Senator Bonair’s palatial home in the magnificent city of San Francisco
was ablaze with light and gayety that night.
Though the millionaire owner himself was absent, in attendance on the
session of Congress at Washington, his two handsome daughters, with
their aunt, who chaperoned them since the death of their mother, had
preferred remaining at home this winter, and were entertaining a house
party. On this night they were giving a grand ball, and neither time
nor money had been spared to make it a great success.
To make it more notable, the dancing was to be preceded by a theatrical
treat, a play given by actors employed for the occasion. The private
theater of the mansion had been refitted for the event, and a superb
orchestra engaged.
To add to the pleasure of the evening, the manager assured his
employers that an entirely new play would be given--one written by a
member of his own company, a lovely young girl, who would herself play
the leading part in her clever production, “A Wayside Flower.”
All the invited guests were on the qui vive, for the entertainments of
the Bonairs always surpassed any other given in the city, and hundreds
of hearts of gay young girls and happy swains fluttered in anticipation.
As the time approached for the curtain to rise, not a seat in the small
theater was vacant. Exquisite ball gowns and jewels gleamed everywhere,
while the bright eyes of their wearers flashed upon their black-coated
companions with swift coquetry.
Conspicuous among all, in a gown of white lace over azure satin, with
rare pearls clasping her slender throat, and binding her thick waves of
flax-gold hair, was Rosalind Montague, the honored guest of the house,
the betrothed of the senator’s only son.
Rosalind had never looked more beautiful, and one who was gazing at her
from an obscure seat, an uninvited, unexpected guest, could not help
but acknowledge it in his heart with a thrill of pride.
“Poor Rosy, I don’t see why I cannot love her better! She will make
a bride to be proud of when I conclude to settle down and become a
benedict.”
Why was it, as he gazed at her brilliant blue eyes and sunny hair, that
dark brown eyes and curly chestnut locks came between him and Rosalind
so persistently? Why would not memory down, when it was torture to
remember!
She never could be his, the little brown-eyed cottage maiden, who had
scorned him for his light love, and flung his roses back into his face.
How the thorns had stung, as well as the lash of her little tongue,
as she had berated him so soundly. Then when she had flung herself so
desperately from his vehicle to almost certain death, could he ever
forget that tragic hour? He stifled a groan, and shrank back farther
into the shade of the tall palm near the door, where he had slipped
into an irregular seat not in the rows. Oh, Heaven, what had been the
mystery of her fate? Since he could not fathom it, why could he not
forget? He must forget, he vowed, passionately to himself, for by
and by, when he became Rosalind’s husband, it would be a sin to his
blue-eyed bride for those haunting brown orbs to come between.
When he landed first in the city a whim had made him go first to a
hotel, where, hearing of the entertainment going on at home, he had
gotten himself into evening dress and arrived at the last moment, when
his sisters, already in the box with Rosalind and other guests, were
waiting, momently, for the curtain to rise on the first act in the
play. It would not do to interrupt them now. Greetings must wait.
Anyhow, they were not missing him. Several men were in the box with
them, giving attention and receiving it. He remembered he had told
Rosalind he should not care how much she flirted, and she was taking
him at his word.
The blue eyes as they looked upward to the dark-eyed man bending so
eagerly to them, were very tender and languishing, and many a lover
might have been jealous, but Charley Bonair was not conscious of a
pang. Although he felt a certain pride and sense of proprietorship in
her beauty, he did not mind the other fellow’s palpable admiration.
The chief thing that worried him now was that he was haunted by other
eyes--brown eyes, soft with love, brown eyes, flashing with anger,
always brown eyes! “Eyes it were wiser by far to forget.”
Again he stifled a long-drawn sigh, and glanced at the curtain, for the
blare of the orchestra had begun, and presently the play would be on.
He remembered just then to look at the elegant program the usher had
thrust into his hand.
He had barely time to see that the play was entitled “A Wayside
Flower,” when the orchestra ceased, and the curtain rolled up, showing
the first scene.
He caught his breath with a gasp, and rubbed his eyes with a bewildered
hand, then looked again to see if his vision had played him false.