Suddenly she turned to him, surrendering to the impulse, forgetful of consequences.
“Oh, I am glad, glad,” she cried, “glad that you love me!”
But before Corthell could say anything more Landry Court and Page came up.
“We’ve been looking for you,” said the young girl quietly. Page was displeased. She took herself and her sister—in fact, the whole scheme of existence—with extraordinary seriousness. She had no sense of humour. She was not tolerant; her ideas of propriety and the amenities were as immutable as the fixed stars. A fine way for Laura to act, getting off into corners with Sheldon Corthell. It would take less than that to make talk. If she had no sense of her obligations to Mrs. Cressler, at least she ought to think of the looks of things.
“They’re beginning again,” she said solemnly. “I should think you’d feel as though you had missed about enough of this opera.”
They returned to the box. The rest of the party were reassembling.
“Well, Laura,” said Mrs. Cressler, when they had sat down, “do you like it?”
“I don’t want to leave it—ever,” she answered. “I could stay here always.”
“I like the young man best,” observed Aunt Wess’. “The one who seems to be the friend of the tall fellow with a cloak. But why does he seem so sorry? Why don’t he marry the young lady? Let’s see, I don’t remember his name.”
“Beastly voice,” declared Landry Court. “He almost broke there once. Too bad. He’s not what he used to be. It seems he’s terribly dissipated—drinks. Yes, sir, like a fish. He had delirium tremens once behind the scenes in Philadelphia, and stabbed a scene shifter with his stage dagger. A bad lot, to say the least.”
“Now, Landry,” protested Mrs. Cressler, “you’re making it up as you go along.” And in the laugh that followed Landry himself joined.
“After all,” said Corthell, “this music seems to be just the right medium between the naive melody of the Italian school and the elaborate complexity of Wagner. I can’t help but be carried away with it at times—in spite of my better judgment.”
Jadwin, who had been smoking a cigar in the vestibule during the entr’acte, rubbed his chin reflectively.
“Well,” he said, “it’s all very fine. I’ve no doubt of that, but I give you my word I would rather hear my old governor take his guitar and sing ‘Father, oh father, come home with me now,’ than all the fiddle-faddle, tweedle-deedle opera business in the whole world.”
But the orchestra was returning, the musicians crawling out one by one from a little door beneath the stage hardly bigger than the entrance of a rabbit hutch. They settled themselves in front of their racks, adjusting their coattails, fingering their sheet music. Soon they began to tune up, and a vague bourdon of many sounds—the subdued snarl of the cornets, the dull mutter of the bass viols, the liquid gurgling of the flageolets and woodwind instruments, now and then pierced by the strident chirps and cries of the violins, rose into the air dominating the incessant clamour of conversation that came from all parts of the theatre.
Then suddenly the house lights sank and the footlights rose. From all over the theatre came energetic whispers of “Sh! Sh!” Three strokes, as of a great mallet, sepulchral, grave, came from behind the wings; the leader of the orchestra raised his baton, then brought it slowly down, and while from all the instruments at once issued a prolonged minor chord, emphasised by a muffled roll of the kettledrum, the curtain rose upon a medieval public square. The soprano was seated languidly upon a bench. Her grande scene occurred in this act. Her hair was unbound; she wore a loose robe of cream white, with flowing sleeves, which left the arms bare to the shoulder. At the waist it was caught in by a girdle of silk rope.
“This is the great act,” whispered Mrs. Cressler, leaning over Laura’s shoulder. “She is superb later on. Superb.”
“I wish those men would stop talking,” murmured Laura, searching the darkness distressfully, for between the strains of the music she had heard the words:
“—Clearing House balance of three thousand dollars.”
Meanwhile the prima donna, rising to her feet, delivered herself of a lengthy recitative, her chin upon her breast, her eyes looking out from under her brows, an arm stretched out over the footlights. The baritone entered, striding to the left of the footlights, apostrophising the prima donna in a rage. She clasped her hands imploringly, supplicating him to leave her, exclaiming from time to time:
“Va via, va via—
Vel chieco per pietà.”
Then all at once, while the orchestra blared, they fell into each other’s arms.
“Why do they do that?” murmured Aunt Wess’ perplexed. “I thought the gentleman with the beard didn’t like her at all.”
“Why, that’s the duke, don’t you see, Aunt Wess’?” said Laura trying to explain. “And he forgives her. I don’t know exactly. Look at your libretto.”
“—a conspiracy of the Bears … seventy cents … and naturally he busted.”
The mezzo-soprano, the confidante of the prima donna, entered, and a trio developed that had but a mediocre success. At the end the baritone abruptly drew his sword, and the prima donna fell to her knees, chanting:
“Io tremo, ahimè!”
“And now he’s mad again,” whispered Aunt Wess’, consulting her libretto, all at sea once more. “I can’t understand. She says—the opera book says she says, ‘I tremble.’ I don’t see why.”
“Look now,” said Page, “here comes the tenor. Now they’re going to have it out.”
The tenor, hatless, debouched suddenly upon the scene, and furious, addressed himself to the baritone, leaning
