It was evening, and the brilliantly lighted theatre was crowded to
overflowing. Of course there were English who scowled at the Americans,
and Americans who smiled on every one and ate candy while Othello
writhed in jealous rage, and a scattering of Germans with spectacles and
a row of double-barrelled field glasses glued over them, and Frenchmen
with impudent eyes and elegant gloves, and a general filling in of
Italians, with the glitter here and there of nobility, and still oftener
of bright uniforms. Finally there was a modicum of true gentry, and
these not of any particular nation or class. It is pleasant to name our
party immediately after referring to these goodly folks. They had a fine
box, and although their ranks were thinned by the loss of two cavaliers,
nobody seemed to care. Albert and Edith were perfectly happy side by
side, and Mrs. Jerrold was well contented to observe her daughter’s
smile as Albert spoke to her, and the look of manly protection in his
eyes, as his gaze met Edith’s.
As for Mae, she had that delicious feminine pride which is as good
a stimulant as success to women--in emergencies. And to-night was an
emergency to this small, excitable, young thing. Her eyes were very dark
from the expansion of the pupil. They possessed a rare charm, caught
from a trick the eyelids had of drooping slowly and then suddenly
and unexpectedly lifting to reveal the wide, bright depths, that
half-concealed, half-revealed power, which is so tantalizing. Mae was
dressed in this same spirit to-night, and she was dimly conscious of it.
The masses of tulle that floated from her opera hat to her chin and down
on her shoulders, revealed only here and there a glimpse of rich brown
hair, or of white throat. Her cheeks were scarlet, her lips a-quiver
with excitement and pleasure. She formed a pretty contrast to Edith,
who sat by her side. Miss Jerrold leaned back in her chair quietly,
composedly. She fanned herself in long sweeps, looked pleased,
contented, but in no wise displaced or surprised--thoroughly well-bred
and at home. She might have had a private rehearsal of Othello in her
own dramatic hall the evening before, from her air and mien. Mae, on the
contrary, was alert, on the qui vive, as interested as a child in each
newcomer, and, after the curtain rose, in every tableau.
Such a woman can not fail to attract attention, as long as she is
herself unconscious. The world grows blase so speedily that it enjoys
all the more thoroughly the sight of freshness, verve, life,--that is,
the male portion of the world. Women’s great desire, as a rule, is
to appear entirely at ease, city-bred, high-bred, used to all things,
surprised by none.
So there were a great many glasses turned toward Mae that evening.
Very probably the young women in the next box accepted a share of these
glances as their own, and, in a crowd where the French and Italian
elements predominate, or largely enter, they could not have been far
wrong. Every girl or woman who pretends to any possible charm is quite
sure of her share of admiration from these susceptible beings. The
young ladies of the next box had that indescribable New York air, which
extends from the carefully brushed eyebrows quite to the curves of the
wrist and hand. Praise Parisian modes all you will, but for genuine
style, a New York girl, softened a trifle by commonsense or good taste,
leads the world--certainly if she is abroad. For there she soon finds
it impossible to go to the extremes that American air seems to rush
her into. Three months, or perhaps, if she is observant, three days
in Paris, teach her that the very biggest buttons, or the very largest
paniers, or the very flaringest hats are not for her, or any lady,
and by stepping back to size number two, she does not detract from her
style, while she does add to her lady-likeness.
These two girls, it may be surmised, were no other than Miss Hopkins and
Miss Rae, whom chance or fate or bungling Eric Madden, who bought the
tickets, had seated side by side with the Maddens and Jerrolds. It was
bothersome, when Norman and Eric had played truant at any rate, but
there was no help for it; so after a little Eric introduced them all
round, and the two parties apparently merged into one, or broke up into
four, for tete-a-tetes soon began. It was a little hard that three girls
should have each a devoted servant, and that only one, and that one,
Mae, should be obliged to receive her care from the chaperon; but so it
was.
