“Excuse me, Madam,” remarked a stranger behind them. “She is not going there until after her engagement here; then, she leaves, never to return.”
“Ah, indeed!” said Mrs. Gwinn. “I had not heard that. Thanks for your kind information,” and she turned her face to the stage, as the curtain rose.
Like all Cassandra’s selections, the play was both tasty and beautiful. Gwendoline thought her quite as lovely as ever, only, perhaps, a little thinner, and a “wee bit” worn in face and figure. The story of the drama was one like unto her own life—the hopeless, passionate love of a woman for a man, who had given the best of his heart-treasures to another. Emory, standing in the shade of a column, saw all and felt her powerful language. Never had she acted as now—never had her voice rung o’er pit and gallery with such pathos. She never once saw him, or knew that he was there. As if alone, and unto an unseen world, did she pour forth the torrent of her affection, and other hearts besides his were touched. The last scene came. The dying footsteps of her departing lover were heard no longer, and in solitude the lonely, deserted woman stood, to speak in beauteous soliloquy her parting words—to breathe her parting prayer.
With those glorious eyes upturned to a face she seemed to see, while her white arms went out before her and around her clung her flowing robes of snow, stood the actress the people loved. Pale, and paler still, she grew; and, back, within the shade, where he sat, Emory saw the tears upon her cheeks and heard the sadness in the voice, as the soft roll of the falling curtain shut that face from his gaze forevermore!
And that other—where was she? Her name was not on the programme, but one woman behind the scenes had he caught a glimpse of—a frail thing, dressed in black lace, her head and shoulders enveloped in a fabric of the same kind. Several times had she passed in view, but his opera-glass told him nothing.
It was long past midnight when he sought his room. In spite of the lateness of the hour the lamps burned in the long parlor. Throwing his window open, he drew a chair to the railing of the veranda, so that he might sit for awhile and enjoy the coolness there. How clear seemed the skies above him, studded with those myriad stars! How sweet the soft winds of heaven!
The occasional roll of returning carriages was heard in the street beneath, in whose cushioned depths sat beautiful women, the glimpses of whose white hands resting on the sills of the open windows, as they caught the light from some street lamp, made his pulses thrill when he thought of those other hands as fair.
Like threads of gold came the light from the parlor windows into the gloom outside, and a little way along another streamed, faintly dying against the railing of the veranda. Turning his head, he saw it, and wondered if she had come home.
“I must see her to-morrow,” he thought; “yes, let the end be what it will! To-morrow, to-morrow, Gwendoline! I will come again to-morrow!”
Rising, he walked slowly back and forth, in front of his open window, with folded arms and stately mien. Long he paced, till a little wearied; he paused at last, and sank into a seat, with a sigh. Why, at that moment, did he think of his wife Cecile, and why did those thoughts assume a more kindly nature than they had ever done before? Only the best of her seemed to find an echo in the heart that loved her not.