On the memorable night of her first grand opera Norma and Chris dined at
Mrs. von Behrens's. It was Alice who urged the arrangement, urged it
quite innocently, as she frequently did the accidental pairing of Norma
and Chris, because her mother was going for a week to Boston, the
following day, and they wanted an evening of comfortable talk together.
Norma, with Freda and Miss Slater as excited accomplices, laid out the
new corn-coloured gown at about five o'clock in the afternoon, laid
beside it the stockings and slippers that exactly matched it in colour,
and hung over the foot of her bed the embroidered little stays that were
so ridiculously small and so unnecessarily beautiful. On a separate
chair was spread the big furred wrap of gold and brown brocade, the high
carriage shoes, and the long white gloves to which the tissue paper
still was clinging. The orchids that Annie had given Norma that morning
were standing in a slender vase on the bureau, and as a final touch the
girl, regarding these preparations with a sort of enchanted delight,
unfurled to its full glory the great black ostrich-feather fan. Norma
amused Alice and Mrs. Melrose by refusing tea, and disappeared long
before there was need, to begin the great ceremony of robing.
Miss Slater manicured her hands while Freda brushed and dressed the dark
thick hair. Between Norma and the nurse there had at first been no
special liking. Both were naturally candidates for Alice's favour. But
as the months went by, and Norma began to realize that Miss Slater's
position was not only far from the ideally beautiful one it had seemed
at first, but that the homely, elderly, good-natured woman was actually
putting herself to some pains to make Norma's own life in the Liggett
house more comfortable than it might have been, she had come genuinely
to admire Alice's attendant, and now they were fast friends. It was
often in Norma's power to distract Alice's attention from the fact that
Miss Slater was a little late in returning from her walk, or she would
make it a point to order for the invalid something that Miss Slater had
forgotten. They stood firmly together in many a small domestic
emergency, and although the nurse's presence to-night was not, as Norma
thought with a little pang, like having Rose or Aunt Kate with her,
still it was much, much better than having no one at all.
She sat wrapped luxuriously in a brilliant kimono, while Freda brushed
and rolled busily, and Miss Slater polished and clipped. Then ensued a
period of intense concentration at the mirror, when the sparkling pins
were put in her hair, and the little pearl earrings screwed into her
ears, and when much rubbing and greasing and powdering went on, and even
some slight retouching of the innocent, red young mouth.
"Shall I?" Norma asked, dubiously eyeing the effect of a trace of rouge.
"Don't be an idiot, Miss Sheridan!" Miss Slater said. "You've got a
lovely colour, and it's a shame to touch it!"
"Oh, but I think I look so pale!" Norma argued.
"Well, when you've had your dinner----Now, you take my advice, my dear,
and let your face alone."
"Well, all the girls do it," Norma declared, catching up the little
girdle, and not unwilling to be over-persuaded. She gave an actual
shiver of delight as Freda slipped the gown over her head.
It fell into shape about her, a miracle of cut and fit. The little
satiny underskirt was heavy with beads, the misty cloud of gauze that
floated above it was hardly heavy enough to hold its own embroideries.
Little beaded straps held it to the flawless shoulders, and Norma made
her two attendants laugh as she jerked and fussed at the gold lace and
tiny satin roses that crossed her breast.
"Leave it alone!" Miss Slater said.
"Oh, but it seems so low!"
"Well, you may be very sure it isn't--Lenz knows what he's doing when he
makes a gown.... Here, now, what are you going to do with your flowers?"
"Oh, I'm going to wrap the paper round them, and carry them until just
before I get to Aunt Annie's. Wouldn't you?"
"Wouldn't I? I like that!" said Miss Slater, settling her eyeglasses on
the bridge of her nose with a finger and thumb. Norma had a momentary
pang of sympathy; she could never have been made to understand that a
happy barnyard duck may look contentedly up from her pool at the peacock
trailing his plumes on the wall.
"Norma--for the love of Allah!" Chris shouted from downstairs.
Norma gave a panicky laugh, snatched her fan, wrap, and flowers, and
fled joyously down to be criticized and praised. On the whole, they were
pleased with her: Alice, seizing a chance for an aside to tell her not
to worry about the lowness of the gown, that it was absolutely correct
she might be very sure, and Mrs. Melrose quite tremulously delighted
with her ward. Chris did not say much until a few minutes before they
planned to start, when he slipped a thin, flat gold watch from his vest
pocket, and asked speculatively:
"Norma, has your Aunt Kate ever seen you in that rig?"
