“No, no; it is not Bud,” Bell whispered. “It is not our lassie; this one is too tall and—and too deliberate. I fear she has not dared it at the last, or that she has been found unsuitable.”
Ailie leaned forward, quivering, feeding her eyes. “It's no one else,” said she. “Dear Bud, our Bud! Those two years' training may have made her some-ways different, but she has not changed her smile. Oh, I am so proud, and sure of her! Hus-s-sh!”
“'... I do perceive here a divided duty;
To you I am bound for life and education,
My life and education both do learn me
How to respect you; you are the lord of duty,
I am hitherto your daughter: but here's my husband.'”
Desdemona's first speech broke the stillness that had fallen on the house; her face was pale, they saw the rapid heaving of her bosom, they heard a moment's tremor in her voice matured and wonderful, sweet as a silver bell. To the box where she knew her friends were sitting she let her eyes for a second wander as she spoke the opening lines that had so much of double meaning—not Desdemona, but the loving and wilful child asking forgiveness, yet tenacious of her purpose.
To Ailie came relief and happiness and pride; Dan held a watching brief for his elder sister's prejudices and his own philosophy. Bell sat in tears which Shakespeare did not influence. When next she saw the stage with unblurred eyes Desdemona was leaving with the Moor.
“My dears,” said Mrs. Molyneux, “as Desdemona she's the Only One! and Jim was right. It's worth a thousand times more trouble than he took with her. He said all along she'd dazzle them, and I guess her fortune's made, and it's going to be the making of this house, too. I feel so proud and happy I'd kiss you right here, Mr. Dyce, if it wouldn't mess up my bouquet.”
“A black man!” said Bell, regretfully. “I know it is only paint, of course, but—but I never met him; I do not even know his name.”
It seemed as if the play had nothing in it but the words and acts of Desdemona. At each appearance she became more confident, charged the part with deeper feeling, found new meaning in the time-worn words. Even Bell began to lose her private judgment, forget that it was nothing but a sinful play, and feel some pity for Othello; but, as the knavish coils closed round her Desdemona, the strain became unbearable.
“Oh! I cannot stand it any longer,” she exclaimed, when the voice of Lennox quavered in the song before her last good-night, and, saying so, pushed back her seat into the shadows of the box, covering her ears with her fingers. She saw no more; she heard no more till the audience rose to its feet with thunders of applause that swelled and sank and swelled again as if it would never end. Then she dared to look, and saw a trembling Desdemona all alone before a curtain bowing.
“What is the matter? What is the matter? Why are they crying that way on her?” she asked, dum-founded.