TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 UNIV. Of CALIF. LIBRARY. LOS ANGELES
 
 Merze #**##*#*# 
 
 * * * The Story of an Actress 
 By * * * * Marah Ellis Ryan 
 
 Chicago and New York * * * 
 
 Rand, McNally & Company 
 ***************
 
 Copyright, 1888, by Rand, McNally & Co., Chicago.
 
 MERZE: 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 "And you can't possibly stay more than one day, 
 Drande ?" 
 
 " Not very well, considering that even this lay-over 
 will cost me extra work. I should be in St. Louis 
 to-day, but I could not resist the temptation to pay a 
 flying visit when I was so near." 
 
 " Father will be disappointed because your visit is not 
 longer." 
 
 " And my creditors will be disappointed if it be. We 
 can't all live on the fat of the land, Glenn, as you folks 
 do at the Homestead at least, not without paying for 
 it. I am still paying for fat that fell into the fire five 
 years ago." 
 
 The tone was rueful, but the smile in the dark eyes 
 disclaimed all serious scorchings from the flames. The 
 two rode on, single file, along the bridle-path a near 
 cut across the hill one belonging to the range that 
 glides along the south shore of the Ohio River and 
 
 (5) 
 
 2132350
 
 MERZE ' 
 
 reaches back into the interior of Kentucky. Sud- 
 denly the boy, who was ahead, turned in his saddle and 
 said : 
 
 "You remember, Drande, your last visit and the 
 tragedy ?" 
 
 " I have cause to, as it kept me here several days after 
 I should have been gone." 
 
 " Oh, that's so ! I left for school that day. I only 
 know of it by hearsay. This path leads us in sight 
 of the house. See ? You can get a view of it from 
 here." 
 
 "Yes," assented the other, reining in his horse and 
 gazing across the little valley to where a log house 
 stood on a little plateau of meadow, back of which 
 the hills rose dark and shadowy. It had a deserted, 
 forlorn look ; cattle browsed around the door and stood 
 in the cool water of the spring, placidly chewing their 
 cud, as if knowing there was none to say them nay. 
 
 " Is it empty ?" asked the older man, looking at the 
 house with interest. 
 
 " Empty ? yes ; father can't get a tenant in it for love 
 or money, and none of the darkies will work alone at 
 this end of the place. They vow that Mignot and that 
 dead unknown walk on dark nights along that path 
 through the clearing. I doubt if any of them have 
 ever ventured near it on a dark night to prove or dis- 
 prove the spectral tale. Father intends turning the old 
 house into a shed for the young cattle that graze over 
 here. It does look dreary, doesn't it ?" 
 " Rather," answered the other, laconically. 
 " Not as much as it did a year ago a little over a 
 year since it happened, isn't it ? Then Jack's whistl- 
 ing or swearing and the dog's barking kept it noisy
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 7 
 
 if not cheery, to say nothing of the girl, who was a host 
 in herself." 
 
 " Have you seen her since ?" The tone was carelessly 
 questioning, but not so the eyes, had the youth noticed 
 them. Whoever had been the occupants of the deserted 
 house, they were not entirely without interest for this 
 stranger. " Seen her ?" repeated Glenn ; " can we see 
 last year's tiger lilies ? I suppose roses or snow is a 
 more poetic comparison, but tiger lilies seemed to suit 
 Merze best. No, we have seen no more of her than if 
 the earth had opened and buried her under the plateau. 
 And do you know," he continued, half-jesting, half in 
 earnest, "nothing would surprise me concerning that 
 girl not even the possession of a familiar spirit that 
 could cart her away unseen to another world I fear it 
 would have been the lower one." 
 
 ' Yes ; she was a strange child," said the man, 
 musingly, gazing across at the cows flicking off the 
 flies and crowding close under the shade of the trees. 
 " A very peculiar character, with material in it for much 
 good or much evil." 
 
 Glenn turned as if in surprise at the words : 
 
 " Why, Drande ! did you know her ?" 
 
 The other straightened up in the saddle and touched 
 his horse as if to shake off his musings by motion. 
 
 " Know her ? Well, hardly. I saw her once before, 
 and then on the morning after, the shooting. But, if you 
 remember, you gave me some information as to the beauty 
 of her character." 
 
 The young fellow laughed, as he cut with his whip 
 at the chestnut leaves brushing in their faces as they 
 passed. 
 
 " The beauty was not often discernible, for even at her
 
 S MERZE : 
 
 best there was something approaching ' uncanniness ' 
 about her ; she was so unlike all other girls. Those big 
 eyes of hers would look at you, or through you, as solemn 
 as an owl's ; hungry-looking eyes the sort one would 
 rather see in daylight with the sun shining. Poor little 
 imp ! I think she found life a pretty rough affair with 
 Jack." 
 
 "You seem to have been much interested in her," 
 said the other, banteringly ; but Glenn did not notice it. 
 
 "One could not help it if they knew her well. She 
 had so many ambitions far beyond anything that was 
 ever likely to come to her. Where she got them was a 
 mystery ! I think she would have sold her soul if she 
 had known she possessed such a thing for books or 
 knowledge. Do you know, Drande," he continued, slack- 
 ening up his horse as the path verged into the road 
 where they could ride abreast, " do you know that girl of 
 fifteen had never remembered seeing a Bible in her home, 
 or had never been taught anything whatever of any 
 religion ? Her only ideas of a Deity were gathered 
 from Jack's oaths and a dilapidated copy of Homer's 
 Iliad that she had got among some ragman's wares. 
 The gods of the Greeks were as well known to her as 
 Jack and the dogs, but of the Christian Deity or the 
 saints she was as ignorant as I am of Choctaw a verit- 
 able heathen, despite the knowledge she had managed to 
 pick up in other things." 
 
 "A devotee of the Greek gods in this Nineteenth 
 Century and in the Kentucky hills must surely have 
 been an oddity," and the man smiled at the idea. 
 
 " Oh, as for a devotee I don't say that," expostulated 
 Glenn; " only she knew nothing else. Her mother had 
 come of a family where religious observances were en-
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 9 
 
 forced to such a degree as to make them hateful to her. 
 She did not seem a bad woman not entirely so at 
 least ; but she simply detested all mention of the subject. 
 And as for Jack well, you may know from hearsay how 
 much of a religious training a child would get through 
 him." 
 
 "A strange life for a child," commented the other, 
 " and one that raises theories in the mind as to what sort 
 of a woman such childhood would lead to." 
 
 "I could not imagine it leading to a commonplace 
 one." 
 
 " The commonplace lives have most content, my boy; 
 but time tells all things, though it is not likely to tell us 
 in this case, since she has been spirited out of our ken 
 by jealous friends, relatives, or, as you say, familiar 
 spirits. Well, the blessing of her gods go with her !" 
 The speaker touched his horse into a canter, and they 
 sped down along the country road, cool and shadowy 
 from the timber on either side, while here and there, 
 through the break of a clearing, they could see the hills 
 far to the south like green billows fading away into 
 the haze of blue. They did not refer again to the 
 tragedy of the log house, whatever it was, or to the 
 girl whom Glenn had compared to the tiger lilies. But, 
 though the dark-eyed handsome man of the world had 
 a cause of interest unknown to the boy, no foreshadow- 
 ing of fate brought to him the knowledge of how closely 
 his threads of life were to be interwoven with those of 
 the child they mentioned the young pagan of the 
 Kentucky hills.
 
 10 MER2E : 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 One year previous to the conversation given between 
 the horsemen of the bridle path, the blue smoke was 
 curling lazily from the cross-stick chimney of the log 
 house on the grassy plateau an ordinary building con- 
 sisting of two rooms down stairs and one up. The large 
 room down stairs was used as parlor, kitchen, dining- 
 room, and library ; for, beside the shelves on which the 
 household crockery was displayed, another one held 
 a few books worn they were and tattered, showing 
 that they had been used by someone who did not keep 
 them for ornaments. 
 
 The floor was bare, with the exception of a woven 
 strip of rag carpet at one door and a brilliant-hued 
 Turkish rug at the other. The same odd house-furnish- 
 ing was shown in everything ; a lounge was manufac- 
 tured out of drygoods boxes and covered with a piece 
 of heavy old brocaded stuff which had evidently once 
 been a curtain, as the companion to it was tacked as a 
 screen to the doorway leading into a small back room. 
 Some rough wooden chairs were scattered about the 
 room, while in the centre was a large table of polished 
 dark wood with handsomely-carved legs. It was with- 
 out cover, but on one end was set a luncheon of bread 
 and some cold meat. The fire was low on the hearth of 
 the wide open fireplace, and a man, entering the open 
 door, glanced toward it, muttering an imprecation ; 
 then, looking at the curtained door, he said sharply : 
 "Merze!" Receiving no answer, he called again, this
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 11 
 
 time from the open doorway leading to the yard. Still 
 no sound came to him save the hum of insects in the 
 grasses, or the call of the cattle to one another down in 
 the meadows ; not a sign or sound of humanity broke 
 the quiet of the late afternoon. Then a whistle, sharp, 
 loud, and clear, broke from his lips, and, as it died away, 
 a voice answered : 
 
 " All right ; I'm coming," and a girl rose quickly 
 from where she had lain in the long grass under the 
 shade trees of the old spring-house, and ran swiftly up 
 the irregular stone steps that led to above the spring. 
 In one hand she carried a fine dark-braided hat, some- 
 what the worse for wear ; in the other a book and some 
 pieces of brown paper on which she had evidently been 
 writing. 
 
 " Hurry up here ! it's a strange thing you can never 
 be in the house when you are wanted," called the man, 
 impatiently. 
 
 The girl's speed slackened. A sullen look swept over 
 her face and made it almost ugly. She stopped and 
 deliberately put on her hat, tying the strings with much 
 care. Then, picking up the book she had carefully laid 
 down in order to arrange her toilet, she proceeded leis- 
 urely to the house, as if unaware of the angry eyes 
 watching her from the doorway. 
 
 The owner of the house muttered an oath, and seemed 
 as if about to call again> but, instead of that, he turned 
 and threw himself on the lounge with a half smile. He 
 lo'oked at her questioningly as she entered, not quite 
 sure what phase of character might unfold itself for his 
 benefit. The girl looked at him precisely as she would 
 have looked at the lounge if he had not been there. An 
 amused gleam crept into his eyes as they followed her
 
 12 MER2E : 
 
 moving about the table, fixing the fire, bringing in chips, 
 and making the coffee. When all was done she filled a 
 delicately-painted cup, the handle of which was broken, 
 and then announced : 
 
 " Your supper is ready." 
 
 " Well, you needn't snap out your words like that, as 
 if the coffee was a cup of poison you were glad to pour 
 out for me. What's the matter with you ? " 
 
 " Nothing," shortly answered the girl, who sat with her 
 book, pencil, and brown paper on the door-step. 
 
 " Come, now, don't be cross." 
 
 "You wanted to make me cross, or you would not 
 have called me when you saw I was coming as fast as I 
 could." 
 
 "Well, you didn't injure yourself hurrying after I did 
 call." 
 
 "You knew I wouldn't." 
 
 " I might have known it, with your stubborn, ugly 
 temper. I'll bet there isn't a girl in the county like you." 
 
 " There isn't a girl in sixteen counties that's had to 
 live like I have," she said, a little bitterly. 
 
 The man did not answer, but a half-sad, half-irritated 
 look swept over his dark face as he glanced at the girl 
 and held out his cup. 
 
 "Pour me some more coffee, Merze," and as he came 
 over to the table he put his arm about the slight waist. 
 " So you are not satisfied with the way you live, eh ? And 
 yet I'm not such a bad father after all. I've never been 
 bad to you." 
 
 "I wouldn't let you. I'd run away. I'd go to ma's 
 folks." 
 
 " I believe you would ; but you will never need to, 
 Merze. Just wait till our luck turns, then you'll agree
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 13 
 
 you were level-headed in sticking to me instead of that 
 lot. We'll leave these hills and live in grand style when 
 I get on my feet again. What do you say to that ?" 
 
 " Nothing," answered the girl, turning away. These 
 promises and plans were old tales to her. 
 
 " Nothing ?" 
 
 " Nothing, except that I wouldn't drink any more of 
 that new whiskey of Hazen's. It goes to your head." 
 
 " Don't meddle with what don't concern you, you im- 
 pudent chit," growled the man, glaring at her across the 
 table. 
 
 " You would like to throw that cup at my head, 
 wouldn't you ?" asked the girl, with an exasperatingly 
 pleasant smile on her face. "But you'd better not; 
 if it's broke you'll have to drink out of a tin one." 
 
 He set down the cup with a laugh. 
 
 " Wouldn't you let me use yours ?" 
 
 " No, I wouldn't. You're too mean to Oh, dada, I 
 forgot ! I made something for your dinner, and you 
 never came home for it; look here !" and she unrolled a 
 cloth from about a very dubious-looking brown lump 
 like a loaf, and laid it on the table with an air of satisfac- 
 tion. 
 
 " What is it ?" he asked, eyeing it suspiciously. 
 
 "It's a cake!" she announced, proudly, "a pound- 
 cake, I think." 
 
 " Yes, it looks as if it might be. How did you come 
 to do it ?" 
 
 " I asked Mrs. Cassell, the housekeeper at the Home- 
 stead, how she made cake, and to-day I tried it. It's 
 good and sweet, anyway. Have some ?" 
 
 " Yes. I'll swallow it if it kills me, and we'll bury 
 the hatchet under layers of your pound-cake and it
 
 14 MERZE : 
 
 looks heavy enough to bury anything under, with a small 
 chance of a resurrection." 
 
 This bit of sarcasm was lost on Merze, who forgot 
 to be suspicious in her enjoyment of seeing him swallow 
 some of the dark mass. She stood watching him eat it, 
 which he did heroically, knowing her eyes were on him, 
 and knowing if he did not appear to enjoy it he was likely 
 not to have anything cooked for him for a full week. 
 
 An odd couple these two were : as odd as the furnish- 
 ing of their house. One could tell at a glance that they 
 were father and daughter, though to hear five minutes' 
 conversation between them the listener would be apt to 
 doubt it. The man was dark and rather handsome in a 
 gypsy sort of fashion. His face was neither very good 
 nor very bad, but the kind that might be seen in either 
 a tramp sent to the workhouse for worthlessness, or in 
 the mayor who condemns him a man whose position in 
 life depends almost entirely on circumstances and very 
 little on his own will. There was boldness in the keen, 
 dark eyes, but not strength of character ; and Merze, 
 young as she was, had learned that, and many were the 
 altercations between them in which her respect for his 
 opinion was not always apparent; but they generally ended 
 good naturedly enough, and Merze could tramp through 
 the woods with him more like a boy would than a 
 girl. 
 
 And this had been the girl's home life not a good 
 one for a girl to live, for no amount of careful school 
 training can eradicate from a child's mind the impressions 
 received through family relations, and no amount of 
 teaching or sermons on duty could ever make Merze 
 feel differently toward her father. 
 
 Her mother had married him for his handsome face
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 15 
 
 and dashing manners, and had been disowned by her 
 family in consequence. Little by little the enamel wore 
 off, until the clay in her idol shone through ; but she was 
 one of those patient, long-suffering women to whom the 
 thought of breaking her bonds never came. We do see 
 such sometimes. In her mind he was still associated 
 with the lover of her earlier imagination, and no amount 
 of experience could ever quite dispel that glamour and 
 reveal him to her in the same light in which the young 
 eyes of Merze saw him and knew him. 
 
 And when she had died, a year before the opening of 
 this story, it was with the conviction that it was no fault 
 of his that he had gradually lowered both himself and 
 her to the depths from which she would have shrunk in 
 horror at the beginning of their united lives. But habit 
 and association have proved chains strong enough to 
 clog the sensitive instincts of stronger natures than hers 
 had been. 
 
 At her death the grandfather of Merze had written, 
 offering to adopt and educate her child. The letter, a 
 cold, condescending epistle, with a contempt for her 
 father showing through every line, was given by him to 
 Merze to read. 
 
 " There, child, read that ; they have money, and will 
 make a lady of you, and the prospects are small for me 
 doing it. You are almost fourteen, and have sense ahead 
 of your years. See what they offer, and choose for your- 
 self." 
 
 He said this carelessly, handing her the letter with a 
 hand that trembled. He had never known before how 
 much the girl was to him. 
 
 Her eyes shone with eagerness as she read. It was not 
 the thought of fine ladyhood that made her long for what
 
 16 MERZE : 
 
 the letter offered, but that of an education a chance of 
 school with no fear of being taken from it with every 
 change in her father's fortune. The expression of her 
 face showed him her thoughts, and his own grew white 
 as he said : " You will go ?" 
 
 His voice broke in on her dreams. She noted the pain 
 underlying his matter-of-fact words, and, with a rush of 
 memory, came her mother's last request to her : 
 
 " Try to be kind to dada, Merze. Do what you can to 
 make him happy, for he has only you, now, in all the 
 world." Thus she thought of her poor, pale little 
 mother, who had loved them both so much. She wanted 
 the books yes but 
 
 " I will stay here," she said, giving back the letter. 
 
 " Merze ! Merze ! You mean it ?" he asked, with a 
 sound like a sob in his strong, brown throat. 
 
 "Of course I mean it." 
 
 " And, by heavens, you shan't regret it ! You shall 
 see, Merze. I'll get out of this rut, and then you shall 
 have the things they offer you. I will do so much " 
 
 " There, dada, don't make rash promises, for you always 
 break them. Don't say anything more to me about it- 
 only tell them I won't go." And, calling the dogs, she 
 ran a merry race with them until she reached her favorite 
 nook by the trees at the spring, and then, when out of 
 sight of the house, she flung herself among the grasses 
 in a passion of sobs that shuddered through all her slight 
 frame. 
 
 The dogs, surprised at this new departure of their 
 playmate, were at first inclined to think it some trick for 
 their amusement, and ran romping over her; but, seeing 
 her lie unheeding all their endeavors at playfulness, 
 they ceased, and stood about gazing at her with soft, wide
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 17 
 
 eyes of wonder. One, a particular pet of hers, a glossy- 
 coated, velvet-eared setter, came over and, scratching 
 softly at her dress, put his nose down by her neck and 
 stood quite still. Receiving no notice from her, he lay 
 flat on the ground, with both paws on her arm, and ever 
 and anon gave her a gentle push as if to remind her of 
 his presence. 
 
 " Don't, Max !" she said, chokingly ; but, feeling him 
 still there, she raised her head and met the sad, wise 
 eyes with a devotion in them seldom seen in the eyes of 
 a human ; and then she drew the brown head close to her 
 own, and sobbed out her sorrows to her mute friend. 
 
 " Oh, Max ! Max ! Will it ever be different ? Will 
 the learning and the books ever come ? Will anyone ever 
 understand ?" 
 
 Max crawled close, offering his sympathy in a pitying, 
 dumb manner, as if knowing and understanding that 
 words were of no avail here. Max was as old, almost, as 
 Merze herself, and had, perhaps, seen other hearts cry 
 out in loveless loneliness. Dogs hear so much and see 
 so many sorrows in the people about them of which hus- 
 band and wife, parent and child, do not dream. " Only 
 a dog," we say, and let it lie in our rooms unheeded. 
 And, when our friends are gone and there are no human 
 eyes near from which to hide our thoughts, our loves, 
 our hopes, our despair, then we take out the treasured 
 likeness of a face we love, the scribbled note whose 
 writer's name is always first in our hearts but seldom 
 on our lips dead leaves that drift from the past and 
 bring the flowers of the present. And over them all, how 
 many tried souls have moaned : " How long ! how long !" 
 And a few hours later, when we go out among those 
 about us, laughing and jesting, we see the sad, ques- 
 2
 
 18 MERZE : 
 
 tioning eyes of our dog watching us, and never think 
 that he may be asking mutely : " Which is yourself : the 
 tired soul that prayed for release last night, or the care- 
 less devotee of society to-day?" 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A week after our introduction to the log cabin and its 
 curious occupants, one of them, accompanied by Max, 
 made her way along the shady path through the woods 
 and across lots to the Homestead, as it was called, where 
 lived Mr. Halbert, the gentleman for whom her father 
 worked, taking care of the horses, or seeing that the 
 stablemen did it, for his knowledge of horse-breeding 
 and training made him a valuable man to the landowner 
 and connoisseur in racing stock. 
 
 There were many days on which Jack Mignot found 
 himself unable to get around to the stables, and this 
 happened to be one of them, and Merze, as usual, was 
 sent with directions to the hostlers. She walked past the 
 house and through the yard toward the stables with the 
 air of one who is familiar with her surroundings. 
 
 " Hen !" she called in through the open door of the 
 granery. 
 
 "Yes, miss," and a black figure emerged with a 
 wooden pail of oats in his hand. 
 
 "He can't come this morning, and you're to take 
 Starlight out yourself, and not let Jim do it, and have 
 new boxes made for Whitefoot's stall, and don't let the 
 carriage horses go out without having that shoe tight- 
 ened on the one he spoke to you about, and turn the 
 young stock out in the lower pasture."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 19 
 
 "Yes, miss. Is that all ?" 
 
 " That's all, and and you'll see it's all done, Hen, so 
 that Mr. Halbert won't miss him being away ?" 
 
 " Bless your heart, honey yes ; you trust Hen to 'tend 
 to it ; I understand." 
 
 A red wave passed over the girl's face at the darkey's 
 well-meaning words, under which she detected a shade 
 of pity she could not resent. 
 
 " Thank you, Hen," she said, turning away. 
 
 "Blest if I wouldn't tell lies hand over fist sooner 
 than have that little girl fretted fear he'd be discharged," 
 muttered Hen to the peck measure as he turned into the 
 granery. 
 
 As Merze passed the stable a cheery voice called : 
 " Good-morning, Merze," and looking up she saw a boy- 
 ish face smiling down at her from the hay-mow. 
 
 " Good-morning, sir," she said, not stopping. 
 
 "Here wait, I want to speak to you. What's the 
 hurry ?" and the figure of a young fellow of perhaps 
 eighteen leaped lightly to the ground and in a moment 
 was beside her. " Where have you been ? I haven't 
 seen you for a week." 
 
 "At home, minding my own business," answered the 
 girl, shortly, walking so rapidly that he was compelled 
 to hurry to keep pace with her. 
 
 " Which is not a very elegant intimation that I am to 
 mind mine," he added, not at all crushed by this chilling 
 reply. " Say, are you training for a foot-race ? If not, 
 you might as well slack up a little, for I shan't let you 
 walkaway from me until I'm through talking to you, for 
 I go back to school to-day. There, that's better. Now, 
 tell me why you didn't come for the book you wanted so 
 much."
 
 20 MERZE : 
 
 The girl walked on in silence. 
 
 "Well?" he inquired. 
 
 " I changed my mind," she said, with her eyes on the 
 ground. 
 
 " Oh, have you ? Well, that alters things. So my 
 getting it is of no use after all, for I don't lean towards 
 Grecian history myself." 
 
 " Oh, Glenn ! did you get it ?" the girl broke out, 
 eagerly. 
 
 He looked at her, marking the longing in her eyes. 
 
 "So you did not change your mind ? I thought not. 
 Now tell me why you neglected coming for the book 
 when you wanted it so much." 
 
 " I won't," she said, sullenly. 
 
 " Oh, all right ! but don't look sulky about it; and here 
 is your treasure," he said, handing her a neatly-bound 
 copy of Grecian mythology, which she took eagerly. 
 
 "You are so good," she uttered, in an ecstatic tremor 
 of gratitude and excitement. " I wanted it so long a 
 real whole new one ! I am so glad, and he shan't laugh 
 at me this time. I'll hide it." 
 
 " So ! someone laughed at you ? Who was it ?" 
 
 " Dada." 
 
 " And what at ?" 
 
 " Me, and I made up my mind I'd never go near your 
 house again " in her gladness she had forgotten her 
 resolve not to tell him " for when I told him you loaned 
 me books and taught me some things in them he 
 he" 
 
 "Well, what did he say ?" 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "But he laughed."
 
 THE STORY OP AN ACTRESS. 21 
 
 The girl hesitated over the statement, as if there had 
 been something very annoying to her in her father's 
 laugh. But the boy did not notice that; he only thought 
 what a sulky vixen she was to deny herself the book 
 through ill-temper with her father, and laughed at her, 
 too, boyishly carelessly. 
 
 " What a calamity ! He dared to laugh at you ? We'll 
 have him drawn and quartered straightway. Oh ! what 
 a life you must lead him. By the way, where is the 
 jovial Jack ? Why did he not come over himself ?" 
 
 She hesitated, her face flushing ; she looked at him, 
 and saw an amused smile on his face. That settled it. 
 She set her teeth determinedly and lied heroically, 
 
 " He's sick." 
 
 " Poor man !" this with just a trifle more sympathy 
 than was required, Merze thought. " Are you sure he 
 isn't drunk?" 
 
 She stopped, her eyes filled with angry tears. 
 
 " You think it is very funny, don't you ?" she asked, 
 bitterly. " I wonder if you would see the funny side of 
 it if you were in my place ? I've had fine clothes and 
 money like you, but I never wore them and laughed at 
 people who were wretched. You only talk to me so you 
 can laugh and make fun of me, and I hate you, Glenn 
 Halbert !" And, dashing the coveted Grecian mytho- 
 logy within an inch of his nose, she sped across the road 
 and into the woods toward her home, while he stood 
 stupidly staring after her. 
 
 " Now, I wonder what I said to bring out so much 
 temper. Everybody knows Jack drinks, and she knows 
 they do. So I can't see well, I think I will give up 
 trying to educate the natives," and, picking up the book, 
 he was turning toward the house when a man called
 
 22 MERZE : 
 
 out from the edge of the woods : " Good-morning, 
 Glenn." 
 
 " Hello, Drande, out so early ? What did you get?" 
 
 " Nothing," answered the other, crossing the road, his 
 gun on his shoulder; " not a thing did I see except chip- 
 munks and a wild-looking girl who ran into me back 
 there, nearly upsetting me. Do you know her ?" 
 
 " To my sorrow ; she just left me in a rage at a trifle 
 an awful temper flung that book at my head and ran." 
 
 " Grecian mythology ! What on earth was a wild- 
 looking thing of that sort doing with a copy of this ?" 
 
 " Oh, she's a sort of an oddity with a smattering of all 
 sorts of knowledge, and a father who is a good match 
 for her. He looks after the stables when he happens to 
 be sober. If it wasn't that he knows Starlight so well, 
 and is training her for the fall races, father would dis- 
 charge him, though it would be hard on the girl if he 
 did, and she's good-hearted though she has a temper," 
 added the boy. 
 
 He walked back toward the house with his companion, 
 a man whom he was no more like than the slim, straight 
 fruit tree with a hint of its first blossoms is like one in 
 its prime that has been kissed by the sun and rocked by 
 the winds until the branches bear leaves on which the 
 frosts of autumn are beginning to paint the emblems of 
 a life that has lived every hour of its existence. A de- 
 cidedly handsome face, with full dark eyes in which 
 there was a glint of latent mockery; a square chin, ex- 
 pressive mouth, and a length of upper lip under the dark 
 moustache showing enough strength of will to balance 
 the easy, cynical good nature of his Bohemian counten- 
 ance. A man of perhaps thirty-five, with that indescrib- 
 able something which speaks to the most ignorant of the
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 23 
 
 man of culture, and of the sort that is not gained so 
 much from books as from contact with the people of 
 many climes. 
 
 A rolling stone may gather no moss, but it certainly 
 acquires a polish such a polish as made itself manifest 
 to those meeting this man whom Glenn had called 
 " Drande." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 On through the woods went Merze, with angry tears 
 in her eyes blurring the path at times, and turning all 
 the summer landscape into a confused mass of blue and 
 green. 
 
 " I will never go there again never ! He only laughs 
 at me because my clothes are ragged and we are poor. 
 I I hate him, yes, I do !" she muttered between decided 
 snivels. " I guess my eyes are too red to go home ; if 
 dada thought anyone had made me cry he'd want to go 
 up and whip them all until he found the right one. Guess 
 I'll lay down here in the shade until I quit making a fool 
 of myself. I don't believe I've got much sense anyway; 
 and now I don't suppose I'll ever get that book again, 
 and I wanted it so bad oh, dear!" and the tears were 
 very near the surface again, but she kept them back 
 heroically, and settled herself in a grassy hollow made 
 by the upheaved roots of a storm-leveled chestnut. 
 
 " Dada will swear if I'm not back to get his dinner," 
 she thought, scratching together some leaves for a pil- 
 low. " Well, let him wish I had a book to read," but 
 that thought brought back the Grecian mythology to her 
 mind. That way lay madness in the shape of red eyes,
 
 24 MERZE : 
 
 so Merze avoided it. " Let him swear. I won't go back 
 till evening. Wonder who that man was I bumped into 
 back there ? He looked like a picture we had in a book 
 of poems King Arthur of the Round Table. I wonder 
 if Glenn knows him ? I wish there were fairies here ; 
 old Mike in Natchez used to swear there were in Ire- 
 land wish I could get some bad ones to do something 
 to Glenn Halbert, something real wicked, 'cause I hate 
 him I hate " and the tawny head slipped heavily off 
 her arm onto the pillow of dry leaves, and Merze was 
 sound asleep with disjointed mutterings of hate and 
 Glenn Halbert on her lips. 
 
 The night before that had been almost sleepless for 
 her. Morning was fast approaching when Jack had 
 stumbled into the cabin, drunk, and had dropped down 
 on the covered boxes unconscious of two tired eyes 
 watching him from behind the curtain of the little bed- 
 room. 
 
 " Did I waken you coming in last night ?" he asked in 
 the morning. " It must have been late almost eleven." 
 
 " I suppose I was sleeping too sound," she answered, 
 with a contempt for him filling her mind. She had not 
 slept at all until he came an hour before dawn. 
 
 And so, tired and tearful, sleep came to her quickly 
 laying there among the grass and leaves, and the birds 
 twittered about her, and the grey squirrels peered at her 
 from shady nooks, and the sun reached its highest point 
 in the heavens and began slowly descending when she 
 moved restlessly and stretched out her hand, touching 
 something soft and warm. 
 
 " Max," she murmured sleepily, " good Max !" and 
 raising her head she met the friendly gaze of Max, and 
 beyond Max she encountered another pair of eyes not
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 25 
 
 the dog's, but eyes with a gleam of quizzical wonder 
 in them, belonging to the face which she thought 
 looked like King Arthur's. Beside him was a portable 
 easel and a box with paints and brushes in it, showing 
 that he had been making use of them. 
 
 Merze lay still in the little hollow looking at him. 
 " Well ?" she said at last, as he sat there looking at her 
 but saying nothing. 
 
 " Well," he answered, sending rings of smoke from a 
 queer Turkish-looking pipe. 
 
 " What are you doing here ?" she asked, superciliously, 
 as if the estate was her own special property. 
 
 " May it please your highness, I am a poor vagabond 
 stealing a few sketches from your domain," he answered, 
 meekly, wondering if she would understand his words. 
 
 "Are you an artist really?" she asked, doubtfully, 
 crawling from her leafy couch. 
 
 "Well," he answered, "some people say I am not, but 
 I attribute that, of course, to jealousy. You know or 
 you may not know, but it is a fact that envy always 
 sends her shafts at a brilliant mark, and I, alas ! am too 
 often the butt of her malice ; but genius will not be 
 crushed, so I live on to brighten with my gifts a thank- 
 less world." 
 
 Merze stopped in her work of picking the leaves from 
 her hair, and looked at him with questioning, displeased 
 eyes. 
 
 " Are you drunk ?" she asked, bluntly. 
 
 Her words, and the fearless way in which they were 
 spoken, made the man laugh a low, pleasant, mellow 
 laugh that reassured her, for she laughed with him. 
 
 " Well," she said, half crossly, " how was I to know ? 
 You talked as if you were either drunk or else hadn't
 
 26 MERZE : 
 
 real good sense, and some way you look as if you ought 
 to have sense, so I just thought you were drunk." 
 
 " A very natural conclusion, my young philosopher ; 
 your breadth of vision is only equaled by the delicacy 
 with which you veil your compliments. Come and look 
 at my work. I was at least not too tipsy to get a very 
 decent copy of your face." 
 
 She looked at the sketch he turned toward her, a pic- 
 ture fair enough to please the vanity of any female in 
 which that trait is supposed to be paramount, and this is 
 what she saw : A background of green foilage with the 
 sun warm against it. An overturned tree lying there so 
 long that the gigantic roots had been washed by the 
 rains and burned by the sun until all soil had disap- 
 peared, and their blackened lengths, reaching high in 
 air, looked like the arms of an immense devil-fish ; and, 
 curled at its base beneath its grotesque shadow, she saw 
 herself but it was herself idealized, made more fair. 
 Perhaps it was because the eyes were closed that she 
 looked so childish her eyes were always too old for her 
 face. Her tawny hair shone like a halo against the brown 
 leaves of her pillow. A loose sacque, evidently made by 
 her own unskilled fingers out of red merino, was around 
 her slight figure, and was the one thing needed to 
 brighten the foreground of the sketch. Very roughly it 
 had been done, and very much there was still to do at it. 
 Only on the face had he worked carefully as possible in 
 the time given him, and like a star it shone in its sombre 
 setting of dead leaves. 
 
 He watched the girl with curiosity in his eyes. What 
 did he expect her to do or say admire her own like- 
 ness in woman fashion ? If so, he was disappointed. 
 She looked at it earnestly, but said nothing.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 2? 
 
 " Well ?" he said, a little impatiently. 
 
 " Oh !" she breathed, more to herself than to him; " if 
 I could only do so well !'' 
 
 He took the pipe from his lips as he glanced at her 
 face, and saw in it such a longing such a starved look 
 in the wide eyes that for a moment he was startled out 
 of his laziness. 
 
 " Do you mean that you want to learn to paint ?" 
 
 She sat still, looking at the sketch, her hands clasped 
 tightly over her knee. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," she said, a little weakly a little 
 irritably. " Just to be able to do something in the world 
 that is really worth doing. Sometimes I try to keep my- 
 self from thinking of it, and once I thought I'd quit 
 trying to learn when there was no chance of me ever 
 going to school again. It's awful to know just a little, 
 and be sure you'll never have a chance to learn any 
 more ; so I took my books and buried them down in the 
 ground, and tried to lose the place, but I couldn't. I 
 went back in the night for them ; I couldn't sleep. Dada 
 says I'm a fool about them, but I can't help it, and that 
 picture brings it all back more than ever." 
 
 " Brings what back ?" he asked. She was such a curi- 
 ous creature, with her earnest face a little sulky or 
 was it only hopeless dissatisfaction with herself ? At any 
 rate, she was a curious type, and rather an interesting 
 one to the lazy-looking sketcher. Her words seemed 
 strange to him, coming from the lips of a child. " Brings 
 what back ?" he repeated, as she sat silent. 
 
 " Ah !" she burst out, " everything : the want of books 
 and the learning to understand them ; real pictures like 
 that ; and words to tell of all the beautiful things I see 
 and hear in the woods and fields things that people who
 
 28 MERZE : 
 
 are clever write such poems of. How can I tell you all 
 it brings back or how lonesome it makes me ? You'll 
 think, as it is, that I am a fool. Dada says I am. Some- 
 times I wonder if I am quite like other folks !" She said 
 this so earnestly even wistfully that the man had no 
 thought of laughing at the odd speech. 
 
 "And what conclusion do you reach as to your 
 sanity ?" 
 
 She laughed a little at the question. 
 
 " I don't know," she answered. " I only know if I 
 could do work as great as that I would never feel lonely 
 again not if I never saw the face of a living thing. 
 Just to do any work so well I would be content." 
 
 The man smiled a little sadly on the young enthusiast, 
 and replied : 
 
 "You think so now, child," turning the picture where her 
 eyes could no longer rest on it ; "but you would know 
 better in time. It never yet has contented humanity, 
 especially when the human thing has a woman's heart 
 filled with longings such as yours for knowledge, the 
 secrets of art, the speech of a poet ; and you would want 
 these to yourself,with only the forests no human hearts 
 to share it with : that would mean selfishness, and it is 
 not to such lives that God grants the things you long 
 for." 
 
 His voice was no longer light or careless his eyes no 
 longer mocking. To the girl he seemed more like her 
 pictured King Arthur than ever. No one had ever spoken 
 to her of it before. Even her mother had scolded a little, 
 weakly, at what she called silly vagaries ; only this 
 stranger seemed to understand and did not laugh. 
 
 "I wish," she said, impulsively, "that you were always 
 here. Just to hear you talk would teach me so much. I
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 29 
 
 can't give you anything in return, but I could show you 
 every pretty spot in the woods for your pictures." 
 
 " I would be glad to see them, though it is too late 
 now, as I leave in the morning for the East. But are you 
 aware that, despite our lengthy conversation, we are 
 ignorant of each other's names ?" 
 
 " Mine is ' Merze,' " she answered, promptly. 
 
 " ' Merze !' But that is a nickname ; what is your real 
 name ?" 
 
 " Just l Merze Merze Mignot'; I never had any other. 
 Dada used to have a dog by that name ; he says he 
 called me for it, but I don't know if it's true. Ma 
 wanted me called after some of her folks, and I guess 
 he just called me after the dog to be contrary." 
 
 She told him as unconcernedly as if it was an every- 
 day occurrence to find names for children in that way. 
 She did not in the least understand how strange it 
 sounded to her listener. The dogs had always been her 
 best friends ; she would quite as soon be named for 
 them as any of the people she knew. But her words of 
 explanation were as a history to the man, and the state- 
 ment, " He just called me for the dog, to be contrary," 
 told of family contentions that were not trifling. 
 
 "Poor devil!" the man muttered under his breath; 
 and then aloud, " well, Merze, how is it that you are so 
 dissatisfied with your life ? It seems to suit the other 
 people whom I see here." 
 
 "The other people !" He could not but smile at her 
 tone. "Where are the other girls brought up as I have 
 been ? how could I be the same ?" 
 
 " You forget, child, I haven't known you an hour, 
 and am ignorant of your manner of bringing up." 
 
 " Oh, well, I can soon tell you," offered Merze, com-
 
 30 MERZE : 
 
 posedly. " I've been carted all over the country, wherever 
 dada happened to go looking for a streak of luck. 
 Sometimes he would find it, and then we had every- 
 thing ; but it never lasted long. He put me to school 
 two or three times, but he was sure to strike bad luck. 
 That would settle it ; so I only got a little taste of learn- 
 ing when they'd take me away, and maybe give up a 
 nice place for a flatboat on which we would float down 
 to New Orleans ; and sometimes we had to sell even my 
 books. I never minded about the furniture, or clothes, 
 and such things. It used to worry mama ; but all I 
 cared for was when the books had to go. I've gathered 
 up a few now, but all they teach me only makes me 
 want more ; and now I don't expect ever to get any 
 more chance to learn. Things have been pretty bad 
 with us since mama died a year ago. I wonder why 
 people were ever put into this world when there don't 
 seem to be any room or any chance for them ?" 
 
 " Don't despair ; you are young enough yet to begin 
 your education. Something may send a chance of it in 
 your way." 
 
 " I am fifteen, and the chance seems a long time in 
 coming. I don't think it strange that I am not like 
 other people here people who have good, quiet homes, 
 and have always known at night that they were sure of 
 a breakfast in the morning. And as for a chance of 
 school when I can't buy shoes, how am I to buy 
 books ?" and she laughed a little bitterly as she thrust 
 out a torn shoe that had evidently been repaired by her 
 own hands. Instinctively the man put his hand in his 
 pocket. The girl saw it, and, rising, continued : 
 
 "But I never begged. Come, Max." 
 
 The man sprang to his feet. " Stop !" he said, put-
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 31 
 
 ting his hand out. " Stop one moment. I beg your 
 pardon, child. Surely you know I would not offer you 
 money as to a beggar !" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," answered the girl resentfully ; 
 " perhaps you are like the rest after all. They think 
 all people ever want is money. It's good enough for 
 me, too, for I had no business talking to you so. It is 
 more than I have ever told even the people I've known 
 longest. I was a fool. You looked kind and strong, like 
 an engraving we had of King Arthur. I went to sleep 
 there and dreamed of you, and when I woke and saw 
 you it almost seemed as if I knew you before, and so I 
 talked and perhaps you laughed ! how do I know?" 
 
 Her voice had been gradually rising, until it had 
 reached a pitch several degrees above an ordinary con- 
 versational tone. " And I wish I had never seen you 
 or that," with an unconsciously dramatic gesture 
 toward the poor picture. " I hope I never will again. 
 You and your work make me hate everything about my- 
 self ; and you think me nothing more than a beggar in 
 spite of the kind things you said ; and I hate you for it 
 yes I do I hate you !" She looked such a young fury 
 that the man stared at her in amazement. The dog 
 seemed to know her humors, for he crawled close to her 
 feet and whined a little, low and pleadingly. 
 
 The man looked at her, shaking his head chidingly. 
 " Child, child," he said, sadly, " if you have your own 
 faults so little under control, you have cause to be thank- 
 ful for anything that makes you dissatisfied with your 
 own nature. Come, sit here ; I want to talk with you." 
 
 The girl did so with drooping head and eyes on the 
 ground. She was thoroughly ashamed of her temper, 
 and half awed by his tone.
 
 32 MERZE : 
 
 " I want to speak to you," he continued. " You said 
 just now it would teach you much if I could talk to 
 you often. I may never have the chance of talking to 
 you again, but I want to tell you some things which you 
 must try and remember for your own good. You are 
 ambitious, in a vague way, to do something which will 
 be thought great. You see that sketch, and by con- 
 trast with your own work and surroundings you think 
 it is so, and you long for such accomplishments ; but you 
 will learn some day your mistake. That may be clev- 
 erly done barely that a thing to pass pleasant hours 
 with, but not a thing that will leave behind the con- 
 sciousness of good work well done. So, child, that is 
 not a thing to grieve over for not knowing." 
 
 "But it is beautiful," she said, "and I can not do any- 
 thing." 
 
 " But there is that in your nature, if you strive to im- 
 prove it, that will bring more content to your future 
 than such superficial accomplishments." 
 
 " What is it ?" she asked, eagerly ; " is it anything that 
 may be great ?" 
 
 " Great, great ?" he repeated, looking at the question- 
 ing, eager eyes ; " you think only of something that 
 might be thought great. There is something which in 
 woman is more honor than greatness." 
 
 " What is it ?" she asked again. 
 
 "It is goodness," he answered; and, watching her 
 face, he saw the expectation die out of it, leaving only 
 disappointment. 
 
 " Goodness, oh !" she said ambiguously ; " there are lots 
 of people that." 
 
 "And so you do not care to be," he added ; "as I 
 feared,your longings are only for the tinsel which you hope
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 33 
 
 the world may mistake for gold. Ah ! that is but a 
 paltry ambition. The world is full of such; it is a waste 
 of words to talk of it," and he rose with almost a dis- 
 appointed look in his eyes. 
 
 She rose, too, and looked at him while he gathered 
 up his paints and brushes'; which done, he turned to 
 her, holding out his hand. 
 
 "Good-bye," he said kindly. "I am sorry to have 
 added to your troubles by my presence and my work ; 
 but I will not again. I leave to-morrow." She laid 
 her hand in his, but did not speak. " Good-bye," he re- 
 peated. 
 
 She tried to speak, hesitated, and then burst out : " I 
 am sorry I did not mean it that way I will try to be 
 good, or whatever you say, if only you don't go away 
 angry." 
 
 He dropped the brushes and took both her hands 
 in his. 
 
 " I am not angry with you, child ; don't think that ; 
 a little disappointed, perhaps ; but your heart is all right, 
 though you must try to be good for the sake of good- 
 ness, not to please another." 
 
 " No one has ever cared but you," she answered ; "no 
 one ever tried to teach me how, and I guess folks don't 
 just grow good. But I will try if you will only teach 
 me what you mean." 
 
 " I only mean that you must place the word ' good ' 
 instead of the word ' great ' first in your heart, and it will 
 bring you no regrets with your womanhood. You are 
 dreaming your days away in air-castles while you neg- 
 lect the one thing that is really yours a tiny garden 
 in which you allow the weeds to grow until they grow 
 so tall and so strong that your fingers will soon be too
 
 34 MERZE : 
 
 weak to break them. And low down in the dusk at their 
 roots shine little white stars that one sees seldom for the 
 waving, flourishing arms of the weeds above. They are 
 the snowdrops of pure thoughts, unselfish desires, and 
 consciousness of duties well done." 
 
 " Tell me what to do," said Merze, her hands still in 
 his. They had been so earnest, he in speaking, she in 
 listening, that they had forgotten. 
 
 " Curb your temper ; endeavor to do always what duty 
 brings to you, if you would make good use of your life. 
 Your home does not seem pleasant to you are you 
 always pleasant to it? Strive for the snowdrops 
 always ; dig out the first green shafts of the weeds. 
 If you try faithfully to conquer and improve your 
 nature, and prove that you have an earnest desire 
 for knowledge, and not the vanity that longs for super- 
 ficial accomplishments, it may be that sometime I could 
 help your father in the matter of your education. I can, 
 at any rate, send you such school books as you need for 
 the present, and for the future will hope for the best." 
 
 " I will study and try so hard," she promised ; "and 
 you will come back sometime soon ?" 
 
 " I cannot promise that ; but you shall have your 
 books, and then, if you are earnest as you say, we 
 will see what can be done about the school." 
 
 " Are you rich ?" she asked bluntly. 
 
 " No, far from it ; but I might manage to get the 
 money loaned until your father could pay it back in 
 part. But I will see him and talk to him about it." 
 
 " No, you won't !" said Merze, decidedly ; " so that set- 
 tles that. He won't pay anything back unless it's to 
 someone he wants to borrow from again. He'd say 
 he'd pay you, of course ; but he never would do it in the
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 35 
 
 world. If you were rich enough to wait until I could 
 learn how to earn the money, I could pay it ; but as you 
 ain't, why we can't, that's all. And I won't think of it, 
 and then I won't be disappointed. But it is good of you 
 to say you would try. Nobody was ever so kind to me 
 before, or seemed to care whether I was good or bad. 
 Mama was always good enough, but she wasn't strongly 
 good not enough, you know, to help make other 
 people good. But I'll try to be so now, because you 
 care. Why do you care ?" 
 
 "Why did you tell me more of your life than you 
 would tell others ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," she said, laughingly ; " it does 
 seem funny, don't it ? I guess it was because I dreamed 
 of you, and it almost seemed as if I had known you. 
 But it is sundown, and I must go home. Dada will 
 swear as it is, for I haven't been home since morning. 
 Won't I see you again before you go away ?" she asked, 
 as she held out her hand. 
 
 " Perhaps," he answered, smiling. " Who can tell what 
 a day may bring forth ?" 
 
 " I wish it would bring a streak of good luck, so we 
 could get out of this place." 
 
 " And if you should go before I return if I should 
 not see you again you will remember the things I told 
 you, and you will not forget the snowdrops ?" 
 
 His tone was half jesting, half serious, but there was 
 no answering smile in the girl's eyes. 
 
 " You will see that I don't forget," she said earnestly. 
 
 A step was heard in the woods above them, and a 
 voice called : " Hello there !" 
 
 They looked up ; a man had stopped a few rods off 
 and was looking at them.
 
 36 MERZE : 
 
 " Well ?" answered Merze's companion, " what is 
 wanted ?" 
 
 "I want to find Jack Mignot's house. Can you 
 direct me ?" 
 
 "I'll show you," said Merze. "I'm going there." 
 Then she turned to her new-found friend. " I must go 
 now, sure. I don't know who it is, but it's lucky he 
 came, or I'd have stayed until dark. Good-bye once 
 more. Come, Max," and then she joined the new-comer. 
 " Come along," she said, brusquely, and in a minute 
 more they had passed out of sight of the man standing 
 by the overturned chestnut. He picked up his paint- 
 ing outfit and the picture, and turned in the opposite 
 direction. 
 
 " I wonder," he said, as he plunged through the woods, 
 " whether I have done a more foolish thing than usual 
 this afternoon. But the girl's eyes had such a look of 
 starvation in their depths, and I always was a fool over a 
 pair of wistful eyes bigger fool I! What business have 
 I with such a vagabond's welfare ? I who saddle myself 
 with the responsibility of a girl's education, a stray of 
 very erratic propensities, a bundle of contradictions such 
 as is only encased in the form divine. According to the 
 almanac, I was thirty-two my last birthday, but from 
 my action I am tempted to believe that my second child- 
 hood is fast approaching. Well, fools will learn in no 
 school save experience.' 1
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 37 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Merze walked on silently beside the stranger. She 
 was thinking, thinking over the words so lately spoken 
 to her words such as no other had ever used to her 
 words that had filled all her mind with a desire to be 
 what the speaker wished her. She wondered vaguely 
 how he understood her wants and needs and the evil that 
 was always uppermost in her own nature. 
 
 Her companion looked at her curiously. Once or 
 twice he spoke to her, but she answered briefly. At any 
 other time she would have welcomed anyone to talk to, 
 especially a man like this, who was very different from 
 the generality of Jack's callers a man well dressed, 
 and with the air of a gentleman ; small hands, on one of 
 which shone a ring, an opal surrounded by diamonds ; 
 blue eyes with a keen glint in them, the keenness of 
 steel and the coldness ; light-brown hair, and a fair, 
 rather florid face, with a foreshadowing in it of future 
 obesity a handsome face, he had heard it called often, 
 so often that he carried the consciousness of it in his 
 manner as he strolled along the wood path with a rather 
 jaunty air. 
 
 "I am afraid I am taking you out of your way," he 
 remarked ; " if so, direct me and I will try and find it 
 alone." 
 
 " No, you are not," she answered. " I am going home 
 anyway. I live there." 
 
 " You do ? Then you must be Jack's girl."
 
 38 MERZE : 
 
 "Yes, I am Jack's girl." 
 
 " Let me see, I ought to remember your name; ' Mercy ' 
 is it not ? But when I saw you last, you were a little 
 mite, and you are almost a lady now." 
 
 " A lady !" Merze said, glancing down at the old shoes, 
 and then up into his face to see if he were mocking her. 
 But she saw nothing to corroborate her suspicion, as he 
 looked all right, though she felt no inclination to be 
 sociable or friendly, as she did with the man of the 
 Turkish pipe. " My name is ' Merze,' " she continued, 
 "but I don't know you." 
 
 " Possibly not," said the other, airily. " I did not 
 expect you would]; but Jack will. Jack is not the sort to 
 forget a friend, and we used to be great chums in the 
 old days. And to think he has a daughter so near grown 
 up ! It makes me feel old." 
 
 But he evidently carried his age lightly as possible ; 
 so Merze thought as she wondered who he was, this 
 man who seemed a gentleman, and who yet avowed a 
 friendship of long standing with Jack. 
 
 Gentlemen she had remembered coming to their house 
 long ago when she was smaller, and they lived in cities; 
 but the same ones never came very long. One she 
 would see for weeks, night after night, and then he 
 would stop, and she would never see him again ; but 
 another would soon take his place, and be hail-fellow 
 well-met with Jack. She often wondered where they 
 all went. 
 
 Once there was one who had come often a young 
 man with the freshness of the hills in his face from the 
 Alleghenies, he had told her one day when he brought 
 her a toy-box decorated with porcupine quills that had 
 come from his home in the mountains. He told her
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 39 
 
 much of the lovely old homestead where his father lived, 
 and where the woodman worked through the white 
 winter in the pine woods, cutting trees to send down 
 with the freshets in the spring. An only son he was, 
 just through school, in St. Louis on business for his 
 father, and Jack was showing him the sights, and trying 
 to make him feel at home so he told her, and she knew 
 no more. But after awhile the light began fading from 
 the boy's face ; he was irritable, and had no more pretty 
 stories to tell her. And then there came a day when 
 she fell asleep under the sofa in Jack's room, and was 
 wakened by voices. One was that of the boy from the 
 pine country. 
 
 "You don't know what this means to me, Mignot," he 
 said. " It is ruin !" 
 
 " Oh, nonsense, my boy !" said Jack ; " don't take it 
 so much to heart. If I had known they allowed any 
 regular card-sharpers in the place we never would have 
 entered it. I am cut up over it myself, but I am sure 
 you know I did my best for you." 
 
 " I try to believe you did," answered the boy. His 
 words were few, but the tone went to Merze's heart. It 
 was so full of utter despair. 
 
 " Come, come," said Jack, " don't speak like that. You 
 are not yourself to-day, and small wonder, for the loss 
 was a pretty heavy one ; but your father is not likely to 
 be hard on you. Lie down and rest until I come back, 
 and then you can write him a letter." Jack lit a cigar 
 and sauntered out of the room, and the boy, uncon- 
 scious of Merze, dropped his head on the table, and she 
 could hear him whispering over the word " Father, father, 
 father." 
 
 Nothing else could she distinguish ; but, in peeping
 
 40 MERZE : 
 
 from under the sofa, she saw him take a small, shining, 
 pretty thing from his pocket and lay it before him. He 
 sat looking at it, whispering over and over that one name 
 until the child cried silently in sympathy, not knowing 
 w hy only the tears would sweep up to her eyes at the 
 sight of his face, it was so white, and at the sound of 
 his voice, it was so different. He arose and walked to 
 the window, and stood looking out on the passing people 
 while Merze almost held her breath. She was afraid ; 
 there was something in it all that terrified her. She 
 watched him turn and walk back to the table. He picked 
 up the shining thing and held it so she could see, and 
 then she knew what it was, for she had seen Jack's 
 only Jack's was not so small or so pretty. Once more 
 she heard him whisper that name of " father " as he raised 
 the shining thing to his head ; and then a child's scream 
 caused him to drop it. 
 
 She sprang to him, clasping her arms about him, kiss- 
 ing his face, and trying to get his hands in her two little 
 ones, as if by holding them was the only way she could 
 be sure of no harm to him. Her kisses seemed to take 
 the rigidness from his lips, and finally he laid his cheek 
 close to hers, and she could feel tears on her face that 
 were not her own. Finally he became more calm, and 
 succeeded in quieting her sobs that had made her almost 
 hysterical ; but all the time she had kept her eyes on the 
 shining thing on the floor. He noticed it and, picking it 
 up, took from it little bits of lead, and then gave it to her. 
 
 "It has no danger in it now," he said ; " keep it for a 
 plaything. I do not want to see it. And now good-bye, 
 child. If you ever see me again, I hope it will be when I 
 am a better man. And I will be if he only forgives me 
 this once the first time in my life to bring him trouble."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 41 
 
 Then he kissed her with some words of blessing on his 
 lips, and she never saw him again. He was the only one 
 of Jack's many friends of whose departure she had 
 known anything. The others had all quit coming 
 silently. And she wondered now, looking at this fair, 
 courteous man, how he had gone, for he was the only 
 one she had ever known to come back. 
 
 " Yes," he was saying, " you have brought an added 
 sense of age to me, Miss Merze. To think of Jack 
 Mignot's having a grown-up daughter ! By-the-way, I 
 thought it was Jack himself in the woods when I first 
 saw you the man is rather the same build. Was it a 
 neighbor of yours what name ?" 
 
 " I don't know where he lives or his name ;" and 
 then it dawned on her that the stranger had forgotten to 
 enlighten her on that point. " I don't know his name," 
 she added. 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 That was all he said ; but there can be so much con- 
 densed meaning in that little word, and Merze felt her 
 face grow hot. 
 
 "Do you think I lie ?" she asked, darting a black look 
 at his slightly-smiling visage. He saw how angry she 
 was, but the indignation was very becoming to the gray 
 eyes that changed and darkened as an April day just 
 so threatening while it lasted, and just as sure to lighten 
 again ; for clouds rest so lightly on young mouths and 
 young faces. The man knew this, and smiled as he 
 looked at her. 
 
 "Lie? my dear Miss Merze, of course not. True, 
 your acquaintance did seem of long standing from 
 the fervor of the hand-clasp ; but as I remarked before, 
 I must be getting old. My eyesight may be failing. I
 
 42 MERZE : 
 
 may not have seen the hand-clasp at all. Of course I did 
 not since you say you don't know the man." 
 
 " I didn't say I didn't know him," she said, shortly. 
 
 He looked at her half-sulky face and made no answer; 
 but his smile did not lessen as he walked on jauntily 
 beside her, whistling half under his breath " Scenes 
 that are brightest." Merze did not know what the air 
 was, but all her life she hated it, and never heard it 
 without a remembrance of the sun sinking over the 
 southern hills, and those two walking together over the 
 grassy path toward the log house. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " There is the house," said Merze, as they reached the 
 fence at the edge of the woods, "and there is dada," as 
 she saw Jack coming from the spring with a bucket of 
 water. 
 
 " So it is," assented the stranger as he leaped lightly 
 over the low fence. " Give me your hand, Miss Merze 
 so !" as she stepped down beside him. " By-the-way," he 
 added, carelessly, " did that gentleman back there in the 
 woods seem to recognize me ?" 
 
 " You ?" exclaimed Merze ; " why, no. Do you know 
 him ?" 
 
 " No ; after all I believe not. It was evidently only 
 a slight resemblance to a man I have seen. I think you 
 said he was not a neighbor." 
 
 "No, he is a stranger." 
 
 She longed to ask more, but they were now within 
 speaking distance of the house. Jack, standing on the 
 doorstep, looked at them intently, and Merze saw his
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 43 
 
 face brighten as she had never seen it do at sight of 
 any man. 
 
 " Well, Jack, how goes it ?" said the other, speaking 
 first. 
 
 " My God !" In a stride Jack was beside him, their 
 hands clasped, his arm around the other's shoulder. 
 
 " Fred Lawrence at last after all these years. It 
 seems too good to be true !" 
 
 "But it is, old fellow," said the new-comer with un- 
 ruffled demeanor. Jack showed his gladness in his face, 
 in his voice, and in the hearty, repeated hand-shakings. 
 Lawrence was no doubt glad too, but he showed nothing. 
 The smile was in his eyes still, but it had neither grown 
 nor lessened. It was the same as when he walked by 
 her side whistling. Merze felt half angry toward him 
 and toward Jack as well. She walked past them both 
 and entered the house. The fire was out and supper 
 was to get, and Merze could see it was for three instead 
 of two. As she entered with some chips Jack called her. 
 The two men had sat down on a bench outside the door 
 
 " What do you want ?" she asked, rather shortly. 
 
 "Come here," answered Jack. She went over to him, 
 her hands full of pine knots and chips. " Merze," he 
 said, " this is Mr. Lawrence, the best friend your dada 
 ever had in his life." 
 
 "Oh, come now!" interrupted Lawrence'; "that is 
 putting it rather strong." 
 
 " Not a bit of it," replied Jack. " When a man gives 
 up his only chance of life to a friend, I don't think there 
 can be words found strong enough." 
 
