Dead-sea fruit, Vol. 2 (of 3)Braddon, M. E. (Mary Elizabeth)
General
Dead-sea fruit, Vol. 2 (of 3)
Braddon, M. E. (Mary Elizabeth)
English fiction -- 19th century
“Lucy might form exaggerated expectations from Hartstone’s letter,” he
said to himself. “I think I had better see her.”
There were no parties in Mr. Desmond’s world just now. Every one
worthy of a fashionable editor’s consideration was out of town, and
the gentleman had his evenings to himself. It was over his solitary
dinner-table that Mr. Desmond arrived at this conclusion; and it was to
the Oxford Road Theatre that he bent his steps after dinner, knowing
that he was most likely to find Lucy Alford there.
The play was “The Stranger.” He went into the dingy dress-circle for
half an hour, and saw Mrs. Haller play her penitent scene with the
Countess. Miss St. Albans looked very pretty as she grovelled at the
feet of her kindly patroness, dressed in white muslin which was in the
last stage of limpness, and with a penitential white-lace cap upon her
girlish head. He waited patiently through the rest of the play, and
went to the green-room after the last dismal scene, impressed with the
conviction that Lucy Alford was one of the dearest and prettiest of
girls, but not yet on the high-road to becoming a Siddons.
He found poor little Mrs. Haller alone in the green-room, with a book
in her hand, and with a very plaintive expression of countenance. She
brightened a little on recognizing the visitor; but while shaking hands
with her, Mr. Desmond perceived that her eyes were red, as with much
weeping.
“I did not think you felt the character so deeply,” he said; “those
real tears are a very good sign for a young actress.”
Lucy shook her head, despondently.
“It isn’t that,” she said; “I-I-was c-c-crying bec-c-cause I am n-not
to play J-J-J-Julia!”
Hereupon she fairly broke down and sobbed aloud, to the consternation
of Mr. Desmond, who did not know how to console this poor weeping
maiden. The sight of a woman’s tears was always very painful to
him; and for this young childlike creature he felt a pity that was
especially tender.
“My dear little girl,” he said, “pray don’t cry. Tell me all about this
business. Who is Julia?--what is Julia?--and why are you not to play
Julia?”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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