The Sixty-First Second Read online

  *CHAPTER XVII*

  Mrs. Craig Fontaine's box was in the lower grand tier in that favoredcircle which, in the present struggle for social supremacy, is theultimate battlefield. Her entrance was one of the six importantarrivals of the night which affected the immense audience with acuriosity only less intense than the entrance of the prima donna. Mrs.Fontaine, approaching the curtain that shut out the swimming vision offaces, took a preparatory glance, and as the row of boxes still showed aprofusion of gaps, she delayed their entrance on the pretext of waitingfor Mrs. Kildair. Besides Gunther and Beecher, there were in the partyLady Fitzhugh Mowbray, a young woman of the striking English blondetype, and the Duke de Taleza-Corti, of the royal house of Italy, acosmopolite, dry, frail in body, affecting the English monocle, with aperpetual introspective smile on his keen lips.

  The absence of Mrs. Kildair had left Mrs. Fontaine in very bad humor.Not only did she consider an invitation to her box as a sort of royalcommand that should take precedence over all calamities, and renderaccidents impossible, but she felt that she would miss the effect whichher well-balanced party had promised. Fortunately, at that moment thedoor opened and Mrs. Kildair entered.

  "My dear Mrs. Fontaine," she said immediately, in a voice that could notbe heard by the rest, "the explanation I sent you is not true. It wasnot a question of a break-down. There are crises in our lives thatcannot be put off. I can tell you no more than this, but I know youwill understand that nothing except a matter of supreme importance wouldever make me miss an invitation of yours."

  Mrs. Fontaine looked at her and, seeing beyond the surface calm thefires of a profound agitation, was pleased that Mrs. Kildair had notsought an easy excuse, but had thrown herself on her woman's generosity.Also she perceived that she was strikingly dressed in a robe of thatluminous, elusive green that breaks forth in the flickering driftwood,subdued and given distance by a network of black lace. It was exactlythe contrast that she would have chosen as a foil to her own costume.She smiled, pressed her guest's hand sympathetically and signaled toGunther, who removed her wrap.

  Mrs. Kildair murmured an involuntary tribute while the Duke deTaleza-Corti, with the over-frank admiration which the Latin permits,said point blank:

  "If I am to sit behind you, Madame, you must bandage my eyes."

  Mrs. Fontaine had chosen the one color which, above all others, seemedto have been created to frame her dark imperious beauty--a warm purple,the tone of autumn itself, which gave to her shoulders and throat thesoftness of ivory. About her neck was a double string of pearls whichwere worth ten times the receipts of the house.

  "Let's go in," she said, glancing at Gunther with a hope that she mightfind his eyes a little troubled. She signed to him to take the seatbehind hers, placing Beecher back of Mrs. Kildair, and while the rest ofher party immediately swept the house with their opera-glasses, sheremained quiet, conscious of the sudden focus, unwilling to show herselfcurious of other women.

  "Look," said Mrs. Kildair to Beecher in a low aside; "Mrs. Bloodgood isin her box. What daring!" she added after a moment's examination. "Shehas dressed herself in black."

  Beecher, following her directions, beheld Mrs. Bloodgood, without asingle jewel or a relieving touch of color, sitting proudly, lookingfixedly at the stage, disdainful of the stir and gossip which herdramatic appearance occasioned. Behind in the crowded box Mr. Bloodgoodwas standing, smiling and contented, showing himself with a maliciousenjoyment.

  "How can she do it?" he said.

  "After the first act," said Mrs. Kildair, with a sudden impulse ofgenerosity, "go and see her. Take Mr. Gunther. It will give herstrength."

  "It is decidedly brilliant," said Lady Mowbray. "The parterre is muchmore effective than Covent Garden."

  "There should be a guide to tell us all the histories of these boxes,"said Taleza-Corti, with his keen perception of values. "The opera isthe record of society. The history of America for the next twenty yearswill be written here by those who descend from the galleries into theorchestra, and those who force their way from the orchestra into theboxes. I like to think of your millionaires who might have begun upthere under the roof. Fonda, our great novelist, says that the opera isthe city reduced to the terms of the village. It always impresses me.Magnificent!"

  No one listened to him. The women nodded from time to time as theirglasses encountered those of acquaintances; Beecher, troubled at afigure which he had half perceived in the orchestra and which he soughtto distinguish, fancied a resemblance to Nan Charters; Gunther, bored bya spectacle which had no novelty for him, watched Mrs. Kildair, notingthe nervous hands and the occasional quickly taken breaths, askinghimself what had been the real cause of her absence, half divining in aconfused way the truth.