 " But I did not give up my only chance ; you see I 
 am living yet." 
 
 "You thought it was your only chance when you gave
 
 44 MERZE : 
 
 up that piece of spar off the Mexican coast, when the 
 men in the sinking ship were fighting like wolves over 
 every loose plank. Fred, not one man in a thousand 
 would have done it." 
 
 " Perhaps I should not have done so either had I not 
 been an expert swimmer, and known every inch of the 
 coast," said Fred, carelessly. "And then," he added, 
 "if you remember, Jack, life hadn't much that was 
 attractive to me just then." 
 
 "I remember," Jack said, laying his hand on the 
 other's shoulder, half as if in sympathy, Merze thought. 
 Then, after a pause, he asked : " Is she living?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Merze looked at him. His eyes were seemingly intent 
 on following the rings of smoke floating heavenwards 
 from his cigar. Something in his tone as he answered 
 belied his careless manner, and, for the first time, Merze 
 felt more kindly toward him. Dropping the pine knots 
 she held out her hand to him : 
 
 "I am glad you have come, Mr. Lawrence; not so glad 
 as dada, perhaps, but " 
 
 "There, there!" interrupted Lawrence, "don't spoil 
 it ; never mind the degrees of gladness. I am thankful 
 for even that first concession, for you most assuredly 
 were not glad to meet me back there in the woods, and 
 some of your glances as we came along were anything 
 but gladsome," he added, quizzically. 
 
 Merze laughed a little guiltily, but said nothing. 
 
 "Was she sulky?" asked Jack, not understanding. 
 " She mostly is. How did you come to show him the 
 way ?" 
 
 Lawrence answered before Merze could get a chance: 
 " I met her in the woods back there and asked the way.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 45 
 
 She volunteered to show me, hence our arrival together. 
 Here, Miss Merze, le.t me help you with that wood." 
 
 " I can do it myself," she answered, " and my name is 
 not ' Miss '; it is just ' Merze.' " 
 
 Jack laughed. " That is Merze all over ; no nonsense 
 about her." 
 
 " All right, ' Merze ' it is, then," answered Lawrence, 
 picking up the wood she had left and carrying it in after 
 her. "Where shall I put it?" he asked, standing in the 
 middle of the room, and with a quiet glance taking an 
 inventory of its contents. 
 
 " There," she said, with a nod toward the chips on 
 the hearth. She was on her knees, breaking bits of bark 
 on some live coals, and fanning them with her hat. 
 
 He dropped the pine knots and stood looking at her. 
 " Why don't you thank me ?" he asked, mockingly. 
 
 Her face flushed slightly. Was it from the blaze of 
 the bark, or the consciousness of the unspoken agree- 
 ment that the unknown man in the woods was not to be 
 mentioned ? Looking up she saw the quizzical light in 
 his eyes. He had seen a touch of her temper, and it 
 amused him to arouse it ; but if his intent was to tease 
 her she checkmated him. 
 
 " Oh, yes," she answered, with suspicious sweetness. 
 " I forget my manners very often ; you will soon learn 
 that. But it is very kind of you to bring in the wood. 
 Thank you." 
 
 The man stared at her a second as she proceeded to 
 fill the tea-kettle and hang it on the crane as if uncon- 
 scious of his presence ; and then he turned and walked 
 out of the door with a bar of " Scenes that are brightest " 
 whistled in a minor key by lips that were twitching with 
 suppressed laughter.
 
 46 MERZE : 
 
 "Jack," he said, as he again sat himself beside the 
 other on the bench, " that girl of yours is a character, a 
 cool one." 
 
 " So you've found that out already, have you ?" asked 
 Jack. " You always had a knack of reading people, and 
 you've struck it this time. If you had to live in the 
 house with her, you'd find she is not always a pleasant 
 character not too much of the angel about her." 
 
 "I should judge not. But do you intend to bring her 
 up in this place ? Rather a drop, isn't it, old fellow ?" 
 
 " Curse it, yes ! But what is a man to do ? I have 
 got into this rut, and can't get out of it. Her mother is 
 buried over the hill there that was a year ago. It's hard 
 on Merze, for she is one of the sort that wants books 
 and schooling and what not, and the chances look 
 mighty dubious now for her ever getting them. I hardly 
 make enough to keep things going barely that." 
 
 " Perhaps I can help you to more. That is what I 
 came for." 
 
 " Do you mean it, Fred ?" and Jack's voice was very 
 eager. It had been so long since a man in Lawrence's 
 set had cared to know whether he was living or dead, 
 and now that this one had remembered had hunted 
 him up seemed too good to be true. Their friendship 
 years ago had been undoubted ; but years make such a 
 difference. This Jack had learned, and ceased to hope ; 
 and now Lawrence had dropped down in this out-of-the 
 way place as if from the skies just as calm, careless, 
 and nonchalant as ever, and not a day older, it seemed 
 to Jack, who had, in the years, grown away from him. 
 But then Fred had always been too cool a hand to dis- 
 sipate, and Jack showed in his face that he had not 
 been so.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 47 
 
 " Of course I mean it. If you want to earn a five- 
 hundred-dollar bill, I am going to give you the chance 
 to do it." 
 
 " Five hundred dollars ! It would be a God-send to me 
 now." 
 
 " So I supposed, and the work will not be hard. You 
 have charge of Halbert's stock, haven't you ?" 
 
 " Yes ; what do you want ?" 
 
 "That young mare, Starlight, is talked of as having 
 good stuff in her. How much money would you sink on 
 her in the fall races beside the stock that is known will 
 be there ?" 
 
 " Every dollar I had in the world," said Jack, de- 
 cidedly. " Halbert is keeping her rather dark ; but she 
 is bound to win against anything that is entered yet, and 
 will in the end, unless some stranger is run in on us." 
 
 " That is just it ; there is likely to be one. If so, it 
 is one that I will have an interest in winning the money. 
 Do you understand ?" 
 
 " I think I do," answered Jack, looking at him and 
 speaking slowly. 
 
 " I supposed you would. Well, we can talk further of 
 it on my way back to the station." 
 
 " You are not going to leave here to-night," asserted 
 Jack. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I will. I may see you again before long, 
 but to-night I must try to catch that one o'clock train at 
 the crossing." 
 
 " Is it necessary ?" persisted Jack, loth to part with 
 this one spar that had floated back from the wreck of his 
 other life. 
 
 Lawrence smiled as he touched with his ringed finger 
 the dead ashes of his cigar.
 
 48 MERZE : 
 
 " Necessary ?" he repeated ; " well, I am not so sure. 
 But should I remain, you might have another visitor 
 before morning one you would not welcome." 
 
 Jack gave an exclamation of surprise. "After all 
 these years do you mean " 
 
 He stopped, and the other resumed. " After all these 
 years I meant just that. I saw him yesterday on the 
 boat, the first time in five years. The last time was in 
 Europe. He dodged out of sight yesterday ; but I've no 
 doubt he will follow me poor devil !" 
 
 " Poor devil !" echoed Jack, impatiently. " Fred, in 
 some things you are a bigger fool than any man living. 
 Why don't you put an end to it, instead of allowing 
 yourself to be haunted so ?" 
 
 " Oh ! what's the use ? Only I don't care to be made 
 a target of, so I must try to keep out of his way." 
 
 " That's all stuff," answered Jack. " You a target ! 
 the best shot on the lower river !" 
 
 " So they used to say," asserted Lawrence ; " but this 
 is a case in which I could not shoot oh, yes, I know 
 your opinion " as Jack's face expressed his contempt ; 
 " but that don't alter my ideas. It is not hard to avoid 
 him. He is getting too miserably poor to travel, and, as 
 I have been doing considerable of it in late years, it is 
 easy to keep out of his way. You see, sometime she may 
 be able to understand, and if she did, what would she 
 say if I had harmed him? And then there is the child." 
 
 Both men sat silent after this, Lawrence watching a 
 hawk soaring high up against the pink of the sky. Inside 
 they could hear Merze as she walked back and forth 
 over the loosened boards of the floor ; the crackle of the 
 flame, and the hissing of the tea-kettle came to them. 
 Did the homely sounds bring a sense of rest to this man
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 49 
 
 whom Jack had called haunted ? He leaned back on the 
 bench, closing his eyes in a tired way. Then, and then 
 only, could Jack see that the years were telling on him 
 the years that the blue eyes had met so dauntlessly and 
 smiled down ; but in repose their cool brightness was 
 hidden, and tiny lines showed that the surveyor, Time, 
 had mapped out the path over which Old Age would one 
 day walk. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Merze came to the door. "Come, dada," she said. 
 The supper was very slim and not very well prepared, 
 but no apologies were offered. If Merze felt a half 
 shame and reluctance in offering a cup with a broken 
 handle to this visitor, she did not let it be known beyond 
 a slight flush of the face or a nervousness of the hands 
 as she arranged the scant tableware. But the keen eyes 
 opposite her saw and understood, feeling a half pity for 
 her pride, mingled with admiration for the cool self-com- 
 mand with which she ignored her surroundings. 
 
 Supper over and the table cleared, they still sat around 
 it talking of past years, of old chums, of war times which 
 they shared together tales of field and camp life over 
 which they laughed, and to which Merze listened as 
 eagerly as they. 
 
 " I wish there would be another war," she declared. 
 " If there were I would go with dada." 
 
 " Oh, no, you wouldn't," replied Jack. " If dada ever 
 shoulders a gun again it will be to carry it to a pawn- 
 shop ; and there are plenty others who fought on both 
 sides who feel the same good soldiers, too." 
 
 " I wouldn't," said Merze ; " it must be grand the 
 
 4
 
 50 MERZE : 
 
 music and the cheering and the thunder of the cannon ! 
 I'd go if they would have me." 
 
 "And be frightened to death at the first shot," laughed 
 Lawrence. 
 
 "Would I?" she flashed back. "I can shoot better 
 than most boys of my age, can't I, dada ? Give me your 
 revolver. I'll let you see if I'm afraid of powder !" Jack 
 handed her his revolver. " What shall I use for a 
 target ?" 
 
 " That barrel in front of the door," suggested Law- 
 rence, for which she gave him a withering look. 
 
 " I will use that slim, white sycamore by the spring, 
 and the bullet will strike within an inch of the line where 
 the fence reaches." Lawrence laughed at the tinge of 
 bravado in her tone. "Don't you believe I can?" she 
 demanded. 
 
 "Don't ask about my belief," he answered; "but if 
 you can hit that mark in this light you will do for a 
 soldier, and will deserve a prize." 
 
 She stood in the doorway. From the dusk of the sur- 
 rounding trees the white sycamore shone like a slim, 
 white ghost. Crack ! went the revolver. " Now go and 
 see," she said to Jack, who went without demur. 
 
 " Half an inch from the line," he called back. " Come 
 and see, Fred." 
 
 "You have made your boast true," said Lawrence, 
 coming back. " Not an easy thing to do even in sunlight. 
 I have no medal for you as a prize, but here is something 
 you can keep in trust until I can replace it with some- 
 thing to your taste. Shall it be a silver-mounted re- 
 volver ?" and he held out to her the ring he had worn. 
 
 " Oh, I can't take that, it is too handsome !" she said, 
 drawing back.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 51 
 
 '* Never mind its beauty. I only give it to you in 
 pawn until I have something to leave instead," and he put 
 the ring in her hand, taking the revolver from her as he 
 did so. He was about to lay it on the table, when he 
 looked at it closer. "That looks like a duplicate of 
 mine," he remarked, and taking one from his pocket and 
 laying it beside Jack's. They were indeed fac-similes of 
 each other. After comparing them each returned his 
 own to his pocket. 
 
 Merze bid them good-night early, as she wanted to 
 get in her room alone, such a new strange current seemed 
 to have drifted into her life that day, and she wanted to 
 be alone to think it all over. 
 
 " I will say good-bye instead of good-night," said Law- 
 rence, offering his hand. " I leave to-night." 
 
 " But you're coming back sometime ?" 
 
 " Certainly, to exchange a revolver for the ring. Jack 
 and I are going to talk business now, and the outgrowth 
 of it may be that you will leave these hills. Would that 
 please you ? I see it would. Well, good-bye until I see 
 you again." 
 
 Then she left them alone in a haze of smoke from 
 pipes and cigars, and, throwing herself on the bed, 
 dressed as she was, gave herself up to thoughts which 
 the day had brought the one day which in all her life 
 was to stand alone, apart from all others. How vague 
 and wild and sweet were the fancies born of that 
 meeting by the overturned chestnut ! How great he 
 was ! Ah ! if sometime she might see him again, and 
 hear him tell her she had done well in any of the 
 things he had counseled. And, added to these, came 
 the thought of Lawrence's words, significant of some 
 change in their lives. She was conscious of a half-
 
 52 MERZE : 
 
 defined wish that it had been her unknown friend in- 
 stead of Lawrence who had been the one to deliver 
 them from this poverty-striken life why, she could 
 not have told. Lawrence had been most kind, but 
 neither his ring nor hints of prosperity for them could 
 eclipse the memory of a strong, dark-eyed face, or drown 
 the echo of a mellow musical voice with its undertone 
 half-mocking, half-sad. Lying on the bed, her hands 
 clasped above her head, her eyes closed, the words and 
 tones came back to her, and with them came bright hopes 
 that left smiles about her lips. 
 
 " How good it is that I can remember it all every 
 word and the way he looked and spoke ! I never 
 remembered anyone's words so before. But then it was 
 only to-day perhaps I will forget." She was lying in a 
 half-dreamy state when that thought came to her : " Per- 
 haps I will forget." Her heart seemed to stop beating 
 at the shock of the words that filled her with terror. Her 
 eyes were wide open, her hands clenched closely over 
 her breast as if to keep within the memories she feared 
 time might dim. She was only a child, and did not know 
 that to many women there is ever a present in which they 
 are only too happy to find oblivion from the past, no 
 matter how sweet their past was when they had it. She 
 was too much of a child to know that a child who slipped 
 from the bed to the floor in an attitude of prayer she 
 who in all her life had been taught nothing of prayers 
 kneeling there, shivering with terror at the thought of 
 those memories ever slipping out of her reach, muttering 
 over and over: " Don't let me forget. Kill me, but don't 
 let me forget !" 
 
 Her words were as the pleadings of a darkened, dis- 
 traught mind to which a gleam of sanity had been given,
 
 THE STORY OP AN ACTRESS. 53 
 
 followed by the sickening fear that it may not last, just 
 so intense was the fear that had come to her, child as she 
 was. 
 
 How long she crouched there on the floor she could 
 not tell. She heard the men's voices outside as they 
 walked up and down the yard. Finally they stopped 
 somewhere near, but she paid no heed. They were 
 seated on the bench outside the door, and Jack had evi- 
 dently forgotten that the window of Merze's room was 
 open beside them. And through her simple, aimless 
 prayer for to no deity was it offered ; it was rather to a 
 something within herself that she pleaded a something 
 whose depth and strength had never been tested, but on 
 which she now relied and to which she repeated: " Don't 
 let me forget " Through this self-communion there 
 came to her ears a name, one that brought her back from 
 the visionary hopes and fears to the real life about her. 
 The name was that of the boy who had loaned her books, 
 Glenn Halbert. It was Jack's voice speaking : " Yes, 
 Starlight belongs to the boy. The rest of the stock is 
 the old man's. The races are several weeks off, so I 
 will have plenty of time; no danger of hurry or bungling." 
 
 " Well, it means just that much money to you, and a 
 prospect of something better. I shall fit up a place in 
 the West this winter, and will need someone to help with 
 it. If this affair goes all right the berth is yours." 
 
 "And you may bet all you've got it will go right," 
 declared Jack. " You may put your money on the other 
 side as high as you want to, for Halbert's nag won't have 
 wind enough left to carry her around the track by the 
 time I dose her." 
 
 " Don't go to extremes, Jack ; be cautious," advised 
 Lawrence.
 
 54 MERZE : 
 
 And then their conversation went on, but it was on the 
 probable chances of horses whose names Merze did not 
 know, and she heeded nothing of their words. " What 
 shall I do? What can I do?" she thought, blankly. 
 Starlight, pretty, spirited Starlight, that Glenn loved as 
 if she were a human being ! Glenn, who despite his teas- 
 ing had been good and kind to her ! She must tell him; 
 but how and when ? 
 
 Long she sat there thinking what she should do, until 
 her head was aching and dizzy. Then mechanically she 
 rose and crept out into the other room. The candle 
 had burned out. Only the moon threw a pale light over 
 the floor. The men were still in front of the house. 
 Like a ghost she slipped out through the back door, which 
 stood open, out through the yard until she reached 
 the strip of meadow where there was neither bush nor 
 fence to hide her in case they should glance that way. 
 Down she dropped, and crept through the grass like a 
 slim, agile snake, scarcely daring to breathe in the in- 
 tensity of her fear that they may stop her. Her one 
 thought was that Halbert must know to-night; for, per- 
 haps, before she could get there in the morning something 
 might be done to injure Starlight; what, she. had no idea; 
 only she knew Jack meant harm to the horse. 
 
 Once out of the meadow she rose to her feet and ran 
 on along the by-path skirting the timber heedless of 
 branches that caught at her, of briars that tore her clothes 
 and her hands on through the clearing where the black- 
 ened stumps loomed up tomb-like and spectral. A 
 distant dog's bark came to her ears ; an owl hooted by 
 her almost in her face ; startled night birds fluttered from 
 her path ; lurid fox-fire gleamed from a dark mass up in 
 the woods above her ; but by all she passed without
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 55 
 
 seeing or hearing. To get there and back home again 
 before Jack would fasten up the house or know she was 
 gone, was her only thought. At last she reached the 
 white gate of the Homestead. A dog came bounding 
 toward her across the low fence a big, grizzled mastiff, 
 with fiery eyes, making long leaps. Swiftly as he ran, he 
 made no sound. Closer, closer he came, with the danger 
 betokened by silence in every sinewy stretch of the supple 
 body. The girl stopped, her face pallid with horror. 
 She knew the brute, and knew the danger. Two days 
 before he had thrown and killed a young heifer, and her 
 limbs seemed paralyzed. She tried to turn and run, but 
 could not. She tried to scream, but all her voice seemed 
 locked in her throat. Another leap and he would be on 
 her ! She held out her hand as the panting breath came 
 near enough to be felt. "Bruno," she whispered, for 
 only under her breath could she find strength to speak. 
 He knew her voice, but too late to check his headlong 
 leap. His immense paws fell with crushing force on her 
 breast and struck her to the ground. A faint scream fell 
 on the still air of the night, and then she lay like a dead 
 thing, moveless, breathless, with the dog crouching beside 
 her with a cringing, subdued whine that seemed to plead 
 for pardon or some sign of life. But none came, and, 
 raising his face skyward, he gave a couple of sharp barks, 
 followed by a long, low howl, such as the superstitious 
 turn in their beds at the sound of, and murmur : " The 
 dog calls for a death. God keep it from our dearest !" 
 From a solitary window of the Homestead a light shone. 
 All the rest was dark. As that faint scream rent the air, 
 the curtain of the lighted room was drawn aside, and a 
 figure stood in the window a moment as if listening, and 
 was about to turn away when the dog's howl sounded
 
 56 MERZE : 
 
 dismally through the stillness. In a moment the figure 
 was out through the window onto the dewy sward of 
 the lawn. 
 
 " Bruno ! What is it, Bruno ?" 
 
 No Bruno came in answer, but again came tnat mourn- 
 ful call to his ears. The figure of a man followed the 
 sound until a turn in the path brought him within two 
 feet of the girl lying on the grass. The dog was licking 
 her hands, moaning and whining the while. 
 
 " Merze ! What does this mean ? Merze ! Merze !" 
 But the white face lay unmoved, the icy hands nerveless. 
 "Watch her Bruno, good Bruno !" and the man turned 
 again toward the house. Swiftly he covered the distance 
 and came back with a flask in his hand. Forcing a little 
 of the contents between the white lips, he watched the 
 faint struggle for breath, and then the big eyes opened 
 wide, and met the others bending above her. Twice 
 she tried to speak, but the white lips refused their office, 
 and she could only look. 
 
 " Lie still ; don't try to talk," said the man, who was 
 holding both her hands in his as if to give them warmth. 
 " Here, try and swallow some more of the brandy." 
 
 She shook her head while her hands closed around 
 his. 
 
 " King Arthur ! King Arthur ! I am so glad I will 
 never forget " She had forgotten all : her errand, her 
 fright, and the cause of that deathly, sinking sensation 
 which had seemed to her as if all life was slipping from 
 her grasp. 
 
 At the sound of her voice Bruno, who had stood at her 
 head, came timidly around beside her and laid his nose 
 against her shoulder. As she saw him, memory came 
 back, and the man, seeing the terror in her eyes, drew
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 57 
 
 her closer, as he would a little child, while, with the other 
 hand, he pushed the dog away. 
 
 " Never mind, it is all right. Bruno won't harm you ; 
 don't be so frightened, child." Thus he talked softly, 
 soothingly, his voice sounding to the girl as a caressing 
 lullaby after the horror she had endured. But through 
 it all there came to her sharply the sense of where she 
 was and the reason of her coming. 
 
 " Help me up," she said. " I must go." 
 
 " You must do nothing of the sort ; you must remain 
 here, until morning at any rate," asserted the man, as he 
 noted the trembling of her form and the pallor of her 
 face. 
 
 "I must, I tell you !" she answered determinedly, per- 
 sisting in rising to her feet, where she swayed and would 
 have fallen but for him. " Oh, what is it that ails me ?" 
 she half whispered. " Everything seems slipping away 
 brandy, give it me quick !" He held it to her lips and 
 she swallowed a little, still clinging to him as if deter- 
 mined to stand. 
 
 " Let me carry you to the house and call one of the 
 women-servants." 
 
 " No," she answered, straightening herself with an 
 effort. " I don't dare ; I must go at once. I can stand 
 now; the brandy helped me. Don't let them know I am 
 here ; no one must know; only you must tell them about 
 Starlight early in the morning." 
 
 " Yes, yes," he assented, soothingly, thinking her mind 
 was a little dazed. " But come to the house. If you 
 must go home, I must get you a wrap and go with you." 
 
 " Oh !" she burst out, irritably, " I tell you no ! I will 
 go alone, and you must tell them to send Starlight away, 
 or do something with her. Don't look at me as if my
 
 58 MERZE : 
 
 head was wrong. That is what I came for, because it is 
 Glenn's animal. I ran all the way, and then Bruno 
 frightened me so; but it is all going away. I'm all right 
 now." 
 
 The man looked at her through this broken, disjointed 
 speech, not understanding, but feeling that she was in 
 earnest. 
 
 " Look here," he said at last, " what is it you mean ? 
 Why must they send Starlight away ?" 
 
 " Didn't I tell you ?" she asked, impatiently. " Be- 
 cause if she stays they will do something to her to keep 
 her from winning the race." 
 
 "How do you know? Tell me all about it; who will 
 harm her ?" 
 
 " I can't. I must go. Tell them if they do keep her 
 here, to let no one but Hen touch her feed. No one could 
 bribe him, and he must not leave her night or day. Oh ! 
 make them listen, and mind what I tell you ; only don't let 
 them know who informed you." 
 
 " Would it bring harm to you ?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know what it might bring. They can't kill 
 me, I suppose. But I must go. I am so glad it was 
 you who came to me; I was afraid I would never see you 
 again." 
 
 " Are you strong enough to go alone ? Let me go 
 with you," he offered again, but she shook her head. 
 
 " No, no, you must not. I am all right now." 
 
 " Put this in your pocket," and he handed her the flask 
 of brandy. "You may feel faint again." She demurred 
 until he said decidedly: " If you won't take this, you must 
 take me, for I can't have you go alone with nothing to 
 strengthen you. Take it to please me, and if you find 
 yourself getting faint don't hesitate to swallow it. Now,
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 59 
 
 good-night, since you insist on going alone. You are a 
 brave girl to come as you have to warn them about the 
 mare. I will have it attended to without suspicion regard- 
 ing you or your father." 
 
 She looked at him, feeling that he understood, but 
 would not betray her. "Thank you," she said, "thank 
 you," and with a swift, sure step, in which force of will 
 eclipsed physical strength, she turned and walked away 
 in the moonlight, while for the second time that day the 
 man watched her disappearing form with curious emo- 
 tions. 
 
 " A brave child, Bruno," he said, as she faded from 
 view in the silvery belt of young willows that skirted the 
 faintly-lighted fields. "A curious compound of weak- 
 ness and strength, but a brave child !" 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Back over the wood path walked Merze, keeping her 
 steps sure and her form erect despite the buzzing, con- 
 fused feeling in her head. She saw the landmarks she 
 passed not a half hour before, but to her dazed senses 
 years seemed to have elapsed since she ran, heedless of 
 the night's awe, careless of the branches and briers 
 clutching at her as she sped. Then a dozen fears and 
 fancies born of her errand chased one another through 
 her brain ; now she walked on, steadily, swiftly on, 
 with only one dull, never-changing thought in her throb- 
 bing brain the thought that, though she dropped dead 
 on the threshold, yet she must force strength to get once 
 more in her own room: that Jack must find her there in 
 the morning.
 
 60 MERZE : 
 
 Her eyes were half-blinded and dizzy, but she fought 
 it off and kept steadily on. She thought it must be a 
 thing like death that was coming to her, dulling her 
 senses and putting that murmur in her ears, like the 
 sound of many voices afar off, and then growing nearer 
 and nearer, until they crowded so close about that they 
 seemed to leave her no room, except close against a large 
 tree. She clung to it, steadying herself as well as she 
 could, though earth and heaven seemed swaying; and, as 
 she became more conscious and tried to go on, there 
 came to her again that murmur of voices not imaginary 
 this time, for, faint as she was, she knew it was human 
 tones. 
 
 Shrinking back into the shadow, she waited until they 
 should pass. Up in the woods above gleamed the fox- 
 fire; all else was in dense shadow under the trees. Sud- 
 denly, between herself and it passed a something that 
 obscured it ; not an owl, it was too large ; not an animal, 
 it was too silent. Awe-stricken, she watched it, and as 
 her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she saw it was 
 a man, a man who was standing not twenty feet from 
 her standing as if listening to the voices that came 
 nearer and nearer, and from the direction of her home. 
 
 She never could tell how long she stood so, watching 
 the man who, unconscious of her presence, was waiting 
 for the owners of the voices. She saw them coming 
 along the path where it crossed an open space, and where 
 the moon's light fell full on Lawrence and Jack. 
 
 She had only time to see who it was and to shrink 
 closer into the shadow when that other silent watcher 
 walked deliberately into the path ahead of them. At 
 the same instant a shot cut the air, quick, sharp ; and 
 following it came three others, almost simultaneously.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 61 
 
 She heard broken exclamations, and a second later only 
 two men stood in the open space, and one of those 
 was staggering and grasping at the other's arm. 
 
 " Jack, old fellow my God, Jack ! are you hit ?" 
 
 "Yes." That was all the answer, in a voice that 
 sounded husky -and uncertain. 
 
 Merze did not scream, though the words came to her 
 distinctly ; but in a moment she crashed through the 
 low brush and was beside him. She half stumbled over 
 something lying rn the path, and her foot came down on 
 a thing which turned as a snake does when trod on. She 
 passed unheeding, not knowing it was the wrist of a 
 dead man. 
 
 " Dada ! dada !" she cried, as he sank between herself 
 and Lawrence to the ground. 
 
 " Merze, is it you ? I am glad. I " 
 
 " Don't try to talk," admonished Lawrence. "Where 
 are you hit ? I hope to God it is not serious !" He 
 looked at Merze in amazement ; but this was no time for 
 questionings, and his face was very anxious as he bent 
 over Jack. 
 
 " It's too late for that hope," answered Jack. " He 
 has settled me. Poor Merze, poor girl !" 
 
 " Don't give up, Jack ; it may not be fatal. We will 
 send for the nearest doctor. Where are you hit ?" 
 
 Jack looked at him, shaking his head. 
 
 " It is here," he answered, pointing to where the blood 
 was oozing out a little below the throat. " A doctor can 
 do no good. I know what a shot like this means. It 
 may leave me an hour, not more. Don't move me. Let 
 me be here with Merze poor Merze !" 
 
 The girl had said nothing. She sat holding his head in 
 her lap, her hand crimson with the blood she was trying
 
 62 MERZE : 
 
 to staunch, but all to no purpose. With every labored 
 breath it spurted out afresh. She was not crying, but at 
 Jack's last words she lifted her face toward Lawrence 
 with such a depth of tearless grief in her eyes that the 
 man turned his head and rose, clenching his hands in the 
 bitterness of his great grief and rage. 
 
 " Oh, God !" he half whispered, through set teeth, 
 " what can I do ? Must I let you die like this, and for 
 me? That shot was meant for me. Oh, Jack, Jack!" 
 He was walking to and fro, with broken words, half 
 curses, half prayers, on his lips. There was no mis- 
 taking the man's sincerity. The thought of Jack dying 
 in his stead through him metamorphosed the cool, 
 self-contained stranger into a wild man. 
 
 Merze held out her hand to him, scarce seeing the 
 blood drops falling from it. 
 
 " Don't !" she cried. " Be quiet ; it hurts him." For 
 Jack's eyes showed his wishes, though he could not 
 speak. But when Lawrence came and knelt quietly 
 beside him he smiled, and, after an effort, whispered : " I 
 must talk ; some whiskey !" 
 
 " And I have not a drop !" groaned Lawrence. 
 
 "Here," said Merze. "In my pocket; get it, quick!" 
 
 In a moment Lawrence had it, and was holding it to 
 Jack's lips. It revived him, and he laid one hand on 
 Lawrence's. 
 
 " I want to talk while I can. I am glad you are here 
 only you and Merze with me at the last. You gave 
 up your chance of life once to me, and now " 
 
 " Don't, Jack !" broke in the other, huskily. " You are 
 dying for me don't I know it ? You took the bullet 
 meant to reach me God in heaven, why did it not ?" 
 
 Again Merze threw out her hand in restraint, and
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. G3 
 
 again he silently obeyed her. She, child as she was, 
 with all her weight of dull, dumb agony, seemed the 
 stronger of the two. 
 
 " Because your time hadn't come, Fred, and mine has. 
 Don't fret, old fellow ; it was down on the cards, and had 
 to be played ; nothing could alter that. But my last 
 game has cleared the table of that thing which has 
 hoodooed you so long." And Jack made a movement 
 toward the dark mass at the edge of the moonlit space. 
 " Is it all over with him ?" 
 
 Lawrence walked over, and bent for a moment toward 
 the form over which the chill of death had already 
 fallen. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, in a subdued voice, but loud 
 enough for them to hear distinctly. 
 
 " How many shots struck him ?" asked Jack. 
 
 Lawrence knelt for a moment, running his hands over 
 the body before him. Then he rose and came back. 
 
 " One," he said, looking at Jack questioningly. Some- 
 thing like a smile passed over Jack's face at the 
 word. 
 
 " It is luck," he said, gaspingly ; "a little luck at last." 
 He motioned for the flask, which Lawrence held to his 
 lips, and, after a little while, continued : " I want you to 
 listen, both of you. They say the eyes of the dying see 
 clear. I think so now. I see something that means 
 danger to you that means death." 
 
 " Never mind me," said Lawrence ; " think of yourself 
 and of Merze, poor child ! If I could only help you in 
 this." 
 
 "Poor child!" echoed Jack. "But you will try to 
 keep her from fretting, I know that. It is the other 
 I must speak of while I can. If you are found here
 
 64 MERZE : 
 
 by anyone who knows him it is you they will accuse of 
 his murder." 
 
 " Let them !" answered Lawrence, fiercely. " Perhaps 
 they would be right. It may have been my bullet." 
 
 " And it may have been mine," added Jack. " We 
 will never know. Did you think of that ?" 
 
 Lawrence looked at him questioningly, and then his 
 face cleared. 
 
 " True. I did not think of it. They were both alike. 
 Strange it should have happened so." 
 
 " Not so strange. It is luck, I tell you. Luck sent to 
 clear you and give me a chance to pay the debt I've 
 owed you for years." 
 
 " What are you talking of, Jack ? Think of Merze, 
 not me." 
 
 " I am thinking of you both. She is a good girl, and 
 will back me up in what I want done, for she'll know it's 
 my last deal, and will not object. Some more of that 
 brandy." 
 
 He was growing weaker, despite the sustaining power 
 of the brandy ; his breath came spasmodically, and the 
 voice was growing more broken and uncertain. Merze, 
 holding his head, could feel the convulsive bracing of the 
 muscles as he made an effort to continue. 
 
 " Don't say anything. Let me finish first. Merze, this 
 was my only friend ; remember that, and do as I ask. 
 To-morrow, when they ask you, do not tell them Fred 
 was here. I killed him. Tell them I said so. Prom- 
 ise me." 
 
 " I won't have it !" exclaimed Lawrence. " I'll take my 
 chance. It is enough to lose your life like this, through 
 me, without leaving that legacy to Merze." 
 
 " She will leave here. You take care of her. Change
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS, 65 
 
 her name. No one need know who her father was. 
 There are no relations but her mother's people. Never 
 go to them. Promise me, Merze. I hated them always ! 
 Don't go to them." 
 
 " I never will, dada," answered the girl, soothingly, 
 for the memory of them had infused a spirit of impo- 
 tent hate into the red tide of his veins, and was causing 
 it to ebb the faster. 
 
 " That is a good girl ! a good girl ! And you will tell 
 them I killed him. There was no one else. Remember 
 that you will tell them ?" 
 
 The girl did not answer. She was trying to think what 
 she should say, but could not concentrate her thoughts ; 
 and her mind was wandering, wandering off to another 
 time when Jack's head had lain in her lap just so. It 
 was on a flat-boat opposite Natchez. Her mother was 
 sitting near, sewing, and looking ill-tempered. Some 
 negroes were singing a little below, on the bank, and 
 Jack lay with his head in her lap, drunk. She had a 
 willow branch, and was keeping the flies off his face. 
 There was one big one that would not go, but came back 
 again and again. And the wash of the waves, and the 
 soft, soothing refrain of the song, and the heat of the sun, 
 made her so drowsy so 
 
 " Merze, don't say you won't ! Promise me quick ! 
 It's the last thing I have to ask of you. I've been bad, 
 bad ; but it's your duty to help me square what I can." 
 
 Jack's voice brought her to with a start. One word 
 struck a chord that otherwise he might not have 
 reached. Was it chance that placed it on Jack's lips ? 
 The word he had disregarded all his life duty. Like a 
 flash came to her the counsel in the woods the words 
 of the man who seemed to her fit to be lawgiver to 
 5
 
 66 MERZE : 
 
 the world : " Do the work duty brings to you, if you 
 would make good use of your life." 
 
 "Promise me, Merze, promise me !" 
 
 " I promise, dada," she answered. 
 
 He gave a sigh of content, and sank a little heavier 
 against her arm. 
 
 "Then it's all right. She will keep her word, Fred; 
 so go. Catch that train. You can do it yet." 
 
 " Go, Jack, and leave you like this ? I can't do that ; 
 don't ask it. The girl will be alone without you ; think 
 of that." 
 
 " She is not afraid. Come or send for her after a few 
 days, when it is all over. Try and give her school I 
 can't I " 
 
 " While I have a dollar she shall be cared for, be sure 
 of that." 
 
 " I am I wish I could see " His voice died away, 
 
 and the brandy was once more held to his lips. He 
 swallowed it, and looked up into the other man's face 
 long and steadily ; then he asked : 
 
 " There is no one in your life no woman ?" 
 
 "You know," answered the other. "Why do you 
 ask ?" 
 
 " I am afraid they will take her her mother's people. 
 She will be a woman soon. There is one way " 
 
 "Would it please you ?" is all Lawrence said. 
 
 " Yes. I am afraid the law will give her to them. I 
 hate them. Don't let it don't let it." 
 
 "I won't if Merze is willing," answered Lawrence. 
 Then he turned to her. She had heard their words, 
 scarcely heeding or understanding. Her eyes were 
 watching the fitful rise and fall of Jack's throat. Law- 
 rence laid his hand on her shoulder as he said :
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 67 
 
 " Merze, it seems terrible to speak of this now, but it 
 is to content him. Would you be willing to marry 
 me ?" 
 
 " Marry you ?" repeated the girl, in a dazed way, 
 knitting her brows in pained perplexity. 
 
 " Yes ; listen. Jack has given you to me. I am to take 
 care of you and send you to school ; but he would die 
 more contented if you would also promise to be my 
 wife." 
 
 " Oh, dada, dada : What does it mean ?" 
 
 " It is for your good, Merze ; so you can be taken care 
 of when dada is gone. It will change your name ; the 
 others won't find you then. It would please me. Will 
 you, Merze ?" 
 
 " I don't care," she answered, listlessly, numb with it 
 all. I will do as you ask." 
 
 "Merze, my little Merze!" he half whispered; and 
 then to Lawrence : " Go now, at once. As I said, don't 
 let them find you here." 
 
 "Jack, I can't!" muttered the other, rising, and looking 
 across toward the dark mass with the steel of a revolver 
 gleaming near it. " Leaye Merze alone in such a place ? 
 I can't do it !" 
 
 Merze, watching Jack's face, saw the intensity of his 
 anxiety. 
 
 " Do as he asks, Mr. Lawrence," she urged. " I am 
 not afraid ; he is right. I have promised to tell what he 
 wants ; but it is all of no use, he says, if you and your 
 revolver are found here. Go at once ; it will satisfy him. 
 Please do. It is hurting him to hear you refuse." 
 
 He looked at her a moment, and then knelt beside 
 them. 
 
 " Jack, old friend, I will go, and will do as you say.
 
 68 MERZE : 
 
 She shall be taken care of until she is a woman, and 
 then " 
 
 NOW now," faltered the other. " Your hands so I 
 can see them promise each other." 
 
 Lawrence looked at Merze, and reached his hand 
 across the dying man's form. Merze laid hers in it. 
 
 " I promise to legally marry her as soon as she is 
 willing." 
 
 " Promise, Merze, promise," whispered Jack. 
 
 "I promise to marry him." 
 
 Jack gave a sigh of relief, and whispered : " It is the 
 same as a marriage ; remember that, Merze, the same as 
 a marriage. Go now go, Fred, and good luck go 
 with you." 
 
 For a moment the men clasped hands, and looked into 
 each other's eyes for the last time. Then Lawrence 
 rose, and Merze heard his steps grow fainter and fainter; 
 but she did not look after him. Her eyes were on Jack's 
 face. 
 
 He lay quietly ; his breathing was more even. Was 
 it her fancy that every breath was a little fainter than the 
 last ? Once or twice she heard him whisper : " Merze, 
 my Merze !" 
 
 Ten minutes may have elapsed when they were found 
 so, she sitting in the same position, her face like white 
 marble, he with the signs of life so faint that only her 
 eyes could detect it still there. 
 
 A man, coming along the wood path with a Turkish 
 pipe in his mouth, stopped short at the sight of the three 
 figures in the open moonlit space. Then he sprang for- 
 ward to her side. 
 
 " God in heaven ! What is it, child ?" 
 
 She looked up and tried to speak, but no words came.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 69 
 
 "I heard the shots, and grew uneasy. Finally I 
 started to walk this way and all the time you have been 
 with this alone!" 
 
 He tried to help her to rise by lifting the burden from 
 her lap the body he thought lifeless from the icy touch. 
 Did that last word reach the sense of the dying ? The 
 eyes closed and opened again, the throat rose and fell 
 with the intense struggle for the words which came : 
 
 " Alone I I killed him alone !" 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " Is she no better ?" 
 
 It -,vas one week later, and the speaker was the careless- 
 looking man whom Merze had called " King Arthur." He 
 was sitting on the wooden bench outside the door of the 
 log house where Jack and Lawrence had sat and talked 
 that last night together. 
 
 " Well, I don't know as she is, and I don't know but 
 what she is ; she's quiet now, anyway, an' that's one 
 blessin', fer her talk jest about druv me distracted. But 
 now that her kinsfolks has sent someone to look after 
 her I won't have so much of it on my shoulders. She's 
 to take her somewhere to her folks, as soon as she's able 
 to be moved ; that's what she's come fer, I reckon." 
 
 " Can I see the nurse ?" 
 
 " I expect not, but I'll ask her," and the lanky speci- 
 men of feminine Kentucky sidled into the house. She 
 had been bothered by so many questioners during the 
 past week that they had begun to meet with scant cour- 
 tesy when they thronged clown the country roads, curi- 
 ous to hear all concerning the double tragedy, and peer
 
 70 MERZE : 
 
 into the square, oddly-furnished room where the bodies 
 had lain during the inquest in which there was but one 
 witness, and that was the man waiting outside. 
 
 He had heard three or four shots four he thought, 
 and had walked in their direction. Had found the stranger 
 dead, and had been in time to hear Mignot's last words, 
 in which he said he had killed the man. Two chambers 
 had been emptied from each man's revolver, and the jury 
 agreed that each had come to his death at the hands of 
 the other ; why or wherefore none could tell, as none had 
 ever seen the stranger in those parts, though people had 
 come from far and near to look and speculate over the 
 affair. 
 
 On that point alone had Merze been questioned that 
 morning : " Did she know had she ever seen the dead 
 man ? or did she know the cause of the tragedy ?" 
 
 To all she could truthfully say " No." And by noon 
 she was past answering any questions, and the verdict was 
 rendered, and the bodies buried just outside the pailings 
 of the country graveyard, side by side. 
 
 The girl lay babbling of blood that was turning all the 
 grass red, and begging them to take the snowdrops away 
 away where it would not drip over them ; and then she 
 would forget them in her pleading for " Dada, dada, 
 dada !" until tears would creep up to the eyes of the sun- 
 bronzed woman beside her. 
 
 That day for the first time she was quieter, and as the 
 woman drew aside the curtain from the door-way, she 
 seemed sleeping. By the little square window at the 
 end of the room sat another woman not one of the na- 
 tives one could see that at a glance ; but a quiet, self- 
 contained looking person in a neat black dress, who was 
 turning over the leaves of an old magazine in an idle way.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 71 
 
 "What is it, Mrs. Williams?" she asked, looking up. 
 
 " It's a man that wants to know if he can talk to 
 you." 
 
 " Who is he ?" 
 
 " I know him by sight, but ain't good at 'membrin' 
 names. He's a visitor 'cross at Halbert Homestead. 
 He's the man that found the bodies." 
 
 " I don't see why I should be annoyed by those people. 
 I don't know anything about the affair, and don't want 
 to, and you can tell him so," and she turned again to the 
 book ; but Mrs. Williams hesitated. 
 
 " I couldn't tell him that very well ; he ain't like none 
 of the people hereabouts, an' I don't think he wants to 
 say anything about the shootin'. I reckon it's about 
 her," with a jerk of her thumb toward the girl on the 
 bed. 
 
 " Oh, well ! I will see him, then, if you remain here," 
 and, rising, she passed into the other room, and then to 
 the door. 
 
 "You wished to speak with me?" she said to the dark 
 man who raised his hat with a grace not met often " here- 
 abouts," as Mrs. Williams expressed it. 
 
 ''Are you the lady who has come to nurse Merze ?" 
 
 " Well, I have not come to nurse her, but since she re- 
 quires it I do it. As soon as she can be moved I am to 
 take her away ; that is what I came for." 
 
 " Pardon me, but are you a relative ?" he asked, won- 
 dering who this compact, business-like little woman was, 
 and if she would have any part in the future life of 
 the girl in the darkened room. 
 
 " No, I am not a relative merely a companion sent to 
 take the girl to her friends." 
 
 u Then she has friends to care for her ?"
 
 72 MERZE : 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Would you mind telling me who they are ?" The 
 woman's manner, though courteous enough, did not in- 
 vite questioning, and he was not much surprised when 
 she answered : " I can't do that. They evidently want 
 to separate her entirely from her present surroundings. 
 I would like to oblige you, but can't. I am simply paid 
 to take charge of the girl, fit her out with wardrobe, etc., 
 and take her to the person in whose employ I am. I be- 
 lieve she is to be put to school at once, judging from the 
 style of dresses and things I am to buy her. The things 
 in the house are to be disposed of as she wishes ; but of 
 her destination after leaving here I am to answer no 
 questions." 
 
 " All I cared to know was if she would have an assured 
 home. No doubt her relatives would want her to forget 
 all her life here, poor child ! It will be well if she can. 
 I have been much interested in her, but if she has friends 
 to claim her, I can be of no use, I suppose. I leave this 
 part of the country to-day, and would like to leave my 
 address for her in case well, in case she should ever 
 need a friend. When she is better, will you give it to 
 her ?" 
 
 " You can leave it." She did not say she would de- 
 liver it, but he did not note the evasion in her reply. He 
 scribbled a few lines on a card and handed it to her, and 
 she put it in her pocket, and turned to go in. 
 
 " Am I not to see her ?" he asked, noticing that her 
 manner did not seem to favor a visit. 
 
 She hesitated, looking uncertain. 
 
 "Oh, well!" she said, at last, "I suppose you can. 
 They didn't say anything about letting people see her, 
 so I will not be disobeying orders anyway. Come in."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 73 
 
 He followed her in through the big square room and 
 under the curtain of the door. 
 
 " I think she is sleeping," she said, in a low tone, as 
 he stood silently by the bed. She lay with closed eyes, 
 her cheeks flushed, her hair scattered in bronze waves 
 over the pillow. One hand was over her head, the other 
 lay brown against the green-and-white patchwork of the 
 quilt, and on one finger he saw gleaming a ring an opal 
 surrounded by diamonds a strange thing for her to 
 wear. It had been there that night when he carried her 
 home in a dead faint and laid her on the home-made 
 lounge while he went to tell the neighbors of two bodies 
 found on the wood path, but he had not noticed it. He 
 had told none that Merze was found by her father's side 
 that night ; why, he could not have explained to himself, 
 unless it was to save her the pain of answering unneces- 
 sary questions. She had answered the leading ones, and 
 he thought that was all that should be required of her ; 
 but now, looking at the costly, old-fashioned ring, he was 
 not so sure. But she was past answering now for many 
 a day. 
 
 "What does the doctor say ? Is she out of danger?" 
 he asked. The flushed face made him anxious, know- 
 ing, as he did, the intense strain put on the girlish 
 form that one night. 
 
 " Yes," answered the woman, " she will be all right now 
 with good nursing." 
 
 The man looked long at the closed lids, which were, 
 nevertheless, very tremulous disturbed, perhaps, by the 
 voices, or was it at the sound of the one voice she had 
 begged so never to forget ? As he turned to leave, they 
 raised ; the big eyes opened wide, gazing up into his. 
 
 "The snowdrops," she muttered, "the snowdrops;
 
 74 MERZE ' 
 
 bring them to me. Not the ones with red drops on them 
 the white stars that grow so deep in the shade ; but we 
 can find them some day if only I don't forget !" 
 
 Then the voice died away in inarticulate, broken mur- 
 murs, while a moisture crept into the man's eyes as he 
 heard. 
 
 "God grant that you don't forget, child," he said, and, 
 pulling his slouched hat low over his eyes, he turned with 
 no words to either of the women standing by, and 
 walked through the other room out into the sunshine. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Doubt, a blank twilight of the heart, which mars 
 All sweetest colors in its dimness same ; 
 
 A soul mist, through whose rifts familiar stars 
 Beholding, we misname. Ingelow. 
 
 A murmur and clatter of girlish voices filled the air and 
 floated up through a window where two forms were out- 
 lined against the white background of a calcimined wall 
 those walls that hold so little of cheer in their unvary- 
 ing sameness as little of homeliness as one finds in the 
 walls of a hospital. 
 
 " Is that all he says, Miss Lawrence ?" 
 
 " That is all in which you can have any interest, Miss 
 Powell." 
 
 The woman's face flushed darkly at the girl's tone. 
 She stood irresolutely for a moment, looking as if it 
 would have given her pleasure to strike the smiling, inso- 
 lent face. Then she turned, and said : 
 
 "I shall repeat your rudeness to Mrs. Smith, and
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 75 
 
 allow her to speak to you, since my kindly overtures 
 have met with such ingratitude." 
 
 " Yes, do," said the girl, persuasively; and she coolly 
 resumed interest in the croquet game before her. When 
 she turned again, Miss Powell was gone. 
 
 "The cat!" she muttered ; "why can't she leave me 
 alone ? She was dying to know why I was leaving, and 
 all about it. I wonder what she would say if she did 
 know all about it ?" And the girl's face lightened with 
 a half-dreaming, half-sarcastic smile, as she saw in her 
 mind's eye the sensation which the newly-received letter 
 would occasion if its contents were known to her school- 
 mates and teachers. 
 
 The letter was still clasped close in her hand, as when 
 she had deliberately folded and held it in front of 
 Miss Powell's eyes, that were questioning as to its con- 
 tents. She opened it again, and glanced down until 
 she came to the lines : " I am sorry not to be able to go 
 for you, and hope you will not mind the short journey 
 alone. I will meet the boat at Wheeling, where I will 
 make arrangements for our marriage ; and, as I have 
 business in Baltimore, and must go through at once, I 
 will take you with me. Now, if there is anything in this 
 to which you object or would wish changed, write me at 
 once ; if not, I shall expect to take formal possession of 
 you one week from the day this reaches you ; and, until 
 then, am yours as ever, FRED LAWRENCE." 
 
 " A week from to-day !" 
 
 She dropped her hands in her lap, and, leaning her 
 head against the window-casing, gazed out over the girls 
 beneath over the rolling hills to the south, where a haze 
 of smoke betrayed the site of Cincinnati the haven for 
 the girls when a holiday was in question for all but her.
 
 76 MERZE : 
 
 She alone had been there, winter and summer, for four 
 years, with never a vacation ; and not very happy years 
 were they. Mrs. Smith's Home for Young Ladies was 
 conducted on strictly business principles, from which 
 neither the principal nor her niece ever diverged enough 
 to allow sympathy or understanding for the heart-needs 
 of their pupils. 
 
 To Lawrence this view had never presented itself. It 
 was a school where they boarded girls that was all he 
 knew. He had been asked, among other questions, by 
 the principal : " What religion ?" It had disconcerted 
 him for a moment, knowing so little of Jack's family, 
 and at last he answered : 
 
 "None!" 
 
 " None ?" echoed the prim-looking lady, with a note 
 of pained surprise in her voice the lady whose opinion 
 of another person's work on the " Mosaic Origin of the 
 Pentateuchal Codes " had been so much praised 
 " none ?" 
 
 "None," he answered. " Teach her all you can all 
 she wants to know, but let her choose for herself as to 
 religions." 
 
 And so Merze had entered the school under a ban. 
 Few know or thoroughly understand the faith of their 
 own fathers, and beyond a monotonous prayer every 
 morning, they were not enlightened on those questions 
 in the school. But all of them were taught at home to 
 believe in something, and looked askance at the big-eyed 
 girl with close-cropped hair and thin face. For in some 
 unknown way it had been whispered about that the new- 
 comer was an unbeliever, an atheist a thing terrible. 
 Some of the smaller girls were afraid of her, and went to 
 bed in fear and trembling, until, as time went on, and
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 77 
 
 the house had not been struck by lightning, and no 
 earthquake had visited the region, they began to grow 
 braver, but never enough so to pass the room alone in 
 the dark. And Merze, not knowing the cause, knew 
 only the outgrowth of it, and grew cold and distant to 
 all, while they looked on her as an alien this girl who 
 mentioned no kindred, no home, no friends, no God. If 
 there is any congregation more clannish than a consolida- 
 tion of school girls, I have yet failed to find it ; and to 
 Merze, heartsick and sombre, needing, as but few need, 
 the companionship of loving hearts, they were implac- 
 able. 
 
 But that did not prevent her studying. Books the 
 things she had longed for always were within her reach, 
 and in them she forgot the chilliness about her, unless, at 
 times, it was thrust on her notice, and then her curt 
 tongue left them with a sort of respect for the girl who 
 could hold her own so well in their encounters, and who 
 was working steadily ahead of most of them in the studies 
 they shared together. But in none did she find the 
 friend or chum so dear to girlhood. The nearest 
 approach to it was when one of the girls, a slight, timid 
 creature, fell in the grounds and sprained her ankle, and 
 Merze, finding her, raised the light form, and carried her 
 bodily into the house, and helped dress and care for her 
 until she was quite well. 
 
 The girl, Alice, at first shrank a little from the self- 
 appointed nurse; but she found, when the pain was most 
 severe, no words were so gentle, no hand so caressing, as 
 the girl's she had been taught by example to shun. 
 
 " Shall I read you something ?" Merze asked one day, 
 when she was still unable to walk. Alice gladly con- 
 sented ; but when Merze, picking up a book from the
 
 78 MERZE : 
 
 table, began reading in musical, subdued tones that old 
 story of fair, proud Queen Vashti, the girl turned to her 
 in amazement. 
 
 "Why, that is the Bible !" she cried, involuntarily. 
 
 " Do you not like it ?" asked Merze. " I did not 
 know ; it was on the table, so I took it." 
 
 "But but I thought you did not read it," stam- 
 mered Alice. 
 
 "Oh, yes," answered Merze, calmly; "there's one on 
 the shelf in my room. I read everything I get my 
 hands on, so I read it. There are many beautiful things 
 in it for all the coarseness under which so much of it 
 is hidden." 
 
 " Oh, hush, hush !" pleaded Alice in terror. " Oh, Miss 
 Lawrence, don't say such wicked things !" 
 
 " Wicked ?" said Merze, looking at her astonishedly, 
 " how wicked ?" 
 
 " Why, to speak like that, as if it were any ordinary 
 book. Mrs. Smith would be very angry if she knew; she 
 is so religious, you know." 
 
 "Yes, I know," answered Merze, smilingly. "In the 
 whole course of my life I have met no one so thor- 
 oughly religious as our Mrs. Smith, and I am sure I 
 have never met anyone who possessed so much pure, 
 unadulterated meanness in little things, many of which 
 we could not speak of as being strictly honest, even." 
 
 " Oh, Miss Lawrence ; if she should hear you ! " 
 breathed Alice, in affright. " None of the girls ever dare 
 say such wicked things." 
 
 " Why not ? I am sure neither herself nor her amiable 
 niece ever spare their opinion, no matter who it falls on. 
 As to the other the book, I don't see why people should 
 be called wicked for saying what I did."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 79 
 
 " I don't know. Of course we all have them and 
 believe in them ; but I don't think any of the girls ever 
 read them except in class, and I am sure none of them 
 could ever pick one up to read aloud from to another as 
 you have done." 
 
 " Yet you believe in it have a sort of faith in it ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I would be afraid not to have ; it would 
 seem so dreadful ! It is inspired, you know divine." 
 
 Merze laughed. " Have you ever heard of the Voo- 
 doos of the South ?" she asked. 
 
 The girl nodded. 
 
 " Well, they would stake their souls on the healing and 
 miraculous power possessed by a little shapeless mass 
 given them by one of their rulers or doctors. It would 
 be sacrilege for them to doubt ; the thing to them is 
 divine, the one who prepared it inspired. But let it be 
 taken apart, and all you find is the bones of a frog, the 
 feathers of a fowl, the long hair of some woman's head. 
 Perhaps if you were to open the book which now 
 serves you only as the amulet does the Voodoo, and 
 read it thoroughly, you might not have such a terror of 
 thinking for yourself." 
 
 This conversation had occurred a year after her en- 
 trance to the school, and, coming through Alice to the 
 ears of the other inmates, had not the effect of rendering 
 them more social. And she had a contempt for them 
 in her mind a contempt for the prim, sweet-faced lady 
 who expended her kind glances and gentle words on 
 the wealthier pupils, at the same time that she weighed 
 out niggardly portions of tea and sugar for the girls' 
 table. And through her contempt for the pettiness 
 around her there grew a yet deeper one for that which 
 they called their religion of which she had seen little
 
 80 MERZE : 
 
 but meaningless forms, cold, unattractive, without soul. 
 In her ignorance she knew nothing of any other, and she 
 had no one to teach her; small wonder, then, that she grew 
 indifferent as to whether they were right or wrong. But 
 their book of faith, their Bible, she continued to read more 
 as a history than aught else, and because of the poems 
 whose depth and strength appealed to her love of the beau- 
 tiful. But it was only the beauty she searched for. The 
 divinity in it was unintelligible to her. She passed it by 
 as a child goes through the standing wheat, grasping at 
 the nodding daisies, the golden buttercups, but uncon- 
 scious that the mainstay of human life stands close 
 around ready for the harvest. 
 
 That which came nearest being a substitute for relig- 
 ion was the laws of duty to herself, to others, that were 
 given her by her friend of the brushes and pipe. In 
 her life he was the one divinity the man who had come 
 to her that one day at her greatest need who had 
 understood and helped her, and had then dropped out 
 of her knowledge as quickly as he had come, but leav- 
 ing the impression of his mind and thought on her own. 
 It may have been that very manner of coming and going 
 which made a lasting impression on her girlish love for 
 the stranger. Sometimes she felt as if it were all a 
 fantasy of her illness the coming of the man who was 
 so unlike other men. But even when her better reason 
 told her it was not, she never could think of him without 
 a veneration tinged with awe that, unconsciously to herself, 
 approached superstition. She never expected to see 
 him, but in all her studies which she conquered she 
 did so with the thought : " He meant me to study so 
 thoroughly." 
 
 Toward Lawrence she had gratitude for his kindness
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 81 
 
 too much to annoy him by the knowledge of how dis- 
 tasteful her surroundings were ; for she knew nothing of 
 his financial standing, and feared it might embarrass 
 him to send her to another school. Letters came 
 from him regularly not a lover's letters, but very 
 kind ones, often accompanied by presents calculated to 
 please a girl. Her schoolmates would look curiously 
 at these, for they remembered the fair, jaunty, handsome 
 man who came at long intervals, who seemed the only 
 friend she had, and whose visits were of the briefest. 
 
 " Your guardian is a relative, I presume, since the names 
 are alike ?" queried Mrs. Smith. 
 
 And Merze had answered : " Yes, a relative." For ever 
 in her mind were Jack's words : " It is the same as a 
 marriage, Merze remember that the same as a mar- 
 riage," and she supposed that would be called a relation- 
 ship, and answered accordingly. 
 
 And now, in a few days more, they were to ratify 
 that contract made over the dying. Was she glad or 
 sorry ? Sitting there in the window, his letter clasped 
 in the hand which wore his ring, she could hardly tell. 
 
