I bent forward, with staring eyes and
gaping mouth; if I uttered any exclamation it was drowned in the sound
of the hand-clapping that greeted her. While she curtseyed and
pleasantly smiled, in response to this welcome, I turned abruptly to
Phil, my eyes betokening my recognition. He nodded, without a word or
any other movement, and continued to look at her, his face wearing a
half-smiling expression of gentle gladness.
I knew, from my old acquaintance with him, that he was under so great
emotion that he dared not speak. It was, indeed, a cessation of secret
anxiety to him, a joy such as only a constant lover can understand, to
know that she was alive, well, with means of livelihood, and beautiful
as ever. Though she was now thirty-one, she looked, on the stage, not
a day older than upon that sad night when he had thrown her from him,
six years and more before--nay, than upon that day well-nigh eleven
years before, when he had bade her farewell to go upon his first
campaign. She was still as slender, still had the same girlish air and
manner.
Till the curtain fell upon the act, we sat without audible remark,
delighting our eyes with her looks, our ears with her voice, our
hearts (and paining them at the same time) with the memories her every
movement, every accent, called up.
"How shall we see her?" were Phil's first words at the end of the act.
"We may be allowed to send our names, and see her in the greenroom,"
said I.
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