Beth Norvell

There was reason for it. A child of Chicago, daughter in a family of

standing and exclusiveness, after winning notable successes in San

Francisco, in London, in New York, had, at last, consented to return

home, and appear for the first time in her native city. Endowed with

rare gifts of interpretation, earnest, sincere, forceful, loving her

work fervently, possessing an attractive presence and natural capacity

for study, she had long since won the appreciation of the critics and

the warm admiration of those who care for the highest in dramatic art.

The reward was assured. Already her home-coming had been heralded

broadcast as an event of consequence to the great city. Her name was

upon the lips of the multitude, and upon the hearts of those who really

care for such things, the devotees of art, of high endeavor, of a stage

worthy the traditions of its past. And in her case, in addition to all

these helpful elements, Society grew suddenly interested and

enthralled. The actress became a fashion, a fad, about which revolved

the courtier and the butterfly. Once, it was remembered, she had been

one of them, one of their own set, and out of the depths of their

little pool they rose clamorously to the surface, imagining, as ever,

that they were the rightful leaders of it all. Thus it came about,

that first night--the stage brilliant, the house a dense mass of mad

enthusiasts, jewelled heads nodding from boxes to parquet in

recognition of friends, opera glasses insolently staring, voices

humming in ceaseless conversation, and, over all, the frantic efforts

of the orchestra to attract attention to itself amid the glitter and

display.

Utterly indifferent to all of it, Ned Winston leaned his elbow on the

brass rail of the first box, and gazed idly about over that sea of

unknown faces. He would have much preferred not being there. To him,

the theatre served merely as a stimulant to unpleasant memory. It was

in this atmosphere that the ghost walked, and those hidden things of

life came back to mock him. He might forget, sometimes, bending above

his desk, or struggling against the perplexing problems of his

profession in the field, but not here; not in the glare of the

footlights, amid the hum of the crowd. He crushed the unread programme

within his hand, striving to converse carelessly with the lady sitting

next to him, whom he was expected to entertain. But his thoughts were

afar off, his eyes seeing a gray, misty, silent expanse of desert,

growing constantly clearer in its hideous desolation before the

advancing dawn.

The vast steel curtain arose with apparent reluctance to the top of the

proscenium arch, the chatter of voices ceased, somewhat permitting the

struggling orchestra to make itself felt and heard. Winston shut his

teeth, and waited uneasily, the hand upon the rail clenched. Even more

than he had ever expected, awakened memory tortured. He would have

gone out into the solitude of the street, except for the certainty of

disturbing others. The accompanying music became faster as the inner

curtain slowly rose, revealing the great stage set for the first act.

He looked at it carelessly, indifferently, his thoughts elsewhere, yet

dimly conscious of the sudden hush all about him, the leaning forward

of figures intent upon catching the opening words. The scene portrayed

was that of a picturesque Swiss mountain village. It was brilliant in

coloring, and superbly staged. For a moment the scenery; with great

snow-capped peaks for background, caught his attention. If was

realistic, beautifully faithful to nature, and he felt his heart throb

with sudden longing to be home, to be once more in the shadow of the

Rockies. But the actors did not interest him, and his thoughts again

drifted far afield.