 Glad she was to get out of the walls of the place 
 out into the world ; but once there, her visions of the 
 future were rather vague. She felt that the dreamy am- 
 bitions of her early girlhood, her longing childhood, 
 were not to be realized. She had accustomed herself to 
 that thought through the many weeks since the date 
 of the marriage had been settled. She would have been 
 happier could she have said : " Give me back my 
 promise ; let me have the world unfettered ;" but she 
 feared it would be ingratitude to Lawrence, who had 
 been so good to her. And Jack had said their words 
 were a marriage, so she had come to look upon it as 
 
 6
 
 82 MERZE : 
 
 something that was to be, a thing too far accomplished 
 for any word of hers to undo it now. 
 
 And so she was to be Lawrence's wife ! She knew 
 less than most girls what that title meant. She had 
 never chatted, as most girls do, over their probable 
 lovers, husbands or homes. She was nineteen, and there 
 had been no lover in her life, no surreptitious billets 
 had been pored over in the secresy of her room. But 
 among the books in the school library she had found 
 poetical works in which the vivid coloring of the pen- 
 pictures appealed to her senses the tender tales this 
 thing which the poets called " love," and which she tried 
 to understand this thing over which she pondered with 
 dreamy eyes and a vague dissatisfaction toward her- 
 self. She felt it was something beautiful, just as 
 she did the poems in the Bible ; but beyond that she 
 could not go ; the divinity in it escaped her. Yet she was 
 to be a wife in a week. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The subdued glow of amber globes sent a soft flood of 
 light over a richly-furnished room and its two occupants, 
 the one gazing steadily into the mass of blazing coals in 
 the tiled fireplace, the other watching her over the top 
 of the newspaper he was supposed to be reading. It 
 was a fair enough picture for any man's eyes to rest on 
 with delight with rapture even, if he were so lucky as to 
 be its possessor. A well-shaped head coiled round with 
 tempestuous bronze hair, on which the flickering fire- 
 light brought out gold tinges that came and went, form- 
 ing an ever-changing frame for a gray-eyed face that 
 looked as if cut from creamy marble only to marble
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 83 
 
 could not be given the red lips, full and smooth as a 
 child's. They were curved in a half-bitter smile as she 
 sat there unconscious of his eyes on her his eyes that 
 had a curious, searching expression in them. 
 
 Finally he laid down his paper. The movement arrested 
 her attention, and she withdrew her eyes from the fire 
 with a start, but did not turn them toward him ; instead, 
 she sank down a little lower in the sleepy-hollow chair. 
 He smiled at the abject indolence of the attitude. 
 
 " Do you know, Mrs. Lawrence, you are the personifi- 
 cation of laziness ; but for all that you are looking very 
 handsome to-night ?" 
 
 "I ought to," came from the depths of the chair; "you 
 paid enough for this dress I have on." 
 
 " Yes, it is pretty," he said, looking admiringly at the 
 velvet folds, black in the shadows, royal purple in the 
 firelight ; " and there are not many women who could 
 wear that shade as you do. It is quite regal, and suits 
 your face. Oh, yes !" he continued, as she sat upright 
 as if on the alert for sarcasm in his voice. " Oh, yes ! I 
 mean it. You have a regal face, Merze ; but if it were a 
 little less so it would be more charming. It is too cold." 
 
 " So sorry it is not to your taste," she murmured, 
 glancing at her reflection in a mirror opposite. 
 
 " Oh, it is to my taste !" he said, lighting a cigar and 
 leaning back to enjoy it. " That style of thing is very 
 much to my taste on canvas or in marble a perfect 
 model for an Antigone or something of that sort ; but I 
 wonder if Antigone ever unbent or relaxed, even in the 
 bosom of her family ?" 
 
 She flung her hand out impatiently, but said nothing. 
 
 "It is lucky for me," he went on, calmly, "that I am 
 not an impetuous young lover. If I were, jealousy might
 
 84 MERZE : 
 
 crop out from the accepted idea that there is always 
 someone to whom a woman is not ice. But you have 
 never had any school-girl love affair, I suppose ?" 
 
 "No," she answered, " I have never had a lover." 
 
 "And never have dreamed over some handsome face 
 seen through the palings of the school grounds ? No," 
 he added, as she shook her head smilingly, " of course 
 not. If you ever had had a love affair you would have 
 more patience with the rest of mortals. As it is, you 
 have a sort of fine contempt for our pitiable weaknesses. 
 There are women like that until the weakness touches 
 themselves, and then " 
 
 A silence followed, broken by her rising quickly and 
 walking to the window. For awhile she stood looking 
 out into the gas-lit street below, where the crowds were 
 hurrying to and fro through the white flakes that were 
 falling fast. She drew her fingers across her forehead 
 in a perplexed way, and then, closing the curtains again, 
 came back and stood beside him, her hands clasped 
 loosely before her. 
 
 "Mr. Lawrence," she said, as a child might say it, just 
 so uncertain of her theme or words to use, "what is it ? 
 / don't know. I try to do what I think you want me to, 
 always ; but J know you are not satisfied with me. If, 
 instead of speaking in that sarcastic way, you would tell 
 me plainly my deficiencies, I would try to remedy them ; 
 I would indeed, for I always want you to know I am not 
 ungrateful for all you have done. Please tell me what 
 you want me to do and be." 
 
 He looked at her standing there, and did not fail to 
 note that even in her earnestness she never unclasped 
 her hands to reach them toward him did not even let 
 them touch the chair he sat in.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 85 
 
 "My dear Merze," he said, smiling up into her serious 
 eyes, " there are some things a man can't teach his wife 
 without a loss to his own vanity. My vanity is very dear 
 to me ; let it rest in peace." 
 
 " Oh!" she burst out, dropping into the chair. " That 
 is always the way ! Why can't you be serious ? I am in 
 earnest. Why don't you tell me ?'* 
 
 "Because I can't," he said, dropping his light tone 
 and looking at her earnestly. " It would be of no use. 
 If your own heart does not tell you, I could not make 
 you understand. Sometime you may, but it will be some- 
 one else who will teach you. Now don't get huffy," as 
 she threw up her head with an angry movement. " It is 
 the truth ; three months as your husband has taught me 
 that." 
 
 " What do you mean by 'someone else ' ?" 
 
 " Never mind what I mean, my dear. If the time ever 
 comes you will know what I mean. But in the mean- 
 time, don't glare at me like a Medusa. There is no 
 reason why we shouldn't be good friends, though you 
 have not found out what it is to be in love with your 
 husband. Never mind ; I am philosopher enough to 
 know you can't help it ; so let's drop the subject, and 
 come give me a kiss a something, by the way, with 
 which you have never favored me except at my request." 
 
 She came over to him and stooped to touch his lips, 
 but the square set of the jaws told him her teeth were 
 locked closely. 
 
 He looked at her half compassionately, and then laid 
 his hand over hers. 
 
 " By heavens, it's a shame !" he muttered ; " but I 
 don't see any clear way out of it. Go away ! leave me 
 alone, and go to your room."
 
 86 MERZE : 
 
 She looked a little startled at the brusque tones co 
 foreign to him, but turned without question and left him 
 there. He watched the graceful form until the door 
 closed between them, then he flung the half-consumed 
 cigar into the fire with an imprecation. 
 
 " Curse the luck !" he muttered. " How was I to know 
 it would be like this ? How was I to know she would 
 not be like others ? Any other woman but pshaw !" he 
 continued, stalking back and forth over the soundless 
 floor, with apparent disgust at his own thoughts, 
 " pshaw ! why should she, after all ? As well ask myself 
 why her young beauty cannot draw me to her cannot 
 even erase the memory of a face with not half her loveli- 
 ness. I was a fool to dream that it might," and then he 
 dropped into a chair before the fire, out of patience with 
 his lot and the luck which had driven him to it. " But I 
 could not help it," he continued ; " there was nothing 
 else to be done. And how beautiful she is ! By Jove ! 
 if she could only be brought to look on things in a sens- 
 ible light, what assistance her face and accomplishments 
 might be ! But how would she take it ? Bad, I am 
 afraid. Still, who knows? she is Jack's daughter." 
 
 Merze sat in the dusk of her own room, thinking as 
 deeply, though more quietly than Lawrence. She had 
 thought so much, so very much, since her marriage that 
 the fits of wild, impotent rebellion had well-nigh passed 
 away. 
 
 " Of what use was it ?" she asked herself, wearily, " of 
 what use ?" She was his wife, nothing could alter that, 
 she supposed; but, oh, how she hated the title ! and this 
 thing of dread called marriage, sanctified by the church, 
 linked by the words of poets to that dreamed-of love ! 
 The dawn often crept into her window finding there
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 87 
 
 a woman with open eyes, sleepless through a horror of 
 her life, with a dread of the days she had yet to live 
 through, and thinking of that other soul to whom she 
 was linked irrevocably. If she could only go away by 
 herself and work do anything to erase the memory of 
 the past three months ! But she could not tell him that. 
 Had he been less kind and thoughtful of her welfare 
 it would have been easier ; as it was, she knew the 
 fault was not his, but hers her own nature which she 
 had tried to govern in vain. She wondered if to all 
 women came this bitter rebellion at their lot, and if so, 
 how they lived on and on. 
 
 She was as one who had walked all her life through 
 cool, shady paths, with sweet conceits and pure thoughts 
 for her companions. In one day the fancies so dear to 
 her were dispelled. Under her feet were bare, hard 
 stones, about her the hot, dry winds, and overhead a 
 burning, brassy sky that seemed to absorb all moisture 
 of soil and air and all sweetness of the years to come. 
 
 Yet she did not dislike him. She was grateful for 
 every kindness, and tried so hard to be different toward 
 him, for she felt that his care of her deserved more of a 
 return than she could make, and the sense of her failure 
 filled her with an intense dissatisfaction with herself that 
 left her moody and cold. 
 
 None now could compare her to the tiger lilies, for the 
 charm of fire and sparkle, of girlish independence, was 
 gone buried under the shadow of a wedding ring. 
 
 "Ah!" she thought, with an indrawn shiver that was 
 half a sob, " if only it could have been different ! If only 
 dada had not clasped our hands that night, I could have 
 gone away alone and clone something; I don't know what 
 I can't even think now ! I had so many half-formed
 
 88 MERZE : 
 
 plans of what I would make my life ; so many vague 
 ambitions ; and now they seem as if they had been the 
 fancies of someone else. They have died out of my life 
 the life that has become hateful to me and is of no use 
 to anyone else!" 
 
 If only she had seemed of any use she would not have 
 felt so empty-handed ; if she could have helped him in 
 any way, done anything to make amends for the aversion 
 she felt at their relations. But there seemed nothing. 
 They lived in a hotel, so there were no home cares to 
 attend to. When she had asked to write his letters or 
 assist him in any way, he had replied that his corres- 
 pondence was generally of too private a nature to bear 
 the inspection of a wife, and there the subject dropped. 
 
 She wondered much as to the nature of the corres- 
 pondence and the business to which it referred. She 
 knew he went to many cities. Often he was away all night, 
 and sometimes for several days ; and she fancied he 
 must be wealthy to live in such fine rooms, and afford 
 the handsome dresses he had insisted on purchasing her. 
 She demurred at the extravagance at first, but he had 
 said: " Never mind ; it's no more for you than for myself. 
 If I must have a woman around me, she must look pre- 
 sentable ; so take all you can get, my dear, for luck makes 
 sudden changes sometimes." 
 
 She had broached the subject of his income, but he 
 had evaded answering, and, regarding his family, he had 
 said : " I have no one, no living relative save one cousin, 
 an old man now. So you and I are entirely without 
 family, responsible to none, lords of ourselves in all 
 things." 
 
 They had remained in Baltimore for three months. 
 The hotel life was new to Merze, with the crowds of
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 89 
 
 ever-changing faces, many of which turned admiringly 
 toward the quiet, distinguished-looking girl with the 
 wide gray eyes and the face too cold for her years. 
 
 Often he had spoken to her in that sarcastic way which 
 she felt had in it an element of dissatisfaction with her- 
 self, but never so plainly as to-night. Evidently some- 
 thing had put him out of his usual smooth temper. A 
 light tap at her door was followed by his entrance. 
 
 " Merze," he said, stopping in the doorway, not seeing 
 her for the darkness of the room. 
 
 " Yes," she answered ; " I will be there at once." 
 
 He did not heed the half-expressed protest against his 
 entrance, but came over in the direction of her voice. 
 
 "Are you here ?" he asked, groping with outstretched 
 hands until he touched her chair, then her shoulder. 
 " And all in darkness ? Come, don't sulk because I was 
 a bit rough ; no doubt you think me a brute, anyway. 
 Wives generally feel so toward husbands they have no 
 love for." He could feel her shrink and draw away 
 under his touch and his words. "Well, well, we won't 
 speak of that, though if you are willing to look at it in a 
 sensible light we may come to a compromise on this 
 question of relationship ; so try and find your tongue. I 
 want to talk business with you." 
 
 She rose and lit the gas, flooding all the room in a 
 light that dazzled after the darkness. 
 
 " What is it?" she asked, turning to him. 
 
 He started as if to speak, and then stopped. Was there 
 something in the girl's face that checked him in the 
 thing which he felt would be a shame to them both ? 
 She was looking at him questioningly, with eyes tired as 
 if by weight of unshed tears. Something in them caused 
 the blue, keen eyes to drop and wander from her gaze.
 
 90 MERZE : 
 
 "Well, never mind," he answered. "Some other time 
 will do ; you don't look well or very bright, so we won't 
 bother about it now. Put on your things and we'll go to 
 the theatre; that is always a treat to you ; so come along." 
 His tone was rather brusque, but under it Merze detected 
 a something the brusqueness was meant to hide. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked. "You are annoyed or 
 worried. Is it about me ? Can I help you ?" 
 
 "Would you if you could ?" 
 
 " Indeed I would, I promise you that," she answered, 
 wondering a little at the curious, searching look in his 
 eyes, as if he were measuring her. 
 
 " You promise me," he repeated, looking at her closely. 
 " But how much of a test will your promise stand ?" 
 
 "You should know something of that," she remarked, 
 coldly. " You should remember promises of four years 
 ago that have never been broken, though it was little 
 more than a child who made them." 
 
 "You're right, Merze," he said, decidedly; "you have 
 kept your promise. Well, we'll speak of this other affair 
 again, and see how much your later promises will 
 amount to." 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " So this is what you want ?" 
 
 It was three hours later. She stood before him, her 
 cloak dropped at her feet, the light flashing on the purple 
 dress she had worn to the theatre, and in which she 
 looked more an Antigone than ever, as she stood there, 
 pale, contemptuous, decided. 
 
 For once their places were reversed. He had attempted
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 91 
 
 the old careless bravado, but the clear scorn in her eyes 
 made him drop his own. 
 
 " Come, come, Merze ! Don't go into tragedy. You 
 look as if you should be doing that sort of thing, but it 
 is very uncomfortable in a domestic circle. Drop it, and 
 look at this in a sensible light. It is only what plenty of 
 women have done. You have everything in your favor, 
 and neither of us has family connections to consider. It 
 means money to us both plenty of it, perhaps, in time ; 
 enough to keep up two houses so that we could live in 
 comfort apart. Surely that should be an inducement !" 
 he added, half bitterly. 
 
 She threw out her hand impetuously. 
 
 "No need to bring that question up," she broke in. 
 " I will try to do my duty so far as I know it. If our lives 
 are to be lived out together, I will try to make yours 
 contented. But this thing you have proposed is one I 
 must judge for myself. I would beg in the streets rather 
 than be the cause of such misery as I have seen in my 
 own home. It is a waste of words. I will not do it." 
 
 He looked at her doggedly, yet in half admiration for 
 all. It was the first time since their marriage that he had 
 seen anything but a passively cold creature in her. He 
 had hoped for some change ; yet, now that it had come, 
 anger against her had come with it. 
 
 " The business was good enough for your father and 
 mother," he said, coolly ; " I don't see why you should 
 object to it in a husband." 
 
 " You have no right to mention my mother's name in 
 this," she said, her voice a little tremulous. " She may 
 have been passive in the matter ; she never was very 
 strong ; but I know she never aided in it, never lured poor 
 fools on to lose their money, as you would have me do."
 
 92 MERZE : 
 
 " Oh, nonsense, Merze ! No need to put it like that. 
 You need have nothing to do with the games ; all I ask 
 is help to make the house pleasant to my friends. I don't 
 want a place with the reputation of a gambling-house ; 
 that frightens the sort I want. But in Washington, with 
 my experience and a woman as clever and charming as 
 you can be if you choose, we could establish a salon that 
 would make our fortunes." 
 
 "Yes, with a curse on every dollar." 
 
 "Well," he said, looking at her complacently, "the 
 curses seem to have agreed with you for the past four 
 years." 
 
 "You mean " she began, and then sat down help- 
 lessly, as she saw she had guessed the truth. 
 
 " Yes," he answered, decidedly, as if glad to have it 
 over with. " I mean just that. It is the only profession 
 I have, so you may as well get used to it first as last. 
 You lived so the most of your life ; no need to take on 
 this air now." 
 
 " If I have, it was when too young to help myself or 
 when I did not know ; but I could never live so again 
 never !" 
 
 " Oh, yes, you will," he said easily, coming over to 
 her. " Women are always glad to have luxuries about 
 them, without asking their source." 
 
 " Not those who have memories of a childhood such as 
 mine," she replied, as her thoughts went back to that 
 scene in Jack's room long ago. And again she seemed 
 to see the white, set face of that boy from the Alle- 
 ghenies; again the anguish of his broken whispers 
 came to her ears ; and, as Lawrence laid his hand on her 
 shoulder, she sprung from under it as if it had been a 
 snake.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 93 
 
 " Don't touch me ; don't come near me !" she panted. 
 " Not now, at least. Wait wait until I can think !" 
 
 She was walking back and forth, clasping and unclasp- 
 ing her hands despairingly. He, watching her moodily, 
 noted the flash of a ring on one slim finger the old 
 opal in its circle of brilliants. As he saw it there came 
 to him the memory of that day when it was placed there 
 the day Jack saved his life and gave Merze into his 
 charge, and, looking at it, the bitterness died out of his 
 face. 
 
 " Poor, unlucky devil of a Jack," he thought ; " and 
 poor girl, who has tried so hard to be a wife !" 
 
 "Come, Merze!" he said at last, rather brusquely; 
 " don't take it so hard, and, for heaven's sake 
 don't look at me with eyes like that ! We'll drop the 
 subject if you say so. You are not suited either to the 
 life or myself. Well, you can bid good-bye to both in the 
 future. There ! I don't think I am such a bad husband 
 since I try to do that much. You should credit me with 
 that, at least." 
 
 " I do, indeed I do," she said, stopping In her walk, 
 though not exactly catching his meaning ; " and I have 
 never disliked you. I have always been grateful for 
 
 your care and kindness. I like you, if only 1 did not 
 
 have to be married." 
 
 "Well, rest easy," he answered, bitterly, rising and 
 going over to the window ; " you need be married no 
 longer. You are free, so far as I am concerned." 
 
 "Free!" She sat down, covering her face with her 
 hands. She felt like a bird that had beaten against its 
 bars until one had given way and let it outside the cage. 
 But with the suddenness of the freedom there came a 
 sense of loss that could not be defined. The world was
 
 94 MERZE : 
 
 before her ; but in what corner of it was she to live and 
 work? She had as little knowledge of it as the bird 
 would have the bird that dies when freed from the 
 hated cage. 
 
 "Yes, free. After to-night we could not live together 
 as we have done. In your dislike for my work you have 
 shown more dislike for me personally than you intended 
 to, perhaps, and " 
 
 " I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt you that way " 
 
 " There ! Never mind what you meant ; I am not 
 thin-skinned. If I were a younger man I might be in 
 such a case ; but, as it is, the time for that is past with 
 me." 
 
 He sat silent after that, looking in the fire, and she, 
 watching him, could say nothing. 
 
 Was there a half regret in his voice for the youth that 
 was gone ? It sounded so to Merze. He had never 
 seemed to her as anything but a young man. A certain 
 youthful jauntiness made people forget his years. But, 
 looking at him with his words still in her ears, she saw 
 that he told the truth when he said his youth was gone, 
 and she felt, in some way, that his happiness had gone 
 with it. Perhaps perhaps she had been selfish in not 
 thinking of that. She rose, and came close to his chair. 
 His eyes were gazing steadily into the red mass, but she 
 could see that they were unconscious that the fire was 
 there. 
 
 " Mr. Lawrence," she began, laying her hand on his 
 arm, as he looked up at her and then dropped his eyes to 
 her hand a pretty hand. He raised it in his own and 
 let it fall at her side. 
 
 " There, my girl, you need do penance no longer. I 
 never knew until to-night how severe it has been for you.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 95 
 
 Many women get accustomed to married lives without 
 love. You are not one of that kind, unluckily for us 
 both. But that is no reason why we should not be on 
 good terms, if the disgust for my work does not extend 
 to myself. I am too old to change that now." 
 
 " That is what I wanted to speak of," she said, her voice 
 still tremulous from excitement and anxiety. " Please 
 don't be vexed with me. I can't help the way I felt 
 when you wanted me to help in the with your work. 
 You have done it always, and don't feel about .it as I do. 
 But I could live no longer on money earned so." 
 
 " Well, I don't see how we can change that. You are 
 free, if you choose; but you must be taken care of. The 
 promise to do so was not given to you alone, but to 
 Jack." 
 
 'Yes, I know ; but can't I, some way won't you let 
 me take care of myself ?" 
 
 He smiled sarcastically at the disjointed words. 
 
 " You are so anxious to break all bonds between us, 
 eh ? How soon will you want a divorce ?" 
 
 " Never !" she said, looking at him steadily, with the 
 earnestness of youth's innocence in her eyes. " I want 
 to do something for myself, some work; but I know so 
 little of what to do. I don't like your profession, but I 
 always have been, I always will be, grateful for your 
 friendship. If there were a divorce, that would mean 
 never to see or know each other, wouldn't it ? I would 
 not want that. I would want you always to be my first 
 friend." 
 
 "Your first friend ?" he repeated. " How long would 
 I remain so ? Until some lover comes, perhaps. That 
 is always a woman's first friend, though it may not be the 
 best."
 
 96 MERZE : 
 
 " I don't want a lover, ever !" she said decidedly, im- 
 patiently. She could see nothing of sweetness or bright- 
 ness in this thing which she fancied lived only in the 
 imagination of poets. She was as yet color-blind to the 
 passions. "I want no lover. Husbands should not 
 speak of lovers to their wives, and I will be your wife and 
 your friend just the same, though we do live apart." 
 
 He smiled as he heard her, this man who had known 
 women so well, and who knew, though love had never 
 touched her, it would come as surely as the level sea 
 swells moonwards ; and, perhaps perhaps it might not 
 bring happiness into her life. If any harm should come 
 to her through being left to herself he would feel regret. 
 She was Jack's daughter, and, after all, had done her 
 best as well as she knew. She was not the sort to be of 
 use in the way he had hoped. Still, that need not affect 
 his friendship for her. 
 
 He was unscrupulous in many ways ; his life and work 
 had made him so. But back of it was a vein of justice 
 that told him the girl was right in her decision, and that 
 also held him to his trust regarding her. 
 
 If it had been a woman he loved, he would not have 
 looked on it in the same light. There could have been 
 no thought of platonic friendship for her after knowing 
 how distasteful the marriage with him was. But there 
 had been no love only a sort of an idea that it would 
 be all right anyway ; that idea had been speedily dis- 
 pelled, and he felt it was best to be ended. So he 
 thought, sitting there silent, and the girl opposite as still 
 as himself. 
 
 It had all been said. They were never again to be the 
 same, and the sense of the change had dropped over them 
 both like a veil through which they could not see their
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 97 
 
 way into the future. It seemed a pity, all of it from the 
 first, a pity. And, looking across at the drooping, girlish 
 form, that seemed too slight as yet to bear its burden 
 alone, a moisture crept into his keen eyes. Was it 
 altogether for this woman, or was it the memory of a 
 scene like this that he had shared in years agone? 
 a woman almost as young, and so burdened with a love- 
 less union that, in the glow of a red firelight, they had 
 spoken words that changed their lives for all time des- 
 pairing, love-freighted words, with a sense of guilt in 
 them. And after it had all been said all the passion that 
 had been growing in their hearts until it crept to their 
 lips then they had sat silent, just so, with faltering hearts 
 and tongues grown dumb. 
 
 As the likeness to the scene crept into his thoughts he 
 brushed back his hair from his forehead as if to throw off 
 some weight of memory. 
 
 " Her life shall never be like that, if I can help it," he 
 thought; and then he turned to her, his voice sounding 
 strange after that throbbing silence as he said: 
 
 "Come, Merze, don't sit there. Go to bed. I am 
 going away to-night, and will try and be back to-morrow. 
 Then we can speak further of this question of living 
 apart; but you must remain here until I have time to look 
 around. Now, go to bed. This will all come straight; 
 don't fret." 
 
 " Very well," she answered, rising to go to her room. 
 At the door she paused irresolutely. He stood in the 
 centre of the room, his hands in his pockets in a non- 
 chalant fashion, not looking at her. She turned and 
 touched his arm. 
 
 " Good-night, and and thank you." 
 
 He looked into her eyes that lowered before his own. 
 7
 
 98 MERZE : 
 
 Since their relations had been severed she had twice 
 touched him voluntarily with her hand, an act rare enough 
 to attract his notice ; but he understood well that it was 
 only through a gratitude that was half remorseful. 
 
 " Good-night, my girl. Don't worry; don't have any 
 regrets. We will start on a different footing now, and it 
 may come all right for you in the end. I hope so. 
 Good-night. " 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 When Merze awoke next morning it was with a 
 startled feeling that something had happened what was 
 it ? There was a white glare in the room from the sun 
 that was shining on the snow, fallen the night before, 
 and her window-curtains were apart, letting in the flood 
 . of light. 
 
 That seemed strange. Mr. Lawrence was always 
 careful to close the curtains because of draughts ; and 
 then, like a flash, came the remembrance of the night 
 before. 
 
 She was alone. With the night had passed away the 
 old life. Was the white, pure light of morning a symbol 
 of what the future was to be ? She was not a praying 
 woman too many doubts and different theories had 
 obscured the vision of the soul ; but she clasped her 
 hands close over her eyes and wished that it might be so. 
 
 Into her thoughts came the memory of her husband's 
 face as she had seen it on bidding him good-night. 
 Kind it had been, and considerate he surely had proven 
 himself, despite that proposition about the gambling- 
 house. That, of course, was shameful ; and with the 
 memory came bitter thoughts against him. She had
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 99 
 
 felt that she hated him when he spoke of it to her his 
 wife ! And yet he had not seemed to think of it as a 
 crime ; he said other women had done it ; but she felt 
 that it must have been women who had that thing which 
 they called " love " for their husbands, and it had blinded 
 them to all else. 
 
 To him it was a profession the same as any other. Cus- 
 tom had given him a sort of pride in his skill. He had 
 no idea of the way it would impress her, and her scorn and 
 contempt had stung him into some rough speeches that 
 were very unlike his usual manner ; but it had only been 
 for a few moments, and then he had been most kind. 
 She remembered it all as she lay there, and the kindness 
 remained uppermost in her thoughts, and made her feel 
 half guilty at her happy sense of freedom. 
 
 She wondered what he meant to do. With the knowl- 
 edge that she was to be free, there had come back with 
 a rush the old girlish dreams of a life to be carved out 
 for herself a life in which marriage was to form no 
 part for where it came everything beautiful in life was 
 marred in her eyes. But in what path was her life-walk 
 to be? 
 
 She sat up in bed, taking stock of herself as it were. 
 In the school she had been considered very clever, and 
 she knew she was well qualified for teaching, if that met 
 her liking. But it did not ; the routine would drive her 
 desperate. She could sing well ; but felt she was not 
 thorough musician enough to turn that to account as a 
 profession, and to complete her musical education would 
 take more money than she could accept now. She had 
 aptitude as an artist, and had done some of the best 
 work in the school ; but she smiled to herself at the 
 thought of competing with acknowledged artists. She
 
 100 MERZE : 
 
 knew she possessed taste ; but felt that talent was want- 
 ingsuch talent as was necessary to decided success, and 
 in whatever direction her work lay she could not be 
 content with mediocrity. So she thought in her ignorant 
 girl's heart, that had so little knowledge of the hardships 
 in a profession even with genius to lend aid. 
 
 What was there left her in an ideal profession ? for it 
 must be that. What was it he had said she was fitted 
 for last night ? Tragedy the stage ! A mirror was 
 opposite ; she looked at the reflection long and steadily, 
 picked out her good and bad points critically. Her voice 
 had been praised as one admirably suited to elocution. 
 She had played no parts even in amateur clubs, but her 
 dramatic reading had been rather startling to the young 
 ladies who invariably chose some of the milder things of 
 Tennyson when the day for reading came. And now, 
 if it could be so, why not ? 
 
 Her blood glowed at the thought of it. Surely, surely 
 she could do it. She felt as if no work would be too 
 great if in the end she could only win success. There 
 came thronging quick into her mind the poets, the 
 dramatists, whose work she loved and enjoyed. Oh, if 
 she could only feel herself worthy to interpret them ! 
 That surely would be noble work. " Good " work he would 
 have called it. And the man in her thoughts was her 
 oracle of the Turkish pipe. 
 
 Hurriedly dressing, she picked up a volume of dra- 
 matic poems, and walked back and forth, reading aloud 
 favorite portions, wondering if she could do it well, re- 
 reading some, and attempting to act them to her own 
 satisfaction. She felt them, and the blood throbbed 
 through her veins in sympathy with the characters she 
 was endeavoring to render ; but she knew her work was
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 101 
 
 crude. She would need someone to teach her how to use 
 what strength she had, for, as it was, she dropped the 
 book and found that she was nervous and trembling from 
 the intensity of her own emotions. 
 
 She looked at herself in the glass and laughed a little 
 as the ridiculous side of the situation struck her ; but 
 the laugh was a half-hysterical one. 
 
 " How silly I would appear if anyone could see me !" 
 she thought ; " tears in my eyes from Guinevere's parting 
 scene, and my hands trembling ! How silly, and yet 
 how thankful I would be if I could only convey to others 
 what I felt just then !" 
 
 The morning was one of suppressed excitement to her; 
 and how slow it was in passing ! And at last, when a 
 knock came at her door, she hurried to open it, her face 
 eager and a little flushed. 
 
 Lawrence noticed it and smiled. "The brightest look 
 of welcome I have ever received from you," he remarked, 
 seating himself leisurely, and looking at her as she drew 
 back confusedly. " Well, since I am a discarded husband, 
 I am thankful for even small favors. Sit down ; why, 
 you are nervous. What's wrong ?" 
 
 "Nothing, nothing," she answered, hastily, sitting as 
 he bade her. "I was reading aloud, and am a little 
 tired, perhaps." 
 
 "It must have been very interesting reading," he 
 commented, looking at her curiously. " Ah ! ' Guinev- 
 ere ' !" as he saw the open volume ; " very appropriate. 
 Only we have no ' Launcelot' yet." 
 
 "And we will not have," she answered, trying to 
 speak lightly. " Don't be sarcastic. Tell me the result 
 of your journey." 
 
 " How flattering your interest ! There, there !" as she
 
 102 MERZE : 
 
 tapped her foot impatiently. "We will talk business 
 then. My journey has not been a long one ; only down 
 across the Virginia line. How would you like to live in 
 the country for awhile ?' 
 
 "In the country, where ?" 
 
 "In Virginia. I have a half-interest in an old place 
 there which was left to my cousin and myself, but has 
 never been divided yet, and none of us has lived there 
 since my grandfather's death. I telegraphed Mark last 
 night that I might want to use it, and he has replied 
 that it is at my service ; but I warn you it will be dull." 
 
 "Who is Mark?" She had never heard him mention 
 the name before. 
 
 "A cousin of mine, Mark Guarda. The remnant of 
 the plantation is jointly ours, but of course I communi- 
 cated with him before taking possession. Later, some- 
 thing else may be arranged, but that is the best I can 
 do now." 
 
 " Will it be much expense to you ?" She was 
 so helpless, yet so afraid of adding any annoyances 
 to him. 
 
 " Never mind about that no," he added, as he saw 
 her look of protest ; " it won't be as much as your living 
 here. Two of the old darkies take care of the place, 
 and you will be little extra trouble ; and as to expense 
 the place keeps itself up, so you will have to use none 
 of the money that is so distasteful to you." 
 
 It was a lie, but he knew she would be more contented 
 so. The old place had been neglected so long, and 
 without any resident master, that it at times had come 
 far short of keeping itself up. 
 
 'I will go," she answered, "for the present, at least ; 
 there are many things I could do in the way of study
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 103 
 
 while there, and I want to learn as quickly as possible to 
 work for myself in some way. I could work and study 
 better there than here in the hotel, much better." 
 
 " And pray, what do you intend to study ? I thought 
 you were through school." 
 
 " I think I would like to learn something at which I 
 could make my own living. Don't laugh at the idea, 
 please ; but I think I would like to go on the stage, to 
 be an actress, if I could." 
 
 She was so fearful of her ground, so afraid of his 
 ridicule, that her speech was very disjointed, and her 
 face flushed under his quizzical smile. 
 
 " Well, really, my modest Merze, your ambition is not 
 a trifling one. You speak of the stage with the confi- 
 dence of ignorance. What made you think of it ?" 
 
 " Is it so foolish ?" she asked, a little crushed. " I was 
 all alone this morning, thinking what I should do, and 
 all at once it came into my head as if someone had whis- 
 pered it to me. You would have been amused had you 
 seen me walking back and forward, reading some of those 
 dramas aloud to see if I could do it right." 
 
 " And how did you succeed ?" 
 
 " Not very well, I am afraid. I got too nervous." 
 
 " Ah !" looking at her more carefully. " Nervous ; 
 how was that ? What made you nervous ?" 
 
 " I don't know." she answered, weakly. " When I 
 think of it now, I can't understand it. But just then, 
 when I was reading it and trying to act it as well as I 
 could, a trembling came over me, a nervousness so I 
 could scarcely stand. I dropped into a chair and looked 
 at myself in the mirror there. The tears were in my eyes 
 and my heart was in my throat for a moment. It seems 
 foolish now to think of it, but just then I forgot I was
 
 104 MERZE : 
 
 myself ; I seemed Guinevere*. Does that seem so silly 
 to you ?" 
 
 He did not answer at once. He sat with his eyes half 
 closed, looking at her ; then he said : " I am not sure, but 
 if you will bring me a cigar I will smoke and think it 
 over." 
 
 She rose and moved over to a stand where his smoking 
 set was kept. He watched the graceful dignity of her 
 carriage. It was a pleasure to watch Merze walk ; there 
 was the freedom of the hills in her gait, the unstudied 
 grace of an unconscious woman, and his half-closed eyes 
 noted every point in feature and figure as she came across 
 to him all unknowing that the cigar was only a ruse to 
 give him the opportunity to inspect her with the idea of 
 this new ambition of hers in his mind. 
 
 "Light it for me," he said, and leaned back watching 
 her still as she did it, and laughed as she handed it to 
 him. 
 
 "Thanks. You do it cleverly enough, but it does not 
 suit your Greek features and statuesque figure. That sort 
 of thing needs a woman with dash and sparkle in her to 
 make the picture complete. A ' Galatea ' you might be 
 never anything nearer humanity. There, go away now. 
 Have the girl pack up your things. I will take you down 
 to Greyholme in the morning, and I will think over this 
 new ambition of yours. Don't build any air-castles yet." 
 
 " But you will help me if you can for dada's sake ?" 
 
 "Yes, I will help you if I can for Jack's sake."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 105 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Clear, crisp air and white-sheeted fields met Merze 
 as she stepped from the car to the little covered plat- 
 form of the flag station, with not a house in sight. 
 Some of the passengers looked curiously at the hand- 
 some girl in brown traveling-dress as she stood beside 
 her companion, gazing about with questioning eyes at 
 her surroundings ; and then the train puffed away, and 
 its inmates turned again to their papers, their chat, and 
 their cigars. As it did so humanity made itself manifest 
 on the other side of the track, where a sleigh was drawn 
 up, and the driver, an old darky, was holding the 
 heads of a pair of horses and trying to shame one of 
 them out of a fright. 
 
 " Whoa, now ! Stan' still, you June ! Ain't yeh 
 'shamed o' yerself? A-tryin' to show off, ain't you, 
 jest 'cause Massa Fred's come home ? Whoa, now ! 
 Howde, massa? I'll be dar in a minute. Have to git 
 June coaxed round a little ; seems if she nevah will 
 git used to dem keers. Yeh stay right whar yeh is, so's 
 Miss won't git her feet wet. I'll bring 'em round. Dar, 
 now, June ! dar now ! Massa Fred's a-laughen at yeh. 
 Hain't yer got no sense ? Dar, now ! knowed ye'd get 
 'shamed o' yerself. Good girl, good girl ! Git around, 
 now ; dar yeh go ; whoa !" 
 
 And the sleigh was brought around with a flourish to 
 the little platform, and the driver got out nimbly as 
 stiffened limbs would allow, and stood, hat in hand, to 
 welcome the arrivals.
 
 106 MERZE : 
 
 " Good morning, Uncle Jupe. Merze, this is one of 
 the last relics of our departed grandeur. He has a mul- 
 titude of high-sounding names, but, Jupiter being the 
 shortest among them, we call him, 'J u P e >' " said Lawrence, 
 while assisting her into the sleigh. 
 
 " Don't yeh take no 'count o' the rest o' them names 
 Miss. I's ben 'Uncle Jupe' to three gineration o' Law- 
 rences, an' I spect to be so the rest o' my days; an' mighty 
 glad I am to give yeh welcome, Miss." 
 
 'Thank you," said Merze, holding out her hand. " I 
 shall expect you to be ' Uncle Jupe ' to me, also." 
 
 " The Good Man bless yo' sweet young face, an' 
 make yeh happy in Grayholme," and the old mahogany- 
 colored face was full of earnestness as he spoke. The 
 girl's frank manner had evidently won his heart. And 
 very warm hearts they have those whose lives are 
 lived under the curse. 
 
 Two miles over the snow, on which the sun shone 
 until the earth seemed sown with diamonds, glittering, 
 flashing, and ever vanishing to give place to new ones. 
 The pair, husband and wife that had been, sat silent 
 during the ride. What a home-coming ! Was he think- 
 ing of it? Merze glanced at his non-committal face, 
 but it told nothing. 
 
 On they went, now out between open fields, now under 
 drooping pine boughs weighed down by their snowy 
 burden, until at last they entered a high old-fashioned 
 gate. And Merze looked eagerly about to see in what 
 manner of place it was that her lot was cast for the time. 
 Very bare it looked, except for the dark-green of the 
 pines that were thick about. The network of vines over 
 the rough, graystone house was leafless, and the choicest 
 shrubs in front of it were enveloped in straw. An
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 107 
 
 antique-looking fanlight above the door was made of 
 brass and set with tiny slits of glass. The stone steps 
 were worn in the centre, showing long use ; the windows 
 were shutterless, and sparkled in the sunlight as Jupe 
 drew up with a flourish ; and the door was opened by a 
 neat, shining-visaged old woman, who stood smiling 
 broadly down on them. 
 
 "Welcome, Massa Fred, welcome, Miss," she said, in 
 the mellow voice of her race, as he opened a door to the 
 left, and Merze was led by her husband into the quaint 
 old parlor. 
 
 " I bid you welcome, also," he said, as he drew a chair 
 near the blazing logs in the open fireplace. " Here, 
 Rhoda, take the wraps of your mistress. I give her in 
 your charge ; try and make her comfortable." 
 
 " I don't spect it'll be any labor to do dat, Massa Fred. 
 It do seem good to have a lady in the house again 
 'specially a young lady. Bar's ben nothin' but ole faces 
 an' ole voices in dese rooms for so long dat a young face 
 is mighty welcome, I can tell yeh, Miss." 
 
 "Thank you, Rhoda. I feel sure my stay with you 
 will be a contented one," and the smile in the girl's eyes 
 was met by an answering one on the blackwoman's face. 
 She would at least have friends in Jupe and Rhoda. 
 She looked around curiously at the odd room. She had 
 lived in many houses, but this was different from any- 
 thing she had seen. Age in buildings had always 
 through memories of her childhood been associated in 
 her mind with ricketiness and general decay ; but this 
 was all different. It surely was very old ; but it was a 
 polished, picturesque old age, and one that appealed 
 to the girl's love of the quaint. The woodwork was of 
 mahogany, the doors of plain panels, and the frames of
 
 108 MERZE : 
 
 carved work that was clumsy yet effective as the light 
 glanced over the scroll-work, touching here and there 
 the mimic grapes or the carved leaves. The floor was 
 of dark wood, with a few rugs of faded hue and a white 
 bearskin before the fire. Shabby the furniture was, 
 and the darned damask of curtains and upholstery had 
 faded from maroon to brown tinges ; but for all that it 
 was an impressive shabbiness that of fallen kings. 
 
 Lawrence watched her wandering eyes as they glanced 
 from point to point in the old room. 
 
 " Well," he remarked at last, " how do you like your 
 retreat ?" 
 
 " It is lovely !" she said, rising and going to the win- 
 dow. " I wonder you ever leave it or neglect it as it 
 seems to be. I should never get tired looking at it if 
 the other rooms are as handsome as this." 
 
 "They are all old-fashioned and queer, but this has the 
 richest woodwork. It was quite a show-place in its day, 
 but its day is long past. I have no particular affection 
 for or pleasant memories of it. I have not been in it 
 since my grandfather's death, ten years ago. Mark's 
 business keeps him in New York, but he manages to 
 get down once or twice a year. He takes much more 
 interest in it than I do. I expect to sell out to him 
 some of these days." 
 
 Merze glanced at a few old pictures on the walls, and 
 asked : 
 
 " Did your mother live here ? You never mention 
 her." 
 
 " Because I never knew her ; she died before I could 
 remember. Yes, she lived here, and there is a picture 
 of her upstairs. It and that ring you wear are the only 
 mementos I have of her. And, by the way," he
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 109 
 
 added, " I would like for you always to wear the ring. 
 It is safer in your hands than mine, for I have pawned 
 it more than once when I got hard up. I might do 
 so again and lose it. I shouldn't like that, so you 
 keep it. 
 
 Just then Rhoda re-entered, and said to Merze : 
 
 " Yo' room is ready, Miss, any time yeh wants to go 
 to it. I hadn't much time to 'range it, but reckon it'll 
 be comfortable, though the furnishin* is all gettin' 
 mighty pore-like o' late years," she added, apologeti- 
 cally. 
 
 " Give me a list of what is needed, and I'll see about 
 it to-morrow," said Lawrence. 
 
 " Laws, Massa Fred, yeh ain't a-goin' back that soon !" 
 ejaculated Rhoda, with the freedom of a privileged 
 character. 
 
 " Yes, auntie, I am going back on the next train ; so I 
 have only time to take a lunch with you and leave at 
 once there, there !" as she began a pantomime of ex- 
 postulation. " Show your mistress to her room, and then 
 come back here ; I want to see you." 
 
 A pretty room it was, for all Rhoda's apologies, that 
 Merze was shown to. Snowy white curtains and bed- 
 furnishing made the place look chilly in the clear, cold 
 light of the winter sun ; but the crackle of burning 
 wood drew her attention to an irregular little alcove, in 
 which was a fireplace filled with blazing hickory that 
 sent a shower of sparks upward as Rhoda assailed it 
 with a cumbrous brass-headed poker. 
 
 " Seems like it takes a mighty long time to git these 
 heah ole walls warmed through. This fiah's ben a- 
 burnin' since yisterday. But lor ! it's the fust time they's 
 ben a fiah heah since ole massa died ; an' as for a lady
 
 110 MERZE ' 
 
 there wan't none in the house fer a long time afore that. 
 It'll seem like old times agin. Anything I can do for 
 yeh ?" 
 
 " Nothing now," answered Merze. " I will get along 
 very well, and Mr. Lawrence is waiting to see you." 
 
 " Yes, Miss ; so if yeh'll 'scuse me I'll go right along, 
 foi Massa Fred nevah was easy to keep a-waitin', even 
 when he was a little pickaninny. I's his mammy, and 
 has a right to know ef anybody has. Yes, Miss, I'll go 
 right along down," and giving the fire a parting punch, 
 she trotted out of the room and down stairs to where 
 Lawrence awaited her. 
 
 "I wanted to speak to you about Miss Merze, Rhoda." 
 
 " Yes, Massa Fred." 
 
 He walked back and forth a couple of times before 
 speaking again, while Rhoda stood like a grotesque fig- 
 ure in bronze, with the fitful blaze of the wood throwing 
 gleams across her features with Rembrandt-like effects. 
 Finally he spoke : 
 
 " She will be alone here, except for you and Jupe, 
 and will never complain though there should be dis- 
 comforts. I shall trust you to let me know anything 
 that is needed." 
 
 "Yes, Massa Fred." 
 
 " And I suppose I can also trust you not to talk too 
 much ?" 
 
 "Yes, Massa Fred." 
 
 " Tell Jupe to have the horses ready in an hour." 
 
 "Yes, Massa Fred." 
 
 But she did not move toward the door ; her eyes were 
 on his face questioningly. There was silence for a little 
 while in the quaint old room, and then the blackwoman 
 broke it.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. Ill 
 
 "Massa Fred." 
 
 " Well ?" 
 
 " Don't think it's for'ard-like o' me, but try an' 'mem- 
 ber as I'myer ole mammy. I know as how yo' 'countable 
 to none ; but yo' motha's pictuah's up dar in that room 
 whar young Miss is to sleep. It's de fus' time a lady has 
 slep under this roof for many a yeah, an' then it didn't 
 bring any blessin'. Now, don't yeh git mad with old 
 Rhody," as he turned sharply on her. " I's nothin" but 
 a mis'able, worn-out niggah, an' yeh was only a boy at 
 the time, so don't think I'm a-jedgin' of yeh ; but yeh 
 ain't no boy now, Massa Fred, an' yeh jest say ' this am 
 Miss Merze,' and that's all. Yeh don't say ef she's any 
 kin, er ef she isn't, an' folks is goin' to ax questions of 
 us niggahs when they see her here, an' what's we'uns to 
 say ? Yeh've had her put in yo' motha's room, Massa 
 Fred. Yeh yeh wouldn't o'done that ef she was like 
 that othah." 
 
 " Silence ! Never speak like that again !" and his face 
 was flushed with anger as he turned to her. 
 
 " Now, Massa Fred," the old creature said, half- 
 chidingly, half-lovingly, as she used to do when he was 
 a child, " don't yeh be mad. It's only fer the name I'm 
 a-thinkin'. Ole massa is gone, an' the ole place seems 
 goin', an' it's all mighty pore-like to what it used to be ; 
 but the ole name is jest the same, an' we niggahs has 
 allers been kind o' proud o' the ole name. Yeh knows 
 dat, Massa Fred." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know, auntie," he said, a little touched at 
 this old creature's devotion to the family honor, while 
 he himself scarcely remembered he had ever belonged 
 to it. The dead and gone Lawrences were nothing to 
 him, while to this black ex-slave their wishes, their honor,
 
 112 MERZE : 
 
 were sacred. "Yes, you are right in your ideas; but there 
 must be no disrespect given her name, remember that. 
 As for this other, your new mistress, rest easy, Rhoda, 
 on that score. She is Mrs. Lawrence, and I think will 
 bring no discredit to the name." 
 
 "Well, I tellXj Massa Fred, I's mightly glad to hear 
 it. A real mistress in the house at las' ! It'll be ole times 
 ovah again." 
 
 "Don't build up too many hopes. My wife is to 
 live here alone so long as she stays. There, there ! 
 don't ask questions. Get us some lunch, and take 
 care of her." 
 
 " Yes, Massa Fred, suahly," and she left the room with 
 her old face puzzled over the interview. 
 
 "Can't und'stan' all of it," she confided to the tea- 
 kettle, as she took it hissing from the hob. " Men is 
 curious creatures, anyway. She's his wife, an' she's so 
 queen-like, an' so han'some, an' he's goin' away to leave 
 her all lonesome by herself. An' dar's that othah one, 
 as was wicked as wicked ; an' he won't heah no word agin 
 her after all these yeahs. Well, dar's no 'countin' for 
 tastes, leastways men's tastes." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Very quiet seemed the old house, with only the two 
 servants, who looked at Merze curiously for all their 
 kindness. She was so different from any of the Law- 
 rence ladies who had been mistress there. She was so 
 young, so charming in many ways, and had only smiles 
 for them but never gay, girlish smiles, such as suit 
 young years. And the eyes, questioning as a child's,
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 113 
 
 had yet the sadness in them of a soul that feels itself 
 alone an outcast from such happiness as she felt came 
 to other lives. In her own life there could be only the 
 content of work well done. That was all she dared 
 dream of ; and of that she did dream, and build airy 
 fabrics of beauty through the winter days that were far 
 from idle. She read aloud much, conning over and 
 over poems suited to elocution, working day after day 
 at the most difficult, trying to school her voice to forci- 
 ble, yet natural, delivery. She was working partially in 
 the dark, not at all sure that her school training would 
 be applicable to this more advanced ambition, but doing 
 her best while waiting definite word from her husband. 
 Only short notes had been sent her, to which no answers 
 were required, and all of them came from New York. 
 One day there came a package of play-books, in which 
 some parts of a declamatory nature were marked as if by a 
 hand conversant with the requirements of stage business. 
 She wondered much who had done it ; but from what- 
 ever source they came, she was thankful for the instruc- 
 tion she gained from them, and many a chat did Rhoda 
 have with Jupe over the sound of their mistress' voice, 
 heard talking to herself. 
 
 " Tell yo' what : 'tain't no ways natural for no young 
 creature like that to be so lone like. No wonder she 
 talks to herself when she thinks no one's in hearin'. 
 I's goin' 'tell Massa' Fred 'tain't right, no ways. How's 
 we niggahs to know but what she'll go crazy seems 
 mighty like it, I can tell yeh ! She goes off on long 
 walks by herse'f through the woods, not carin' fer rain, 
 er sleet, er nothin'. Then she comes back an' talks loud 
 an' cross sometimes in her room ; an' when I open the 
 door, thar she is as sweet as a lamb, an' always a smile 
 
 8
 
 114 MERZE : 
 
 an' a soft word. But them smiles is all kindness, Jupe. 
 They ain't happiness, no how." 
 
 " How yo' 'spect to know that ? Wimen folks is allus 
 a conjurin' up low-spirited things. Don't be 'maginin' 
 things," advised her lord and master, over his bacon and 
 sweet potatoes. 
 
 "I ain't a 'maginin'; I hain't no call to. She'll say, 
 ' Ef yeh please, Rhody,' an' ' No thanky, Rhody,' with 
 the smile so sweet on her face ; but her eyes'll have a 
 look in 'em that makes me feel like I wanted to be her 
 mammy, an* tell her to just lay in my arms an' have a 
 good cry, 'case I knows it 'ud do her a heap o' good." 
 
 " Fo' the Lawd's sake! That 'ud be a smart thing to 
 say to a lady as yeh hav'n't knowed two weeks. But 
 wimmen never have no fitten sense o' things." 
 
 And so they discussed Merze, while she put in her 
 days studying, and waiting with impatience some defi- 
 nite word from her husband regarding the future. He 
 had asked that she remain there for a few weeks until 
 he had time to " look around," as he expressed it. It 
 seemed weary waiting; but at last came a letter saying he 
 was coming down for a day, and that his cousin was 
 coming with him. 
 
 t Great was the preparation in the kitchen, and many 
 were the praises sung by Rhoda in honor of " Massa 
 Mark." Merze heard the name so often that she wondered 
 if she should ever be able to call him by any other. 
 
 " It's been many a day sence they both ben to the ole 
 place at once," remarked Rhoda, "an' they's mighty 
 night like to Jupe an' me. I was Massa Fred's mammy, 
 an' my marm was Massa Mark's." 
 
 " Then your Massa Mark is the eldest," remarked 
 Merze.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 115 
 
 " Well, I should say so ; twenty good yeahs er more ; 
 an' thar nevah was no one o' the ole family as good as 
 Massa Mark as evah I seed. Good ? He's jest been a 
 heap more good to the Lawrences than the Lawrences 
 evah was to him, though he did drap the name in a 
 temper yeah's ago, an' has stuck to his mother's evah 
 since, jest 'case ole massa didn't like her furren notions, 
 an' 'ligion, an' all. But he's jest as good as the gole. 
 My boy Zack died aside o' him, down thar in Georgy in 
 wah times, an' massa had him took care of an' brought 
 back to the ole place to be buried when the fighten was 
 all ovah, an' I tell you we niggahs don't forgit it. Zack 
 thought a heap o' freedom, but he thought a heap more 
 o' Massa Mark." 
 
 Merze was curious to see this "Massa Mark," of 
 whom they spoke with such love and reverence. She 
 wondered as to his calling if it was the same as his 
 cousin's but did not care to get her information through 
 his servants, so did not question. 
 
 The day on which they were to come seemed long to 
 her. She could not content herself to either read or 
 study, for she felt that the day would bring some decis- 
 ion as to her future. At last she threw on a cloak with 
 a hood attached, and, going out the side door, she 
 walked down an old avenue of fir trees that led out to a 
 by-lane connecting with the main road. She did not 
 mean to walk far, but her impatience would not allow 
 her to sit idly waiting. Jupe had just left for the station, 
 and she knew it would be almost an hour before he got 
 back. 
 
 It was March, but the promise of spring was in the 
 air just a touch of haziness and the twitter of birds 
 flying to and fro with sweet chattering. The air was
 
 116 MERZE : 
 
 exhilarating, intoxicating after the closeness of the house. 
 Across the fields a man was ploughing, calling at times 
 to his horses, singing and whistling as he worked. What 
 a happy, care-free heart such a one must have, thought 
 the girl as she heard him. 
 
 The wind, blowing toward her, seemed to bear in its 
 breath the fresh odors of the upturned earth, or it might 
 have been only the moisture rising from the ground 
 where she stood ; but it brought tidings of springing 
 grass and all sweet things of summer ; it was as the 
 hints of change in her own life a vague expectancy 
 that tingled through her veins, and sent her restless here 
 to the fields trying to outwalk her impatience. 
 
 When she turned to retrace her steps, she found they 
 were more than she had intended taking. The house 
 was easily a half mile away. She walked hurriedly back, 
 that they might not find her out on their arrival. She 
 had seen or heard nothing of the carriage. Yet it could 
 have come while she was out of sight. Half-vexed at 
 the absentmindedness that made her forget how far her 
 feet were wandering, she hurried on, and reached, at 
 last, the boundary of the old garden. As she did so 
 the stooped form of a man, coming from the other end 
 of the lane, turned also into the avenue. She tried to 
 draw back unnoticed until he passed, but saw he was 
 looking at her intently. She bent her head with a 
 pleasant good-morning, such as is always given on the 
 country roads, and would have passed him, but he lifted 
 his hat in return to her salutation, and evidently satisfied 
 with his scrutiny, spoke : 
 
 " I think I am not mistaken when I suppose you to be 
 Fred's wife. Am I right ?" 
 
 Fred's wife ! How strange it sounded in her ears.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 117 
 
 She stopped short, and looked at this stranger who spoke 
 to her so familiarly. He had a peculiar face, darkly 
 tinged and foreign-looking, and his hair was perfectly 
 white a soft, silky white that softened the features and 
 heightened the lines of age. He seemed so at home under 
 the old trees that it could only be one person. 
 
 "I am Mrs. Lawrence," she answered. 
 
 " Ah, yes ! And you wonder who I am to accost 
 you, eh ?" 
 
 " No," she answered, smiling. " I am not much 
 puzzled over it. I feel sure you must be ' Massa Mark,' " 
 and she held out her hand, which he clasped warmly. 
 
 "What a clever pair of guessers we are !" he said, 
 looking at her kindly, curiously. "And, if it were a 
 younger man, we would say what promises of romance 
 in this curious beginning to our acquaintance." 
 
 "And, without the romance, we can at least hope it 
 will be a forerunner of a pleasant friendship," she replied, 
 feeling instinctively drawn toward this peculiar old man 
 with the musical voice and the sharp, kindly eyes. 
 
 "Amen to that !" And he again reached his hand, in 
 which she unhesitatingly laid hers. Assuredly it was a 
 strange beginning to a strange friendship. 
 
 " How does it come that you are alone, and on foot ?" 
 she asked, as they walked on under the fir-trees. " Jupe 
 went to meet you." 
 
 " And I came with them to the end of the lane. I 
 preferred getting out and taking the short cut across. 
 It does one good to breathe the air here. I like to get 
 out in it alone sometimes ; but a few hours is enough of 
 it. I have become demoralized through familiarity with 
 the noise of elevated roads and other convenient mon- 
 strosities of civilization. This quiet is oppressive in
 
 118 MERZE : 
 
 comparison, perhaps because its peace is a rebuke to the 
 fret and fume of lives whose restless feet prefer the 
 cobblestones, though they do leave bruises sometimes, 
 eh ? What do you think ? What would be your choice, 
 green pastures or a paving of cold stone ? The pastures 
 are peaceful, lovely." 
 
 "But the stones can be built into monuments," she 
 answered. He looked at her and laughed. She had 
 caught so quickly at his meaning ; but he shook his 
 head, though he did so kindly, smilingly. 
 
 " Monuments ! Yes, yes. Youth always expects that, 
 at least. Age is content with grave-room. Does that 
 make you feel that I am very melancholy ?" he asked, as 
 she looked at him questioningly. " I am not, I assure 
 you. Some people who know me call me ' Mephisto.' 
 Now ' Mephisto ' was not melancholy, was he, or have you 
 any acquaintance with his character ?" 
 
 " Not much," she answered, amused and interested in 
 this man, who was so unlike anything she had imagined 
 as her husband's cousin. " But," she added, " if any 
 have called you so, it must have been by the rule of 
 contraries. I have heard your name too often, through 
 Rhoda's lips, to take you at your own valuation." 
 
 "Ah !" he breathed, with quaint sadness, "it is always 
 so. Don't you know everyone has an ambition to pose 
 in this life, some as one character, some as another, yet 
 few understanding their own ? In the theatre we see it 
 most. Scarce a comedian who has not, at some time in 
 his amateur days, longed to test his voice in the roles of 
 heaviest tragedy ; scarce a soubrette who does not, in 
 her soul, think herself fitted by nature to the ' Paulines ' 
 and the ' Juliets ' ; and so it goes. And I, though I insist 
 that I have in me the instincts of a ' Mephisto ', I must go
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 119 
 
 always into the parts of the benevolent father or uncle, 
 who end the play with 'Bless you, my children, bless 
 you !' Ah, it is very hard ! I believe it is all the fault 
 of the hair, that would insist on whitening. Sometimes 
 I am tempted to dye it. What do you think ?" 
 
