"No," I answered.
"Well," said he, "did you know who that bust was?"
"Yes," I replied, "I think it was Ariadne."
"Oh, no!" he said, "it was a bust of Bacchus; then, when Mrs. Backus
appeared--"
"Oh!" I interrupted. "They all said to themselves: 'Poor Backus is
broken all up! Backus has busted!'"
And that was why they laughed; and she saw it and laughed with them, and
they saw _that_ and applauded her. Well, that's a quick-witted
audience--an opinion I still retain.
People are fond of saying, "A woman can't keep a secret." Well, perhaps
she doesn't keep her secrets forever; but here's how two women kept a
secret for a good many years, and betrayed it through a scene in a
play.
Mr. Daly's treasurer had given tickets to some friends for a performance
of "Divorce." They were ladies--mother and daughter. At first greatly
pleased, the elder lady soon began to grow nervous, then tearful as the
play went on; and her daughter, watching her closely, was about to
propose their retirement, when the mother, with clasped hands and
tear-blurred eyes, seeing the stealing of my little son by the order of
his father, thrilled the audience and terrified her daughter by flinging
up her arms and crying wildly: "Don't do it! for God's sake, don't do
it! You don't know what agony it means!" and fell fainting against the
frightened girl beside her.
Great confusion followed; the ushers, assisted by those seated near,
removed the unconscious woman to Mr. Daly's private office; but so
greatly had her words affected the people, that when the men on the
stage escaped through the window with the child in their arms, the
curtain fell to a volley of hisses.
In the office, as smelling salts, water, and fresh air were brought into
requisition, in answer to a question of Mr. Daly's, the treasurer was
saying, "She is Mrs. W----, a widow," when a faint voice interrupted,
"No--no; I'm no widow!"
The treasurer smiled pityingly, and continued, "I have known her
intimately for twelve years, sir; she is the widow of--"
"No--no!" came the now sobbing voice. "No--no! Oh, Daisy, dear, tell
him! tell him!"
And the young girl, very white, and trembling visibly, said: "I hope you
will forgive us, Mr. W----, but from causeless jealousy my father
deserted mother, and--and he stole my little brother, mamma's only son!
We have never heard of either of them since. Widowhood seemed a sort of
protection to poor mamma, and she has hidden behind its veil for
sixteen years. She meant no harm. She would have told you before--"
She turned crimson and stopped, but that burning blush told its story
plainly; and Mr. Daly busied himself over the pouring of a glass of wine
for the robbed mother, while the treasurer in low tones assured Daisy
there was nothing to forgive, and gratefully accepted the permission
granted him to see the poor things safely home.
Sixteen years' silence is not so bad for a sex who can't keep a secret!
_CHAPTER VII