fire; yet she was deter- 464 Stage-Struck, mined to make one desperate effort. He had ruined her happiness as a woman; he should not ruin her suc- cess as an artist. She would live on — yes, she would live on for her art; that at least would be true to her, if she were true to it. Her young voice, strong, true, and cultured at the rehearsal, on this night had been wavering, weak, and stifled. How was it possible otherwise ? Of all humiliating things, to fail before him and Eulalie ! She would give ten years of life to succeed and triumph, and on that very night. She commenced dressing hastily. Her mother came to her and anxiously asked if she were nervous or ill, or what was the matter. She replied that she was rather tired, but she would be all right for the last act. " You must go through to the end, darling; and if it is not a great success this time, it will be the next. I — we cannot understood it. The rehearsals were so perfect; you made a triumph of the first part. You don't seem nervous, but — " " Did it go badly, mamma ?" " Well, not badly; but you were not yourself. Your voice could hardly be heard in \\\q, finale. Do try and throw it out more. But how pale you are looking, my dear!" "Yes; doesn't she just, ma'am?" interrupted the dresser. " I asked her now if she'd have a drop of something; but she wouldn't. I wish you could per- suade her to." " I am quite well; I want nothing. You know, I must look pale, for I have to die in this act." At that moment there was a quick knock. Mrs. Almont went to the door. Stage-Struck, 465 " Yes, what is it ?" to the call-boy. " Oh ! well, she will be ready. Now, darling, courage; sing out, and above all try not to be nervous. You look better than any other woman on the stage or off. It is something to be a beauty. Your dress is all right. Fll be at my place in the wings. Now, do sing out with courage, and it will be a beautiful success. Remember, our whole future depends on the next half-hour." Her mother hurried off. Before Annabel could realize how it came about, she was lying on a bed, and a young woman sat near her. There was a night- light, and even the voices were hushed about her. Was it real ? Was she on a deathbed ? Oh no ! and yet, oh ! if she only were, and if all could finish, how gladly would she die ! The curtain rolled slowly up. Her first word, *^ Annina,'* was spoken rather than sung. She felt Violetta's woes, because they were her own; but, alas ! in real life grief is genuine, not feigned, and she could not command her voice to sing. The scenes were enacted with wondrous charm and grace, but the singing was feeble, faint. She was beautiful, and looked as if she might indeed be on a bed of death, but she could scarcely utter a note. She heard ringing in her ears these words : " Married, Noel Brakenston and Eulalie Edmonds." When she found herself on the little bed, she was so tired that it seemed impossible ever to get up again. In vain she struggled. She was stunned, dazed, broken. She had come all this way to find out what she was; to lie there playing the part of a wretched dying woman; to enact this rdle under the very gaze 466 Stage-Struck, of the man who had ruined her life. It was too cruel, too hard ! Had the blow been struck at any other time, away from the world; but now, when all her future depended on this debut ! It was too hard, too hard ! The opera went on. Violetta dragged herself to her toilet. She sang the recitative and aria *' Addio del passato'' with great pathos; but in vain she strug- gled to unearth her voice from its sorrowed tomb. There were a few hisses, and these struck a new chill to her heart. As she finished the aria^ she burst into tears, and sobbed as if her heart would break. Her gioja^ when Alfredo came in, was a sad mockery of joy, and in her duet with him his voice alone was heard. Then came the recitative, and Germont's entry. All that she had to do was to give the re'- plique to Germont and Alfredo; but as she raised her eyes, she caught sight again of Brak. This ut- terly overcame her, and she lost herself completely. She forgot her cue; she forget even to come on in time; she only made matters worse. Vainly she tried to catch up a measure somewhere. She had totally forgotten even the music. The tenor and the baritone muttered deep Italian curses, and glared at her. She heard the leader of the orchestra sing a note of her part. He gave her the cue again and again, but it was of no use. The people in the stalls were murmuring and talking, for they perceived that something was going wrong, and could not under- stand how the girl who had created so favorable an impression in the first act should make so hopeless a fiasco in the last. It was a relief to all when the cur- tain fell. Stage-Struck. 467 Annabel smiled bitterly, and hurried her prepara- tions for getting home. As they reached their car- riage, her mother went back for something they had forgotten. A man came to her and thrust a note .into her hand. It was from him. Her first thought was to throw it into the street; but she had no time to hesitate. Her mother was coming towards her, and she could only slip it into her pocket. As she retired that night, her mamma kissed her with more than usual tenderness. She said, "Annabel, darling! I don't want to worry you now, but — but surely something has gone wrong ? You are not the same woman that you were two days ago. What can have happened ? You have something on your mind — on your heart. Won't you confide in me ? Will you not tell your mother if anything has dis- tressed you ?" She kissed her again. ** I am not a demonstrative woman, but my heart bled for you to- night. You were not doing yourself justice, and I felt for you. Will you not tell me what it was?" One moment she reflected, and then turned to her mother. "Dearest mother, I — I have only you in all the world. Do not fret over my failure. It was to be, I suppose. Even Angel says success is bjiilt upon failure. Another time I must succeed. Do not worry for me. I must bear it. I — I did not do my- self or any one else justice. As to the reason why " — she drew her brows closely together — "I have nothing to confide; I have nothing to tell." She looked stead- ily at her mother, muttering, " I don't know why I failed." 468 Stage-Struck, Her mother turned away, and a tear glistened in her eye. She murmured, "Good-night, and God bless you!" Then she went to her room. When Annabel was alone, she read the letter. It was written on a piece of paper evidently torn from a note-book. "And this was your surprise. Oh, fatal mistake! Had you but told me that you were coming to Lon- don! I cannot speak of your singing; we will talk of that some other time. You saw me with Lallie. She sends her regards to her old friend. I will explain all when we meet. Do not be angry. I love only you in all this world. Write to the Garrick, and say when I can come to you. No time for more. " Your own " Brak." She read it once, twice, three times; then she laid it in her box beside the notice of his marriage. "So," she said to herself, "he has made me like all other women. He thinks that because of my love for him, I shall be like all other women. He is mistaken. I will never forget how I have loved him — how I still love him; but he has betrayed me as" — she bitterly smiled — " as I suppose men are in the habit of doing. Oh, the farce of that most farcical ceremony — my wedding in Milan! I would forgive him everything but his lying." Then she thought, " Has he lied ? Yes; not perhaps in words, but with the still baser and more contempt- ible deception of silence. He has accomplished what Stage-Struck. 469 he evidently came to Milan for. He knew that I loved him; but had he really ever had one grain of true affection for me, he never would have ruined and disgraced me. It was not only a question of my hap- piness, but that of another woman. I will never see him again, not even to upbraid him. I have done Lallie a terrible wrong, but innocently." Now that she knew that he was married to her, — Lallie, — she would have no cause to complain. She thought on: " I am not the first woman who has loved and been betrayed. They had to bear it as best they could, and so, too, must I." For the first time since she learned the truth, her tears fell fast — hot, blinding tears, which scalded her fingers as they slowly trickled through them. She could only moan and repeat to herself that she had fallen into the snare; that her dream of love was but a reality of dishonor. She felt crushed and stunned, and she could not even think of the future. Her very sobs had to be stifled, so that her mother in the ad- joining room should not hear them. She went to her trunk, and almost mechanically took out his letters and the photograph. Slowly she began reading the letters, for she was determined to send them all back. One by one she read them through, and gradually the charm of their subtle words worked like noxious poi- son in her veins. She heard only his vows of love; she lived only in the maddening past. He was all her own again; she was cradled in his arms, hushed to the slumber of love's forgetfulness. She kissed the paper again and again. The words burnt her lips, and awoke her to a frenzy of such passion that 470 Stage-Struck. her head turned; cold drops of crystallized dew stood out on her forehead and dampened her hair. She could only crush the paper in her nerveless hand and say, " Can you not see I love you ? I am all yours. O my love, come back to me — come back to me !" Was it wrong to call these dreams to waking hours ? He was no longer hers; yet, with all women, she knew that he never could take away one drop from the cup of past happiness, that imperishable legacy of even doomed hopes. She tried to calm herself, and began to replace the letters in their envelopes. When she came to the last, her hand faltered. She read it through, again and yet again. Was it possible that he had only known her to betray her ? Surely a man who wrote like that must have some love for her. No; it was weak, it was foolish, but she could not part with everything. She would keep this letter and his photograph, and send back the others. She copied the advertisement on a slip of paper, and put the copy aside. She then put them and the bit of newspaper into a parcel, the latter uppermost, and sealed it. She intended to send it without a word. What had she to say to him ? She muttered to herself, " I could almost forgive him, if I only knew that for one single mo- ment he ever really loved me." A recollection of their conversation on Othello came to her. That was a long way back. He had said that men committed crimes for women they loved. He had committed a crime which meant, according to this meaning, that he had loved her. What crime will not a woman excuse in man, if she Stage-Struck. 