Nevertheless, Mae bore herself proudly. She was seated next Miss Rae,
separated only by the nominal barrier of a little railing, while just
beyond sat Norman, his chair turned toward the two girls. The stranger
insisted on drawing Mae into the conversation, partly for curiosity’s
sake, to watch her odd face and manners, partly from that genuine
generosity that comes to the most selfish of women, when she is
satisfied with her position. It is pleasant to pity, to be generous; and
Miss Rae, having the man, could afford to share him now and then, when
it pleased her, with the lonely girl by her side. But Miss Rae’s tactics
did not work. Mae replied pleasantly when addressed, but returned
speedily and eagerly to Mrs. Jerrold or a survey of the house, with
the frank happiness of a child. She was all the more fascinating to the
admiring eyes that watched her, because she sat alone, electrified by
the inspiration and magnetism from within, and did not need the stimulus
of another voice close by her side, breathing compliments and flattery,
to brighten her eyes and call the blushes to her cheeks. Norman Mann saw
the eyes fixed on her, and they vexed him. At the same time, he liked
her the better on that very account.
And at last the curtain rose.
It was just as Desdemona assures her father of her love for Othello,
that Mae became conscious of a riveted gaze--of a presence. Lifting her
eyes, and widening them, she looked over to the opposite side of
the house, and there, of course, was the Piedmontese officer again,
handsomer, more brilliant than ever, with a grateful, soft look of
recognition in his eyes.
Mae was out of harmony with all her friends. She was proud and lonely.
The man’s pleased, softened look touched her heart strangely. There was
almost a choke in her throat, there were almost tears in her eyes, and
there was a free, glad, welcoming smile on her lips.
Norman Mann saw it and followed it, and caught the officer receiving it,
and thought “She’s a wild coquette.”
And Mae knew what he saw and what he thought.
Then a strange spirit entered the girl. Here was a man who vexed her,
who piqued her, and who was rude, for Mae secretly thought it was rude
to neglect Mrs. Jerrold, as the boys did that evening, and yet who was
vexed and piqued in his turn, if she did what he didn’t like and looked
at another man.
And then here was the other man. Mae looked down at him.
Bless us! who is to blame a young woman for forgetting everything but
the “other man” when he is a godlike Piedmontese officer, with strong
soft cheek and throat, and Italian eyes, and yellow moustaches, and
spurs and buttons that click and shine in a maddening sort of way?
Of course, in reality, everybody is to blame her, we among the very
virtuous first. In this particular case, however, we have facts, not
morals, to deal with. Mae did see Norman Mann talking delightedly to a
pretty girl, and she did see the officer gazing at her rapturously, and
she quite forgot Othello, and gave back look for look, only more shy and
less intense perhaps, and knew that Norman Mann was very angry and she
and the officer very happy. What matter though the one should hate her,
and the other love her, and she--
But, bother all things but the delirious present moment. Never fear
consequences. There were bright lights, and brilliant people, the hum of
many voices, the flash of many eyes, and a half secret between her, this
little creature up in the box, and the very handsomest man of them all.
So while Othello fell about the stage, and ground out tremendous curses,
Mae half shivered and glanced tremblingly toward Bero, and Bero
gazed back protectingly and grandly. Once, when Desdemona cried
out thrillingly, “Othello, il mio marito,” Mae looked at Norman
involuntarily and caught a half flash of his eye, but he turned back
quickly to his companion and Mae’s glance wandered on to Bero and rested
there as the wild voice cried out again, “il mio marito, il mio marito.”
So the evening slid on. Mae smiled and smiled and opened and half closed
her eyes, and Norman invited Miss Rae to go to church with him, and to
drive with him, and to walk with him, and to go to the galleries with
him, “until, Susie Hopkins, if you will believe it, I fairly thought he
would drop on his knees and ask me to go through life with him, right
then and there.” So Miss Rae confided to Susie Hopkins after the
victorious night, in the silence of a fourth-story Costanzi bedroom.
Susie Hopkins was putting her hair up on crimping-pins, but she paused
long enough to say: “Well, Jack Durkee had better hurry himself and his
ring along, then.”
“O, he’s coming as quickly as ever he can,” laughed Miss Rae, whereat
she proceeded to place a large letter and a picture under the left-hand
pillow, crimped her hair, cold-creamed her lips, and laid her down to
pleasant dreams of--Jack.