dancers appeared. Just then, a short, fat, red-faced and very vulgar
Englishwoman who sat behind Madeline and Juliet, gave each of them a
twitch on the shoulder, saying, in a broad Yorkshire dialect, "I'll
thank you gals or ladies or whatsomdever you be, to take off your
bunnets and let a body have some chance of seeing the show; for I've
been popping my ead back and furrads atween you ever sence you comed
hin, and thof I've as good a right to see as any body else, I've ardly
got a squint at the hactors yet."
The girls were now in a most critical dilemma. To take off their bonnets
seemed out of the question, as the exposure of their heads would no
doubt betray them, and their fear and perplexity were so great that they
had not presence of mind either to speak or move.
"Don't pertend that you don't ear me," said the Englishwoman, giving
them both a hard push forward with her huge hands. "I bees a true King
Georgeswoman, and won't be put upon by none of the Yankees, not I, thof
I _am_ come to their country. I pays my money as well as you, and I've
jist as good a right to see the show; and if you won't take off them big
bunnets, I'll be bound I'll make you, if there's even a row about it.
I've raised a row afore this time when I've been put upon."
"Oh! let us go, let us go," said Juliet, gasping with terror, and
seizing Madeline's arm.
"Honly wait," continued the Englishwoman, "till I tells my usband, who
sets ahind here, to call 'turn 'em out.' You _may_ be ladies. But I bees
an onest oman, and if I've come to a land of liberty, the more reason
that I should make free to speak my mind; and if we're all hequal, why
then nobody han't no right to put upon me."
By this time the two girls, in an agony of trepidation, had scrambled
over the benches and got to the door, expecting every instant to hear
the dreaded words, "turn them out," and to see Edward's eyes directed
towards them, with those of the whole audience. Scarcely conscious of
what they were doing, they ran down the gallery-stairs, and flew out of
the door into the street. As is usual toward the latter part of the
play, a number of boys had collected about the fruit-stalls waiting for
checks, that they might gain admittance to see the farce; and as
Madeline ran past them, her cloak flew open, and the moonbeams shone
brightly on a brilliant ring which she always wore on her fore-finger.
This with something in their appearance that would cause even
unpractised eyes to suspect that they were young ladies, attracted the
attention of the boys, who stared at them with surprise and curiosity.
Madeline and Juliet ran down the street in breathless terror. They had
gone about a square from the theatre before they recollected that their
way home lay in a contrary direction, and that they ought to go _up_ the
street instead of _down_. "Oh! we are going _from_ home instead of
_towards_ it," exclaimed Juliet; and they immediately turned about and
ran up Chestnut street. They again passed the theatre, terrified,
bewildered, their bonnets falling back and discovering their frightened
faces in full view; Madeline's cloak half untied and flying out behind
her, and Juliet still grasping one corner of her shawl (which had fallen
entirely off her shoulders) and dragging it after her along the
pavement. On seeing them running back in this forlorn condition, the
boys set up a loud shout, and calling out "Hurrah for the ladies,"
pursued them up Chestnut street.
A young gentleman who had left the theatre a few minutes before, and was
walking leisurely up the street, turned round to discover the meaning of
all the noise that was coming after him, and caught Juliet, breathless
and almost dead, by her two hands. "Juliet," he exclaimed, "my sister
Juliet!" "Oh, Edward!" she shrieked, and fell into his arms drowned in
tears.
"Save me, save me," cried Madeline, catching him by the coat. "Madeline
too!" said Edward. "What does all this mean?"
Another gentleman now came up, and ordered off the boys, reprimanding
them severely for chasing two unprotected females; and Edward taking one
of the girls under each arm, walked on in silence, much affected by the
sobbing of Juliet.
Madeline soon recovered herself, and attempted an explanation of the
strange predicament in which he had found them; passing it off as a very
good joke, and a further proof of her ungovernable volatility.
Edward remained silent. He would not reproach her, but he determined in
his mind what course to pursue. He took leave of Madeline at her own
door, and on entering his father's house, he told Juliet that she had
better, as soon as possible, divest herself of her disguise. Juliet
could not speak, but she wept on her brother's shoulder; and Edward
kissed her cheek, and bade her good night.
She retired to bed, but she could not sleep; and in the morning she rose
earlier than usual, and went into the parlour, where she knew she would
find Edward. She looked very pale, and her eyes were swimming in tears.
"Oh! Edward," said she, "what did my father and mother say, when they
came home last night, and you told them all that happened?"
"I told them nothing," replied Edward, "I love you too well to betray
you. I have kept your secret, and I shall never disclose it. But I must
have a recompense."
_Juliet._ Any, any recompense, dearest Edward. What can you ask that I
could possibly refuse.