 Merze laughed at the pretense of sadness in his voice, 
 for his quizzical smile so belied it. He was so peculiar, 
 yet so attractive to her. They seemed already on a foot- 
 ing of understanding seldom reached save by long 
 acquaintance. They entered the side door just as the 
 carriage drove up. 
 
 Rhoda stood on the steps, asking multitudinous ques- 
 tions as to the non-appearance of Massa Mark, and when 
 he tiptoed behind her and put his hands over her eyes, 
 as he had done when a boy, the old creature turned with 
 a shrill cry of delight, and flung two tremulous black 
 hands up to him : 
 
 " Massa Mark, Massa Mark !" she said, pressing his 
 hands and kissing them the hands that had closed 
 Zack's eyes while every feature in her face shone with 
 delight. Assuredly Massa Mark was the favorite in the 
 old house. 
 
 Merze looked on, amused and touched by the devo- 
 tion in the black creature's manner, almost forgetting 
 there was anyone else to greet, until Lawrence stood 
 beside her holding out his hand. 
 
 "Am 1 an outcast? Have not even you, Merze, a 
 word a how-de-do?" 
 
 " Many of them," she said, her face flushing a little as 
 she saw Guarda watching this greeting between Fred 
 and his wife. His eyes seemed to see everything. She 
 wondered if he knew if Lawrence had told him.
 
 120 MER2E : 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 All through dinner which followed, Lawrence was 
 amused at the interest Merze had roused in the mind of 
 his whimsical cousin, and he was pleased as well, for 
 through friendship between them he saw his way clear of 
 an obligation whose justice he acknowledged at the same 
 time that the bonds grew irksome. 
 
 It was the old man who opened the door for her and 
 smiled kindly into her eyes as she left the dining-room; 
 then he turned squarely on the other. 
 
 "Fred," and the old face was no longer smiling, "you 
 have told me the truth about this she is your wife ?" 
 
 " Certainly she is more's the pity ! Don't think me 
 fool enough to try and humbug you in such a matter. 
 Yes, she's my wife. 1 ' 
 
 "Then what's wrong? Surely, Fred, you are not 
 throwing away the content you might have ? At your age 
 a man should know how to appreciate a wife like that. 
 She would be one in a thousand." 
 
 Lawrence laughed a little as he cracked a walnut and 
 leisurely searched out the kernel. 
 
 " Now don't lecture, Mark. I didn't ask you to come 
 for that. Besides it's all no good ; we have settled our 
 own affairs to our own satisfaction. The one question 
 now is some occupation for her. She wants to be inde- 
 pendent. I expected an unbiased critic in you as to her 
 qualifications for the stage, but you seem entirely under 
 her spell already." 
 
 "Which you are not, it seems."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 121 
 
 " Not exactly." 
 
 " And she ?" 
 
 " Is in the same agreeable state of affection toward 
 myself." 
 
 " And she has no money ?" 
 
 " Not a cent." 
 
 " Then I can't understand what possible motive you 
 could have in marrying each other." 
 
 " Possibly not, and you are not likely to. It was all 
 done for the best, Mark; believe that at least ; but it has 
 been a big mistake for both. To a man I suppose such 
 things don't matter so much; but she feels it most, as she 
 happens to be one of the sort who can't take things 
 lightly." 
 
 " No honest woman could take such a state of affairs 
 lightly. You should be thankful for that, since she bears 
 your name. You have surely seen enough of women 
 who take lightly the bond of wedding vows." 
 
 " Don't preach, Mark; you have never been bound by 
 them. As to Merze yes, she will always take things 
 too seriously to be happy. Life must be intense and 
 earnest to her, with the intensity of melodrama ; but it 
 is not a desirable trait in a wife." 
 
 " Melodrama ?" repeated the old man, " well, perhaps ; 
 who can tell ? But her eyes have in them the weakness 
 and the strength of tragedies." 
 
 Lawrence laughed at the earnest tone. 
 
 "Assuredly, Mark, this is a decided 'case,' since you 
 begin on a few hours' acquaintance to imagine such 
 poetic things. She is handsome to look at, but beyond 
 that she has never been particularly interesting to me. I 
 am too prosaic ever to discover the germ of tragedies in 
 her statuesque, still features. They have always looked
 
 122 MERZE : 
 
 rather blank to me. I fear as an actress she would lack 
 fire. She would never be a woman to compromise her- 
 self in any way; her sense of duty would be stronger 
 than any temptation could become. Her husband can 
 afford to have ease on that score." 
 
 Mark looked across at the careless, nonchalant face, a 
 half feeling of wrath in his mind against it, and a great 
 compassion for the loveless life of the girl who had just 
 left them. 
 
 "You talk like a fool, Fred, and you are acting more 
 like one in allowing her to go out alone into the world 
 with a face like hers and an empty heart." 
 
 " And you have only a theory of her nature from her 
 face, yet you are talking all sorts of imaginary nonsense 
 over her. An empty heart ! So much the better; she can 
 give the more thought to her work. A lover is a sad inter- 
 ference." 
 
 " But a husband who has an honest interest in her 
 work surely such a one is best for a woman always." 
 
 " I fear Merze will not agree with you. A husband is 
 the least desirable to her of all earthly things. There is 
 no use discussing the question, Mark. She, herself, has 
 asked to be free. It is not a flattering confession to 
 make, but it is true, so you needn't look on her as a 
 deserted woman, or any of that rubbish. No use going 
 into details as to the cause ; that is only of interest to 
 ourselves. There is no sentimental nonsense between 
 us, and there never was. I would have tried to be as 
 good a husband to her as men of our sort can be, but it 
 is of no use. She would get along with you all right. 
 You could talk blank verse to each other. But there is 
 no music to her in the name of wife, and never will be." 
 
 " Never will be ? Time only tells such things, Fred. She
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 123 
 
 has a good face. I like it like it well enough to fear 
 that the music may reach her ears too late." 
 
 They both sat silent after Mark's last speech. It con- 
 tained much that Lawrence had already taken into 
 consideration, for all the lightness of his answers. At 
 last he rose and asked : 
 
 " Shall we go to her ?" 
 
 "Yes," said the old man, rising also. At the door he 
 stopped and asked : " Have you decided ?" 
 
 " Answer me a question first. Has she enough in her 
 favor to succeed ?" 
 
 " Yes. With only average intelligence and that face, 
 voice, and magnetic manner she could be made a suc- 
 cess. She has more than average intelligence, and if 
 given a chance would, I think, win success in anything 
 she determined to do. That is my honest opinion ; but 
 I would not advise a public life for her." 
 
 "As to that, she must decide for herself." 
 
 And without more words the two men entered the 
 room where Merze awaited them. 
 
 "You were very long coming," she said, making room 
 beside her for Mark on the old-fashioned carved settee. 
 
 "We were talking of you," replied Lawrence, 
 "and the subject grew quite interesting; hence our 
 delay." 
 
 " I did not imagine myself of so much consequence," 
 she said, as carelessly as she could, while her heart beat 
 rapidly at the thought that it must be of the stage they 
 spoke. Now, surely, she would hear something of the 
 decision. 
 
 " Yes," said Lawrence, seating himself leisurely, " of 
 you and this new ambition of yours. Mr. Guarda is 
 something of an authority on such matters. Would you
 
 124 MERZE : 
 
 mind reading aloud a little ? It will give him a better 
 idea of your voice than conversation can give." 
 
 She hesitated a moment, looking from one to the 
 other. It was such an abrupt request she was so totally 
 unprepared that at first she did not know what to say. 
 Guarda laid his hand on hers kindly. 
 
 " Yes, child, the ' Mephisto ' is a very harmless one. 
 Read me a little something anything; don't let the pros- 
 pect frighten you. It is necessary that I hear before I 
 can judge." 
 
 " I know that. I am not frightened, but it took me by 
 surprise. I will be glad to read to you, but don't be too 
 harsh in your criticism ; remember I did not expect to 
 entertain you so." 
 
 She was looking over some books as she spoke, not to 
 Lawrence, but to Guarda. She wished her husband did 
 not need to be there. She did not care nearly so much 
 for the stranger's criticism as she did for his; yet she 
 could not tell him so. 
 
 " Choose for me," she said, taking to Guarda three 
 books; "perhaps you will know what is best." 
 
 He turned the leaves of one over. It was Meredith's 
 ' Clytemnestra,' with all its beauty of music, all its color- 
 ing of passion. 
 
 " Read those speechesof ' Clytemnestra' and 'Agesthus,' 
 also that chorus." 
 
 He handed her the book as she stood leaning one 
 hand on the mantel. In that position she could not see 
 Lawrence's face, so she remained there and began. 
 
 Her voice was not natural at first. There were harsh 
 notes in it, and she was not sure enough of herself ; but 
 after a few speeches the earnestness in them took posses- 
 sion of her, and the words of the woman, great in her
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 125 
 
 strength, admirable even in her weakness, were given 
 in pride, in taunts, in the sad relapse into memories of 
 past happiness, in the many phases of a strange love 
 endeavoring to raise its companion to the level of her 
 own courage. The chorus, with its wail of prophecy in 
 it, ended, dying out in the shadowy old room in which no 
 word was spoken until she closed the book. 
 
 " Will that do ? Is it enough ?" she asked Guarda. 
 She did not look at Lawrence, and he did not speak. 
 
 " It is enough it will do," answered the old man, 
 leading her to a chair with an added degree of impress- 
 iveness in his manner. " I thought you could do cred- 
 itably. I did not hope to hear reading so good as you 
 have given us." 
 
 "And do you think is it likely I could be an 
 actress ?" 
 
 " You have much in your favor. I think I can safely 
 say, if you are not afraid of hard work, yes." 
 
 " I am afraid of nothing if I only had hope that the 
 work would be good; but " and then she turned to 
 Lawrence " can I ? am I to try?" 
 
 " You are to choose for yourself. It will be work, as 
 he says." 
 
 " But it will also be independence, and I will be so 
 much more contented. I seem useless as it is." 
 
 " Don't build up too much on entire independence at 
 first," said Guarda, shaking his head. " It will be some 
 time before you can fly with your own wings." 
 
 "Is it will it mean money much expense?" she 
 asked, fearful after all that it could not be. 
 
 " Nothing more than you can repay when your fortune 
 is made," answered Lawrence. " I suppose nothing less 
 will meet your new ideas of independence. If Mark is
 
 126 MERZE : 
 
 willing to take charge of you, you can consider the affair 
 settled as soon as you like." 
 
 " Mr. Guarda ? Why should he ?" and then she stopped, 
 puzzled at being consigned to his care. 
 
 " Because he belongs to a theatre and has better 
 opportunities for advancing you than anyone I know." 
 
 " And I never knew you never told me !" 
 
 " No, I never did," he answered, calmly; " there was 
 no object ; neither did I mention Grayholme. I never 
 gossip over family affairs. I was not sure you would 
 ever meet either of them, and, after this soaring ambition 
 took hold of you, I kept quiet about him for fear of 
 raising false hopes." 
 
 " And you," she said, turning to Guarda, " you are 
 willing to help me ? to put me where I can learn and 
 earn my own living at the same time ? I will try very 
 hard not to be a discredit to you." 
 
 " I believe you," he said, laying his hand on hers. " I 
 will do what I can ; but I warn you I will be cross. I 
 will scold often. If you are sensible you will scold back. 
 I have had to teach women who cried if I scolded. You 
 must not do that, and we will be very ambitious, you and 
 I, though we will quarrel," and his kindly pressure of her 
 hand and earnestness of eyes told Merze she had found 
 a friend. 
 
 And then they sat discussing plans for her. Lawrence 
 did not enter into them except in one case, and that was 
 regarding the name she should use, he insisting that she 
 should not be known as a married woman. 
 
 " There are many worthy women in the profession who 
 bear their husbands' names," remonstrated Merze. 
 
 "I don't dispute that," he replied; "but not young 
 women, and not successful women, or else their success
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 127 
 
 has been won through other channels than dramatic 
 ability. No as to the rest I leave it to Mark and your- 
 self ; but about the name allow me to judge. You must 
 not be known as a married woman." 
 
 " Then must I get a divorce ?" she asked, trying to 
 speak lightly, though she was embarrassed at this subject 
 being touched on before Guarda, who, with all his kind- 
 liness, was yet a stranger to her. And she noticed he 
 had no word to say in this discussion. 
 
 " No," answered Lawrence, "there is to be no divorce 
 unless you wish it ; we settled that before." 
 
 "I shall never wish it," she said, impulsively, with a 
 half-remorseful feeling at not being able to care more for 
 him, for usually he was most kind. " You are much 
 better to me than I deserve, I think, and I promise to 
 do as you say regarding my name." 
 
 "Then first you must oromise never to let it be known 
 that you are married." 
 
 " Never ?" 
 
 " Never without my consent. I ask the promise for 
 your own good. Some day you will thank me for it. A 
 young girl will make a hit, when, if she were known to be 
 any man's wife, she would scarcely be noticed. It will 
 be an illusion easily kept up, as you are not likely to see 
 me often. I leave for ' Frisco,' in a week." 
 
 " You are going away ?" 
 
 " I certainly am. There is no object or duty to keep 
 me now," he said, smiling into her serious face. " You 
 will be left in good hands. But as to the name, that 
 must be settled as I say. Either Merze Lawrence or 
 Merze Mignot, without the 'Mrs.' And," he added, " you 
 can use the latter now if you choose ; there are no 
 longer any grounds for that old fear of your father's
 
 128 MERZE : 
 
 as to relations claiming you. You are no longer a 
 child." 
 
 "There never were any grounds for that fear," she 
 answered, "for I could never have gone to them or 
 remained with them had they taken me. That will not 
 influence my use of names. You and Mr. Guarda choose ; 
 you will know which is best." 
 
 " Mignot is the best stage name by far," said Guarda, 
 " it is an uncommon one, and looks well. As to Fred's 
 idea about the marriage business, he is partially right, 
 I am sorry to say. It is not the fault of the profession ; 
 it is the fault of the public, and has too often proved a 
 curse to those who cater to it. Yes, he is right in a way ; 
 yet I don't see the necessity for such a promise of 
 secrecy." 
 
 " But he does, or he would not ask it," answered 
 Merze. 
 
 " I am afraid I have never done much to please him," 
 and she glanced half-contritely toward Lawrence. " But 
 I can do this and I will, and you will, I am sure, respect 
 our wish for silence." 
 
 " Certainly, if you make a point of it," answered 
 Guarda, "and I hope the future will justify your com- 
 pact ; but I am much older than either of you, and have 
 always found it best to fight shy of blind promises.'
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 129 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Ah, the golden days in the months that followed ! 
 Golden to Merze, despite the drudgery, for they were 
 months of freedom, which meant to her happiness. She 
 had begun to see the difficulties in the way to greatness, 
 to fame, but it did not weaken her ambition. She played 
 in the stock company of the Chatel, the theatre where 
 Guarda was, and had been, stage manager for years. 
 Every night she appeared in the modern society pieces, 
 that gave her self-possession and knowledge of stage 
 business, but to the classics, to the old masters of 
 standard dramatic works, did the old man go for her 
 deeper education. And he was her only teacher a 
 tireless one, to whom she gave love and reverence such 
 as she had never given to any. Her own father had not 
 been one to inspire such affection, and there had been 
 no other, except that one man that one day. 
 
 She was not alone now, as she had been in her school 
 days. There was no holding aloof among these frank, 
 courteous people. She had come among them an 
 amateur, with none who knew her, save the white-haired, 
 whimsical, well-loved stage manager. He had spoken 
 of her as a young friend of his, and they of Bohemia, 
 knowing how seldom he gave that title to any, felt she 
 was worthy, and without question, welcomed her to their 
 circle a magic one, that excludes all such trifles as 
 affairs of state, or the war of nations. Under a mon- 
 archy or republic it is all the same to them. Is there 
 war in the South, or disease in the North, they spread 
 
 9
 
 130 MERZE : 
 
 wings for safer climes, when and whither it matters not ; 
 now plucking fruit or flowers on the golden slopes of 
 California ; now laughing, jesting with old friends on the 
 " Rialto " in their metropolis of the East. 
 
 So they pass, with heartiness of voice and warm clasp 
 of hands, and smiles always, until the plodding workers 
 of other trades, looking on, speak often of the easy care- 
 lessness of fruitless lives. Fruitless ? When for number- 
 less nights they bring a space of forgetfulness to the 
 woes of thousands ; when the morals given through 
 their lips carry earnestness with a force that comes but 
 seldom from a pulpit ! Careless ? Ah, yes, they laugh ! 
 And that laughter so often stamps them of heroic souls. 
 They laugh though they drop dead in the harness ; they 
 laugh on, though now and then the strain is too much, 
 and the gates of a madhouse close on a life full of 
 promise or of glorious fulfillment. 
 
 But if there are others to laugh instead, the public 
 will soon forget the silent voice, and continue the repe- 
 tition of old saws and sayings of past ages regarding 
 these gay workers, forgetting that age and customs have 
 changed. 
 
 Of the skeletons hidden under the tinsel, Merze had 
 seen but little. The company at the Chatel was a very 
 domestic one, very quiet and prosaic indeed, in com- 
 parison with the general highly-colored ideas of the 
 ignorant in regard to such an assembly of workers the 
 ignorance that always condemns when it can not under- 
 stand. 
 
 But she had at least learned one danger for those on 
 whom the footlights shine as the white light that beats 
 upon the throne that fate ever decrees that each word, 
 each action, is a thing claimed by the public, to be
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 131 
 
 discussed and passed from lip to lip, until a thoughtless 
 word, a drop of dew, may drag down a deluge such as 
 has drowned the reputation of many a blameless one. 
 
 Massa Mark he had grown to be that to her since 
 the first day under the firs at Greyholme had tried as 
 best he could to instill this knowledge in her mind 
 without frightening her, or showing her the depths of 
 the abyss along which she walked. 
 
 Ah, those happy days and nights, with the sense in 
 them that hundreds listened to her voice, though her 
 roles were often unimportant ! Guarda was himself of 
 the old school, and would have no forced bloom in the 
 life of this girl, who was as a flower to him. 
 
 " It is the only way, child, the only way," he would 
 say, when the impetuous young blood grew impatient at 
 the length of her probation. " How can you hope to do 
 good work if you do not understand the rudiments of 
 your profession ?" 
 
 "Others succeed without such study," she said, unfold- 
 ing a dramatic paper. " See ! Here is Norine's name 
 as a star, an attraction in herself, and her experience is 
 no more than my own, not two seasons, yet someone has 
 written a play for her. She is a success, yet what does 
 she know of Shakespeare or Sheridan ? Nothing. She is 
 illiterate, without refinement. You, yourself, had her sent 
 from the Chatel for some misconduct. Yet her name is 
 here with all praise, and I I study hard every day to 
 understand the works that will always be unintelligible to 
 her ; yet who knows the name of Merze Mignot ?" 
 
 The old man looked at her sadly. She had grown so 
 very near to him, and, for all her marriage, she seemed 
 to him still a child, and a child he honored for the 
 bravery that had never once said " Pity me !" while he
 
 132 MERZE : 
 
 could see there had been bitterness in her life that was 
 not trifling, though there had been no confidences given 
 him or required, and, without question, he had said : " I 
 will be your friend." 
 
 Perhaps a knowledge of Fred's life had urged him to 
 the offer when he had seen this girl with a width of deso- 
 lation in her eyes, and no hope of content in her home ; 
 and she had turned thankfully, quickly toward the first 
 friendly hand held toward her, so quickly that Guarda 
 thought again of Lawrence. " He is a fool to rest in 
 safety on her sense of duty. It may be strong, but there 
 is also strength of gratitude in her. It is well, for her 
 sake, that it is I who came first, and not a younger man." 
 
 He had petted and scolded her through two seasons, 
 until a semblance of the old childish impetuosity came 
 to her at times in her intercourse with him, as it did this 
 day, when the record of Norine's success made her own 
 work appear worthless, 
 
 " Ah, Merze," he said, chidingly, " you are still but a 
 child. You know more than Norine. Yes, thank God, 
 in all things that are best. But she has the knowledge 
 of her world and age such as I hope you will never gain 
 through the same channels, and you lament that the 
 public know her best ! That is paltry. I care more than 
 to want such fame for any pupil of mine. When they 
 know you, I do not intend they shall forget you. And 
 who remembers Norine when the curtain falls? Not 
 one who has received benefit from her work in any 
 artistic sense. Art, in its higher attributes, will always 
 be a thing unintelligible to her, an empty name nothing, 
 and of no use in her work so long as she can grimace 
 and dance very badly, but in a catchy way that suits the 
 gallery. Act ? Bah ! She can shout through five acts
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 133 
 
 of a border drama if there are enough tableaux and red 
 fire to help her through. Surely you do not want success 
 such as that ?" 
 
 His words of sarcastic ridicule brought a half-feeling 
 of shame to her, remembering, as she did, his unceasing 
 kindness. 
 
 " Forgive me, Massa Mark !" she said, contritely 
 enough. " You are right always, I know ; only some- 
 times it seems long to wait ; but forgive me." 
 
 " Forgive ?" he said, looking at her fondly, a little 
 sadly. " Certainly, child. There is little to forgive ; 
 but if there were, age learns the necessity of it." 
 
 He could see so plainly her rebellion at the service in 
 the ranks, while all the swift-coursing blood of youth 
 throbbed with longing for leadership. He could appre- 
 ciate it himself, for once his own pulse had beaten as 
 quickly with the same hope, but it was long, very long 
 ago. Some great change of sorrow had come into his 
 life years before. What, none knew, for he was always 
 silent as to his own affairs ; but it had whitened his hair 
 and silenced the voice that had never been heard above 
 the footlights since. 
 
 Managing the stage contented him now, or, if it did 
 not content, none was ever the wiser. A man who 
 knew everyone's record, but of whom little was known 
 outside of business transactions. How long since he 
 had drifted into New York and settled there, none could 
 tell, or cared to count back through the years. His face 
 was one of the old landmarks that the players were 
 always sure of meeting when they came trooping in at 
 the end of the season. And a welcome one it often was 
 to the poor fellows who had been "playing in hard 
 luck " out through nameless States.
 
 134 MERZE ' 
 
 His words were often curt, his sharp eyes were sure 
 to see every faulty movement during a rehearsal, and 
 there alone could he be likened to the " Mephisto " of his 
 whimsical fancy not an isolated case, as most stage 
 managers can affirm ; it is a r6le thrust on them so often 
 in the thoughts of those they would teach. It is doubt- 
 ful if the volunteer who has acquitted himself well 
 in his first battle can ever again see the necessity of 
 drills. 
 
 He occupied rooms in which he had lived for years, 
 and the walls were covered with the pictured faces of 
 an age he had seen die out, the faces among which his 
 youth had been lived ; and his eyes, gazing at them, 
 would tempt his memory until it would wander back 
 through the years that comprehended the greater part 
 of the history of the drama in America. A very much 
 littered room it was, with its multitudes of manuscripts 
 and old engravings of theatrical scenes and people ; 
 many of them stars that had burned out, and in whose 
 stead his old eyes could see only will-o'-the-wisps. 
 
 For Merze he had secured a home in a private family, 
 where two pleasantly-situated rooms were furnished taste- 
 fully but inexpensively. She would incur no expense 
 that she could not see her way clear to repay ; and 
 although Guarda tried to force many little luxuries on 
 her, he admired the will that would not allow itself to be 
 persuaded, while he knew she had all a beautiful woman's 
 longing for beautiful things. 
 
 Of Lawrence they heard but seldom, and not very 
 favorably. Evidently Dame Fortune did not lavish on 
 him the smiles as of yore. He had written asking 
 Guarda to buy out his share of Greyholme, as he needed 
 the money. The old man, through years of steady
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 135 
 
 labor, had amassed quite a considerable amount of 
 money, and was quite able and rather glad to do it. 
 
 " I would not want it to go into the hands of stran- 
 gers," he said to Merze, when they discussed the question. 
 " Jupe and Rhoda must be taken care of ; and who 
 knows, some time it may be a welcome retreat for us in 
 our old days, my dear. Yes, my child, we must begin to 
 look ahead. I will buy it." 
 
 His decision was gratifying to Merze. During her 
 short stay she had become much attached to the quaint 
 old place, with its dusky grandeur of a past age. She 
 liked to think of it as a home to which she might return, 
 but felt she could not do so in content while it be- 
 longed in part to her husband, though she tried always 
 to have only kind thoughts of him, and had offered him 
 her little all that had been saved from her salary, an 
 offer which he refused. 
 
 The two seasons had passed quickly, despite the 
 work, which was trying sometimes. There were the 
 libraries, the art galleries, the many things to be seen in 
 a great city for the asking, and with her was always to 
 be seen the white-haired old man with the shambling 
 gait and odd, foreign face. A tireless companion he was, 
 with the history of the old town at his finger ends, and 
 Merze never tired of the reminiscences -which came at 
 times from his lips, tinged with the poetry of speech 
 scarcely native to others than those whose veins have 
 been filled from sun-kissed lanes and his had been. 
 
 Bit by bit he had told scraps of his own history, until she 
 knew that his mother had been a Spanish dancer a beau- 
 tiful woman of fire and motion, who had drifted across 
 the seas, and, after a short season of triumph in old 
 New York, had disappeared from the public. Love had
 
 136 MERZE : 
 
 proven stronger than art, and she became the wife of a 
 young Virginia planter, a Lawrence, and her sunny land 
 was lost to her forever. Not a very happy exchange did 
 America give her. Mere tolerance was all that her hus- 
 band's family granted to the young bride. Her calling 
 did not please them, neither did her religion ; but the 
 controversy did not last long. The climate a tonic to 
 so many was death to the beautiful, unwelcome guest. 
 She left as a legacy to the world her boy, Mark. The hus- 
 band wandered off to South America, and never came back, 
 and the son with the instincts of his mother in him 
 chose the stage, and, in a fit of anger at opposition, had 
 discarded the name of his father's people, and claimed only 
 his mother's. A soldier of fortune he had been ever 
 since, asking nothing of his kindred, but helping them 
 much since his days of maturity, now long past. The 
 family were all gone save himself and his cousin, and 
 few knew that the stylish, jaunty, nonchalant gambler 
 was at all connected with the whimsical, kindly stage 
 manager of the Chalet. He had been alone for so many 
 years until this girl had come, as a blessing, he said 
 often, and it gave him something to care for to love 
 the destiny of humanity. 
 
 Of course, back in the past there had been loves. 
 What life has them not ? It is the only music for youth 
 to keep step to, and what a mad dance it leads those 
 who blindly follow ! Ah ! yes, there had been loves, but 
 no wife, no children, and this girl was to him what such 
 love would have been if it had come into his life! 
 
 " Massa Mark," she said, one day, caressingly, smooth- 
 ing back the white hair, " Massa Mark, why are you so 
 good to me ? You were so from the first. I often won- 
 der at my good fortune."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 137 
 
 " Ah, my Merze, you wonder at that. Everyone, even 
 a Mephisto, must have something to love." 
 
 " You say that so often, Massa Mark." 
 
 " Because I have lived long and seen many lives. All 
 have the same need." 
 
 " But mine " 
 
 "Yes, yes," he interrupted, "I know what you would 
 say that there has been no love come to you as yet, and 
 you are twenty. What a multitude of years ! And there 
 is no one, eh ? no one but a white-haired old man for 
 whom you have cared at all ? and that ah, for the young 
 such love does "not content, though the old are grateful 
 for even so much. But there is an ideal then. There is 
 always that, if nothing more substantial. Well, make 
 your ideal so high that mankind can not climb to it ; then, 
 if you are [true to it, you will save your life the fret, the 
 heart-burning, the madness of the sweet song that lulls to 
 a sleep from which you waken tired, disillusioned, see- 
 ing, with cleared vision, the clay feet of your god the 
 clay feet so many walk beside all the days of their life 
 knowing that every heavy step tramples deeper some 
 sweet, vague ambition of ideal growth. And why? Ah ! 
 child, for the sake of days when the clay was golden in 
 the eyes of love !" 
 
 A silence fell over the two when he finished speaking. 
 So, often, some careless word of hers would touch a 
 chord in the old half-Spanish heart that would bring out 
 swift, burning words with the grace, the rythm of the 
 improvisators of his ancestors words sounding strange 
 to the ears of many, laughed at by the careless about the 
 theatres, until a half mask of curtness had gradually 
 slipped over it. It was not the language of work-a-day 
 life ; but it explained, in a way, to Merze the position
 
 138 MERZE : 
 
 he held, though his knowledge exceeded that of more 
 successful workers around him. 
 
 It is not genius alone that rises. It is too fine, too 
 delicate, unless mixed with the baser metals, and this 
 gold, in its golden days, had not alloy enough to pass 
 current. 
 
 Merze felt this dimly, tenderly, and it tinged all her 
 manner toward him with a' daughter's fondness. She 
 leaned over to him, touching his hand lovingly. 
 
 " Ah ! Massa Mark," she said, smiling, " how fatal you 
 make this blind god's kiss. Is it not ungrateful ? I will 
 wager it has not always been unkind to you. But you 
 have not once answered my question why you cared for 
 me from the first" 
 
 " Why ? Ah, curiosity ! Well, perhaps because of 
 some dead-and-gone bit of sentimentality a remem- 
 brance of eyes that yours resemble. We will pretend 
 that it is so, you and I. That will be a romance of our 
 own ; no other will know. There will be a woman in 
 this story of ours a woman dead long ago fair and 
 stately, with eyes like yours ; not altogether happy eyes, 
 my Merze. And when I am old and white-haired, I see 
 again a face like hers like her daughter's might have 
 been, had she borne one. It is a friendless face, and it 
 looks at me with the eyes of old days. Well, what am I 
 to do ? The girl, she is nothing. Bah, no ! An ignora- 
 mus. But I take her, I scold her, I make her find fault 
 with me a dozen times a day. I drill her in ways she 
 thinks senseless ; but she is climbing up up in knowl- 
 edge, and some day her chance will come. It comes to 
 all some day, if they only know enough not to let it 
 pass. And then then what will we see ? The cocoon 
 that served its purpose well in obscurity ? No, no ! That
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 139 
 
 will be left behind forever, and the world will see the 
 brilliant thing it has covered. Oh, yes ! You shake 
 your head ; but you will see I am of the prophets ! And 
 then, when this is all accomplished, you and I will know it 
 is all because you had eyes like the dead woman that an 
 old man scolded you into being great. Well, how do 
 you like my romance ?" 
 
 " But the chance, Massa Mark ? It is very long in 
 coming !" 
 
 " Patience, my child patience, and shuffle the cards." 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 But at last the chance did come the chance to do 
 some work that would place her in a groove above that 
 she had occupied. Several times she had understudied 
 the leading lady's roles, and once, in a case of illness, had 
 even run through a rehearsal under direction of the 
 author, who expressed surprise to Guarda at the girl's 
 aptitude and delicate conception of the part. 
 
 " Only one rehearsal, and how naturally she drops into 
 the situations," he said, lowly, to the old man. " But a 
 little over a year's experience, you say ? Well, a woman 
 like that will not remain long in the background. She is 
 clever, wonderfully clever ; and the youth, and the. grace, 
 and all that wealth of bronze hair ! You need not go 
 begging for a leading lady should Mathilde Hargate leave 
 the position unfilled." 
 
 And though Merze did not play the part, there were 
 many of the company who spoke regretfully of it. She 
 could not help hearing their words, and it gave her fresh 
 encouragement.
 
 140 MERZE : 
 
 This was some weeks before the holidays. The piece 
 was a success, and was to be kept on until another pro- 
 duction by the same author, Mr. Orlane, was ready, 
 which was expected to be about Easter. He was poet, 
 as well as playwright, and the commonplaces of his work 
 in modern comedy and drama did not content him, 
 though they brought him reputation and an enviable in- 
 come. But the beauty of verse, in its measured beats, 
 kept the echoes of rythm in his brain until, despite 
 friendly warnings, he had essayed that most risky of ven- 
 tures in America, a classical drama by an American, a 
 romance of that dead people, the Druids. The char- 
 acters were strongly drawn, dramatic life thrilled through 
 the musical verse, and the costumes, in their picturesque 
 simplicity, were designed by an artist whose name is 
 honored as one of the foremost of modern workmen. It 
 was a labor of love, else he would not have spared from 
 his own canvas the time precious to his art. 
 
 " I can not recommend anyone to you, Orlane," he 
 said, when spoken to of it ; "but I will do it myself." 
 
 " I should never have thought of asking it," said Or- 
 lane, delightedly. " It would be a great lift toward suc- 
 cess for it ; but I have never known you to lend your art 
 to theatrical work." 
 
 " Neither have I," replied North ; but this thing would 
 appeal to any artist's fancies. What opportunities for 
 picturesque groupings in that banquet scene ! And the 
 sacrifice at the temple, and the accusation of Hesta ! It 
 is a sort of intoxication to embellish such a poetical con- 
 ception. No one shall do it but myself. How is it to be 
 cast as to women ? So much in the draperies depends on 
 the women who have to wear them." 
 
 "Well," said Orlane, reflectively, "it is not altogether
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 141 
 
 decided. There will be the Chalet stock company, with 
 the addition of choruses, and a few extra people for 
 principals. For Ogartha, the leading heavy, there is 
 Mathilde Hargate ; for Isolde and Hena there are Miss 
 Alwayne and Mrs. Cooper. Those are the only ones of 
 importance, except Hesta, the title r61e, and that we are 
 at sea about. Miss Hargate was not pleased because it 
 was not given to her." 
 
 " What ! that girlish creation of grace and dignity ! 
 Mathilde is plumply handsome, and a fine actress. 
 Ogartha, with its fire and strength, will just fit her. But 
 the other ! I fear, Orlane, it will be the one weak spot 
 in the piece. To read it, the character is beautiful, the 
 conception of a poet ; but how seldom you see those 
 poetical conceptions brought to life through the lips of 
 another. It is a thing to read alone, not to risk being 
 marred. At this moment I do not know of one who 
 would be my ideal of the part." 
 
 "Nor I," answered Orlane, "with but one exception, 
 and she is so in looks, voice, and manner. I have asked 
 that she be left out of the cast in case of an emergency, 
 and yet " 
 
 "Well, what's the matter?" 
 
 " She is not well enough known. I should like to have 
 a woman with more of a reputation for the title role. 
 You will know the one I mean ; she does clever work, 
 Merze Mignot." 
 
 " Yes, I do. You are right ; she is one's ideal of such 
 a part. Have her try it, by all means. She will do it 
 creditably, at least, and I should not wonder if she made 
 a success of it. She is rather on the statuesque order. 
 Just the thing ! And her face ! I assure you it will be a 
 pleasure to design costumes for her."
 
 142 MERZE : 
 
 And with this encouragement toward what he wholly 
 desired, yet half feared, he spoke to Guarda. 
 
 " She will do it," he said, briefly, and took home to her 
 the play. 
 
 " Read it, read it all," he said. " It is, I think, the 
 dearest ambition of this man's life. All his successes will 
 not make amends, in his eyes, for the failure of this, if it 
 does fail. Read it." 
 
 She did so, earnestly, not knowing the reason, but 
 charmed with the beauty of it. 
 
 " It is grand, Massa Mark," she said, closing it. " But 
 it is too fine, too delicate, too deep for the masses. Only 
 scholars will care for it." 
 
 "You are right, I fear. It will gradually creep into 
 men's libraries, but it will not be long seen on the stage 
 of theatres. We will make it a success; but the mount- 
 ing, the dressing, the pictures, and music will be needed 
 to make it so. It is a pity there is not more rugged 
 strength, in the stead of all that delicate beauty of lan- 
 guage." 
 
 " And I am out of the bill. That seems strange. You 
 always keep me so busy. How does it come ?" 
 
 " Ah, that was a little mistake ! You are to play after 
 all." 
 
 " And what which part ?" she asked, eagerly. 
 
 " Which would you prefer ?" 
 
 "Massa Mark, don't be Mephisto to me. You know I 
 have not yet the position from which I can make choice 
 of parts." 
 
 " Perhaps this will help you to such a position, for you 
 play Hesta." 
 
 "Massa Mark!" 
 
 That was all. But the gladness, the incredulity in the
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 143 
 
 voice, showed the depth of longing that yet feared to grasp 
 its prize. She had hoped before. 
 
 "Yes, it is true," he said, glad as herself. " But don't 
 look like that, as if you were frightened. Is the thought 
 so terrible ?" 
 
 " No, not that," she answered, smiling, though nerv- 
 ous ; " but just at first, for one moment, I grew dizzy 
 with gladness, I think. And it is true, Massa Mark, 
 quite true? And that beautiful Hesta! And they 
 think you think I can do it ?" 
 
 " I had not accepted for you otherwise. It is for such 
 as this I have had you work quietly, out of sight, that 
 when your chance came you would be equal to it." 
 
 " And it has come, Massa Mark, it has come at 
 last ?" 
 
 " It has come. God grant it bring blessings to you." 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Very nervous was the white-robed Hesta on that open- 
 ing night, but very quiet. Mark and Orlane looked at 
 her critically as she left the dressing-room, and each 
 showed by his face that her appearance, at least, was all 
 they could wish. The curtain had just gone up on the 
 second act. The first had been enthusiastically received, 
 but Orlane, coming back from the door, said there was 
 much expectancy regarding the Hesta. North had an- 
 nounced his wish to paint a picture of her in the part, and 
 the report had spread rapidly in artistic circles. All 
 remembered the girl with the strange name and the beau- 
 tiful Greek face, now that a noted author had found in it 
 his ideal for a poetical character. All were anxious to
 
 144 MERZE : 
 
 see her, now that some one of importance had taken her 
 up. So it is always ; the hounds and their leader over 
 again. 
 
 The banquet scene was on. A young priestess 
 enchantress, was to be dedicated to the heathen temple. 
 About were grouped the people, in moving pictures 
 pleasing to the eye, though no words were spoken, save 
 the chorus of children's voices, heard in the distance, 
 then nearer, nearer, ushering in the young soul whose 
 hand was, in future, to shed the blood for the highest of 
 their sacrifices. 
 
 She stood in the upper entrance ; close to her, Guarda 
 and Orlane. The old man took her hand in his. It was 
 cold as ice. " Be brave, my child," he whispered. " You 
 will succeed if you are only that." 
 
 " I am trying hard to be so, Massa Mark," she answered, 
 endeavoring to smile, for all her nervousness. " But 
 things will persist in swimming around a little before my 
 eyes. I can scarcely tell the color of my own dress." 
 
 " The audience will have no trouble in distinguishing 
 it," replied Orlane. " You will look like a snow-drop 
 among all that mass of color !" 
 
 A snow-drop ! 
 
 Back flashed her memory to tne one who bade her 
 take them as an emblem for her life. Always she had 
 remembered, but his tones came to her afresh across the 
 years as she stood there. The childish chorus was 
 reaching its finish ; they were making their entrance, 
 scattering flowers for the path of the young devotee. 
 
 Still she stood. A snow-drop ! The memory should 
 lend inspiration for this work that surely was fitting for 
 his words, his hopes for her. Orlane touched her arm, 
 anxiously.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 145 
 
 " It is you ; the music is ceasing. Go !" 
 
 Another moment and she stood before them, under 
 the graven arch of the ruined temple. The full moon, 
 rising through the trees, enveloped her with its glamor 
 of blue mist until she looked a marble thing, a creature 
 perfect as a star, standing there in the virginal robes, 
 that clung to the rounded form and fell in white folds to 
 the bare, sandaled feet, that shone like pink wax on the 
 dark tiles. 
 
 One instant a hush fell over the house, the next, ear- 
 nest applause was her reception the first sweet sip of 
 adulation. She did not acknowledge it by look or 
 gesture. Her eyes were on the audience, but the gaze 
 was as one deaf to the things close around, hearing only 
 voices akin to those Joan listened to among the pastures. 
 The others separated, giving space to the seemingly 
 enchanted figure that moved with fateful, unseeing eyes 
 through their midst. 
 
 One instant the arms were raised and nands clasped 
 over the eyes, as if to shut out insistent visions, 
 then the voice, clear and low as an ^Eolian harp, 
 with its sad undertone, went out to the listening 
 
 audience : 
 
 Of blood they whisper, till it drips and drowns, 
 Through all the days of dread that are to come, 
 Through honors given, great, though terrible, 
 And rites held sacred that do hem around 
 The soul a-sick for youth's fair dynasty. 
 
 Her tones thrilled the hearers, who wondered if this 
 peerless creature could be the one they had ever noticed, 
 carelessly, as a handsome girl, with a fine voice and 
 magnificent hair. She was a thing of the ocean, whose 
 life had been cramped into narrow channels, until a 
 chance current had borne her on its bosom out into the 
 10
 
 146 MERZE : 
 
 boundless reaches of her own element. Her success was 
 unequivocal. 
 
 Some gentlemen in an upper box were very demon- 
 strative in their applause, so much so that it was an 
 annoyance. Hesta, waiting for it to cease, raised her 
 eyes in mute reproof toward them. But her gaze did 
 not reach to their height. Another pair of eyes arrested 
 her own. Dark, questioning, annoyed, they looked into 
 hers, and for one moment, the stage, the people, all dis- 
 appeared before her; only those deep, never-to-be-for- 
 gotten eyes were visible ! Then Guarda prompted her. 
 The dialogue was continued, and when she found cour- 
 age to glance that way again the eyes were gone. 
 
 The eyes belonged to a dark, tall man, in a traveling 
 coat and cap, who had entered only to exchange words 
 with the artist, North, who was one of a party of friends, 
 who had come fearfully to see this visionary venture of 
 Orlane. 
 
 The stranger had hurriedly exchanged a few words, 
 and was turning to leave, when his eyes fell on the stage, 
 with its beauty of setting and costuming, the mass of 
 purple, crimson, and dark stuffs making an ever-changing 
 background for that picture of the woman in clinging 
 white robes, and then she raised her eyes until they met 
 his, and stood still, wordless for an instant, and, as she 
 continued her speech, he turned to his friend and said : 
 
 " Let me see a programme. Who is that woman in 
 white ?" 
 
 " There is her name, Merze Mignot," answered North, 
 handing him a play-bill. 
 
 " Merze Mignot ?" A name tells little. Who, what is 
 she ?" 
 
 "Who is she? Ah, that is the question !" chimed in
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 147 
 
 one of the party. " But she is a very clever actress, who 
 has played here two seasons in obscurity, and now, in a 
 twinkling, makes one long stride for first favors, and wins 
 them, too. Listen to that ! She has caught on with a 
 vengeance." 
 
 " And what a picture she is with all that tawny bronze 
 hair loose. Like a young lioness in that accusation 
 scene !" 
 
 " And what a voice !" 
 
 " And what a foot !" 
 
 The stranger turned sharply, as if to speak, at the last 
 remark, but, instead, he only said to North : 
 
 " Well, good-by, old fellow. No, I can't stay over. 
 Only stopped for a word with you. Explain to Guarda 
 my haste, that I was only passing through, and that I 
 leave to-night for Mexico. Let me hear from you some- 
 times. Good-by." 
 
 The play went on to the close a success. The people 
 dispersed, speaking of it as an artistic triumph, often with 
 their praise coupling the name of Merze Mignot. In one 
 night she had secured a footing that placed her above 
 all doubt as to ability. The author thanked her, all 
 congratulated her, and Guarda was unending in delight- 
 ful praise. But she turned from them all, tired, pale 
 from exertion and sympathy with the beautiful character 
 entrusted to her care. Only to Orlane she said : 
 
 " In the third act there was a tall, dark, gentleman in 
 the box with Mr. North. I think he left after that. Will 
 you ask his name for me? His face looks familiar." 
 And then to Guarda : " Take me home, Massa Mark, I 
 am tired, so tired." 
 
 And in her heart was one thought that drowned all 
 praise from the rest. " It was his face, his face once
 
 148 MERZE : 
 
 more ; but it looked annoyed, displeased. Surely the 
 work is good ; they all say so, only his eyes did not look 
 glad." 
 
 It was the only drop of bitterness amidst the sweets of 
 her success. If only his eyes had smiled ! Verily, she, 
 the priestess inviolate of the tragedy, was but woman 
 after all. 
 
 In the morning a note came to her from Orlane. 
 
 " The gentleman is Edward M. Drande, a journalist, 
 just returned from Scotland, and on his way through to 
 Mexico as correspondent from there to a New York 
 paper." 
 
 That was all, but it was enough to assure her it was no 
 imagination on her part. He had been there, and a 
 journalist, a writer ; that is what she would have thought 
 him. But why did his eyes look angered ? 
 
 And on a train leaving the city on the opening night 
 of " Hesta" sat a man with cap pulled low over his eyes, 
 his face moody, contemptuous, tired. 
 
 " So this is how she is ending. I had thought of her 
 as somewhere in the peace of a homely, girlish life, with 
 at least a remnant of memory for that purity of life I 
 tried to instill. Ah, it is, after all, the longing for great- 
 ness that has drowned all else ; it drowns all it touches ! 
 I had thought of her as a child cared for by friends, and 
 I find her with feet and bosom bared to the gaze of all 
 who can pay for the right to look."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 149 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 It was an artistic success, a thorough one, but the one 
 of whom most mention was made was the new genius that 
 had flashed into existence among them. At the close 
 of the season many flattering offers were made her, all of 
 which she submitted to Guarda's judgment. 
 
 "I will never quarrel with itagai'i," she said, lovingly. 
 " But for it I never should have succeeded." 
 
 From Lawrence they had received letters at intervals. 
 One of congratulation came to her when he heard of 
 her success, but none of his letters were very bright as 
 to his own affairs ; several hinted at a possible return 
 East, and, finally, Guarda came to her one day with a 
 letter in his hand and not a very happy expression on 
 his face. 
 
 " Fred is coming back," he said, abruptly, seating 
 himself, and beating a tattoo with his walking-stick on 
 the floor. 
 
 " Coming back ?" Merze felt that Guarda was not 
 pleased, and she could not truthfully say that she herself 
 was. Yet he had been so considerate more than most 
 men would have been. Her knowledge of the world 
 had taught her that. And, after all, why should he not 
 come back ? She could not expect him to exile himself 
 forever because of her. 
 
 "Well, you expected him to come some time." Her 
 tone was equivocal ; she was not pleased, yet could 
 realize the injustice of displeasure. 
 
 " Certainly ; but I hoped his judgment would tell
 
 150 MERZE : 
 
 him that it were best for both that he kept away from 
 you." 
 
 She looked questioningly at him. " He has done so, 
 and I think he always will." 
 
 " Don't be too sure of that. Read the finish of 
 that letter." 
 
 She did so. " If Merze accept any engagement that 
 will take her out of New York have her send me 
 her address when I go East. I wish especially to see 
 her." 
 
 " Well," she said, handing it back, " I see nothing to 
 disturb ourselves about in this, Massa Mark. It may be 
 some business for which it is necessary to see me. Do 
 not be alarmed. He cares for me too little to annoy me 
 by his presence." 
 
 "Perhaps," he answered, laconically; "but I know 
 Fred and the rest of mankind well enough to know there 
 is a temptation in claiming a wife who has made of her- 
 self what you have." 
 
 " Nonsense !" And she laughed a little uncertainly. 
 " Don't be gloomy, but tell me what you have done 
 about the choice of engagements. Do I remain at 
 the Chalet? What a lot of business troubles I have 
 brought you !" 
 
 But, despite her light tone, her thoughts over the 
 letter and his words were deeper than she would let 
 him see. 
 
 " Claim her !" Surely he would never do that, she 
 thought. Surely Massa Mark must be wrong. If it 
 were for the money he could have it all, all she might 
 make, if she could only keep her freedom. 
 
 Two weeks later he came, not nearly so debonnaire as 
 when Merze saw him first. Bad luck had been gaining
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 151 
 
 on him of late, as it gains on them all in time. His eyes 
 were not so clear, his jaunty manner not so assured. 
 Merze, noting the change, felt, in a way, sorry, though at 
 the same time thinking : " He was kind and helpful to 
 me when he could be so ; now I may be able to make 
 some return." 
 
 "Yes," he said, in answer to a question of Guarda's ; 
 "yes, I ran away from bad luck out there in 'Frisco, 
 and, fearing it might get worse, came back to settle up 
 my affairs, make my will, etc." 
 
 But he did not say it very jovially, and, at the door, 
 spoke a few significant words in parting. 
 
 " To-morrow, at two, I should like to see you alone, 
 if convenient." 
 
 Merze unhesitatingly gave consent to his coming. 
 She owed him too much to refuse. But she wondered 
 at the request. Could Guarda, after all, be right ? Her 
 sleep was not a sound one that night. 
 
 He came promptly, and she could see by his face, that 
 whatever the matter to be discussed, it was one of deep 
 interest to him. She felt herself, trembling with a 
 sickening sort of dread lest it should be of herself they 
 were to speak, and, if so, she could think of nothing 
 but Guarda's surmises. Anything, anything would 
 be preferable to that. He did not keep her long in 
 suspense. 
 
 " Merze," he began, "you have always seemed to me a 
 pretty sensible girl, more so than most girls. There has 
 never been any nonsense about love between us, so I 
 know you have no feelings on that score to be hurt by 
 what I am going to tell you." 
 
 " No," she answered, as quietly as she could. His 
 tone told her Guarda's suspicions were wrong, surely
 
 152 MERZE : 
 
 wrong, and hope after fear did not leave her voice very 
 steady. " No ; go on. What is it ?" 
 
 " Have you ever wondered who the man was that was 
 shot that night in the Kentucky Hills ?" 
 
 Her face paled as she thought of that night's incidents. 
 It had always been a dead letter between them. 
 
 " Yes," she answered ; "but I thought if you ever cared 
 to tell me you would do so without asking." 
 
 " Sensible but rare trait in womanhood ! Well, that is 
 what I intend to tell you of to-day. I am going down 
 hill fast. I never had such infernal luck before. Nothing 
 seems likely to check it. We have our own superstitions 
 about such things, and I've my own, perhaps. Anyway, 
 I want to try and straighten things in case I should go 
 under ; not for my own sake, but for a girl who would 
 be left alone." 
 
 " A girl a relative ?" Merze was puzzled. She had 
 never heard either Guarda or himself speak of any 
 
 " No, not a relative," he answered. " But I will tell 
 you the story, then do as you please. Sixteen years ago 
 there was a wife who lived more unhappily -even than 
 you lived for those few weeks of your life ; for hers was 
 of longer duration, and out of her repugnance to the 
 man she had married grew a love for some one else, 
 who was kind, and seemed to understand her. Well, they 
 were both young it is not a good story to tell. The 
 memory of it was what made me see clearly that you 
 also would never be contented, and I did not want your 
 life to end like hers ; neither did I want to leave you 
 entirely alone. It is not good for a woman, if young. 
 As to the story : There was finally an elopement. A few 
 months afterward a child was born, a daughter. For 
 some time they remained abroad, but never long in one
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 153 
 
 locality. The husband followed them from place to 
 place. She was happy, however, despite that, for a 
 time. A bright butterfly of a woman she was ; not like 
 you, my cold Merze. At last the dread began to wear 
 on her, and as the child grew she began to think of its 
 future, of the disgrace, and all the rest that people so 
 seldom remember in time. She had thought only of her 
 own unhappiness when she fled, and, too late, the child 
 came to reproach her. Well, she was not strong-minded, 
 and those remorseful thoughts, added to her fear of him, 
 filled her mind until there was room for nothing else. 
 She became morbid almost to insanity, and the doctors 
 advised a return to her own country. They came back, 
 but it was all of no use. The child had to be taken 
 from her, and, at last, four years after the elopement, 
 she was taken to a madhouse, and has never been out 
 of it since." 
 
 He ceased speaking for a moment. If he expected 
 any comment, none was given. Merze sat silent, her 
 chin on her hand, looking at him, and he continued : 
 
 " The child was placed in a convent of her mother's 
 faith, as she had often requested should be done if any- 
 thing happened to her. She never wanted the husband 
 or her people to know of its existence, for, in the face 
 of her own action, she knew they would not have ac- 
 cepted it as legitimate, though in that they would have 
 been wrong, for her husband was its father. She has 
 remained in the convent ever since. More than likely 
 she will remain in the sisterhood, but she is to be given 
 one year out of it, in order to judge for herself. That, 
 also, was a request of her mother. During that year 
 she must be found a home somewhere in a family, but 
 her guardian does not know any woman friend to whom
 
 154 MERZE : 
 
 he can go for help concerning her. Are you interested 
 in the story ?" 
 
 "Very much," replied Merze, briefly. "Go on." 
 
 "There is little left to tell. That man in Kentucky 
 was the girl's father. It is needless to say she does not 
 know how he died. I am the man he followed. That 
 is all." 
 
 " I guessed as much," she said slowly, her thoughts 
 full of memories that confirmed his story, and full of 
 thankfulness that her own freedom was not to be 
 touched. "I guessed as much. What do you want 
 me to do ?" 
 
 "What are you willing to do?" he asked, looking at 
 her curiously. She seemed to him glad in some way, 
 as if anxious to help. He did not know how welcome 
 this story was, in contrast to what she had half feared. 
 
 "Everything possible," she said, in answer to his 
 question. 
 
 " Knowing all ?" 
 
 " Knowing all. What difference does that make ? It 
 does not lesson my debt to you for the care and edu- 
 cation I received when, no doubt, it was often difficult 
 for you with all that other expense. I am glad you told 
 me it all," she said, gratefully. " It makes me think 
 better of you in many ways. I feel I have judged you 
 wrongly at times. Do others know ?" 
 
 "Only Guarda knows about the child. It was from 
 Greyholm we it was while on a visit there she left her 
 husband. I have shunned the place ever since." 
 
 " Does Massa Mark know you are speaking to me of 
 it ?" she asked after a little. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, moodily, "and he is not well 
 pleased. He thinks I am trying to lay too many cares
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 155 
 
 on your shoulders ; but I only want some woman for her 
 to live with for the one year, or one to have a sort of 
 care over her. I can't do it. I have only seen her at 
 long intervals, and am a stranger to her. I thought you 
 might know of some one who would board her, and 
 if she does not want to return to the convent she must 
 learn in some way to make her own living. I thought I 
 could provide better for her, and would have, if luck 
 hadn't taken such a turn on me lately. She is very 
 pretty, and, if she cared for the life, might do well on 
 the stage. You could judge best of that. She is getting 
 to that age when it is difficult for me to do anything 
 for her outside of the convent without awkward ques- 
 tions. I can't marry her to get rid of her." 
 
 "No," assented Merze ; "but I'll tell you what you 
 can do with her give her to me." 
 
 l< Give her to you ?" 
 
 "Yes. So far as taking care of her is concerned. 
 I have only myself to provide for, and I am earning 
 more money than I spend. I never had a near girl or 
 woman friend in my life ; perhaps we might care for 
 each other. Anyway, you should let me help you in 
 this, and try in part to repay your care of me when I 
 was her age." 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 " There must be no thought of the stage for her. She 
 never could stand it, and she looks too much a young 
 saint ever to put her into the world's whirlpool. She 
 is of the sort that must be cared for with gentleness all 
 the days of their lives." 
 
 It was Merze who spoke so in leaving the convent,
 
 156 MERZE : 
 
 where a pair of childish blue eyes had looked at her in 
 wistful wonder and admiration when she claimed the 
 right to return in a week and take her for one year away 
 from books and the routine of convent life. 
 
 " And you like her ?" asked Lawrence, looking at her 
 questioningly. 
 
 " Like her ! Who could help it ? She is a little white 
 violet of a girl, with all the serious beauty of an Elaine, 
 the purity of a Godiva." 
 
 " You are a curious woman, Merze," he said, after a 
 little silence, as they drove down the shaded road to the 
 station nearest the convent. " Do you know there is 
 not one woman in a hundred would do what you are 
 doing?" 
 
 " Perhaps not. I hope there is not one in a thousand 
 who has had such a life as mine," she replied, bitterly. 
 
 "Yes; it has not always been pleasant," assented 
 Lawrence, easily; but it has turned out for you all right 
 at last. You can not complain now." 
 
 She did not answer. Of what use would it be to speak 
 the thoughts brought into her mind by the pure eyes of 
 the child-woman she had left the eyes ever sheltered 
 from evil sights or knowledge by the convent walls, the 
 eyes she felt were taught some faith that gave them 
 higher hopes than her own had ever known her own, 
 that halted at the limits of this world, blinded and un- 
 certain, longing, yet questioning ? And within the white 
 face enveloping the life just left she felt dimly a something 
 that had never touched her own childhood, the peace 
 conferred by the kiss of God. 
 
 She was rebellious at fate's unkindness in taking from 
 her the things needed to form young lives for perfect 
 work. She had studied, gone so deep into things theo-
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 157 
 
 logical that the confusion of faiths and creeds was an in- 
 extricable mass, out of which she had walked with empty 
 hands. She had no guide but that of curiosity, and it, 
 she felt, had failed her. Something there was she had 
 missed ; what, she could scarcely define, but she felt that 
 this child held it without effort in her little hands this 
 child, of whom she was to take charge. And, for the 
 first time, the thought came into her heart, " Am I fit ?" 
 
 And her life, for all its success, seemed empty. 
 
 Lawrence had given her entire charge of the girl, had 
 given her all papers in his possession connected with 
 herself and her mother, receipted bills, and such things, 
 that had been accumulating for years. 
 
 " No knowing where I may bring up," he had said, in 
 handing them to her. ' They are all together there ; I 
 brought them just as they were ; keep them for me." 
 
 The night of her return from the convent Merze sat 
 long talking to Guarda. 
 
 " She is a young saint," she repeated, " and would be 
 bewildered and lost in our world. He was foolish to 
 think of the stage for her." 
 
 " Because she is too good ?" he questioned, ironically. 
 The idea of this girl was an annoyance to him. 
 
 " No, Massa Mark, not that. I think none can be too 
 good for our work. It requires more goodness than 
 other professions, for its temptations are greater. But 
 it requires a knowledge of things worldly that would 
 only disturb the illusions of a girl like that. Let her 
 keep them while she can. I envy her their possession, 
 but I shall help her to guard them." 
 
 " And pray what do you intend to do with her if the 
 stage is not to gain her?" 
 
 " I scarcely know," she replied. The question was
 
 158 MERZE 
 
 one she had not yet answered for herself. " I had 
 thought to have her live with me here, but that was be- 
 fore I had seen her. Some quiet place in the country 
 would suit her best. In the summers we can be together; 
 but not while I play, not, at least, until she sees more of 
 the world." 
 
 " Summers !" he ejaculated. " My dear Merze, you 
 are an enthusiast on this question. You seem to think 
 you are sure to pass scores of summers together, yet you 
 have not known her one day. You say she is pretty. 
 Then the chances are that two summers will see her 
 married." 
 
 "Don't!" she said, throwing out her hand, "don't 
 prophesy such things. She is too good for that." 
 
