LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1677, 5 July 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

BEEISD THE SCENES. (Concluded.) She placed her finger on her lips and withdrew, while the clown went np-stairs after a certain yellow covered book, which he took home with him to study diligently for the rest of the day. Act 11. At the hour for the commencement of the performance that evening the theatre was filled to its utmost capacity. From pit to roof a crowd of expectant people eagerly awaited the rising of the curtain. The dress circle, brilliant with costly titles, blooming with beautiful women, was alive with the finite- of hundreds of fans and the rustle of silken robes. The sparkle of diamonds and the perfume of bouquets lent their aid to tho enchantment of the scene, and the murmur of many voices filled the air with a muffled tone. A certain measure of romance in the history of this unknown daughter of Peter Frondat had given to her debut a degree of interest which brought half the elite c£ the great city to witness her failure or success. Her appearance had been well managed. Discreet and judicious advertising, editorial notices of the marked evidences of her genius, careful “ cooking” of the pnblic ear, all that coaid be done in her behalf to bring theatre goers to the box office had been done by her two best friends, Steele and Beamish, the manager. The result thus far more than justified their- hopes and expectations. Whether their endeavors were destined to be rewarded by their snooess to-night, an hour at the most would certainly prove. Eight o’clock arrived. The orchestra finished the overture and stopped. There was no bell for the curtain, and the audience waited with some impatience. In a few moments the loader began to distribute music to his musicians, and a supplementry )iece of lively dance music was played to reep the house in good humor. Still no curtain. The pit began to get somewhat noisy, and the drees circle murmured its disapprobation of tte delay. Thus, at a quarter past tho hour, stood matters before the curtain. Behind it a somewhat different scene was presented. The green-room was filled with people, dressed ready for their parts—some rushing about with an appearance of considerable excitement, conversing together, some laughing at Maria’s unhappy predicament The manager was nearly in a atate of apoplexy. The overture was done. Tho impatience manifested by audience was becoming only too audible. Still, Harcourt did not make his appea r anco. Maria, in her dressingroom, sat trembling with excitement and rougeing to extremes to hide the ashy palor of her cheeks. Steele, who had made his appearance in the green-room much earlier than necessary, as he was only cast in the pantomime, sat in oue corner pouring over tho leaves of his yeflow book. Twenty minutes passed, and still no Melnotte. • What the deuce is to bo done ?’ cried Beamish, foaming in desperation. * I’ll give him ten minutes more, and if he doesn’t coma then, I shall have to set tho stage for a pantomime. Too bad, too bad 1’ He drew on a pair of white kids and went before the emtain to pacify the people, explaining the cause of delay and asking their tiud consideration for a few minutes.longer. When he returned to the green-room he found Maria there. Harcourt had not come. The clown put his yellow book in his pocket and came forward from the corner.

‘ I will undertake to]play Claude,’,he said, quietly, ‘ since Harcourt is delinquent,’ - ‘ You !' exclaimed the manager, in astonishment. • Why—why—bless my scul !* 1 Marla must not fail,’ said Steele. ‘ For her sake I will do the best I can. There are but two acts. I think I can command my voice for an hour at least if you are disposed to take the risk.’

* But you —you arn’t up in it, are you ?’ ‘I played the part once or twice some years ago,’ replied the clown, 4 lf I’m well followed I think I can do it.’

