The play had already commenced when they entered, and the scene in progress was that of the ball at old Capulet’s house. It seemed to confine the attention of the audience, but as for Lord William Daw, the mimic life upon the stage had no more power than had had the real drama of the morning to draw his attention from the magnificent Marguerite. He spoke but little; spellbound, his eyes never left her, except when, in turning her regal head, her eyes encountered his—when, blushing like a detected schoolboy, he would avert his face. So, for him; the play passed like a dream; nor did he know it was over until the general rising of the company informed him.
Every one was enthusiastic. Colonel Compton, who had been in London in an official capacity, and had seen Mrs. Siddons, averred it as his opinion that her sister, Mrs. Whitlock, was in every respect the equal of the great tragedienne. All seemed delighted with the performance they had just witnessed, excepting only Lord William Daw, who had seen nothing of it, and Marguerite De Lancie, who seemed perfectly indifferent.
“What is your opinion, Miss De Lancie?” inquired the youth, by way of relieving the awkwardness of his own silence.
“About what?” asked Marguerite, abstractedly.
“Ahem!—about—Shakespeare and—this performance.”
“Oh! Can I be interested in anything of this kind, after what we have witnessed in the State House to-day? Least of all in this thing?”
“This thing?—what, Marguerite, do you not worship Shakespeare and Mrs. Whitlock, then?” exclaimed Cornelia Compton.
“Mrs. Whitlock? I do not know yet; let me see her in some other character. Shakespeare? Yes! but not traditionally, imitatively, blindly, wholly, as most of you worship, or profess to worship him; I admire his tragedies of Lear, Richard the Third, Macbeth, and perhaps one or two others; but this Romeo and Juliet, this lovesick boy and puling girl—bah! bah! let’s go home.”
“That’s the way with Marguerite! Now I should not have dared to risk my reputation for intelligence by uttering that sentiment,” said Cornelia Compton.
“Never fear, child; naught is never in danger,” observed Colonel Compton, with good-humored, though severe raillery.