 "Ah, my Merze," he said, kindly, taking the hand in 
 his, " do not think so much over a thing that is past, 
 that you can not help. Are you never to forget ?" 
 
 " Would you care any more for me if I were one who 
 could forget easier?" she returned. " No, I am sure you 
 would not, Massa Mark. But of Crista. It is a pretty 
 name, don't you think so ? Crista Loring ; it seems to 
 suit her so well. Looking at her, one could not imagine 
 her having any kinship with such a mother. Do you 
 remember that little village in Delaware, on the bay, 
 where you sent me last summer when I was tired out 
 from the winter's work ? That would surely be a good 
 place to send her. I stopped with the widow of a phy- 
 sician while there very pleasant people, and the daugh- 
 ters are near her age. They would be good companions 
 for her. She could see a little of world-life there in a 
 quiet way, and the place will be sure to please her, it is 
 so lovely. Just now it is the best I can think of. How 
 do you like my idea ?"
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 159 
 
 " As well as any other, since you have made up your 
 mind to take such an annoyance on your hands," he 
 answered, grumblingly. " From the first, I have opposed 
 it. Let Fred himself bear the weight of his own follies. 
 He is changing much from what he was, else he would 
 never have come to you about it." 
 
 " Changing ! How ?" 
 
 " For the worse, decidedly. He accepts your gener- 
 osity in this affair as a thing of course. It may be bad 
 luck that makes him weaker, and it may be dissipation. 
 He never used to drink ; now, I am not so sure. It 
 would be better for all if he kept away entirely." 
 
 " Don't you think, Massa Mark," she said, hesitat- 
 ingly, " that it would be better if we could help him to 
 something creditable to do ?" 
 
 Guarda turned on her sharply. 
 
 " So he has been speaking to you ?" 
 
 " Yes," she answered, in the tone of one acknowledging 
 a thing against her will. 
 
 The old man jumped up angrily, and shambled over 
 to the window. 
 
 " I expected it. What did I tell you ?" he demanded. 
 She made him no answer. Directly he turned and came 
 back, standing looking at her, with varying emotions in 
 his whimsical old face. 
 
 " Well, we have him with us, do we ? That is well for 
 Mephisto's tastes. I see the road open for plenty of 
 misery to come. Just in my line ; go ahead." 
 
 " I only said I would think of it," she said, in answer 
 to his sarcasm. 
 
 "Which is equal to saying yes, and so he will 
 take it." 
 
 " Now, don't be angry, Mephisto," she said, reaching
 
 1GO MERZE : 
 
 out her hand and taking his. He sat down again beside 
 her ; but his face was very gloomy. 
 
 " I am not angry, Merze ; but however clever you 
 are in your profession, in some other things you are a 
 fool. You have some very exaggerated ideas of grati- 
 tude toward him that, if persisted in, will cause you 
 trouble." 
 
 " Massa Mark, I have great reason to be grateful," 
 she answered, earnestly, "more than you are aware of, I 
 think. He gave me what education I have ; I was his 
 wife, yet he let me go free at my own request." 
 
 "Yes," assented the old man, curtly, "and bound you 
 by a nonsensical promise that may also cause you annoy- 
 ance if you consider it binding." 
 
 " I have made no promises I do not consider so," she 
 said, more coldly than any words had ever been spoken 
 between them. 
 
 " Look here, my child," shaking his ringer chidingly at 
 her, ' there must be no anger over this ; the subject is 
 not worth it. If you cared for each other I would not 
 say one word, but you do not ; so why hold yourself 
 bound in any way to such a life ; he has thrown away his 
 chances right and left for years. The fault is his own 
 that he is empty-handed now." 
 
 " Perhaps," she assented. " I do not defend him; 
 only he was dada's friend ; he has been mine, and I 
 should do what I can in return. And, after all, Massa 
 Mark, there is one thing to be commended in him his 
 loyalty to that child left in his charge and his truth to 
 that one woman." 
 
 "Ah," and he smiled sarcastically, "that is what 
 touches you, my romance-loving Merze ! I wondered 
 why all this sympathy."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 161 
 
 " He did not try to win sympathy in telling me the 
 story. It was told simply as a matter of business ; but 
 his manner did not hide from me the deep love he must 
 have had for her, and I respect him for his truth to it. 
 It showed me clearly, more so than ever, that I need 
 never fear any claims of his." 
 
 "And he spoke to you of the business manage- 
 ment ?" 
 
 " Yes ; he heard they wanted a new man at the Chalet, 
 and asked if I would object to him taking the position 
 if he could get it. He has done such work before, he 
 says, so what am I to do ? Tell him, after all his kind- 
 ness to me, that I dislike him so much I could not 
 endure him in the same theatre ? That would surely be 
 a poor return. And it does not matter so much ; our 
 work need not interfere with each other. I will not have 
 him think me ungrateful, and I will not object." 
 
 The last, though spoken kindly, was very decided, and 
 Guarda saw she meant it. 
 
 "Well, I shall say no more," he answered, seeing that 
 the case was hopeless against what he deemed her quixotic 
 ideas ; " only if harm come of it I can sit in the corner 
 and chuckle, saying : ' I told you so.' ' 
 
 " Massa Mark," she said, after a little while, " I have 
 been poor, very poor, often. I have seen dada discour- 
 aged, just as Lawrence is now, over a streak of bad 
 luck, only dada's streaks, toward the last, had no end- 
 ing. But I have seen him so tired, so discouraged, that 
 I think if anyone had given him a chance of something 
 better it might have changed him into a different man. 
 Well, I have been thinking about it to-day. Lawrence 
 seems tired of his profession, and anxious to get at 
 something that will 'change his luck,' as he says. And, 
 11
 
 162 MERZE : 
 
 perhaps, if he were encouraged in it he might never 
 return to the old work." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Guarda sarcastically ; "but there is a 
 true saying about teaching old dogs new tricks. Fred is 
 not a young one by any means." 
 
 " I know ; but I I feel I have always felt, in a way, 
 ashamed that I could give nothing but gratitude for his 
 kindness, and now, if I see any way in which I could 
 help him to a more honest life, I think it would be only 
 my duty to put my own feelings aside and do it." 
 
 " Ah, Merze, Merze !" he said, kindly, wistfully, " have 
 you so little to fill your life that you must conjure up 
 such imaginary duties and deem them sacred ? An 
 artist should have no care but Art." 
 
 " And I," she answered, " have nothing that will 
 detract from my work. I have only the girl Crista, and 
 you, Massa Mark you always. As to him, if he cares 
 to make an honest living, I only ask that he be encour- 
 aged in it, and you yourself have never disliked him." 
 
 " No, not entirely. Like everyone, he has some 
 redeeming points. But I dislike to see you placed in 
 such a position, surely the strangest a woman ever had 
 to fill, and I feel that the end is not yet." 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Merze went alone to the convent for Crista, and was 
 met with shy, glad eyes in the stately, sunny reception 
 room. 
 
 " I was watching for you from the window until Sister 
 Paul told me I must not be impatient, and I am so glad 
 you have come at last," she said, frankly, extending both
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 163 
 
 hands to this lady who was so unlike those about her 
 so young, yet so self-possessed, and apparently so much 
 of the world in her manner. 
 
 " You are surely not so anxious to get away from this 
 beautiful place ?" asked Merze. 
 
 " Ah, no, not that ! I am to come back, you know, at 
 the end of the year if I choose, and I think I shall ; it is 
 my home you see. But you are the only lady who has 
 ever come to see me in all the time, and you were so 
 kind I wanted to see you again," and the blue eyes were 
 so loving, so lovable that Merze felt the charge would be 
 light despite Guarda's grumbling. 
 
 "But your life has been happy here?" holding the 
 girl's hand and drawing her down beside her. 
 
 " Very happy. I would never leave for even one day, 
 only they say it is always best. Sister Borgia has been 
 here all her life ; she is sixty, and always says fifty 
 years of her life has been spent in Heaven. I wonder 
 sometimes if in the world there are many who say 
 that." 
 
 Merze did not answer, but gave her some message 
 from Mr. Lawrence, whom Crista only knew as her 
 guardian, as there seemed to be but little acquaintance 
 between them. Her parents she thought both dead. 
 
 'Some of the girls questioned me about you," she 
 said, shyly, "and asked if you were a relative. I could 
 only tell them your name, Miss Mignot, and that Mr. 
 Lawrence said you would be my friend, for I knew no 
 more. Are you a relative ?" 
 
 " No, my dear, I am sorry to say I am not. But I 
 hope we shall be great friends," answered Merze, noting 
 the disappointment in Crista's face. 
 
 " I am sorry, too," said the girl, regretfully, " every-
 
 1G4 MERZE : 
 
 one seems to have some relative somewhere but me. I 
 have wished so often for one." 
 
 "Well, then," smiled Merze, "we will pretend you 
 have one. I also am alone, with neither brother nor 
 sister. Why can not we be sisters ?" 
 
 " Sisters ! would you ?" she asked, delightedly. " I 
 would feel then on my return that there was someone in 
 the world who belonged to me someone I knew to pray 
 for." 
 
 " Yes, you can pray for me ; I have needed prayers 
 such as yours often. I may need them again," answered 
 Merze, clasping closer the little hand. "If any are 
 heard surely yours will be." 
 
 " They are always heard ; we must all know that, else 
 what hope would we have to live by ?" asked Crista, with 
 sweet seriousness that was charming to Merze. She had 
 seen nothing like it ; this free, unembarrassed manner in 
 speaking of her prayers or her hope was something she 
 had never met among her own schoolmates. If they 
 prayed, as no doubt many of them did, she felt it was 
 not with the earnestness of this one. 
 
 The Superior, a sweet, serene-faced woman, came in 
 to speak a few gracious words to the visitor, and, in 
 bidding good-by to Crista, kissed her fondly with words 
 of earnest blessing. And as the girl with tear-dimmed 
 eyes took farewell of the others, the mother spoke aside 
 a moment with Merze. 
 
 "She has grown very dear to us all, and our prayers 
 will always be that she shall be kept unspotted from the 
 world ; souls like hers are not fit for it. God help you 
 to keep her in her childish faith and innocence until she 
 comes back to us. If she does not come we will hope that 
 the hands caring for her will always be kind ones."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 165 
 
 A handclasp was Merze's answer, and then they 
 passed through the gates out into the shady road leading 
 to the station. Crista watched the roof through the 
 trees with tear-wet eyes. 
 
 " It seems silly to you, perhaps," she said depreca- 
 tingly to Merze. " I am too big to cry, I suppose, I was 
 sixteen my last birthday. But I loved them so much , 
 they were all so good to me." 
 
 " I do not think it is silly at all ; it is only natural,'' 
 answered Merze, but at the same time thinking, " and I, 
 I never in my life cried at separation from any living 
 thing. Her life without kindred is not as empty as 
 mine was ; she has her faith and the love of friends. 
 And I, even now, have only people's admiration." 
 
 " Am I to call you Miss Mignot now that we are 
 sisters ?" asked Crista, after they were seated in the car 
 moving swiftly south toward Delaware. Merze smiled at 
 the attempt to learn her other name. 
 
 " Oh, no !" she replied, " my name is Merze ; you can 
 call me that without the Miss." 
 
 " Merze ? Is that from Mercy ?" 
 
 " I do not know what it is from, dear," and a swift 
 shadow darkened her eyes at the remembrance of where 
 even her name had come from. 
 
 " I think it must be from Mercy," said Crista, medita- 
 tively. " It is a sweet name. We had a sister Mercy who 
 died ; young she was, and so pretty. We loved each 
 other dearly. I, I should like to think you were a Mercy, 
 too." 
 
 "Well, have it so," replied Merze, carelessly. "I will 
 be your sister Mercy to you if you prefer it." 
 
 "Will you? Ah, that would be very good of you !" 
 said the girl, gratefully, " and when I speak the name it
 
 166 MERZE : 
 
 will seem as if I had known you a long time. So I will 
 have something besides memories from the convent with 
 me all the time." 
 
 " Not all the time," answered Merze. " Not just yet, 
 at least. I can not see you often at present. I am tak- 
 ing you to a lady who has two daughters almost your 
 age. I hope you will be contented but I will have to 
 be away." 
 
 " I am so sorry. I hoped I would be with you," and 
 the red mouth quivered a little at the thought of being 
 separated from her new-found friend and sister. 
 
 " I should be glad if it could be so," answered Merze, 
 regretfully, " but I have work to do that will prevent it. 
 I shall try to see you as often as possible this summer, 
 but when I am too busy to come I shall expect long let- 
 ters. And if at any time you are not contented, let me 
 know at once. 
 
 Crista said no more, but opened her eyes a little when 
 Merze spoke of work. She wondered what work this 
 wonderfully dressed lady could do, for to her everything 
 seemed bright and rich in contrast to the quiet tones of 
 the convent habit. 
 
 Two girlish faces were watching from the window of 
 the porticoed house on the bay as Crista walked beside 
 her new sister up the path lined with graceful elms. As 
 they neared the steps the faces made a rush for the door, 
 and stood pleased, yet a little shyness showing in 
 their flushed cheeks round cheeks with health's own 
 beauty in them. Crista looked like a white lily beside 
 them. 
 
 " Stella, Edie, this is your new companion, Crista 
 Loring," said Merze, and then turned to speak to a 
 motherly looking lady who entered with a hearty welcome
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 167 
 
 in her cheery voice, and whom she mentioned to Crista 
 as Mrs. Nelson. 
 
 The girls at once took possession of Crista, showing 
 her the room which was to be hers, and in which were 
 many things selected by Merze herself, with all the drap- 
 eries of inexpensive but pretty pink and white stuff, a 
 small shelf filled with books, in all of which her name was 
 written, and from which they could scarcely draw her to 
 look at their birds, their garden, and the lovely view down 
 the bay, where white sails dipped lazily over the blue 
 water. 
 
 In the pretty, homely sitting-room Merze and Mrs. 
 Nelson were left alone. 
 
 " And she is to return to the convent, you say ?" asked 
 the latter, glancing out toward the girls, one on each side 
 of Crista, taking her down to the boat house. 
 
 " That is not decided ; her guardian wants her to see a 
 little of worldly life first, then she can choose for herself. 
 She has no relatives, I can not take her with me, and I 
 want a home for her where she can enjoy companions of 
 her own age. I would like her to ride, to row, to go to 
 any amusements you would have your own daughters 
 attend, to enjoy her life in every way possible during her 
 stay ; I do not fear she will abuse her privileges." 
 
 " I feel sure she will not ; her face shows that. It is 
 very subdued beside the exuberance of my own girls. I 
 think they will be a mutual benefit to each other." 
 
 " And another thing ; my profession as you know, is 
 theatrical. She only knows that I work and travel, and 
 for the present I don't care to have her know more. Her 
 training may have prejudiced her I have not known her 
 long enough to be sure and I prefer to begin our friend- 
 ship with no feeling of antipathy between us. After she
 
 168 MERZE : 
 
 has seen and known a little more I shall tell her, but not 
 at present." 
 
 " I understand," said Mrs. Nelson quietly, " and I think 
 you are quite right." 
 
 Merze remained two days, not caring to leave until the 
 girl felt at home in her new quarters, and it was difficult 
 to be a stranger long with the two cheery girls as com- 
 panions. 
 
 "I feel I shall be very happy here, sister Mercy," she 
 said that night as she lay in her pink covered bed, a 
 little tired with the day's excitement, " and they are so 
 kind, not quietly, but with all their hearts. And then the 
 books there ! I could sit all night looking at them. You 
 have been very, very good to me." 
 
 " I hope everyone will always be," said Merze, kissing 
 her good-night, and thinking " Massa Mark is right ; 
 one's self is not enough ; we must love something." 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 "And he is to remain ?" 
 
 " Yes ; he is to remain," answered Guarda, snappishly, 
 smoothing out a fold in his newspaper with a vicious slap 
 of the hand. 
 
 Merze laughed as she looked at him. " What a bear 
 you are getting to be, Massa Mark ; why is it ? In the 
 old days you were gentle always, I was then sure of a 
 smile, and now well, I have to coax for them and they 
 are very wintry sometimes." 
 
 " In the old days," he echoed. "Yes ; your heart was 
 all in your work then, I had great ambitions for you.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 169 
 
 Now you will fill your head with imaginary duties foreign 
 to your art. You give many of your thoughts to a child 
 who is nothing to you, but who makes you dissatisfied 
 with yourself. Don't deny it," as she raised her head 
 in protest, "I know your face so well, my Merze; it 
 was very dreamy, very thoughtful, on your return, not 
 nearly so much interested in business. You had seen a 
 phase of life never shown you before ; it has a picturesque 
 holiness about it, and is to you a beautiful picture in 
 subdued tints, restful to the senses, making you feel as 
 you gaze that all color is vulgar in comparison. Don't 
 I know you ? Now listen. Suppose that stately, sweet- 
 faced, sweet-voiced ' mother ' who talked to you inside 
 that vine-covered convent had been short, squatty, with 
 coarse hands, and a broad brogue ; suppose their habits 
 were of red and green ; suppose the girl had been shock- 
 headed, with a squint in her eyes ; suppose " 
 
 "There, there, Mephisto," laughed Merze, "no more 
 if you love me ; don't spoil all my beautiful ideas. They 
 may be superficial, but they were a pleasure to me ; 
 don't destroy all my illusions." 
 
 " I want to awaken you from any that may take thoughts 
 from your work. Do you know the opening date was 
 settled last night?" 
 
 " No ; when is it to be ?" 
 
 "The second of September. Your first experience 
 with a stock company as a star." 
 
 And then they talked of the costumes, the company, 
 and the play, themes on which there was always some- 
 thing to be said. 
 
 Orlane had translated a late Parisian success for her 
 in which she was to be the attraction. A manager is 
 always willing to risk his money on an undoubted sue-
 
 170 MERZE : 
 
 cess, and her portrayal of Hesta had been a revelation in 
 a way. The public, anxious to see her in something else, 
 were not surprised when the announcement was made 
 that she was to appear in a play by a noted French 
 author, and that the manager of the Chalet contracted 
 with her for the coming season. 
 
 Lawrence she seldom saw, but when she did she no- 
 ticed that he looked much better. The many business 
 arrangements, letter writing, etc., kept him busy, and 
 seemed to give him back a little of his old confidence in 
 his luck. Letters came regularly from Crista loving, 
 childish letters filled with thanks for her many pleasures. 
 They were happiness to Merze, making her feel that 
 one creature at least was benefited through herself, and 
 was in a way dependent on her making her feel that she 
 had something to take care of. 
 
 She kept the same unpretentious rooms as at first, 
 refusing to move to a more fashionable neighborhood, 
 though even Guarda advised it. 
 
 " No," she said, decidedly, " I have become attached 
 to it ; no other would feel so home-like. It was here I 
 first earned an independence, and I am not fickle in my 
 attachments." 
 
 But she allowed herself more comforts and luxuries 
 than of old ; etchings, engravings, and bric-a-brac found 
 their way into her little parlor, and made it pretty and 
 bright for the admiration of many who called now, but to 
 whom she was unknown before Hesta. 
 
 She was in a way a mystery to people, but none the less 
 attractive. Her only personal friend seemed to be 
 Guarda, and of him, with all his years among them, none 
 knew much. Some even thought her his daughter ; but 
 her years of self-repression in childhood did not tend to
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 171 
 
 make her communicative now, and of her native place 
 none heard her speak. 
 
 " I am from the West," she had said to some, and said 
 no more. 
 
 She always read the news from Mexico until Guarda 
 laughed at her. 
 
 "You are getting curious as the rest of your sex," he 
 said one day, " you who used scarcely glance at a daily. 
 You are not getting up an interest in foreign politics, are 
 you ? Don't, for our own political affairs are in a deep 
 enough muddle ; but cross the water in any direction and 
 you find it deeper." 
 
 She laid down the paper carelessly, and he picked it 
 up. Often she wondered at her own interest in this 
 stranger. He had been kind most kind that day, but, 
 after all, it was one day in a child's life, though its color- 
 ing had tinged the rest of her days ever since. She felt 
 a half-scorn of herself for caring about the displeasure in 
 his eyes that night of Hesta. 
 
 "Why should I care?" she asked herself, impatiently. 
 " There were plenty more to praise my work. Perhaps 
 it might be well for me to meet him some time. I fear I 
 would find my girlish ideal had very shapeless clay feet. 
 Well, ideals and illusions of that sort are good for chil- 
 dren, if it makes them ambitious, as it did me, but women 
 can not afford to harbor them. I had nothing else no 
 other friend ; that was, I suppose, the only reason I 
 remembered him so well. Yet he, he sees me here, but 
 does not care enough to remember or to speak." 
 
 That one thought rankled deeper than she would 
 acknowledge to herself ; that it was which brought up 
 those soliloquies so often in her mind, in which she 
 persuaded herself after all that her fancies and thoughts
 
 172 MERZE : 
 
 of him were childish and that they were all over years 
 ago. 
 
 Yet she still read those weekly letters from Mexico, 
 letters so well constructed, and so brilliantly descriptive 
 that she found them copied and re-copied in many 
 papers, the only signature to them being Drande. 
 
 This day she sat silent, only the crackle of the news- 
 paper Guarda had filched breaking the quiet. An ex- 
 clamation from him raised her eyes. He was evidently 
 pleased over something. 
 
 " Drande is coming back from Mexico,'' he announced 
 
 "Drande!" she echoed She had just been thinking 
 of him. She never before had heard Guarda mention 
 the name, and it seemed strange that he should now. 
 Could he guess ? but no, that was impossible. " Drande!" 
 she repeated, '' and who is he ?" 
 
 " Have I never spoken of him ? Ah, no, he has been 
 away so long, first in Europe two years, now in Mexico 
 for some time. He is a friend of mine, if I own such a 
 thing. A writer and a clever one, I think. You must 
 have seen some of his correspondence from Mexico ; it 
 is for this paper he was working." 
 
 "Yes," she said, quietly. "I have read them. And 
 he is a friend of yours, and is coming back here ?" 
 
 " Certainly, here ; this is his farewell letter, see ? It 
 says so. He may be here soon, any time now." 
 
 "And you care for him so much ? I shall be jealous 
 and wish him back in Mexico." 
 
 " Not when you see him. I think you would like each 
 other. It is a long time since I had letters from him. 
 He used to write very often, but now I am getting too 
 old to answer many, so he only sends me papers lately or 
 kind wishes by friends. The opening night of " Hesta "
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 173 
 
 he was in front a moment, but on business. He left a 
 kind word for me, but could not wait to speak." 
 
 She sat long after Guarda had gone, thinking over what 
 he had said. They were friends ; then surely she must 
 meet him and how ? Would he care to remember ? She 
 found herself wondering, debating about this man whose 
 opinion she had just persuaded herself was of no interest 
 to her. 
 
 " Clever, is he ?" she thought, rising and looking at her- 
 self in the mirror. " Well, the people say the same of 
 me; my standing is as much assured as his own, let him 
 look ever so contemptuous." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A week later she attended, with Guarda, a benefit at 
 one of the theatres a professional affair for some needy 
 brother worker and who has ever found them, as an 
 organization, with closed ears when help was needed ? 
 It was almost entirely a theatrical audience, and the 
 cheeriest one that can be imagined. There is always 
 someone with a nod and a smile for everyone. There 
 are the closest of hand-clasps at meeting, and the most 
 earnest of " God bless you, old friends," at parting. 
 Their partings so often are so wide the width of the 
 world and for life, many have found them, and it lends 
 a tenderness to many a laughing voice from which an 
 outsider would expect nothing but jests. 
 
 It was always a pleasure to Merze to see them on any 
 occasion of this kind. " Surely, such an audience would 
 be an inspiration to any actor," she thought, looking out 
 on the bright, intelligent faces. She had a box, and from
 
 174 MERZE ' 
 
 it could see more than half the house. Guarda had 
 gone out to speak to friends at th door. The foot- 
 lights flashing up quickly was the signal for silence of 
 orchestra and audience. She glanced out through the 
 mass at the door in hopes of seeing him. He himself 
 detested the moving of people to seats when the curtain 
 was up, but he surely would transgress this time ; but he 
 was not to be seen. 
 
 " Someone has button-holed him, as he terms it," she 
 thought, smiling, as she knew he would be impatient in 
 losing part of the act. Then she turned to the stage and 
 forgot about him in the interest of the bright comedy 
 before her. As the curtain fell on the first act, leaving 
 all in a good humor at the ridiculously funny situations, 
 she was aware of Guarda's entrance, and as she turned, 
 still laughing, to speak, she saw beyond him another 
 figure, taller, younger, darker. She did not see the face 
 at first, but the laugh died on her lips as she heard 
 Guarda speak her name. Everything seemed dim and far 
 away for a moment ; then she recovered herself, and held 
 out her hand to the man, who bowed over it, but who 
 looked at the hand, not at her face. She had not heard 
 the introduction, but she did not need to be told his 
 name. 
 
 " You are much of a stranger in your own land of 
 late, so Massa Mark tells me," she managed to say, as he 
 took a chair near in obedience to Guarda's invitation. 
 
 " Massa Mark ?" he queried, in the voice she had 
 never once forgotten. 
 
 " She means me," said Guarda, smiling. Merze had 
 never seen him with such kindness in his eyes for anyone 
 except herself. 
 
 " Yes," she explained, " I forget sometimes and call
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 175 
 
 him so before strangers, though I hope I shall never 
 have to class you among that list again." 
 
 If he discerned any hidden meaning in the words he 
 did not show it. 
 
 " Your hope flatters me," he said, quietly, and she felt 
 as if she had received a dash of cold water in the face. 
 Where was his old grace and kindness of speech ? It 
 was all the imagination of a child, she thought, bitterly. 
 What right had he to come at all, if he only meant to 
 speak like that, as if to show her he did not want to 
 remember ? 
 
 " Yes, he has been away so long he is becoming a 
 barbarian," said Guarda. "I could scarcely get him 
 inside the theatre, he who used to live in there, almost, 
 but I would not hear to him going by without you meet- 
 ing each other my two nearest friends in the world. I 
 have spoken of you to her, and, as she says, you must 
 not be a stranger." 
 
 "And on our part, Massa Mark," said Merze, kindly, 
 "we must not force Mr. Drande's inclinations. You 
 forced him in to see me, but we must not shackle him as 
 soon as he gets inside with rash vows of friendship. 
 Did you see Mr. Orlane ?" she asked, changing the 
 conversation, as if the subject was ended for all time. 
 
 Guarda comprehended there was something antago- 
 nistic between his friends, but could not see where it lay. 
 Was the fault his ? Had he made a blunder in speaking 
 of Drande's reluctance to enter ? Still Merze was not 
 generally like that ; she was inclined to be more pleased 
 if strangers staid away altogether. She disliked meeting 
 them always. For Guarda's sake they tried to be more 
 companionable, speaking of the play, the players, the 
 improved furnishings of the theatre, of all things they
 
 176 MERZE : 
 
 cared nothing for, but she noticed that not once did he 
 speak of her work, or anything connected with her 
 personally. 
 
 " Ah, that is it !" she thought, " in his lordly way he 
 disapproves of my vocation, and thinks to make me feel 
 his indifference. Does he think me still a child, to 
 care ?" 
 
 Orlane entered the box a little later, and to him Merze 
 turned warmly. They were on very good terms. His 
 admiration for her was very palpable to any seeing 
 them together, and they were soon chatting in the most 
 friendly manner. Remarks were at times directed to 
 Drande, but though he answered politely, he confined his 
 attention to Guarda, much to the latter's delight. 
 
 With his face in profile toward her, Merze could note, 
 without his knowledge, the features she had thought so 
 perfect, and which now looked cynical and tired, and a 
 little harsher in outline, especially the jaws, that looked 
 as if set tightly together. She was watching him, though 
 commenting to Orlane on the new leading man for the 
 piece he had translated for her debut as the acknowledged 
 leading lady of the Chalet. 
 
 " Don't, Mr. Orlane," she said, with gay beseeching, 
 " pray don't encourage them to get Ladean ; how do you 
 expect me to play those love scenes with a man like that ? 
 He has about as much animation as a wooden man, and 
 will neither fall nor get down on his knees without look- 
 ing for the softest rug on the stage to kneel on." 
 
 And Orlane laughingly announced himself as "willing 
 to play the part, and submit to as many rehearsals of the 
 love scenes as she thought necessary to their perfection," 
 at which they both laughed, for it was well known that 
 Orlane could not read even his own verses creditably.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 177 
 
 It was only harmless badinage, but it was such as neither 
 Guarda nor Orlane had ever known her to give way to. 
 They did not know it was the contemptuous look in the 
 eyes opposite that inspired her with the recklessness of 
 the moment. 
 
 " Since he thinks to constitute himself a silent judge, 
 he may as well have something to arraign me for," she 
 thought, and was not surprised when he rose and made 
 his adieux. 
 
 " I shall expect you at dinner to-morrow," he said to 
 Orlane and Guarda, and then to Merze, bowing low, he 
 said, " Good-by, Miss Mignot." 
 
 She smiled up serenely in his dark face. " Not ' good- 
 by,' surely, au revoir." 
 
 He did not answer, but turned and left the box. From 
 where she sat she could see him reach the door, stop a 
 moment and look back across the mass of faces to her 
 own, and then disappear in the lobby. 
 
 "A peculiar character, and a splendid fellow," said 
 Orlane, as he left, "but he has changed much, don't you 
 think so, Guarda?" 
 
 " Changed ? Yes, he is not the careless Bohemian of 
 ten years ago," answered the old man, thoughtfully ; he 
 is steadier, more settled, and I scarcely know which 
 phase of character is the most attractive, his nonsense 
 then or his thought now. This is certainly the more 
 commendable, for he had just run through a fortune 
 then, and was oceans in debt. He has cleared them 
 away, and is laying the foundation for another one now ; 
 one that will not scatter so easily. It makes a big 
 difference who garners the grain as to whose fowl eats it." 
 
 " Did you know Drande before ?" asked Orlane of 
 Merze. 
 
 ia
 
 178 MERZE : 
 
 " I have seen a face his reminded me of." 
 
 Guarda looked quickly at her. 
 
 " I did not know that ; you did not mention it." 
 
 " Why should I ?" she answered, carelessly. " I did 
 not know he was your friend. I saw him that first 
 night of ' Hesta'; he was in a box. I asked Mr. Orlane 
 who he was, because his face resembled one I had seen. 
 This man's name is strange to me, and, on seeing him 
 closer, I can discover but little similarity. It was a 
 mistake easily made. It was years ago when I last saw 
 the face I speak of. Time enough to forget multitudes 
 of them." 
 
 But her careless words did not satisfy the keen eyes of 
 Guarda. She was not used to subterfuge any more than 
 to coquetry, and was awkward at it. 
 
 " Has her life also its turned-down page ?" he thought, 
 " and has Drande anything to do with it ? At least it 
 could not have been a love affair. Six years ago. No, 
 it is impossible ; she was only a child then They do 
 not like each other, that is all ; nothing for an old man 
 to be suspicious over." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 " And the people like her so well ?" 
 
 " 'Like ' does not express it, there is something refresh- 
 ing about her work, it is so natural, apparently so 
 unstudied. But there one would be mistaken, for she 
 has worked and studied very hard, and under Guarda, a 
 taskmaster few have the courage to begin with. He is 
 very exacting, but for Mignot he seems to have great 
 affection, and she for him. A few words of praise from him
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 179 
 
 is more to her than all the compliments and adulation 
 younger men would shower on her if they had the chance 
 an opportunity they never get. Their bouquets are 
 divided among the company, their notes are handed to 
 Guarda. She meets but few people outside those con- 
 nected with the profession, and her very exclusiveness 
 makes her the more attractive to her audience." 
 
 " She has at least an admirer in you," said Drande, 
 with a quizzical smile. 
 
 " Yes," answered Orlane, " she certainly has. I always 
 admired her, and when she made a success of ' Hesta ' 
 for me, I felt myself under obligations to her that could 
 never be settled with salary. 
 
 "They tell me the play is beautiful. Don't give her 
 all the credit ; many a woman might have done as well 
 for you." 
 
 "I don't believe it. I am past all hope," as Drande 
 laughed a little sarcastically. " No one's opinion against 
 her work would weigh an iota with me. Our friendship 
 is purely platonic, but on my side it is very earnest, and 
 she is a lady whose friends may always be proud of the 
 distinction." 
 
 Orlane's words were so decided as to be almost a 
 challenge. The other lit a cigar slowly, and leaned back 
 to enjoy it. 
 
 " Hard hit," he murmured, lazily. " My dear fellow, 
 long may they continue to be proud. I say nothing 
 against her, I scarcely know her. Do you expect your 
 friends to worship blindly as well as yourself ? She did 
 not seem to me very gracious in her manner." 
 
 " What did you expect, a flirtation akin to the many in 
 your years that are gone ? Guarda would scarcely have 
 introduced you had he thought it."
 
 180 MERZE : 
 
 " Come, come, Orlane, let us drop the subject. You 
 are not good-humored to-day, and women always breed 
 trouble wherever their names are let creep in. Take an 
 old man's advice, and give them a wide berth." 
 
 " What a patriarch one would imagine you ! Most of 
 your years have had long summers at all events, for they 
 lie on you lightly ; forty you must be, and you look 
 no more than twenty-five, at the farthest." 
 
 " I was thirty-eight my last birthday," answered the 
 other, resignedly, " and shall expect an increase of gray 
 hairs if you serve up 'Mignot' for me as a very monot- 
 onous garnish for every dish at our lunches, as you have 
 done to-day." 
 
 "Confound you !" laughed the other, "you have no 
 soul in you." 
 
 " None to prostrate before your shrine." 
 
 " Yet she had some little interest in you, after all ; you 
 resemble someone she had known, and she asked your 
 name that night you stopped to see North, on your way 
 to Mexico." 
 
 " Indeed ? I suppose the correct thing to say is that I 
 am wretched at not being the man she knew, but I am 
 not, I'm quite comfortable, thank you." 
 
 " Entirely too much so. Put on your nat and come to 
 the theatre ; we have a rehearsal to-day. Guarda will be 
 glad to see you ; come along." 
 
 " No, thanks, I'm very well here ; be off with you ! I 
 know you don't care for outsiders, and your high priest- 
 ess, your one star in the heavens, might frown on an 
 intruder, and that would be annihilation. I won't risk it." 
 
 And Orlane left him there, the picture of indolence, 
 leaning back in an adjustable chair, and puffing out 
 smoke until there was a perfect haze about him.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 181 
 
 "Poor Orlane," he thought, compassionately, "how 
 very earnest he is. So she made inquiries about me ? 
 Then she knew who I was, and that we were likely to 
 meet. Her reception of me was not unstudied ; that is 
 well to know, though it is not flattering. Of course," 
 stretching himself at full length, with hands clasped back 
 of his head, "of course there is no reason why she 
 would care to remember. I did nothing for her, though 
 I would have been fool enough to do much had it been 
 possible, and how lovely, how bright, how ambitious she 
 was ; and how strong the young heart. It is buried 
 fathoms deep beneath her laces now, and her pride is so 
 false that it fears any who have known her poverty. 
 Bah, she is worthless !" 
 
 And, rising impatiently, he began opening a box 
 brought in that morning by the expressman. 
 
 " Dear old mother !" he thought, as he lifted out some 
 books carefully wrapped, "you are worth them all, with 
 their beauty, their grace, and their shallow souls.'' 
 
 He had taken his rooms but a week before, and had 
 nothing of his own in decorations or furnishings as yet. 
 The box was one his mother had sent him from home, 
 filled with some of his favorite belongings. In one com- 
 partment were books, a couple of bronze busts, a smoking 
 set, a box filled with papers of all sizes and shapes, some 
 slippers, and various comforts of his mother's manu- 
 facture. In the other were several pictures, some of his 
 own work, and some of his friends. 
 
 Each seemed an old companion as he turned them to 
 the light, with first a landscape with the soft, hazy pink of 
 a June sunset ; again, a dancing girl, with dress of the 
 East, and bronze limbs like sun-kissed satin ; a madonna, 
 with softly curved arms, in which the child nestled ; a
 
 182 MERZE : 
 
 sweet, fair face drawing a curtain, and enough to show 
 behind it a smooth white shoulder and a flood of sunny 
 hair, laughing it was, with the little pearls of teeth show- 
 ing between red lips. 
 
 "So harmless looking, so innocent in your pretty, 
 alluring ways, and so like all of your kind," and he 
 laid it aside to lift out one of a child sleeping in a little 
 hollow, backed by the black roots of an overturned tree. 
 
 He looked at it long and critically. 
 
 " What freak of fate induced the little mother to rake 
 this up and send it now of all times ? It is better work 
 than I can do of late years. I did it about the time I 
 discovered that, after all my study, Art, in its highest 
 form, would always be impossible to me. I was, and 
 would remain, an amateur. I wonder" and his mouth 
 curved with a smile that had little gayety in it " I wonder 
 how Mademoiselle Mignot would appreciate it as a pres- 
 tnt. However I shall not test her. My walls are bare 
 enough to need them all." 
 
 And he hung it where the light fell softly over the 
 shady green of the foliage, and the fair grace of the 
 childish form. Then, putting on his hat, he sauntered 
 out into the sunshine. He was not in the humor for 
 work, and the walls of a house were too close for him. 
 Here and there he met an acquaintance, but did not stop 
 to talk. He hesitated at a bookstore about going in for 
 a magazine. While he stood, a man came to the window 
 pinning in it an engraving, at which he glanced, and 
 then turned impatiently away. It was the lovely face he 
 knew so well. Beneath it was her autograph Merze 
 Mignot. It was one of the lithographs for the new 
 play. 
 
 "Am I to see her face everywhere ?" he muttered, and
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 183 
 
 walked on, on aimlessly until he heard his name spoken, 
 and, turning, found Guarda beside him. 
 
 " Where are you going in that fashion, with your eyes 
 on the ground ?" asked this character always privileged 
 with Drande. " Miserable ?" 
 
 " Not at all," he answered, smiling. " I am sorry to 
 disappoint you, but I feel all right." 
 
 " Sorry ? Come with me ; I had to go home for some 
 forgotten manuscripts. The folks are waiting ; come 
 along." 
 
 He did not say who was waiting or where he was going, 
 but Drande turned and walked, talking with him until, 
 before he noticed where they were going, he found him- 
 self before the Chalet, the very place he had refused 
 to go an hour before. 
 
 " No matter," insisted Guarda, " come in ; no excuses, 
 I want your opinion on some designs for furniture his- 
 torical. You know a little of everything, and may help 
 me out ; come along." 
 
 Orlane looked up in surprise as he entered. Down the 
 aisle Merze was exchanging a few necessary words with 
 Lawrence. They spoke briefly, and as he left her, she 
 turned toward the door, hearing Guarda's voice, and met 
 again the dark, displeased eyes of Drande. She nodded 
 to him coolly, but did not speak. 
 
 " Is there anything I could do," she thought, wrath- 
 fully, " that he would not try to frown down ?" 
 
 And he, knowing much of Lawrence's reputation, was 
 thinking. " And it is men like that she meets on equality 
 that is the ' greatness ' she has won !" 
 
 "Merze, do you see Mr. Drande," asked Guarda, 
 coming down. " Away down street I found him, intim- 
 ating that he was happy. I couldn't stand that, so
 
 184 MERZE : 
 
 brought him to share with us the miseries of a rehearsal. 
 Be seated until I get back with the designs, my child ; you 
 are not on for a half hour, sit down ; you will be tired 
 enough before you get home. Here, Orlane, are the 
 manuscripts." And he shuffled away, leaving those two 
 alone silent. 
 
 A girl was rehearsing a simple little song in a fresh, 
 sweet voice. Orlane stopped beside them to listen. 
 
 " She has a voice clear as a lark's," he said, passing 
 on. 
 
 " Clear, yes, but weak," remarked Drande, not turning 
 his head, and thinking Orlane still there. 
 
 "I fear we are all that in the critical eyes of Mr. 
 Drande," answered Merze, half in anger with herself 
 that his looks and manner had power to vex her so. " We, 
 in our work, are as the hollow reeds by the river, through 
 which the waters and the winds rustle musically at times. 
 The music was imprisoned in them by a God long ago, who 
 found the sounds sweet ; but the cynic of this age sees 
 in them only brown stalks, hears in them only the slug- 
 gish surge of the blood in his own veins as he holds them 
 close to his ear and listens." He smiled as she spoke in 
 the fanciful language she had used that long-past day. 
 He could hear so clearly the vibration of anger in her 
 voice, and knew it was for herself she resented his criti- 
 cism ; not for the girl singing. For the first time he 
 turned and looked at her face to face. 
 
 " Thanks," he said, at last, " for the place you assign 
 me in your metaphor. I knew once a reed, such as you 
 speak of ; an untamed thing with all its wild music shut 
 in a little form too slight, I fear, for its preservation. 
 The jostle with the world in the strife for ' greatness ' 
 shatters all frail things."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 185 
 
 He ceased a moment. She did not answer ; her head 
 bent lower, that was all. Her hand slipped from the back 
 of the chair into her lap. On it gleamed still that cluster 
 of opal and diamonds which Lawrence had insisted on 
 her keeping. On her wrist was an odd, foreign-looking 
 bracelet given her by Guarda, formed of curious flat 
 chains united by a clasp of brilliants. The light falling 
 across them left a sparkle and glitter over the white 
 hand. It caught his eye, and he smiled as he looked. 
 
 She, seeing his glance, drew the hand back quickly. 
 
 " Ah !" and he rose. " There are compensations, per- 
 haps. But you speak of the music of the reeds ; there 
 is a music akin to it spoken of in the Talmud of a flute 
 that had been held sacred since the days of Moses. It 
 was slight and slender, with the sweetest of sounds in its 
 breath ; but a king, wishing to give it greater beauty and 
 richness, had it overlaid with gold and set with jev r els. 
 It was dazzling to the eye, but the music in its heart was 
 gone forever smothered under the weight of the gold." 
 
 Mark, coming a few minutes later, found her alone, 
 resting her head on the back of the chair in front of her. 
 
 " Where is Drande ?" he asked, quickly. 
 
 " Gone, I believe. I fear I was not entertaining. My 
 head aches a little. Are they ready for me now ?" 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Those two met often, but seldom showed to good 
 advantage in each other's eyes. Their friends were the 
 same people, and, in the same circle of upper Bohemia, 
 they could not help hearing each other's names, and 
 generally in praise. But the spark of discord had fallen
 
 186 MERZE : 
 
 that night when his eyes showed displeased amazement, 
 gazing down on the wide-eyed, startled Hesta. Why had 
 he looked displeased ? He could scarcely have told him- 
 self. Many actresses were of his acquaintance, many 
 whom he respected and honored as noble wives, devoted 
 mothers. But she, that child in the hills, he had always 
 felt as if in a way had belonged to him. No other 
 evidently had ever touched the depths of her needs and 
 appreciated them as he had done ; to no other, he felt 
 sure, had she ever uncovered so entirely her childish, 
 vague longing. It made him feel, after a fashion, as an 
 explorer who stumbles over a jewel whose brightest 
 gleams were shown but to his eye. To be sure he had 
 let it go without demur to its rightful owners, who, he 
 supposed, had kept it somewhere in the peace of some 
 nook, sheltered from the changing, warring winds of the 
 world. 
 
 And that night when he saw her, it was with the sense 
 that something, deemed his own, had been given without 
 his will to the crowds to hiss or encore as they chose. 
 The glittering jewel was enjoyed alike by all, gleamed 
 for all ; she belonged to the people. 
 
 It was only the nature of the man in him, with all the 
 selfishness which the word holds. Had she remained 
 always in some home apart from his world, he would 
 have remembered kindly, with the interest of an analyst, 
 the strange nature to which he felt no other was so likely 
 to gain the key. His words oh, egotism ! he felt sure 
 she would keep with her. He had not thought to see her 
 ever; more than likely he had never really wished to in 
 all the six years, unless it had been just at first, when 
 deep sorrow had moved him often to think regretfully 
 that he could not have cared for her himself. But after
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 187 
 
 that she was only thought of as a picturesque character, 
 until, all in a moment, a vail seemed to have lifted and 
 showed her to him in a light that wavered from amaze- 
 ment to resentment, and then to injustice. 
 
 Poor old Mephisto's occupation was gone. There was 
 no need for mimic miseries such as the loving heart so 
 often pretended it reveled in, a pretense that covered 
 many a kindly act. 
 
 His favorite, his child, as he called her often, worked 
 harder than ever. His ambition for her was not likely 
 to be in vain, but gradully he found a change creeping 
 into her life. The old quiet was gone, she did not object 
 so much as she used to when he asked her to go among 
 friends more. Why was it ? he asked, unless because her 
 old, quiet, home life did not content her. There was not 
 so much time someway for those long, happy talks as 
 there used to be. Or, if at times they found themselves 
 alone, he noticed a lack of the old eagerness for the tales, 
 the reminiscences tinged with the poetic flavor from the 
 Spanish lips. Those tales of the past generation of our 
 actors had always been interesting to her as he told 
 them, with here a bit of anecdote, there a sarcastic simile 
 carrying perhaps a life's lesson under its bitterness, and 
 again, some touch of human nature's depth appealing to 
 the heart of his listener. It was all gone. Often he 
 knew she sat with closed ears and thoughts far removed 
 from either the business or pastime in which he tried to 
 interest her. 
 
 If he had known the thoughts were happy ones ne 
 would not have cared, but he felt they were not. Several 
 times he had seen her meditating with contemptuous 
 curved lips and moody eyes, with the moodiness in them 
 of sullen, brooding storms. She was loving, tender as
 
 188 MERZE : 
 
 ever to him, only she was silent as to her own thoughts. 
 Sometimes he feared it was concerning Lawrence ; he 
 was drinking some of late, not enough to interfere with 
 his duties, but, perhaps, enough to cause her apprehen- 
 sion as to the future. He never came near her except as 
 business required it, for which she was thankful. 
 
 Just once she had seen him with the signs of intoxica- 
 tion in his manner. It was on the street ; he had not 
 spoken, had only looked at her and smiled, but she felt 
 herself turning sick with a great disgust, knowing that 
 her life must be free only through his lenity. 
 
 She knew that his past had much in it to commend his 
 promises, and to the dead they had been kept inviolate ; 
 but he was changing much, so Guarda told her. At 
 times he was drinking deeply, something he had never 
 done before. It debases so many, and how was she to 
 know what depths it might lead him to, or whether it 
 would allow him to hold any promise sacred ? 
 
 So many new currents seemed drifting into her life 
 since that night when she first awakened the people to a 
 sense of her own strength. Before that there had been 
 only Massa Mark and herself, and how happy, how care- 
 free they were ! Now there was Crista ; but for that she 
 had no regret, and through what she felt now was a mis- 
 taken sense of justice, Lawrence had drifted back and 
 was of her life though not in it, a nightmare that would 
 chase forever all contented dreams. And then there 
 was that dark, mocking face that always brought upper- 
 most in her nature its worst traits, the recklessness of an 
 untrained nature filled with pride, resentment, and an 
 assumption of contemptuous disdain. 
 
 To Guarda, the only one who noticed it, no explana- 
 tion of his own could satisfy his mind.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 1S9 
 
 " My friend, he said one day, in the sanctuary of his 
 own den, with its smell of tobacco, its queer paraphernalia 
 of the mimic art, its scene-plots and manuscripts shoved 
 away in piles or dangling from hooks on the wall, while 
 loose lay a mass of engravings Macready as Richard, 
 Forrest as Coriolanus, the elder Wallack as Mercutio, 
 Cushman's square, strong face as Lady Macbeth, and 
 dozens of dead faces whose charm is remembered but by 
 the few, though their names will reach down through the 
 dim columns of the future. To the old man those faces 
 were very dear. Many had been earnest friends, and all 
 reminded him of a past that had not been sombre. He 
 was gathering them up to show Merze, and talking to 
 Drande as he did so. 
 
 "My friend," he repeated; "how is it that 
 you and my protegS seem always to be at sword's- 
 points ?" 
 
 " Are we ? I was not aware of it. She seems a charm- 
 ing lady to her friends, from what I hear. I am only an 
 acquaintance." 
 
 "I had hoped you would be friends," the old man said, 
 wistfully. " I like you both well. I do not see you speak 
 often, but when you do it is coldly, with hauteur. I do 
 not think you can have any idea of the strong, loving 
 heart. It seems a pity, for you would appreciate the 
 fine nature if you could know her as I do, brave beneath 
 a yoke heavier, I fear, than you or I could estimate. 
 Careless in her manner, while her thoughts are busy with 
 the welfare of others, for she, herself, is the last con- 
 sideration. What she imagines her duty is sacred to 
 her, poor child ! I fancy that faith to supposed duties 
 has brought much misery in her life." 
 
 "Why, Guarda, old fellow, you are talking dismally
 
 190 MERZE : 
 
 to-day of a much envied woman. I fancy she is very 
 well satisfied with her life." 
 
 "With her work, perhaps, yes," he acknowledged. 
 " Why should she not be ? It is good. But of the life, 
 ah ! who can tell ? I care for her very much ; she is as 
 a daughter to me, but lately I am anxious at times. I 
 speak only to you of her thus. I scarcely know why, 
 only at times I fancy you think her shallow, frivolous, 
 but you must not ; it is a very brave, very deep nature ; 
 worthy of your respect." 
 
 " My dear old friend, she has it for your sake if nothing 
 else," replied the other. " Perhaps, as you say, I have 
 not known her well enough to judge ; but she has many 
 friends, and she does not seem anxious to add my name 
 to the list, and I have little time now for making new 
 ones ; but she has my best wishes. May her friends and 
 her lovers be always constant." 
 
 " Ah ! that is where you make the mistakes regarding 
 her," broke in Guarda ; " you class her like that in a con- 
 temptuous manner. She does not deserve it. Lovers, 
 bah ! no, she will have no lovers." 
 
 " Not ?" and a quick gleam crossed the dark eyes. 
 " Then I am to infer there is one already in the field ? 
 Many are curious as to your protege's history ; a lover 
 in the background would be something at all events." 
 
 "They can remain curious," announced Guarda, 
 decidedly. " I can say only that she deserves all respect. 
 Her art must make a history for her ; other than that I 
 fear she will never have to give. But there is no lover ; 
 there has, I feel sure, never been one, and, for her sake, 
 I hope there never will be." 
 
 "There are, I should imagine, several prominent 
 aspirants for the position."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 191 
 
 " Aspirants ? bah ! She cares more for me than for 
 all of them put together. Oh, laugh, if that amuses you ! 
 but it is true. It is because I am getting old and she 
 thinks in a way that I need her ; that also is true. I 
 could not do without her now, and you, you are almost 
 old enough to be her father, and are my friend. If you 
 would only be sensible, you two, we might have many 
 pleasant hours together. But no ; I am between two 
 fires with you. I am going there with these old engrav- 
 ings now ; come along." 
 
 " No, no, Guarda, let me at least wait for an invitation, 
 which I shall never get," he added, in his own thoughts. 
 
 That night he stood long looking at the face of the 
 sleeping child. 
 
 " ' A great trouble ' he said, poor old Guarda ; he may, 
 through love for her, imagine it greater than it is a 
 great burden. Well, I, at least, will never be able to 
 help her bear it now. Ah ! why should I ? She is 
 nothing to me, and, as he said, I am almost old enough 
 to be her father. Yes, perhaps, but that day in the 
 theatre with her head bent, after those sarcastic, angry 
 words, someway I did not feel like it not nearly so 
 much as when I painted that. But there can be no friend- 
 ship between us, and she is to have no lover." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 That opening night of the season at the Chalet was a 
 memorable one to Merze. It was her first part as 
 acknowledged leading lady. Her friends were enthu- 
 siastic over her success in a part entirely opposite in 
 character to Hesta a young wife in a French comedy,
 
 192 MERZE : 
 
 with all the brightness, the verve, and dash in it that was 
 sparkling as light wine. 
 
 She was a surprise to many. Drande, near the door, 
 heard many flattering comments, but turned angrily as 
 close to him a man spoke as if of a race-horse. 
 
 " By Jove ! I told her she couldn't do that sort of 
 thing, but she can. I didn't think she had it in her." 
 
 It was Lawrence His face was a little flushed. He 
 had been drinking, but was not intoxicated. Drande 
 checked the quick words that sprung to his lips, for, after 
 all, what right had he ? This man was, perhaps, priv- 
 ileged to speak in that manner as of one who discussed 
 with her, her capabilities. Thus she chose her friends, 
 he thought bitterly, and only his eyes, angry and indig- 
 nant, turned toward the speaker, who saw it and felt a 
 little amused, though it brought him to his senses. If 
 sober he never would have spoken in that way, but he 
 stood looking at Drande for quite a while thinking : 
 " Why does he resent it ? There is no friendship between 
 them at least on her side ; she shows that in her man- 
 ner. And he it would be odd if he should care for her, 
 he who has passed his time pleasantly, but has never 
 been credited with a serious affair in all the years I have 
 known him. Well, it will be of no use with Merze. She 
 will care nothing for any man. I used to be afraid of 
 that, but it was interest thrown away. Her head is too 
 level ever to make such a mistake. I wonder if it ever 
 crosses their minds that they met down there in Ken- 
 tucky. She, I suppose, has forgotten it. She was only 
 a child, but he, he left that card for her and was inter- 
 ested, so the nurse said. By Jove ! it never struck me 
 before. He does recognize her. He is interested in her 
 still, that is why he resents trifles for her and glares at
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 193 
 
 me like that. What if he knew the truth ? Ah, my fine, 
 very correct gentleman ! you are wasting your time in 
 this game." 
 
 And in a way it gave him pleasure to think it. He 
 had never liked Drande. There was something in his 
 manner that had always warded off any attempts at 
 sociability or equality from men of Lawrence's stamp. 
 It had galled him often, more than one would have 
 thought of the jaunty, seemingly careless, gambler. 
 
 And now, standing there looking at him, as he watched 
 with moody eyes every movement of the woman on the 
 stage, there came a sort of satisfaction in her possession 
 across his mind, a feeling that, after all, by legal right 
 she was his ; that he had the power to keep forever out 
 of reach of this fine, scornful, supercilious gentleman the 
 thing which he felt he desired. 
 
 The play was over and the people gone, all except a 
 few attaches and some friends of Orlane who had waited, 
 among them North and Drande, who stood at the en- 
 trance chatting. They heard Guarda's voice coming out 
 and turned to speak. 
 
 With him was Merze, looking tired, but evidently 
 pleased at some praise of Guarda. As they reached the 
 entrance she glanced at the gentlemen and said good- 
 night as she passed. 
 
 " One moment, Guarda," said Orlane, diving into his 
 pockets for a letter to give him. Guarda turned, drop- 
 ping Merze's arm, and she walked on a few steps alone. 
 Two carriages were at the door ; the first she walked 
 toward thinking it was theirs. Drande of all the party 
 stood nearest the street, and Lawrence, about to enter 
 the theatre, saw both him and Merze. He had been 
 drinking more. Just enough to give a tinge of bravado 
 13
 
 194 MKRZE : 
 
 to his manner, and, halting, he said : " Not that carriage, 
 Merze, the other one," and took a step toward her which 
 Drande, with a quick stride, intercepted. 
 
 " Allow me," he said, offering his arm, which she took 
 silently. He could feel she was trembling ; if with anger 
 she showed it in no other way, for she did not raise her 
 eyes. He placed her in the carriage and stood silent at 
 the door of it, until Guarda came shuffling down the 
 steps and entered ; then he closed it, answering the old 
 man's good-night, and turned back to his friends. 
 
 Merze had uttered not a word. 
 
 On the step Lawrence still stood with a peculiar look 
 in his eyes as he noticed that Merze did not speak. 
 Drande passed him as if he were not there, though all 
 the blood in his veins was boiling at the insolence of the 
 man's manner which he could not resent. 
 
 To Merze, not knowing the words were only meant to 
 anger Drande, the manner of Lawrence's speaking to 
 her was a shock. She could see beneath it only the 
 thing she dreaded most that he might again claim her 
 as his wife. He had never once called her Merze before 
 anyone since his return, and now to do so before that 
 one man who thought so little of her at best who 
 imagined she cared but for the tinsel trappings. 
 
 She sat back in the corner of the carriage, covering 
 her face with her hands. Vague fears were closing in 
 around her. If she could only end all this secrecy! But 
 there was only one way to do it, and she dared not think 
 of it. It would mean death in life to her, and she fancied 
 she could see the contempt in his eyes if he knew. 
 
 A shivering breath like a sob reached Guarda's ears 
 above the roll of the wheels. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked, quickly.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 195 
 
 " Nothing, Massa Mark, only only I am tired and a 
 little nervous, I suppose." 
 
 " Yes, yes, it is only natural ; the part is a hard working 
 one. But, my Merze, you have been so strong ; you 
 never used to get so tired." 
 
 " I suppose I am getting old," she said, with a wan 
 smile, as they stopped at her door. " Come in, it is not 
 late. I shall be poor company, but I do not care to be 
 alone ; come in." 
 
 " Merze, what is it ? I have seen it often lately, to-night 
 more than all. You are unhappy." 
 
 " You know my life ; do you wonder at that ?" she 
 asked, sitting in her old place on the ottoman beside 
 him, her head on the arm of his chair. 
 
 "No, no, child," he answered, smoothing back the 
 hair from her white forehead. " I feared it when he 
 came back, but it is too late to regret now. You can not 
 hope for much happiness, but try to be a philosopher 
 and be content. You have nothing to reproach yourself 
 with." 
 
 "That makes the trouble no lighter," she said, im- 
 patiently. " It is so hard to be a philosopher when the 
 blood has youth in it !" 
 
 " Ah, my child, you will learn better if sin should ever 
 touch your life," he answered, earnestly. " The knowl- 
 edge of wrong-doing in ourselves can embitter our lives 
 as no wrong from another can ever do ; never forget 
 that. There is no grave deep enough to bury remorse." 
 
 " Why do you speak of that of sin ? There has been 
 none on either side. He has done me no wrong ; but," 
 she added, wearily, " it is fate, I suppose all these 
 tangled threads of life and in some way it seems out of 
 our power ever to get them straight."
 
 196 MERZE : 
 
 She sat silently a little while, and then, looking up, 
 said : " I wish to-night I was like Crista." 
 
 " Why so ?" he asked, irritably. He had never become 
 reconciled to the idea of that girl. 
 
 " Because then I would have a religious faith, such as 
 I am sure she would lean on if placed in such a position. 
 She would pray ; to be sure the prayers might never be 
 answered, but hope and faith are, I think, the greatest 
 of blessings to those who can hold them. But I, I have 
 nothing." 
 