‘ God bless you, my dear fellow 1’ cried Beamish, taking his hand impulsively. *lf yon suoced I will be your debtor for life. Go on and try.’ During the few moments occupied by Steele in dressing the part. Beamish again went before the curtain, partly to occupy the attention of the people, partly to request their indulgence for the performer who had undertaken the role- on so short notice. Then the stage was cleared, the curtain rung, and, to the satisfaction of everybody, the play commenced. It will be hardly necessary to recite tho details of that wonderful performance. Everybody said that such a rendering of the parts of Claude and Pauline had not been given upon those boards for very many a long year. Steele, gaining confidence as he warmed to the work before him, threw into the character all the and fervor of which ho was capable. Bis love for Paulino was not the love of Melnotte it was the love of Edward Steele for Maria Frondat. His very soul seemed to look out Lorn his eyes as he repeated the tender, well-worn passages, and gave a new meaning to their hackneyed intonations. His lost voice came to him, and rang out clear and sonorous, or anon fell into sweat cadences of exquisite tenderness. Maria, stimulated, encouraged, sustained by his example, more than fulfilled tho expectations of her friends. The whole house rang with applause. _ Beamish, standing anxiously in the wings, was beside himself with delight. Three times was the fair debutemte called before tho curtain, each time to be pelted *ith bouquets, which more than filled the arms of the happy Claude, who came forward with her to receive hia share of the general approbation. The sustained excitement was too much for Maria, "When all was done she fainted away in the arms of tho faithful Steele on her way to her dressing room. It was, perhaps, well for him that she should be taken homejin a carriage as soon at she recovered her senses. Ho could hardly have done justice to his nonsense in the pantomime had she remained in the theatre that night. Ninette, in a bewildering demicostumo of gauze and spangles, made her appearanco soon after Maria had gone home. • I'll be even with you for this ! 1 she hissed iu Edward’s ear, * You had better finish your job new by getting Harcourt sober again. He’s at my house, drunk and nnoon-

ecious ’ She turned away and was lost In the harlequin crowd upon the stage--— a fairy queen, with all the ancestral malignity of her sisterhood in her blue veins. Act 111. The next morning Edward called upon Maria He found her at her lodgings, a poorly furnished apartment on one of the upper floors of a house in a retired part of the town. Phe lay upon the lounge at the further side of the room as ho entered, but rose instantly to meet him. Before he could pro-

'• I vent htJV'she had twined her iSfma abont Iris a neck and kftsed him. It was a little thing, ? which wouid have been scandalous in some i women. Som'eliow it did not seem hold in i Maria. 1 ‘lt is you who' saved me,’ she cried i'm--1 pulsively. ‘ Ninette has been hero and I 1 know everything I thought you were I good last night. Now I know that 3’ou are I ! noble r He smiled and unwound her arm tenderly. ‘lt was nothing,’hesaid, ‘I could not bear that my pupil should fail when I had done so much already to have her succeed. My own p'ide was at state you know.’ ‘ And you studied the part all day,’ she said, ‘ because yon knew just what would take place at night! O, how can I ever thank yon enough for it V ‘ Hush !' he said, taking a seat on the sofa beside her ‘A brilliant career is before you, Maria. Make the best now of your golden opportunity. If I mistake not, we shall have the earl and marquis at your feet, as I prophesied.’ She turned her fall blue eyes upon him with a look which he conld hardly have mistaken had he dreamed a possibility of its being there. As it was he did not heed it. ‘ I care nothing for that,’ she replied. ‘ I shall be quite content with a much more humble suitor than a marquis or an earl. ’ _ • Anything,’ he said, laughing, ‘ but a c'own in a pantomime.’ ‘ I did not say that.’ ‘ Never mind that, Maria. I will try to forget my idle dreams. Still, it wonld have made me very happy could they ever have been fulfilled.’ She was silent a moment, idly tracing with one little finger the pattern upon the sofa-covering. Then, she said, quietly—- ‘ You do not know but they may come true yet.’ He seized her hand earnestly and tried to look into her downcast eyes, trembling lest he had mistaken her words. ‘ Maria !’ he exclaimed, ‘you do not mean—that, after all ’ ‘ I mean,’ she said, placing both her hands in his, ‘ that if yon will take me for your wife, Edward, in payment for your goodness to me, you will make me very, very happy. I have loved you all my life, I think, but I never knew it until last night.’ ‘ And I, a capering clown ?' lie said. ‘O, *'aria, how could you ?’ ‘ I thought last night,’ she replied, smiling ‘ that if the clown could in a play make love so well, how excellently would he be able to do it in realitv!’