“Sir,” he said, “I believe you are purposely acting the buffoon; you seek to impose on me by affecting an impossible ignorance—”
“Upon my soul, sir,” cried simple John, who was now quite pale and could hardly speak for agitation, “’tis my first visit to such a place, and I—I happen to know some of these ladies and—”
“So?” said the other with a grin. “Well, good country cousin, I will take pity on your innocence. These titles here are wholly fictitious, as indeed I think is easily seen; these names to the right are those which either belong properly to the actors and actresses, or are assumed by them for their greater convenience. Mrs Scully, for instance, who plays Lady Olivia, chooses rather to call herself Mrs Swynnerton, because the name has a better sound, while as for Miss Fitzroy, who is set down for the part of Lady Lucy, that I am sure must be an assumed name, but as it is the lady’s first appearance upon the boards, my information concerning her is scanty. I am informed that she is a pretty little creature, and likely to prove attractive. Now, sir, let me request that you will sit still. I assure you it is quite unnerving to see you bouncing about in your seat. Sit down; the curtain will rise in a moment; and let me inform you, since the business is novel to you, that the first duty of the playgoer is to refrain from disturbing the rest of the audience.”
John sat still; indeed, once the curtain had risen, he remained so absolutely motionless that he might have been turned to stone.
The play, which at the time of its production enjoyed an ephemeral popularity, but has since passed into oblivion like its author, abounded in strained situations. The sentiment was superabundant, the humour forced and occasionally verging upon coarseness, but Lady Lucy, who sustained one of the principal parts, won tumultuous applause from first to last. John saw her smiling upon her fictitious lover as she had smiled upon him, he heard her voice, her light laugh, he marked certain little tricks of manner, which, though he had known her for so brief a space, seemed engraven upon his memory—and his jealous heart seemed like to burst within him. He felt ashamed, nay, personally degraded by the publicity into which she had thrust herself. Good God! That her beauty, her charm, her pretty ways should be thus pilloried! That any coarse brute who sate aloft in the gallery was free to make his comment because he had paid his sixpence! That nothing should be sacred; that she should prattle of love, and weep mock tears, there in the glare of the footlights before all these curious, insolent eyes, as though he and she had never clasped hands and stammered secrets in the sanctity of the solitary dawn. Oh! Heavens, it was too much!
The intensity of his gaze drew hers towards him before she had been very long upon the scene, and she appeared to falter for a moment, but speedily recovered her self-possession.
At the end of the first act, while he was still staring blankly at the lowered curtain, someone touched him on the shoulder, and, as he turned round, thrust a note into his hand. He tore it open quickly, and found it contained but a line:—“Come to the stage door when the play is over.” Turning to speak to the messenger, he found that he had already gone.
When Lady Lucy next came on the stage she played with even greater spirit and vivacity than before, but by-and-by stole a questioning glance at John; and John gravely nodded. A thousand times, indeed, he had a mind to leave the place and to set eyes on her no more; and still he lingered. With each succeeding act Miss Fitzroy further captivated the house, and the curtain descended at last amid tumultuous applause.
Slowly and gloomily John rose, and after many enquiries found his way to the stage door, standing there motionless while streams of gay folk passed and repassed before his eyes.
All at once he felt a hand upon his arm. A slender, cloaked figure was beside him, and two bright eyes were gazing at him eagerly from the depths of a quilted silk hood.