Mr. Satterthwaite was at the opera and sat alone in his big box on the
first tier. Outside the door was a printed card bearing his name. An
appreciator and a connoisseur of all the arts, Mr. Satterthwaite was
especially fond of good music and was a regular subscriber to Covent
Garden every year, reserving a box for Tuesdays and Fridays throughout
the season.
But it was not often that he sat in it alone. He was a gregarious
little gentleman, and he liked filling his box with the élite of the
great world to which he belonged, and also with the aristocracy of
the artistic world, in which he was equally at home. He was alone
tonight because a countess had disappointed him. The Countess, besides
being a beautiful and celebrated woman, was also a good mother. Her
children had been attacked by that common and distressing disease, the
mumps, and the Countess remained at home in tearful confabulation with
exquisitely starched nurses. Her husband, who had supplied her with the
aforementioned children and a title, but who was otherwise a complete
nonentity, had seized at the chance to escape. Nothing bored him more
than music.
So Mr. Satterthwaite sat alone. _Cavalleria Rusticana_ and _Pagliacci_
were being given that night, and, since the first had never appealed
to him, he arrived just after the curtain went down on Santuzza's
death agony, in time to glance round the house with a practiced eye,
before everyone streamed out, bent on paying visits or fighting for
coffee or lemonade. Mr. Satterthwaite adjusted his opera glasses,
looked round the house, marked down his prey, and sallied forth with a
well-mapped-out plan of campaign ahead of him, a plan, however, which
he did not put into execution, for just outside his box he cannoned
into a tall, dark man, and recognized him with a pleasurable thrill of
excitement.
"Mr. Quin," cried Mr. Satterthwaite.
He seized his friend warmly by the hand, clutching him as though he
feared any minute to see him vanish into thin air. "You must share my
box," said Mr. Satterthwaite determinedly. "You are not with a party?"
"No, I am sitting by myself in the stalls," responded Mr. Quin with a
smile.
"Then that is settled," said Mr. Satterthwaite with a sigh of relief.
His manner was almost comic, had there been anyone to observe it.
"You are very kind," said Mr. Quin.
"Not at all. It is a pleasure. I didn't know you were fond of music?"
"There are reasons why I am attracted to _Pagliacci_."
"Ah! of course," said Mr. Satterthwaite, nodding sapiently, though, if
put to it, he would have found it hard to explain just why he had used
that expression. "Of course, you would be."
They went back to the box at the first summons of the bell and, leaning
over the front of it, they watched the people returning to the stalls.
"That's a beautiful head," observed Mr. Satterthwaite suddenly.
He indicated with his glasses a spot immediately beneath them in the
stalls circle. A girl sat there whose face they could not see--only the
pure gold of her hair that fitted with the closeness of a cap till it
merged into the white neck.
"A Greek head," said Mr. Satterthwaite reverently. "Pure Greek." He
sighed happily. "It's a remarkable thing when you come to think of
it--how very few people have hair that _fits_ them."
"You are so observant," said Mr. Quin.
"I see things," admitted Mr. Satterthwaite. "I do see things. For
instance, I picked out that head at once. We must have a look at her
face sooner or later. But it won't match, I'm sure. That would be a
chance in a thousand."
Almost as the words left his lips, the lights flickered and went down,
the sharp rap of the conductor's baton was heard, and the opera began.
A new tenor, said to be a second Caruso, was singing that night. He had
been referred to by the newspapers as a Yugoslav, a Czech, an Albanian,
a Magyar, and a Bulgarian, with a beautiful impartiality. He had given
an extraordinary concert at the Albert Hall, a program of the folk
songs of his native hills, with a specially tuned orchestra. They were
in strange half-tones, and the would-be musical had pronounced them
"too marvelous." Real musicians had reserved judgment, realizing that
the ear had to be specially trained and attuned before any criticism
was possible. It was quite a relief to some people to find this evening
that Yoaschbim could sing in ordinary Italian with all the traditional
sobs and quivers.
The curtain went down on the first act, and applause burst out
vociferously. Mr. Satterthwaite turned to Mr. Quin. He realized that
the latter was waiting for him to pronounce judgment, and plumed
himself a little. After all, he _knew_. As a critic he was well-nigh
infallible.
Very slowly he nodded his head. "It is the real thing," he said.
"You think so?"
"As fine a voice as Caruso's. People will not recognize that it is so
at first, for his technique is not yet perfect. There are ragged edges,
a lack of certainty in the attack. But the voice is there--magnificent."
"I went to his concert at the Albert Hall," said Mr. Quin.
"Did you? I could not go."
"He made a wonderful hit with a shepherd's song."
"I read about it," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "The refrain ends each time
with a high note--a kind of cry. A note midway between A and B flat.
Very curious."
Yoaschbim had taken three calls, bowing and smiling. The lights went
up and the people began to file out. Mr. Satterthwaite leaned over to
watch the girl with the golden head. She rose, adjusted her scarf, and
turned.
