Beth Norvell | Page 5

discovered asleep in Number Twenty-seven. The
remembrance of her scarcely recurred to him all through the afternoon,
yet it finally returned in overwhelming rush when, in the course of his
arduous labors, he raised up a small leather trunk and discovered her
name painted plainly upon the end of it. The chalk mark designating
where it belonged read "Dressing-room No. 2," and, instead of rolling it
roughly in that direction, as he had rolled numerous others, the new
utility man lifted it carefully upon his shoulder and deposited it gently
against the farther wall. He glanced with curiosity about the restricted
apartment to which Miss Beth Norvell had been assigned. It appeared
the merest hole of a place, narrow and ill-ventilated, the side walls and
ceiling composed of rough lumber, and it was evidently designed to be
lit at night by a single gas jet, inclosed within a wire netting. This
apartment contained merely a single rude chair, of the kitchen variety,
and an exceedingly small mirror cracked across one corner and badly
fly-specked. Numerous rusty spikes, intended to hold articles of
discarded clothing, decorated both side walls and the back of the door.
It was dismally bare, and above all, it was abominably dirty, the dust
lying thick everywhere, the floor apparently unswept for weeks. With
an exclamation of disgust Winston hunted up broom and dust-rag, and
gave the gloomy place such a cleansing as it probably had not enjoyed
since the house was originally erected. At the end of these arduous
labors he looked the scene over critically, the honest perspiration
streaming down his face, glancing, with some newly awakened
curiosity, into the surrounding dressing-rooms. They were equally
filthy and unfit for occupancy, yet he did not feel called upon to invade
them with his cleansing broom. By four o'clock everything was in
proper position, the stage set in perfect order for the opening act, and

Winston returned with his report to the hotel, and to the glowing
Albrecht.
Miss Norvell joined the company at the supper table, sitting between
the manager and Mr. T. Macready Lane, although Winston was quick
to observe that she gave slight attention to either, except when
addressed directly. She met the others present with all necessary
cordiality and good-fellowship, yet there appeared a certain undefined
reserve about her manner which led to an immediate hush in the rather
free conversation of what Albrecht was pleased to term the "training
table," and when the murmur of voices was resumed after her entrance,
a somewhat better choice of subjects became immediately noticeable.
Without so much as either word or look, the silent influence of the
actress was plainly for refinement, while her mere presence at the table
gave a new tone to Bohemianism. Winston, swiftly realizing this,
began observing the lady with a curiosity which rapidly developed into
deeper interest. He became more and more attracted by her unique
personality, which persistently appealed to his aroused imagination,
even while there continued to haunt him a dim tantalizing remembrance
he was unable wholly to master. He assuredly had never either seen or
heard of this young woman before, yet she constantly reminded him of
the past. Her eyes, the peculiar contour of her face, the rather odd trick
she had of shaking back the straying tresses of her dark, glossy hair,
and, above all, that quick smile with which she greeted any flash of
humor, and which produced a fascinating dimple in her cheek, all
served to puzzle and stimulate him; while admiration of her so apparent
womanliness began as instantly to replace the vague curiosity he had
felt toward her as an actress. She was different from what he had
imagined, with absolutely nothing to suggest the glare and glitter of the
footlights. Until this time he had scarcely been conscious that she
possessed any special claim to beauty; yet now, her face, illumined by
those dark eyes filled with quick intelligence, became most decidedly
attractive, peculiarly lovable and womanly. Besides, she evidently
possessed a rare taste in dress, which met with his masculine approval.
Much of this, it is true, he reasoned out later and slowly, for during that
first meal only two circumstances impressed him clearly--the depth of
feeling glowing within those wonderfully revealing eyes, and her

complete ignoring of his presence. If she recognized any addition to
their number, there was not the slightest sign given. Once their eyes
met by merest accident; but hers apparently saw nothing, and Winston
returned to his disagreeable labors at the Opera House, nursing a
feeling akin to disappointment.
Concealed within the gloomy shadows of the wings, he stood entranced
that night watching her depict the character of a wife whose previous
happy life had been irretrievably ruined by deceit; and the force, the
quiet originality of