  Mrs. Fontaine was languidly curious of those who had a right to herinterest. She was in her element--jealous of this multitude as anactress, pleased at the fine effect she had produced. And in hertriumph she was recalled to the one thing she desired to complete herambition, to give her that command of this assemblage which she wasforced to acknowledge to another. Her glance went to the box in themiddle of the horseshoe, as it did covetously each night.

  "Your father isn't here tonight," she said to Bruce Gunther with alittle surprise.

  "No. There is some big pow-wow on," he answered.

  Mrs. Kildair took up her glasses suddenly, turning them haphazard. Theremark revived in her all the agitation of the afternoon.

  "I shall never be able to sit through this," she said to herself,leaning forward. "If I only knew--"

  Mrs. Fontaine, could she have known the thoughts that were gallopingthrough the brain of her guest, would have been astounded at theirsimilarity. Mrs. Kildair, too, had her ambitions, ambitions aspassionately held and nourished on one hope. The interview thatafternoon with Slade, an interview in which for the first time she hadmade him feel the need of her, had all at once brought the prize withinher grasp. If he could but emerge from this one supreme danger, shesaid to herself that she had at last the opportunity to rate herselfhere among the leaders of this society which she coveted, had alwayscoveted and would never cease to covet.

  "Give me Slade and twenty millions even," she said to herself with agreat intaking of breath, "and I can do anything. I will dominate thisin five years." But the more violently burned the fire of her desire,the more weak and faltering was her hope. "Ah, will he win out--canhe--how is it possible?" she said bitterly. "Oh, what a gamble it allis--and I must sit here--continue to sit here like a stone--while in anhour it may all be decided!"

  "You've seen Fornez in _Carmen_?" said Taleza-Corti to Gunther. "Veryfine."

  "First appearance here," said Gunther briefly. He touched Beecher on thearm. "Friends of yours over there, Ted."

  "Who?"

  "The Cheevers--little to your right--row above. Hello," he addedsuddenly. "See who's with them?"

  "Who?" said Beecher, who did not recognize the rest of the party.

  Gunther placed his finger on his lips, with a warning glance at Mrs.Kildair, and then, bending forward, said:

  "I say, Mrs. Kildair, who is that tall, rather black chap in the boxwith the Stanley Cheevers? He's looking this way now."

  Mrs. Kildair raised her glasses.

  "Mr. Mapleson," she said directly.

  "He's the head of Sontag & Company, the jewelers, isn't he?"

  "Yes, I believe so."

  "Queer looking chap--ever know him?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  She turned, looking at the questioner with a fixity that told him shewas not entirely ignorant of his real interest.

  "He must have been in Paris when you were," he said quickly. "I hear hehad quite a career there."

  She turned away with indifference, gazed once more through her glassesand said:

  "Yes, there were quite a number of stories about his rise. He is a manwith a genius for friendships."

  "Rather attentive to Mrs. Cheever, isn't he
?" persisted Gunther.

  "I didn't know it."

  Beecher did not then seize the drift of the inquiry, still absorbed ashe was in the attempt to gain a clearer view of the profile in theorchestra which reminded him of Nan Charters. Lady Mowbray continuedsilent, busy as a true Briton in the search for the ridiculous in thisassemblage which at first glance had impressed her.

  All at once the lights went out and the first act was on. The entranceof Emma Fornez was eagerly awaited as a new sensation to an audiencewhich yearly must be served with the novel and startling. It had beenrumored that her impersonation was even a bit shocking, and the house,stirred by the expectation, waited hopefully. At the end of the actopinions were divided: the galleries applauded frantically, moved by thesure magnetism of a great artist, but the boxes and most of theorchestra waited undecided, each afraid to be the leader.

  "But I don't see anything shocking at all," said the voice of a youngwoman in the next box, a note of complaint in her voice.

  "Wait--it's in the second act," answered the sarcastic note of a man.

  "Ah, the love scene," said the woman mollified.

  The two young men rose, giving their places to arriving visitors, andwent into the corridors on their rounds. Beecher was thoughtful. Hehad at last assured himself that he had not been mistaken--Miss Charterswas present. He had detected her with her glasses on his box, but hehad not succeeded in seeing who was her companion.

  "I'd give a good deal to know how well Mrs. Cheever knows Mapleson,"said Gunther eagerly.

  "I say, what do you mean by poking me?" asked Beecher suddenly.

  "Didn't you get on? Mapleson is the head of Sontag & Company; Sontag &Company sold the ring to Slade. Now if Mapleson and Mrs. Cheever areintimate it's possible--just a chance--Mrs. Cheever may have known thefacts. See?"

  Beecher shrugged his shoulders.

  "It's a long shot."

  "But a chance. I'll pick up some one here in five minutes who can tellme."

