Three-quarters of an hour later we were seated five or six rows from the footlights, watching the haymakers gathered about the moss-grown bucket that gives its charm to the opening scene of "The Old Homestead." But the play had not proceeded far before I began to regret bitterly that we had not stayed away. When it dawned on me that the plot centred about an absent boy, a son for whom a father sought in vain, I knew that Gordon's Gethsemane was deepened by every word and act. This particular kind of anguish was realistic enough to us both, without any representation so vivid. Yet we had to sit there, uncle alternately laughing and weeping at our side, and witness the rehearsal of all we knew so well. I was sitting beside Gordon; and I covertly got a hold of his hand, pressing it silently to let him know my heart was aching too. I found myself, almost before I knew it, leaning forward in an agony of interest and suspense as the great emotions of a parent's love and loneliness were set forth in terrible reality. It was as if Gordon's heart and mine were both laid bare that night; and I found myself wondering if all this meant to any others in that crowded throng what it meant to us.
Uncle was enraptured at our fixity; he knew not the source of our deadly interest. "Didn't I tell you?" he whispered to Gordon as the tension came near its height; "ever see anything like that before? Isn't that true to life, eh?"
Gordon never spoke, his eyes looking far beyond, as fixed as though set on death itself.
"Isn't that true to life?" uncle repeated, accustomed to being answered.
"Yes, oh, God, yes—yes, it's true," I heard poor Gordon falter as he bowed forward and covered his face with his hands. Uncle, dumb with wonder now, uttered never a word. I prayed for strength.
The tide ebbed and flowed, as is the way in plays, laughter and tears following each other in quick succession. A wave of mirth—about the pillar box incident, I think, when the old man imagines the collector is robbing the mails—had just overswept the audience when Gordon whispered to me that he could stand it no longer.
"Don't go yet, Gordon," I whispered; "I think he's going to find him," and I saw his face white with the pallor of the dead.
He made no reply; but, clutching his hat, he rose to go, swaying unsteadily where he stood.
I began reaching for my wraps and was just rising to follow. He paused to wait for me, holding out his hand, I think—of this I am not sure. But just before we turned to go, my eyes were cast in one farewell glance upon the stage. My head reeled; my heart stood still; my lips clave together, parched and dry.
"Oh, Gordon," I cried, bleating, "look, Gordon, look," swimming towards him even as I pointed at the stage.