Madeline. That is exactly such a speech as Cecilia Selden would make on a similar occasion. It is a pity "the truly wise man" is not here. How Neddy would applaud.
Juliet. But where is the use of talking in this manner. You know you cannot go to the theatre.
Madeline. I know I can.
Juliet. How? In what way? I do not understand you.
Madeline. My going to the theatre to-night depends principally on you.
Juliet. On me!
Madeline. Yes, for I will not venture alone, and you must go with me.
Juliet. Go with you —I go with you!
Madeline. Yes.
Juliet. And who else?
Madeline. Nobody else. Now don't look as if you were ready to run through the wall to get away from me; but listen and understand. Our nursery-maid, Kitty, has permission to go this evening and stay all night with a sick sister. So when she is off, I can easily slip into her room and select a suit of her clothes, (which I believe will nearly fit me,) and she has a tolerably large wardrobe for a servant. Then I will steal in the back way, bringing a suit for you. Don't look shocked. I shall tell my father and mother that being very low-spirited, I am coming in here to spend a quiet evening with you. I heard Mrs. Lansdowne, when I was here yesterday, propose to your father to leave her at her sister, Mrs. Wilmar's, on his way to the Wistar party to-night, and call for her as he comes back; which of course will not be before ten o'clock at the very earliest. Therefore the coast will be clear, as I suppose Ned will go to his beloved Athenæum. So you see every thing seems to conspire fortunately to forward our plot.
Juliet. Our plot. O! do not call it ours. I never will have any thing to do with a plot.
Madeline. Yes, but you must though. Why this is nothing. I have plotted a hundred things in the course of my life, and so I shall again. Well, now hear the whole. I will slip in the back-way, and you must be alone in your room ready to receive me. After we have put on our disguises, we will go down stairs very softly and steal out at the alley gate. Then we will make the best of our way to the theatre, and go in at the gallery-door, passing, of course as two servant-girls. When we have reached the gallery we will mix with the crowd, and sit at our ease and enjoy the play; at least the masquerade-scene, which I would not miss for the world. I am absolutely dying to see the French dancers. Nobody can possibly discover us under our disguises. We will not go till the first act is over, and the audience settled; and we will come away before the last scene of the comedy. Then after we get home we will resume our proper dresses, and present ourselves to our parents, looking as demure as if we had been sitting by the fire, and talking sensibly, all the evening. No one will ever know what we have really been doing. It will be a most charming frolic, and something for you and I to laugh about, ten years hence. I always enjoy these queer exploits that no one else has courage to undertake.
Juliet (firmly.) Madeline, I will not disguise myself like a servant-girl; and I will never accompany you secretly to the theatre, nor to any other place.
Juliet spoke in so firm a tone, that Madeline was at first abashed, and remained for a few moments silent. But, not easily repelled, she soon recovered from her confusion, and exerted all her eloquence to prevail on her dear friend, as she called her, to join in the scheme. By turns she flattered, caressed, and ridiculed her, and then tried to win her consent by representing the delights of the masquerade-scene, as she had heard it described by a lady who had recently seen the comedy of the Belle's Stratagem. Juliet held out steadily for a long time. But at length her firmness gave way, and she finally yielded; as Madeline had foreseen. Her reluctance was so great, that her consent was, after all, rather extorted than given, and Madeline, having kissed her rather oftener than usual, ran gayly to her own home, singing "I won't be a nun."
After Madeline had gone, Juliet felt so uneasy at having suffered herself to be persuaded against her conscience, that she was on the point of calling her back and retracting her promise. When she went to dinner, the consciousness of her intended deceit destroyed her appetite, and made her feel as if she could not raise her eyes towards her parents, or answer them when they spoke to her.
Edward bent on her a scrutinizing glance, and saw that all was not right; but supposing that she had committed some fault in the course of the morning for which her mother had seriously reprimanded her, he was unwilling to notice her apparent mortification, and tried to divert the attention of his parents by talking to them of Cooper's last novel, which had been published that morning, and of which he had already gone through the first volume.
