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Updated: June 17, 2025
Still he showed no premature triumph in word or look, but remained silent and humble, waiting the reply to his passionate appeal, as though life or death, in very truth, were depending upon it. And Zelma spoke at last, briefly and coldly, but in a manner neither suspicious nor unfriendly.
In her dressing-room Zelma waited for her husband. "Surely he will come now," she said. She had already put off the tragedy-queen; she was again the loving wife, yearning for one proud smile, one tender word, one straining embrace. The tempest outside the curtain still rolled in upon her, as she sat alone, drooping and sad, a spent thunder-cloud.
There was something so magnetic and contagious in this frank, confiding manner, that Zelma, ere she was aware, grew unrestrained and communicative in turn.
Lawrence Bury, with real or well-assumed enthusiasm; but Zelma, replying to his interruption only by a slight blush, went on to say, that she had been taught that poetry, art, and romances were all idle pastimes and perilous lures, unbecoming and unwholesome to a young English gentlewoman, whose manifest destiny it was to tread the dull, beaten track of domestic duty, with spirit chastened and conformed.
Illusions most transparent to others hoodwinked her senses; her willing fancy supplied feeling, and even made up for deficiencies of art in the players, till the mimic world before her became more real than reality. Not so with Zelma.
He rose when the lady appeared, stammered out an apology, bowed respectfully, and would have retired, but that Zelma, feeling that she was the intruder this time, begged him to remain.
"Swear it to me!" he said, in a hoarse stage-whisper; and Zelma, again laying her hand upon his head, and looking starward, swore to be his, to command, to call, to hold, in life, in death, here, hereafter, evermore.
There were a number of striking looking models present whom Eugene knew either by reputation, whispered comment of friends, or personally Zelma Desmond, who had posed for Eugene, Hedda Anderson, Anna Magruder and Laura Matthewson among others. Angela was struck and in a way taken by the dash and beauty of these girls.
Ay, thou shalt know, spite of thy past distress, And all the evils thou so long hast mourned, Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned!" Zelma gave these lines as no pre-Siddonian actress had ever given them, with a certain sublimity of rage, the ire of an immortal, and swept off the scene before a wild tumult of applause, led by the vanquished critics.
It was not Juliet, it was Zelma, the wild, misguided, lost, but still beloved child of his poor brother; and in his bewildered brain her sad story was strangely complicated with that of the hapless girl of Verona.
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