A Peep Behind the Scenes

M >> Mrs. O. F. Walton >> A Peep Behind the Scenes

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'"Yes, Norah," she answered. "I'm so frightened; shall we have a light?"

'I found the matches and lighted a candle; but three or four large moths
darted into the room, so that I had to close the window.

'We lay awake in our little beds watching the moths darting in and out of
the candle, and straining our ears for any sound from our father's room.
Each time a door shut we started, and sat up in bed listening.

'"Wouldn't you be frightened if you were dying, Norah?" said Lucy, under
her breath.

'"Yes," I said, "I'm sure I should."

'Then there was silence again for a long time; and I thought Lucy had
fallen asleep, when she got up in bed and spoke again--

'"Norah, do you think you would go to heaven if you were to die?"

'"Yes, of course," I said quickly; "why do you ask me?"

'"I don't think _I_ should," said Lucy; "I'm almost sure I shouldn't."

'We lay still for about another hour, and then the door opened, and our
mother came in. She was crying very much, and had a handkerchief to her
eyes.

"'Your father wants to see you," she said; "come at once."

'We crept very quietly into the room of death, and stood beside our
father's bed. His face was so altered that it frightened us, and we
trembled from head to foot. But he held out his hand to us, Rosalie, and we
drew closer to him. Then he whispered--

'"Good-bye! don't forget your father; and don't wait till you come to die
to get ready for another world."

'Then we kissed him, and our mother told us to go back to bed. I never
forgot my father's last words to us; and I often wondered what made him say
them.

'The next morning we heard that our father was dead. Gerald arrived too
late to see him; he was at college then, and was just preparing for his
last examination.

'My mother seemed at first very much distressed by my father's death; she
shut herself up in her room, and would see no one. The funeral was a very
grand one; all the people of the neighbourhood came to it, and Lucy and I
peeped out of one of the top windows to see it start. After it was over,
Gerald went back to college, and my mother returned to her novels. I think
she thought, Rosalie, that she would be able to return to her old life much
as before. But no sooner had Gerald passed his last examination than she
received a letter from him to say that he intended to be married in a few
months, and to bring his bride to the Hall. Then for the first time the
truth flashed upon my mother's mind, that she would soon be no longer the
mistress of the manor-house, but would have to seek a home elsewhere. She
seemed at first very angry with Gerald for marrying so early; but she could
say nothing against his choice, for she was a young lady of title, and one
in every way suited to the position she was to occupy.

'My mother at length decided to remove to a town in the midland counties,
where she would have some good society and plenty of gaiety, so soon as her
mourning for my father was ended.

'It was a great trial to us, leaving the old home. Lucy and I went round
the park the day before we left, gathering leaves from our favourite trees,
and taking a last look at the home of our childhood. Then we walked through
the house, and looked out of the windows on the lovely wooded hills with
eyes which were full of tears. I have never seen it since, and I shall
never see it again. Sometimes, when we are coming through the country, it
brings it back to my mind, and I could almost fancy I was walking down one
of the long grassy terraces, or wandering in the quiet shade of the trees
in the park. Hush! what was that, Rosalie?' said her mother, leaning
forward to listen; 'was it music?'

At first Rosalie could hear nothing except Toby whistling to his horse, and
the rumbling of the wheels of the caravan. She went to the door and leaned
out, and listened once more. The sun was beginning to set, for Rosalie's
mother had only been able to talk at intervals during the day, from her
frequent fits of coughing, and from numerous other interruptions, such as
the preparations for dinner, the halting to give the horses rest, and the
occasional visits of Augustus.

The rosy clouds were gathering in the west, as the pure evening breeze
wafted to the little girl's ears the distant sound of bells.

'It's bells, mammie,' she said, turning round, 'church bells; can't you
hear them? Ding-dong-bell, ding-dong-bell.'

'Yes,' said her mother, 'I can hear them clearly now; our old nurse used to
tell us they were saying, "Come and pray, come and pray." Oh, Rosalie, it
is such a comfort to be able to speak of those days to some one! I've kept
it all hidden up in my heart till sometimes I have felt as if it would
burst.'

'I can see the church now, mammie,' said Rosalie; 'it's a pretty little
grey church with a tower, and we're going through the village; aren't we,
Toby?'

