Aunt Charlotte frowned, while Herbert, turning to me, continued—“Miss Montrose is so much better that I don’t believe I can patronize your doctor in that quarter, but I’ll do something for him—break my leg, may be—or have the delirium tremens.”
This species of jesting seemed to be a kind of mania with Herbert, for almost every day of his life he referred to his former habit of drinking, greatly to the annoyance of his mother, who, on the occasion just mentioned, turned slightly pale, while Anna looked down upon the carpet and sighed. Thinking this as favorable an opportunity for making inquiries concerning Ada Montrose as I should have, I asked Herbert who she was. His mother’s lips moved as if she would answer the question, but ere she could speak, Herbert replied, “She’s a Georgia lady, a great coquette, who is spending the winter here with a fortieth cousin. Some call her handsome, and I believe mother thinks her beautiful, but if Anna paid as much attention to her toilet and dressed as elegantly as Ada Montrose, she would, in my opinion, look far better.”
’Twas the first compliment he had paid Anna since our arrival, and it brought a bright flush to her usually marble cheek; for Herbert Langley possessed a strange power over my sister, which she did not try to resist. I fancied that my aunt was not quite pleased with Herbert’s comparing Miss Montrose to Anna, but ere she could frame any answer, he asked us if we would like to attend the theatre that evening. Notwithstanding my father’s hostility to circuses, I did not remember having heard him say much against theatres, and so I answered quickly, “Oh, yes, Anna, let’s go. I want to see what they do.”
And so, with my aunt’s permission, it was settled that we should go, and at the usual hour I found myself in the National Theatre, which was densely crowded, for a celebrated actress appeared that night for the last time in Boston. Perfectly bewildered, I followed Herbert and Anna to my uncle’s box, which commanded a fine view of the stage, and then, when I became a little accustomed to the glare of lights and the hum of voices, which in some degree reminded me of that never-to-be-forgotten circus of Cousin Will memory, I ventured to look over the sea of faces, half starting from my seat as I recognized among the crowd Dr. Clayton and his wife, the latter appearing to be looking at us through what I thought resembled the dice boxes of a backgammon board tied together, but which I soon learned was an opera-glass. The doctor was paler and thinner than when I last saw him, and it was with more than one pang that I watched him as, from time to time, he cast a glance of pride at the splendid-looking woman at his side, who attracted considerable attention, and at whom, in the course of the evening, more than one glass was levelled.
Ere long my attention was diverted from them to a tall, dark, and rather peculiar-looking gentleman, who entered the box at our right. Sinking into a seat, he abandoned himself apparently, to his own thoughts, which could not have been very pleasant; for his forehead, which was high and white, seemed at times to be one mass of wrinkles, while his eyes, large, black, and deepset in his head, alternately flashed with anger and vexation. I am not much of a physiognomist, but there was in the face of the stranger something which at once attracted and riveted my attention. He was not handsome, like Dr. Clayton—nay, I am not sure but many would call him ugly, but I did not; and, somehow, I felt certain that no girl of fourteen had ever wept over his fickleness, for he looked the soul of honor and integrity. Gradually, too, as the play proceeded, the expression which I had at first observed passed away; his dark eyes lighted up; and when, at last, a bright smile broke over his face, I pronounced him far better looking than the doctor, who was fast losing ground in my good opinion.
The play was the “Lady of Lyons,” and though I was familiar with the story, I seemed now to hear it for the first time; so fully did I enter into the feelings of the heroine, Pauline, whose distress I could not believe was feigned. All was real to me; and I can now scarcely repress a smile, as I recall to mind how I must have looked, standing there with flushed cheeks, clasped hands, staring eyes, and lips slightly apart, drinking in every word of the actress. Once Anna pulled my dress, whispering to me, “Do sit down, Rosa; they are all looking at you, and Mrs. Clayton is laughing and pointing you out to her husband.”
“I didn’t care for Dell Thompson, or the doctor either,” and so I said, while at the same time I glanced towards the stranger, whose eyes were fixed upon me with an expression I could not fathom.
He was not making fun of me, I was sure of that; but as if there were a magnetic influence in his look, which I could not resist, I dropped into my seat, and remained motionless until the closing scene, where, with a piercing shriek, Pauline rushed into the arms of her husband. Then there came over me the same sensation which I had experienced years before in the old schoolhouse at Meadow Brook. Everything grew dark around me, and with a faint cry I fell across Anna’s lap. I was not entirely unconscious, for I have a dim remembrance of being led from the heated room, the close atmosphere of which had probably helped to bring on my faintness. The cool air outside revived me in a measure, but it was the mesmeric touch of two large, warm hands which fully restored to me my faculties, and, looking up, I saw bending over me the gentleman in whom I had been so much interested. Dr. Clayton, too, was there, looking worried and anxious, but instinctively leaving me to the care of the stranger, who seemed to know exactly what to do.
“You are better now, I think,” said he, gazing down upon me with his deep black eyes, and adding, with the same peculiar smile I had before observed, “Miss ——’s acting seldom receives so genuine a compliment as this. I imagine she ought to feel flattered.”
At this moment a loud stamping and hallooing came to my ear, and, pulling Anna’s shawl, Herbert exclaimed, “Come, let’s go in again; they are calling back the dancing-girl, and I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Come, Rose, you want to see it all, and we’ll stand right by the door.”