 Guarda looked at the bowed head with great com- 
 passion in his eyes. He had trained her in her art, he 
 had endeavored to teach her the philosophies garnered 
 through many years of observation. But of this other, 
 this faith, he could teach her nothing. His faith through 
 life had rested on himself ; honesty and truth had been 
 his only creed, and he had found it sufficient to lead him 
 to an upright life with charity in it toward all men. He 
 had dipped, as Merze had, into many beliefs of many 
 sects ; he had some knowledge of them, but had never 
 known the need or longing for any as he felt this one did 
 now beside him. 
 
 "My poor Merze, my poor Merze !" he said, kindly, 
 "be content, you can not force yourself to have faith. If 
 it does not come to you, your life must only be the 
 stronger in order to stand alone ; and it is strong, a 
 strong, honest heart. To-night you are nervous and a 
 little morbid, that is all. Weak moments come to all. 
 To-morrow you will be yourself again. You need rest, 
 sleep ; that is it. Go to bed, and to-morrow let me see 
 your face brighter. I am to take you to see the picture 
 North is doing of you as Hesta. Good-night, my child , 
 go to bed and dream only of your triumphs."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 197 
 
 " My triumphs !" she thought, as she tossed with wide, 
 sleepless eyes through the night. "When a multitude of 
 them could not cover the scorn I feel of la.e for my own 
 weakness !" 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 A letter came to Merze from Crista the next morning. 
 Her pleasures were so many she had not words enough 
 to express her thanks. She had made a new friend 
 one of a religion that was strange to her a Quakeress. 
 
 " Listen, Massa Mark," said Merze, when he came 
 for her. " Let me read you a portion. Now don't be 
 ' Mephisto ' ; listen." 
 
 " ' MY SISTER MERCY : I wish so much you could see 
 this dear lady. She is old, but the face has not lines of 
 care as so many have. She is to me beautiful with the 
 peace such as seems a part of the nuns' lives. Like 
 Sister Borgia, I think she could say much of her life has 
 been lived in heaven, but such souls, I think, make 
 heaven for themselves wherever they are. Her name is 
 Mrs. Menturn. She has asked me to visit her in her 
 home ; it is some distance from here. She is a harmony 
 in soft grays and white like a picture ; but her religion 
 is strange. It does not approve of pictures or statues. 
 I think they miss many pleasures. Her son, she says, 
 has many, and paints himself, but he is not a Quaker, nor 
 was his father, who is dead. Her son is in the world 
 like you. She seems very proud of him. Her soft 
 'thees' and 'thous,' are like a caress when she speaks 
 to you. I asked her to bless me last night. She did so 
 and kissed me. It was to me a sacrament, but you must
 
 198 MERZE : 
 
 see her to comprehend my enthusiasm. To-day she 
 said she hoped heaven would help her son to give her 
 such a daughter as I. It makes me happy to know people 
 care so much for me.' ' 
 
 " There !" said Merze, looking up from the page. 
 " Does that not give you an idea of the purity of her 
 character ? Her letters are like herself. It is no wonder 
 they all love her. I think I might be a better woman if 
 I could have her always with me ; it would be hard 
 for black, bitter thoughts to gain an entrance where she 
 was." 
 
 "Ugh ! a second 'Una, I suppose," grunted Guarda. 
 " Such magic would be wasted in New York. Leave her 
 down in Delaware ; come along." 
 
 Merze laughed a little at his ill-humor. He never 
 encouraged her to harbor any thought of Crista as a 
 companion. 
 
 " By the way," he said, as they walked along, " speak- 
 ing of Quakers, Drande is connected in some way with 
 that sect. I forget just how ; he is not one himself, but has, 
 I think, some of their strait-laced ideas in many ways." 
 
 "Indeed !" was all Merze replied, but she was think- 
 ing. "And, perhaps, he has somewhere a mother like 
 that, his ideal of what woman should be. Small wonder 
 then if the rest of us seem hollow and of little worth in 
 comparison." 
 
 Neither Guarda nor herself referred again to their 
 conversation of the night before. They both avoided 
 it. There are so many moods that come with the dark- 
 ness, and are banished by the sun's rays, and the old 
 man looking at her face as she smiled at him, felt it was 
 so with this one. Young faces do not show easily the 
 effects of sleepless nights.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 199 
 
 When they reached North's rooms they found him 
 working busily. 
 
 "But come,' he said, laying down his brushes, 
 " Your picture was only put in the frame this morning. 
 We took it to Drande's room. The light is much better 
 there lucky dog to get it ; come along." 
 
 Merze hesitated " In Mr. Drande's room ?" she 
 said. 
 
 "Yes, in the other corridor," said Guarda. "Did I 
 not tell you they had rooms in the same building ? I have 
 never been to see him myself since he got settled." 
 
 She saw she was expected to go. There was, of 
 course, no real reason why she should not, and North 
 not noticing her hesitation, was leading the way. 
 
 Mark took her by the hand, walking beside her. 
 
 "You do not really object ?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, no! Why should I?" 
 
 " You two never seem to be very good friends, but try 
 to be more kind to him for my sake." 
 
 She gave him a little curious glance but said nothing. 
 
 And Drande, lolling back in a chair with some "copy " 
 which he was endeavoring to correct, found the pictured 
 face of the Hcsta opposite interfering sadly with his work, 
 until at last the loose sheets dropped to the floor beside 
 him, as he gazed at the rapt face and fathomless eyes. 
 He recognized North's tap at the door, and called 
 " Come in," without moving his eyes or position. 
 The door opened and the soft rustle of a woman's dress 
 caused him to turn. In the doorway stood the living 
 Hesta, with a half-reluctance in her manner as the old 
 man, a step in advance, led her in. 
 
 In one moment, as her eyes met his, all the feeling 
 against her disappeared, the half-doubts, the vague
 
 200 MERZE : 
 
 resentment, vanished as he went forward and took her 
 other hand. His words were friendly and courteous, 
 which Guarda noted with pleasure. 
 
 As for Merze, she scarcely knew what he said. His 
 words were scarcely heard. She saw only the gladness 
 in his eyes at her coming, a gladness that sent the blood 
 quick to her heart, and then tingled through all her 
 veins with a warmth that caused her eyes to drop 
 beneath his own as she drew away her hand lest he 
 should feel its trembling. For one instant in her life she 
 realized what living might mean. 
 
 It was as a flash of lightning after which the dark 
 seems dense ; close in its track, came the recollection of 
 what she was. She closed her eyes blindly, dizzily, and 
 sat down in the chair nearest her. 
 
 She heard their voices speaking of the picture. His 
 voice was among the others, but she felt his eyes were on 
 her face, that he was keeping the attention of the rest 
 away from her. " That must not be ; he must not think 
 me so weak as to need his help," she thought. She 
 stood up, one hand on the back of the chair. He, see- 
 ing it, moved toward her, but with an effort she turned 
 from him to Guarda and spoke a few words of comment 
 on the picture ; what, she did not know, anything to 
 show an interest in the work and keep Guarda or 
 Drande from noticing any change in her manner, or 
 attributing it to the right cause. 
 
 The picture was worthy of all praise. Guarda was in 
 ecstasies over it. It had been bought by the owner of 
 the Chalet where it was to be hung. Merze thanked the 
 artist kindly for the interest he had given it, and spoke 
 to him and to Guarda. But try as she would she could 
 not find any word of pictures or art to say to Drande.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 201 
 
 "Sit down again, Merze," said Guarda, noticing her 
 face. " You look a little pale ; tired, I suppose, with 
 the walk ; it was rather long." 
 
 " Certainly," said Drande, coming forward, "take this 
 chair," and he wheeled the most comfortable into 
 position. "Bachelors' rooms are not famed for their 
 neatness, and this is scarcely fit for the entertainment 
 of a lady, but consider yourself an honored guest in my 
 domains." 
 
 " Fit ! nonsense !" growled Guarda, " it is very good ; 
 a picture in itself. I don't like primness. Now, there's 
 my den, it's a picture, too, for some Dickensonian artist. 
 But this, with its height of ceiling, its fluted cornicing 
 and those amber curtains, it looks quite a palace. Who 
 cares for a few papers scattered around ? Those bronzes 
 are very fine. There are some pictures I have not seen 
 before your own ?" 
 
 " Some of them, done years ago. I don't paint now. 
 I have learned better," answered Drande. 
 
 He was watching Merze ; her manner puzzled him. 
 Where had that gleam of warmth gone that had flooded 
 all her face for that instant while her hand lay in 
 his? She scarcely looked at him, and did not speak 
 unless to answer. 
 
 "Would you care to look at some of the pictures ?" 
 he asked, as Guarda called North to examine a peculiar 
 chess set on the cabinet at the far end of the room. 
 
 " If you please." She felt anything would be better 
 ,han sitting silent beside him, fancying he might hear the 
 beating of her heart. 
 
 She rose and he offered his arm which she declined 
 with a gesture. He looked at her a second and then 
 led her past all the others on the wall, giving them no
 
 202 MERZE : 
 
 glance, until he came to a little curtained alcove. Beyond 
 it was his sleeping-room. 
 
 The amber curtains were drawn back from the windows 
 letting in the warm light. On the wall of this sheltered 
 nook hung but one picture. 
 
 She looked up at it. Ah ! if she had only the right to 
 be glad and tell him so ! but she dared not. She only 
 said, slowly : 
 
 "You remembered so well?" 
 
 " And you ?" 
 
 She looked at him and tried to speak calmly. 
 
 " I remembered always your kind words. I never 
 forgot what you told me to make my life. If I have 
 failed it has never been because I have forgotten the 
 snow-drops," and she tried to smile as she said it, "but 
 because, because fate has been too strong for me." 
 
 Her voice was trembling in spite of herself. He looked 
 at her with burning eyes. 
 
 " Merze," he began. 
 
 "Hush," she said, putting out her hand pleadingly, 
 " we must not speak of this again. The dead past is best 
 in its grave. I only wanted you to know, if I have missed 
 the way, if I have lost the highest strains in life's music, 
 believe me when I tell you it is not a careless loss it is I 
 who suffer who will suffer most." 
 
 She was clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. 
 He took them in both his own and held them. 
 
 " Don't," he said, gently. " I do not know what I have 
 said to touch you like this. Come here to the window 
 where Guarda and North can not see you ; sit here. Do 
 not talk, you are too nervous." 
 
 She sat in the chair he placed for her so the others 
 could not see her face.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 203 
 
 " There, that is better," he said, as she leaned back and 
 closed her eyes, " rest, and let me talk. You are unhappy, 
 you suffer. I can see now how much your bravado was 
 meant to hide. Let me help you, the load may be lighter 
 if two carry it." 
 
 " Hush, hush ! No one could help me. It is my 
 own I only ask you not to judge me harshly again, but 
 I myself can have no friend such as you would be. My 
 life must be alone." 
 
 "But, Merze " 
 
 " You must not even call me that," she said, rising. 
 
 "You did not resent another man's calling you so last 
 night !" 
 
 The quick angry words leaped to his lips before he 
 could check them, though he would gladly have recalled 
 them as he saw the strange, hopeless look in her face. 
 
 "Was that necessary?" she asked, sadly. "I thank 
 you though ; come let us go back." 
 
 " One moment !" 
 
 " No more. What moments you and I have to give 
 each other have been given here. An eternity of words 
 can not change my life, or your thoughts.'' 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 Guarda left her at the door that night. 
 
 "I have an engagement," he explained. "Drande 
 would take no excuse. Their club-room is just below 
 here. I am to have supper with him. I am getting dis- 
 sipated since his return ; are you not jealous ?" 
 
 " Just a little," she answered, holding out her hand. 
 " Good-night ; I hope you will pass the time pleasantly."
 
 2Q4 MERZE : 
 
 " I always do with him. There are not many who 
 would seek out and try to make pleasant the hours of 
 an old man, but he, ah ! he is different from most. And 
 to-day I noticed you did as I asked. You talked to him 
 more. It was a pleasure for me to see that." 
 
 " Good-night, Massa Mark," she said, rather abruptly, 
 and the old man, thinking only that she did not care to 
 hear his praise of Drande, smiled a little as he clasped 
 her hand, and then moved off down the street toward 
 the club-rooms. 
 
 " A pleasure to him," she mused as she sat a little later 
 divested of her street dress, and clothed in a loose, soft 
 wrapper, "a pleasure to him." She leaned back, clasp- 
 ing her hands across her eyes, "and I, I dare not even 
 allow myself to think what it was to me." 
 
 Yet in spite of herself these forbidden thoughts crept 
 closer, closer to her heart until the clasped hands dropped 
 nerveless beside her. 
 
 " I can not help it, I can not help it," she muttered, 
 half-fiercely, to herself. It was a weakness in herself that 
 she had not submitted to willingly. The sense of duty 
 was strong in her but she knew that the warm smile in 
 one man's eyes, the loving tone in one man's voice, had 
 forever made duty a thing to be struggled for. 
 
 " I wonder," she thought, musingly, " if prayers, such 
 as Crista's, would be of use against this ?" But the 
 warm thrill of Love's possession told her that it never 
 would, and her heart only a human heart after all 
 could not steel itself against the sweetness which the 
 knowledge brought her. She rose impatiently as if to 
 shake off those magical, forbidden bonds. 
 
 "This is foolish," she said, clasping and unclasping 
 her hands as she walked back and forth. " Guarda
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 205 
 
 called me strong. He should see me now ! But I must 
 be so, I am a woman, not a young girl, to give way to 
 such madness as this, a madness such as must have 
 touched Crista's mother long ago ; and I, I thought of 
 her as weakly wicked ! Who knows ? She might have 
 striven against it. None should judge save those who 
 have known temptation." 
 
 She walked herself tired in endeavoring to escape, 
 in part, those surging thoughts that had so much of 
 pain, so much of sweetness, and so much of shame for her. 
 
 "It is folly," she whispered under her breath, though 
 she knew it was dearer than all the sensible things of her 
 life. 
 
 "I wonder" and she dropped again into the chair 
 " I wonder if people who can coldly analyze their 
 thoughts and actions, and judge themselves dispassion- 
 ately, are more guilty when they do a wrong than those 
 who conjure up excuses for their guilt and really believe 
 themselves the victim of circumstances as so many do ? 
 I can not do that. I can find no excuse for myself, un- 
 less it is that of an ill-trained soul. Would one with a 
 training such as Crista's, or that saintly Quakeress, give 
 way to such guilt ? for it is that. If he knew all, he 
 would call it so himself." 
 
 She did not think about going to bed ; she had forgot- 
 ten everything in her tempestuous arguments against her- 
 self, in the philosophies that would have held good in all 
 else, but did not alter one iota this new strange current 
 that was drifting into her life. 
 
 When did philosophy ever yet hold its own against 
 love ? 
 
 She heard the doors below locked and the family dis- 
 perse for the night. In the kitchen was a little tinkle of
 
 206 MERZE : 
 
 dishes. The servant evidently had a caller and was mak- 
 ing him a cup of tea. Later she heard the back door 
 close and the girl ascending the stairs. Still she sat there 
 thinking, thinking until her brain was reeling, and her 
 eyes ached. At last, tired of what seemed a hopeless 
 struggle, she dropped her head back on the chair and 
 slipped into a slumber so profound that hurrying feet, 
 loud cries, and even the opening of her door did not 
 wake her. 
 
 Without a crowd was gathered. There were hoarse 
 shouts among firemen who were moving to and fro, work- 
 ing with the might of courage against the flames that 
 were leaping, hissing as they mounted upward. 
 
 The family were out, but there was no hope for furni- 
 ture nor aught but their lives. The house was doomed, 
 and the firemen's energies were turned toward saving 
 the ones adjoining it. 
 
 Merze had not locked her door and had not turned up 
 the light. The moon's rays had shone in at her window, 
 and she needed no other light for her thoughts. As the 
 smoke and heat awakened the family, one had gone 
 quickly to her room. The door was opened, and a glance 
 at the bed showed it had no inhabitant. There was no 
 time for surmises ; she was not there, that was all. The 
 form sunk in the depths of a chair in the shadowy corner 
 was not noticed. 
 
 Guarda, with his friend, on leaving the club-room 
 turned carelessly in the track of hurrying feet until it 
 brought them to where the old man could see the house. 
 
 " O God ! Merze !" That was all he said, but the 
 other asked no question. It told him all. His face was 
 white as Guarda's as they hurried forward. 
 
 " Everybody safe, sir," came the answer to his quick
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 207 
 
 demand. A long breath of relief came from the old 
 man's breast. He recognized one of the family in the 
 crowd, and made his way through. 
 
 " Merze, my child, where is she ?" 
 
 " She did not come home to-night. Did you not 
 know ?" 
 
 " She did come. I brought her myself. Where is 
 she ?" 
 
 " I only know she was not in her room, had not been 
 in her bed." 
 
 Guarda staggered back blindly. " You hear?" he said, 
 as Drande caught him. " They have not looked. She 
 is dead in there, dead !" 
 
 As he spoke a thrill of sickening horror passed over 
 the crowd. Broken ejaculations, that were half prayers, 
 caused them both to raise their eyes, and in one window 
 of the doomed building they saw a woman standing, 
 reaching out her hands to those below. 
 
 " Merze ! " Guarda whispered. One moment she stood 
 there, and then staggered back, leaving the black smoke 
 rolling out through the window. 
 
 " She has fallen back in the flames. The floor has 
 given way. God help her !" said a man near them. 
 
 Some men were placing a ladder against the wall, up 
 which the flames were leaping from the windows below. 
 When in position the firemen glanced into each other's 
 faces. It was work for a volunteer. 
 
 Before a word could be spoken, a tall, dark man from 
 the crowd stepped on the lowest round. 
 
 " Give me your coat and a blanket," he said to the one 
 nearest him. " Don't be afraid. I am not a novice. 
 Give plenty of water, and hold yourselves ready. ' 
 
 The next moment horrified eyes watched him gain the
 
 208 MERZE : 
 
 window, stagger back for a moment with the force of heat 
 and smoke, and then disappear in the blackness. 
 
 The floor had not given way. He felt over it for her 
 form, thinking she had fallen there, fainting. He called 
 once, but it was no use ; the smoke choked him. In grop- 
 ing he pushed against a door that opened into a room 
 where the air was clearer. His eyes, smarting with the 
 smoke could see but little. A small window gave him a 
 glimpse of sky. He shattered it with one blow, letting 
 in the draught that gave back his breath to him. As he 
 turned away, the white shape of a bed could be seen, and 
 a something across it, to which his hands reached eagerly. 
 She had staggered there, half suffocated, her face buried 
 in a pillow. 
 
 He lifted her in his arms to the window, where the air 
 revived her. She opened her eyes to see his own bend- 
 ing close above. 
 
 "Is it death ?" she whispered. 
 
 " If so, it is for us both." And he clasped her closer. 
 
 " That is best ; to die so in your arms for" and her 
 arm encircling his neck drew his face closer, and her 
 confession needed no more words. 
 
 With his kiss on her lips, the head dropped heavier 
 on his arm. She had fainted. One long look he gave 
 the white face in the dim light ; it might be his last. 
 Then enveloping her in the blanket, he lifted her and 
 started with his burden back through the outer room 
 that was now like a furnace. He felt the floor crack 
 and give beneath him. Groping blindly he reached the 
 opposite wall, and felt along it until he came to an 
 opening. A shout from below told him he had reached 
 the window. For the first time he dared open his eyes, 
 and he saw below the sea of eager faces. Helpful hands
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 209 
 
 took her from his arms, and guided his uncertain steps 
 down the ladder to the ground, where the people surged 
 close around to get a glimpse of him. 
 
 Guarda, kneeling beside Merze, looked up, his eyes 
 filled with tears, which he made no attempt to check. 
 
 " My friend, my friend !" he said, tremulously. " God 
 bless you ! You are safe ? You are not injured ?" 
 
 " I think not. I am all right I " 
 
 And then he staggered, reeled, and fell as a stag falls 
 when a bullet crashes into his brain. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 "And you will not consent ?" Her voice sounded 
 hopeless, tired, as she stood there at the window with her 
 clear-cut profile in the range of her husband's vision. 
 He leaned back, lazily admiring its effect against the 
 dark curtain beside her. 
 
 " I do not see why I should," he answered, carelessly ; 
 "things are well enough as they are. You, as Miss 
 Mignot, are ten times more successful than you would 
 ever have been as Mrs. Lawrence. Let well enough 
 alone, and sit down, please. You make me nervous 
 standing there like a statue, with that ' Christian Advo- 
 cate ' expression on your face." 
 
 She did so, clasping her hands closely as she looked at 
 him, and said earnestly : 
 
 " I feel now that such a promise of secrecy should never 
 have been exacted from me ; it was wrong. You must 
 have known it is best for a woman to bear her husband's 
 name. It it prevents complications in many ways." 
 
 He smiled at the word over which she hesitated. 
 
 14
 
 210 MERZE : 
 
 " Complications ? Yes, sometimes ; but you yourself 
 are not a woman to be touched by them. As to the 
 others let them look to themselves." 
 
 Her face flushed and then grew pale again. 
 
 " It is not honest ; it is misleading people " 
 
 " Certainly ; that was my idea, to mislead them for 
 your own good. That was in part my idea in asking 
 your promise. Without it you were likely to throw 
 prudence and tact to the winds on the slightest provo- 
 cation. Such, as for instance, the ' complications ' of 
 someone else. Is it " and he watched her through 
 half closed lids as he spoke " is it for the sake of your 
 hero of a week back ; are you afraid of his youthful 
 affections becoming engaged ? Don't let that worry 
 you ; he has a good constitution. A love affair never 
 causes any man serious trouble if his digestion is all 
 right." 
 
 She looked up impatiently, angrily. 
 
 " You are in jest," she said, coldly. " I am in earnest, 
 serious. You should be my friend in this. I I want to 
 do what is right, but you are making it very hard for me. 
 I want, so far as I know how, to be a good woman ; to 
 be able to respect myself." 
 
 He glanced at her quickly. 
 
 " It can not be that you " he oegan, and then laughed; 
 " no, of course not. If it were you who were interested 
 you would be glad to keep your husband forever in the 
 background ; any woman would." 
 
 She rose to her feet, her face white as with anger. 
 
 " I have never deserved that insult. I have tried to 
 do what is best. Will you give me back my promise ?" 
 
 He looked at her admiringly. He had always admired 
 her most when she " showed temper."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 211 
 
 "That is a cool request," he answered, rising and 
 leaning on the back of his chair facing her. "You 
 yourself wished to be released from such an incon- 
 venience as a husband. I was, I think, most obliging in 
 that matter. Now you wish to be known as Mrs. 
 Lawrence ; at least to a few special friends, and for 
 some reason I am not quite acquainted with. No, my 
 dear Merze, no. If you wish to be Mrs. Lawrence again 
 there is only one way in which it can be settled." 
 
 " And that ?" she asked, eagerly. 
 
 " Is by taking the husband as well as the title." 
 
 She made him no answer, only looked at him. 
 
 And he, half angered as he was at the disgust in her 
 face, laughed a little carelessly and sauntered out with- 
 out further words. 
 
 It was three weeks after the fire. Guarda had her 
 taken that night to a hotel near the theatre, a comfort- 
 able old-style house, where she was cared for so kindly 
 that she had remained there ever since. Drande had 
 also been taken there, but the next day had asserted 
 himself able to be moved to his own rooms. He had 
 been exhausted by the heat that night when he fell like a 
 dead thing among the people, but that was all ; he had 
 escaped the flames miraculously, considering what he had 
 waded through. His face was scorched, but not deeply 
 enough to be scarred. His hands, alone, were badly 
 burned, blackened and crisped by the hot, flying cinders, 
 which he had not felt with her in his arms. He had 
 shielded her so well that not a shaft of the hungry flames 
 had touched the white flesh. His first question when he 
 revived and found Guarda and a doctor beside him 
 was: 
 
 " She?"
 
 212 MERZE : 
 
 "Is safe, has revived, is not even scorched," answered 
 Guarda, thankfully. 
 
 "Bring her let me see." 
 
 " Have her come if she can walk in," said the doctor, 
 lowly. " This may be serious ; he may have inhaled that 
 flame ; if so, humor him while you can." 
 
 She came in, led by Guarda, and stood, white and silent, 
 beside him. Her hair, unnoticed, had come loose and 
 hung, a bronze, rippling mass, over her shoulders. To 
 the man lying there she seemed the fairest thing his eyes 
 ftad ever rested on. 
 
 "Merze," he whispered, and the name sounded a 
 caress as he breathed it ; and then, lower, so that the 
 movement of the lips and the light in his eyes told her 
 more than the sound, " Mine /" 
 
 And she could only stand there and look at him with a 
 depth of dumb woe in her eyes. She dared not trust 
 herself to touch even his hands with hers, though all her 
 awakened nature longed to kneel there beside him and 
 kiss the scorched face and white lips. A trembling crept 
 through all the slender form as she stood there, until she 
 raised her hands, clasping them close to her throat as if 
 to silence the long shivering breaths that were growing 
 into sobs. 
 
 " I can't stand it," she half whispered, afraid to trust 
 her voice. " Massa Mark, take me away, take me away !" 
 
 And poor, blind, gentle Mephisto, keen-eyed in all 
 else, saw in her agitation only a deep remorse for her old 
 manner toward him a deep gratitude for which no 
 words could be found. 
 
 Thrice since that she had seen him, but it was in the 
 presence of Guarda, who insisted that it was only a 
 courtesy she owed him to go and see a man who was
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 213 
 
 confined to his room, unable to leave it through injuries 
 received for her sake. 
 
 But it was martyrdom to see his face brighten at her 
 entrance and then grow questioning and puzzled at her 
 manner, which she tried so hard to make only kind. 
 He could say nothing, for Guarda's ears were there 
 to hear ; he could not write, for his hands were still 
 bandaged. But she knew he would soon be able to 
 leave the room, and his eyes showed that his first visit 
 would be to her. 
 
 And what could she say ? There was no retracting 
 that clasp of arms, that kiss, and the low, heart-freighted 
 words when she thought death had come to them. 
 
 There was nothing to do but to tell him the miserable 
 truth if Lawrence consented and then ask him to go 
 away. She felt, with a heart that beat between pain and 
 pleasure at the thought, that it was the only way in which 
 he ever would leave her. The thought of his contempt 
 was bitter, but she tried to forget it and do v/hat was 
 right, what would be just. 
 
 And after all it had been of no use. Lawrence had 
 refused her permission to tell, or had made it a condi- 
 tional affair, to which he knew she would never consent. 
 She thought of Guarda ; but of what use to confide in 
 him ? If he told Drande the truth, might not Lawrence 
 revenge himself on her by claiming her as his wife ? 
 
 She did not know much about law, but supposed he 
 would have that power if he chose to assert it. But would 
 he ? Lately she did not feel sure of him in any way ; he 
 had a little more of insolence and bravado in his manner 
 to her. He could not but see that she shrank from all 
 intercourse with him, especially since he had been drink- 
 ing to any extent, and it nettled him into the desire to
 
 214: MERZE : 
 
 show her that, after all, he could be master if he chose. 
 It was only the brute nature stirred by dissipation until 
 it came uppermost. 
 
 She scarcely understood the cause, but at times was 
 filled by a half fear of him. He was stopping at the 
 same hotel. That night Guarda had not stopped to 
 think, in the excitement of the moment had even 
 neglected to mention it to her, and the day after the fire 
 she met him in the hall. 
 
 " You you live here ?" she asked. 
 
 " I do ; was just on my way to pay my respects and 
 congratulate you ; it was a narrow escape." 
 
 " Yes ; I thank you. I am quite recovered from the 
 fright." 
 
 " Which means," and he smiled disagreeably, " that 
 my visit is not necessary." 
 
 " I think, if you do not mind me saying it, that it is 
 best for us to see as little of each other as possible. If 
 I had known you were here I should not have come." 
 
 "Oh! you wouldn't? Look here," and he laid his 
 hand heavily on her shoulder. " Does it ever occur to 
 you that a man may rebel at being treated like an outcast, 
 a leper, scarcely tolerated ? I advise you not to get so 
 high-and-mighty, my lady, you and Mark both." 
 
 " And I would advise you to remember that we are in 
 a public hall, and also to take your hand from my 
 shoulder," she answered, coldly and contemptuously. 
 
 He dropped his hand, and his face, flushed before with 
 drink, now flamed with anger. 
 
 " So ! my touch is contamination, is it ? You are 
 forgetting considerable, it seems to me ; and you will, of 
 course, leave the house now, eh ? Well, you shan't do 
 it."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 215 
 
 She looked up in fear, involuntarily throwing her hand 
 out toward him. He saw it, and said : 
 
 " Oh, I shan't trouble you ! only it's well for you to 
 remember who I am, and for the present you remain 
 where you are ; do you heed ? It's only a whim of mine 
 but it is best obeyed." 
 
 And then he lounged away and left her there speech- 
 less, numb with the dread which his words had brought. 
 
 They had not exchanged words after that until the 
 day she had sent for him and asked him to give her leave 
 to speak of her marriage. Guarda had spoken about 
 changing hotels, but she had replied that she was very 
 comfortable and would remain where she was. Of what 
 use, she thought, would it be to trouble him. 
 
 She seemed hemmed in on every side. And that day, 
 when Lawrence left her room after telling her his con- 
 ditions, she sat covering her face with her hands and 
 trying to think of some exit from this horrible labyrinth ; 
 but all to no purpose, except 
 
 And she rose swiftly and walked back and forth to 
 escape the thought that came to her. " He loves me. 
 What else matters ?" 
 
 "It would serve him right," she muttered, thinking of 
 Lawrence, " and sometimes, sometimes I believe he half 
 hates me, that it would be a pleasure for him to know 
 that I had done some wrong, if only to place me on a 
 level with that other woman. But he," and the memory 
 of the one voice that made music of her name as he 
 breathed it, came to her ; " he no, no ; he must never, 
 through any act of mine, lose the right to respect me 
 His best love could not be given to such a woman. A 
 man never forgets a woman's weakness, even though she 
 be strong in all else save her love for him. There would
 
 216 MERZE : 
 
 always be that reproach, and it would kill me to see it in 
 his eyes." 
 
 She picked up a book at random from some that 
 Guarda had left for her. She did not notice the title ; 
 it did not matter ; anything would do if it only helped 
 her escape from her own thoughts for a few moments. 
 
 Afterward she fancied some occult power must have 
 caused her hand to linger on the one book. All were 
 alike new to her. Why was it blindly, carelessly, chosen, 
 the one whose contents were to affect her life ? It was 
 hard to get up an interest in it ; her own thoughts would 
 creep in. But she put them half fiercely aside. She had 
 felt as if she was going mad while walking back and 
 forward there ; her thoughts were commingling, driving 
 her half distracted. In some way she must try to forget 
 for awhile this horrible thing her marriage which nothing 
 but death could free her from. Death ! She had never 
 hoped or even thought of it before, but why not ? He 
 might die ; he was not young. She might yet be freed 
 in that way. 
 
 " And," she thought as she turned over the leaves, " I 
 would kill either him or myself before I would ever again 
 live as I did." 
 
 It was a French translation she was reading : " A 
 Sheep in Wolf's Clothing." It was not a particularly 
 bright book or one calculated to amuse her, though there 
 were cleverly-drawn characters in it. Glancing care- 
 lessly down the page, her eye was arrested by the account 
 of a death by suffocation. A man in a drunken stupor 
 had died so. The only aid to it had been a napkin or 
 cloth saturated with water and placed ove,r his face, 
 pressed closely about the mouth and nostrils. No mark 
 of violence, no sign of drugs, or blackened visage to
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 217 
 
 greet those who found him in the morning. He had 
 simply slept away. Only a drunken man, a napkin 
 and some water, swift, silent, sure. 
 
 Her eyes were fastened on the page with a horrible 
 fascination in it. She lay perfectly still, breathless from 
 the force of a thought that had come to her. Even her 
 lips were white. The blood seemed all driven into her 
 heart, which beat as if bursting. Then with a half scream 
 of terror she flung the book from her and sank trembling 
 and shivering on the floor. 
 
 " No, no, no, not that never that!" she whispered, 
 sobbing as she lay there. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 A half hour later Guarda and Drande stood together 
 on the steps of the hotel. It was the first time he had 
 been out. His face showed no traces of scars ; only the 
 hair and beard were clipped close where the flame had 
 singed it, and one hand was still bound up. 
 
 " I think," said Guarda, " that I will have you go up 
 alone, unannounced, and surprise her. I know she is in. 
 Her parlor is the one on the corner up there. After 
 awhile I will come up. You go first. She does not 
 expect you so soon, and it will be a thankful surprise to 
 her." 
 
 And so it came that, through the old man's boyish 
 love for a surprise, or a trick, Drande was to see her first, 
 alone. As he passed up the stairs a door in the lower 
 hall opened, and, glancing down, he could see someone 
 standing there watching him. It was Lawrence. The 
 incident annoyed him. Why he scarcely knew, unless it 
 was an antipathy he had always felt toward him. But
 
 218 MERZE : 
 
 the thought that he was so near her dispelled all else 
 that was unpleasant in his mind. 
 
 He tapped at the door with a small rattan cane he 
 carried. His hands were not able as yet for such exer- 
 cise. Merze, lying face downward on the lounge, 
 thought it was a porter with coal, and called, "come in," 
 only moving her position slightly and shading her eyes 
 with her hand. She had not been crying. If she only 
 could she felt it might lift in part that horrible sickening 
 weight which had settled around her heart and made her 
 tremble and start at every sound. 
 
 She was glad even the porter had come in, though she 
 did not look at him or speak. But it was a human 
 presence, a something beside the phantoms of her own 
 imagination. She was afraid to be alone any longer. 
 She would tell him to send the housekeeper, chamber- 
 maid, anyone. She dropped her hand from her eyes to 
 look up. She caught one glimpse of his face, and the 
 next instant he was kneeling beside her. 
 
 " Merze !" and his face was filled with amazement, 
 " you are ill, suffering, and they never told me !" 
 
 His arm was about her, his face close to hers. She 
 raised her hands, pushing him a little away, and, placing 
 his face between her palms, held it so, looking at it long, 
 earnestly, and with love as great as the sadness in her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Don't," she said quietly as she could, " don't ; you 
 must not ever again. We we made a mistake that 
 night but we must not go on making it." 
 
 He rose to his feet and looked at her. 
 
 "You mean to say" he began, but she rose, also, 
 
 throwing out her hand pleadingly. 
 
 " Don't look like that. I I can't stand everything
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 219 
 
 not your anger but that night I was frightened, nervous. 
 I did not know what I said. Forget it and " 
 
 " Stop," he said, not unkindly, but decidedly, " you 
 are telling me what is not true. You did know what you 
 said, and more, you can not look me in the face and tell 
 me you did not mean it." 
 
 She clasped and unclasped her hands as he had seen 
 her do that day in his room when her agitation was so 
 great. Her form was trembling as with suppressed sobs. 
 His voice, with the tone of loving mastery in it, had un- 
 nerved her. She raised first her face, then her eyes, to 
 his, " I did not mean " 
 
 But she could say no more. His eyes were smiling 
 down into hers and she sat down, covering her face with 
 her hands. " I can not I can not have pity," she said 
 brokenly. It was the first time in all the wretchedness 
 of her life that she had asked it of anyone. 
 
 " I have love. That covers everything, my Merze, 
 mine. It is you who must be pitiful to yourself and 
 me." 
 
 " I can not, I dare not," she answered, without raising 
 her face toward him. "I can only ask you to go away." 
 
 " Merze !" and he came close to her, laying his hand 
 on her head. She sprang from under it and staggered 
 back a little to the table against which she rested one 
 hand for support. 
 
 " Now listen," she said, speaking rapidly, decidedly, 
 though she swayed like a reed in the wind, " listen to me. 
 You saw just now that I cared for you. I was weak, nervous 
 through much suffering, else you should not have known 
 it. That night I thought we were to die there or you 
 never should have known. But you must not think, 
 never for one moment, that we can ever be anything to
 
 220 MERZE : 
 
 each other. That is why I try to prevent you saying the 
 things that are useless, that will always be useless." 
 
 " Always ?" 
 
 " Nothing but death can change it." 
 
 " Merze, what is it ? There is something that prevents 
 you telling me the cause of your altered manner. I did 
 you a service a week ago. There is my hand in testi- 
 mony. I ask in return that you tell me why you will 
 not give yourself to me when you say that you love 
 me." 
 
 He held out his unbandaged hand to her, the shapely, 
 slender, firm hand it had been ; the hand of an artist, 
 and now 
 
 She closed her eyes with a long, shivering breath as 
 she looked. There were crisped, drawn, scars over it 
 that were there for life. One finger was distorted where 
 it had been burned to the bone, and its shapely beauty 
 was gone forever. 
 
 " Do not think that I mean to remind you of any in- 
 debtedness," he continued ; "it is not that, I would 
 endure it all over again to see the same light in your 
 eyes for one moment. Only for your own sake, as well 
 as mine, will you not tell me ?" 
 
 She could only stand there with burning, tearless eyes, 
 and shake her head in answer. At the sight of the hand 
 she longed to kneel and kiss she could not speak. 
 
 " Merze, is it some person that is between us ?" 
 
 She stood silent. 
 
 " Is it a lover ? someone you met before me ?" 
 
 " It is no lover," she answered slowly. That at least 
 she felt she could say. 
 
 "Then it is some fancied disgrace, some remnant of 
 your old life, of your family ; some such a secret as that
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 221 
 
 of the shooting, of your father's death. My child, that 
 is of the past ; whatever it is, it can not change my love. 
 I do not ask to know it. If you have any sorrow to 
 bear, let me help you to forget it, if I can not help you to 
 carry it. Be my wife." 
 
 "Don't !" she said, sobbingly, "you are only making 
 it harder for me. I am only trying to do what is right. 
 Even if I could tell you, it would not alter things. I 
 could never be your wife ; don't tempt me to bring dis- 
 grace on you, on myself, for that is what it would mean 
 if I listened to your love, to your wishes." 
 
 "Yet you say you love me." 
 
 " You know," she said simply, looking at him. He 
 did know. There was no need of words when she looked 
 in his face. The hopeless width of desolation in her 
 eyes showed him how much this love was to her, though 
 she was trying to steady her hands and push it beyond 
 her reach. 
 
 "Then I will wait," he said, smilingly, decidedly. She 
 looked at him questioningly but said nothing. 
 
 "Of course I will," he continued. "We care for each 
 other, but you say there is some obstacle in the way of 
 our love or marriage. No obstacle can change our love, 
 dear ; that is ours, our own. As to this secret which you 
 say nothing but death can change well, we will wait for 
 the death of whatever it is, and be friends in the mean- 
 while. There is nothing to prevent that, is there ? And 
 fate will be kind to us, you will see. My darling, mine, 
 do you think I would leave you now, knowing how you 
 care for me ? That is too much to expect of any man. 
 You seem now as if you have always belonged to me and 
 I think you have, dear. That night in ' Hesta,' you 
 remember, I looked angry ? Well, it seemed even then
 
 222 MERZE : 
 
 that you were giving to those people what should have 
 been only mine. It was selfish ; yes, and unjust, but my 
 thoughts of you had been dreaming, ideal fancies, and 
 then " 
 
 " Oh, hush, hush, hush!" she cried, clasping her hands 
 pleadingly, " you will not understand, and you are kill- 
 ing me with those words ! There can be no friendship 
 between us ! Must I tell you ? I I love you too well ; 
 that is why I ask you to go now while I have strength." 
 
 "Merze, my darling " 
 
 "Don't come near me, don't touch me!" she said, 
 half fiercely, " but hear me ! Your ideal, you fancied me. 
 Listen ; would your ideal be a woman who was a mur- 
 deress at heart ? That is what I have been here in this 
 room to-day. Ah, I thought that would make you 
 shrink from me !" as he drew back, looking at her in 
 amazement. For one moment he thought she had gone 
 mad. She continued rapidly, fiercely, as if it was a sort 
 of relief to accuse herself of the thing which had filled 
 her with a dread of her own wild soul. " You thought 
 me ill, suffering when you entered. It was only the 
 signs in my face of the struggle I had with my own 
 nature, the nature that prompted me to rid myself of the 
 obstacle that stood between us ; and how ? To kill ! 
 You do not believe me, perhaps, look here," and she 
 moved swiftly across the room where the book still lay 
 " See ! there is the page that told me how to do it ; a 
 cowardly way. That is your ideal as she is, and the 
 thing that tempted me is my love for you. Now do you 
 understand why I ask you to go ?" 
 
 He stood looking at her in wonder, in horror, in pity. 
 Could this be the woman of whom so many spoke as 
 cold, lacking fire for aught save the Galateas or Hestas ?
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 223 
 
 " My poor child, my poor child !" he said, with a great 
 love, a great compassion in his voice, "you surely need a 
 friend now if ever you did in your life. Come sit here ; 
 you are trembling, and your hands are like ice. You are 
 ill that you fancy those things." He led her unresistingly 
 to a chair. All her strength was gone with that wild 
 burst of passionate self-accusation. 
 
 " You will despise me now and go ?" she asked. 
 
 " Why should I despise you for the wild imaginings of 
 an overtaxed mind ? No, but I will say no more of love 
 since I see how serious this affair is to you. But you 
 must not accuse yourself of such an intention. No, my 
 Merze, just for the moment the thought may have come 
 to you, but it will not remain. The horror it has been 
 to you shows plainly enough that you would never have 
 done the thing you spoke of." 
 
 She had not raised her eyes from the floor after he led 
 her to the sofa and sat beside her. A shame had crept 
 over her for the things she had said in her passion, in 
 the weakness and strength of her love for him. 
 
 " I do not know," she said, in answer to his last words, 
 " one never knows themselves until they are tried. The 
 thought coming to me suddenly almost stopped my heart 
 from beating. It has filled me with a sickening dread 
 of myself ever since. Perhaps now, that I have told you, 
 I will not think of it so much. It seems a load off my 
 mind.' 
 
 " My poor Merze !" 
 
 " Don't," she said, raising her hands to her throat as 
 if to quiet some emotion within, " don't speak to me like 
 that, kindly. I am afraid, afraid I will cry. Don't pity 
 me, don't speak, just yet." 
 
 He sat silent holding her hand while all her frame
 
 224 MERZE : 
 
 trembled with the force of the sobs she was trying to 
 suppress. Her eyes were looking out through the window 
 seeing nothing but her own hopeless face. The slow 
 tears were falling on their clasped hands. After a little 
 she grew calmer. He sat, his own heart full of a dull 
 ache for her, but saying nothing until she spoke. 
 
 " I I have never been a good woman ; that is good 
 in a religious way. I have read much, but it has taught 
 me in a way to disbelieve the things that give most 
 women their hope and faith. To-day everything seems 
 to have changed. There must be a soul, a thing sent to 
 us from some heaven, a something separate from the 
 flesh ; if not what is that thing which recoils, shudder- 
 ing, from the thought of evil ? One's hand or foot does 
 not recoil. It is a nameless something which has done 
 more to convert me than all the religious books I have 
 ever studied." 
 
 He saw that she was trying to think and talk of some 
 subject besides themselves until she would get calmer. 
 
 "If you are as honest in your faith when it comes as 
 you have been in your doubt, you will yet have a higher 
 hope than any that has touched your life, my Merze ; 
 and it will come." 
 
 "I do not know," she said, wearily, "the wickedness 
 in me, as I have seen it, may forever keep away the pure 
 thoughts and hopes that come to good women. Lying 
 here to-day I wondered if evil was in the blood through 
 generations as other diseases are. If so you must not 
 expect too much that is good of me. I am afraid mine 
 was not tinged with the highest morality and purity to 
 begin with, and I, so far in my life, have added no 
 nobility to it." 
 
 " I do not believe it," he answered warmly, " any more
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 225 
 
 than I believe your own morbid self-accusations. You 
 are a merciless judge of yourself." 
 
 " Perhaps because I know myself so well." 
 
 " I do not think you do ; you imagine yourself weak, 
 in morality and will, simply because you are weak in the 
 faith which most good women have. You should know 
 your own sex before you judge yourself so. Believe me, 
 Merze, you are stronger than most women, and God help 
 to keep you so !" 
 
 " I think," she said after a little, "you are giving me 
 a hope and a faith in myself that I never had before. 
 You have helped me much. I must ask you to go away, 
 or not to come where I am, but always, always I will 
 thank you for to-day, for the generosity that gave respect 
 to my weakness." 
 
 " Not weakness, but a strength of love such as few 
 women could have conquered from principle, duty, or 
 whatever the thing is that stands between us. But we 
 will not speak of that now. I will leave you before 
 Guarda comes. You are quieter now, but not enough so 
 to talk to others. I shall not be able to leave for several 
 weeks. I will not go without seeing you once at any 
 rate. Surely you will not refuse me, will not refuse us 
 both that much ?" 
 
 " I would want you to come just once. I would be 
 better, less nervous then. To-day I have had much, 
 more than you know, to contend with, and it has left me 
 half mad I think." 
 
 " May I write you ? Do not say no," as she shook her 
 head, smiling sadly. " You will need someone to speak 
 to ; you have no friend." 
 
 " I have Massa Mark. Surely he has been my friend." 
 
 " Does he know your trouble ?" 
 
 15
 
 226 MERZE : 
 
 " He knows part of it. Not my wicked thoughts of 
 to-day, and not that I that you 
 
 " That we love each other," he finished, " well we will 
 not tell him now. But sometime in the future we may 
 be able to, and until then you must let me write you, else 
 you are sure to get low-spirited and morbid. I insist on 
 that." 
 
 " Your letters will be welcome," she said at last, " and 
 now " 
 
 "And now I must leave you. Lie down and rest if 
 possible. It seems a shame that you must go to the 
 theatre. Ah, if I only had the power to take you away 
 from it entirely ?" 
 
 " I doubt if anyone will ever do that. I will try to 
 rest for to-night. What matter if hearts do ache, the 
 public must be amused." 
 
 He held out his hand, which she took in both her 
 own, and kissed gently the reddened palm, and scarred 
 fingers. 
 
 Then there was one long look into each other's eyes, 
 an earnest " God bless you " from his lips, and they 
 parted. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 A wild sense of shame tingled through Merze's veins 
 for days afterwards. She was glad he was so loyal to his 
 word as not to come where she was. How could those 
 two ever meet among others and talk common-places 
 again ? He was able to attend to his duties again; this 
 she learned through Guarda, and also that he had been 
 to visit his mother.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 227 
 
 Merze wondered much what his mother could be like ; 
 noble she must be, and good. Despite their love, the 
 conversations between them had been few, and she knew 
 nothing of his family. When his hand was able to write 
 he had done so, telling her he had been at his home in 
 the country for a few days ; " and despite the present, 
 I hope it will sometime be your home, too," he had added; 
 and again he wrote: " I have spoken to my mother of 
 you. She does not see or know much of our world, but 
 I know she would love and understand you, and would 
 be able to help you much." 
 
 His letters showed so plainly that, though he obeyed 
 her and kept away, he had not altered his determination 
 that their lives should sometime be together; and it was 
 hard to put aside the sweetness which the knowledge 
 brought her. 
 
 Guarda felt painfully that some change had come to 
 her that had put an end to the old confidence between 
 them. In her life was the new element, of which he 
 knew nothing, that filled her thoughts to the extinction 
 of all else. It was to him the sadness that age always 
 feels as the youth which it has helped to form grows 
 away, out of the reach of old eyes forever. 
 
 She comprehended, in part, the pathos in his face as 
 he watched her at times questioningly. It made her feel 
 false and ungrateful. Yet she could see no gain in tell- 
 ing him. He would sympathize with, but could not help 
 her. He might quarrel with Lawrence, and the latter 
 might revenge himself on her; in no way that she looked 
 could she see a gleam of brightness. The letters from 
 Drande and Crista were her greatest pleasures. 
 
 Twice she had gone down to Delaware, on the bay, on 
 Sunday, and returned by Monday night, and with each
 
 228 MERZE : 
 
 visit was strengthened her idea that soon she must en- 
 deavor to make a home somewhere, so she and Crista 
 could be together more, for the girl's character, so dif- 
 ferent from her own, was very charming to her. Out- 
 door exercise had, in a way, taken from her the fragility 
 so noticeable at first. She had not the still air of the 
 cloister clinging to her garments. Companionship with 
 the other girls had dispelled much of that, but had not 
 detracted from the innate purity of her thoughts ; it had 
 rather broadened and strengthened them without loss to 
 their fine nobility. She had much to tell of her Quak- 
 eress friend, whom Merze learned was quite an old lady. 
 She willingly gave the required permission for a visit 
 during the winter. It was then October. Merze had 
 never yet enlightened Crista as to the nature of her 
 work. There were so many adverse tides in her life she 
 could not risk another then. And she could not be sure 
 that the girl's mind was free from the shackles with 
 which the church has ever endeavored to bind its adher- 
 ents an intolerance of the stage. 
 
 It is the old story of Cain and Abel, for those two 
 were brothers in the days of the Greek drama, before 
 men deemed themselves too wise for laughter one of 
 the greatest of God's gifts. 
 
 The new play had been a decided success, and was 
 likely to run through half the season, at least, for which 
 Merze was thankful. Her mind was not fitted for the 
 study requisite to a new part. She played night after 
 night, hearing the people praise her in words that were 
 the music her ambition had longed for. It had been 
 her's but a few short months, and already the emptiness 
 in it sounded hollow in her ears ; one voice, one heart, 
 one hand were worth them all ?
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 229 
 
 She had seen his face, at times, across the circle 
 of light, and it ever inspired her to her best work. 
 Some flowers found their way to her hotel flowers that 
 were never thrown aside, or divided in the green-room, 
 as the others were. 
 
 He could not help hearing her discussed among his 
 acquaintances. They all knew the incident of the fire, 
 and some wondered, as Guarda did, that there was no 
 closer friendship between them. 
 
 " She might make a sensation among outsiders, if she 
 only cared to humor the public more," remarked North, 
 as a party of them sat together in the club-room after 
 the theatre. " With that face and manner she would 
 be lionized by society, if she had a little more business 
 tact if she would only unbend." 
 
 " You mean if she cared to seek notoriety as a pro- 
 fessional beauty, or something of that sort," said Drande. 
 " An artist does not require that." It always annoyed 
 him to hear her spoken of among men. 
 
 " Don't they ?" queried North, cynically. " Well, they 
 call me one, but HO one ever did until I found a patron 
 wealthy enough to make me the fashion. My work was 
 quite as good before, yet no notice was taken of it. To 
 be sure, if you are willing to wait for future generations 
 to determine the value of your work and ring your 
 praises, well and good. But if you want success in your 
 own age, you must cater to it advertise your name and 
 face in conjunction with a new patent soap or mowing- 
 machine, and your fortune is made." 
 
 "Nonsense'" replied Drande, who knew that the 
 man's love of his art was an absorbing passion. " You 
 are preaching now what you would not practice." 
 
 "Ah! that is because I am one of the fools who
 
 230 MERZE : 
 
 would have won my success in future ages, if left to my- 
 self. But a beautiful woman must win her success while 
 her beauty lasts, and the one who understands her age 
 is the one whose name will be oftenest on people's lips. 
 Now Mignot does not understand it in the least. I do 
 not think she ever will. She lives too much in dreamland, 
 I fancy. There is not enough of human nature in her. 
 She is lovely, charming, but she is an icicle." 
 
 " I don't think you know her when you say that." It 
 was an old gentleman of the party who spoke a writer 
 whose verse is known and loved over a wide land. 
 
 " Do you know her any better ?" inquired Orlane, 
 who was also there. Drande looked up but said noth- 
 ing. 
 
 " I never spoke to the lady in my life." 
 
 " Then how " began North. 
 
 " I know nothing of her personally," replied the old 
 man, " and I have only seen her on the stage, and once 
 at a rehearsal I saw her face when she did not know she 
 was observed. During the intervals when not engaged 
 in rehearsing, I noticed she did not chat as the others 
 about her. No, but she walked alone up and down, up 
 and down, back of the scenes. Now, I have lived many 
 years and noted many natures. That woman, calm-eyed, 
 stately as she is, has somewhere under that colorless 
 surface the animal lying dormant. I should not care to 
 be the person to waken its wrath, for I am not quite 
 sure it would be a harmless one. I never saw anything 
 so quiet and yet so restless it was a caged hyena." 
 
 "What a comparison for a lovely woman !" cried Or- 
 lane. " I fear you will find few to accept your idea of 
 her." 
 
 " Do not mistake me. It is not my idea of her char-
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 231 
 
 acter. Her nature is not one-sided. I should imagine 
 her a woman with great reserve force for either good 
 or evil. And because you have seen only the dreamy, 
 ideal side of her nature, you must not attribute to her 
 virtues a negative order. Hers is not a soul that is 
 good only through weakness of passions." And rising, 
 without more words, he picked up his cane and with a 
 quiet nod to the rest made his way out. 
 
 " Eccentric and queer he is growing lately," remarked 
 North. " Human nature is his hobby, and there is no 
 knowing where he will ride on it when once started. He 
 evidently likes Mignot, but what an original idea of her 
 nature ! I fancy it would surprise even herself if she 
 heard it." 
 
 Drande said nothing ; the old man's words had made 
 a deep impression on him. He knew that not one in the 
 party laid much weight on them, but thought them the 
 outgrowth of a fanciful imagination, but he himself 
 knew they held much truth. As to the evil, he had known 
 none of that, except her own wild self-accusation. 
 And now this man, an earnest student of Nature's book, 
 had in part corroborated them by discovering in her 
 capabilities for work that would not be harmless. 
 
 He wondered if, after all, his love for her had blinded 
 him ; if he had thought too lightly of that mad, re- 
 morseful outburst that might have had more of a founda- 
 tion than he imagined. 
 
 Disloyal thoughts they may have been to his love, but 
 not unnatural, considering what he remembered, and 
 with the echo of the old man's words in his ears. He 
 was not noticing the conversation about him ; he was 
 too deeply buried in his own thoughts until he was 
 aroused by hearing Guarda's name. Evidently the con-
 
 MERZE : 
 
 versation had drifted from Merze to him. " Good old 
 Mephisto," remarked one ; " I wonder why he keeps him 
 around?" 
 
 " Who ?" inquired Drande, rousing himself. 
 
 " Lawrence," replied North ; " I heard someway he 
 was a connection of Guarda's ; did you know it?" 
 
 " Yes, I knew it. I don't know just what the relation- 
 ship is, and ignore the subject with Guarda. I do not 
 think he would care to be talked about." 
 
 " I should say not," remarked a young man who had 
 sauntered over to the party a friend of North. "Just 
 now, at any rate, for the sake of his prot6g6e." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" asked Drande, looking at him 
 angrily. 
 
 " Why, I mean the statuesque Mignot, the vestal vir- 
 gin, otherwise the lady who was known for a short time 
 as Mrs. Lawrence." 
 
 " What?'' Orlane and Drande sprang to their feet 
 with the one word on their lips. Some of the others in 
 the room looked up from their conversations at the 
 anger in their tones. North held out his hand for 
 silence. 
 
 "You are attracting attention," he said, quietly, " that 
 will do her no good. Havlin, there must be some ex- 
 planation of this. The lady mentioned is held in all 
 honor by myself and these gentlemen. There is some 
 mistake in the matter, and you must clear it up." 
 
 " I am sorry, deuced sorry " began the young fel- 
 low. 
 
 " That is of no use," broke in Drande, white with 
 anger, while a dozen different memories flashed through 
 his brain, and made him half sick with a dread of he 
 knew not what.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 233 
 
 Young Havlin looked across, half angered at the 
 tone. 
 
 " I will tell what I know," he said coldly. " I do not 
 know Miss Mignot, except by sight, and would have no 
 object in saying anything against her. I saw her first 
 as Mrs. Lawrence over two years ago, in Baltimore. 
 That is my home, you know/' he said, turning to North. 
 " She stopped at the hotel for two or three months with 
 this gambler, Lawrence, her husband. They left sud- 
 denly, and I have never seen either of them since, 
 until I came up here three days ago on business. I had 
 heard of Mignot, and wanted to see her. At the door of 
 the theatre I saw Lawrence, and on the stage I saw the 
 person I had thought his wife. She is now Merze Mig- 
 not. I asked some acquaintances why she did not use 
 her husband's name, and they informed me she was not 
 married. That is all I know about it. There has been 
 no mistake. Her face is not likely to be mistaken. I 
 would take my oath it is the same woman." 
 
 The three men sat silent for a moment after he had 
 finished. There was the ring of honesty in his words 
 that none could refute. North spoke first. 
 
 " It is a bad business, Havlin, and I believe I can de- 
 pend on you to be silent about it." 
 
 " Certainly I will," he answered. " I wish I had never 
 mentioned it. I have not done so until now, only I 
 heard her spoken of as Guarda's protegee, and hearing 
 you talk of his relationship to Lawrence, I spoke before 
 I thought. I am truly sorry, and I wish you good- 
 night." 
 
 None of them made any answer. Each was too busy 
 with his own thoughts, and for some moments there was 
 silence , then North spoke :
 
 234 MERZE : 
 
 "What do you think of it ?" 
 
 " I think it is a lie !" broke out Orlane, fiercely. 
 
 "The boy has not lied intentionally; I am sure of 
 that," answered North. " What do you think, Drande ?" 
 
 " I ?" And he passed his hand over his eyes wearily 
 the hand scarred in her service the hand she had 
 kissed. " I am not sure that I have any thoughts for 
 it, unless it be that one should have faith in nothing, 
 It is the only safeguard against deception." And rising, 
 he walked away, leaving the two men alone at the table. 
 
 " How bitter he is, and how quick to doubt her," said 
 North, looking after the tall form passing out through 
 the door into the street. " But then he never liked her 
 much." 
 
 Orlane's eyes had a curious, pained look in them. 
 The very quietness of his friend's manner had, in a dim 
 way, brought a hint of the truth to his mind. 
 
 " Yet he risked his life for her. His is a curious 
 character/' he replied. And in his own mind was the 
 thought: " And I fear he will carry to his grave other 
 scars than those on his hands." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 The morning broke clear, crisp and cool. The shade 
 trees along the old-fashioned hotel had still a remnant 
 of fluttering maroon-tinged leaves, and among them the 
 birds chattered volubly at the first rays of the sun, as 
 though they had a wealth of June forests to roam 
 through the birds of the city are thankful for so little. 
 
 The low, sweet calls outside her window awoke Merze 
 hours earlier than usual. No one in the house seemed
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 235 
 
 stirring. It was a delightful morning to sleep, and, 
 half vexed with herself, she endeavored to close her eyes 
 and drift again into forgetfulness. But it was of no 
 use ; her eyes and brain were too wide awake. She lay 
 there trying to think if there was any special work she 
 had to do, but could remember none. 
 
 " Strange," she thought, " I feel as one does on waking 
 with the knowledge of a journey to be taken as if I 
 were wakened to get ready for something." 
 
