Miss Selina, with tightly compressed lips and an angry glare in her little grey eyes, was aware that she had been publicly slighted. What is that line about “A woman scorned?” She felt capable of anything. Her rage against Mr. Wynne was as hot and as consuming as her bitter jealousy of Madeline West. Well, they should suffer for their intolerable behaviour, as she called it, meaning the simple fact of their sitting together, talking with much animation between the acts, and looking supremely happy. Yes, her feelings must have immediate relief. She would find a way to punish them; and, as she sat silent, her eyes fixed upon the drop scene, she was revolving a portentous plan in her own mind—a scheme that would rid her of her ex-pupil, and avenge her on the rising barrister by one swift blow—a scheme that would not be for the benefit of the smiling young couple—no, quite the reverse.
The orchestra was playing a wild Polish dance, its burthen full of sadness, despair, and weird, fantastic chords at one period; at another gaily frolicsome, and full of outbursts of mad mirth—an air that exercised a strange influence upon them, especially on Madeline, in her present state of highly strung nerves, and repressed mental excitement. She drank in that wild melody; it haunted her as long as she lived. When heard among other scenes, it always recalled this night—this momentous night, the very crisis of her existence. She gazed at the stage, at the big, red, mysterious curtain, the bent figures in the orchestra, the florally ornamented theatre, the gay company, with fans and opera-glasses, and asked herself, “Was it all real?”
At last the play was over; the actors had been called before the footlights and vociferously applauded, and had bowed themselves away. And now people began to move, to look about for cloaks and wraps and overcoats, and to hurry off, as if the place was on fire! The crowd was great. Outside it was snowing hard, and inside the crush was almost suffocating.
“I’ll look after you, Miss West,” said Mr. Wynne, eagerly, as they found a footing in the passage among hundreds of the recent audience.
“Very well. Be sure you do!” put in Miss Selina, with unwonted briskness. “We are certain to get separated. Look here, Madeline”—lowering her voice suddenly—“meet us at the bottom of the station steps. You know the place. Mind you are not late; it’s the last train!”
And with this injunction on her lips, she was borne away in the crowd, in her smart, pink opera mantle—once the property of the rich Miss West—and soon lost to sight.
“Let us wait until the rush is over, and take it quietly,” said Wynne, struggling vainly to look at his watch. “We will get a hansom, and be at the station in no time—before them, ten to one—for they are a large party.”
Inwardly he marvelled at Miss Selina’s arrangement. He was not aware that she had her reasons—well-thought-out plans—and he was too well satisfied to question the matter. After a little, when the crush had lessened, he made his way down to the portico, secured a hansom, and drove with his charge to the place of rendezvous, the foot of the steps—a covered entry, luckily, for the snow was falling thick and fast. They waited—it was bitterly cold—a chill little wind rose, and sobbed and wailed round them. Five minutes, and no one came to meet them. Ten minutes! still no one, and the hurrying crowd that had passed up had now entirely ceased.
“I hope they have not come to grief!” said Wynne. And, suddenly looking at his watch, he added, “I’ll tell you what—we can’t wait any longer, or we will miss our train. We must run for it as it is,” springing quickly up the steps.
Too late! Too late! The red light of the last train to Streambridge was just disappearing into the big tunnel. What was to be done? He stood for a moment irresolute. Yes; it was the last train, and it was gone. A cab was the first idea. Leaving Madeline, who was benumbed with waiting, and a good deal frightened, he hurried to the cab-rank. It was empty and void. He waylaid a passing cabby, and told him the state of the case.