IT was a wet night in November. With a chuckle of horse's hoofs on
shining streets, Dan Dyce, with Bell and Ailie, drove from Molyneux's
fine new home to the temple of his former dreams--the proud Imperial.
They sat in silence in the darkness of the cab, and in silence drifted
into the entrance hall of the theatre to mingle with the pompous world
incongruously--with loud, vainglorious men, who bore to the eye of Bell
some spirit of abandonment and mockery, with women lovely by the gift
of God, or with dead-white faces, wax-red lips, and stealthy, sidelong
eyes. One there was who, passing before them, released a great fur cloak
from her shoulders with a sudden movement, and, as it slowly slipped
down her marble back, threatened an utter nakedness that made Bell gasp
and clutch at her sister's arm.
“Look!” said Ailie, eagerly. Before them was a portrait of a woman in
the dress of Desdemona. The face had some suggestion that at times it
might be childlike and serene, but had been caught in a moment of alarm
and fire, and the full black eyes held in their orbs some frightful
apprehension, the slightly parted lips expressed a soul's mute cry.
“What is it? Who is it?” asked Bell, pausing before the picture with a
stound of fear.
“It is Bud,” said Ailie, feeling proud and sorrowful--for why she could
not tell. “There is the name--'Winifred Wallace'.”
Bell wrung her hands in the shelter of her mantle and stood bewildered,
searching for the well-known lineaments.
“Let us go up,” said Dan, softly, with no heed for the jostling people,
forever self-possessed, sorrowful to guess at his sister's mind.
“Yes, yes; let us go up out of this crowd,” said Ailie, but the little
woman hung before the portrait fascinated. Round her washed the waves
of rustling garments like a surf on the shore at home; scents wafted;
English voices, almost foreign in their accent, fell upon her ear all
unnoticed since she faced the sudden revelation of what her brother's
child, her darling, had become. Seekers of pleasure, killers of
wholesome cares, froth of the idle world eddied around her chattering,
laughing, glancing curious or contemptuous at her gray, sweet face, her
homely form, her simple Sabbath garments; all her heart cried out in
supplication for the child that had too soon become a woman and wandered
from the sanctuary of home.
“We are blocking the way here, Bell. Let us go up,” again said Ailie,
gently taking her arm.
“Yes,” said her brother. “It's not a time for contemplation of the
tombs; it's not the kirkyard, Bell. You see there are many that are
anxious to get in.”
“Oh, Lennox, Lennox!” she exclaimed, indifferent to the strangers round
about her, “my brother's child! I wish--oh, I wish ye were at home! God
grant ye grace and wisdom--'then shalt thou walk in thy way safely,
and thy foot shall not stumble. When thou liest down thou shalt not be
afraid; yea, thou shalt lie down and thy sleep shall be sweet.'”
They went up to the box that Molyneux had kept for them, to find his
wife there nursing an enormous bouquet of flowers, all white as the
driven snow. “A gorgeous house!” she told them. “Everybody that's
anybody, and in the front push. Half a hundred critics, two real Count
Vons, a lot of benzine-brougham people who never miss a first night.
There are their wives, poor dears! shining same as they were Tiffany's
windows. My! ain't our Bud going to have a happy night!”
They sat and looked for a while in silence at the scene before them,
so pleasing to the mind that sought in crowds, in light and warmth and
gayety, its happiest associations, so wanting in the great eternal calm
and harmony that are out-of-doors in country places. Serpent eyes in
facets of gems on women's bosoms; heads made monstrous yet someway
beautiful and tempting by the barber's art; shoulders bare and bleached,
devoid of lustre; others blushing as if Eve's sudden apprehension had
survived the generations. Sleek, shaven faces, linen breastplates,
opera-glasses, flowers, fans, a murmur of voices, and the flame over all
of the enormous electrolier.
It was the first time Bell had seen a theatre. Her first thought was one
of blame and pity. “'He looked on the city and wept'!” said she. “Oh,
Ailie, that it were over and we were home!”
“All to see Miss Winifred Wallace!” said Mrs. Molyneux. “Think of that,
Miss Dyce--your darling niece, and she'll be so proud and happy!”