  Beecher entered the Bloodgood box and, making his way to the front, gavehis hand to Mrs. Bloodgood. Four or five men, impelled by curiosity,were before him, mentally registering their reports to add to the fundof gossip. Mrs. Bloodgood, glad to avail herself of the opportunity,had turned her back on the audience and was holding her head againstthese social scouts, who discussed Slade, which was a manner ofdiscussing Majendie.

  She welcomed Beecher's arrival as that of an ally and made him thepretext of withdrawing from the general conversation. The moment helooked at her, he had the tact to perceive that any display of sympathywould be an offense. There was no trace left of the weak and desperatewoman. Instead, he was aware of an immense change in her, atransformation that was moral, and looking into her eyes he could notrealize that he had ever seen them weep.

  "They'll force out Slade," said a voice.

  "Where are you tonight?" she asked quietly.

  "In Mrs. Craig Fontaine's box," he said.

  "Mrs. Kildair is there, isn't she?"

  "Yes." He hesitated, but did not deliver her message. The woman beforehim asked compassion from no one. In the commotion at his side hecaught a phrase: "Wonder if Slade will kill himself too?"

  "Do you like Fornez?" he said hastily, and despite himself he lookedinto her eyes to see what effect the remark had made.

  "Very much," she said coldly, a little staccato. And then calmly, to enda subject that was disagreeable to her, she turned to the other."Fornez has made a success, don't you think?"

  Beecher left presently, oppressed by the hardness that he felt in her.

  "There's a woman who will never have any pity," he thought as he left.Mr. Bloodgood, who remembered him with a malicious smile, shook his handwith extra cordiality.

  "Did you give my message?" asked Mrs. Kildair as he took his place.

  "It was wiser not," he said. Then all at once, struck by the fatigue inher face, he asked anxiously: "Are you very tired?"

  "Yes, very," she said.

  In this box, too, nothing had been spoken of except the drama, which atthat moment was centered about John G. Slade. As nothing could possiblybe known, every one arrived with a fresh rumor, and the burden of allwas the annihilation of the Westerner. The sudden darkness came to heras a relief. She relaxed wearily in her chair and forced her mind toforget itself in the sudden access of gaiety from the stage.

  This second act was a veritable triumph for Emma Fornez. In the sceneof Don Jose's return she acted with such fine and natural primitivepassion that all the constricted little feminine natures in the audiencewere stirred by the pulsing exhibition of an emotion they had carefullychoked or reduced to mathematics, and, really moved, trembling in theirimprisoned bodies, they applauded for the first time. Then suddenlythey ceased--a little ashamed.

  In descending the stairway to go behind the stage, Beecher perceivedMiss Charters in the distance of the shifting crowd. He stopped, by amovement he did not analyze, to speak to a purely chance acquaintance,hoping that she would perceive him. Then he continued to thedressing-room of the prima donna.

  Emma Fornez was in a state of frenzied delight.

  "I have them, Teddy--I have them! Is it not so?" she cried, clappingher hands together as a child. She flung her arms about him, embracinghim. In fact, she embraced every one--even Victorine, her maid.

  "The house is wild with enthusiasm," he said, laughing.

  "Aha! I made them sit up, didn't I--your cold women! It's the secondact, Teddy--the second--you get them there. Bah! They don't even knowwhat I did to them." All at once she stopped, seriously assuming acountenance of terror. "Oh, but the critics--what will the monsterssay! They never like it when the audience is too enthusiastic."

  "'Aha! I made them sit up, didn't I--your cold women!'"]

  "I saw Macklin applauding, Madame," said Spinetti, putting his head intothe room.

  "Angel!" cried Emma Fornez, and she embraced Spinetti. Then, knowing inherself that the day was won, she began to amuse her audience. "Do youknow what the critics will write? I'll tell you. The audience wascarried off its feet in the second act. They will praise the first.They will say the second was obvious, and they will praise the thirdact, because there I shall do a little trick to them--in the card scene.I shall be very noble--very tragic. I will make a little picture ofdeath before my eyes--with all his bones rattling and his great bighollow eyes, and they shall see it on my face--so! And I'll look verysteady--noble--profound--like a queen. See?--a thing which Carmen wouldnevere, nevere do, for she's a little wretch of an animal that would befrightened to death. But you will see they will all like it--it's theirmoral that you have to serve up to them."

  "Third act--third act," came the running call from the flies. "All onthe stage for the third act."

  When Beecher entered the corridor, Miss Charters was only a shortdistance away. He was prepared for Lorraine as a companion, but he felta sudden anger at the sight of Garraboy, who in turn, suddenlycomprehending the aim of his partner's maneuvers, looked anything butpleased.