471 can only believe that it is in consequence of love for her? Annabel spent the long hours of the night putting this one question to herself. She answered it in a thousand ways, but came back to this conclusion: that a double betrayal, such as hers, was evidence that she had never been more to him than a passing fancy. Had she ever been more, he never would have so deliberately wrecked her young life. At one mo- ment she wildly kissed his photograph; at another she threw it from her. Thus the night wore away in alternate bursts of blighted affection and hopeless despair. She only cried, "Come back! come back! what matter now ? I forgive all. I only know that I love you" — desperately, despairingly — " I will give up all for one more hour of happiness with you." Then she wept and moaned again; and at last, in the depths of her misery and forlornness, sank helplessly on the floor. How long she had lain there she knew not; but it was not until dawn had broken that she rose. " It is day," she said sadly — "day; I must now take up my life where it has been broken off." A memory of her giving way to such abandonment brought a tinge of color into her pallid cheek. She continued, " I may be dishonored, but I will never live in shame. I swear that I will never see him again. I pray that he may be happy. I forgive him his sin, as I hope to be forgiven mine; but I will never see him again. Our paths in life will henceforth be far apart. I will try to forget him. He is no longer my Brak; he belongs to another. I do not say that I will not love him, bu^ 4/2 Stage-Struck, I will try not to; and from this day forth I will put him out of my life for ever. I will leave London. I will begin anew, and I will blot these last two years out of my existence. He is as dead to me as if he had never been. I may love him unto death, but I shall never see him again." She looked once again at her letters, hesitated but for a moment, and then addressed them with an un- faltering hand to Noel Brakenston. "The last time I shall ever write that name," she said, with a bitter smile. Having tied the parcel, she threw herself upon the bed. Later in the day a letter came from the manager. He enclosed a month's salary with his regrets. His words were kind but conclusive. She had failed, and there was no place for her at Covent Garden. She managed during the day to send the package secretly to the club. Then with precipitation she packed up everything. When her mother returned, Annabel said to her with feverish eagerness, " Mother, darling, I cannot stop here. If you love me, let us leave London. I am ill, unhappy — because of — my failure. The continual sight of this city would kill me. I ought not to take it so to heart; but here I have known the most miserable hours of my life. If I am to live, I must forget them. If I die, let me die out of London. I have only you, mother dear, in all the world " — her voice faltering painfully. " I will do anything, work anywhere; only take me away from this city, and I will bless you for evermore." Her mother sighed — sighed and yielded. CHAPTER LV. Four months later Annabel was still in Paris. During all this time she never heard from Brak, and had never written a line to him, but she thought of him unceasingly. It was not so easy to forget; and, to her horror, she found that she loved him with the old love. He had betrayed her, ruined her whole life, and yet she still loved him. She had been ailing all the summer, and in vain did her mother try to find out what was the matter. Sometimes she would look long and earnestly at her; then she would say, "Annabel, you are surely ill. Have you no idea what ails you ? Is it all this miserable singing, or have you anything on your mind ? You are sure you have nothing to tell me ?" The girl always gave the same answer — " I am not really ill, and I have nothing to tell you." If her mother suspected anything, she was com- pletely disarmed by Annabel's manner. She was fonder than ever, and seemed to anticipate her every wish. They were very poor; the manager's money had not gone far, and Annabel's health would not permit her to think of opera-singing. She was not ill, but she was not strong. She shrank from begin- ning the old life of going to agents and being refused, as she had been even lately; for always, just as she was about to sing, remembrance of her love and her 474 Stage-Struck, blighted life would come to her and would choke the very sound out of her throat. No; she would wait a little, and perhaps with time she would live this feel- ing down. She must wait. In the mean while, she had a chance to sing at the American chapel in Paris. She was not paid much, but it was bread and butter. It was sufficient to keep them from starvation. Her father was ill in the small town near Cognac. He could not understand Annabel's going off to London, the failure, and her seeming bad fortune. He attributed everything to luck, good or bad, and he was continually writing harrowing letters, railing against Fate and Providence in general. At last he arrived in Paris, and the climax of misfortune was reached. They were living in a sixth-story apartment. Annabel could ill bear climbing up these terrible stairs half a dozen times a day. She gave lessons in singing, and her mother gave lessons in English. They had entirely dropped out of the old life. There were occasional scraps of news from Milan, from the maestro, once from Genevieve, and once from Alice Weiss. A number of the students had got money enough to get to London or New York, and they were singing, not in grand operas, but anywhere they could get a chance. Yet neither the mantle of Jenny Lind nor that of Mario had descended on any one of them. When Annabel thought of Brak, she only said, " He is another woman's husband. I have put him out of my thoughts for ever. I have taken these last years out of my life; and I never shall bring them back. St age-Struck. 475 He is dead to me. My love was a wretched, beautiful dream, but only a dream. I must live for the future. I must begin my life over again; but oh ! could I but see him once, just once, I never would ask more !" One day in early autumn she came hastily in from a rehearsal at the church. The concierge gave her a letter. Her breath stopped as she recognized the hand of — Brakenston. He had, then, dared to write to her? She had left only the address, "Milan, Italy," at the stage-door of the opera-house. How had this letter come ? In truth, it had been travelling about for the last four months. From London to Italy; then to South America, whither it was rumored she had gone with a company. After marvellously erratic wanderings, it had reached her. So he had written. Then, he still loved her ? •* Oh, "she said, " to read once more that he loves me ! Then I would be ready to die !" She breathlessly gained her room. She was alone, and the little house looked uncommonly cheerful. A bright fire glowed in the chimney, and on the table was a bunch of flowers left by Mrs. Wright, the kind wife of the director of the chapel-choir. She looked long at the address of her letter, as a woman often does, before she opens the envelope. Her eyes filled with tears as she gazed on the well- known handwriting; then, as she was about to un- seal the letter, she suddenly paused. She had sworn to put him out of her life, to begin over again; was this how she carried out her intentions ? The very strength of her desire nerved her to the effort. If once she gave way, she was lost. " Never !" she mut- 4/6 Stage-Struck, tered between her teeth. " I have been Noel Bra- kenston's wife; now I am neither his wife nor his mistress." She went to the chimney and dropped the letter into the fire. The flame caught it; in a moment it would be consumed. As the paper curled round, she thought she could distinguish the word 'Move." Before she knew what she was doing, she snatched it back, but too late; the charred paper eluded her grasp and crumbled into black ashes in her hand. She felt giddy and sick; the room was reeling around, and she rubbed the murky dust in her fingers with all a mad woman's frenzy. She felt herself falling, falling, and she knew no more. CHAPTER LVI. A VERY long spell of illness followed. For weeks she lay at death's door. She was carefully tended, and found many friends, who tried to lighten every want. Dr. Johnson and his wife, as was their wont towards all Americans, had been ministering angels to her. When she could get about, she paid her first visit to the doctor's house. She did not mend rapidly, and seemed still very weak. After the usual formula about her health, he asked her to look at a print of Rossini which he had in the next room. She got up readily, but her mother did not follow. When they were together, he said kindly, " I have asked you to come here to speak with you alone. I have carefully studied you, and cannot find any physical reason for your illness. I have concluded " — he looked at her with sympathy — " I have concluded that you have something on your mind. I wish to help you, but I cannot if you keep anything from me." She turned very pale, but made no answer. He went on. "You must forgive my plain speaking; but I fear you are unhappy, that you have a secret sorrow, and " — he turned abruptly — " do you yourself know the cause of your illness ?" 