'Yes, Miss Rosie,' said Toby; 'we're going to stop there all night; the
horses are tired out, and it's so fair to see, that even master can see it
now. We shall get on all the quicker for giving them a bit of rest.'

'Can't you hear the bells nicely now, mammie?' said Rosalie, turning round.

'Yes,' said the poor woman; 'they sound just like the bells of our little
church at home; I could almost cry when I hear them.'

By this time they had reached the village. It was growing dark, and the
country people were lighting their candles, and gathering round their small
fires. Rosalie could see inside many a cheerful little home, where the
firelight was shining on the faces of the father, the mother, and the
children. How she wished they had a little home!

Ding-dong-bell, ding-dong-bell; still the chimes went on, and one and
another came out of the small cottages, and took the road leading to the
church, with their books under their arms.

Toby drove on; nearer and nearer the chimes sounded, until at last, just as
the caravan reached a wide open common in front of the church, they ceased,
and Rosalie saw the last old woman entering the church door before the
service began. The waggons and caravans were drawn up on this open space
for the night. Toby and the other men led the horses away to the stables of
the inn; Augustus followed them, to enjoy himself amongst the lively
company assembled in the little coffee-room, and Rosalie and her mother
were left alone.

'Mammie dear,' said Rosalie, as soon as the men had turned the corner, 'may
I go and peep at the church?'

'Yes, child,' said her mother; 'only don't make a noise if the people are
inside.'

Rosalie did not wait for a second permission, but darted across the common,
and opened the church gate. It was getting dark now, and the gravestones
looked very solemn in the twilight. She went quickly past them, and crept
along the side of the church to one of the windows. She could see inside
the church quite well, because it was lighted up; but no one could see her
as she was standing in the dark churchyard. Her bright quick eyes soon took
in all that was to be seen. The minister was kneeling down, and so were all
the people. There were a good many there, though the church was not full,
as it was the week-evening service.

Rosalie watched at the window until all the people got up from their knees,
when the clergyman gave out a hymn, and they began to sing. Rosalie then
looked for the door, that she might hear the music better. It was a warm
evening, and the door was open, and before she knew what she was about, she
had crept inside, and was sitting on a low seat just within. No one noticed
her, for they were all looking in the opposite direction. Rosalie enjoyed
the singing very much, and when it was over the clergyman began to speak.
He had a clear, distinct voice, and he spoke in simple language which every
one could understand.

Rosalie listened with all her might; it was the first sermon she had ever
heard. 'The Son of Man is come to seek and to save that which is lost.'
That was the text of Rosalie's first sermon.

As soon as the service was over, she stole out of the church, and crept
down the dark churchyard. She had passed through the little gate and was
crossing the common to the caravan before the first person had left the
church. To Rosalie's joy, her father had not returned; for he had found the
society in the village inn extremely attractive. Rosalie's mother looked up
as the child came in.

'Where have you been all this time, Rosalie?'

Rosalie gave an account of all she had seen, and told her how she had crept
in at the open door of the church.

'And what did the clergyman say, child?' asked her mother.

'He said your text, mammie--the text that was on your picture: "The Son of
Man is come to seek and to save that which is lost."'

'And what did he tell you about it?'

'He said Jesus went up and down all over to look for lost sheep, mammie;
and he said we were all the sheep, and Jesus was looking for us. Do you
think He is looking for you and me, mammie dear?'

'I don't know, child; I suppose so,' said her mother. '_I_ shall take
a good deal of looking for, I'm afraid.'

'But he said, mammie, that if only we would _let_ Him find us, He
would be sure to do it; He doesn't mind how much trouble He takes about
it.'

Rosalie's mother was quite still for some time after this. Rosalie stood at
the caravan door, watching the bright stars coming out one by one in the
still sky.

'Mammie dear,' she said, 'is _He_ up there?'

'Who, Rosalie, child?' said her mother.

'The Saviour; is He up in one of the stars?'

'Yes; heaven's somewhere there, Rosalie; up above the sky somewhere.'

'Would it be any good telling Him, mammie?'

'Telling Him what, my dear?'

'Just telling Him that you and me want seeking and finding.'

'I don't know, Rosalie; you can try,' said her mother sadly.

