sip of her ultimate intention of visiting California." John Brougham stood speechless, holding the hare's foot with which he was coloring his face. Walcot turned round and gasped, "For Heaven's sake, what are we going to do?" "I don't know, but I'll tell you what, if you are game we will play the piece without her." "Bless me," said Brougham, "play 'Pocahontas' without Pocahontas?" "Yes, you will have to improvise; get ready now and I will take care of the audience." I went on to the stage and said: "I am very sorry to appear, ladies and gentlemen, in the character of an apologist. You have seen a good deal of me to-night in the first play and I only wish that the extra sight you have of me could be accompanied by a more agreeable result, but I am obliged to tell you that we have no Pocahontas. Of course, under these circumstances we can but do what we should do, and to those who are not satisfied with this fact, and are not content to take what we can give them, we will return the money." Walcot, who was standing at the side, called out like a prompter: "Half the money, dear boy, half the money, they have had half the show," but I paid no attention to him and continued: "We can give you a charming novelty instead." Some of the people who were preparing to leave sat down again, and all were quiet, wondering what was coming. "We will give you the play of 'Pocahontas' without Pocahontas." There was a shout directly. I said: "Therefore, as far as giving you 'Pocahontas' goes, there will be no disappointment." The result was one of the greatest sprees ever seen upon the stage. Those two men were so clever that they absolutely improvised all that was required in verse, and the burlesque never went better, perhaps from that very fact. Mary Gannon played the part of Pocahontas the next night.

It seemed decreed that when left to take care of the theatre during my father's absence I should meet the sort of things I encountered with Miss Hodson. My father went to Boston to play a star engagement one winter and left me in charge of the theatre. Sheridan's "Rivals was running; Brougham was the Sir Lucius,

Blake the Sir Anthony Absolute, I was the Captain Absolute, and Miss Laura Keene was Lydia Languish. A short time before the curtain was to rise on a certain evening the prompter came to me in a great state of mind and said: "Miss Keene has not arrived." (This by the way, was previous to Miss Hodson's flight.) I sent to her house to know if she was ill, and found she had gone off to Baltimore with a man named Lutz. This person, it is said, had induced a lot of wealthy men to take a theatre and fit it up for him, on condition that he engaged Miss Keene, and this he did. Before I had time to tell the audience about the difficulty, a Mr. Meyers, who kept what was known as Meyers's Mourning Store on Broadway, very near the theatre, and who was a great friend of Miss Keene's (he and his daughters), sent word to say that he wished to see

Dion Boucicault.

me at once. Although I was very busy I consented, because I fancied that he was privy to this whole affair; and thought perhaps he might have some reason to give or some explanation to make. He came rushing in and said: "What are you going to do?" I told him I was going on the stage to tell the people that Miss Keene had left. He replied: "I am going out in front as Miss Keene's friend to hear what you have to say." I went on and told the exact truth; I said: "I am very sorry to have to ask your indulgence for the lady who is going, on a very short notice, to undertake the part of Lydia Languish; she may possibly have to read it." There was a great murmur, Miss Keene, Miss Keene!" "If you will give me your patience for a few moments I will explain." I continued, "Miss Keene has left the theatre and left the city, I do not know anything about where she has gone, nor on what principle she has disappointed

you to-night; I only tell you she has left the theatre." The apology was accepted, the comedy was produced, and Mrs. Conway went through with flying colors as Lydia. Miss Keene subsequently wrote a letter to the papers in which

e

Laura Keene.

she said she had gone to Baltimore because she had a brother who was very ill there.

