Zelma chose for her debut the part of Zara in “The Mourning Bride,”—­not out of any love for the character, which was too stormy, vicious, and revengeful to engage her sympathies,—­but because it was rapid, vehement, sharply defined, and, if realized at all, she said, would put her, by its very fierceness and wickedness, too far out of herself for failure,—­sweep her through the play like a whirlwind, and give her no time to droop.  It had for her heart, moreover, a peculiar charm of association, as her first play,—­as that in which she had first beheld the hero of her dreams, “the god of her idolatry,” before whom she yet bowed, but as with eyes cast down or veiled, not in reverence, but from a chill, unavowed fear of beholding the very common clay of which he was fashioned.

The awful night of the debut arrived, as doomsday will come at last; and after having been elaborately arrayed for her part by a gossiping tire-woman, who would chatter incessantly, relating, for the encouragement of the debutante, tale after tale of stage-fright, swoons, and failure,—­after having been plumed, powdered, and most reluctantly rouged, the rose of nineteen summers having suddenly paled on her cheek, Zelma was silently conducted from her dressing-room by her husband, who, as Osmyn, took his stand with her, the guards, and attendants at the left wing, awaiting the summons to the presence of King Manuel.  As they were listening to the last tender bleating of Almeria, the same pretty actress whom Zelma had seen as Zara at Arden, and the gruff responses of her sire, an eager whisper ran through the group;—­the King and Queen had entered the royal box!  This was quite unexpected, and Zelma was aghast.  Involuntarily, she stretched out her hand and grasped that of her husband;—­as she did so, the rattle of the chains on her wrist betrayed her.  The attendants looked round and smiled;—­Lawrence frowned and turned away, with a boy’s pettishness.  He had been more than usually moody that day; but Zelma had believed him troubled for her sake, and even now interpreted his unkindness as nervous anxiety.

The next moment, everything, even he, was forgotten; for she stood, she hardly knew how, upon the stage, receiving and mechanically acknowledging a great burst of generous British applause.

It was a greeting less complaisant and patronizing than is usually given to debutantes.  Zelma’s youthful charms, heightened by her sumptuous dress, took her audience by surprise, and, while voice and action delayed, made for her friends and favor, and bribed judgment with beauty.