Bell sighed. “At least she had got her own way, and I am a foolish old
countrywoman who had different plans.”
Dan said nothing. Ailie waited, too, silent, in a feverish expectation,
and from the fiddles rose a sudden melody. It seemed the only wise and
sober thing in all that humming hive of gaudy insects passing, passing,
passing. It gave a voice to human longings for a nobler, better world;
and in it, too, were memory and tears. To the people in the box it
seemed to tell Bud's story--opening in calm, sweet passages, closing in
the roll of trumpet and the throb of drum. And then the lights went down
and the curtain rose upon the street in Venice.
The early scenes were dumb and vacant, wanting Bud's presence; there was
no play for them till she came slowly into the council chamber where sat
the senators, timidity and courage struggling in her port and visage.
“No, no; it is not Bud,” Bell whispered. “It is not our lassie; this one
is too tall and--and too deliberate. I fear she has not dared it at the
last, or that she has been found unsuitable.”
Ailie leaned forward, quivering, feeding her eyes. “It's no one else,”
said she. “Dear Bud, _our_ Bud! Those two years' training may have made
her some-ways different, but she has not changed her smile. Oh, I am so
proud, and sure of her! Hus-s-sh!”
“'... I do perceive here a divided duty;
To you I am bound for life and education,
My life and education both do learn me
How to respect you; you are the lord of duty,
I am hitherto your daughter: but here's my husband.'”
Desdemona's first speech broke the stillness that had fallen on the
house; her face was pale, they saw the rapid heaving of her bosom, they
heard a moment's tremor in her voice matured and wonderful, sweet as a
silver bell. To the box where she knew her friends were sitting she let
her eyes for a second wander as she spoke the opening lines that had so
much of double meaning--not Desdemona, but the loving and wilful child
asking forgiveness, yet tenacious of her purpose.
To Ailie came relief and happiness and pride; Dan held a watching brief
for his elder sister's prejudices and his own philosophy. Bell sat in
tears which Shakespeare did not influence. When next she saw the stage
with unblurred eyes Desdemona was leaving with the Moor.
“My dears,” said Mrs. Molyneux, “as Desdemona she's the Only One! and
Jim was right. It's worth a thousand times more trouble than he took
with her. He said all along she'd dazzle them, and I guess her fortune's
made, and it's going to be the making of this house, too. I feel so
proud and happy I'd kiss you right here, Mr. Dyce, if it wouldn't mess
up my bouquet.”
“A black man!” said Bell, regretfully. “I know it is only paint, of
course, but--but I never met him; I do not even know his name.”
It seemed as if the play had nothing in it but the words and acts of
Desdemona. At each appearance she became more confident, charged the
part with deeper feeling, found new meaning in the time-worn words. Even
Bell began to lose her private judgment, forget that it was nothing but
a sinful play, and feel some pity for Othello; but, as the knavish coils
closed round her Desdemona, the strain became unbearable.
“Oh! I cannot stand it any longer,” she exclaimed, when the voice of
Lennox quavered in the song before her last good-night, and, saying so,
pushed back her seat into the shadows of the box, covering her ears with
her fingers. She saw no more; she heard no more till the audience rose
to its feet with thunders of applause that swelled and sank and swelled
again as if it would never end. Then she dared to look, and saw a
trembling Desdemona all alone before a curtain bowing.
“What is the matter? What is the matter? Why are they crying that way on
her?” she asked, dum-founded.
“Why, don't you see they're mad!” said Mrs. Molyneux.
“Oh, dear! and I thought she was doing splendidly.”
“Glad mad, I mean. She has carried them off their feet, and I'll bet Jim
Molyneux is standing on his hands behind that drop and waving his legs
in the air. Guess I needn't waste this bouquet on a girl who looks like
the morning hour in Covent Garden.”
Molyneux burst into the box in a gust of wild excitement. “Come round,
come round at once, she wants to see you,” he exclaimed, and led them
deviously behind the scenes to her dressing-room.
She stood at the door, softly crying; she looked at them--the grave old
uncle, Ailie who could understand, the little Auntie Bell--it was into
the arms of Bell she threw herself!