while the public were busy discussing the merits and demerits of the star which had shone forth so suddenly upon the theatrical horizon, the lady herself was sitting in her dressing-room, apparently indifferent to all that passed or was likely to come. her theatrical splendour had been cast off, and, enveloped now in a plain dark dress, she sat with dishevelled hair and pale cheeks, gazing dreamily at her own reflection in a mirror. her maid, who was busily engaged in folding a delicate robe, was suddenly interrupted in her work by a knock at the door.

she opened it and admitted white. he walked over to the dreamy girl, put his arm round her shoulders, and kissed her fondly.

‘well, here i am,’ he said quickly, with a glance at the busy, listening maid. ‘are you almost ready to come home?’

‘i am quite ready,’ returned madeline, awakening from her dream.

she rose at once, coiled up her hair, put on her hat and cloak, and, after giving a few directions to her maid, took white’s arm and left the room.

the house had been emptied and darkened, and the curtain raised, but confusion still prevailed upon the stage. carpenters, scene-shifters, property men, actors and actresses, bereft of their splendour, all gathered according to their different grades around abrahams, hart, and the acting manager, who were holding forth like the outer world upon the merits of the heroine of the night.

madeline, plainly dressed, thickly veiled, and clinging closely to white’s arm, hoped to pass unseen through the crowd; but no sooner had she reached the centre of the stage than the keen eye of the manager fell upon her, and he advanced with outstretched hands.

‘my dear miss vere,’ he said, ‘allow me to congratulate you on a big success. you’ve hit ’em right between the eyes, my dear. you have, by jove!

i always said you would. didn’t i always say you would?’ and turning to white, he added—

‘white, old man, dine with me to-morrow at five sharp. i’ve a lot to talk over.’

madeline received the homage quietly enough, and by a slight pressure of her hand upon the arm of her delighted guardian hurried him along out through the stage door.

it was a calm still night, the sky was studded with stars; not a breath of air was stirring, but the noise in the streets was deafening, the confusion bewildering. a crowd was gathered round the theatre door, cabs rattled up and down, streams of people moved hither and thither, as if in a feverish dream. once in the open air, white paused to hail a cab, but madeline stopped him.

‘let us walk,’ she said quickly. ‘i am so excited, and a breath of this cool air will do me good.’

‘as you please, my dear,’ returned white, and, clasping her hand more firmly upon his arm, he led her through the ever-moving crowd. what a crowd it was! men and women, old and young, rich and poor, mingling together in one perpetual eddy; shivering, starving, half-clad children; brazen street-walkers disporting in finery even more tawdry than that which the actress had cast aside, and pale-faced outcasts glaring ghastly beneath the gaslight, clutching at their rags, and forcing their parched heated lips to offer up a curse to him who had made them what they were.

still veiled, still clinging closely to white’s arms, madeline passed slowly on, watching the crowd surging up and down beside her, seeing the faces pale, haggard, gaunt, and famine-stricken, flashing like phantoms. now and then, as some weary woman passed beneath the glare of the gaslight, madeline would pause and instinctively stretch forth her hand, as if to offer succour; but white, tightening his hold upon her, soothed the strange agitation which he knew to be rising, and firmly urged her on. thus they left the trouble and the turmoil behind them, and passing into a sequestered square, with green trees around them, and the starlit heaven above, paused for a moment.

madeline raised her veil, and looked upward.

‘to think,’ she said, ‘that such a bright sky should shine upon so much wickedness and sorrow! i wonder if any people are ever happy until they die?’

‘happy! of course they are. but come, we are lingering too long. i mean to drink a bottle of champagne to-night to celebrate your success, my dear.’

madeline said no more, but quietly suffered him to lead her home.

it was certainly not such a home as one would picture as the abode of the queen of the night; for white, whose circumstances had never been affluent, had been brought lower than ever of late through the demands made upon him by madeline, whom it had been necessary to fit out superbly before she could be presented to the gaze of the world. still, poor as they were, the rooms were dear to madeline, and as she entered them she felt stealing over her a sense of security and peace which she had not experienced all that evening before.

the good news had sped quickly, and the welcome given to the young actress was in keeping with all the rest. the table was spread for supper, the solitary bottle of champagne stood at the head, and poor madame de berny, now very worn and much aged, stood upon the narrow, dimly lighted stairs, with outstretched hands and quivering voice.

‘ah, my dear,’ she said, as she drew madeline into the bedroom, and assisted her to remove her hat and cloak, ‘to think that only a few years ago you stood at my poor dear marie’s knee, and listened, with open eyes and mouth, to the stories she used to tell about the theatre. now, you are a leading lady, and she—oh! my poor girl!’

‘don’t cry, madame,’ said madeline gently. ‘i think marie is happy.’