'Please, Good Shepherd,' said Rosalie, looking up at the stars, 'come and
seek me and mammie, and find us very quick, and carry us very safe, like
the lamb in the picture.'

'Will that do, mammie?' said Rosalie.

'Yes,' said her mother, 'I suppose so.'

Then Rosalie was still again, looking at the stars; but a sudden thought
seized her.

'Mammie, ought I to have said amen?'

'Why, Rosalie?'

'I heard the people at church say it. Will it do any good without amen?'

'Oh, I don't think it matters much,' said her mother; 'you can say it now,
if you like.'

'Amen, amen,' said Rosalie, looking at the stars again.

But just then voices were heard in the distance, and Rosalie saw her father
and the men crossing the dark common, and coming in the direction of the
caravan.

CHAPTER VI

A FAMILY SECRET

How sweet and calm the village looked the next morning, when Rosalie woke
and looked out at it. She was quite sorry to leave it, but there was no
rest for these poor wanderers; they must move onwards towards the town
where they were next to perform. And as they travelled on, Rosalie's mother
went on with her sad story.

'I told you, darling, that my mother took a house in town, and that we all
moved there, that my brother Gerald might take possession of our old home.
We were getting great girls now, and my mother sent Miss Manders away, and
left us to our own devices.

'My sister Lucy had been very different since our father died. She was so
quiet and still, that I often wondered what was the matter with her. She
spent nearly all her time reading her Bible in a little attic chamber. I
did not know why she went there, till one day I went upstairs to get
something out of a box, and found Lucy sitting in the window-seat reading
her little black Bible. I asked her what she read it for, and she said--

'"Oh, Norah, it makes me so happy! won't you come and read it with me?" But
I tossed my head, and said I had too much to do to waste my time like that;
and I ran downstairs, and tried to forget what I had seen; for I knew that
my sister was right and I was wrong. Oh, Rosalie darling, I've often
thought if I had listened to my sister Lucy that day, what a different life
I might have led!

'Well, I must go on; I'm coming to the saddest part of my story, and I had
better get over it as quickly as I can.

'As I got older, I took to reading novels. Our house was full of them, for
my mother spent her days in devouring them. I read them and read them till
I lived in them, and was never happy unless I was fancying myself one of
the heroines of whom I read. My own life seemed dull and monotonous; I
wanted to see more of the world, and to have something romantic happen to
me. Oh, Rosalie, I got so restless and discontented! I used to wake in the
night, and wonder what _my_ fortunes would be; and then I used to
light the candle, and go on with the exciting novel I had been reading the
night before. Often I used to read half the night, for I could not sleep
again till I knew the end of the story. I quite left off saying my prayers,
for I could not think of anything of that sort when I was in the middle of
a novel.

'It was just about this time that I became acquainted with a family of the
name of Roehunter. They were rich people, friends of my mother. Miss
Georgina and Miss Laura Roehunter were very fast, dashing girls. They took
a great fancy to me, and we were always together. They were passionately
fond of the theatre, and they took me to it night after night.

'I could think of nothing else, Rosalie. I dreamt of it every night. It
took even more hold of me than the novels had done for it seemed to me like
a _living_ novel. I admired the scenery, I admired the actors, I
admired everything that I saw. I thought if I was only on the stage I
should be perfectly happy. There was nothing in the world that I wanted so
much; it seemed to me such a free, happy, romantic life. When an actress
was greeted with bursts of applause, I almost envied her. How wearisome my
life seemed when compared with hers!

'I kept a book then, Rosalie darling, in which I wrote all that I did every
day, and I used to write again and again--

'"No change yet; my life wants variety. It is the same over and over
again."

'I determined that, as soon as possible, I would have a change, cost what
it might.

'Soon after this the Roehunters told me that they were going to have some
private theatricals, and that I must come and help them. It was just what I
wanted. Now, I thought, I could fancy myself an actress.

'They engaged some of the professional actors at the theatre to teach us
our parts, to arrange the scenery, and to help us to do everything in the
best possible manner. I had to go up to the Roehunters' again and again to
learn my part of the performance. And there it was, Rosalie dear, that I
met your father. He was one of the actors whom they employed.

