A Prologue and Two Scenes. . .

Free Lance, Volume I, Issue 21, 24 November 1900, Page 14

A Prologue and Two Scenes. . .

By Arthur Weston.

THE wavering gleam of a couple of limelights flickered over a shaky scaffolding which supported the guillotine. A weary orchestra jingled through the opening bars of the Marseillaise. It was the last scene of a successful play, on the dingy stage of a theatre in England, fifteen years ago. Donald Carter stood on the steps of the guillotine. His face was upturned; his whole figure quivered with nervous force, and his expression was almost divine. Bound the steps of the guillotine was a howling mob of the citizens of Paris, represented by half-a-dozen "supers" and a thin, undeveloped, trembling girl, who was dressed as a boy in an old blue blouse and brown breeches, with a scarlet cap of Liberty on her dark hair. Besting one hand on the rail of the steps, she looked up at Donald Carter, her grey eyes brimming over with tears. Julie Stern was only fourteen. The glamour of the stage was written — crudely, suggestively — on the face of the man and in the eyes of the girl. The curtain fell. The lights went out, and Donald Carter slowly came down from the guillotine. Julie Stern was still at the bottom of the steps. Her hands were squeezed together. Donald was very young, but she had never dared to speak more than half-a-dozen words to him before. " Oh, Mr Carter ! You are wonderful I " "Who is that? What do you say? Oh, it's little Julie Stern, is it ? Crying?" He put his hand gently on her shoulder and marched her down the stage, toward the one feeble gas jet on the prompt side. Julie met his searching glance without wavering. " You play Phillippe, don't you ? " asked Donald; then, before she could reply, " Bad ! bad ! You can't be thinking of what you are doing." " I have only three lines ! " exclaimed Julie. *' Three lines ! " repeated Donald. " Better actors than you or I will ever be ha\ c played smaller parts. What do \ou expect to do at fourteen ? Gonenl, or Lady Macbeth ? " Julie's eyes flashed. "There's Phillippe !" exclaimed Donald. " Come ! No more tears ! Now let me make you understand your three lines." In the dim light — forgetful of time and place — with an earnestness that seemed to turn ten minutes into an hour, Julie Stern rehearsed Phillippe on the empty stage, and the happiness of her life began. * * The scene was changed. It was a gaily decorated little room, and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers. It was Julie Stern's own little room at the theatre, adjoining the one where she dressed. Julie was sitting in a big chair playing with the jewelled chain around her neck and listening to the talk of three men. Time and success had changed the emotional little Phillippe into a lovely woman. She was playing Juliet at last, but Donald Carter, as he leaned against the wall by the window, looked at her with his old critical glance. "Beautiful! Charmin', my dear girl, simply charmin ' ! " said one of the men, an old actor, who knew her well. " Mercutio" heartily agreed, but Donald said nothing. Julie smiled, and lifted her wondering, grey eyes slowly, as if it had been her very first compliment. For five minutes her Juliet was the onty theme; then the next act was called. " Mercutio " hurried away, the other actor took a lengthy good-by, and she was left alone with her oldest friend. Donald was about to leave England for a long American tour, and all he had was staked on its success. Julie rose and came toward him. conscious of triumph and hungry tor praise. " Well, Don, what do you say ? " " You are changed, dear Julie ! You have done much ; but are you quite satisfied ? "

She glanced over her shoulders into a mirror that reflected her beautiful face, and flashed a smile to the reflection of his. " Yes ! " " Then — I can say nothing, but • charmin', my dear girl, charmin' ! " He held out his hand, but she drew back. •• You think I am ungrateful, Don ? " " I think you are spoiled — it's a pity — you are building up your own limitations. Good-by, Julie 1 Failure never hurt you, but success is a more cruel fire. Goodby-" Julie, with a sudden impulse of cruelty, bent toward him. " Utter failure has evidently spoiled you, Don, even you ! " Donald understood. He had failed, utterly failed, to win her love, and with a last " good-by " he left her. • • # Up and down, up and down, with a step that faltered or quickened, according to his troubled thoughts, Donald Carter paced up 'and down the dreary room of a small hotel, in the city of the far West. Julie Stern was in the city ; he heard her praises on every side. He bad been to see her play, but determined, and without any wavering from a deep resolve, to keep her from the knowledge of his losses and disappointment. " If I had failed — what matters ?" said Donald, throwing himself in a low chair in the dark, gloomy room. " Others succeed t If I fall out, the ranks close up and the march goes on !" There was a slight sound at the other end of the room, and he lifted his eyes. Silence. Then, suddenly, out of the shadows — quickly, impulsively — there came toward him — Julie ! She heard his quickened breath ; she saw the change in his careworn face by the fading light at the window ; but she paused for one minute. There was a scarlet handkerchief in her hand, and with a twist and loosely-tied knot, it was turned into a cap of Liberty. The old, half-forgotten scene sprang up in his memory. It was little Phillippe who was kneeling by his side — no, it was Julie ! Julie 1 " Don ! There is no glory for me without your praise ! There is no happiness without your love !" He tried to speak, but she twined her arm round his neck and went on : " You have only loved me for a few years, but I have loved you since I was a child. In all my work — in dejection and in joy — I have tried and tried to be good enough for you. Even when you went away, when I was playing Juliet " There was a long pause. He took her hand and laid it against his lips, but there was something so unlike herself, so quiet and subdued, that Julie looked at him with frightened, wide open eyes. " Dear Donald, you are very ill and weary." " Not now, not now," he whispered in a broken voice ; " but sometimes, Julie, I have thought it would be well to strive no more. My spirit failed me. I never realised this, until your sympathy " She did not draw his hands away from his face, but laid her own over them. When he looked up at last, the scarlet cap on her dark hair was the only bright spot of colour in the waning light. "My little Phillippe!" he exclaimed. Then, with something of his old, mocking tone : "^lt was sweet of you to remind me, but, dearest Julie, isn't it a little like the end of the fifth act — old associations, and a badly played proposal to soft music ? There ! You see how flippant I have grown !" But Julie's heart leaped with joy. " You are quite unchanged, Don !" she cried, u Oh, my dear love, I began to fear that you were too sad ever to help me again. But now —we will do great things ?" Donald thrilled to her eager voice, and repeated slowly : " Yes, Julie, we will do great things together, you and I !"