“How ridiculous, here in the theater.” Upon which his eye suddenly fell upon one of the actresses, and he almost uttered an exclamation. It was the unknown lady of the wood.
The novelist continues:
The unknown lady was no gentle Virginia maiden, no “lady,” as she had said with perfect calmness at their meeting—only one of the company of comedians. Her singular expression when she uttered the words,
“I think you will see me again,” occurred to the young man, and he wondered that this easy solution of the riddle had not occurred to him at once.
“What was her name?” Mr. Effingham drew forth his bill and saw opposite the name of Portia, Miss Beatrice Hallam.
“Ah, yes,” he said, carelessly, “the same we were speculating upon this morning. Let us see how Portia looks, and what change the footlights work in her face.”
He sat down in the corner of the stage upon a wicker chair and scanned Portia critically. Her costume was faultless. It consisted of a gown and underskirt of fawn-colored silk trimmed with silver, and a single band of gold encircled each wrist, clearly relieved against the white, finely-rounded arm. Her hair, which was a beautiful chestnut, had been carried back from the temples and powdered after the fashion of the time, and around her beautiful, swan-like neck the young woman wore a necklace of pearls of rare brilliancy. Thus the costume of the character defied criticism, and Mr. Effingham passed on to the face and figure. These we have already described. The countenance of Beatrice Hallam wore the same simple, yet firm and collected expression, which Mr. Effingham had observed in their first interview, and her figure had the same indefinable grace and beauty. Every movement which she made might have suited a royal palace, and in her large, brilliant eyes Mr. Effingham sought the least trace of confusion. She surveyed the audience, whilst the Prince of Morocco was uttering his speech, with perfect simplicity, but her eyes not for a single moment rested on the young men collected at the corner of the stage. For her they seemed to have no existence, and she turned to the Prince again. That gentleman having uttered his prescribed number of lines, Portia advanced graciously towards him and addressed him. Her carelessness was gone. She no longer betrayed either indifference or coldness; she was the actress, with her rôle to sustain. She commenced in a voice of noble and queen-like courtesy, a voice of pure music and clear utterance, so to speak, such as few lips possess the power of giving forth. Every word rang and told; there was no hurry, no slurring, no hesitation. It was not an actress delivering a set speech, but the noble Portia, doing the honors of her beautiful palace at Belmont. The scene ended with great applause—the young woman had evidently produced a most favorable impression on the audience. But she seemed wholly unconscious of this compliment, and made her exit quite calmly.
A buzz ran through the theater; the audience were discussing the merits of Portia. On the stage, too, she was the subject of many comments, and this continued until Lancelot made his appearance and went through his speech; then Portia reappeared with the Prince, and was greeted with great applause.
Mr. Effingham leaned forward and touched the young woman’s sleeve.
“Come,” he said with easy carelessness, and scarcely moderating his voice; “come, fair Portia, while that tiresome fellow is making his speech, and talk to me a little. We are old acquaintances, and you are indebted to me for directing you home.”