'You can guess what came next, my darling. Your father saw how well I could
act, and how passionately fond I was of it; and by degrees he found out how
much I should like to do it always, instead of leading my humdrum life at
home. So he used to meet me in the street, and talk to me about it, and he
told me that if I would only come with him, I should have a life of
pleasure and excitement, and never know what care was. And he arranged that
the day after these private theatricals we should run away and be married.

'Oh, darling, I shall never forget that day! I arrived home late at night,
or rather early in the morning, worn out with the evening's entertainment.
I had been much praised for the way I had performed my part, and some of
the company had declared I should make a first-rate actress, and I thought
to myself that they little knew how soon I was to become one. As I drove
home, I felt in a perfect whirl of excitement. The day had come at last.
Was I glad? I hardly knew--I tried to think I was; but somehow I felt sick
at heart; I could not shake that feeling off, and as I walked upstairs, I
felt perfectly miserable.

'My mother had gone to bed; and I never saw her again! Lucy was fast
asleep, lying with her hand under her cheek, sleeping peacefully. I stood a
minute or two looking at her. Her little Bible was lying beside her, for
she had been reading it the last thing before she went to sleep. Oh,
Rosalie, I would have given anything to change places with Lucy then! But
it was too late now; Augustus was to meet me outside the house, and we were
to be married at a church in the town that very morning. Our names had been
posted up in the register office some weeks before.

'I turned away from Lucy, and began putting some things together to take
with me, and I hid them under the bed, lest Lucy should wake and see them.
It was no use going to bed, for I had not got home from the theatricals
till three o'clock, and in two hours Augustus would come. So I scribbled a
little note to my mother, telling her that when she received it I should be
married, and that I would call and see her in a few days. Then I put out
the light, lest it should wake my sister, and sat waiting in the dark. And,
Rosie dear, that star--the same star that I had seen that night when I was
a little girl, and had told that lie--that same star came and looked in at
the window. And again it seemed to me like the eye of God.

'I felt so frightened, that once I thought I would not go. I almost
determined to write Augustus a note giving it up; but I thought that he
would laugh at me for being such a coward, and I tried to picture to myself
once more how fine it would be to be a real actress, and be always praised
as I had been last night.

'Then I got up, and drew down the blind, that I might hide the star from
sight. I was so glad to see it beginning to get light, for I knew that the
star would fade away, and that Augustus would soon come.

'At last the church clock struck five, so I took my carpetbag from under
the bed, wrapped myself up in a warm shawl, and, leaving my note on the
dressing-table, prepared to go downstairs. But I turned back when I got to
the door, to look once more at my sister Lucy. And, Rosalie darling, as I
looked, I felt as if my tears would choke me. I wiped them hastily away,
however, and crept downstairs. Every creaking board made me jump and
tremble lest I should be discovered, and at every turning I expected to see
some one watching me. But no one appeared; I got down safely, and,
cautiously unbolting the hall door, I stole quietly out into the street,
and soon found Augustus, who carried my bag under his arm, and that morning
we were married.

'And then my troubles began. It was not half as pleasant being an actress
as I had thought it would be. I knew nothing then of the life behind the
scenes. I did not know how tired I should be, nor what a comfortless life I
should lead.

'Oh, Rosalie, I was soon sick of it. I would have given worlds to be back
in my old home. I would have given worlds to lead that quiet, peaceful life
again. I was much praised and applauded in the theatre; but after a time I
cared very little for it; and as for the acting itself, I became thoroughly
sick of it. Oh, Rosalie dear, I have often and often fallen asleep, unable
to undress myself from weariness, after acting in the play; and again and
again I have wished that I had never seen the inside of a theatre, and
never known anything of the wretched life of an actress!

'We stopped for some time in the town where my mother lived, for Augustus
had an engagement in a theatre there, and he procured one for me. We had
miserable lodgings, and often were very badly off. I called at home a few
days after I was married; but the servant shut the door in my face, saying
that my mother never wished to see me again, or to hear my name mentioned.
I used to walk up and down outside, trying to catch a glimpse of my sister
Lucy; but she was never allowed to go out alone, and I could not get an
opportunity of speaking to her. All my old friends passed me in the
street--even the Roehunters would take no notice of me whatever.