 How many of us are wakened in the same way, 
 as if by the rustle of messengers' wings that tell us to 
 "get ready !" 
 
 Finding sleep impossible, she rose and dressed, throw- 
 ing open the curtains to let in the flood of cheery light. 
 Guarda had half promised to call that morning and take 
 her out to breakfast if it was pleasant. 
 
 " I fear I can not wait," she soliloquized. " Massa 
 Mark will be sound asleep for two hours to come." 
 
 She saw the postman enter the hotel, and rang for 
 the porter to bring up the mail if there was any for her. 
 There was but one letter. It was from Crista, from the 
 little village in Maryland where she had been for two 
 days with her Quakeress friend, Mrs. Menturn. She 
 found everything charming in the sweet simplicity of 
 this peculiar, quiet people. 
 
 "It is all so beautiful, my sister," she wrote. "The 
 house has through it the scent of lavender and sun-dried 
 linen and the peace of the sanctuary. One could not 
 imagine loud, rude words as sounding through its white 
 walls. There lives with Mrs. Menturn, her sister, who 
 is also an old lady, but who has never been married. I 
 can not but watch them all the time, they make such 
 charming pictures in their quaint costumes. I hear
 
 236 MERZE : 
 
 much of her son whom she calls Mortimer , he seems 
 the one theme they never tire talking of. lie is very 
 learned and has traveled much. There is a picture of 
 him in the room where I sleep ; the eyes seem looking 
 at me always beautiful eyes like those of the St. John 
 in the chapel at the convent. I said so to them, but I 
 do not think they care to hear the saints spoken of. 
 Why, I do not know; because of their religion, I sup- 
 pose. They seem fit themselves to be classed among 
 the saints. It seems strange to hear these two old ladies 
 calling each by their girlish names ' Betha' and ( Prue.' 
 The house is close to a brook, and back of it are the 
 mountains, roaming over which they tell me Mortimer 
 passed much of his time when at home. The view of 
 them is grand from my window. I should think he 
 would love them. His face looks like that of the people 
 for whom mountains were made, for whom the sleepy 
 peace of the lowlands would never bring content. Your 
 face, my dear sister, has also seemed to me like that at 
 times, a touch of something that is uncommon such 
 as Judith of Bethulia or Joan of Arc must have had. 
 This letter will seem very full of gossip and fancies, but 
 you see, my dear Mercy, I have nothing of my own to 
 write about, only impressions of ihe new life and faces I 
 meet. Stella and Edie go to school this winter, so I 
 shall be more by myself when I go back. Would it be 
 convenient to let me remain here? Mrs. Menturn has 
 said she would be pleased if it could be so. Of 
 course I could make no answer without asking you ; but 
 I should like it if you are willing. She hoped to-day 
 that I would not be dull with them, and said I might 
 find them brighter by and by, that they had some worry 
 at present. The sister, Betha, told me of it in part. It
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 237 
 
 is something about Mr. Mortimer. He is in love with 
 some lady in a world apart from these little grey saints, 
 and it fills them with alarm in some way. A fine lady of 
 the world in this white nest would be like a bird of 
 Paradise in a dove-cote. But I must close. I wish you 
 could be with me this evening. This paper seems so 
 cold to tell my thoughts to ; not like the warmth in your 
 eyes when you listen. If they were here now they 
 would see, away beyond the village, the sunset showing 
 pink on the farthest mountains, and verging into purple 
 on those nearer, until the one closest to us is dark against 
 the cool clear sky, and right above its darkest crag the 
 new moon lies like a crescent shining on the turban of 
 some dark Turk." 
 
 Merze finished reading the letter with a feeling of 
 content for the girl's happiness that was so apparent in 
 every line she had written. 
 
 " My life is at least of use here," she thought. 
 
 It was still early. She sat down at once and 
 answered the letter, expressing her pleasure in the 
 girl's content, leaving her to make her own choice as 
 to the length of her stay, and inclosing money for her 
 expenses. 
 
 She had just finished the letter, and as she rose from 
 sealing it her eyes caught sight of a form that was 
 walking backwards and forwards across the narrow park 
 in view of her window. One glance was enough to tell 
 her who it was, and she could see him with every turn in 
 the walk casting his eyes toward her rooms. 
 
 She sat down, trembling a little; she could see he was 
 waiting or watching for her. Every trifle filled her with 
 some new dread lately. She was afraid to think what it 
 might mean now.
 
 238 MERZE : 
 
 " I felt as if I was to get ready fo* something," she 
 thought. " Perhaps, perhaps it has come." 
 
 She could not stand the suspense, the uncertainty, but 
 drew back the curtains and stood in the window. " I can 
 see, at least, if it is I whom he wishes to see." She had 
 not to wait. One moment his glance fell on her, the 
 next he had started toward her. She stood watching 
 him until he disappeared in the door. He did not raise 
 his eyes to her once as he passed below. A moment later 
 the clerk brought up his card. 
 
 "Send the gentleman up," she answered. 
 
 As she heard his quick step outside, she opened the 
 door, not awaiting his knock. He walked in without a 
 word, and closing the door behind him, followed her 
 through the small curtained ante-room into the parlor, 
 and stood looking at her with no smile, no light of greet- 
 ing in his face. She turned sick at heart as she looked 
 at him. 
 
 " What is it ?" she half whispered. 
 
 "What is that man to you ?" 
 
 It had come at last ! Everything seemed swaying 
 about her, as she met his eyes. He caught her by 
 the arm as she was about to fall, and placed her in a 
 chair. 
 
 "Sit there," he said, with a cold fury in his voice, "and 
 speak the truth for once, if you have not forgotten how 
 through much lying." 
 
 She opened her lips to speak, but no words came 
 only a short, sobbing breath. 
 
 " Liar," he muttered through his teeth, as he looked 
 at her, " liar always, without words, with every look in 
 your eyes, every tone of your voice, you have learned 
 your trade well !"
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 239 
 
 " Hush," she said looking up at him. " You must not 
 say such words to me. Have, have you forgotten all, 
 the love, the trust ?" 
 
 " Dare you mention them to me now ?" he broke in 
 fiercely. " The love you used but to practice your art 
 on, the blind trust with which I left you in this room, 
 where you, no doubt, laughed over it to him before an 
 hour had gone by ? Vampire, with your white, still face 
 and heart of fire !" 
 
 " Hush ! You are killing me with these words." 
 
 " Killing you ? Oh no ; women such as you, are not 
 killed with words. I ask but little. What is that man 
 to you ?" 
 
 " Nothing now," she answered low, fearing to tell the 
 truth even to check his wrath. Of what use would it be ? 
 He would despise her none the less. 
 
 " Nothing now" he repeated, bitterly. " O woman, 
 that can say so at twenty-two ! Nothing now, though 
 you are here together ; though he brings you to the 
 house from which, years ago, his other mistress was 
 taken to a madhouse ! Oh ! you did not know that ?" 
 as she looked up wildly. " I see the knowledge has 
 power to move you, though you can tell me he is nothing 
 to you now." 
 
 " You are wrong when you think of me like that," she 
 said more steadily, though her face was white at the 
 
 bitterness of his taunts. " He has been my " she 
 
 seemed choking as she looked in his face and tried to 
 say the word, " he is " 
 
 " Her husband !" 
 
 It was Guarda who spoke, parting the curtains of the 
 ante-room. They had not heard him knock, but hear- 
 ing voices he had opened the door and could not help
 
 240 MERZE : 
 
 hearing the bitter words of Drande. He crossed to 
 where Merze sat, and, taking her hand, turned to the 
 other. 
 
 " Drande, what does this mean ?" his old face puzzled 
 at the scene. 
 
 " You had better ask your protegee there, the wife who, 
 for the tricks of her trade, will not use her husband's 
 name ; there are many such. But you, Guarda, I thought 
 above acting as a cloak in such a scheme ; our long 
 friendship might have, at least, exempted me from the 
 list you have blinded." 
 
 " Merze, what does it mean ?" the old man asked 
 tremulously. At the kindness of his touch she had 
 clasped his hands in hers, bending her face low over it 
 until he could feel her tears. " Merze, try to tell me. 
 Why should you be her judge ? I do not understand." 
 
 " Do you not?" asked Drande, a bitter coldness in his 
 voice as he looked at her bowed form. " I loved her. 
 Yes, why should I not tell you ? She will. And you will 
 know, when I tell you as I do, that it was no trifling affair 
 for the pastime of a few hours. I offered her my name. 
 Oh, yes, she was an honest wife in that she sent me 
 away from her ; but she knew I would come back ! She 
 had not in her the honesty, the truth to say ' I am a wife '; 
 and what other reason will keep away a man who loves 
 and who imagines himself loved ? I leave you to further 
 conquests, madame. Good morning." 
 
 His foot struck against some metallic thing as he 
 passed through the outer room. He stooped and picked 
 it up. It was a steel dagger with a slight, slim blade 
 and a handle of brass in scroll work. He tossed it 
 aside on a small stand, and, opening the door, passed 
 out and into the street. He did not look back or see
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 241 
 
 the woman kneeling by the window watching him with 
 wet eyes, the old man beside her. 
 
 " My child, my child, you care so much ?" 
 
 She did not answer. Her eyes watched the receding 
 form until it vanished, and then she turned to him, 
 clasping his hands. 
 
 " You see, dear," she said brokenly, " I am only a 
 woman. I dared not place my ideal too high for my 
 hands to grasp at it, and, after all, they will be forever 
 left empty." 
 
 " And you have borne this alone in silence rather than 
 tell me ?" he said, leading her back to a chair and sitting 
 beside her. " That was not right." 
 
 " You could not have helped me ; no one could," she 
 answered, wearily, and then she told him of the inter- 
 views with Lawrence. 
 
 " The coward ! the coward !" he said, as she told him 
 her reason for remaining at the hotel. 
 
 " You see," she said, with a wan, piteous smile on her 
 face, " it would have been of no use. A god could not 
 undo the past. It is fate, I suppose ; but oh, Massa 
 Mark, it is such a dreary one !" 
 
 And he, poor old "Mephisto"! could only clasp her 
 hands and turn away his eyes not to see the misery in 
 the face he loved so well. 
 
 "There must be an end to this secrecy at once," he 
 said decidedly. " I shall tell him this morning that I 
 will keep my promise no longer, if it is to bring injury 
 to you. Your reputation as a woman must not suffer 
 through any false ambition for you as an actress. I 
 shall see that you do not suffer in the estimation of your 
 friends when it is known you have been his wife, and 
 they will believe me," 
 ie
 
 242 MERZE : 
 
 " But it is too late forever to clear me in his eyes. He 
 will think only that we have been forced to it." 
 
 "That is yet to be seen ; we owe him too much, you 
 and I, to allow him to continue in such thoughts, my 
 poor friend, my poor child, it is a pity, it is a pity !" 
 He rose and picked up his hat. 
 
 " Where are you going now ?" she asked. 
 
 "First I am going to send you up some breakfast 
 instead of taking you out as I came to do," he answered, 
 "and then I am going in to see Lawrence." He was 
 looking through his pockets as he spoke. " I had a knife 
 for him, an old dagger he had left down at Wright's to 
 be fixed. The clerk gave it to me yesterday. I was 
 sure I had it. Look here, it has cut a hole through my 
 pocket and got lost !" 
 
 She rose and went to the door with him, and on the 
 stand she saw the knife glistening. 
 
 " Is this it, Massa Mark ?" she asked, picking it up. 
 
 " Certainly it is, how could it have come there ?" 
 
 "You must have dropped it, and he, Mr. Drande, 
 picked it up," she answered, handing it to him, little 
 thinking under what circumstances she was to see it 
 again. 
 
 She closed the door and went back into her room 
 where she had heard all his words of love, all his bitter 
 scorn. The sun was still shining warmly, the birds were 
 chattering about the windows, but her ears were deaf to 
 their music. She shivered and wondered if she would 
 ever be warm again.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 243 
 
 CHAPTER xxxm. 
 
 "And you are going to leave us again, Drande ?" 
 
 "Yes, I have about decided on it," 
 
 " It's a shame," grumbled North. " What's the matter 
 with New York ; isn't it good enough for you ?" 
 
 " It would be as much as my life is worth to say ' no ' 
 to you, a New Yorker," answered Drande. "Oh, no, 
 it is not that, only I have been knocking about in the 
 wilds so long that I feel scarcely fit for civilization. I 
 can have my finger in our political pudding in Mexico, 
 if I choose to go back, and I think I shall." 
 
 " Orlane and I shall miss you mightily." 
 
 " Thanks, old fellow, I believe you will. Here comes 
 Orlane now." 
 
 He came in with some morning papers in his hand. 
 
 " Have you heard the news of the murder ?" he asked. 
 
 " No, we haven't seen the papers," said North. 
 " Where was it ?" 
 
 "At the old Mansion Hotel. Fred Lawrence was 
 found dead in his bed this morning." 
 
 "Great God!" 
 
 It was Drande from whose lips the words fell with an 
 intensity that was startling to his two friends. He 
 noticed their wonder and continued: "Why, this is 
 something terrible. How was it ! Who did it ?" 
 
 " That they can't tell. Everything seems very myste- 
 rious from the papers. He was seen go to his room 
 as usual. At three o'clock the night clerk in passing 
 his door, noticed the gas burning brightly, contrary to
 
 244 MERZE : 
 
 his habit. The clerk knocked at the door, receiving no 
 answer. On turning the door knob, the door opened, 
 and on the bed was Lawrence lying square on his back, 
 with a knife or dagger driven to the hilt in his heart." 
 
 " Why, this is horrible. Any one suspected ?" asked 
 North. 
 
 Drande said no more. He felt himself get cold all 
 over at the thoughts that would persist in creeping into 
 his mind. A dagger ! He had seen one in her room 
 that morning. 
 
 " No ; no one in particular," said Orlane, in answer to 
 the last question. " Only it is supposed to be a woman." 
 
 " And why ?" Drande scarcely knew his own voice, 
 and his lips seemed stiff as he tried to move them. 
 
 " Well, some unknown woman inquired of a porter in 
 the morning if he was stopping there. She was told he 
 was, and then she asked if he still had the room with 
 the bay window. The man, thinking she was a 
 person come to inquire about washing or something of 
 that sort, told her he had that room. That ended the 
 conversation, and she went away. In the evening some 
 strange woman was seen in the upper hall, and may have 
 gained access to his room easily, as his door was often 
 unlocked. Whoever it was, the deed was very deliber- 
 ately done. It is supposed to have been done when he 
 was sleeping. There were two blows. The one must 
 have stained her hands, for there was bloody water in 
 the basin, and some marks on the towel. It was not a 
 case of robbery a vendetta, probably. People of that 
 ilk make enemies through the ruin of lives they know 
 nothing of." 
 
 "But I don't think he has been gambling lately," 
 said North ; "at least not heavily."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 245 
 
 " No, but things like that keep a long time with some 
 people ; and it was only night before last that we heard 
 that other piece of rather startling news in which his 
 name was mixed." 
 
 "Don't you think," said Drande, trying to speak 
 carelessly, "that it is best to be cautious about the 
 knowledge the young man gave us? When a case of 
 this sort comes up no one knows where it will stop, and 
 it would be very awkward if, through a little carelessness, 
 her name should be connected with the man now. The 
 public are ever ready to grasp on any news with which 
 the name of an actress is connected. It would be hard 
 on her." 
 
 " Certainly," replied North, " we must say nothing." 
 
 A sort of chill fell over the further conversation of 
 the three men as they sat there at the breakfast table, 
 and one by one they rose and left the dishes scarcely 
 touched. 
 
 At the hotel all was excitement. Detectives were at 
 work asking questions and advancing theories. People 
 stood around the doors asking the latest developments 
 and discussing the affair with a sort of morbid interest; 
 while upstairs in one room lay the cold, still form that 
 twenty-four hours before had been Fred Lawrence, and, 
 in another room, with only a few walls between, was a 
 form as still, almost as cold, the wide open, burning 
 eyes seeming to contain all the life that was in her. 
 
 "Dead without a struggle killed as he slept !" 
 
 Those were the words of the clerk as she had heard 
 them that morning. What she replied she never knew, 
 but the man, frightened at her face, advised that she sit 
 down till he could send one of the maids to her. 
 
 " No ; no one," she managed to say with a gesture of
 
 246 MERZE : 
 
 opposition, "only Mr. Guarda a relative of his of 
 the" 
 
 And then she could say no more. She sat in the chair 
 he proffered, and he left her with wonder at the ashy 
 face that was turned toward him, but with eyes that did 
 not see. 
 
 " It's only natural she would be frightened at a murder 
 in the house," he remarked down-stairs, "and specially 
 interested in this as he belongs to the theatre, but heaven 
 keep me from telling such news to a woman again. She 
 sat in that chair as if she were paralyzed, and the look in 
 her face it was a sight to haunt a man." 
 
 And so Guarda found her. She did not turn her head. 
 He came close and laid his hand on her shoulder. 
 
 " Merze," his voice had a tinge of fear as he saw her 
 face. " Merze." 
 
 Then she spoke, without looking at him, slowly as 
 with lips that were numb. 
 
 "It has come. I wished it and it has come." 
 
 " Hush, Merze ! You must not think such things. 
 It is not your fault. Don't imagine your wishing it so 
 has hastened such a horror, and I don't think you ever 
 did really wish it, unless it was in a passing fit of despond- 
 ency. You must rouse yourself." 
 
 But she did not answer. She only clasped her hands 
 tighter and sat there, dumb with the force of the remorse 
 that overwhelmed her. 
 
 " Merze, my Merze !" and he unclasped the cold hands 
 and held them between his own thin, trembling ones 
 with great gentleness. " Look at me, your old Massa 
 Mark, whose heart breaks to see your misery." 
 
 She looked at him with wide, weary eyes. 
 
 ''Misery," she repeated. "Ah, Massa Mark! it is
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 247 
 
 only just that it should be so. I thought I knew what 
 the word meant yesterday. But you were right when 
 you said none was equal to that of remorse." 
 
 " You must not let yourself feel like that. You must 
 think of other things. There is much to be done; rouse 
 yourself and help me. Anything will be better than to 
 sit here like this, as if you were going mad." 
 
 " If I were sure that the mad forget I would pray 
 for it." 
 
 "But we do not know it. That is what I want to 
 speak to you of, that mad woman; do you know where 
 she is?" 
 
 "Yes; why?" 
 
 " There is a woman suspected of this crime." 
 
 She looked at him steadily. No personal fear could 
 add in any way to her unhappiness. 
 
 " Is it 1?" she asked, simply. Her own self-accusing 
 spirit made it seem only a thing to be expected. 
 
 "You!" And he stared at her aghast at the thought. 
 "You! Certainly not." 
 
 "I did not know," she answered. "Who is it, then?" 
 
 " No one in particular, but I have thought it might be 
 the woman who went to the mad-house that girl's 
 mother." 
 
 "Crista's mother! Oh, I hope not. I hope not for 
 Crista's sake." It was the first sign of animation she had 
 shown, and he was thankful, though it was for the girl. 
 
 "It is only a conjecture of my own. I only thought 
 if she could have escaped it might be so; but we will 
 speak of that later; there are things concerning you to 
 speak of now." 
 
 " Me? Is there anything left to say?" It seemed to 
 her that an end of all things had come.
 
 248 MERZE : 
 
 "There is much. First you must take his name." 
 
 " Yes," she said, apathetically. It did not matter. 
 
 " I think it is best. In an affair of this sort so much 
 is sifted. They may learn it anyway, and it is best for 
 you to make it public yourself." 
 
 "As you please." 
 
 " And another thing. If you can, you would best 
 come in there a few moments, at least." 
 
 " To see to see?" And then she broke down, cover- 
 ing her face with her hands as if to keep out some sight 
 of horror. 
 
 "Yes, my child; try to be brave. It will not be long. 
 I know it is much to expect of you after what you 
 endured yesterday. No wonder you are so unstrung 
 and nervous to-day.'* 
 
 ''Yes, I am very weak, very cowardly even lately," 
 she answered. " Last night you will scarcely recognize 
 your old Merze in this nervous creature but last night 
 I feared to be alone, so much so that I had one of the 
 maids bring a cot in and sleep outside my bedroom door. 
 She thought I was not well, but it was only a nervous 
 dread of being alone." 
 
 " You have not been so often?" 
 
 " Never but once before." She did not tell him when 
 it had been. It was the night after Drande's first visit, 
 the night when her thoughts were haunted by the mem- 
 ory of what her wishes had been for one short, terrible 
 moment in her life. 
 
 A policeman stood at the door of the dead man's 
 room. 
 
 " No admittance, sir, except to witnesses or members 
 of the press," he said, glancing at the lady on Guarda's 
 arm. "The coroner's there now."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 249 
 
 "We are relatives,'' Guarda answered, and the man 
 silently opened the door for them to enter. The few 
 witnesses about the hotel had been examined, but their 
 testimony did not amount to much except as to who saw 
 him last alive, who found him, etc. 
 
 A hush fell over the party as the white-haired old 
 man came in, leading the beautiful woman, whom most 
 of them had seen at some time or other. She wore a 
 crimson house dress of softly draped material tied at the 
 waist and throat with silver cords, and above it the face 
 looked like chiseled marble, just as white, so colorless 
 was it ; and the eyes, with a world of remorse and 
 horror in them, shone like stars. But for all their wide- 
 ness she saw none of the faces about her. There were 
 some newspaper people and the jury. The coroner, 
 knowing Guarda, spoke. 
 
 " We were about to call you, but the lady had best 
 retire; no outsiders allowed in." 
 
 "The lady is Mrs. Lawrence, his wife," answered 
 Guarda, quietly. The other bowed in silence and stepped 
 back, giving way for them to pass on. 
 
 The room was a large one, divided in two by heavy 
 curtains that hid the bed. Down its length they walked, 
 an odd couple, and all eyes turned curiously toward them. 
 
 "Courage, my child; be brave," he said as they neared 
 the curtain. His hand was raised to push it aside, when 
 some one on the other side drew it back quickly, leaving 
 exposed the bed with its ghastly burden. The shock 
 was so sudden that Merze uttered a low scream, and 
 covered her face with her hands; and a man, watching 
 her from the window, thought: 
 
 " One would swear by that surprise that she did not 
 know the bed was there. What an actress!"
 
 250 MERZE : 
 
 " Merze, my child," admonished the old man. 
 
 "Oh, Massa Mark, I did not think to see him like 
 this!" 
 
 She was trembling convulsively and clung to his arm. 
 With a strong effort she turned her eyes once more to 
 the still face on the bed. There was nothing to show 
 any sign of pain or struggle. The bed clothes were 
 scarcely disturbed, and the face was that of a person 
 sleeping. But on the left breast was a cut in the white 
 linen of his gown, a cut that was stained with blood, and 
 close beside it, driven to the hilt in his bosom, was the 
 dagger that had lain in her room the day before! 
 
 " While he slept," she said lowly, with a sick feeling 
 running through her at the thought of how lately she 
 had held that knife in her own hands, and how lately she 
 had thought of and she turned away dizzily. 
 
 " Yes. While he slept!" 
 
 She raised her head at the voice, and across the bed 
 with its ghastly corpse, she met the eyes that had brought 
 to her all knowledge of life's light. But in their depths, 
 as she looked, there was only the glow of a great con- 
 tempt, a stern, silent accusation that struck cold to her 
 heart. His gaze was but as the reflection of her own 
 conscience. Her head bent for one instant before him, 
 as if through weight of this added burden. 
 
 " It is only justice," her white lips whispered to her 
 own soul.
 
 THE STORY OF Att ACTRESS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 The inquest was over, and the verdict was " death at 
 the hands of some person or persons unknown." 
 
 Some things in the testimony had been a revelation to 
 many. The actress, Merze Mignot, was his wife; she 
 acknowledged it herself. 
 
 "Yes, I am his wife," she had said, distinctly, with the 
 knowledge of those accusing eyes on her. He should 
 see that she dared tell it now. 
 
 "Since what time?" 
 
 " Over two years ago; I could send for the certifi- 
 cate." 
 
 It was brought, and the date determined. 
 
 "You have not borne your husband's name?" 
 
 " Not since entering the dramatic profession. Mr. 
 Lawrence and myself mutually agreed to separate a 
 short time after our marriage. It was deemed best by 
 him that I should use my maiden name in my theatrical 
 work a custom common among actresses." 
 
 " Was the separation an amicable one?" 
 
 " Perfectly so, as Mr. Guarda, his cousin and my 
 friend, could testify, as he was present; and it was 
 through my husband's endeavors that he, Mr. Guarda, 
 was induced to take charge of me and instruct me in 
 dramatic work." 
 
 "Was this before or after your separation?" 
 
 " It was three weeks after we ceased to live together. 
 He offered in all friendship to aid me in some profession, 
 and I accepted his offer in the same spirit."
 
 252 MERZE : 
 
 " Did you recognize the dagger with which the murder 
 was committed?" 
 
 " Yes ; I have seen it many times. Mr. Lawrence 
 used it often as a paper-knife, and was used to keeping 
 it lying around carelessly." 
 
 "When did you see deceased last alive?" 
 
 "Last night, on leaving the theatre." 
 
 " Did you speak to him?" 
 
 " No ; there was a mutual bow of recognition ; that 
 was all." 
 
 " A lady was seen enter this room last night between 
 eleven and twelve o'clock; was it you?" 
 
 " No ; I have never entered the room in my life until 
 now." 
 
 " At what hour did you retire last night?" 
 
 " I can not tell exactly, but about twelve o'clock. The 
 girl who slept in my room might remember better." 
 
 " Who was the girl?" 
 
 " One of the chambermaids Mary she is called." 
 
 ' Does she always sleep there?" 
 
 " Only once before. It was a night when I was not 
 well, and feared to sleep alone." 
 
 " How long since was it?" 
 
 She named the day it was easily remembered; 
 Drande, hearing it, remembered, too. 
 
 " And why did the maid sleep there last night?" 
 
 " I was not feeling well, and asked the girl, Mary, to 
 bring a cot and sleep there, which she did." 
 
 " Where was the cot placed?" 
 
 "In the sittingroom, just outside the bedroom door." 
 
 " Did you hear any unusual sounds in the night; any- 
 thing that could have had a bearing on the crime?" 
 
 " Nothing ; though I was wakeful all night."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 253 
 
 " Did you know of any person's bearing any enmity 
 toward the deceased?" 
 
 "No one; I have never heard of anyone's having any 
 ill-feeling toward him." 
 
 That was all. She was led from the room by Guarda. 
 Through it all she had been cold, distinct, unconscious, 
 apparently, of the curious eyes about her. One pair, 
 looking at her across the dead body of her husband, had 
 blinded her to all else; and if her head was a trifle 
 higher, her form a little more erect, in turning from the 
 bed, it was with the sense of an emergency to be met for 
 which she must nerve herself. 
 
 The girl, Mary, was called and questioned, and testi- 
 fied that she had slept in the room of Miss Merze the 
 night before. She had locked the door herself, and 
 arranged her cot after the lady had retired. It was 
 just twelve when Miss Merze turned out the gas in 
 the bedroom and bade her good-night. She was sure 
 she heard the clock strike. It was six when she awoke; 
 the lady was sleeping, and she dressed quietly not to 
 disturb her. On going down stairs, she heard, for the 
 first time, of the murder. She had heard no noise in the 
 night. She had arranged Mr. Lawrence's room the day 
 before. She had often seen the dagger on the table; 
 thought she had noticed it there yesterday. She had 
 seen no lady enter the room; had never seen Miss 
 Merze do so, was positive. 
 
 The maid who had seen the lady was called, and 
 stated : 
 
 "Yes; it was after eleven o'clock. I was going up- 
 stairs when I saw a lady going into Mr. Lawrence's 
 room. I did not see her face ; she was not tall, and had 
 a shawl on her arm, and possibly a bonnet in her hand;
 
 254 MERZE : 
 
 am not sure. She was bare-headed, and walked along 
 the hall as if she knew where she was going; did not 
 knock at the door; am certain ; just turned the knob 
 and walked in as if she was at home. There was no 
 light in the room, I am sure. I do not think Mr. 
 Lawrence had come up. Did not think it very unusual, 
 as guests had often obliged the landlord by changing 
 rooms for one night in case of a crowded house, and I 
 supposed Mr. Lawrence had given his up to some lady." 
 
 Then Guarda was called. As to the dead man's matri- 
 monial affairs, he corroborated what Mrs. Lawrence 
 had said. As to the cause of the separation, he was 
 under the impression that it was partially an objection, 
 on her part, to Lawrence's profession, but there had been 
 no ill-feeling regarding it ; he was certain. They had 
 befriended each other since in many ways, and had 
 always been on speaking terms; always courteous when 
 meeting, though they never sought each other's society. 
 Her stopping at the same hotel was explained by the fire. 
 He was the dead man's only near relative, to his knowl- 
 edge. Had seen him last night at the theatre; had 
 spoken to him there; had not seen him after. He knew 
 the dagger; it was his cousin's; he had brought it home 
 from being repaired the day before; did not know what 
 had been wrong with it; Wright, the jeweler, could tell; 
 he had only carried it home to Lawrence when requested 
 to do so; Lawrence had left it to be repaired himself; 
 did not know of anyone with enmity toward him. 
 
 And that was all. It was very unsatisfactory to all, 
 for nothing gave them any clue to the woman who 
 entered his room with a bonnet and shawl in her hand. 
 She had evidently hidden away in some other part of the 
 house, and then secreted herself in his room until he
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 255 
 
 was asleep. If she was acquainted with the house, as she 
 appeared to the girl to be, it would be an easy matter 
 for her to get out the back way unseen. 
 
 It was a mystery, a thing that was food for newspaper 
 people and detectives for many a day. Lawrence was 
 not a man with whom any woman's name had been con- 
 nected for over ten years. Then his wife had stopped 
 there, so the landlord said in his testimony. But the 
 lady's health was bad; brain trouble. He had taken her 
 away, and she died soon after. So Mr. Lawrence had 
 told him several years later. It was one of the many 
 cases in the criminal calendar that seemed to defy all 
 efforts to unravel. The strange woman had disappeared 
 as if into the earth. 
 
 The name of Merze Mignot, connected with the mys- 
 tery, only served to give her more interest in the eyes of 
 the public. It had brought her in part the notoriety 
 which North had advocated. There was something 
 strange, romantic in her life; such a peculiar friendship 
 to exist between herself and her husband, whom no one 
 would have guessed was her husband. Everyone remem- 
 bered thinking there was some reason for that strange 
 reserve of hers. She had had no confidant of her own 
 sex to whom a word had ever been whispered; in fact, 
 she had never seemed to care for lady friends beyond 
 the civilities of passing acquaintanceship with them. 
 That in itself was enough to sharpen many a busy 
 tongue as her name was discussed. But try as they 
 would, they could say nothing really against her. The 
 fact of Mary's sleeping at her door that night was all 
 that saved her from suspicions that and the strange 
 woman; and in her own heart she knew that even these 
 did not clear her in the eyes of that one man. Neither
 
 256 MERZE : 
 
 Guarda nor herself noticed that she had not been asked 
 when she saw that dagger last. She had omitted telling 
 or mentioning its presence in her room; she had not 
 thought of it, but he, listening, had noticed the omission, 
 and, in the face of what he knew, it was hard to believe 
 that it was unintentional. H knew Guarda's love for 
 her, and only thought: "He is her dupe; he would do 
 anything if it were to shield her. What man would not, 
 if she but smiled on him and asked him? Even I, fool 
 that I am, find her face haunting every hour of my life 
 still." 
 
 Only to each other had Merze and Guarda mentioned 
 the only woman they could have suspected, and that first 
 day she had said: 
 
 " I do not wish anyone else to be wronged, but so 
 long as no one is suspected, of what use would it be to 
 offer our theory? It would only bring trouble to Crista, 
 perhaps. We will investigate ourselves first and then 
 decide." 
 
 " Do you know where she is?" 
 
 "Yes; he gave me all the papers that he possessed 
 concerning both Crista and her mother. Do you know, 
 Massa Mark," she said, meditatively, " I think he had a 
 sort of presentiment of something like this, else why 
 should he have given these to me together with Crista's 
 certificate of birth? He asked me to take them all. 
 There are the receipted bills of years. The last one was 
 made out four months ago for six months in advance; 
 here it is." 
 
 Guarda took the bit of paper and read a receipt from 
 Dr. E. G. Etkens, of Hazelwood, N. Y., to Mr. Frederic 
 Lawrence, for total expenses of Mrs. Effie Loring, up to 
 date of January i, 18
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 257 
 
 He read it over carefully. " So!" he said, at last, " he 
 has her there under her own name. Well, that is best; 
 but I thought she was known as Mrs. Lawrence. Write 
 at once and make inquiries about her. If she is there, 
 all right; I shall be as much at sea as the rest." 
 
 She wrote the letter, and also one to Crista, telling the 
 girl to address her in future as Mrs. Lawrence, that she 
 was married. " I will write more particulars in another 
 letter," she added; " I have much trouble at present, but 
 am sure you will be patient until I have time to write or 
 to see you. I am your sole guardian now, and shall 
 hope to make your life a pleasant one. Write me often, 
 and if you can, pray for me, your sister." 
 
 She was thankful that she had the girl to think of. It 
 was the only thought that seemed to rouse her from the 
 depths of her own accusing conscience. 
 
 " I can at least do what I can of the things he would 
 wish done for her, if that will be any atonement," but 
 she felt that nothing could ever be that. 
 
 She did not go to the funeral. " Don't ask me to do 
 that, Massa Mark," she said. " I have tried to be strong 
 through so much, but that, that I could not stand. I am 
 not sure enough of myself, and if I should break down 
 now, I do not know where it would end. Let me be 
 while I am still sane. I can stand no more." 
 
 And though the words were spoken calmly, he felt 
 that she was speaking the truth. If she had only been 
 a little less calm, he would have felt less fear for her. 
 Since the morning of the murder, she had seemed like 
 an automaton. After that one shriek, when the curtain 
 was drawn aside, she had shown no agitation over any- 
 thing. When advised by Guarda to change her hotel, 
 she answered quietly that she was content where she 
 
 17
 
 258 MERZE : 
 
 was, and no arguments had succeeded in changing her. 
 The friends and acquaintances with offered sympathies 
 found it hard to express them to the woman with somber 
 eyes that never softened, and who thanked them with 
 cold lips that held no tremor in them. She was always 
 gracious, in a still, cold way, that had little of humanity 
 in it. 
 
 All business details Guarda found her ready at all 
 times to attend to. Since that first night, she had never 
 missed one at the theatre, and then she told Guarda to 
 put on one of the other ladies in her stead. 
 
 " No, I am not ill," she had said, clearly, distinctly, 
 when he offered to remain or to send someone to her. 
 " I thank you, but I am quite well. I am not at all 
 nervous, only I know how much I can stand better than 
 any physician could tell me, and to-night I know that I 
 must be alone. Don't be afraid, dear," she added, with 
 a kindly glance at the troubled old face. " I shall be all 
 right. I shall live, if that is what you are thinking of. 
 Come in the morning. I shall be more able to talk then. 
 To-night I must be alone." 
 
 And in the morning he found her calm and collected, 
 as she had been ever since. He told her that Drande 
 had left the city without even coming to bid him a good- 
 by. He was sorry. He had hoped to see him and clear 
 her in his eyes of intentional deception. But he had left 
 no address with his friends, and no one seemed to know 
 where he had gone. 
 
 She listened and shook her head. " Never mind, 
 Massa Mark. If you do see him, I would prefer that 
 you would not mention my name. It will do no good. 
 That is of the past; let it go." 
 
 " The letter from Dr. Etkens came when Guarda was
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 259 
 
 with her. She glanced at it and handed it to him with- 
 out a word. It read: 
 
 " MRS. FRED. LAWRENCE: I should have written your 
 husband three days ago, but had not his address. The 
 patient you inquire for, Mrs. Loring, died this morning. 
 The morning of November 4th she in some way escaped 
 the vigilance of the keepers, and was not found until the 
 sixth. She had evidently been wandering out through the 
 country, and was returning at night over a foot-bridge 
 that crosses a ravine near the village. She must have 
 missed her footing and fallen, for she was found early 
 yesterday fatally injured. She could give no account of 
 her wanderings, and seemed sane at the last. A ring 
 which she has always worn was missing from her finger. 
 I learn that she sold it to a jeweler in the village, who 
 never doubted her sanity. What she did with the money 
 I do not know. Any investigation of the affair which 
 yourself or her friends desire to make will be welcome. 
 I await your arrival, or orders as to disposition of body. 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 "E. G. ETKENS." 
 
 Guarda read the letter in silence, and, dropping it, 
 nodded his head slowly as he looked at her. 
 
 " The morning of the 4th, and it was that night he 
 was found dead." 
 
 " But how could she get here ; how could she know 
 where to find him ?" asked Merze. 
 
 " The little village is at the junction of several roads. 
 She had money ; was of sane appearance. It is easy to 
 get a train from there to New York any hour of the day. 
 As to knowing he was here, it was from this house he 
 took her there. It was only natural, if she had any 
 ideas of revenge against him, that she should come here
 
 260 MERZE : 
 
 first. She learned that he was stopping here. After 
 hiding through the day, she walked into his room at night, 
 like a person at home ; why not ? That room had been 
 her home last outside of the asylum. As to her escaping 
 unseen, that is something I can not explain, but she must 
 have been very cunning, but the case is not unprece- 
 dented, and to me it solves the secret of the murder." 
 
 "And it is Crista's mother," said Merze, slowly. "She 
 thought her dead years ago. She knows nothing of her 
 disgrace, but if this is ever discovered, she may be 
 dragged into a knowledge of all the terrible truth. 
 Ah, Massa Mark, that must not be ! Of what use is it 
 to anyone ? They are both dead ; let the whole affair 
 die with them. It is not as if it were doing a wrong to 
 anyone. No person is accused. Why need we tell 
 what we only suspect ?" 
 
 " It may save trouble in the future, Merze." 
 
 " How can it ? If you choose you can yourself collect 
 any evidence against her that can be secured quietly, 
 and, if it is ever needed, bring it forward. It is not 
 needed now. Let it rest as it is, for Crista's sake." 
 
 The old man looked at her lovingly. 
 
 "For Crista's sake," he repeated. " Merze, do you 
 never in this world intend to do aught for your own 
 sake ?" 
 
 She rose and walked over to him, taking his hand in 
 hers and kneeling beside him as of old. 
 
 " Massa Mark," she said, quietly, " let things be my 
 way now. I have wished, for my own sake, thoughts 
 you do not dream of. Their fulfillment has brought a 
 terrible retribution. Let me do what I can to make 
 amends. Let me help to keep at least one soul in the 
 happiness of innocence."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 261 
 
 " Ignorance you mean." 
 
 " Ah, well, perhaps. So long as it is happiness, what 
 does it matter ? I should be thankful for either. But 
 they are gone out of the reach of my hands forever." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 "And thee is content in this quiet place with us, 
 Crista ?" 
 
 It was a soft, sweet-toned voice that spoke, a voice 
 that suited well the character the girl had described to 
 Merze. 
 
 " I am very happy," laying down the book from which 
 she had been reading aloud, and looking lovingly at the 
 soft-voiced little lady. "I know of nothing that would 
 make me more so unless it would be to see my sister 
 Mercy." 
 
 " The time seems so long when you are apart?" 
 
 "I have been with her so little that I feel as if I 
 scarcely know her, but now that she is married it may be 
 different; every letter I hope will bring news that she 
 will come soon. It is more than two months since I saw 
 her." 
 
 " Well, well, perhaps the next mail will bring the news 
 thee wishes. It is now the mail carrier's hour. Would 
 thee care to go thyself to the village for it, or shall I 
 send with Friend Listen as he passes?" 
 
 " No, no, said the girl, rising eagerly, " let me go; the 
 day is so lovely I shall like the walk." 
 
 " And I fear thee has tired thyself with the faithful 
 morning's reading thee has done," said another voice
 
 262 MERZE : 
 
 that of Betha, who was knitting quietly in the corner, a 
 little dove-colored duplicate of her widowed sister. 
 
 " Indeed I have not, Mistress Betha," said the girl, 
 gaily. " It was a pleasure to read to you both; it always 
 is, and when I return I shall finish it." 
 
 And so saying she donned a jacket, a woolen cap and 
 mittens, and started for the walk to the village, a half 
 mile away. 
 
 The eyes of the two little ladies in white kerchiefs and 
 aprons looked after her fondly. 
 
 " She is a great comfort, Betha." 
 
 " A great comfort, Prue." 
 
 "We shall miss her much when she goes from us." 
 
 "Very much, Prue." 
 
 Mistress Betha's conversations were usually an echo of 
 her sister's, to whom she deferred in all things, Prue 
 being two years the senior, and both were over sixty. 
 
 "She has been with us six weeks," resumed Mrs. 
 Menturn; " I wonder much that she is left so to herself." 
 
 "So do I, Prue." 
 
 "But her sister, though fond, is of the world, worldly; 
 that accounts for much," added the little lady, to whom 
 the world, outside their little homestead and its sur- 
 rounding hills, was a whirlpool in whose dizzy evolutions 
 there was time for no rest, peace or memory. 
 
 "Yes; that accounts for much, Prue." 
 
 " For a man it may be well in a way, but for a woman! 
 I hope, Betha, this young creature may never have to 
 enter it." 
 
 "I would pray for it too, Prue." 
 
 "Even the convent would be better." 
 
 " Much better." 
 
 "If we could only hope to keep her here, Betha."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 263 
 
 "Ah, if we only could, Prue." 
 
 " It is strange we have had no letter from Mortimer 
 lately." 
 
 " Very strange, Prue." 
 
 "I fear he was unhappy when he wrote last; his letter 
 was so very short, and he could not tell me in it where he 
 was going. I fear much, Betha, that it concerns the lady 
 of whom he spoke when at home, whom he hoped some 
 time to bring to us." 
 
 " Very likely, Prue." 
 
 " She seemed to be very much to him, though there 
 was some obstacle at the time to their marriage. He 
 was very much in earnest, the same nature as his father. 
 You remember, Betha?" 
 
 "I remember very well, Prue." 
 
 "Yes; the same earnest nature, only he is older than 
 his father was when " 
 
 And then the soft voice died away, and the soft brown 
 eyes gazed out across the meadows where the snow 
 lay in white patches, across the fields where she and 
 the husband of her youth had walked hand in hand 
 through many a gloaming, and a silence fell over the 
 two broken only by the click, click of Betha's steel 
 needles. 
 
 Down along the country lane walked Crista, glad to be 
 out in the cool air that brought a pink tinge to the 
 smooth oval cheeks. Happy she was as she could ever 
 be out of reach of her church; there was none in the 
 village of her faith, and this was the only drawback to 
 her content, this and her separation from "Mercy," as 
 she always called her. She had said but little of her 
 sister's interest in her to her new-found friends; she was 
 very loyal, and understood without words that as Merze
 
 264 MERZE : 
 
 had told her but little, it must be because there was some 
 good reason for not confiding her affairs to her. In one 
 or two letters she had spoken as if in the spring they 
 were to have a home somewhere together; for her to be 
 patient until she could tell her more. And Crista had 
 asked no questions, and to Mrs. Menturn had only said: 
 "My sister is married; she is Mrs. Lawrence now," and 
 that was all. And from her two old friends no queries 
 came. Her sister they supposed was a fashionable lady 
 who had not time for the care of a young girl; that was 
 all they thought, and Crista's own pure nature needed 
 no words of recommendation or weight of family name 
 to make her loved by them. 
 
 So she had lived content, knowing nothing of the 
 storms in the heart and life of the sister whose name was 
 always first in her prayers. And, walking down the vil- 
 lage street, she wished earnestly that there would be a 
 letter from her. There was, and at a glance she hurried 
 out to gain the road and read it on her way home. 
 Turning the corner of the street, and opening the letter 
 as she went, she walked almost into the arms of a tall 
 gentleman coming from the opposite direction. There 
 was a moment of flushed embarrassment on her part, an 
 earnest " pardon me" on his, and as he stepped aside she 
 glanced at him, and then stood still, forgetting to go on, 
 forgetting where she was for one moment as she looked 
 into his eyes. And then his curious, searching glance 
 recalled her, and she felt herself grow warmer all over 
 
 as she murmured, " I did not mean I beg your pardon 
 j > 
 
 And then she passed swiftly on, tingling with a feeling 
 of shame for the seeming rudeness. His eyes had 
 seemed so familiar, yet she could not recall where she
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 265 
 
 had ever met him. For one moment she had felt like 
 holding out her hand as to an acquaintance. 
 
 And he stood looking after her with a little amused 
 smile on his face. " A strange adventure," he thought. 
 " If any eyes ever showed recognition, hers did, yet I 
 am certain I have never seen that perfect face before. 
 It is not one to forget easily, a face for Iphigenia or 
 Elaine, with all its childish purity untarnished." 
 
 But close between himself and the fair face he had 
 passed came another, the face of a woman with hair of 
 a bronze glint and eyes somber, wide and tearless eyes 
 that, despite his judgment of her, haunted every hour of 
 his life. 
 
 Crista walked on, wondering a little who the gentle- 
 man could be; no one she knew, she was certain of that, 
 for she had never known one except Mr. Lawrence in her 
 life. But she soon forgot him in reading the letter she 
 had received, which she did, walking slowly along the 
 country lane, not noticing that the subject of her specu- 
 lations had followed her part of the way and then crossed 
 into a field. But he could see her, and thought, "Ah! 
 that explains her blindness a love letter, and her haste to 
 read it caused in part that very becoming blush." 
 
 But it was not a love letter, and it was a little disap- 
 pointment to the girl who read it. 
 
 "Mv DEAREST CRISTA: I fear you will think I keep 
 my promises badly in not coming to see you, but we must 
 content ourselves with letters a little longer. I leave New 
 York to-morrow for Chicago, and shall not be able to 
 return for several weeks, as I shall be traveling part of 
 the time, I send you an address in New York to which 
 you can always write, and the letters will be forwarded 
 to me.
 
 266 MERZE : 
 
 " My dear, I feel that there are many things over which 
 you must be puzzled, and which I can not tell you by 
 letter; but when I come back I hope to be able to set 
 your mind at rest in many ways. Believe me always 
 when I say that my first thoughts are for your happiness. 
 Write me often, tell me of your life and your friends. 
 Nothing you write can be without interest to me. My 
 letters to you can never be interesting, for you know so 
 little of my life and work; but they will always bear my 
 dearest love to you from your sister. 
 
 " MERCY." 
 
 The slow tears crept to her eyes as she read. She had 
 not realized how great her hope had been until the letter 
 destroyed it. And now it would be weeks before she 
 could hope to see her. It was very hard, a great disap- 
 pointment. Small wonder the tears filled her eyes and 
 blurred all the winter landscape in a white mist. 
 
 Away in the West, in the fair city by the lake, a woman, 
 careless of the fatigue of the journey, careless of all 
 about her, sat with hands clasped back of her head, and 
 with eyes wide, dry and desolate, gazed out unseeing over 
 the heads of passing crowds beneath her window. 
 
 " It I could only be once more as other women are," 
 she thought; " women whose tears are not burned out by 
 the sense of their own guilt. Those who can weep 
 should be thankful, but I I feel that from me the boon 
 will always be withheld.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 267 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 As Crista stepped on the long white porch the mur- 
 mur of voices met her ears a man's voice, deep and 
 mellow, and Prue and Betha, unusual as it seemed, were 
 both talking at once. She opened the door, wondering 
 much at the evident flutter in Betha's manner as she met 
 her. 
 
 " There is a joyful surprise given to us, and thee will, I 
 know, have a share in our pleasure when I tell thee our 
 boy, our Mortimer, has come home." 
 
 "I am indeed pleased to hear it," answered the girl, 
 earnestly, and then she turned half shyly and asked, 
 "Am I presentable, Betha, and are my eyes red? Yes, I 
 was crying, just a little. I was so very much disap- 
 pointed. My letter came, but my sister can not come, 
 not for many weeks, and I was so silly as to cry." 
 
 " Dear, loving heart," and Betha's kindly hand patted 
 her cheek. " I have no light that tells me how kindred 
 can wander away from thee. But always here in our 
 home thee will be a welcome guest." 
 
 She took the girl by the hand and led her into the 
 room where mother and son sat with clasped hands, and 
 tears of joy shone in the little lady's brown eyes. She 
 rose and came forward as the girl entered. 
 
 " Mortimer " how the soft voice lingered on the sylla- 
 bles ! " My son, this is my friend, Crista Loring." 
 
 He rose and held his hand out to her, and as she 
 raised her eyes she met again those of the gentleman
 
 268 MERZE : 
 
 on the street corner. She saw at once where the likeness 
 lay. It was the face she had gazed at on the wall of her 
 room every day since she had been there. 
 
 " Oh, it is your she said, flushing a little under his 
 surprised glance. 
 
 " I am very happy to say it is," he answered, amused 
 at her greeting. " Had I known you were the ' friend 
 Crista ' of my mother's letters, I should have waited and 
 walked home with you.' 
 
 The two old ladies looked puzzled. 
 
 "Why, Mortimer," said his mother, "did thee meet 
 with Crista in the village?" 
 
 He was about to answer, the smile still in his eyes at 
 the remembrance, when Crista spoke instead: 
 
 "Yes, friend Prue" (of late she had, with their wish, 
 fallen into their habit of addressing each other). " Yes, 
 we did meet, and I was so clumsy, with my letter in my 
 hand, I forgot all else, and did not notice where I was 
 going, and I I nearly fell over Mr. Mortimer, and then 
 to make it worse I stood there stupidly and stared at 
 him. You know the picture in my room? Well, it was 
 so like his face that I felt it must be someone I had 
 known. I felt for one moment as if I should put out my 
 hand and speak; and then I felt so confused I scarcely 
 remember what I said, and I know he thought me very 
 stupid." 
 
 " Did I?" and he glanced laughingly at his mother and 
 Betha. The girl seemed so anxious to give her excuse 
 for staring at a stranger, and she was so lovely a picture 
 with her yellow hair a little tossed by the wind, and her 
 cheeks aflame, standing there as if before her judge. 
 " Did I? I did not remember having thought so. I felt 
 much honored, I assure you."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 2G9 
 
 But the quizzical smile confused her, and she said no 
 more, but sat close to Betha, whose knitting-needles were 
 again clicking in the corner by the open fire-place. The 
 manufacture of gray woolen socks was to her as the web 
 of fate; sorrow and joy might chase each other over the 
 lives about her, but they never checked Betha's knitting 
 long at a time. 
 
 Surely the scene about the hearthstone was a restful 
 one to the world-weary man who sat there. The furnishing 
 of the room was simple, but very comfortable, the occu- 
 pants allowing themselves many of the little luxuries 
 unusual among professed Friends. They had worldly 
 goods in abundance; they could well afford them, and 
 neither Betha nor Prue was so strict as many of their 
 sect. Mortimer's father had been of the worjd, and 
 dying left his son both his wealth and tastes. And 
 though there had been a marriage later with Menturn, it 
 had never altogether eradicated from Prue's mind the 
 effects of the luxuries with which her young husband had 
 tried to surround her. And though her life could be 
 content only within sight of their own meeting-house, 
 and though all the wealth could not have weaned her 
 away from the white farm-house out into the world, yet 
 she had not the narrowed prejudices that so often 
 belong to their kind, and through her son many rare and 
 curious aids to comfort and pleasure found their way 
 into the Quaker household many that were held as an 
 abomination before the Lord, and akin to the workings 
 of Satan, to the little village that, with a few exceptions, 
 was bound under the rules of the Friends, whose tradi- 
 tions condemned all arts that were alone for beauty 
 or ease. 
 
 Over the floor, that was of narrow strips of dark and
 
 270 MERZE : 
 
 light wood alternating, were laid large rugs of oriental ap- 
 pearance, whose bright colors had been woven in by black- 
 eyed women and children on the shores of the Mexic Gulf. 
 Some easy chairs of dark wood were scattered about, and 
 over a straight-backed "settee" were thrown a couple of 
 fur robes that softened its grimness and made it quite 
 inviting; curtains of home-made linen were at the quaint, 
 deep windows, and through them the sun filtered and 
 fell across the fair hair of the girl as she sat beside Betha 
 listening to the conversation going on, but saying noth- 
 ing. She looked like a softly-tinted blush rose between 
 two sober little pansies; so thought the man as his 
 eyes rested on the delicate features, with a sense of 
 pleasure at finding her there. 
 
 "And thee has come to stay a long time, surely?" 
 asked the mother. 
 
 " Surely," he said, smiling down on her. " I may not 
 be much company, for I have come home to work, to 
 work very hard." 
 
 " I fear thee is doing too much work," she said, chid- 
 ingly; " thy face does not show the health it did; it is paler, 
 with a tired look. Thee must remain with us and rest." 
 
 " After a while, after a while," he said. " But now I 
 Aave writing to do, work that is to be done at a certain 
 time. I have tried to do it lately, but it is of no use; as 
 you say, I have not been very well. I traveled, but I 
 could work nowhere, so I am come home. Here, if any- 
 where, a man should have content, and if you will keep 
 me I shall remain two months." 
 
 "It will be a great gladness to us," said his mother, 
 with earnestness, and then resting her hand on the bright 
 head before her added: "The Lord has granted us 
 many blessings of late."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 271 
 
 " Great blessings, Prue," echoed Betha. 
 
 And then the two housewives flitted out to interview 
 their one assistant, Huldah, regarding the most tooth- 
 some articles for the dinner table. 
 
 And Crista, with a half feeling of shyness, was left 
 alone with the face that was so like the one she had 
 admired and dreamed over. Yet it was older by many 
 years than when the picture was painted, older and 
 sadder. But the eyes were still the eyes of the 
 saint in the convent chapel. She wondered, looking 
 at him, if he also did not care to hear the saints men- 
 tioned. 
 
 She had no girlish ideal of manhood in her fancies, and 
 if she had had, it would never have been filled by this 
 man, who seemed old to her, though Prue and Betha had 
 always spoken of him as the "boy." But there was a 
 fanciful vein of romance in her nature that had in a way 
 been nurtured instead of checked by the forms of church; 
 warm, attractive forms they were to her, with just enough 
 of mysticism to fill her mind with dreamy fancies that 
 seized on whatever came nearest and threw over it the 
 glamour of her own imaginings. Of the still nuns in the 
 convent she had woven many a romance of which the 
 subjects were ignorant, and here, in this quiet dovecote, 
 as she called it, was something real, tangible a pictured 
 face that was of the world apart from her own, a face 
 that she heard had a story of love, perhaps of romance. 
 There was no marriage. He had come home as if tired 
 of the world, and his face when in repose was sad. She 
 noticed the difference when his mother left the room and 
 his smiles were not needed to make her think him cheer- 
 ful. And this youthful student of human nature felt a 
 great pity for him, seeing his eyes close wearily as he
 
 272 MERZE : 
 
 sat in the glow of the blazing logs on the hearthstone 
 and she could see he had forgotten her presence. 
 
 She rose to her feet quietly and stood there, a slim, 
 slight figure in a brown dress as plain as Betha's own. 
 She seemed so in harmony with the quiet peace of the 
 scene; and, as she made a slight movement to withdraw, 
 the man opened his eyes and looked at her in admira- 
 tion. She seemed to him a beautiful picture of youth 
 and simplicity that was all. 
 
 " Are you also going? " he asked, languidly, with a 
 little note of protest in his voice. She was so lovely a 
 thing to look at, with the delicate tinting of her face and 
 the soft curves of her girlish figure. He tried to remem- 
 ber what it was his mother had written of her young 
 friend, destined for a nun, he believed in a vague way. 
 It was a pity, and yet 
 
 " Am I to be left alone? " he repeated. 
 
 " I thought I might disturb you by being here, that is 
 all," she answered. " You looked tired, as if you needed 
 rest." 
 
 " Yes, child, yes; I am tired. But here perhaps there 
 may be rest." The last portion of the speech was more 
 to himself than to her, but she heard, and it drew nearer 
 to him her sympathies, and diminished the shyness she 
 had felt at first in speaking to a man of the world, and 
 of his years. She still stood leaning with one hand 
 against the high mantel, and spoke a little timidly: 
 
 " If if it is your life that is tired of the world, surely 
 here would most peace be found." 
 
 He raised his head and looked at her a little aston- 
 ished. The words were spoken with the grave sweet- 
 ness of age that comprehends the needs of humanity, 
 Yet he was old enough to be her father, and she was
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 273 
 
 only a slim bit of a girl, with the open, trustful eyes of 
 an infant. 
 
 " My child," he said, looking at her more intently, " I 
 have just come from a long journey; what gave you the 
 idea that it was the world of which I was tired? " 
 
 She was a little confused at the question, but she had 
 the fearlessness of an earnest, sympathetic nature. 
 
 " I could see your eyes close as a woman's would if 
 if they were heavy with tears instead of fatigue. I do 
 not know much of men. I have never known any well, 
 but I could not help feeling that it was a rest of the 
 heart, the soul, or the mind, you needed, not that of the 
 body. Perhaps," she added, gently, "you may think this 
 a rudeness, an impertinence, but indeed I do not mean 
 it so." 
 
 " No," he answered, quietly, leaning his forehead 
 against his hand for a moment; " no, child, I think of 
 your words nothing that is not noble and good. Your 
 sympathy should be very sweet, very helpful, to any who 
 are in trouble. Let us hope that my own may grow 
 lighter under the grace of kindness and the peace of 
 home." 
 
 "Ah! it will surely do so here," she answered quickly. 
 " I can not imagine any great unhappiness like the 
 unhappiness of tragedies, I mean beneath this roof. One 
 feels always in a sanctuary here. It is like entering the 
 chapel early in the morning before the sun is bright 
 enough to dazzle through the tinted glass. And your 
 mother and Betha, at first I scarcely took my eyes off of 
 them, they made such charming pictures in their soft 
 tints and sweet faces, symphonies in gray and white." 
 
 He smiled at her earnestness. She always spoke 
 rapidly, and her eyes lit up wonderfully when much inter- 
 19
 
 274 MERZE : 
 
 ested. He scarcely knew which was the more to be 
 admired, that or her silence when she had stood per- 
 fectly still with the cool repose such as rested one to 
 look at. 
 
 " You are fond of my mother? " 
 
 "That does not express it," she returned, with a rare, 
 warm smile in her blue eyes. " We are great friends, I 
 am thankful to say." 
 
 "I hope your friendship will extend to the rest of her 
 family." 
 
 " To you? " and she turned her face up with a little, 
 bird-like movement. " That will not be hard; I know you 
 quite well already." 
 