47^ Stage-Strtick. She started unconsciously. " Do I know the cause ?" she murmured faintly. " Why should you — should any one think that there is a special reason? Oh !" — she caught his hand — "tell me, was this your idea, or — or my mother's ?" " Frankly, I must admit that it was mine. Mrs. Almont at first said that you had been fretting about your music, and that it could not possibly be any- thing else that worried you. I questioned her closely, but elicited nothing further. I do not like to confess myself baffled, but am determined to put it plainly to you. Remember that if there is any other reason, you are trifling with your own life ; you are — " She looked at him strangely. " You are sure that my mother said no more ?" she interrupted, weighing each word with strange precision. "Quite sure ; but is there anything? I have come to you." She folded her hands, and still looked at him. " You were right to speak directly to me; but there is nothing to tell. Mamma was right ; I have been fretting much — over my singing." She looked up bitterly, and a half mist came over her eyes, but her voice scarcely faltered. " You know, I thought that I should some day be a great prima donna, and — and I have failed. I am a — nobody." The doctor was touched. " You are wrong to be despondent, and to give way to this fretting. All the opera-singing in the world is not worth a pretty young woman eating her heart out for it. Try and be cheerful ; besides, you are yet but a child. Success is built on failure, and you should have a bright Stage-Struck, 479 future before you. You have a lifetime in which to go on with this music. I will do all I can for you, but I will not have you go on undermining your con- stitution through a false idea that because you are nothing to-day you will be nothing to-morrow. Will you try and be courageous?" " Yes, I will ; but divest your mind of the thought that — that I have anything else than my music to fret over. I will be brave and — " "And remember the past is past. You will do bet- ter in future." She held out her hand, and said slowly, "You are right ; the past is past. I will try and forget it. Thanks, a thousand times. You have been very good to me ; every one is very kind. I am not worthy so much trouble." "Tut! nonsense, my child! You are a great deal to your mother and father, to yourself, and to all of us. We must not let our little Americans come over here to lose health and strength because they don't succeed the first time. Du courage^ and come to see me whenever you like. Remember that I am your friend, not alone your doctor." Annabel thanked him by a soft pressure of the hand, for she could not trust herself to speak. They rejoined her mother, who at that moment was coming towards them. "Well, my dear," she said, "have you told Dr. Johnson all about yourself ?" "Yes, mamma ; and he thinks that I shall get on all right." The doctor looked curiously at her. He said 480 Stage-Struck, nothing, but he wondered if she had told him all the truth. When they got home, they found her father waiting impatiently for them. "I am going away," he said quickly. "There is an- other little chance near Cognac, and I hope to get an opportunity there to show them my new patent. I shall not be paid anything at first, but there are millions in it if it works well. What did the doctor say, Annabel? That you will pull through all right, of course; only we are so miserably poor. I cannot give you any luxuries, not even comforts." Annabel went to take up her music-book. "Stop," he continued authoritatively; "at least, don't think of working now. You — you look tired, my dear. Your old father doesn't like to see you so pale. Are — are you not all right to-day ?" " Yes, papa dear ; I am well, only a little tired with the stairs. But we are near the angels, you know, and I never look from my window but I think if it were less high we should miss the lovely view. Paris seems to get more beautiful each day." "It gets dearer each day," grumbled her father, "and winter coming on. However, I guess this time I shall succeed with my patent. But I must hurry up; my packing isn't done yet, and the train starts in two hours." Annabel and her mother set to work with a will. In a short time he was bidding them good-by. He was going away without a dollar in his pocket, leav- ing a wife and sick daughter at home ; yet nothing could dampen his spirits. He seemed quite as sure of Stage-Struck. 48 1 this last new scheme as if his pockets already groaned with the result of its success. " Henry Almont paralyzes me," said his wife. " Of all Americans I ever knew, I think he is the pluckiest. I fully expect to see him walking home in about ten days without luggage, even his shirt collar pawned, and a postage-stamp his sole collateral, and that stamp a washed one. But I must go on with my writing. I am glad that the doctor finds you are not seriously ill. If you could only lay up a bit longer ; but—" " But that is impossible, mamma ! Mr. Wright already wonders if I am not well enough to take my old place in the choir, and I have written to say Yes." " But your lessons ! Surely you will not begin them at once ?" Annabel sighed. What relief had she in anything but hard work ? Her nights were one long agony of restless dreams, sleeplessness'^and vain longing to hear the sound of one man's voice. She knew that he was dead to her, yet she could not forget him ; she felt that she loved him more madly than ever. A woman's heart is a strange anomaly. She owed him nothing but the remembrance of a few hours' happiness against the fatal record of a blighted life. To think that it had been Lallie all the time! She wondered if he loved her; if he had ever told her that, in — in the same way. Wonder! Was it a matter of wonder ? Men were all alike; she had been the idiot — the fool. He had told his love to Lallie, he had said it to her, he had 482 St age-Struck. repeated it before to a hundred other women, and perhaps at this very moment he was making some other soft-hearted fool believe in him. Her voice, too, was failing her. Could she but put him out of her thoughts long enough to go on and make one great success, just to prove that she was not eating her heart out about him, then she would be willing to die. Then, too, to show the world that she had not been mistaken in herself. She longed for strength to begin anew her work; she struggled with her heart, which, though crushed and bleeding, re- fused to yield up its allegiance to this man. Love, she knew, was not for her ; she had bidden eternal farewell to it. Yet nothing could deprive her of the memory of once having loved. She felt at times the same lingering sweetness in her life, as an odor will remain in the air after the flower is crushed. She would not lose all courage; she was in the world. It was ignoble to give way to continual retrospect; and yet she went on day by day in the same old tread- mill, thinking, thinking, thinking of Noel Braken- ston, the man whom she loved more than all the earth beside. Her life was filled with perpetual disappointments and with unceasing work. She gave music-lessons and sang in the church, which occupied her time fully. The winter came on with terrible rigor, and they had little with which to ward off poverty. Annabel studied in a cold room until her very marrow seemed frozen in her bones. She went out in wet and windy weather, thinly clad and badly shod. She felt her strength gradually ebbing away, yet never Stage-Struck. 483 complained. Why should she ? Was she the only woman in the world who had known sorrow — who had eaten, drunk, and slept with misfortune ? Her only pleasure now was in trying to lighten her mother's life. She ministered to every little want as best she could; she even tried to help her in her writing. The only moment of satisfaction she ever really knew was when she thought how well she had kept her secret; that no one in the world knew aught of her bitter past. It was impossible to forget Brak. She often asked herself, " What manner of woman am I, that I can still go on caring for him?" She never got beyond this question. She put it to herself a hundred times a day; and a hundred times her heart answered, " Because you loved him truly, and, if a true woman, you cannot easily forget." Woman's love stands a great deal of rough hand- ling, wear and tear. Annabel was but one of many. She had not learned the lesson easily, but she would never forget it. She was happiest when listening to music, and often went to the Church of St. Sulpice, where there were a great organ and the famous organ- ist Widor. She never tired of the solemn masses and the beautiful choral service. Thtfete of Saint Cecilia, as usual, was to be cele- brated in all the churches. Annabel went to her favorite, St. Sulpice. There she heard a great singer, and for the first time for months the desire came over her, as when she was a girl, to do something — to be somebody in the world. As she listened to the grand bursts of melody which came pouring from the organ, she felt her very soul 484 Stage-Struck. stirred to its depths. In a moment a voice soared out like the sound of a heavenly harp singing Handel's hymn to St. Cecilia. She thought that she had never before heard such a divine soprano. The notes rose clearer and higher, until the entire church seemed filled with their celestial harmony. Every eye in- voluntarily glanced towards the organ-loft. Annabel turned to her neighbor, an old man. "Who is singing?" she asked, while her face be- trayed as much eagerness as her voice. "It is the Baronne de Caters — Lablache's youngest daughter and Malibran's godchild," he responded. " There are many great artists in the world, but none greater than she.'* Annabel thanked him silently by a bow. " Mali- bran's godchild," she thought; " Lablache's daughter." These names brought back the dream of her youth. And she had accepted failure because she had fallen in love! She hurried from the church. The organ was still pealing forth its majestic strains. She heard one voice above all the noise and din of the street — a voice which infused new life into her veins. " I will be a singer or die," she muttered. " I recommence anew from this day forth to devote myself to my art. Farewell all thoughts of Brak! I begin my life over again." She shivered when she reached the foot of the church-steps. A biting wind swept across the Place St. Sulpice, accompanied by a tempest of rain and sleet. She had to wait her turn to get a place in an Stage-Struck. 