“I’ll be in at the death!” cried Gwendoline, as she glanced up with—for her—a mischievous smile.
“Nay,” said Emory, “I hope to save you that.”
Her eyelids fell and the sun went down.
Again ere midnight was it fated they should meet.
There was at that time, playing in the city, an actress of some note and of peculiar standing—a woman darkly beautiful, of good American family and a reputation fair enough to secure her an entrée into some of the best society wherever she went. She had paid more than one visit to N—— and was a favorite; yet, need I say, few women liked her?
For a week or so, she had held sway at the theatre and that night was to witness her crowning success. Lovers she had in plenty—pure love they called their infatuation. Her manager was very careful of her, and she shone forth a “Goddess among men.” The world of our city had given her some fond admirers, and among those said to be the most ardent was Neil Emory, who, report stated, knew her, in other places, years before. That he had bent with warmth above her chair at the receptions, and almost rested his blond moustache on her white shoulders, was true. That he had met her behind the scenes and wrapped her shawl about her at the exposed wings and, once, perhaps, driven her home in his coupé were also true. That she had staked her jewels and even money upon his racer were not denied, and that night, when the wealth and beauty of N—— assembled to witness her final triumph, many eyes and glasses were directed towards the tall form that alone occupied the left-hand proscenium box. Opposite, a lively party sat, the box on the right being tenanted by Mrs. Dale, Gwendoline, Mrs. Gwinn, Clayton and the inseparable Col. Coutell. The play was a bewitching one, and continuous rounds of applause greeted the great actress, Cassandra Clovis, “she who inflames with love.” Yes, surely, to see her was to be inflamed; yet modesty was her role—trains and dress not too décolletée were her robes. Those who gazed upon the hidden charms could but wonder and sleep thus; and so, with glimmer and light, and flowers and jewels, while the air was stirred by the flutter of perfumed fans, the play went on. Down sped the curtain upon the fourth act; but one remained, and when the orchestra had thundered out its last notes, the curtain slowly rolled up and revealed a scene new to all—a beautiful garden, not the old garden set upon which N—— had so often gazed, but a complete revelation of the beauties of nature—fountains of real water, real roses, all as perfect as an artist could make it; and, as the play went on with only a little change here and there, at last came the climax. There advanced adown the marble steps, portrayed at the back of the stage, a party of gay maskers. They were from the ball beyond.
“Ah!” exclaimed one, “they tell me that the fair Cecilia will excel herself to-night. Her costume is to be something marvelous—one to captivate.”
“Yes!” said a second, “to hold and fetter all.”
“Even him!” said a third.
And as they thus spoke and grouped themselves about the stage the music softly arose and from beyond the trees and through the vines came a form. Slowly descending the steps, her long green mantle dropping from her shoulders, came Cecilia. The beautiful dress in Roman style clung about her supple figure and as she neared the footlights she turned to their full blaze her right side, where, caught nearly to the hip, was the soft white fabric, exposing to view her exquisite limb, clothed in the palest of pink stockinet, while glittering with a thousand gems, a natural sized horse-shoe held the folds of her garment.