Beth Norvell

The act was nearly half finished before the Star made her appearance.

Suddenly the door of the chalet opened, and a young woman emerged,

attired in peasant costume, carelessly swinging a hat in her hand, her

bright face smiling, her slender figure perfectly poised. She advanced

to the very centre of the wide stage. The myriad of lights rippled

over her, revealing the deep brown of her abundant hair, the dark,

earnest eyes, the sweet winsomeness of expression. This was the moment

for which that vast audience had been waiting. Like an instantaneous

explosion of artillery came the thunder of applause. Her first

attempted speech lost in that outburst of acclaim, the actress stood

before them bowing and smiling, the red blood surging into her unrouged

cheeks, her dark eyes flashing like two diamonds. Again and again the

house rose to her, the noise of greeting was deafening, and a perfect

avalanche of flowers covered the stage. From boxes, from parquet, from

crowded balcony, from top-most gallery the enthusiastic outburst came,

spontaneous, ever growing in volume of sound, apparently never ending.

She looked out upon them almost appealingly, her hands outstretched in

greeting, her eyes filling with tears. Slowly, as if drawn toward them

by some impulse of gratitude, she came down to the footlights, and

stood there bowing to left and right, the deep swelling of her bosom

evidencing her agitation.

As though some sudden remembrance had occurred to her in the midst of

that turmoil, of what all this must mean to others, to those of her own

blood, she turned to glance lovingly toward that box in which they sat.

Instantly she went white, her hands pressing her breast, her round

throat swelling as though the effort of breathing choked her. Possibly

out in front they thought it acting, perhaps a sudden nervous collapse,

for as she half reeled backward to the support of a bench, the clamor

died away into dull murmur. Almost with the ceasing of tumult she was

upon her feet again, her lips still white, her face drawn as if in

pain. Before the startled audience could awaken and realize the truth,

she had commenced the speaking of her lines, forcing them into silence,

into a hushed and breathless expectancy.

Winston sat leaning forward, his hand gripping the rail, staring at

her. But for that one slender figure the entire stage before him was a

blank. Suddenly he caught Craig by the arm.

"Who is that?" he questioned, sharply. "The one in the costume of a

peasant girl?"

"Who is it? Are you crazy? Why, that 's Lizzie; read your programme,

man. She must have had a faint spell just now. By Jove, I thought for

a moment she was going to flop. You 're looking pretty white about the

lips yourself, ain't sick, are you?"