485 omnibus, and oy the time her number was reached she was thoroughly drenched. She arrived home in a pitiable plight; but she never thought of her wet garments. She only heard the grand tones of the organ sweeping through the church-aisles, and a glorious voice singing the hymn to St. Cecilia. All her deadened ambition was roused. For the first time for months she cared to live, and to become a great singer. During the evening she coughed frequently. Her mother was alarmed. She said to her, " Annabel, you have taken cold. When I saw you go out to-day, I saw influenza stamped on your fore- head. Sitting two hours in those old stone buildings would alone be enough to give any one her death. Besides that, you were caught in the worst storm of the year, and you are as wet as a rat. Get to bed at once. I will make something hot for you, and then perhaps you won't be sick to-morrow." She obediently followed her mother's advice; but it was too late. She already felt the symptoms of an attack of bronchitis, and took to her bed. Dr. Johnson was called in, and succeeded in a few days in getting her about. He spoke seriously to Mrs. Almont. " I do not like this last sudden illness. It tells me that your daughter is more delicate than I had thought. She is not in any danger, and will be perfectly well with time; but she must not winter in Paris. You must go to Cannes or Nice. Mind, I do not say that she cannot stop here; I merely say that the chances are that she will be much better elsewhere. She had 486 Stage-Struck. originally a superb constitution, but, for some cause or other, it seems now very much shattered. This last sickness has not improved her. Does she fret as much as usual ? " Oh no. I think she is much happier. Only after the celebration at the St. Sulpice, she came home de- lighted. She told me about the music, and said that she was once again her old self; but she got wet through in the storm, and — " "And this is the result. No; I insist upon her going away at once. She is certainly too delicate at present to think of stopping in Paris." Mrs. Almont demurred, but had to yield. Annabel was passive, yet secretly thought that her going away was nonsense. She was filled with ideas of her singing, and of commencing the spring opera- season in a new role. She admitted, however, that in order to be quite well she must now take some pre- cautions; and, at any rate, a winter in the south of France could only be beneficial. The question of how to get there was happily de- cided. The Wrights had long been fond of Annabel, and naturally held her interests at heart. When they heard that she ought to go away, they immediately offered to help her. She had been singing in the choir, and had made herself almost indispensable to it. Every one in the congregation loved to listen to her voice, and Mr, Wright scarcely knew how to do without his protegee. But she ought to go, and he was too unselfish to think of his own interest when her health was at stake. St age-Struck. 487 One fine day they found themselves ready., Annabel bid the kind doctor and the Wrights an affectionate farewell, and promised to come back with the early spring. She seemed quite happy, and really was sorry to leave Paris. The last words were to Dr. Johnson: *'You are a tyrant; but next year I shall be so well that I will defy you." In two days they were at Nice, in tiny rooms look- ing out upon the sea. The morning after their arrival, a letter arrived from Angel, which had been forwarded from Paris. Annabel received it with the greatest pleasure. She was fatigued and too ill after her journey to get up; but she was sitting up in bed, and her mother sat beside her and read it aloud to her. CHAPTER LVII. "My dear Miss Annabel: " The last time I wrote to you, I was in Australia; now you will see by the above that I am in New York, back again under the old Stars and Stripes, and for which blessing the undersigned is truly thankful. Don't ask me anything about England's colony. I have had a genteel sufficiency of it — even more; too much would have been a superfluity. I don't even want to see A a on the map. Will you believe it ? At last I had to sing not only baritone, but bass parts. When they gave me the deep and important role of that dumb-doubly-dyed villain and arch-assassin Sparafucile in ' Rigoletto,* I kicked. The idea of a man with a phenomenal voice like mine being made use of in this fashion! Of course, my amiability has been my ruin. In consenting to sing these widely different rdles to oblige the managers, I have treated a Heaven-given talent without respect, and naturally I am dished. No one can say that I haven't given this music business a more than fair trial. I com- menced my career a deep basso. I then became basso cantante, baritone, tenor robusto, light tenor; then, to please a vile manager, once — only once — I con- sented to sing a low-tenor part. That did me. The bandit Fra Diavolo caused my ultimate ruin. This r^/(? immediately lowered my voice. A baritone fell Stage-Struck. 489 ill, and I sang his part also, to please the manage- ment; then, to save the biggest house of the season, I allowed myself to be bullied, browbeaten, wheedled into filling a basso role. The man for the part was 'bronchity,' and I understudied him just to keep my hand in, when, to my horror, the impresario swooped down on me like a wild heron, and insisted on my singing it. I did as the noble manager desired, and you witness the result. This was the failure which broke the singer's bank. I worked like a nigger in Melbourne, and I fairly sung and fretted the flesh off my bones. I just tapered down to nothing, when the brute of a director, after all I had done for him, asked me if I didn't think a breath of my native air would do me good. Ignoring his intended insult, I said I thought it would, and emphasized my remarks with a small dose of black and tan. He had the opinion of my soul, at least. Fancy going sixteen thousand miles only to quarrel with a manager! I am not sure that I wouldn't double Cape Horn in a gale for the sake of kicking him again — 'giving him one to live on,' as the boys say. The whole of my operatic career was summed up in that one satisfaction. Not worth while spending three years of my life, and learning several foreign tongues, including English, you will say; but now that it is over, I depose to let the career R.I. P., and the undersigned likewise. Well, when I left Australia, I interviewed my new hemstitch with a tear of joy. I guess that prize box of handkerchiefs got well seasoned. And here I am back in America, after all. 'My own — my native land.' 490 Stage-Struck. "I have no feeling of resentment against fate for the trick she has played an honest, conscientious, laborious civil engineer. I have this consolation, that going to Europe in the first place was not my idea. I did it to please my friends, and now I hope they are satisfied. I always thought I had a good voice, and I prided myself on my expression and my winning ways quite as much as on my organ. But, of course, with them setting me up, and telling me that I was wrong to keep such talent hidden from the world, I very rightly determined to be an opera-singer. But naturally I was doomed. I had no luck from the first, and there was no use my going back on my mouth because it wasn't born cherishing a golden spoon. I am now going to work at my trade, and must confess that it is with a certain sort of pleasure that I think of myself as a civil engineer. " Most of the ' embryos ' are back in New York, sing- ing in comic operas, and they have cheapened even that in the market. Italian names still stick to them. We are all in the same boat. I guess, if anything, I can crow over the whole crew. They are still at it; but * I'm no pig, Mrs. Cobbs; I knew when I'd got enough,' so I've hung up my lyre for ever. By the way, don't think I shall stop singing for myself and my friends. They always stick by one, some way; at least to say, * I told you so;' and I shall take a morbid delight in singing at guilds, strawberry-festivals, on the river in the night-air, at sleighing-parties, and the whole caboodle. I may even spring a charity concert on 'em when no one is looking; but — but no more operatic business. Stage-Struck, 491 " Well, this letter is long enough, and I guess you'll be pleased to strike my signature about an inch further on; but before I close, I want to say that I wrote this especially to send you my congratulations. I hear your d^but was a gorgeous affair, and that you are en- gaged at Covent Garden. Hip, hip, hooray ! I al- ways said that if you didn't succeed, the whole kit had better shut up shop; and I guess everybody's of my unbiassed opinion. How's your mother; and is she with you ? Give her my love, and take out a heap for yourself. Oh! give regards to any of the other floating operatic straws you may see about Paris, not forget- ting that dear couple Enrico and Lucia. They are the most charming people in this world, any way, ain't they? " Do write to me now and then, and tell me all about yourself, and any debut ^ow hear of may not be unin- teresting to know about. I am on my way to Mexico, and, look out! I may send you a horned frog for a Christmas present. " By the way, it is near the 25th, isn't it ? Wish you the compliments of the season and heaps of luck. Keep a stiff upper lip, dear Miss Annabel, and you'll some day be the boss singer of America. " Always your old friend, "Victor Angel." Mrs. Almont folded up the letter. Annabel looked half smilingly at her mother, and said, " I the only one who has succeeded ! This doesn't look much like it, does it, mamma? But how nice of Angel to write such a long letter ! I am sorry he didn't get on better." 492 Stage-Struck. "Well, he seems to take kindly to failure; besides, he has his trade to fall back on. If ever I had another child, I would give him a trade; any would be a surer livelihood than opera-singing." "You might have begun with me, mamma. Per- haps it isn't too late yet. What can I do?" Her mother stared gloomily out the window. Annabel sighed, and said, "Come here, little woman." Her mother came to her bedside. She kissed her fondly. " Have you got the blues ?" "Oh, Annabel! how can I be happy or nave any more courage when you are so ill ?" She burst into tears. Annabel leaned forward and placed her thin hand on her mother's hair. She smoothed the soft threads, and drew her head upon the pillow near to her. " Dear mamma," she continued softly, " don't take my illness to heart; it is nothing serious. I will be all right in a short time. Why, with such weather ? the sun is pouring in at the window, and I hear the sound of voices outside. All is so cheerful. I think I need a little sunshine and gayety; besides, I don't want you to have the blues — you'll give them to me, and I am already down this morning. I — I had a strange dream last night. Angel was in my dream, and Genevieve. Wasn't it funny ? There were others, too, and — " " It was curious that you should dream of him, and this letter coming. What was your dream ? Bad ? What did you eat last night; anything heavy? You must be careful. Well, let us hear it." " It was so long, I must have been at it all night. I Stage-Struck. 