Successful Recitations | Page 9

and throwing myself upon the bed,
until my mother came up and told me to go to sleep, or my eyes would
be red and hollow in the morning. But I told my mother that hollow
eyes and pale cheeks were necessary to me now--that my career
depended upon the depths of my despair.
"To-morrow, mother, let no one disturb me on any account. Keep away
letters, newspapers, everything. Tomorrow I am Juliet or nothing."
My mother promised, and I got some hours of undisturbed slumber.
Rehearsal was over--the last rehearsal. I had gone through my part

thinking of my woes. I had swallowed the draught as if it had indeed
been a potion to put me out of all remembrance of my misery. I had
snatched the dagger and stabbed myself with great satisfaction, and I
felt I should at least have the comfort of confounding my enemies and
triumphing over them.
I was passing Charing Cross Station, delayed by the streams of vehicles
issuing forth, when in a hansom at a little distance I saw a form--a
face--which made me start and tremble, and turn hot and cold, and red
and white, all at the same time. It could not be Jack. It ought not, must
not, should not be Jack. Had I not to act in suffering and despair
to-night? Well, even if he had returned in safety from his cruise it was
without a thought of me in his heart. He was engaged--married--for
aught I knew. It was possible, nay, certain, that I should never see him
again.
And yet I ran all the way home. And yet I told the servant
breathlessly--"If any visitors call I do not wish to be disturbed." And
yet I made my mother repeat the promise she had given me the
previous night. Then I flew to my den at the top of the house; bolted
myself in, and set a chair against the door as if I were afraid of anyone
making a forcible entry. I stuffed my fingers in my ears, and went over
my part with vigour, with more noise even than was absolutely
necessary. Still, how strangely I seemed to hear every sound. A hansom
passing--no, a hansom drawing up at our house. I went as far from the
window as possible. I wedged myself up between the sofa and the wall,
and I shut my eyes firmly. Surely there were unaccustomed sounds
about, talking and laughing, as if something pleasant had happened.
Presently heavy footsteps came bounding up, two steps at a time. Oh!
should I have the courage not to answer if it should be Jack?
But it was not. Kitty's voice shouted--
"Sybil, Sybil, come down. Here's----"
"Kitty, be quiet," I called out furiously. "If you do not hold your tongue,
if you do not go away from the door immediately, I'll--I'll shoot you."

She went away, and I heard her telling them downstairs that she
believed Sybil had gone mad.
I waited a little longer,--then I stole to the window.
Surely Juliet would not be spoiled by the sight of a visitor leaving the
house. But there was no one leaving. Indeed, I saw the prospect of a
fresh arrival--Isabel Chisholm was coming up the street in a brand new
costume and hat to match. Her fringe was curled to perfection. A tiny
veil was arranged coquettishly just above her nose. Flesh and blood
could not stand this. Downstairs I darted, without even waiting for a
look in the glass. Into the drawing-room I bounced, and there, in his six
feet two of comely manliness, stood Jack, my Jack, more bronzed and
handsome and loveable than ever. He whom I had been mourning for
by turns as dead and faithless, but whom I now knew was neither; for
he came towards me with both hands outstretched, and he held mine in
such a loving clasp, and he looked at me with eyes which I knew were
reading just such another tale as that written on his own face.
Then when the knock sounded which heralded Miss Chisholm, he
said:--
"Come into another room, Sybil; I have so much to say to you."
And in that other room he told me of his adventures and perils, and
how through them all he had thought of me and wondered, if he never
came back alive, whether I should be sorry, and, if he did come back,
whether I would promise to be his darling little wife, very, very soon.
But all this, though far more beautiful than poet ever wrote, was not
Shakespeare, and I was to act Juliet at night--Juliet the wretched, the
heartbroken--while my own spirits were dancing, and my pulses
bounding with joy and delight unutterable.
Well, I need hardly tell you my