for me when in reality you merely wanted to add one more to the many proposals you have received. That is the alternative. Now, which is the fact? Are you in love with me, or have you been fooling me?"
"I told you I was not in love with you; but I did think you were a gentleman. Now that I see you are a ruffian, I hate you. Let go my wrist; you are hurting me."
"Very good, very good. Now we have the truth at last, and I will teach you the danger of making a plaything of a human heart."
Severance released her wrist and seized her around the waist. Bessie screamed and called for help, while the man who held her a helpless prisoner laughed sardonically. With his free hand he thrust aside the frail pine pole that formed a hand-rail to guard the edge of the cliff. It fell into the torrent and disappeared down the cataract.
"What are you going to do?" cried the girl, her eyes wide with terror.
"I intend to leap with you into this abyss; then we shall be united for ever."
"Oh, Archie, Archie, I love you!" sobbed Bessie, throwing her arms around the neck of the astonished young man, who was so amazed at the sudden turn events had taken, that, in stepping back, he nearly accomplished the disaster he had a moment before threatened.
"Then why—why," he stammered, "did you—why did you deny it?"
"Oh, I don't know. I suppose because I am contrary, or because, as you said, it was so self-evident. Still, I don't believe I would ever have accepted you if you hadn't forced me to. I have become so wearied with the conventional form of proposal."
"Yes, I suppose it does get rather tiresome," said Archie, mopping his brow. "I see a bench a little further down; suppose we sit there and talk the matter over."
He gave her his hand, and she tripped daintily down to the bench, where they sat down together.
"You don't really believe I was such a ruffian as I pretended to be?" said Archie at last.
"Why, yes; aren't you?" she asked simply, glancing sideways at him with her most winning smile.
"You surely didn't actually think I was going to throw you over the cliff?"
"Oh, I have often heard or read of it being done. Were you only pretending?"
"That's all. It was really a little matter of revenge. I thought you ought to be punished for the way you had used those other fellows. And Sanderson was such a good hand at billiards. I could just beat him."
"You—you said—you cared for me. Was that pretence too?" asked Bessie, with a catch in her voice.
"No. That was all true, Bessie, and there is where my scheme of vengeance goes lame. You see, my dear girl, I never thought you would look at me; some of the other fellows are ever so much better than I am, and of course I did not imagine I had any chance. I hope you will forgive me, and that you won't insist on having a real revenge by withdrawing what you have said."
"I shall have revenge enough on you, Archie, you poor, deluded young man, all your life. But never say anything about 'the other fellows,' as you call them. There never was any other fellow but you. Perhaps I will show you a little book some day that will explain everything, although I am afraid, if you saw it, you might think worse of me than ever. I think, perhaps, it is my duty to show it to you before it is too late to draw back. Shall I?"
"I absolutely refuse to look at it—now or any other time," said Archie magnanimously, drawing her towards him and kissing her.
And Bessie, with a sigh of relief, wondered why it was that men have so much less curiosity than women. She was sure that if he had hinted at any such secret she would never have rested until she knew what it was.
A Dramatic Point.
In the bad days of Balmeceda, when Chili was rent in twain, and its capital was practically a besieged city, two actors walked together along the chief street of the place towards the one theatre that was then open. They belonged to a French dramatic company that would gladly have left Chili if it could, but, being compelled by stress of war to remain, the company did the next best thing, and gave performances at the principal theatre on such nights as a paying audience came.
A stranger would hardly have suspected, by the look of the streets, that a deadly war was going on, and that the rebels—so called—were almost at the city gates. Although business was ruined, credit dead, and no man's life or liberty safe, the streets were filled with a crowd that seemed bent on enjoyment and making the best of things.
As Jacques Dupré and Carlos Lemoine walked together they conversed earnestly, not of the real war so close to their doors, but of the mimic conflicts of the stage. M. Dupré was the leading man of the company, and he listened with the amused tolerance of an elder man to the energetic vehemence of the younger.
"You are all wrong, Dupré," cried Lemoine, "all wrong. I have studied the subject. Remember, I am saying nothing against your acting in general. You know you have no greater admirer than I am, and that is something to say when the members of a dramatic company are usually at loggerheads through jealousy."
"Speak for yourself, Lemoine. You know I am green with jealousy of you. You are the rising star and I am setting. You can't teach an old dog new tricks, Carl, my boy."
"That's nonsense, Dupré. I wish you would consider this seriously. It is because you are so good on the stage that I can't bear to see you false to your art just to please the gallery. You should be above all that."
"How can a man be above his gallery—the highest spot in the house?
Talk sense, Carlos, and then I'll listen."
"Yes, you're flippant, simply because you know you're wrong, and dare not argue this matter soberly. Now she stabs you through the heart——"
"No. False premises entirely. She says something about my wicked heart, and evidently intends to pierce that depraved organ, but a woman never hits what she aims at, and I deny that I'm ever stabbed through the heart. Say in the region or the neighbourhood of the heart, and go on with your talk."
"Very well. She stabs you in a spot so vital that you die in a few minutes. You throw up your hands, you stagger against the mantel-shelf, you tear open your collar and then grope at nothing, you press your hands on your wound and take two reeling steps forward, you call feebly for help and stumble against the sofa, which you fall upon, and, finally, still groping wildly, you roll off on the floor, where you kick out once or twice, your clinched hand comes with a thud on the boards, and all is over."
"Admirably described, Carlos. Lord! I wish my audience paid such attention to my efforts as you do. Now you claim this is all wrong, do you?"
"All wrong."
"Suppose she stabbed you, what would you do?"
"I would plunge forward on my face—dead."
"Great heavens! What would become of your curtain?"
"Oh, hang the curtain!"
"It's all very well for you to maledict the curtain, Carl, but you must work up to it. Your curtain would come down, and your friends in the gallery wouldn't know what had happened. Now I go through the evolutions you so graphically describe, and the audience gets time to take in the situation. They say, chuckling to themselves, 'that villain's got his dose at last, and serve him right too.' They want to enjoy his struggles, while the heroine stands grimly at the door taking care that he doesn't get away. Then when my fist comes down flop on the stage and they realise that I am indeed done for, the yell of triumph that goes up is something delicious to hear."
"That's just the point, Dupré. I claim the actor has no right to hear applause—that he should not know there is such a thing as an audience. His business is to portray life exactly as it is."
"You can't portray life in a death scene, Carl."