'Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.'
Rodd looked down at Verschoyle leaning out of his box, and felt sure
that this was to be her way out. More of this painted mummery she
could not endure. She could mould a good, simple creature like
Verschoyle to her ways and become a great personage. So comforted, he
heard the closing scenes of the play in all its truthful dignity, and
he looked round at the sated audience wondering how many of them
attached any meaning to the words hurled at them with such amazing
power.
'The charm dissolves apace,
And as the morning steals upon the night,
Melting the darkness, so their rising senses
Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle
Their clearer reason.
Their understanding
Begins to swell, and the approaching tide
Will shortly fill the reasonable shores,
That now lie foul and muddy.'
The tenderness of this profound rebuke moved Rodd from his hatred of
the audience, and on an impulse he ran down and stood waiting outside
Verschoyle's box. He wanted to see him without precisely knowing why,
perhaps, he thought, only to make sure that Clara was safe.
The applause as the curtain descended was tumultuous. Sir Henry
bowed--to the right, to the left, to the centre. He made a little
speech.
'I am deeply gratified at the great welcome you have given our efforts
in the service of our poet. I am proud to have had the collaboration
of Mr Charles Mann, and to have had the good fortune to discover in
Miss Clara Day Ariel's very self. I thank you.'
The audience clamoured for Ariel, but she did not appear. She had
moved away to her dressing-room, and had torn off her sky blue and
silver net. She rent them into shreds, and her dresser, who had caught
the elated excitement that was running through the theatre, burst into
tears.
Rodd nearly swooned with anxiety when she did not appear, and he was
almost knocked over when Verschoyle, white to the lips, darted out of
the box.
'Sorry, sir,' he said, and was moving on when Rodd caught him by the
arm.
'Let me go, damn you,' said Verschoyle.
'I want to speak to you.'