‘ah, miss madeline, how can i help grieving when i think of all my child has lost? to think that when she was rising so rapidly she could throw herself away upon a man who only betrayed her; that she should cause her father to die of a broken heart, and bring me to this!’ as madeline listened she sank into a chair, and let her weary head rest upon her hands. her face was paler than it had been before, and madame de berny looking at her saw that a look of terrible sadness, which she had often noticed before, was creeping again into her eyes.

‘madeline, my dear,’ she said, ‘you at least ought to be happy.’

the girl raised her head and smiled, and the smile was even more pitiful to behold than the look of sadness had been.

‘yes, you are right, madame de berny,’ she said, ‘i ought to be happy, so i will try to be from this night forth;’ and as if to avoid further conversation she passed out into the sitting-room, where she found white awaiting her with a look of contented happiness in his face.

puzzled and thoughtful, the old lady saw her go. what was the matter with the girl? she could not tell. some few months before that day, when, in answer to an appeal from her, white had offered her a home, with himself and ward, she had come full of her own troubles, expecting to find a bright-eyed vivacious beautiful girl to soothe and cheer her. but instead of being the comforted she became the comforter. the first sight of the girl rent her heartstrings. could this be madeline hazelmere? could this be the lissome blue-eyed child, who had been the very impersonation of happy impulse and joy? this woman with the pale cheeks and strange, sad eyes? madame de berny paused before her shattered vision, gave one prolonged look, and burst into tears.

‘do not cry, dear madame,’ madeline had said, kindly taking her old friend affectionately in her arms; ‘the poor chevalier has gone from a world in which it is more terrible to live than to leave. i hope he has no memory of it—that at least he is at peace.’

strange words, to come from a girl scarcely twenty years of age. they affected the frenchwoman curiously at the time, and set her pondering afterwards.

the longer she remained with white the more she became impressed with the painful change that had taken place in madeline. it was not that the child had become a woman, and had learnt to subdue her spirits to a sadder, more womanly tone; her soul was haunted by a memory which poisoned every pleasure which was lifted to her lips, and converted the world into a tomb. what the memory was, madame could not understand, but she knew, whenever the girl’s prospects seemed brightest, it haunted her the most, and that on that night when she had shone forth upon the world, and made hundreds envy her, it seemed to loom before her eyes more terribly than ever.

for several days after that night when she had achieved her great theatrical triumph, madeline was too much occupied with business to give much thought to herself. she seemed to be lifted on a whirlwind, and carried along in tumult—forgetting the past, thinking nothing of the future, and scarcely conscious even of the bewildering present.

on the third morning, however, a note arrived which dispelled the dream that enveloped her, and brought her to herself again. the note had been placed among many others upon the breakfast table. she looked twice or thrice at the handwriting, then opened the envelope, and read as follows—

my dear ophelia,—for the last few days i have been looking every hour, nay, every minute, for a visit from you. am i to be again honoured by a visit from you in my studio, or may i take the liberty of waiting upon you? i have been putting one or two finishing touches to my work, but without the presence of the original i cannot bring it to completion.

accept my friendly homage, which must be to you like a drop of water to the ocean.

blanco serena.

having perused the note, madeline laid it down again upon the table and looked round the room. how poverty-stricken it looked; how opposed to everything in the house of the successful painter who wrote that letter! she turned to white, who sat near her with his head buried in the folds of the ‘times.’

‘mr. serena thinks that success has turned my head,’ she said quietly. ‘i must undeceive him by giving him my last sitting for “ophelia” to-day.’

accordingly, as soon as the breakfast was over, white retired to his studio, and madeline went on her way.

on arriving at the house of mr. blanco serena, she was made to feel her new greatness more than ever she had done before. the servant in livery looked at her with unusual respect, as he led her solemnly through long corridors to the studio, and ushered her into the presence of the great man himself.

mr. blanco serena sat among his pictures. he wore an eastern dressing-gown, and smoked a fantastically twisted meerschaum pipe. his eyes were fixed with rapt attention on the walls where his own handiwork was displayed; but when madeline came in, he withdrew his gaze, collected his thoughts, and gave her a kindly welcome. to all his congratulations madeline listened quietly, then she took her place before the painter, and, as he painted, her thoughts wandered to the past.

‘ah, those eyes, those eyes,’ thought serena to himself as he painted rapidly. ‘i cannot put them on canvas. the critics will rave about my “ophelia,” but their praise will never satisfy me. if i could only paint the expression of that face i should think myself the genius they call me, not the poor impostor i know myself to be.’

nevertheless, he tried and tried again, while madeline sat patiently. presently the studio door was opened, and with much ceremony, but no announcement, a stranger was shown in.