66

Miss Keene's place as leading lady was filled by Mrs. Hoey, who had retired from the stage upon her marriage to Mr. John Hoey, in 1851. As Mrs. Russell she had been a member of Burton's company for a number of years, and was a great favorite. Not long after Miss Keene's departure I went one New Year's Day to call on Mrs. Hoey and her husband. She said to me: "I want to speak to you;" took me to the window, and after looking at me a moment added: "I am going back on the stage." What, does John not object?" She replied: "He only makes the condition that if I go on the stage again, it is to be at Mr. Wallack's theatre and nowhere else." I immediately caught on to this, because Miss Keene's going away had left a gap which was very difficult to fill, and a leading lady is never easy to find. When I went home I told my father of this, and he asked, "But who is this Mrs. Russell?" "Mrs. Russell is the best lady you can possibly get. She has been off the stage two or three years, but she was a very charming person, and is exceedingly and

justly popular, which, after all, is the great thing." So I introduced Mrs. Russell, or Mrs. Hoey, to my father, and the result was that he engaged her, and she made her reappearance in Sheridan Knowles's, "Love Chase." I played Wildrake, and she Constance. I have seen stage fright very often, but I never shall forget the fright she was in that night. It would have been a very mortifying thing if she had made a failure then, and she was naturally very nervous, but she soon overcame it and was the enormous favorite she had been before. That is the history of her coming back. Burton was very angry that she did not return to him, but Wallack's Theatre had become the fashionable place of amusement, and everything was going up town. Wallack's was a mile and a half above Burton's Chambers Street house; and that was decidedly in its favor. Then we went at the comedies again, and Mrs. Hoey very soon came to the front and got her old place, and even a higher one. In fact, on or off the stage, no lady had ever been more deservedly popular than Mrs. John Hoey. When she finally retired little Miss Henriques appeared. She, also, was an immense favorite.

After the opening of Wallack's Theatre Burton introduced two admirable

his company to the best advantage for him and for themselves: so much so that when he brought out that clever comedy, "Masks and Faces," by Charles Reade, he played Triplet himself, but soon resigned it to Fisher, who made a great deal more of it. I have never seen anybody who could ever approach Fisher as Triplet; the whole performance was a gentle, charming, beautiful

thing. When Fisher and Thompson left Burton, naturally they drifted to the new house, which absorbed all the stock talent in the country at that time, including Mrs. Vernon, Mr. and Mrs. Boucicault, John Dyott, William Reynolds, J. H. Stoddart, Humphrey Bland, George Holland, Sothern, Henry and Thomas Placide, besides those I have mentioned before.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE END OF THE EPISODE.

HEN the train had fairly started, that morning, Flossie sank back into her seat with a certain sensation of relief. Almost immediately, they entered the long tunnel under the city; no conversation was possible, nor could she see Mr. Wemyss's face. She had the back seat herself; Justine sat with him, on the seat in front of her. As they came out of the tunnel and crossed the Harlem River, she looked at him. He met her eye nervously, and she could see that he was embarrassed by the presence of the maid. "When do we sail?" said she. Flossie was quite indifferent to the maid. What cared she for the maid's opinion? And she ignored his glances beseeching that she might be told to go. But Justine herself asked Mrs. Gower demurely if she should not fetch a glass of water, and went of her own accord.

"The Parthia sails at six to-night," said Wemyss. "You will have ample time to rest in Boston, if you wish, dearest." The expression of affection sounded commonplace; and Wemyss felt that it did, self-consciously. "It is infinitely better we should go from Boston," he went on; "the Parthia is slow, but that makes no difference; and there is certain to be no one in her we know, at this time of the year. I took the passage in fictitious names, of course."

"What did you do that for?"

"I thought you would prefer it," said he; and made bold to take her hand.

"It was very ridiculous and quite unnecessary," said Flossie, withdrawing it. "When I go to Europe, I am willing all the world should know."

Wemyss did not know just what to say; and fortunately the conductor made his first entry at that juncture. He at

tended to his business perfunctorily; and it struck Wemyss as curious that he did not note anything unusual about their trip. It seemed to him that all the world must see that he was going to England with her, and that she was not his wife.

The newspapers lay unread upon the seat. Mrs. Gower did not care to read them; and Wemyss gave his whole attention to her, as a matter of course. She was looking at the window, watching the familiar landscape fly by; and he began to think how they could pass through Boston with least certainty of being seen. He had had the passengerlist of the steamer telegraphed on the night before; and knew that no acquaintance would be on board; he felt it would be embarrassing to meet an acquaintance, until their position was regularized.

When the train had crossed the Harlem River, Wemyss felt as if the Rubicon were passed. But already the feeling of elation, the flattery to his amourpropre, began to pass away. There were certain difficulties, even in the Décadence; conventions yet remaining which annoyed him.