493 oughtn't to tell it before breakfast. This was the first night in a strange bed, you know, and they say that those dreams always come true; but that is nonsense. I must get over my superstitions, mustn't I ? Mamma, come close. Are you comfortable?" " Yes." She drew a deep breath. Well, this is it: I thought I was a tiny little girl back in La Crosse. You remem- ber grandpa's garden, and the house we first lived in ? Well, I was there. It was summer-time, and the birds were singing in the old apple trees, and every flower was in full bloom. Oh, it was so sweet! The first thing I recollect was that I was standing at the foot of the gar- den — you know where, mamma : near the black-currant bushes. I had left the kitchen, and walked straight down the path, picking flowers as I went along; but the whole day seemed to pass before I reached the foot of the yard. I found myself standing and looking up to the sky. My hands still held a few blossoms, but I was barefooted, in rags, and my hair was streaming all down my back. And as I stood looking upward, some one came down the path, preceded by a great white bird or swan. This bird came straight to me, and cried and cried and fluttered its wings with a strange sound. I was going to chase it away, when I saw that our servant, the one we had in Milan, was the woman walking in the path. 'Don't kill it or chase it away,' she said; 'it is a bird of my country, and whoever harms one never knows happiness again.' Then she went away, and left me alone with the cry- ing bird. When she had gone, this bird came close up to me, but I wouldn't look at it. While I stood in 494 Stage-Struck. the garden, night came on quickly, as things come in dreams. The bird was clutching at my dress, but I was looking into the sky. You can't imagine, mamma, how beautiful it was: just like the kaleidoscopes children have, only everything was gold and silver running all around. First the sky was filled with burning stars; then they came gradually together, and spread themselves out just like a silvery veil — long trailing things in light; then they would shape them- selves into human beings and different objects, and these things kept going and coming and changing into visions and forms, each one more beautiful than the other. I was so fascinated that the night wore away while I looked, until the whole heavens seemed overrun with light. This gradually faded away, the stars stealthily disappeared from the skies, the splen- dor of the heavens faded into a gray mist; then came the dawn. I turned to go. I was a child no longer; and, just think, mamma! while I had been looking, I had grown old, and the bird was still at my side. He touched my dress and said, * I will never leave you unless you give me up. I am — Brakenston.'" *' Brakenston ? What! the young man we saw in London ? How strange that we have never heard of him since, and that, of all the world, you should dream of him!" This was the first time since she had met him in Milan that Annabel had mentioned his name to any one. She could scarcely command her voice, yet she continued, watching her mother narrowly. "Yes; but dreams are unaccountable. Shall I go on ? Well, I walked fast through the garden by the Stagc-Struck, 495 little path. When I reached the door of the kitchen, I saw two women standing there; one was Lallie, and the other her mother. They beckoned to the bird, but he would not leave me. They insisted so that I grew angry, and said, 'Go, if you like;' but he only cried, and still clung all the more closely." "Did you take him?" " No; I turned away, and I thought I heard him say, * You have sacrificed us both.* Then they cut his wings, and — Lallie laughed as she fastened him to her side. I walked away, with his cries ringing in my ears. Then I came to a great hall, where hundreds of men and women were drinking and carousing at tables spread with every luxury. There were flowers pret- tier than any in grandpapa's garden, and fruit so ripe that it looked quite soft. They begged me to stay, but I refused. I went on to another room, also filled with men and women, who begged me not to run off. I saw myself in a looking-glass. In this last room I seemed to have grown older, and my face was pinched and pale. I walked forth into the night, but all the while, as before, the bird was still calling to me to take him, but — I never turned back. As I passed the last room, I came to a white sanded road running through deep water. It seemed an ocean bridged over; and I was so tired, mamma, you can't imagine how long I had been going. I could scarcely drag one foot after the other, and this road was endless. I was quite alone, and had to watch my steps for fear of falling; and I stopped now and then to look as if to escape myself, but I could only keep on in this shining path. At last I came to an enormous park. It was summer- 49^ St age-Struck. time, and the birds were singing in the trees; the grass was green and young; and in the middle of a leafy thicket was a crystal lake. It had a rustic bridge, and beautiful flowering vines climbing all over it; and I was still alone, and thankful that my journey had come to some end. I leaned against the bridge, and I saw three roads coming into it at the edge of the lake. Then think, mamma, how curious it was. I saw a man standing in the thicket with a cowl over his face; and before I knew what it all meant, I was at the foot of the bridge, when two women came towards me. They were in deep mourn- ing, in trailing garments of black crepe; and as we looked into one another's faces, we recognized each other. One was — Lallie; one was you, mamma; and I was the other, you know. We separated without speaking, each taking one of the three roads. The man in the thicket fell on his face when I passed him; at the same time I heard the bird crying to me, but I walked swiftly on. I — I was alone in the world, mamma, and — I — I was so unhappy. I thought I might listen to the bird, and I remembered that bad luck might come if I always neglected it. I didn't turn back, but it — the bird, you know — came on to me, and — and — I — Let me get it right, mamma, this was so strange; but it must be right! Oh yes! I was suddenly very happy, and found myself back in grandpa's garden. I was with the bird, and we were just like children together. Night came on, the sky again filled with stars, and the pictures in white light ran all around the heavens, just like quicksilver. I was going to catch some, when the bird laughed and flew Stage-Struck, 497 away. He shook his wings in my face, as much as to say, ' I have but to will to fly,' and then I was left alone. I stood in the cold, and you can't think how cold it seemed, mamma. Fancy: I was a barefooted little girl again, and, as before, in rags. I cried and cried because I had nothing in the end; even my pic- tures had faded out of the sky, and the bird never came back. I cried so hard that I fell on the ground to die, and as I was breathing my last I woke up; and, just think! I was still crying. Wasn't it funny ? I have not got over it yet." She turned her face to- wards the wall. " Funny! Well, I don't see anything very comical about it, and you're all of a tremble now. Why, how on earth could you remember it all? It was strange that you should dream of the Edmonds', though, and that young man. Who knows what has become of any of them ? This world is a queer place. Look at Angel, for instance." Annabel half smiled. "Yes; he is now a civil engineer. It's a very good thing that he had some- thing to turn to. I know of no one so lucky as he. What time is it, mamma ? I think I must get up." " Get up ? You're to stop in bed and not think of it. What a pale little girl it is, to be sure !" Her mother kissed her. "After dreaming the whole of the * Arabian Nights ' through, I don't wonder you are pale." Annabel was too weak to do anything but passively obey her mother. Later, the next day, they went to see a physician who had been recommended by kind Dr. Johnson — not only recommended, but had been written to from 498 Stage-Struck, Paris, so that Annabel might go to him without thinking of fees. The usual formula was gone through, and the doc- tor told her not to go out again; he would come to her. He was so "non-committal" that Mrs. Almont scarcely knew what to think. Annabel was a little disappointed that she was ordered not to go out. Nice, with its sun-soft sea-air and gay promenades, was a tempting sight after her dull life in Paris. She had counted so much upon being a great deal out of doors. But there was no help for it. She would try to be patient. Her mother complained that they were to be de- barred from all sight or sound of this gay resort. " I wanted to go to Monte Carlo," she said. " Of course gambling is detestable, but I think the sight of so much money would do me good, although it's not my own; we are so poor." Annabel shuddered. The name Monte Carlo had awakened a new train of thought. " Englishmen went there," she thought; "and who knew but she might run across Brak ? Could she resist him, were she to see him ? Oh no; she still loved him, as in the few happy days at Milan. Perhaps she need not fret about resisting him; he might not even speak to her. Oh, if she could but see him once — once again, even if he did not speak! It would do her good — more good than all the medicine in the world. But she never hoped for that; at least, she would not meet him until she could feel that seeing him could affect her no more than the sight of other men. Would that day ever come? She must pray for it. God had Stage- Struck. 