If, then, I have in any measure succeeded in depicting Mary as she really was,—an exquisitely refined, oversensitive girl just out of school, her head full of poetry and romance, her heart beginning to flutter with a sweet pain in presence of an Ideal Hero, so suddenly, so strangely encountered,—my reader (being a woman) will appreciate the shock she felt on that Christmas morning. It will be remembered that it was Aunt Phœbe who had been the first to describe the Don’s performance to the young ladies.
“Play de fiddle? Can he play de fiddle? I b’lieve you, honey! Why, Lor’ bless me, I do p’int’ly b’lieve into my soul dat Mr. Smith is de top fiddler of de Nunited States!”
A fiddler! And a top fiddler! Shades of Byron and of Bulwer! Mary felt an icy numbness at her heart.
Half an hour afterwards, when the two girls were nearly ready for breakfast, she was standing behind Alice, pinning on her collar.
“Oh, Alice,” cried the little hypocrite, suddenly, as though the thought had but just occurred to her, “what charming music we shall have now!”
“Oo-ee,” cried Alice, shrinking.
“Ah, did I prick your neck?”
“Yes; but no matter. Oh, yes, I am just dying to hear him play,—and play he shall, or my name is not Alice Carter. There you go again! Bear in mind, please, that the collar is to be pinned to my dress, not to my lovely person. What could have induced him to hide such an accomplishment!” added she, stamping her little foot.
“There! That sets very nicely! I don’t know what made me so awkward. So you think it is—wait a moment,—ah, that’s just right,—an accomplishment?”
One man in a thousand may acquire somewhat of the art, but every woman is born a perfect actress. True, you shall not see this perfection on the stage. There the ambition of women is to be actresses, rather than actresses women.