It had been tacitly agreed between them that when Gower got his divorce, he was to marry her. In the meantime, he was to escort her to England, where they both had many friends. And Wemyss reassured himself by thinking how these friends had treated similar cases; leniently, he was sure, with result of a not wholly unpleasant notoriety, and even, in the man's case, of a certain glamour. A little temporary retirement, of course, was fitting enough.

How long would that have to last? Six months? A year? They could go abroad-to the Mediterranean-up the Nile-that is, if he could persuade Mrs. Gower to do so. It would be terribly slow, being in England through the London season and not going out; for of course he could not honorably go out without her.-Not but that, of

course, he would always be happy wherever he could be with her; as, correcting himself, he hastened to think.-The train stopped at Bridgeport; and looking out, he saw a company of blue-coated, elderly men, rigged out with swords and divers sashes and parti-colored orders. It was some post of G. A. R. marching in procession, with a brass band; they did not march well, and yet seemed gravely impressed with the importance of the occasion. They took themselves seriously; and had not yet discovered the Décadence. Wemyss called Mrs. Gower's attention to them with some amusement; she looked at them listlessly, with her mind on other things. "Don't you want to go and

smoke?" said she.

Mr. Wemyss had never felt so much need of a cigar in his life, but he felt bound to deny it. The train pulled out of the station; and he saw the bluecoats, now portly citizens, with weapons that seemed curiously out of place, marching cheerfully through the snow. He wondered what he ought to do, if Gower should challenge him. Wemyss was no physical coward, and he felt he ought to be true to the code of honor. But did not English ideas rather cast ridicule upon duels in such cases? And Wemyss dreaded ridicule more than anything else in the world; and was an Englishman above all things-particularly for the future. There was no question that the bourgeoisie of Boston would never condone his offence. Still, if Gower sent a challenge, he should certainly have to meet him.

"I wish you would go and smoke," said Flossie, impatiently. "I want to go to sleep."

"True and forgive me, dear-I ought to have remembered you have been up all night, and your triumphs at the ball." He took her hand, and bent over it; and the trivial thought came into his head to wonder if Flossie had any doubts of her complexion; the thought annoyed him, coming at such a time; it was not like a Lancelot, hardly like Lauzun. But he walked away regretfully, and went to the smokingroom, where he did take the cigar he really needed; for he too had been up all night, and he, at least, was worn

and weary. When he was gone, Flossie closed her eyes and went quietly to sleep.

There were two men in the smokingroom; but Wemyss looked in before he entered, and made up his mind that they were neither of them gentlemen. He sat down, and lit his cigar without fear that they could recognize him. He looked at the two other occupants of the place, who were evidently on some business journey, and fancied to himself what they would say if they knew the object of his own. For all his indifference, Wemyss was more nervous after his grand coup than had been Jem Starbuck.

He reminded himself that he must think, like other heroes of great passion, of his lady fair. Last night, at the ball, he had really adored her; if, to-day, there was the faintest possible reaction, was it not natural, after all? It takes a Dresden-china shepherd rather than a man of the world to be idyllic in a railroad-car; he was sure that he admired her, that she fascinated him, that if he was not in love with her, he had never been in love. He had contemplated this step for years. He was ready to sacrifice his whole future for her.

Another man entered the car, a younger man; he looked at him almost inquisitively, and Wemyss felt sure that he had seen his face before. His cigar was nearly done; moreover his savoir faire reproached him with staying so long away from Flossie, and he left his place to the new-comer. But he found her still asleep; though she opened her eyes at his entrance. "Where are we?" "New Haven." Flossie sighed.

دو

"Don't let me disturb you," he added. "Oh, I shall sleep no more." He sat down opposite, looking over at her tenderly; Justine sat up sphinx-like, and he was losing the constraint her presence at first had caused him. The fact that she took the situation so as of course even gave him a certain support. In this French maid's trained face he had much comfort. A new conductor came in to take their tickets; and they drew out again into the gray-white landscape of New-England winter. Wemyss had made the journey many hundred times; and yet, as he sat there looking at Flossie, his one thought was a sur