Among the latter was Harry Dutton. He had come without notice, too late to join the party at dinner, and, thinking the whole thing rather a bore, scarcely glanced at the stage.
"Mynheer Swizel! Mynheer Swizel!" Dutton started as if he had been shot. In a peasant's dress, and running on to the stage greeted by a round of applause, he recognises Bluebell! Here, at Bromley Towers!
Transfixed to the spot, his moonstruck gaze rivetted on the actors, people spoke to him, and he never heard. Conjecture, wonder, doubts of his own sanity, were whirling his brain. How did she get here, of all places in the world? With whom?—and under what name? Heavens, if she should suddenly perceive him, and stop short or scream! He moved behind a pillar, where he could observe unseen. Peter Spyk was singing:—
"To-morrow will be market-day,
The streets all thronged with lasses gay;
And from a crowd so great, no doubt,
Sweethearts enough I may pick out.
In verity, verity, verity aye," etc
And then Gertrude, in a mocking voice, coquettishly sang,—
"Be not too bold, for hearts fresh caught,
Are ne'er, I am told, to market brought
The best, they say, are given away,
And are not sold, on market-day.
In verity, verity, verity aye," etc
A round of applause and an encore followed. It was long since Harry had heard Bluebell's voice, but he alone did not applaud. The play proceeded, and then Sir Robert came in as Amesfort. It hung a little here. He floundered, gagged, forgot the cue, and the voice of the prompter became distinctly audible. Happily, conceit bore him along. Harry winced as he drawled to Gertrude, "Why, you are very pretty!" But when he proceeded to catch her round the waist and offered to kiss her, he mattered an oath, and half-started forward. Warned by a look of curiosity in a bystander, Dutton fiercely controlled himself, but a burning desire to quarrel with Sir Robert took possession of him.
In the last scene, when she comes on as a bride, Harry remembered, with a curious laugh, she had never been so attired for him. Bluebell was warming to her part. She and Peter Spyk were pulling the whole coach, and when the play was ended they were both loudly called for before the curtains.
Happy and delighted at her success, it was hard to fall from triumph to insignificance; but, in the first flush of the former, Bluebell was left in solitude. Her fellow actors had flown away to exchange their theatrical costume for ball dress, and she had received no carte blanche to mingle with the dancers.
Lingering listlessly alone in the greenroom, wishing to join the rest, and hoping some one might think of sending for her, she had thrown herself into an easy-chair, back to the door, which was half-open. There was a slight sound of a rapid, stealthy footstep, and, before she had time to look round, a twisted note was tossed into her lap.