Mr. Satterthwaite caught his breath. There were, he knew, such faces in
the world--faces that made history--
The girl moved to the gangway, her companion, a young man, beside her.
And Mr. Satterthwaite noticed how every man in the vicinity looked--and
continued to look covertly.
_Beauty!_ said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself. _There is such a thing.
Not charm, nor attraction, nor magnetism, nor any of the things we talk
about so glibly--just sheer beauty. The shape of a face, the line of
an eyebrow, the curve of a jaw._ He quoted softly under his breath:
"_The face that launched a thousand ships._" And for the first time he
realized the meaning of those words.
He glanced across at Mr. Quin, who was watching him in what seemed such
perfect comprehension that Mr. Satterthwaite felt there was no need for
words.
"I've always wondered," he said simply, "what such women were really
like."
"You mean?"
"The Helens, the Cleopatras, the Mary Stuarts."
Mr. Quin nodded thoughtfully. "If we go out," he suggested, "we
may--see."
They went out together, and their quest was successful. The pair they
were in search of were seated on a lounge halfway up the staircase. For
the first time, Mr. Satterthwaite noted the girl's companion, a dark
young man, not handsome, but with a suggestion of restless fire about
him. A face full of strange angles; jutting cheekbones, a forceful,
slightly crooked jaw, deep-set eyes that were curiously light under the
dark, overhanging brows.
_An interesting face_, said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself. _A real face.
It means something._
The young man was leaning forward talking earnestly. The girl was
listening. Neither of them belonged to Mr. Satterthwaite's world. He
took them to be of the "Arty" class. The girl wore a rather shapeless
garment of cheap green silk. Her shoes were of soiled white satin. The
young man wore his evening clothes with an air of being uncomfortable
in them.
The two men passed and repassed several times. The fourth time they
did so the couple had been joined by a third--a fair young man with a
suggestion of the clerk about him. With his coming a certain tension
had set in. The newcomer was fidgeting with his tie and seemed ill at
ease; the girl's beautiful face was turned gravely up toward him, and
her companion was scowling furiously.
"The usual story," said Mr. Quin very softly, as they passed.
"Yes," said Mr. Satterthwaite with a sigh. "It's inevitable, I suppose.
The snarling of two dogs over a bone. It always has been, it always
will be. And yet, one could wish for something different. Beauty--" He
stopped. Beauty, to Mr. Satterthwaite, meant something very wonderful.
He found it difficult to speak of it. He looked at Mr. Quin, who nodded
his head gravely in understanding.
They went back to their seats for the second act.
At the close of the performance, Mr. Satterthwaite turned eagerly to
his friend. "It is a wet night. My car is here. You must allow me to
drive you--er--somewhere."
The last word was Mr. Satterthwaite's delicacy coming into play. "To
drive you home" would, he felt, have savored of curiosity. Mr. Quin had
always been singularly reticent. It was extraordinary how little Mr.
Satterthwaite knew about him.
"But perhaps," continued the little man, "you have your own car
waiting?"
"No," said Mr. Quin. "I have no car waiting."
"Then--"
But Mr. Quin shook his head. "You are most kind," he said, "but I
prefer to go my own way. Besides," he said with a rather curious smile,
"if anything should--happen, it will be for you to act. Good night, and
thank you. Once again we have seen the drama together."
He had gone so quickly that Mr. Satterthwaite had no time to protest,
but he was left with a faint uneasiness stirring in his mind. To what
drama did Mr. Quin refer? _Pagliacci_ or another?
Masters, Mr. Satterthwaite's chauffeur, was in the habit of waiting in
a side street. His master disliked the long delay while the cars drew
up in turn before the opera house. Now, as on previous occasions, he
walked rapidly round the corner and along the street toward where he
knew he should find Masters awaiting him. Just in front of him were a
girl and a man, and even as he recognized them, another man joined them.
It all broke out in a minute. A man's voice, angrily uplifted. Another
man's voice in injured protest. And then the scuffle. Blows, angry
breathing, more blows, the form of a policeman appearing majestically
from nowhere--and in another minute Mr. Satterthwaite was beside the
girl where she shrank back against the wall.
"Allow me," he said. "You must not stay here."
He took her by the arm and marshaled her swiftly down the street. Once
she looked back.
"Oughtn't I--?" she began uncertainly.
Mr. Satterthwaite shook his head. "It would be very unpleasant for you
to be mixed up in it. You would probably be asked to go along to the
police station with them. I am sure neither of your--friends would wish
that."
He stopped. "This is my car. If you will allow me to do so, I shall
have much pleasure in driving you home."
The girl looked at him searchingly. The staid respectability of Mr.
Satterthwaite impressed her favorably. She bent her head.
"Thank you," she said, and got into the car, the door of which Masters
was holding open.
In reply to a question from Mr. Satterthwaite, she gave an address in
Chelsea, and he got in beside her.
The girl was upset and not in the mood for talking, and Mr.
