Susan stared. I left her staring.
About this time Miss Kellerton returned, and played a brilliant engagement. I accompanied Horatio one evening to witness her fourth appearance in a new play, which had taken the theatrical portion of the city by storm. The play-house was packed from top to bottom. We had our seats in the orchestra, where we enjoyed a view of both actors and audience, and a cool breeze from behind the scenes. For criticisms of the performance, I must refer the reader to the newspapers of the period. Horatio cheered like a madman. He was quite beside himself with enthusiasm, especially at the close of the third act. He was clapping furiously, and looking about upon the audience to see who else was cheering, when he suddenly stopped, his hands asunder, his countenance transfixed with an alarming expression. I thought he had clapped himself into a fit.
"Horatio!" I cried,—"Horatio! what's the matter?"
"Look! look!"
"Where?"
"Yonder! by the pillar!" I now thought (his head being turned) that perchance he beheld a ghost. "Don't you see?—Pendlam!"
It was true;—there sat the reformer, out-cheering Horatio himself! By his side was Susan, looking brighter and happier than I had seen her for months. By her side sat—
"That rascal Clodman!" hissed Horatio, through his teeth.
Miss Kellerton came before the curtain. A vast tumult of applause burst forth and died away. Pendlam cheered after all the rest had ceased. Then he and Clodman conferred,—the face of the latter so near Susan's, as he leaned before her, that Horatio swore he kissed her. Both Pendlam and Susan were beaming with smiles.
"This recreation will do them good," I whispered.