Staunton vindicator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1860-1896, 1882-07-28

S~~N -
me! Do not. beseech you. let the adora-
ton Of another'-(''That's me-" Disney
says, between his compressed lips) -"blind
you to the undying love offer! On you
are conferred all my hopes of future happi-
ness! Do not sentence me to a lifelong
despair, but say you will be mins!''
Disney waits with maddening Impotence
and beating heart for her reply.
1t comes very nervously from Dorothy g
pretty lips.
Her head is bent m odestly, and her hands
lie passively in Ponsonby's.
"How can answer you?'' she says. in
distinct hut wavering accents. "And yet
why should l not unburden my mindp
Truth is always best. My heart has long
been in your keeping, and if you wish it,
it is yours
1t is too much! Sick at heart, Disney
turns away, not caring to listen to words
evidently not meant for him to hear. The
dreadful awakening has come! All his
dreams of bliss have been shattered by
this sudden and painfully unexpected blow;
and Dorothy, his love. whom he has be-
lieved as true assthe angels, is nothing
more in his eyes now than a practlced firt
and heartless woman of the world
His first thought is to return to the city;
his next to remain. Has he not heard
somewhere ''second thoughts are best?'
es; he will remain, and gee it out to the
bitter end and when this loathsome play
has come to an end, he will tell her what
he thinks of her, and how she has wilfully
broken his heart and ruined his life.
At dinner he is compelled to meet her;
but everybody being present, his exceed
ingly cold greeting passes unnoticed by all
except by Dorothy herself. She' cannot
mistake the change in his whole demean-
or. Where is the tender pressure of h. is
hand to which she has been accustomed?
Why did he come at all if he is still filled
with bitter thoughts? There is some faint
comfort in the remembrance that she did
not ask him to return.
But what has become of the pressing
business? Why has he come back in
such hot haste?
He carefully avoided her all the evening
and next morning at breakfast is, if pos
sible, more markedly cold and distant to-
ward her.
She is saddened and disheartened; but
pride comes to her rescue. She decides in
herself that she will show him how little
she has taken to heart his GOODNESS and
Indifference.
Never before, perhaps, as during this in
terminable day has Miss Bohun appeared
SO gay, SO bright, so full Of life and spirits;
and yet in the solitude of her own room,
while dressing for this luckless play, she
shed many bitter tear.
At nine O'Clock the curtain rises. The
guests settle themselves in their seats and
prepare for anything.
Miss Rodney, arrayed in very exquisite
costume, fresh from Worth, appears before
the audience, simpering and grimacing and
doing her utmost to initiate real live
countess, while in reality she only succeeds
in resembling very inferior soubret.
While Miss Faulkner, from the hall who
is in private life her intimate friend, now
makes poor pretence of waiting upon
her as confidential maid, and renders
herself perfectly ridiculous by giving
herself sufficient airs for a half dozen
countesses.
Both are distinct failure. Everybody
tries to applaud, but disparaglng remarks
fall lightly on the air.
The faint applause brings to life two
hardy veterans, who, for some time past
have given themselves gratis to the open
arms of Morpheus, and have contentedly
reclined therein.
81 think Miss Rodney has better chance
of getting off than that girl in green"
slespily drawls Number One. ''Do your"
replies Mum her Two. "Wsll Pm not
much of a judge about that sort of thing;
but my opinion is neither will get off before
the other. You see, my dear fellow, when
women are born with talent for acting
like those two-two tyros, they don't get
easily settled in life."
Then the curtain draws up for the Sec
ond time, and somebody comes slowly on
to the stage somebody who sets Cyril's
pulses swiftly throbbing.
1t is Dorothy. She is very pale, and her
eyes are little languid: but she is just a
a degree lovelier than she ever was before.
Disney hardly hears how the play pro-
crosses. Not syllable makes itself heard
to him;ihe can only tell himself how love-
ly she is looking, and that she is false as
fair.
Her eyes are on the ground; but sudden
ly some words strike upon his ear-werds
that bring back to him scene fraught
with grief and anger. He starts, and lifts
his head; and for the first time eagerly re-
CARDS the players.
Ponsonbly on his knees before her. He
is holding her hands. His whole attitude
is as it was that fatal afternoon in the
conservatory. He is again pouring fourth
his soul in words o.. extrayagant passion.
And thenlD orothy's voice rises, clear