_Edward._ I require you, from this day, to give up all acquaintance with
Madeline Malcolm. Your infatuation for a girl who, under the name of
wildness and volatility, sets all propriety at defiance, is to me
astonishing. Henceforward let there be no more intimacy between you. It
must be checked before it leads to consequences still worse than the
adventures of last night.
_Juliet._ I acknowledge that Madeline is too regardless of decorum, and
that she says and does many strange and improper things: but then she
has so good a heart.
_Edward._ Tell me one proof of it. You have fallen into the common
error of supposing that all persons who profess to be giddy, wild, and
reckless, have kind feelings and good hearts. On the contrary, they may
too often be classed with the most selfish, cold, and heartless people
in the world; for they have seldom either sense or sensibility, and
while resolutely bent on the gratification of their own whims, are
generally regardless of the peace and convenience of those about them.
When I first went to college I thought as you do. I supposed that the
most careless, noisy, and desperate boys must necessarily have kind and
generous feelings. But I found the contrary to my cost; and I am now
convinced, that, with some few exceptions, the best hearts are generally
united with the best heads and the best manners.
_Juliet._ But even if I never visit Madeline myself, how shall I prevent
her running in to me as she does, two or three times a day?
_Edward._ Very easily. Write her a concise note, intimating that you do
not consider it proper to continue your acquaintance with her.
_Juliet._ Oh! Edward, I never can do that.
_Edward._ Is not this the recompense I am entitled to, for keeping your
secret?
_Juliet._ Indeed, Edward, you are too cruel.
_Edward._ Severe, perhaps, but not cruel. The exigency of the case
requires decisive measures. "I am cruel only to be kind," and you will
thank me for it hereafter.
_Juliet._ Well then, I _will_ write the note. And if it _must be done_ I
will do it immediately; for if I allow myself to think about it long, it
will grieve me so much that I shall never have resolution to go through
with it. (_She goes to the desk and writes._) There now, Edward, read
this note.
_Edward_, (_reading_.) "Though convinced that it is better our intimacy
should cease, it is not without regret that I decline all further
intercourse with Madeline Malcolm. For her health and happiness I offer
my best wishes; but in future we can only meet as strangers.
"JULIET LANSDOWNE."
Now seal and send it.
_Juliet._ Oh, Edward! it is hard to give up Madeline. But I believe you
are right, and I ought not to regret it.
_Edward._ I _know_ I am right.
Juliet then rang the bell for a servant, to whom with a quivering lip
and hesitating hand she gave the note, desiring him to leave it next
door for Miss Malcolm.
After breakfast, when Juliet was again alone with her brother, she said
to him, "Edward, I have never yet concealed any thing from my parents. I
think if I were to disclose to them the whole truth, I should feel less
miserable."
Edward approved of this determination, and they went together to their
mother, to whom Juliet candidly related the whole history of their going
to the theatre in disguise. She kindly endeavoured to throw as little
blame on Madeline as possible; and Edward tried to apologize for
Juliet's partiality for this dangerous girl, and for the yielding
gentleness of disposition with which his sister had allowed herself to
be influenced by her; and for her want of judgment in not perceiving the
faults of Madeline in as strong a light as they appeared to every one
else.
Mrs. Lansdowne's pleasure, on finding that her daughter had consented to
give up this very improper intimacy, counterbalanced her regret at
Juliet's having been persuaded by Madeline to join in the folly and
indecorum of the preceding evening. For this, however, she thought the
girls had been sufficiently punished by all they had suffered at the
theatre, and during their ignominious flight from it.
Madeline's parents had no suspicion of her having been at the play in
disguise, and the idea of confessing it to them never for a moment
entered her head. She was highly indignant at Juliet's note; and
fortunately her resentment was too great to allow her to make any
attempt at renewing their intimacy. She took care, however, to let no
one suppose that the acquaintance had ceased by Juliet's desire; telling
every body that Juliet Lansdowne was a little fool, and that she had
grown quite tired of her.
In the spring, Mr. Malcolm removed with his family to New York, and
their house next door to Mr. Lansdowne's was immediately taken by the
father of Cecilia Selden who had again become the intimate friend of
Juliet.
THE END.
Transcriber's Note:
Punctuation has been standardised. Hyphenation and spelling have been
retained as appear in the original publication except as follows:
Page 6
Mrs. Evering had a very excellant cook, a _changed to_
Mrs. Evering had a very excellent cook, a
Page 35
vous remercie_,--_Il fait beau-tems_ _changed to_
vous remercie_,--_Il fait beau-temps_
Page 72
and then she counted all the window sat _changed to_
and then she counted all the windows at
Page 109
I will have _them_. They will de _changed to_
I will have _them_. They will do
Page 114
kindness, and feeling really some embarrasment _changed to_
kindness, and feeling really some embarrassment