“Every cock crows on his own midden,”
said Malcolm, “but if I were on mine, I would
try to be civil.”
“You go down there, and pay for a pit ticket,
and you’ll soon know where you are, mate,”
said Tom.
He obeyed, and after a few inquiries, and the outlay
of two shillings, found himself in the pit of one
of the largest of the London theatres.
The play was begun, and the stage was the centre of
light. Thither Malcolm’s eyes were drawn
the instant he entered. He was all but unaware
of the multitude of faces about him, and his attention
was at once fascinated by the lovely show revealed
in soft radiance. But surely he had seen the
vision before! One long moment its effect upon
him was as real as if he had been actually deceived
as to its nature: was it not the shore between
Scaurnose and Portlossie, betwixt the Boar’s
Tail and the sea? and was not that the marquis, his
father, in his dressing gown, pacing to and fro upon
the sands? He yielded himself to illusion—abandoned
himself to the wonderful, and looked only for what
would come next.
A lovely lady entered: to his excited fancy it
was Florimel. A moment more and she spoke.
If by your art, my dearest father, you have
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.
Then first he understood that before him rose in wondrous
realization the play of Shakspere he knew best—the
first he had ever read: The Tempest, hitherto
a lovely phantom for the mind’s eye, now embodied
to the enraptured sense. During the whole of the
first act he never thought either of Miranda or Florimel
apart. At the same time so taken was he with
the princely carriage and utterance of Ferdinand that,
though with a sigh, he consented he should have his
sister.
The drop scene had fallen for a minute or two before
he began to look around him. A moment more and
he had commenced a thorough search for his sister
amongst the ladies in the boxes. But when at
length he found her, he dared not fix his eyes upon
her lest his gaze should make her look at him, and
she should recognise him. Alas, her eyes might
have rested on him twenty times without his face once
rousing in her mind the thought of the fisher lad of
Portlossie! All that had passed between them in
the days already old was virtually forgotten.
By degrees he gathered courage, and soon began to
feel that there was small chance indeed of her eyes
alighting upon him for the briefest of moments.
Then he looked more closely, and felt through rather
than saw with his eyes that some sort of change had
already passed upon her. It was Florimel, yet
not the very Florimel he had known. Already something
had begun to supplant the girl freedom that had formerly
in every look and motion asserted itself. She
was more beautiful, but not so lovely in his eyes;
much of what had charmed him had vanished. She
was more stately, but the stateliness had a little
hardness mingled with it: and could it be that
the first of a cloud had already gathered on her forehead?
Surely she was not so happy as she had been at Lossie
House. She was dressed in black, with a white
flower in her hair.
