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Page 12
"She has indeed," agrees Sir Adrian, with a smothered groan.
"Well"--triumphantly--"and yet, here we find her granting him a private
audience, when she believed we were all safely out of the way; and in
the north gallery too, which, as a rule, is deserted."
"She didn't know we were thinking of driving to the hills," says Sir
Adrian, making a feeble effort to find a flaw in his companion's
statement.
"Oh, yes, she did!" declares the widow lightly. "I told her myself,
about two hours ago, that I intended asking you to make a party to go
there, as I dote on lovely scenery; and I dare say"--coquettishly--"she
knew--I mean thought--you would not refuse so small a request of mine.
But for poor Lady FitzAlmont's headache we should be there now."
"It is true," admits Sir Adrian, feeling that the last straw has
descended.
"And now that I think of it," the widow goes on, even more vivaciously,
"the reason she assigned for not coming with us must have been a feigned
one. Ah, slyboots that she is!" laughs Mrs. Talbot merrily. "Of course,
she wanted the course clear to have an explanation with Arthur. Well,
after all, that was only natural. But she might have trusted me, whom
she knows to be her true friend."
Ill-tempered--capricious--sly! And all these faults are attributed to
Florence by "her true friend!" A quotation assigned to Marechal Villars
when taking leave of Louis XIV. occurs to him--"Defend me from my
friends." The words return to him persistently; but then he looks down
on Dora Talbot, and stares straight into her liquid blue eyes, so
apparently guileless and pure, and tells himself that he wrongs her.
Yes, it is a pity Florence had not put greater faith in this kind little
woman, a pity for all of them, as then many heart-breaks might have been
prevented.
CHAPTER IV.
It is the evening of the theatricals; and in one of the larger
drawing-rooms at the castle, where the stage has been erected, and also
in another room behind connected with it by folding-doors, everybody of
note in the county is already assembled. Fans are fluttering--so are
many hearts behind the scenes--and a low buzz of conversation is being
carried on among the company.
Then the curtain rises; the fans stop rustling, the conversation ceases,
and all faces turn curiously to the small but perfect stage that the
London workmen have erected.
Every one is very anxious to see what his or her neighbor is going to do
when brought before a critical audience. Nobody, of course, hopes openly
for a break-down, but secretly there are a few who would be glad to see
such-and-such a one's pride lowered.
No mischance, however, occurs. The insipid Tony speaks his lines
perfectly, if he fails to grasp the idea that a little acting thrown in
would be an improvement; a very charming Cousin Con is made out of Miss
Villiers; a rather stilted but strictly correct old lady out of Lady
Gertrude Vining. But Florence Delmaine, as Kate Hardcastle, leaves
nothing to be desired, and many are the complimentary speeches uttered
from time to time by the audience. Arthur Dynecourt too had not
overpraised his own powers. It is palpable to every one that he has
often trod the boards, and the pathos he throws into his performance
astonishes the audience. Is it only acting in the final scene when he
makes love to Miss Hardcastle, or is there some real sentiment in it?
This question arises in many breasts. They note how his color changes as
he takes her hand, how his voice trembles; they notice too how she grows
cold, in spite of her desire to carry out her part to the end, as he
grows warmer, and how instinctively she shrinks from his touch. Then it
is all over, and the curtain falls amidst loud applause. Florence comes
before the curtain in response to frequent calls, gracefully, half
reluctantly, with a soft warm blush upon her cheeks and a light in her
eyes that renders her remarkable loveliness only more apparent. Sir
Adrian, watching her with a heart faint and cold with grief and
disappointment, acknowledges sadly to himself that never has he seen her
look so beautiful. She advances and bows to the audience, and only loses
her self-possession a very little when a bouquet directed at her feet by
an enthusiastic young man alights upon her shoulder instead.
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