499 answered her prayers when she was a little girl; surely He would hear her now." And so she thought on; but never a word or com- plaint escaped her lips. She could not leave her bed for many days, and the doctor came frequently. He always left a long prescription; looked wise as he took out his watch; and went away with a cheerful boil jour h demain^ to return the next day and go through the same performance. •AH their money seemed to go for drugs. Annabel not unfrequently saw him alone on such occasions. She would look at the interminable slips of paper with the spider-like words, and then ask her- self if they were really necessary? If she only dared hide them or tear them up, it would be such a relief. Her mother went without proper food just to buy medicines; and she did not believe in drugs. She knew so well what ailed her;, at least, she thought that her illness came because she was so unhappy, so depressed, so continually down; and they really could not afford so much for the apothecary. The fact was, her case baffled the good doctor. Naturally, he wished to cure her; and he was deter- mined to exhaust his whole repertory of infallible remedies, rather than omit one which, in the end, might have been the most efficacious. He was zeal- ous. If zeal could cure, Annabel would soon be able to have la clef des champs^ and join the people on the promenade. She had learned to study in bed, and was anxiously preparing herself for a spring season. Hour after hour she sat bolstered up, with scores in 500 Stage-Struck, her hand. She sang in an undertone, and beat the measure softly on the counterpane. She had become so perfect a musician, that reading over her operas was almost the same to her as listening to their per- formance. She heard all the instruments of the or- chestra, and the intricate threads of harmony which were so skilfully woven in and out. Then she heard the soprano come in, the tenor, the basso, and the grand finales. She even consulted with her mother about certain points in the conception of a role. She did this with as much earnestness as if she could ac- cept an engagement to sing on the morrow. Her mother scolded her for such unceasing work and absorption; but the doctor only told her not to overdo it, and she really seemed much happier and bet- ter when she could practice. Then she would realize that her studying was nothing but an excuse to live with Brak. She saw him in every scene; every word of love was spoken by her faithless idol; every heart- cry came from her own bosom. When she opened her book, she thought of him; when she closed it, she was still saying his name over to herself, always thinking, " Perhaps he will come back to me; perhaps something has happened. I know he loved me once. I would forgive him; and, if he were free, I should take him back; for, after all, what is the world with- out love ? What is it, or anything to me, without him ? Singing ! Unless I have him, I shall never sing again. When I buried my heart, I buried my ambition. I now realize what love means. I shall take no more medicines. If he does not come back, I will not get well. I do not want to live; life is a St age-Struck, 501 burden. I cannot forget him; I cannot bate him. Oh, Brak, Brak ! why did you play with me as chil- dren do with their toys ? why did you break my heart and ruin all my life just to give yourself one hour of pleasure ? I hope I shall die; for it is wicked to live and love another woman's husband. I love you, and you are married to Lallie." Then she would draw her head under the bed- clothes, as a poor bird does under its wing when rain comes on. Her mother thought she was tired from her studying, and never disturbed her. One day a letter came from Alice. There was news of the maestro and of all Milan; but the saddest came with the happiest. Federico was ill, and the poor old master was broken-hearted. Annabel finished read- ing: "And we are all very sorry for Federico and every- body. Now I must tell you a secret. I am married and am going to Germany. My father said I could not sing very well, so I had nothing else to do but to get married. My husband is a very nice young man named Schwarz; and that is curious, ain't it? He Schwarz and I Weiss." ** Well," interrupted Mrs. Almont, "their children will certainly be piebald." Annabel continued: " I decided all at once, and I am really happy. He is a brewer, and loves me to death. I have already a diamond ring and a real smoked-pearl opera-glass, which I hope some day to look through and see you having a great success on the stage. He is very rich, and I am going to live in a Schloss near Berlin. I 502 Stage-Struck. guess it won't be much like Gretna or the Via St. Simone in Milan, will it? You must come and see me there when you are engaged at the Imperial Opera. I think we shall be very happy. We can sing Lieder all day long, drink beer, and eat pretzels. I am sure I never want to see a stick of macaroni again; only we did have good times at the maestro's, didn't we? And that's about all of Milan I ever cared about. I won't trouble you with a long letter, for I hear you have been ill, and the maestro cries all the time about Federico and you, because he can't see you, too; and I guess he wishes we were all there again, singing, all day long, like so many robins, doesn't he? Well, I must close, and I hope you will tell me of your suc- cess as an opera-singer; but if I were you, I think I'd get married besides, because it's very nice having everything you want and some one to take care of you. " Kiss your mamma for me, and accept the same good hug for yourself. I guess I never wrote so much before; but I am very happy. " Your old friend, "Alice Schwarz. " P.S. — Direct to 'Schloss Schwarzenberg, near Ber- lin.' I am sure to get it. There is another long word, but Franz (my husband) says it is useless. Isabella has come back to Milan an engaged artist, and her manager sent her to study t\\Q panda method, which she soon discovered spoiled her voice, and she refused to study with Lamperti. He made a fuss, and some newspaper took the affair up. He^ that vile old Lam- Stage-StrtLck, 503 perti, wrote her a letter almost threatening to ruin her career because she would not study with hifti, and because he said that she was the cause of this letter in the newspaper against him. Then she sent word back that if she could write as well as that, she would never have come to Italy to study singing, even with him. So there they are, still fighting; and I believe Isabella will give up her scrittura rather than study with such a charlatan. Federico is no better; he sends his love, and so does the maestro, who is very unhappy about him. You know Federico was always good- natured, and gave me the full note before I started off when the beginning of an aria was difficult, and I am real sorry that he's so sick. Well, I must close, or you will think I have got a corner on letter-writing. " Good-by again ; and write soon to your old friend, "Alice Schwarz." CHAPTER LVIII. Annabel cried bitterly when she finished Alice's letter; and nothing would do but she must write to the poor old maestro at once. From that time forth she seemed changed. She often spoke of Milan, of the hours they had spent out- side the Porta Garibaldi, and of her own ambition to become an artist. It was slightly past midwinter. Nice was at its gayest, and all day long the streets were filled with crowds of pedestrians and fine equi- pages. Carnival processions began, and night was turned into day. Annabel could hear the noise and commotion out- side. She longed to be able to get up, but her strength was expended only in longing. Once her father had sent a small sum of money, at the same time announcing that at length something was going to turn up. Mrs. Almont almost entirely broke down. She was nervous, fretful, and despairing. She could hardly scrape together enough money to carry on and to pay for the medicines which were ordered for Annabel, who had lost all desire to live. Her life seemed to her one grand mistake. She made no complaint, but ac- cepted her fate without repining. Ill in body and mind, what had she to live for ? And yet there were moments when she could not bear the thought of Stage-Struck, Joj leaving the world without one last sight of Braken- ston. If only she could tell him that she had loved him to the last, she felt she could die in peace. But it was hard — terribly hard — to be lying on her deathbed ever hopelessly, helplessly thinking of him, and yet unable to say all that he had been to her — her one, one only love ! She had a spell of unusual illness, and the day following she felt better than she had been for a long time; but towards nightfall she became flighty, and her mind wandered. She lay back motionless, almost lifeless, on her pillow. Her mother had been with her the whole day; but as night came she tried to get a little rest. When she came back to her, she found her sitting up, quite cheery, and on her bed lay the score of " Faust." She spoke to her. " Come here, dear mamma, and sit beside me on the edge of the bed, just as you used to do when I was little." Her mother came towards her. Annabel noticed how tired and worn she looked. She put her hands on her hair, and smoothed it tenderly, without speak- ing another word. Her eyes had a far-away look in them, and her face wore a strange expression. On seeing her, her mother burst into tears. Annabel started, saying, ''Mamma, dearest, you are crying — why ? Oh, I should not ask! You are tired, ill. We are so poor. You deny yourself everything to give to me, and I — I am basely ungrateful. I don't seem to get better any too fast — do I ? Any one would think I kept ill on purpose." 5o6 St age-Struck. "Darling, am I crying? I — I didn't mean to; but you look so thin, dear, and — and I don't seem worth much as a nurse." She tried to command her feel- ings, but leant sobbing on the pillow, continuing, with a broken voice, "I wouldn't mind poverty, were you only well. I feel so sorry for you, Annabel, and your disappointments. This life isn't much of a one. I often wonder what we have done that we should be so unfortunate." Annabel became suddenly calm. " Dear mamma, don't worry for me. This sickness don't count. I have been thinking about myself, and have decided. I will begin a new life, even from to-day. Why should I wait until I am well ? What kind of Ameri- cans do we call ourselves, to give up in this fashion because we are poor and things have never seemed to go right ? I shall now only live for the future. Have faith in me, mamma. Of course, I am still a little ill, but that is nothing." " You are better to-day, dear, after such a bad night." While her mother was speaking, Annabel fell back on her pillow, and murmured, " Yes and no, mamma. I only have a queer feeling, as if I should be wafted away if a gust of wind came into the room. I hope you won't let any come. I have been a little de- pressed, but I am ashamed of it. People have been sick before to-day, haven't they ? So I had better be- gin making up my mind to get well, if ever I intend to. To-morrow I shall get up, and sing all day." " To-morrow! Oh, well, we shall see if you are well enough." Stage-Struck. 