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.