'And then your father lost his engagement at the theatre,

--I need not tell you why, Rosalie darling,--and we left the town. And then
I began to know what poverty meant. We travelled from place to place,
sometimes getting occasional jobs at small town theatres, sometimes
stopping at a town for a few months, and then being dismissed, and
travelling on for weeks without hearing of any employment.

'And then it was that your little brother was born. Such a pretty baby he
was, and I named him Arthur after my father. I was very, very poor when he
was born, and I could hardly get clothes for him to wear, but oh, Rosalie
darling, I loved him very much! I wrote to my mother to tell her about it,
and that baby was to be christened after my father; but she sent back my
letter unread, and I never wrote to her again. And one day, when I took up
a newspaper, I saw my mother's death in it; and I heard afterwards that she
said on her dying bed that I was not to be told of her death till she was
put under the ground, for I had been a disgrace and a shame to the family.
And that, they said, was the only time that she mentioned me, after the
week that I ran away.

'My sister Lucy wrote me a very kind letter after my mother died, and sent
me some presents; but I was sorry for it afterwards, for your father kept
writing to her for money, and telling her long tales about the distress I
was in, to make her send us more.

'She often sent us money; but I felt as if I could not bear to take it. And
she used to write me such beautiful letters--to beg me to come to Jesus,
and to remember what my father had said to us when he died. She said Jesus
had made her happy, and would make me happy too. I often think now of what
she said, Rosalie.

'Well, after a time I heard that Lucy was married to a clergyman, and your
father heard it too, and he kept writing to her and asking her for money
again and again. And at last came a letter from her husband, in which he
said that he was very sorry to be obliged to tell us that his wife could do
no more for us; and he requested that no more letters on the same subject
might be addressed to her, as they would receive no reply.

'Your father wrote again; but they did not answer it, and since then they
have left the town where they were living, and he lost all clue to them.
And, Rosalie darling, I hope he will never find them again. I cannot bear
to be an annoyance to my sister Lucy--my dear little sister Lucy.

'As for Gerald, he has taken no notice of us at all. Your father has
written to him from time to time, but his letters have always been returned
to him.

'Well, so we went on, getting poorer and poorer. Once your father took a
situation as a post-master in a small country village, and there was a lady
there who was very kind to me. She used to come and see my little Arthur;
he was very delicate, and at last he took a dreadful cold, and it settled
on his chest, and my poor little lamb died. And, Rosalie darling, when I
buried him under a little willow-tree in that country churchyard, I felt as
if I had nothing left to live for.

'We did not stay in that village long; we were neither of us used to
keeping accounts, and we got them in a complete muddle. So I had to leave
behind my little grave, and the only home we ever had.

'Then your father fell in with a strolling actor, who was in the habit of
frequenting fairs, and between them, by selling their furniture, and almost
everything they possessed, they bought some scenery and a caravan, and
started a travelling theatre. And when the man died, Rosalie, he left his
share of it to your father.

'So the last twelve years, my darling, I've been moving about from place to
place, just as we are doing now. And in this caravan, my little girl, you
were born. I was very ill a long time after that, and could not take my
place in the theatre, and, for many reasons, that was the most miserable
part of my miserable life.

'And now, little woman, I've told you all I need tell you at present;
perhaps some day I can give you more particulars; but you will have some
idea now why I am so utterly wretched.

'Yes, utterly wretched!' said the poor woman, 'no hope for this world, and
no hope for the next.'

'Poor, poor mammie!' said little Rosalie, stroking her hand very gently and
tenderly--'poor mammie dear!'

'It's all my own fault, child,' said her mother; 'I've brought it all upon
my self, and I've no one but myself to blame.'

'Poor, poor mammie!' said Rosalie again.

Then the sick woman seemed quite exhausted, and lay upon her bed for some
time without speaking or moving. Rosalie sat by the door of the caravan,
and sang softly to herself--

'Jesus, I Thy face am seeking,
Early will I come to Thee.'

'Oh, Rosalie,' said her mother, looking round, 'I didn't come to Him
early--oh, if I only had! Mind you do, Rosie; it's so much easier for you
now than when you get to be old and wicked like me.'

'Is that what "In the sunshine of the morning" means, in the next verse,
mammie dear?'

'Yes, Rosalie,' said her mother; 'it means when you're young and happy. Oh,
dear, dear! if I'd only come to Him then!'

'Why don't you come now, mammie dear?'

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