Satterthwaite was too tactful to intrude upon her thoughts. Presently,
however, she turned to him and spoke of her own accord. "I wish," she
said pettishly, "people wouldn't be so silly."
"It is a nuisance," agreed Mr. Satterthwaite.
His matter-of-fact manner put her at her ease, and she went on as
though feeling the need of confiding in someone. "It wasn't as
though--I mean, well, it was like this. Mr. Eastney and I have been
friends for a long time--ever since I came to London. He's taken no end
of trouble about my voice, and got me some very good introductions,
and he's been more kind to me than I can say. He's absolutely music
mad. It was very good of him to take me tonight. I'm sure he can't
really afford it. And then Mr. Burns came up and spoke to us--quite
nicely, I'm sure, and Phil, Mr. Eastney, got sulky about it. I don't
know why he should. It's a free country, I'm sure. And Mr. Burns is
always pleasant, and good-tempered. Then just as we were walking to the
Tube, he came up and joined us, and he hadn't so much as said two words
before Philip flew out at him like a madman. And--Oh! I don't like it."
"Don't you?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite very softly.
She blushed, but very little. There was none of the conscious siren
about her. A certain measure of pleasurable excitement in being fought
for there must be--that was only nature--but Mr. Satterthwaite decided
that a worried perplexity lay uppermost, and he had the clue to it in
another moment when she observed inconsequently, "I do hope he hasn't
hurt him."
_Now which is "him"?_ thought Mr. Satterthwaite, smiling to himself in
the darkness.
He backed his own judgment and said, "You hope Mr.--er--Eastney hasn't
hurt Mr. Burns?"
She nodded. "Yes, that's what I said. It seems so dreadful. I wish I
knew."
The car was drawing up.
"Are you on the telephone?" he asked.
"Yes."
"If you like, I will find out exactly what has happened, and then
telephone to you."
The girl's face brightened. "Oh! that would be very kind of you. Are
you sure it's not too much bother?"
"Not in the least."
She thanked him again and gave him her telephone number, adding with a
touch of shyness, "My name is Gillian West."
As he was driven through the night, bound on his errand, a curious
smile came to Mr. Satterthwaite's lips. He thought, _So that is all it
is--"The shape of a face, the curve of a jaw!"_
But he fulfilled his promise.
* * * * *
The following Sunday afternoon, Mr. Satterthwaite went to Kew Gardens
to admire the rhododendrons. Very long ago (incredibly long ago, it
seemed to Mr. Satterthwaite) he had driven down to Kew Gardens with
a certain young lady to see the bluebells. Mr. Satterthwaite had
arranged very carefully beforehand in his own mind exactly what he
was going to say, and the precise words he would use in asking the
young lady for her hand in marriage. He was just conning them over in
his mind, and responding to her raptures about the bluebells a little
absent-mindedly, when the shock came. The young lady stopped exclaiming
at the bluebells and suddenly confided in Mr. Satterthwaite (as a true
friend) her love for another. Mr. Satterthwaite put away the little
set speech he had prepared, and hastily rummaged for sympathy and
friendship in the bottom drawer of his mind.
Such was Mr. Satterthwaite's romance--a rather tepid early Victorian
one, but it had left him with a romantic attachment to Kew Gardens, and
he would often go there to see the bluebells, or, if he had been abroad
later than usual, the rhododendrons, and would sigh to himself, and
feel rather sentimental, and really enjoy himself very much indeed in
an old-fashioned, romantic way.
This particular afternoon he was strolling back past the tea houses
when he recognized a couple sitting at one of the small tables on the
grass. They were Gillian West and the fair young man, and at that same
moment they recognized him. He saw the girl flush and speak eagerly to
her companion. In another minute he was shaking hands with them both in
his correct, rather prim fashion, and had accepted the shy invitation
proffered him to have tea with them.
"I can't tell you, sir," said Mr. Burns, "how grateful I am to you for
looking after Gillian the other night. She told me all about it."
"Yes, indeed," said the girl. "It was ever so kind of you."
Mr. Satterthwaite felt pleased and interested in the pair. Their
naïveté and sincerity touched him. Also, it was to him a peep into a
world with which he was not well acquainted. These people were of a
class unknown to him.
In his little dried-up way, Mr. Satterthwaite could be very
sympathetic. Very soon he was hearing all about his new friends. He
noted that Mr. Burns had become Charlie, and he was not unprepared for
the statement that the two were engaged.
"As a matter of fact," said Mr. Burns with refreshing candor, "it just
happened this afternoon, didn't it, Gil?"
Burns was a clerk in a shipping firm. He was making a fair salary, had
a little money of his own, and the two proposed to be married quite
soon.
Mr. Satterthwaite listened, and nodded, and congratulated.
_An ordinary young man_, he thought, _a very ordinary young man. Nice,
straightforward young chap, plenty to say for himself, good opinion
of himself without being conceited, nice-looking without being unduly
handsome. Nothing remarkable about him and will never set the Thames on
fire. And the girl loves him._