than ever. And I was glad that it was so. Such agony as I was
enduring would surely make me play Juliet as it had never been played
before.

At rehearsals I could see I created a sensation. I felt that I was
grand in my hapless love, my desperate grief. I should make myself a
name. If Jack were dead or had forsaken me, my art should be all in
all.

The morning before the all important evening dawned, I had lain awake
nearly an hour, as my custom was of nights how, thinking of Jack,
wondering if ever woman had so much cause to grieve as I. Then I
rose, practised taking the friar's potion, and throwing myself upon
the bed, until my mother came up and told me to go to sleep, or my
eyes would be red and hollow in the morning. But I told my mother
that hollow eyes and pale cheeks were necessary to me now--that my
career depended upon the depths of my despair.

"To-morrow, mother, let no one disturb me on any account. Keep away
letters, newspapers, everything. Tomorrow I am Juliet or nothing."

My mother promised, and I got some hours of undisturbed slumber.

Rehearsal was over--the last rehearsal. I had gone through my part
thinking of my woes. I had swallowed the draught as if it had indeed
been a potion to put me out of all remembrance of my misery. I had
snatched the dagger and stabbed myself with great satisfaction, and I
felt I should at least have the comfort of confounding my enemies and
triumphing over them.