“She threw herself on her knees by the bedside
and seized his hand” " 400

“Maurice walked back until he found A gate,
entered, and went forward and overtook her” " 420

“I have an extremely important letter to send off” " 430

PRINCE FORTUNATUS.

CHAPTER I.

A rehearsal.

When the curtain fell on the last act of “The Squire’s Daughter,” the comedy-opera that had taken all musical London by storm, a tall and elegant young English matron and her still taller brother rose from their places in the private box they had been occupying, and made ready to depart; and he had just assisted her to put on her long-skirted coat of rose-red plush when an attendant made his appearance.

“Mr. Moore’s compliments, your ladyship, and will you please to step this way?”

The box was close to the stage.  Lady Adela Cunyngham and her brother, Lord Rockminster, followed their guide through a narrow little door, and almost at once found themselves in the wings, amid the usual motley crowd of gas-men, scene-shifters, dressers, and the like.  But the company were still fronting the footlights; for there had been a general recall, and the curtain had gone up again; and probably, during this brief second of scrutiny, it may have seemed odd to these two strangers to find themselves looking, not at rows of smiling faces on the stage, but at the backs of the heads of the performers.  However, the curtain once more came down; the great wedding-party in the squire’s hall grew suddenly quite business-like and went their several ways as if they had no longer any concern with one another; and then it was that the squire’s daughter herself—­a piquant little person she was, in a magnificent costume of richly flowered white satin, and with a portentous head-gear of powdered hair and brilliants and strings of pearls—­was brought forward by a handsome young gentleman who wore a tied wig, a laced coat and ruffles, satin knee-breeches, shining silken stockings, and silver-buckled shoes.

“Lady Adela,” said he, “let me introduce you to Miss Burgoyne.  Miss Burgoyne has been kind enough to say she will take you into her room for a little while, until I get off my war-paint.  I sha’n’t keep you more than a few minutes.”

“It is very good of you,” said the tall young matron in the crimson coat to this gorgeous little white bride, whose lips were brilliant with cherry-paste, and whose bright and frank eyes were surrounded by such a mighty mass of make-up.

“Not at all,” she answered, pleasantly enough, and therewith she led the way down some steps into a long, white-tiled corridor, from which branched the various dressing-rooms.  “I’m afraid I can’t give you any tea now; but there’s some lemonade, of my own making—­it has become very popular in the theatre—­you would hardly believe the number of callers I have of an evening.”