  She nodded to him, holding out her hand.

  "She is wonderful, Teddy, wonderful. Have you seen her? Is shepleased?"

  "She is a great, great artist," he said with extra warmth. "She ispleased as a child."

  The two men had nodded with that impertinent jerk of the head which insociety conveys the effect of a bucket of water.

  "Come and see me after the next act," she said, looking at him closely.

  "If I can," he said hastily.

  He went up the steps and from the tail of his eye saw her linger,watching him as he went. A little contrition, a sudden sympathy came tohim, but he repressed it angrily, saying to himself between his teeth:

  "Garraboy--how can she stand for that!"

  When he returned to the box, Mrs. Kildair and Mrs. Fontaine were in theanteroom in low converse. He was suddenly struck with the look of agein Mrs. Kildair's face.

  "But I assure you--I can go alone," she was
saying.

  "I would not allow it," said Mrs. Fontaine firmly. Then turning toBeecher she said, so as not to reach the others: "Teddy, as soon as thecurtain is up, step out. Mrs. Kildair is not well. You will take herhome. I have ordered the automobile. You can get back for the lastact."

  Mrs. Kildair made no further remonstrance--she was at the end of hertether.

  "Sit here," she said to Beecher, sitting down on the couch. "I don'twant to be noticed."

  "You're ill!" he said alarmed.

  "Yes, ill," she said mechanically.

  At this moment the house became still. She rose with a return of energyand signaled him that she was ready. Five minutes later they were inthe automobile fleeing uptown.

  A moment of weakness was rare in her life, yet she comprehended itwithout seeking to delude herself.

  "At twenty I should not even have trembled," she said to herself,sinking back into the cushioned seat and watching the lights of thestreets flash past the window with a comforting emotion of speed. "Nowit is different. Every life has one supreme opportunity--this is mine.I know it."

  Had a woman been at her side instead of Beecher, she would have givenher confidence in the terrible necessity for sharing the emotion thatwas too vital to her. As it was, she restrained herself, remainingsilent by a last effort of her will, but her hand on the window-framebegan a nervous syncopated beating, imitating the click of the fleeingrails which one hears on a railroad train.

  "You are feeling better?" said the young man in a troubled voice.

  "Open the window--just for a moment," she answered.

  The sudden blast of cold air, damp as though laden with the tears of thecity, terrified her with its suggestion of despair and defeat.

  "No, no, shut it!" she said hurriedly.

  He obeyed and then to distract her, began:

  "I received your note, Rita, just before coming, McKenna--"

  "No, no," she said, interrupting him, "that is nothing. Just let me bequiet a moment--get hold of myself."

  But in a few moments she was forced to seek the stimulus of the airagain, and she cried hurriedly, not concealing her agitation:

  "Open, open quick!"

  The crisis which she felt approaching with every block which fell behindwas so immense, the stake so ardently coveted, so weakly feared, thatshe had in the last eternal waiting moments a sensation of vertigo, thatswept down and seized her even as on the football field before theblowing of the whistle the stanchest player feels his heart lying beforehim on the ground. She opened her lips, drinking in the chill,revivifying draught, unaware of the strange impression her disorderedcountenance in the embrasure of the window made on the occasionalpassers-by.

  "Better first in a village than second in Rome."

  She found herself repeating the saying mechanically, without quiteunderstanding how it had so suddenly leaped into her mind. Then, as theautomobile turned into her street, and she felt that he was therewaiting as he had promised, successful or ruined; that now in tenminutes all would be over, she would know; all at once, without thatsense of humor which deserts us in great stress, she began to prayconfusedly to some one immense, whom she had never understood, but onewho seemed to hold all fates in the balancing of his fingers.

  "Are you better? What shall I do? Shall I come up with you?" askedBeecher, totally in the dark.

  "No, no--wait," she said hurriedly, as the machine ground to a stop.She did not rise at once, stiffening in her seat, grasping the arm ofthe young man until he winced under the contraction of her fingers.

  "Good!" she said suddenly; and before he could prevent her she was outon the sidewalk. "No, no; stay in. Thanks, thanks a thousand times.I'll send you back."

  Before he could protest, she shut the door firmly and nodded to thechauffeur.

  The elevator boy was already at the swinging glass doors, holding themopen for her entrance.

  "Mr. Slade here, Jo?" she said instantly.

  "Yes, ma'am; upstairs."

  "How long?"

  "About half an hour."

  She entered the elevator and descended at the landing, waiting until ithad disappeared.

  "Now for it!" she said, pressing the bell. And by a last display of herwill, she sent through her body a wave of cold resolution that left heroutwardly impassive with a little touch of scorn on her lips.