 " Oh, you do? " 
 
 "Very well, indeed," she repeated, "through your pic- 
 ture. It is in my room where I see it first on waking in 
 the morning. I liked it from the first because it had 
 eyes so like a head of St. John that hangs in our chapel. 
 But perhaps you do not like to hear the saints spoken 
 of?" 
 
 He laughed at the frankness of her words. He could 
 see so clearly that she was as little suited to the outside 
 world as was his mother or the dark-robed nuns. 
 
 " Why should I not like it? " he asked. " Certainly I do. 
 I never was compared to one before, and it is a novel 
 sensation, but if I remain two months with my mother 
 and you, I shall no doubt be quite saintly by the end of 
 that time. What will you make of me, a parish priest or 
 a solemn-faced speaker among the Friends?" 
 
 At this they both laughed, and from that time there 
 was no return to formalities between them. Her child- 
 ish wisdom, that was childish only in its innocence, was 
 very charming to him, doubly so in comparison with the
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 275 
 
 wickedness of one woman in whose life he had hoped 
 most to find truth, and who, in spite of his distrust, kept 
 her image in his heart the image that he knew no fairer 
 face, no purer soul could ever supplant. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 To Merze, across the varied beauty of the Alleghenies, 
 across the level width of midlands, was borne the girl's 
 letter telling of her new friend. 
 
 " It is now two weeks since he came, and already all 
 seems so changed. He works, writing all day, but in 
 the evenings he puts away the piles of manuscripts 
 and books, and then he talks to us, telling of so many 
 strange customs and religions among the people of 
 our Far West; the people whose temples still stand 
 though they themselves have vanished like those of 
 Etruria. He has seen so much and remembers so well. 
 And to listen is like hearing repeated tales like those the 
 monk Froissart loved to garner. He tells them so well, 
 and only when doing so does one detect a tinge of the 
 Quaker in him that has come through his mother. His 
 tones at times drop into the light, chanting rythm, such 
 as the Friends use in their meetings. I have been to 
 meeting once with Betha, but their ceremonies are not 
 attractive after the beauty of our own. Friend Mortimer 
 they have all requested that I address them in their own 
 simple forms, goes, I think, to all churches. He speaks 
 to me often of my life in the convent, and seems to think 
 it is a beautiful one to live. You know I wrote to you of 
 some lady whom he loved; well, I think he is unhappy
 
 276 MERZE : 
 
 because of her, that she does not love him, for Betha says 
 he speaks no more of her to Friend Prue, and when she 
 herself mentioned it, he only said: ' It is over; let it rest, 
 and down here with you and my work I will forget.' 
 
 " But I am sure he does not forget. We talk much to 
 each other, and I think he is glad to do so, often that he 
 may get away from his own thoughts. I am pleased to 
 know that it is so. In looking at his picture I had 
 fancied all sorts of romances about him and the lady, 
 whom I feel sure is beautiful. And now if he has come 
 home and will forget all about her, he will not suit one 
 of the stories I had imagined of him. 
 
 " He is very kind to me, as they all are. Yesterday I 
 entered the room where he writes. His face was cov- 
 ered with his hands and he did not see me until I spoke. 
 I asked if he was troubled, if I could help him. He 
 looked at me kindly, and said: ' Child, if there is any 
 balm among humanity for hearts that are world-weary, 
 it must be held in the pure palms of hands like yours. 
 You do help me, have helped me much.' 
 
 " I repeat his words. His language is to me always 
 beautiful. I wish you could know him. I think you 
 would like him. When I said the same to him he asked: 
 4 Is this sister Mercy of yours like you?' and when I tried 
 to tell him how much more grand and beautiful and good 
 you are, he stopped me. ' There/ he said, ' no more. 
 She is a grand lady of the world, no doubt, and some 
 day she will come in state and carry you away out of our 
 sight. That vision of the future is sure to make me 
 detest her on principle. I will hear no more of this par- 
 agon whom you add to the list of your saints, and wor- 
 ship.' It was only in jest, for I know he would admire 
 you much. But when I try to talk of you he will say:
 
 THE STORY OP AN ACTRESS. 27? 
 
 'Speak to me of yourself, child; let us forget there is a 
 world outside.' 
 
 "I see I am filling my letter entirely with him; but he 
 fills so much of our lives here that I can not help speak- 
 ing of him. His mother and Betha are spoiling him, so 
 he says. And I, from the first day, I have been sorry 
 for him because I see often that he is troubled. I have 
 never seen trouble myself; all my life has been so still 
 and peaceful, and to see others unhappy, hurts me. 
 
 " I have many letters from the convent. They seem 
 to miss me very much, and I miss them in spite of my 
 pleasant life. Most of all I feel homesick for our chapel. 
 At Christmas it was a labor of love to decorate it, and 
 here it is all so different. I miss the beauty of our 
 religious ceremonies. I do not know that they them- 
 selves take one nearer heaven, and I feel there are many 
 good people like these little gray-garbed Friends who 
 know nothing of them; but I feel also that they give 
 ari exaltation to our devotion. I like to see the altars 
 in memory of the Child and to our Father heaped with 
 the best our hands can give. Surely the warmth and 
 color of our service, and the grandeur of echoing choirs 
 are acceptable to Him. If beauty of sight and sound 
 were not good and to be desired in His eyes, would 
 there be lavished on our earth the brightness of blossoms 
 that could only have opened their loveliness under the 
 smile of God? or could we hear the echo of His voice 
 that comes through the grandeur of oceans, the lips of 
 shells or the throats of birds? I can imagine one who is 
 weak in faith turning atheist; but I can never imagine 
 one reared in our church who would desert it for the 
 colder forms. 
 
 "You will think my letter endless. I shall be glad
 
 278 MERZE : 
 
 when we meet, when there will be no need of letters. I 
 thank you for the books you sent. I wonder if there was 
 ever another sister like you? I think not, never one so 
 thoughtful, so kind in all things. I take with open hands 
 all the pleasures you lavish on me, and in return I give 
 nothing. I wonder if I shall ever be able to repay you. 
 I fear not. But every day of my life I pray that it 
 may be so that I may be shown some way in which 
 I can prove my gratitude. 
 
 " To-morrow Friend Mortimer is to take me to a village 
 five miles away where there is one of our churches. It 
 is very kind of him to take the trouble; but he is always 
 kind. Every night in my prayers I wish that the lady 
 may yet be more tender and learn to love him. It seems 
 silly for me to care, but I do not like to see his eyes look 
 sad." 
 
 " Loving little heart," murmured Merze gently, as she 
 finished the letter. " Gratitude to me! I think the sense 
 of having someone dependent on me to care for, a pure 
 young life to save from the pitfalls of my own, was all 
 that saved me from going mad those dreadful days." 
 
 The routine of Merze's life in New York had become 
 irksome to her, and when there had been some talk of 
 sending the company on the road, she showed as much 
 animation as she did in anything of late, and expressed 
 herself as willing to go, if they could find a substitute^for 
 her in the stock company of the " Chatel " until the short 
 tour through the West should be finished. 
 
 "It is foolish for you to do so," admonished Orlane 
 and others of her friends. " Your position here is as- 
 sured. Do not throw it aside and give opportunities to 
 another. The public is always fickle." 
 
 " It is the best way to determine my own worth," she
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 279 
 
 replied. <; If I merit their approbation I shall get it, no 
 matter who is in the field, and if I do not well, the 
 sooner I know it the better." 
 
 Guarda, himself, had advised nothing. " Consider 
 well before you decide," he had said; that was all. He 
 was glad that she was at all interested in anything, and 
 he felt a pleasure in the thought of getting her away 
 from her rooms in that house. He knew it could not 
 but have a bad effect on her; for the ghosts of a dead 
 love and a dead crime would walk ever beside her through 
 those halls. 
 
 She wanted to go to Crista, but felt she was not 
 strong enough. She knew the girl could not but won- 
 der at her silence regarding herself and her marriage. 
 She had not told her as yet even of his death. There 
 would be such an accumulation of things to be ex- 
 plained that she did not feel equal to the task. Perhaps 
 on her return she would be. And so she left. 
 
 Her health was not good. It seemed strange that 
 she who had always been so strong should have to sub- 
 mit to the care of a physician. 
 
 " Over-work," said that gentleman decidedly. " Get 
 away from here, any where; leave the work behind you; 
 travel if possible; change of air will do you good, more 
 than medicine. A severe attack of nervous prostration 
 will be the next on your list if you don't get away from 
 this treadmill. ' Only three hours' work in a night?' 
 you are not able to stand one. ' Hand steady, eh?' 
 Yes, but how about the brain, and sleepless nights? 
 Don't come to me for advice if you don't intend to take 
 it." 
 
 And so it had been settled that she was to go with the 
 company, and Guarda, also. The travel was a new ex-
 
 280 MERZE : 
 
 perience to her. Since her childhood she had traveled 
 but little, and the beauties of the journey from the Hud- 
 son to the Mississippi had done as much as anything 
 could do to rouse her from her melancholy. The love 
 of nature in its varied forms was always strong in her, 
 untrained, unconscious pantheist that she was. 
 
 It was in St. Louis that Crista's letter came to her as 
 she sat idly by the window looking out and thinking that 
 somewhere about there she must have lived in the old 
 days. She could not remember where their house had 
 been, but Jack had spoken of being in " high luck " in 
 St. Louis, and she remembered their floating down past 
 there afterward when they landed the little shanty-boat 
 long enough for her to go up and skirmish around until 
 she could sell the big bundle of " sang root " she carried, 
 and get some cheap coffee and necessary articles. Jack 
 could not go for them, because his shoes were not 
 fit. 
 
 What a wretched life it had been, and how impotent 
 had seemed her protests against it! And now, with all 
 her gain of hard-earned place and praise, was the stormy 
 heart any nearer rest? It was, at least, rebellious no 
 longer, and if the calm was not that of content, it was as 
 peaceful outwardly; and none but herself knew that the 
 stillness was that of a chastened soul under the hand of 
 what she deemed a just retribution. 
 
 To please Guarda she tried to show interest in the 
 many places and things he wished her to see. Her suc- 
 cess had been very flattering, and she was thankful for 
 her work. Those three hours were the only waking ones 
 out of the twenty-four in which she could forget herself, 
 and she was grateful for the assumed personality. 
 
 Guarda entered with hat and cane, looking astonished
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 281 
 
 as he found her in morning dress ana suppers, with 
 Crista's letter open in her hand. 
 
 "You are a fine young lady," he began; " still in that 
 dress, and here am I, an old man, through a lot of busi- 
 ness, and now ready for our walk." 
 
 " Our walk?" 
 
 " Certainly, our walk. Have I brought you away out 
 here to let you return as ignorant as you came? Of 
 course not. You must see something of the sights; so 
 get ready and come along." 
 
 " Really, Massa Mark," she protected, smilingly, " I 
 am very comfortable as I am." 
 
 "I believe you; &><? comfortable. I can't stand it to 
 see people enjoying such elegant ease. I have had to 
 spoil you lately a little, but now as you are growing more 
 like yourself, I chall be as tyrannical as ever; so prepare 
 yourself." 
 
 " Very well; I submit. But listen first to Crista's let- 
 ter; it has just come. It is so like herself, tender-hearted 
 and sympathetic." 
 
 " Spare me the praises; I have to listen to a series of 
 them every letter that comes. She is incomparable; I 
 take that for granted. But proceed. I am ready to 
 listen." 
 
 And he settled himself with a martyr-like expression 
 on his whimsical old face. He was in the best of spir- 
 its, for he told himself a dozen times a day that she was 
 improving was more like herself and that was enough 
 to repay him for separation from even his beloved New 
 York. 
 
 "Remember," he stipulated, as she was about to be- 
 gin, "if I listen, you, in return, must come out with 
 me."
 
 282 MER2E : 
 
 " Where?" she asked, looking up. " I will make no rash 
 promises. Your propensities for sight-seeing are becom- 
 ing alarming. I don't care to bind myself blindly to 
 your chariot wheels." 
 
 " But it is not far to-day, Merze; only a few blocks 
 from the hotel, and it is to a little coffee-house." 
 
 She looked at him in surprise. 
 
 "Yes," he nodded, "that is where I shall take you; 
 where you can take your coffee and your doughnuts and 
 your pie on one of the little wooden tables, or, if you 
 choose, you can climb up on a high stool and take 
 them from the counter." 
 
 "Well," she said, resignedly, "go on; tell me what 
 you mean." 
 
 " I mean I have found a bonanza!" he announced, 
 characteristically. " Yes, that is what it is to me. You 
 know my hobby for old engravings, old play-bills, and 
 such things? Well, down in that little coffee-house is a 
 man with whom it has been more than that; it is a pas- 
 sion. For over twenty years he has been gathering one 
 here, one there, until the walls of his house are lined 
 with them, and cases and trunks stored away contain 
 chronicles and pictured faces that date back to the be- 
 ginning of our art in America. As I looked over them 
 yesterday, a multitude of histories passed in review be- 
 fore my memory. But I was not selfish enough to en- 
 joy them alone. I waited, and have come for you, and 
 you will miss a great treat if you do not come. My 
 words can give you but little idea of the wealth to our 
 profession that is garnered in that unassuming little 
 place." 
 
 "Certainly; I shall be glad to go if it will please 
 you."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 283 
 
 "Very well; I will go so far in return then to say I 
 shall be glad even to listen to the girl's letter to please 
 you;" and he leaned his chin on the hands that were 
 clasped over his cane, while he listened to the letter with 
 a face like a sphinx, for all the interest it showed. 
 
 " What do you think of her now?" she asked, triumph- 
 antly. Surely he could not withstand the sweetness of 
 the nature that showed through the written lines. He 
 looked at her a moment, and then said: 
 
 " Well, I think about the first thing she will do will be 
 to marry ' Friend Mortimer." " 
 
 "Massa Mark!" 
 
 The voice was one of horror a wild protest against 
 the thought that was hateful to her. 
 
 " Why not?" he asked, brusquely. " I told you how it 
 would be. And this is the first gentleman she has 
 known. I thought it would be the first. And he, I 
 suppose, is some broken-hearted lover going into retire- 
 ment to mourn a faithless Rosalind. Well, he has found 
 a Juliet willing to heal his scars." 
 
 " Massa Mark, don't be sarcastic over it," she pleaded. 
 "Surely you must be mistaken. She is such a child; 
 that is why she writes in this frank, impulsive manner. 
 She means nothing." 
 
 " I can easily see that," he answered, grimly. " If she 
 did she would not say so much. You don't know much 
 of your own sex, Merze, or you would see as clearly as I. 
 She is young, lovely, charming, with a bent for romances. 
 The first man she meets is a hero in her eyes. He is 
 sad; she sympathizes in a tender, childish way. Men 
 are only mortal, my dear Merze. Tenderness and sym- 
 pathy from soft eyes are coins that pass current the 
 world over in exchange for men's hearts."
 
 284 MERZE : 
 
 " It would be dreadful," she said, more to herself than 
 to him. 
 
 " I doubt if she will think so. Come, come, Merze, 
 don't take it so seriously. You must expect something 
 of the sort sometime if she does not return to the con- 
 vent." 
 
 " I never expected it, never." It seemed to her that 
 everything was slipping from her grasp. 
 
 " That is because you live too much in a world by 
 yourself to know much of human nature in others. But 
 we will hope for the best, since the idea seems to dis- 
 please you. You can do nothing, at any rate, until you 
 return to the East. Come, get on your things to go out. 
 Let the Quaker and your young saint discuss theology 
 to their hearts' content, but don't worry your brain over 
 them. Come with me instead, and see the collection of 
 pictures." 
 
 And he shambled down stairs, striking each step 
 viciously with his cane as he went. He could see that 
 their pleasure was spoilt for that day, perhaps for many 
 to come, and all because of that girl. 
 
 " A young saint," he grumbled while waiting for 
 Merze. " Bah! why not? But would she be one if her 
 life had been laid in the same path with Merze's? Only 
 through the fire of the furnace can we test the clay." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 " And that is all the knowledge you have of her 
 family?" 
 
 " That is all, Mortimer. I hear her mention no kin- 
 dred but this one sister who is married, who provides
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 285 
 
 for her well, and to whom she gives great love. It is 
 strange to me that she should be left so to herself. But 
 the worldly are prone to paths of folly, and their lights may 
 show them how little she is fitted for such wanderings." 
 
 "You are right, mother; feet like hers would be lost 
 in the labyrinths. She should be shielded always from 
 the fret of the world. 1 ' 
 
 "Would thee wish her shield to be the walls of a 
 convent, my son?" 
 
 The question caused him to turn wondering eyes to 
 the placid face. 
 
 "I do not know I have not thought," he answered; 
 "but even that would be better than sending her out 
 into the whirlpool of fashionable life, which is no doubt 
 what her sister shares. Yes, I see nothing that is better 
 for her than the convent." And yet, he felt a half irrita- 
 tion at the thought. 
 
 " Would not the peace in a husband's home be better?" 
 and with the slow earnest words came to him the sense 
 of her meaning. 
 
 " Mother!" he said sharply, rising and walking across 
 the room and back again. Then he stopped beside her 
 and asked more quietly, " What has given you such 
 thoughts?" 
 
 " If thee was not so blind thy own eyes would see," 
 she answered, smiling a little into his troubled face, and 
 then continued more seriously: " My son, thy home- 
 coming was for rest, so thee said, rest from the world, 
 that thee might do in peace thy work; well, my eyes are 
 old, but they see clearly that more than rest content 
 has in part come to thee through this child who would 
 be more than friend, who would be wife if thee should 
 so choose,"
 
 286 MERZE : 
 
 "Mother!" and he sat down, leaning his head on his 
 hand, trying to think back over those quiet days. Con- 
 tent! Yes, in a way, but it was only that of resignation 
 to him. And content alone is very dangerous to either 
 husband or wife. Wife! He had not thought of it. 
 The difference in their ages had made it seem a thing 
 impossible. Through that safeguard he had been kind 
 unto tenderness in many ways that ranged themselves in 
 mute reproach before him now. He had thought of her 
 only as of a child, loving-hearted to all alike; but per- 
 haps he had allowed his own pain to blind him, perhaps 
 he had been selfishly resting in this sweet friendship, 
 heedless of what it might mean to her. 
 
 His mother touched him on the shoulder. "Will 
 thee give to me a daughter, Mortimer?" she asked with 
 kind eyes bent on him. She knew he would never wed 
 among her own sect, and though Crista's religion was 
 not a pleasure to her, she felt that nowhere else would 
 he find a wife with such singleness of heart and purity 
 of life. And of late she had noticed how the girl's eyes 
 would light at sight of him, how a careless word of 
 praise from him would leave her happy and singing 
 about the house all day. And at last she determined to 
 speak to him. 
 
 Clasping his hand over the one on his shoulder, 
 " Mother," he said, " mother, you speak for the best, I 
 know. But I am old enough to be her father. What is 
 there to offer in exchange for that young life? I have 
 no love to give, and, deep as my reverence for her is, I 
 know I never shall have." 
 
 " Perhaps in time " she began, but he checked her. 
 
 " I have no such hope, mother. I told you of a lady 
 for whom I might ask your love, did I not? Well,
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 287 
 
 listen; I have avoided all mention of her, but now I 
 must speak and leave you to judge for me. You see my 
 hand?" and he held out the scarred member. " I told 
 you not to question me regarding it. That was injured 
 in her service weeks ago. I can not tell you what my 
 love and reverence for her were to me she was the one 
 woman in the world. Well, all hope of our lives being 
 spent together is past. She has been unworthy of my 
 faith. Our paths are parted. I hope never to see her 
 face, but so long as those scars remain, so long as life 
 lasts, I know that no other woman will take her place in 
 my thoughts." 
 
 " My son, love such as that is unholy. Thee should 
 not garner up thy affections where there is no room for 
 respect. It will bring no blessing." 
 
 " I have no hope that it will, my mother," he answered 
 bitterly. " I only tell you this to show you how little I 
 am fit to share this young girl's life. I leave you to 
 judge if I am not right." 
 
 The little lady rocked her low chair in silence for a 
 while before answering. 
 
 " My Mortimer," she said, at last, "the Spirit gives to 
 me no light wherein I can see that thee is. A love 
 which thee knows well is unworthy, and yet which binds 
 thee, is akin to the witcheries that raged because of the 
 evil passions in men's souls; and I know of no act more 
 potent to exorcise them than the content and peace of a 
 life with a pure woman." 
 
 He made no reply. He had asked her judgment and 
 she had given it, earnestly and placidly, but with little 
 comprehension of the love she condemned. Her own 
 journey on life's river had been one of calmness and 
 peace. She knew nothing of the tempests that stir the
 
 288 MERZE : 
 
 depths of ocean, and draw down darkness that veils 
 forever the stars. He knew that, but at the same time 
 he knew that after a fashion he was not guiltless in the 
 matter of his friendship with Crista. If his mother was 
 right, if she did care, he felt that the fault lay in his 
 carelessness. She was only a child, but he should have 
 thought for her. 
 
 " You think she cares, mother?" he asked at last. 
 
 " Notice for thyself with this new light in thy mind," 
 answered the old lady as she heard the young girl's step 
 on the porch. 
 
 "Poor child!" he said as he opened the door and she 
 entered looking at him with dear, glad eyes and a light 
 in them that made him turn away with a tired feeling in 
 his heart. 
 
 "Ah, Friend Mortimer!" she said gaily, "you should 
 have been along. I walked to the foot of the mountain, 
 a mile away. It is beautiful. Already the sun is grow- 
 ing quite warm. And what has made the whole day 
 seem lovely to me is a letter from my sister Mercy. 
 Perhaps she may come soon to see me. She has been 
 traveling, but now she is to return to New York, and 
 will come here at once. Are you not glad?" 
 
 " Glad to lose thee?" and the old lady shook her head 
 smilingly. "Surely thee can not expect us to be glad 
 for such a loss." 
 
 " Not to lose me. When she sees how happy I am 
 and how beautiful it is to live here, she may get a home 
 somewhere near. I should like that, except for the loss 
 of our church we should have to go a long distance." 
 
 " I hope thee will find happiness wherever thee is," 
 said Mrs. Menturn, kindly. 
 
 " I seem to find nothing else, Friend Prue," and the
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 289 
 
 girl kissed her cheek warmly. " My life appears selfish 
 to me at times. One's days should be passed in some 
 more useful way than in the mere enjoyment of pleas- 
 ures, when there are so many wretched people in the 
 world whom we might help to happiness, if we only 
 knew. And I have received also to-day a letter from 
 the convent, from Sister Paul, such a kind letter! They 
 ask if it is possible for me to go to them at Easter, if 
 only for a few days. It is a great pleasure to know they 
 all care for me so much. I shall write at once and ask 
 Mercy's consent." 
 
 In the e-xcitement of her letters and her gladness at 
 the thought of seeing Merze, she had for a time not 
 noticed the quiet of the man's face. When she did, her 
 eyes changed quickly, and she walked directly to him, 
 laying her hand on his arm. 
 
 " Friend Mortimer, -what is it? You do not look 
 happy." 
 
 " Few are so happy as yourself, Crista," he answered, 
 evasively. 
 
 " But you have seemed so lately, so very much hap- 
 pier than when you came first, and now you should be 
 doubly so. You are almost through with your work, 
 and you will have more leisure, and we shall have whole 
 days to share with you instead of only the evenings," 
 and she smiled across to his mother as she spoke. 
 
 " But/' he answered, trying to smile, also, "you do not 
 take into consideration that when my work is finished I 
 shall go away again." 
 
 "Go away!" It was not a question, only a dull 
 repetition of his words. The letters in her hand were 
 forgotten. They fell unheeded to the floor, while she 
 stood looking at him as if unable to gather the sense of 
 
 19
 
 290 MERZE : 
 
 his words. The old lady picked up the letters and laid 
 them aside, as if not noticing her agitation. 
 
 " I have laid thy letters on the mantel-shelf, Crista, 
 child," she said, kindly. "Thy walk has tired thee, I 
 think. Betha shall make thee a cup of tea." 
 
 Crista scarcely heard. Her eyes were on his face, 
 in which she could see suffering, though she did not 
 know the cause. 
 
 "Go away!" The words fell heavily on her heart- 
 She had not thought of it, unless it was as of something 
 in the far future, and, coming suddenly like that, she 
 could only repeat the words and feel through them a 
 sense of loss. 
 
 " Crista, Crista!" he said, remorsefully, " would you 
 care so much?" 
 
 ' Care!" The tears were filling her eyes as she looked 
 at him. All else was forgotten in that moment but the 
 one thought that he was going away, and his journeys 
 were sometimes so long she might never see him again, 
 and 
 
 "Don't cry, Crista," he said, a little brokenly, "but 
 listen to me. I am an old man in contrast with your 
 years, but there is only one way in which you can ask 
 me to remain now, and that is to say you will be my 
 wife." 
 
 She looked at him wonderingly through her tears. 
 The thought of wifehood had never come to her; he 
 felt sure of that from her face. 
 
 "A wife I!" That seemed as difficult to compre- 
 hend as his going away. " Do you, Friend Mortimer, do 
 you mean that, a wife?" 
 
 " I mean that, if you think you would be contented so. 
 A.m I to go or stay?"
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 291 
 
 It was not a lover-like wooing, but his face was very 
 kind, and to lose sight of it, perhaps forever, was a 
 thought she could not endure. She left her hand lie in 
 his and said, softly: 
 
 " Please stay, Friend Mortimer." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 In some way the old happy friendship seemed lost 
 between them after the strange betrothal in which the 
 word love had not entered. The two old ladies were 
 delighted ; Prue expressed her pleasure and Betha 
 echoed it a dozen times a day. But the couple most in- 
 terested found themselves at a disadvantage with which 
 they never had to combat before. 
 
 The old ladies, with the best of intentions, left them 
 more to themselves than of old. But fond as they were 
 of each other, they found the subjects for conversation 
 that had formerly been the most fascinating, dull and 
 spiritless; why? Perhaps because each showed too plainly 
 how great was the effort to please. 
 
 He was very gentle and loving in his tone and manner 
 to her. Once he had clasped his hands about her face 
 and kissed her reverently on the forehead; she was still 
 to him his ideal of a young saint, whom man's kisses 
 should not tarnish. And she, looking wistfully at him, 
 wondered if it was so he would have kissed the lady 
 whom they had spoken of as having his love once. 
 
 She thought he did not look as happy as before, and 
 alone at night the tears would come in spite of her as 
 she thought of the dear, dead friendship for which they 
 had so little recompense. Was it love? she wondered.
 
 292 MERZE : 
 
 He had not said so, though he had called her childish 
 pet names and teased her a little about her old idea of 
 being a nun. But the jest had a hollow ring in her 
 sensitive ear. She felt, at times, like going to him and 
 asking: " Do you love me? are you happy?" but a shy- 
 ness had come over her when with him. She could not 
 speak in the old fearless way, and to Merze she wrote: 
 
 " I hope you can come soon, my dear sister. I have 
 new and strange things to tell you. I scarcely know yet 
 myself whether it is happiness or not. But Friend 
 Mortimer asked me two days ago to be his wife, and I 
 said yes. You may think this very wrong without con- 
 sulting you. I know that would have been only right, 
 but please do not blame him, for I feel sure the fault is 
 mine; we have been such very good friends. It has been 
 such a pleasure for me to be with him, and when he 
 spoke of leaving home, and I might never see him again, 
 it seemed to me as if an end of all things had come. I 
 am not sure what I said or did, but I know I was very 
 silly and cried, and begged him not to go, and then, 
 almost before I knew it, I had promised to be his wife 
 if he remained. And you must not blame him, for if it 
 had not been for my folly, I feel sure he would have 
 waited until he had seen you, and then asked quite 
 properly, if at all. That thought will keep intruding on 
 my mind the fear that he asked only because he was 
 sorry to leave me when I cried. I may be wrong; I 
 hope so. 
 
 " He is grand, I think. I am more in awe of him than 
 when we were only friends only friends! I am not 
 quite sure what we are now. But I love and admire him 
 very much. I think there is no one like him. He is 
 not young; he says he is old enough to be my father,
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 295 
 
 but I am sure he does not look so. He is tall and dark 
 and very handsome. I hope you will like him, and be 
 friends. To-day he said if I would give him your ad- 
 dress he would write you, but I asked him to wait until 
 you came, which will, I hope, be soon. 
 
 "A letter came to-day from Sister Paul. They want 
 me much to go to them for Easter, and I think I should 
 like to. I am homesick for a sight of our chapel decked 
 in its flowers, and the Easter lilies white as the soul of 
 the Christ. 
 
 " I hope you will not be vexed with me, my sister. I 
 am not so happy as I should be, and the thought of your 
 displeasure would make me very wretched. He has said 
 nothing of our marriage, but acts as if that is a question 
 for you to decide; he seems to think me only a child. 
 But I am not sure. People outgrow their childhood very 
 quickly, sometimes, and I feel as if I have done so. I 
 wonder if people who love can forget easily? It is not 
 long since they spoke of his love for some lady away 
 from here. I think it was a half fanciful idea I had con- 
 ceived of them and their love that first made me love 
 him, and now he has asked for me as a wife. He could 
 not have loved her if he has forgotten her so soon. But 
 perhaps he has not forgotten. I would like to ask, but 
 am afraid of what the answer might be." 
 
 This letter, despite Guarda's prophesies, was a terrible 
 shock to Merze on her arrival in New York, and one 
 that took all her remaining strength to endure. For 
 weeks the old man could deceive himself no longer. 
 Instead of gaining in health she was slowly but surely 
 declining. She smiled at his anxieties over her, and 
 declared herself not ill. But one by one of the rings 
 worn in the impersonation of the dashing Parisienne had
 
 294 MERZE : 
 
 to be laid aside or altered by the jeweler because of the 
 sad shrinking of slim white fingers. And the large, 
 shadowy gray eyes had hollows about them that told 
 their own tale of growing weakness. 
 
 Guarda had waited impatiently for their return that 
 she might have the girl with her if it would add any to 
 her content. He felt that he himself was not enough. 
 She needed some object to care for who would be de- 
 pendent on her, something to rouse her to an idea that 
 she was needful. He could only pet her and sympathize 
 with her through all his kindly warm heart, but that had 
 proved a narcotic instead of an elixir. And so, instead 
 of grumbling over the question of Crista, he had at last 
 begun to look forward to seeing her as impatiently as 
 Merze herself; 
 
 And now this letter, with its childish love, the love that 
 was half doubt, had been hurled by the fates with a 
 force that crushed out all her fancies of the ideal sister- 
 hood they were to share. 
 
 " Ah, this terrible love, this terrible love!" she moaned, 
 letting the letter drop from her nerveless fingers. 
 
 And poor old Mephisto, for all his devotion to her, 
 could only sit silent, knowing that love had indeed proved 
 itself terrible to her. 
 
 " We will go at once!" Her words were a half appeal 
 to the objection she feared. 
 
 " Now? Ah, Merze, be patient. Haste will not alter 
 it. You are not able. The journey here has exhausted 
 you. Let me go and bring her to you. That is best." 
 
 "No, no," she protested, hastily. "That I could not 
 stand; to wait here counting the hours until you would 
 come back? No; I will be strong enough. If you will 
 only come with me."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 295 
 
 "I should not think of having you go alone," he 
 answered, simply. 
 
 She turned to him swiftly with outstretched hand. " My 
 Mephisto," she said, with tender eyes, " I should never 
 deem, love terrible while I have you. Do not think me 
 ungrateful. I never am that; and I know, know always 
 that nothing so perfect, so unselfish as your love and 
 friendship will ever come into my life." 
 
 " My child," and the voice was low and tremulous with 
 the pleasure of her words. He said no more, but the 
 old eyes held in them a depth of love which her years 
 of youth could never sound. 
 
 The sun was just setting over the mountains when a 
 carriage stopped at the gate of the pretty Quaker farm- 
 house, and Mrs. Menturn, who was on the porch, stepped 
 down on the paved walk as the driver spoke. 
 
 " Friend Prudence, I have brought to thee some kindred 
 of thy young friend." 
 
 " They are welcome, Hiram, and I thank thee," 
 answered the little lady, coming forward as a stooped, 
 white-haired gentleman assisted a lady in black to alight. 
 
 "You are friends of Crista?" and she held out her 
 hand, thinking as she did so that the lovely lady in her 
 sombre draperies looked as a tired queen might look. 
 
 "Yes," answered Merze, clasping the delicate little 
 hand warmly; " and I know from her letters that you are 
 Mrs. Menturn. I have to thank you much for her 
 happy life with you." 
 
 " The child has been a blessing to us. Give thy thanks 
 to God, not to man," and then she turned to Guarda; 
 "and thee?" 
 
 " He is also a friend, though unknown to her," and 
 Merze introduced him, adding: " I have not been well,
 
 29G MERZE : 
 
 and feared to take the journey alone, and I could not wait 
 longer to see her." 
 
 "Thee will prove a welcome guest, I do assure thee." 
 
 They had reached the porch, and as she opened the 
 door into the room where Crista and Betha were sitting, 
 there was a glance of wonder from the blue eyes, and 
 the next instant they were in each other's arms Crista 
 laughing and crying at once in her delight. 
 
 Merze, after the first greeting, felt Guarda's hand on 
 her own. " Sit down," he said, ever on the watch for her 
 comfort. "You are exhausted and trembling. This 
 journey has been too much for you." 
 
 She did so, obediently, feeling that he was right; it 
 had tired her more than she realized until after the goal 
 was reached. 
 
 Clasping Crista's hand in hers, she sat looking ear- 
 nestly in the blue eyes until they wavered and fell beneath 
 her own. 
 
 " You have been happy here!" 
 
 "Very, very happy, sister," and Guarda, noting her 
 beauty, her childish charm of manner, did not wonder so 
 much at Merze's fondness for her. 
 
 " Too happy to leave it with me?" 
 
 The girl hesitated a moment, and then said: "Wher- 
 ever you wish me to be I shall be content, knowing that 
 you do all for the best, and I should like never to be sep- 
 arated from you." 
 
 "Thy answer is most prudent, Crista, and suits 
 well thy years and loving heart. Heaven bring 
 blessings to thee, and aid thee to judge wisely for thy 
 future." 
 
 " Be it so," echoed Betha, as she followed Prue from 
 the room, knowing that there would be much to say that
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 297 
 
 was not for strange ears. Crista touched the black folds 
 of Merze's dress questioningly. 
 
 "It is worn because of Mr. Lawrence," said Merze; 
 " he is dead, and when there is more time we will speak 
 further of it; there are many things to talk of, but not 
 now. I wanted to return to-night, but Mr. Guarda 
 thinks I must remain at the hotel for one night's rest 
 before going back. And I would want you to go with 
 me, fora short time at least; then if you choose you can 
 return. Will that please you?" 
 
 " Very much, my dear, dear Mercy," answered the girl, 
 earnestly. She had been looking at Merze as she talked; 
 finally she said, turning to Guarda: 
 
 " Has, has she been very ill? The longer I look the 
 more plainly I see the change in her face. Ah, my sister, 
 you have been suffering while I have had only enjoy- 
 ment, and all through your kindness. You should have 
 sent for me and let me nurse and take care of you." 
 
 " I have had the best of care," answered Merze, look- 
 ing kindly at Guarda. Crista's quick eyes noted the old 
 man's face as he smiled back. She rose and went over 
 to him. 
 
 " I was so glad to see her that I scarcely spoke to you," 
 she said, frankly. " But I see you love each other, and 
 that makes me want to know you better. Will you let 
 me thank you for your care of her? She is the dearest 
 of all in the world to me, and since I can be of no use 
 to her I pray that the saints may have ever in their keep- 
 ing those who can," and she stooped, kissing with rever- 
 ence his hand that lay on the back of Merze's chair. 
 
 His prejudice faded away under the simple earnestness 
 of her manner. He held her hand in his closely. " I 
 hope we shall know each other better, child. And how
 
 298 MERZE : 
 
 about your other friend whom we are to see? You are 
 Surely not so selfish as to keep him out of sight." 
 
 Her face flushed warmly, and she turned to Merze. 
 ' Does he know? Did you tell him?" 
 
 " Yes, dear, and he will be your friend, I feel sure, as 
 well as mine. But are we to hear nothing of Mr. 
 Mortimer?" 
 
 "I had forgotten in the gladness of your coming," she 
 answered a little hesitatingly. But he will soon be here; 
 he has gone to the village for the mail, and seldom re- 
 mains so long. Ah, my sister, I do so hope you will 
 like each other." 
 
 Even as she spoke they heard a voice saying: " Yes, 
 my mother, a letter for Crista. Where is she?" 
 
 The girl flew to the door to open it, while Merze and 
 Guarda both rose to their feet at the sound of that voice. 
 Her face was white as death, and she could not steady 
 herself enough to raise her eyes at first. 
 
 Crista held his hand as she entered. He saw a thin, 
 black-robed woman with bent head, and though he could 
 not see the face, a thrill passed over him at sight of the 
 form that looked so familiar. Then he heard Crista's 
 voice saying: 
 
 " Friend Mortimer, this is my sister, Mrs. Lawrence. 
 Mercy, my dear sister, this is my friend I have told you 
 of Mr. Drande." 
 
 As she raised her face, the change in it was so startling 
 that he took a step toward her with outstretched hands 
 and his heart on his lips as he spoke her name, " Merze!" 
 
 " It is you" 
 
 She tried to steady herself, but her strength was gone, 
 and she dropped like a dead thing at his feet.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 299 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 Into Crista's room he carried her, where she lay white 
 and still, despite the efforts of the women. 
 
 " I told thee wisely, Betha, when I said she looked 
 more fit for a bed than a journey." 
 
 " That thee did, Prue, and I fear me it is a bed she 
 will keep for many a day." 
 
 Crista said little, only helped as she could with mute 
 lips, and eyes steadied and deepened with the new light 
 that had come to them. 
 
 Downstairs the old man sat alone in the lavender- 
 scented room, where the firelight and the twilight 
 mingled and faded. He could hear the murmur of 
 voices and softly-moving feet in the room where they 
 laid her, and above those sounds came to his ears the 
 echo of a steady, monotonous walk overhead, and he 
 knew it was Drande. There had been no explanations. 
 It was a fatality in the use of the names that had blinded 
 them. Crista, writing so much of him, had never once 
 mentioned any name but Mortimer, because it was the 
 only name she had heard him called. She had written 
 of him as she had of Betha, always by his given name, 
 and, long as he had known Drande, he had never heard 
 him say what his second initial stood for. And so it had 
 all happened by chance, if there be such a thing. And 
 in the deepening dusk Guarda could only sit, helpless 
 to her now, waiting for what news they might bring
 
 300 MERZE : 
 
 him. The steps above him ceased, and a little later he 
 looked up as the door was pushed open and Drande 
 entered. There had been no exchange of words between 
 them, and now there was neither greeting nor handclasp. 
 The younger man spoke first: 
 
 " There is no need of our wasting words as to how this 
 terrible mistake has been made," he said, coldly; "but 
 I will leave to-night until after the removal of Mrs. 
 of your friend. Before doing so I want to ask one 
 question: What is she to Crista?" 
 
 " A very noble woman a very loving, unselfish 
 friend." 
 
 " But not her sister?" 
 
 " Not by blood only through their love for each 
 other and a whim of the girl's to be called so." 
 
 " Thank God for that, at least!" breathed Drande, 
 with earnestness. The thought of their sisterhood had 
 been a horrible one to him, and added to it was a pas- 
 sionate longing for the still face upstairs that drew all 
 his love, even while it repelled him, by memories of that 
 mysterious crime, and the fatal silence of her marriage. 
 Guarda heard him and turned sharply. 
 
 " And why thank God?" he asked, in half anger at 
 the tone. " Is it through the shame you feel for the 
 faithlessness that let you vow to her, to me, your love 
 for her not six months ago, and that now has won for- 
 getfulness through the soft eyes of a child? You should 
 thank God also if death comes to her under your roof. 
 In no other way will rest ever reach her." 
 
 " Not while conscience is left to her," added the 
 other. 
 
 " Bah! you are a fool." And Guarda rose impetu- 
 ously. "Just for that one thing which she kept from
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 301 
 
 you, the secret of the marriage, you condemn her; and 
 yet you loved her! Such love is worthless, worthless as 
 the chaff that is blown unheeded from the wheat. But I 
 will tell you of that; who knows but it may help her to 
 a little content? You set yourself in judgment on her 
 life, knowing nothing of her wretchedness. She had 
 been his wife yes; not through her choice, but through 
 some supposed duty to her father. Poor child! her 
 faith to what she thought her duties has brought to her 
 sad troubles. Well, she was unhappy. They separated, 
 and he insisted on an absurd promise of secrecy from 
 her. She gave it willingly, earnestly. She wished in 
 every way to make amends for the repugnance she felt 
 at their relations. I could see it all, my poor, blind, 
 generous Merze! When she found you cared for her, 
 she went to him and begged him to give back her 
 promise. You know how unlike himself he was toward the 
 last. Well, he forbade her to tell, or made it conditional 
 if she acknowledged the marriage, he would claim her 
 as his wife. That thought was a horror she could not 
 endure. He even forbade her leaving the hotel where 
 he was; not that he cared for her, but only to assert his 
 power over a woman whose indifference was changing 
 into loathing, and who, in spite of it, he determined 
 should know him as her master. She kept it all to her- 
 self, fearing to worry me with her troubles. That day 
 when you left us in her room, she told me the whole 
 truth. And you for that one sad enforced silence you 
 left her at her greatest need, left her knowing you had 
 her love the love you had asked for. I do not wonder 
 you thank God she is not akin to the child you have 
 asked as a bride. Shame should prompt you to that 
 gratitude "
 
 302 MERZE : 
 
 "Stop!" said Dranae, sternly, "I may deserve that in 
 part, not wholly. It is not that silence alone which took 
 me from her; it is the silence of yours and hers con- 
 cerning that crime. You know what I mean." 
 
 " As to the identity of the woman?" 
 
 " As to the dagger I saw lying in her room that morn- 
 ing, and which I saw next struck through the heart of 
 her husband her husband whom she hated, dreaded, 
 feared, and who was killed that night while he 
 slept." 
 
 " Great heaven!" The words fell slowly from 
 Guarda's lips as he comprehended Drande's meaning. 
 " You could accuse her of such a crime, and yet had 
 loved her?" 
 
 " She knew what my thoughts were; she knew I was 
 justified in them, and made no sign of denial," answered 
 Drande. With all his soul he wanted to believe in her, 
 but in no way he looked could he see any hope to which 
 he might cling. 
 
 " She knew you thought that of her? Then with all 
 my knowledge of her she is more noble than I dreamed. 
 She thought his death a terrible retribution on her for 
 the wish of it she had fostered. If she knew your accusa- 
 tion she has accepted it in the same light. The thing 
 has become a monomania, and that is what has been 
 killing her for weeks, and she would have been silent to 
 the last. My poor Merze, my poor Merze!" There was 
 no mistaking the old man's earnestness and grief. He 
 sat covering his face with his hands as the force of all 
 she had endured in silence came to him. The man 
 standing by the mantel felt a great throb of hope as he 
 looked at him. 
 
 " She is innocent?" His voice trembled as he asked
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 303 
 
 the question. Ah! if he only dared have once more his 
 faith in her. 
 
 "Yes; 1 and the old face in the flickering firelight 
 seemed ennobled by the strength of his faith and love, 
 "yes; and as much above your doubts as the stars that 
 are shining high above us." 
 
 " Thank heaven and you!" and involuntarily his hand 
 was outstretched, and in silence the old man clasped it. 
 The deep, suppressed joy in his voice and the close clasp 
 of the hand that trembled, told in part what torture that 
 doubt had been. For a little while neither spoke; the 
 heart of each was too full for words, and the asser- 
 tion of her innocence had let loose a flood of hope, love, 
 and remorse that drowned for a time all memories of 
 aught but her. 
 
 " Don't think too contemptibly of me in this matter, 
 Guarda," he said at last. " I had more reason for doubts 
 than you are aware of; she will tell you so herself. She 
 could have saved us both much suffering if she had but 
 made one sign, spoken one word that day of the inquest; a 
 look from her eyes would have been enough. But she 
 gave nothing but a mute assent to the justice of my sus- 
 picion. It was her pride, I suppose, that forbade her 
 attempting any removal of my doubts." 
 
 " No; it was something more noble than pride," said 
 Guarda, earnestly. " A something that is the outgrowth 
 of a strange nature and deep humility. It was the mis- 
 taken idea of a justice that was meted out as her portion. 
 An expiation in silence and an endeavor to atone for the 
 wrongs that have magnified under a morbid, self-accusing 
 spirit. But it shall go no farther; whether it please her 
 or not, there shall be no more secrecy. She has borne 
 enough for that girl."
 
 304 MERZE : 
 
 " What girl?" 
 
 "Crista. It was for her sake that she would not 
 allow me to make known our theory of the murder; 
 but I have it all, proofs, everything as close as circum- 
 stantial evidence can come. And they shall be given to 
 the authorities at once. For no one's sake shall she 
 suffer doubt or suspicion of that sort." 
 
 " For Cnsta's sake? I don't understand," said Drande 
 in a perplexed way. 
 
 " Don't you? Everyone would but for the faith with 
 which Merze has kept her trust. The woman who com- 
 mitted the crime was the one known in the house as his 
 wife years ago, the one whom he reported dead for so 
 long that none thought of starting on that scent. That 
 woman was Crista's mother!" 
 
 There was a sound of startled horror from Drande, 
 and another that sounded like a moan through the door 
 he had left ajar unnoticed in the darkness; but neither 
 of the men heard it. Guarda and he sat there long in 
 the firelight, while he listened to the story of their theory, 
 and the evidence gained. And through all concerning 
 Lawrence and Crista, the thing that seemed uppermost 
 was the endurance, the noble character, of the woman he 
 had judged and condemned. 
 
 "You are right, Guarda," he said, staring into the 
 mass of coals with moody, remorseful eyes. " I am un- 
 worthy, I think any man would be that. If I could 
 only give the rest of my years in atonement." 
 
 " You cared so much?" 
 
 "It is not a thing I can speak of, or find words for, 
 even to you, old friend. Through all my doubt and con- 
 demnation she was, she always will be, the one woman in 
 life to me."
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESb. 305 
 
 " Yet, there is the child Crista?" 
 
 "Yes; God help us both!" 
 
 All through the length of the night Crista sat beside 
 the sleeping form so dearly loved. The light was turned 
 low, but not too low for her to distinguish the tired, pale 
 face on the bed, or the eyes in the picture above that 
 had been so dear to her. Her eyes wandered from one 
 to the other as she thought wistfully: 
 
 " I prayed for some way to show my gratitude; it 
 is a heavier debt than I dreamed of, but it has come at 
 last." 
 
 And she dropped on her knees by the window; the 
 stars glittering above shone on the fair young face, as it 
 pressed cold lips to the cold crucifix and murmured 
 vaguely: "Help me help me help me!" 
 
 The stars glittered as if in mockery. The moon co- 
 quetted with the clouds. A very woman in the silver 
 tints she lent to each as they passed, yet keeping ever 
 her wealth of witchery to lavish on the next. They see so 
 many woes, these eyes of the night; and their tears have 
 been burned up ages ago; they have none left for human- 
 ity; they can only smile now, glitteringly, to hide the hol- 
 lowness within themselves. And the ivory Christ, impres- 
 sive as the heavens, cold as it ever is, lay in her hands, 
 wet with her tears, and senseless as the dead beast from 
 whose tusk it was carved. But in the white light of her 
 innocence Crista had faith. 
 
 20
 
 COG MERZE 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 God be with you 
 
 I bear you company no more. Behold 
 The dawn with white ray glimmering through the mist. 
 
 Dante. 
 
 The dusk of early morning lay over the fields as the 
 tempestuous hair was tossed back from wide, gray eyes, 
 and Merze looked up into the young face above her. 
 
 u My dear Crista," she smiled, reaching out her white 
 hands and trying to rise. But the girl gently pressed her 
 back to the pillow. 
 
 "Not yet," she said, chidingly; "not until they bring 
 you some toast and some tea; they will be up ere long." 
 
 " And you, dear! you are dressed for walking. Have 
 you slept none?" 
 
 " No; but that does not matter. A walk down the lane 
 before breakfast will drive away my dullness. I feared 
 you might wake and want me. But friend Prue's herb 
 tea did its work well; you slept soundly, and are much 
 better." 
 
 "So much; and now " 
 
 Her eyes, in wandering about the room, fell on the 
 pictured face smiling down on her. Like a flash came 
 back memories of the night before memories the nar- 
 cotic had stilled; and she could only close her eyes and 
 lie speechless. 
 
 Crista sat beside her, and softly drew down her hands 
 and kissed the white lids.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 307 
 
 " My sister, my dear Mercy," she said, low and 
 steadily, " I want you to be very happy here, and you 
 must not begin by shunning his eyes. They are kind, 
 loving eyes to all. He will come soon to speak with 
 you, to clear away doubts which have lasted too long. 
 And when he comes be kind to him, dear, for the sake 
 of your happiness. He also has suffered much." 
 
 "Crista, Crista! what are you saying? How oddly 
 you speak!" and her hands were trembling with the half 
 hopes which the words brought. " You speak of happi- 
 ness to me! Mine will only come through your com- 
 panionship, when we go away together and live contented 
 
 until until " Her lips refused to say, " until your 
 
 marriage." 
 
 " Yes, yes!"^Crista assented, tremulously. " But you 
 are not strong enough to go yet; you will be here for 
 many days. And I hope you will learn to love the 
 
 people; they are so good, so kind. And and if any 
 
 of them try to help you to happiness, take it, dear, with 
 grateful hands. I have seen so little of the world, but 
 enough to show me it is a rare gift." 
 
 " Yes, Crista; but you?" 
 
 " I am going for a walk, if you don't mind being alone 
 for awhile; the air will do me good. And look, dear!" 
 she added, drawing back the curtain, " you can lie here 
 and watch the sun rising away there in the east. See! 
 its light already begins a halo around those far mount- 
 ains. It is a new day, sister, creeping closer and 
 brighter with every moment. Thank God! your night 
 is past." 
 
 And then she stooped and kissed many times the 
 wondering face, and, glancing once more up into the 
 eyes of the picture, she passed out and down the stairs.
 
 308 MERZE : 
 
 Although the morning star was still shining, she saw 
 that she was not the only wakeful one. Guarda's white 
 head was visible across the hedge of the garden. 
 
 " I could not sleep," he explained. " The quiet of 
 peaceful life would be oppressive to me now. I have 
 lived too long amid the rattle of carts over cobble-stones. 
 But you, my dear young things like you should sleep 
 better.' 
 
 " I watched all night, lest she should waken and want 
 me," she answered, simply. " But now she is better, 
 much brighter, and will soon be strong again with 
 happiness to help her." 
 
 "Happiness?" and the old man looked at her nar- 
 rowly. 
 
 " Yes, surely; why not? I am glad you are here. I 
 can see how dearly you love her, and " she hesitated 
 under his eyes, that were looking at her so " and last 
 night I heard you say those proofs should be given to 
 the world. Pray, do not allow her to dissuade you be- 
 cause of me. I shall have no name for disgrace to touch. 
 I want the truth known now." 
 
 "You know that?" and he laid his hand on her 
 shoulder, pityingly. 
 
 " I know all. I did not mean to listen. The door 
 was ajar in the darkness. But I am glad now it was so; 
 I should never have known otherwise. Do not tell them; 
 it would only be a pain to both. You will keep this one 
 secret for me, and do as I ask about those proofs? And 
 now, good-by. I could not say so to them. They may 
 think me ungrateful, but you will know it is not so. 
 They will have my love, my prayers, my gratitude always; 
 but I can not meet them now. Perhaps in the future I 
 shall, if they will come when all this is a thing of the
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 309 
 
 past. God bless you always. I go back to the convent; 
 good-by!" 
 
 And with a clasp of hands, and glimmer of tears in 
 her eyes, she turned away before he could speak, and 
 walked swiftly down the lane under drooping branches, 
 through which the sky could be seen tinged with a faint 
 flush. Not once did she turn her face toward the peace- 
 ful nest where all her love, all her happiness, lay. 
 
 And on the white bosom lay the ivory Christ, over 
 which her hands were clasped so closely that it bruised 
 the fair flesh. It was all she had left to her. What the 
 world had given it had demanded again. And with tired 
 feet she wandered back as a sheep will to the fold, 
 after seeing the depth of chasms down which others have 
 dropped into darkness. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 Once we had one heart, one hope, 
 
 And we parted how? and why? 
 Promise, now, we will not part 
 You and I. 
 
 A little letter left at Drande's door, a letter addressed 
 to himself and Merze, was read by them with tearful 
 eyes and pitiful hearts. She was so dear to them both, 
 and her decision was irrevocable. 
 
 "You called me Elaine, sometimes, in jest, Friend 
 Mortimer. I think my love for you was what the poet 
 made hers. I did not think to be your wife. I know 
 you are fond of me; but with neither of us is it the fond- 
 ness which should lead to marriage. It is a mistake we 
 could not explain face to face. So I can only go away.
 
 310 MERZE : 
 
 I leave the letter from Sister Paul; you will see she is to 
 pass through the village this morning. I am going to 
 meet her, and go back, never to leave again. Do not 
 grieve, and do not let my dear Mercy. Go to her with 
 this, read it together, and tell her the things I know you 
 long to tell her. I love you both. I have asked her to 
 be kind and listen to you. Make her life happy, and do 
 not let your dear mother think me ungrateful. Do this 
 for me, and do not let any regrets or thoughts of me 
 keep you silent when you read this. Your names will 
 always be together in my prayers. May we meet at the 
 feet of God. 
 
 "CRISTA." 
 
 There was silence between them after the reading of 
 the letter. It was as if a tomb had closed above her, 
 and this, her last will, lay in their hands. Drande spoke 
 first, and his voice was far from steady. 
 
 " Merze " how dear the name sounded on his lips! 
 " the child has left me her legacy. It scarcely seems 
 fitting to speak now of love or happiness; but I can not 
 leave you until I know what our lives are to be to each 
 other. You have been first in my thoughts through all; 
 and now I ask, in all love, in all reverence, grant me 
 Crista's gift, let me try to make amends for the past 
 be my wife." 
 
 Surely it was a strange wooing after the tempests of 
 passion their eyes had seen in each other. Fate had 
 swung them off into this harbor, where peace reigned, 
 where all tumultuous waves were lulled to rest, and their 
 love in its very quietness was greater than ever before. 
 
 Was it because they realized the greatness of the 
 sacrifice that had been made to the gods for it? Some- 
 thing like that passed through Merze's mind.
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 311 
 
 " I feel as if I am building happiness on that child's 
 heart," she said, tremulously, as she gave him her hand. 
 
 That was all. There was no need for words between 
 them of that past, with its bitterness and its mistakes. 
 They were together; that was enough. And truly, 
 " Love sees as God sees, and with infinite wisdom has 
 infinite pardon." 
 
 To Guarda it was a joy, because of Merze. She was 
 first in all things. But many days went by ere he could 
 forget the young face in the dawn with the steadiness of 
 despair in her eyes. Her wishes were respected by him, 
 and the proofs were given to the world, and cleared 
 away the mystery of the crime. But that conversation, 
 with the morning star shining overhead, was one never 
 spoken of, even to Merze. 
 
 " She was a great blessing, a child of light," said Friend 
 Prue, with tears in her eyes. "But it is their church 
 that has drawn her from us; it has great power." 
 
 And Guarda, who heard, answered: "If it has power 
 to instill such purity of life, such nobility of soul, into 
 the hearts of its people, God prosper it. Not fitted for 
 our world? No, she was as much out of place in it as 
 an archangel walking among us in the livery of heaven. 
 I was unjust to her once, but she has conquered. They 
 are two noble hearts; one strong through her faith and 
 religion, and the other despite the lack of it. Which is 
 greater? Ah, who can tell! There is a warning in that 
 old Italian poet's vision which repeats itself in my mind: 
 
 Be wary how ye judge ! 
 For we who see our Maker know not yet 
 The number of the chosen.
 
 MERZE : 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 Easter morning wakened warm from the kiss of south 
 winds, sweet with the fragrance of first blossoms, and 
 shining softly as the brightest jewel in the circle of 
 sacred days. 
 
 Through that glad radiance fell the words that made 
 Merze again a wife, and gave her into the shelter of a 
 home where rest for the soul was not a figure of speech, 
 but a reality that grew on her day by day until the one 
 lack of her life was filled at last. 
 
 " Sanctuary? yes," she said, that fair morning, looking 
 into her husband's eyes; " it will always be that to me 
 here sacred." 
 
 "And your art, the stage?" he smiled, question ingly. 
 
 " Is none the less so, dear," she answered. " Would 
 you want the artist lost in the woman?" 
 
 "No, Merze, that folly is past," and he smoothed 
 back the waves of bronze hair that clustered around the 
 face, lovelier than ever with returned health and content 
 " No; your work is not the empty tinkle of cymbals. I 
 prefer what I possess artist and woman merged in one." 
 
 " And which you, not knowing your power, helped to 
 mold when as a child you were my divinity, my oracle 
 of a day," and then she smiled, seeing the white hair of 
 Guarda through the open window. "So you grant 
 admission to two rivals, my work and Massa Mark?" 
 
 "Always Massa Mark," he assented. "Who could 
 imagine one of you without the other? Sometimes I am
 
 THE STORY OF AN ACTRESS. 313 
 
 tempted to jealousy; your devotion is palpable to the 
 world." 
 
 " And it never will be less," she answered, taking the 
 old man's hand as he came out and stood beside them 
 on the long white porch. " Our bond is a strong one, 
 is it not, ' Mephisto '? forged long ago through a romance 
 of ours one whose leaves are bound close by the hair 
 of a dear, dead woman a romance of the past." 
 
 " All romances are of the past or the future," said 
 Guarda. " Distance must mellow the tints as age does 
 that of a painting. When seen in the present, the thread 
 of bitterness or sorrow is all our eyes perceive; and in 
 romances there is always sorrow for someone." 
 
 And his eyes wandered down the lane where he had 
 seen the young girl's form lose itself in the dusk of 
 dawn under the morning star. Merze clasped his hand 
 closer. Drande in silence turned into the house. 
 
 " Massa Mark," she said, her voice lowered a little by 
 the earnestness of his words, " Massa Mark, I wonder 
 sometimes if you do not condemn in part this happiness 
 that was purchased so dearly. Do not think me care- 
 less of her, at the last. If I could have kept her or 
 brought her back, all our lives would have been differ- 
 ent." 
 
 "I know that, Merze, and she knows it. Have no 
 regrets. Life is too short for them, and it is best as it 
 is, for all the pity of it. She is a young saint, as you 
 said long ago. The only bridal veil for such is the one 
 she has taken. Men can not kiss the lips of madonnas, 
 my dear." 
 
 THE END.
 
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