Mrs. Lansdowne, however, remarking that her daughter did not eat, inquired if she felt unwell, and Juliet replied that she had a violent headache: which was literally true. After dinner, her mother recommended that she should retire to her room and lie down, which she gladly did: her mind being too much agitated to take interest in any occupation. Once in the afternoon, she heard Edward come up stairs and tap at her door; but fearing that he had observed her confusion at dinner, and that he might ask her some question concerning it, she lay still, and did not answer to his knock, so that, supposing her to be asleep, he softly withdrew.
Towards evening, her mother came to inquire after her: and Juliet, unwilling to meet the family at table in her present state of discomposure, requested to have her tea sent up. "My dear," said Mrs. Lansdowne, "as you are not well, I will not go to my sister Wilmar's this evening, but I will stay at home and sit with you."
"O, no, dear mother!" replied Juliet, "I know you wish to see aunt Wilmar: I am sure my tea will relieve my headache, and I have no doubt, when I have drunk it, I shall feel well enough to rise, and sit up all the evening." Accordingly, after Juliet had taken her tea, she rose and adjusted her dress, and when Mrs. Lansdowne came up again, she found her daughter sitting by the fire with a book, and apparently so much recovered, that she felt no scruples about leaving her, as she was really desirous of passing the evening with Mrs. Wilmar, who was confined to the house with the influenza.
At last Juliet heard her father and mother depart, and Edward went out soon after. In a few minutes, Madeline came cautiously up stairs, and glided into the chamber, carrying a large bundle. "All's safe," said she, "the coast is quite clear, and we have not a moment to lose. It is a fine moonlight night."
Juliet's courage now failed entirely; and she vehemently besought Madeline to give up a scheme fraught with so much risk and impropriety. But Madeline was immovable, declaring that she had set her heart on it, and that she enjoyed nothing so much as what she called an out-of-the-way frolic. "Since you are so cowardly, Juliet," said she, "I wish I could venture to go alone; but wild as I am, I confess I am not quite equal to that – Come, now, off with your frock, and get yourself dressed in these delectable habiliments."
She then began to unfasten Juliet's dress, who pale, trembling, and with tears in her eyes, arrayed herself in the clothes that Madeline had brought for her. The gown was a very dirty one of dark blue domestic gingham, and she put on with it a yellowish chequered handkerchief, and a check apron. Over this she pinned an old red woollen shawl, and she covered her head with a coarse and broken black Leghorn bonnet. The clothes that Madeline had allotted to herself were a little better, consisting of a dark calico frock, a coarse tamboured muslin collar, an old straw bonnet very yellow and faded, and a plaid cloak which belonged to the cook, and which she had taken out of a closet in the garret.
The two young ladies did not know, or did not recollect, that when real servant-girls go to the theatre, they generally dress as well as they can, and take pains to appear to the best advantage. The clothes that Madeline had selected were quite too dirty and shabby for the occasion. To complete their costume, she gave Juliet a pair of coarse calf-skin shoes, which were so large that as she walked her feet seemed to rise up out of them. Madeline, for her part, put on a pair of carpet-moccasins over her slippers.
After they were dressed and ready to depart for the theatre, Juliet's tremor increased, and she was again on the point of relinquishing her share in the business; but she again yielded to the solicitations of Madeline, who led her softly down stairs by the light of the moon that shone in at the staircase windows. They stole, undiscovered, across the yard and out at the alley-gate; and finding themselves in the street, began to walk very fast, as people generally do when they are going to the play.
When they came in view of the theatre, they saw no persons there, except two or three gentlemen who went in at the pit-door. Juliet's heart failed entirely; and she shrank back as Madeline, taking her hand, attempted to pull her towards the door that admitted the gallery-people. "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 passed 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 assisted 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 nobody 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 passed 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; passing 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 classed 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 entitled 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.