Audrey

"Yes," said Audrey. "He had not been there for a long, long time. At first

he came night after night.... I wrote to him at last and told him how he

troubled me,--made me forget my lines,--and then he came no more."

There was in her tone a strange wistfulness. Evelyn drew her breath

sharply, glanced swiftly at the dark face and liquid eyes. Mr. Grymes yet

held the manager and his wife in conversation, but Mr. Lee, a small

jessamine-scented glove in hand, was hurrying toward them from the

summer-house.

"You think that you do not love Mr. Haward?" said Evelyn, in a low voice.

"I loved one that never lived," said Audrey simply. "It was all in a dream

from which I have waked. I told him that at Westover, and afterwards here

in Williamsburgh. I grew so tired at last--it hurt me so to tell him ...

and then I wrote the letter. He has been at Fair View this long time, has

he not?"

"Yes," said Evelyn quietly. "He has been alone at Fair View." The rose in

her cheeks had faded; she put her lace handkerchief to her lips, and shut

her hand so closely that the nails bit into the palm. In a moment,

however, she was smiling, a faint, inscrutable smile, and presently she

came a little nearer and took Audrey's hand in her own.

The soft, hot, lingering touch thrilled the girl. She began to speak

hurriedly, not knowing why she spoke nor what she wished to say: "Mistress

Evelyn"-"Yes, Audrey," said Evelyn, and laid a fluttering touch upon the other's

lips, then in a moment spoke herself: "You are to remember always, though

you love him not, Audrey, that he never was true lover of mine; that now

and forever, and though you died to-night, he is to me but an old

acquaintance,--Mr. Marmaduke Haward of Fair View. Remember also that it

was not your fault, nor his perhaps, nor mine, and that with all my heart

I wish his happiness.... Ah, Mr. Lee, you found it? My thanks, sir."

Mr. Lee, having restored the glove with all the pretty froth of words

which the occasion merited, and seen Mistress Evelyn turn aside to speak

with Mr. Stagg, found himself mightily inclined to improve the golden

opportunity and at once lay siege to this paragon from the playhouse. Two

low bows, a three-piled, gold-embroidered compliment, a quotation from his

"To Sylvia upon her Leaving the Theatre," and the young gentleman thought

his lines well laid. But Sylvia grew restless, dealt in monosyllables, and

finally retreated to Mistress Stagg's side. "Shall we not go home?" she

whispered. "I--I am tired, and I have my part to study, the long speech at

the end that I stumbled in last night. Ah, let us go!"