IN THE EVENING.
Magdalen was very beautiful in her white, fleecy dress, which swept
backward with as broad and graceful a sweep as ever Mrs. Walter Scott’s
had done when she walked the halls at Millbank. There were flowers on
her bosom, knots of flowers on her short sleeves, and flowers in her
wavy hair, which was arranged in heavy coils about her head, with one or
two curls falling behind her ears. She knew she was handsome; she had
been told that too often not to know it; while had there been no other
means of knowledge within her reach, her mirror would have set her
right. But Magdalen was not vain, and there was not the slightest tinge
of self-consciousness in her manner as she went through the various
parts assigned her during the day, and received the homage of the crowd.
Once her room-mate had asked if she did not wish Mr. Irving could be
present in the evening, and Magdalen had answered, “No, I would not have
him here for the world. I should be sure to make a miserable failure, if
I knew Mr. Irving and Frank were looking on. But there is no danger of
that. They cannot have reached New York yet.”
Later in the day, and just as it was growing dark, a young girl came
into Magdalen’s room, talking eagerly of “the two most splendid-looking
men she had ever seen.”
“They came,” she said, “out of the hotel and walked before me all the
way, looking hard at the seminary as they passed it. I wonder who they
were. Both were handsome, and one was perfectly splendid.”
When Nellie Freeman was talking her companions usually listened to her,
and they did so now, laughing at her enthusiasm, and asking several
questions concerning the strangers who had interested her so much.
Magdalen said nothing, and her cheek turned pale for an instant as
something in Nellie’s description of the younger gentleman made her
wonder if the strangers could be Frank and Roger. But no: they could not
have reached New York yet, and if they had, they would not come on to
Charlestown without apprising her of their intentions, unless they
wished to see her first without being themselves seen. The very idea of
the latter possibility made Magdalen faint, and she asked if one of the
gentlemen was “oldish looking?”
“No, both young, decidedly so,” was Nellie’s reply, which decided the
matter for Magdalen.
It was not Roger Irving. She had seen no picture of him since the one
sent her six years ago, and judging him by herself he must have changed
a great deal since then. To girls of eighteen, thirty-two seems old; and
Roger was thirty-two, and consequently old, and very patriarchal, in
Magdalen’s estimation. There were some gray hairs in his head, and he
began to stoop, and wear glasses when he read, if the print was fine and
the light dim, she presumed. Nellie’s hero was not Roger, and Magdalen
arranged the flowers in her hair, and smoothed the long curls which fell
upon her neck, and clasped her gold bracelets on her arms, and then,
when it was time, appeared before the assembled crowd, who hailed her
with acclamations of joy, and when her brilliant performance at the
piano was ended, sent after her such cheers as called her back again,
not to play this time, but merely to bow before the audience, which
showered her with bouquets. Very gracefully she acknowledged the
compliment paid to her, and then retired, her cheeks burning scarlet and
her heart throbbing painfully as she thought of the face which she had
seen far back among the spectators, just before she left the stage. Was
it Frank who was standing on his feet and applauding her so heartily,
and was that Roger beside him? If so, she could never face that crowd
again and sing Kathleen Mavourneen. And yet she must. They were calling
for her now, and with a tremendous effort of the will she quieted her
beating heart and went again before the people. But she did not look
across the room toward the two figures in the corner. She only knew
there was a movement in that direction as if some person or persons were
going out, just as she took her place by the piano. At first her voice
trembled a little, but gradually it grew steadier, clearer, and more
bird-like in its tones, while the people listened breathlessly, and
tears-rushed to the eyes of some as she threw her whole soul into the
pathetic words, “It may be for years and it may be forever.” She did not
think of the possible presence of Roger and Frank then. She was thinking
more of those from whom she was to separate so soon, and she sang as she
had never sung before, so sweetly, so distinctly, that not a word was
lost, and when the song was ended there came a pause as if her listeners
were loth to stir until the last faint echo of the glorious music had
died away. Then followed a storm of applause, before which all other
cheers were as nothing, and bouquets of the costliest kind fell in
showers at her feet. Over one of these she partly stumbled, and was
stooping to pick it up when a young man sprang to her side, and picking
it up for her, said to her in tones which thrilled her through and
through, “Take my arm, Magdalen, and come with me to Roger.”