“I have, though. I knew there was a part in the piece they are going to play which would suit you down to the ground, so I mentioned that there was a lady of remarkable promise in the company I was in, and said just what I knew would attract attention about you; and it happens that the manager wants some one for the part I have in my eye, and I think you are pretty sure to get it if you write.”
“Oh, Mr. Cooke, I don’t know how to thank you!” said Annie, in wild delight, for more than one reason.
“Don’t mention it, Miss Langton,” said Aubrey, in his old, deferential manner; then he turned the conversation. “I met an old favorite of yours last night—Gibson—at Mrs. Falconer’s.”
“Oh! How is the beauty?”
“Well, she affects great distress about one of her brothers, who is ill, and not expected to live. It appears he fell down as he was getting into a dog-cart, awfully tight, last Wednesday night. But I don’t think she is as much afflicted as she would be if mourning didn’t suit her complexion. And, though she mentioned that he was quite alone, she did not suggest going to nurse him.”
“Did she mention the name of the brother?” asked Annie, quite quietly.
“Yes; she called him ‘poor Harry.’”
Annie heard without giving one sign that the news moved her. For the rest of the walk she spoke little, and with an effort. At her door he was struck by the marked constraint of her manner as she bade him good-bye. When she had unlocked the door and he had turned away, she said:
“Whatever you hear of me, remember I am not ungrateful.”
When Aubrey got to the theater on the following evening, he found that the manager’s niece was to play Miss Langton’s part, and learned that the latter had thrown up her engagement and had already left town.