“Yes, yes!” hurriedly replied her daughter; “but I am tired.”
“I dislike to have you pass through the theatre before the play is over—to-night especially when Clovis bids farewell.”
“Pray, Madam,” said Emory, “allow me to escort your daughter home. Fortunately, this is the stage box and I can take her out that way,” pointing to the stage door, “and easily obtain a hack. Indeed, if agreeable, I will immediately order one to be at the stairs when we come out.”
“What say you, Col. Coutell?” and Mrs. Gwinn turned to that gentleman, who, being deeply interested in the play, gave his consent; and Emory hastened away to have his orders executed. The curtain was still down, when, with Gwendoline, trembling upon his arm, he closed the door of communication behind them, and stepped into the space beyond the wings. Only a few actors and supernumeraries were about, but, as they made their way along some stage paraphernalia they came directly up to the woman who was hurt. She was sitting upon a box with a silk handkerchief over her head. She heard them, and, pushing the hair from her face, looked up. The bright light from the wings shone full upon her, and they saw on her white brow a gaping cut above the eyes.
“You!” cried Emory, catching wildly at his throat, “you!”
“Cecile! and do you know me?”
“Oh! yes; I know you, Gwendoline,—and how well you ride!”
A random shot, but it told, for her cousin shrank back with the same low moan Emory had heard on the race-course. As it smote his ear, his frozen blood leaped into life again.
“Hush, woman!” and, catching her arm, he crushed her to the floor. A hollow, ugly laugh greeted him, as she twisted herself away, saying between her teeth:
“Did you enjoy the telegram?”