I suppose it was the excitement of the performance which, a little later, roused me to some enjoyment of the evening. We had a merry tea party in our costumes before the play began, and when it came my turn to appear, I found employment enough for all my senses. I must own to no small discomfiture when I found myself upon the stage. I had expected to make quite a success, but the crowd of faces, the lights, the consciousness of being listened to, perhaps the guilty burden on my heart and soul, confused me. I spoke and acted very badly, and tears of vexation were in my eyes when I left the stage.
"Don't be so frightened, Ruth," Mr. Ludlow whispered. "It really is of no great consequence what people think of it, you know."
So the play continued. The great success of the evening was Kate's, and it was due to her playing a part which all the audience knew was like her own: a loving, unselfish, charitable woman, whose part it was to bring about a happy ending to the little play. Kate had thought so little of herself and her own part in the play that she seemed surprised and confused by the applause and congratulations. Everybody was in good spirits when we went down to supper, and all had so much to say to each other about the play that for a few moments I felt somewhat neglected. I stood near a window in the supper-room, concealed from view by heavy curtains, and now that the play was over, I realized fully the wickedness of the thing I had done. As I stood there, bitterly regretting that I had not obeyed my father's instructions, I could not help overhearing a portion of a conversation that was held just outside the heavy draperies behind which I stood. A lady's voice, that was at first unfamiliar to me, said, "Yes, she has wonderfully fine qualities, but she is eaten up with selfishness. I think it such a dreadful shame. Why, all C—— talks of the way Winifred is sacrificed to her."
"I can not believe she is naturally so selfish," the other voice said, and I recognized it as Mr. Ludlow's. "It is true, she never seems to consider any one but herself, but I think it is the fault of her education."
"But," persisted the other voice, which I now remembered was that of Mrs. Judson's sister—a lady who lived in New York, and was a great friend of Cousin Mary's—"but you don't know the life poor Winny leads, so shut up, hard-worked with those children, never given any sort of amusement, while Ruth grasps everything; and now I hear that Winifred is very ill...."
More was said, but I lost the words. The lady moved away; Mr. Ludlow remained standing by the table. I could hear the music in the distance, and the sounds of laughter and merry-making jarred upon me painfully. Finally I thrust back the curtains, and stood before Mr. Ludlow, the tears streaming down my cheeks.
"Oh, Mr. Ludlow," I exclaimed, brokenly, "it is all true; I am just that—a miserable, selfish girl." And flinging myself into a chair, I put my head down upon the table, giving way to a fresh burst of tears.
Mr. Ludlow did not speak for a moment; he let me weep silently. Then I felt his hand on my head.
"I am not sorry you overheard us, Ruthie," he said, in his kindest voice. "Perhaps, dear child, this was the lesson you needed."
I shook my head, and sobbed freshly. "Oh, but you don't know all!" I exclaimed. "I have been so bad! I am not only selfish, but a liar."