507 Annabel continued to smooth her mother's hair softly, but almost unconsciously her hand fell on the bed, and she sank back on her pillow. Her mother, for fear of disturbing her, did not move from her position. She sat on the edge of the mattress, with her hands clasped idly, staring in front of her, but evidently seeing nothing. Some little time passed. Then she got up, and went to the fire. Annabel spoke again, this time as if to herself, muttering between her teeth, anon, in a clear voice, " My life has been a mistake. If I could only begin over agairf! I remember when I was little." She sighed. "Ah, now I am back home; there is the same old oak-tree, and there's the music-teacher, pretending not to hear. I shall have to sing louder, or they won't let me take part in the concert. I don't remember his face. He won't stop, the mean thing! That's because I am such a little girl. Now, I shall get to the river and wade. Oh, how beautiful it is! I shall go a long way out this time, to the old mill near the other bank, there where the willows are hanging into the stream. I must put on this dress; I am too small to swim, and the water is cool. Oh, oh, it is cold! Oh!" Her mother looked up. "How her mind wanders!" she muttered; " but I don't know whether I ought to disturb her or not. Perhaps she will drop off to sleep." Annabel kept on talking rapidly and thickly. " Oh, I won't see the bluffs again this year. I shall find the first spring flowers. Do you think we shall have any sleighing like this in Italy ? There, now, I've burned my fingers! This candy is too hot. Don't, 5o8 Stage-Struck. Len; you pull too strong. You'll break it. Mine will be the whitest" — earnestly. "Oh, I sha'n't forget this is my home. You know I never saw kings or queens, but they can never take the place my old friends have." At this moment she dozed off, and her mother was about to speak when she began again. This time the words were scarcely audible. " I feel as if I would like to dip my hands in now. I always fished up some weeds besides; and I will bring my apron home full of shells and white pebbles. It seems a long while, doesn't it, mamma ? And — I and — " her voice slightly faltered — "I am tired. I must stop and rest. Do let me stop." Just then there was a noise in the street of the pass- ing carnival. A number of merry-makers were going by, singing at the pitch of their voices and playing upon various instruments. There was a sound of bells. Annabel listened eagerly, then said, "There! they are going without me. I must be ready. Call them in. Don't you hear the sleigh-bells? Oh, I know! Now I am going to sing and have my purse. Go; quick, quick!" She started up, and eagerly beckoned, and in her eyes blazed a wild light. Her mother sprang forward. " Annabel, Annabel! what are you saying ? Are you dreaming?" " Stop them! Stop them!" " Stop who? What are you thinking of? Do you know where you are ?" "Yes, yes; at home — the Deacon's.'* Stage-Struck. 509 "No, dear. This is Nice; and you are here a sick little girl. Try to think." She struggled to remember. Then a gleam of rea- son broke over her. " Nice — Nice ? Oh yes; I do recol- lect. And we are alone; you and I are here. But where is papa ? I want to see him. I want to see every one I love." She turned towards her mother, and continued half-sobbingly, " Every one I love. Yes, I want to see him. Oh, it is too hard, too hard! What have I ever done that I should be so punished ? Come back to me; come back! It wasn't your fault. Oh, I shall never see him again; and I love him so! I am dying, and I shall never see him again. Oh! if I could see his face, but once hear him say, 'Annabel, you are all I have in the world; / love — ' " Mrs. Almont was astonished. "Poor child! to think she loved her father so much after all." She smoothed her pillow and went to the window. The wind howled with awful fury. The carnival was still at its height, but the voices of the revellers were growing faint and fainter. She went again to the fire, saying half to herself, "It is a wild night, and I think we shall have a storm before morning. Were I in America, I should certainly predict snow." Annabel caught the last words. " Snow ? Ah, how I should like to see some ! It would be like old times to see the frost-flowers on the window-pane; and then the river would freeze, and there would be sleighing. Ah! I remember our last ride. We are all scattered now. Who knows where Len is ? I wonder if he is singing?" She sighed. "And Miss Hetty and all. 5 10 Stage-Struck, the others ? They will laugh at me because I haven't succeeded; but they will laugh too soon. I haven't done yet. My ambition is as strong as ever." She fell back on her pillow and sobbed violently. Her mother soothed her. She interrupted again. "You don't hate me, mamma, because I have failed, do you ? I have made your life a burden to you; I have dragged you everywhere, and you haven't had any good times at all. I feel guilty when I think what a burden I have been. With all my fine speeches and my will to do, I — I have finished just like everybody else in the world. Oh, if I only get well!" she cried violently. "Mamma, mamma!" she cried, throwing her arms around her neck, " I haven't been a good daughter to you. I — I don't know how to tell you, but I will make it up to you some day in the future. I shall live only for you; we shall live only for each other. I will try, but — No, I cannot tell you how he" — She seemed utterly unable to control her feelings. Her mother looked at her. Then a thought seem.ed to strike her. She remembered Dr. Johnson's idea, that she had something on her mind. Perhaps — Could it be so ? "Annabel," she said, in a voice sharpened with ap- prehension, " you have kept something from me. You have something to tell me. I know you are ill, but you said — " She started up confusedly, murmuring, "What did I say? Tell? No; I have nothing to tell you. Oh, it is not that, mamma, but — have I ever been unkind to you, or treated you harshly, or seemed wanting in love ? Have I been a faithful, dutiful daughter ?" Stage-Struck. ' 511 **God bless you! yes. No mother ever had a better child." She drew her mother's face close to hers. "Will you say it, mamma? Will you ask Him to bless me again ? Will you forgive me all my sins ? I — I have been found wanting so often, but I have never been unloving. I always wished to do right. I have made your lite a burden to you, but I will do better in future. I know now that I am going to be well, and I will try so hard to succeed and to make you happy. I cannot fail in the end. I have never lost my courage. Oh, mamma, I shall get well, sha'n't I ? And I — Do you not think I shall be a great singer ? Help me to go back to the time when I was a little girl, and said my prayers every night on your knee. Ask Him to bless me." She clung to her mother, who could only pat her head affectionately, and reiterate that He would bless her; that she had nothing to reproach herself with; and that she must try now and sleep. Annabel sank back half-helplessly on her pillow, but she raised herself at once. " Give me my book. I must study. I must look at this scene again." She seized " Faust," which was close at hand, and opened it at the last act. But her fingers soon closed on the page and her head drooped to one side. She shut her eyes, without attempting to sing, and re- mained for some time quite motionless. She suddenly opened them and smiled. "How strange! There is the mill and the river rushing like a white bird by the wheel; the sweetest flowers grow on the prairie near the bluff, and I shall 5 1 2 Stage-Struck, come home with my hands full of wild violets. I hear birds singing, and school is just out. They don't seem to know me. The boys and girls, they're going home together, with their.satchels full of books, and they don't see me." She raised herself up excitedly. ** Call them back! Don't let them leave me alone. It is getting dark." Her mother watched her anxiously. She raved on. " I wonder if I shall ever see the old home again 1 It's so funny. I keep thinking of it. I don't really want to go back; only I would like to say to myself that I could go just as well as not, if I liked. We are a long way off, are we not, mamma ? Europe is a nice place; but as soon as I am well I will go to America and sing. There's no place like home, after all. I hate to go back now, for they will laugh at me if I do not get a thousand dollars a night. I am not a made artist; but I'll do whatever you think best. Oh, how cold it is! What a night!" She shivered. '* I am so cold; I am so cold!" She seemed quite rational. Her mother spoke softly, wondering how much she understood. " Cold, dear ? The room is so warm; still, I'll poke up the fire." Her mother went to the chimney. Annabel turned and tossed. Her hands were clasped together, picking at the sheet. She cried with cold, and all her fiightiness seemed to have re- turned. Her mother was too frightened to think of anything. She had been this way several times, and the draughts given by the doctor often made her cry out in the night; but this evening she seemed much Stage-Struck. 