Stories for Helen Part 9

"We have now gone too far to recede," whispered Madeline,--"You must stand by me now. I _will not_ go back, and _you must_ come forward.

Here, take my money and put it down with yours--I forgot my gloves, and my hands will betray me, so I must keep them wrapped up in my cloak."

Juliet laid the money on the ledge before the doorkeeper, who looked at them with some surprise. They pulled their bonnets more closely over their faces, and pa.s.sed up the stairs; Madeline running as fast as possible, and Juliet entreating her in a low voice to stop a little, as she could not keep pace with her. They soon found themselves in the gallery, and being a.s.sisted over the benches by a very polite black man, they took their seats among some coloured people about the centre of the middle row.

The crowd and heat were intolerable. Juliet kept her eyes cast down; afraid to look round the house, or even to steal a glance towards the stage. Madeline, however, looked round boldly, and in a few minutes, to her great consternation, she perceived Edward Lansdowne standing up in the back part of one of the stage-boxes. Having finished his novel, and feeling no inclination to read any more that night, he had concluded to go to the theatre, reminded of it by seeing the bill in the evening paper. "Juliet," whispered Madeline, "there is my evil genius." "Where, where?" exclaimed Juliet, thrown almost off her guard. "If we can distinguish _him_ at so great a distance, he can also discover _us_."--"You forget," replied Madeline, "that we are in disguise." These words, though uttered in a whisper, were evidently heard by the people round, who all turned to look at them; and some tried to peep under their bonnets, which made Juliet draw hers down over her face till her sight was entirely obscured by it.

The play went on; but Madeline and Juliet could not enjoy it, all their attention being engaged by the continual fear of discovery. Juliet, however heard enough to convince her that her parents would never have taken her to see the Belle's Stratagem; as when they did indulge her with a visit to the theatre, they always selected a night when the play was unexceptionable, and the whole entertainment such as a young lady could witness with propriety.

At length came the masquerade-scene, and in a short time the French 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 n.o.body 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 pa.s.sed 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; pa.s.sing 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 cla.s.sed 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 ent.i.tled 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.