That first afternoon, however, had transported her into a paradise the joys of which even Dame Burton could not spoil.
Sitting in one of the exterior galleries overlooking the courtyard of the inn, Phoebe had witnessed a play given on a rough staging erected in the open air.
The play was "The Merchant of Venice," and who can tell the thrills that tingled through Phoebe's frame as, with dry lips and a beating heart, she gazed down upon Shylock. Behind that great false beard was the face of England's mightiest poet. That wig concealed the noble forehead so revered by high and low in the home she had left behind.
She was Phoebe Wise, and only Phoebe, that afternoon, enjoying to the full the privilege which chance had thrown in her way. And now, the morning after, she went over it all again in memory. She rehearsed mentally every gesture and intonation of the poet-actor, upon whom alone she had riveted her attention throughout the play, following him in thought, even when he was not on the stage.
Sitting there in her room, she smiled as she remembered with what a start of surprise she had recognized one among the groundlings in front of the stage after the performance. It was Sir Guy, very plainly dressed and gazing fixedly upon her. Doubtless he had been there during the entire play, waiting in vain for one sign of recognition. But Shylock had held her spellbound, and even for her lover she had been blind.
She felt a little touch of pity and compunction as she remembered these things, and suddenly she lifted to her lips the letter she was holding.
"Poor boy!" she murmured. Then, shaking her head with a smile: "I wonder how his letter found my room!" she said.
She rose, and, going to the window where the light was stronger, flattened out the missive and read it again:
"MY DEAR, DEAR MARY--dear to me ever, e'en in thy displeasure--have I fallen, then, so low in thy sight! May I not be forgiven, sweet girl, or shall I ever stand as I have this day, gazing upward in vain for the dear glance my fault hath forfeited?
"In sober truth, dear heart, I hate myself for what I was. What a sad mummery of lisping nothings was my speech--and what a vanity was my attire! Thou wast right, Mary, but oh! with what a ruthless hand didst thou tear the veil from mine eyes! I have seen my fault and will amend it, but oh! tell me it was thy love and not thine anger that hath prompted thee. And yet--why didst thou avert thine eyes from me this even? Sweet--speak but a word--write but a line--give some assurance, dear, of pardon to him who is forever thine in the bonds of love."