51 3 worse. The physician had assured Mrs. Almont that there was no danger; her daughter only needed a great deal of sleep. Some little time passed. The storm was fiercer, and the wind howled like the spirits of the lost. Annabel seemed to sleep for a moment, then she opened her eyes and called out, " Mamma, mamma ! Where am I ? It is so cold!" She still shivered. ''How the wind rages! and it's raining now. I hear hail against the window. Won't you cover me up ? I am so shivery !" Her mother brought her a cloak, and said, with an attempt at a smile, " Think that it is Jenny Lind's mantle that you have always raved about. It will keep you warmer." She covered her tenderly. " Ah, mamma ! I don't think even that could warm me now. I do feel so cold. You must tuck me in as you did when I was a little girl, then I shall say my prayer, 'Now I lay me,' and go to sleep right off. Kiss me, mamma, and wish me good-night." The storm grew in violence, and a gust of wind flapped open the shutter. " I hope no one we know is out," she continued, suddenly rousing up. " And papa; and — ah ! — I wish he were here! What a frightful sound that blind made !" Her eyes looked wild again. " He is in my mind; I cannot forget him. I hope he is happy; but shall I ever be happy again ? Kiss me once more, mamma. I feel so strange that I think I shall drop right off. Good-night; good-night. We have been separated so long. If I only knew that he loved me, I could sleep in peace, Good-night, mamma; good n — " 5*4 Stage-Struck, She stopped with a muttered sound, so low that the word died in her throat; her arms unloosed themselves from her mother's neck, and she sank back like a tired child on her pillow. Mrs. Almont tucked her in carefully, saying, " Now she will sleep," lowered the light, and went softly out of the room. She had no thought of resting herself. She shut her door, stirred up the fire, and sat down before it, with her hands clasped, and her pale face looking paler .by its flickering light. She drew up her table, and took up some sheets of manuscript. She must work now, while Annabel was sleeping. To be sure, she was tired and heart-sick, but what matter ? Her poor writing was almost their daily bread, and now more than ever she must keep on with it. Her room opened out into a corridor, which went from that into the street. She had been sitting some time, when she thought she heard some one at the outer door. She listened, but the sound ceasing she went on with her work. Again she heard it — this time a distinct knock twice repeated. What could it mean ? Who could it be at this hour of the night ? Could it be her husband ? " It must be," she muttered. " Who else but Henry Almont would turn up at such an hour, on such a night as this? Well, I must let him in; but I hope he will not wake Annabel. It is a nice house to come back to, and she so sick." She went noiselessly to the door and opened it. A man entered, and hastily closed it after him. He was St age-Struck. 515 dripping with wet, and his coat hung like a pall about him, Mrs. Almont started back. She saw it was not her husband, and was about to scream for help. The stranger turned and put out an entreating hand. The light fell full on his face. " Do not call," he said softly. " Mrs. Almont, don't you remember me ? I am Brak — Noel Brakenston." CHAPTER LIX. Mrs. Almont was paralyzed with astonishment. "You here !" she gasped. "At this hour? What can it mean ? Hush !" as he was about to answer, "An- nabel — you remember Annabel ? — well, she is very ill. Do not make a noise, she is sleeping; we must not disturb her. Will you come in ? This way, into my room. Ah! softly. Well " — when he was quite near the chimney — " now, what is it ? Where on earth do you come from ? Why are you here ?" He started forward and seized her hands. " Oh, Mrs. Almont, can't you imagine why ? It's because of her — of Annabel. Let me go to her at once. Has she never told you ?" "Go to her? Impossible! Told me! Told me what? I do not understand." He dropped her hand and started towards the inner door. But she seized his arm. " Speak 1 What is it ? Told me—" "That — that I am her husband? I adore her. I married and — and yet I abandoned her." He covered his face with his hands. Mrs. Almont could not believe her senses. She passed her hand over her forehead and across her eyes. Then she said, " You married Annabel ? Are you mad, or am I dreaming?" She sank back helpless in her chair and stared at Stage-Struck. 517 him with utter amazement. He leaned against the mantelpiece, and black drops dripped from his oven coat on to the stone hearth. He noticed them, and, without speaking, threw off the garment into a chair. He then said slowly ; " I am not mad, and you are not dreaming. It is God's truth; and I have come to you to make full con- fession, and beg you to intercede for me with her. Oh, Mrs. Almont, as you are a mother, for the sake of your child I beg you to do this! Don't think me unmanly, and don't be too hard on me. I never loved but her." He knelt before her, and went on. " I never intended to wrong her. When I went to Milan — " Mrs. Almont started. " Get up," she said sternly, "and explain, if you can. Milan! What about it? When were you there ? and — and — " He got up dejectedly and took his old place at the chimney. " You are right. I will try and tell you. When I saw her in London, I fell in love with her. I was half-engaged to Lallie, but I never intended to marry her. I saw Annabel alone one day, and — and told her that I loved her, and asked her to be my wife. She refused me, and even left London without a word. You were ill, then. You remember the time ?" " Yes, yes. Go on; go on." " I was heart-broken at her refusal, and for a year lay at death's door with brain-fever. In the mean time I never had a word from her. I believed that she would never be anything to me. Chance threw Lallie in my path, and — and she became a wife to me in everything but name. A month after my uncle recog- nized and adopted me; but having heard of Lallie, he 5 1 8 Stage-Struck. insisted on my marrying her. It was the old story of habit and love. I did not care for her, but I was so used to seeing her about that I deceived myself into thinking that I really had a stronger feeling. Even whilst the marriage-ceremony was proceeding I thought of Annabel, and realized when too late that she was the only woman in the world to me; and, after, I began to understand that I could not live if I did not see her. The wish so absorbed me that I started for Italy in search of her. I hardly knew what I wanted, only I know I intended her no ill." He then hurriedly told Mrs. Almont all that had occurred at Milan, and his hasty departure on account of Lallie's grave illness. How he went by chance to Annabel's debut^ and of her having seen them at Covent Garden; the way she heard of their marriage; how his first letters had been returned without a word, and the others never even answered. He continued, "Everything is over now, Mrs. Almont. My uncle loved Lallie; but, poor girl! she died about two months ago, and before her death I told her all. She had half suspected it from the first, and on her deathbed she told me to come and beg Annabel to forgive and re- ceive me back. Lallie did more, Mrs. Almont. She named our little girl Annabel, and I hope that for its own sake, and that of its dead mother, she will pardon me, and let my love, honor, and name atone for the bitter past. That is all. I have spent weeks trying to find you, and I only to-day arrived in Nice. I have come to lay my heart at her feet; to bring her fortune, name, and rank. The wrong seems — nay, was so great, I committed a crime for her sake. I Stage-Struck, 5 1 9 always loved her, and, as God is my judge, I shall kill myself if she will not forgive me. At first I did not dare to come; but I found out which was her window, and I have been walking back and forth before it for hours in all this storm, looking at the light in her room and the wall which shut her from my sight; looking, and loving, and longing until I could stand it no longer. So at this hour of the night I come to her." He started again towards the inner door. Mrs. Al- mont held him back. " Let me go to her. I swear I will be calm. Don't be too hard on me, Mrs. Almont; I, too, have suffered. Do you think it is nothing to have loved her this long time madly, devotedly, and yet to have been so hemmed in by circumstances that she must have thought me still more of a villain than I was; to have passed for a wretch in her sight, whilst I was longing to see her more than any one else in all the world ? My poor darling! my adored one! Mrs. Almont, you don't speak. Don't push me too far. I am a despe- rate man. I have come for my wife, and I say I will have her." His voice grew louder and more impas- sioned^ " She loves me. Oh," — as Mrs. Almont looked up, — "don't say that she has changed! She still loves me. For God's sake, don't keep me waiting any longer! I will go!" He turned desperately to- wards the door. Mrs. Almont started forward. "Madman! can you realize what you are doing ? It might kill her! Let me think. Oh, let me think! Your wife! Say, rather, the woman you abandoned! Poor darling! Poor An- nabel! How could you be so cruel ?" 520 Stage-Struck. He made no answer, but remained with his head buried in his hands. Mrs. Almont reflected. What had she heard ? This,; then, was the secret; and Annabel had loved him all along. What was she, to judge this man ? He had suffered perhaps as much as her child, and now it would all be made right. Perhaps this meant health to her, and happiness to all of them. Her first feelings of blind indignation and resentment faded away. At last she withdrew her hands from her face and made a movement as if to rise. " Come," she said coldly; " follow me." He turned, and dropped his head on her shoulder with a gesture of humbleness and grief. " Not until you have forgiven me," he said. " On my bended knees, I ask your pardon and hers. Mrs. Almont, I once knew a mother's care. She was as kind as you are, and loving; she is dead and gone now. Will you forgive me for her sake ? Will you take her place ? I swear to be a true son to you, and a loving husband to Annabel. If I ever fail towards her, may God fail to- wards me!" She hesitated for a moment; then a tear stood in her eye. She kissed him sadly on the forehead. " We have all suffered," she said. " Come, I hope better days are in store. Softly; she is very ill. Shall I go first? No. You will come; but promise not to make any outcry. You will find her changed." She opened the door softly, continuing, " I left her dozing off; perhaps she has fallen asleep. Will you come in now ?" She held the door ajar. He entered with bated breath. At last, after all these Stage-Struck, 521 months, he was to see her. Softly he approached the bed. Mrs. Almont was by his side. "Yes," he whispered, "she is sleeping." She lay before them, still and motionless. Her golden-glinted hair streamed over her pillow. On her soft cheeks there was a faint color, like the breaking morn. Her eyes were half-closed, and her parted lips were wreathed in a smile. One hand lay on the cover- let, and the other tightly grasped a photograph in its clenched fingers. Yes, she was sleeping — the sleep of death. THE END. ^■' , 'A UNIVEESITY OF CALIFOENIA LIBEAEY, BEEKELEY THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW Books not returned on time are subject to a fine of 50c per volume after the third day overdue, increasing to $1.00 per volume after the sixth day. Books not in demand may be renewed if application is made before expiration of loan period. m MM 25 1921 20m-ll,'20 UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA IvIBRARY