"No!" she answered, quickly. And then, with less sparkle, "No."
"Well, would you like to run in on her a moment?--she'd probably like it
tremendously!" said Chris.
"Oh, Chris--I would love it!" Norma exclaimed, soberly, over a disloyal
conviction that she would rather not. "But have we time?"
"Tons of time. Annie's dinners are a joke!"
Norma glanced at the women; Mrs. Melrose looked undecided, but Alice
said encouragingly:
"I think that would be a sweet thing to do!"
So it was decided: and Norma was bundled up immediately, and called out
excitedly laughing good-byes as Chris hurried her to the car.
"You know, it means a lot to your own people, really to see you this
way, instead of always reading about it, or hearing about it!" Chris
said, in his entirely prosaic, big-brotherly tone, as the car glided
smoothly toward the West Sixties.
"I know it!" Norma agreed. "But I don't know how you do!" she added, in
shy gratitude.
"Well, I'm nearly twice your age, for one thing," he replied,
pleasantly. And as the car stopped unhesitatingly at the familiar door
he added: "Now make this very snappy!"
She protested against his getting out, but he accompanied her all the
way upstairs, both laughing like conspirators as they passed somewhat
astonished residents of the apartment house on the way.
Aunt Kate and Wolf, and Rose and Harry, as good fortune would have it,
were all gathered under the dining-room lamp, and there was a burst of
laughter and welcome for Norma and "Mister Chris." Norma's wrap was
tossed aside, and she revolved in all her glory, waving her fan at arm's
length, pleasantly conscious of Wolf's utter stupefaction, and
conscious, too, a little less pleasantly, that Aunt Kate's maternal eye
did not agree with Aunt Annie's in the matter of _décolletage_.
Then she and Chris were on their way again, and the legitimate delights
of being young and correctly dressed and dining with the great Mrs. von
Behrens, and going to Grand Opera at the Metropolitan, might begin.
Norma had perhaps never in her life been in such wild spirits as she was
to-night. It was not happiness, exactly, not the happiness of a serene
spirit and a quiet mind, for she was too nervous and too much excited to
be really happy. But it was all wonderful.
She was the youngest person at the long dinner table, at which eighteen
guests sat in such stately and such separated great carved chairs as
almost to dine alone. Everyone was charmingly kind to the little Melrose
protégée, who was to be introduced at a formal tea next week. The men
were all older than Leslie's group and were neither afraid nor too
selfishly wrapped up in their own narrow little circle to be polite.
Norma had known grown young men, college graduates, and the sons of
prominent families, who were too entirely conventional to be addressed
without an introduction, or to turn to a strange girl's rescue if she
spilled a cup of tea. But there was none of that sort of thing here.
To be sure, Annie's men were either married, divorced, or too old to be
strictly eligible in the eyes of unsophisticated nineteen, but that did
not keep them from serving delightfully as dinner partners. Then Aunt
Annie herself was delightful to-night, and joined in the general, if
unexpressed, flattery that Norma felt in the actual atmosphere.
"Heavens--do you hear that, Ella?" said Annie, to an intimate and
contemporary, when Norma shyly asked if the dress was all as it should
be--if the--well, the neck, wasn't just a little----? "Heavens!" said
Mrs. von Behrens, roundly, "if I had your shoulders--if I were nineteen
again!--you'd see something a good deal more sensational than that!"
This was not the sort of thing one repeated to Aunt Kate. It was, like
much of Annie's conversation, so daring as to be a little shocking. But
Annie had so much manner, such a pleasant, assured voice, that somehow
Norma never found it censurable in her.
To-night, for the first time, Hendrick von Behrens paid her a little
personal attention. Norma had always liked the big, blond, silent man,
with his thinning fair hair, and his affection for his sons. It was of
his sons that he spoke to her, as he came up to her to-night.
"There are two little boys up in the nursery that don't want to go to
sleep until Cousin Norma comes up to say good-night," said Hendrick,
smiling indulgently. Norma turned willingly from Chris and two or three
other men and women; it was a privilege to be sufficiently at home in
this magnificent place to follow her host up to the nursery upstairs,
and be gingerly hugged by the little silk-pajamed boys.
Chris watched her go, the big fan and the blue eye and the delightful
low voice all busy as she and Hendrick went away, and an odd thought
came to him. That was her stepfather upon whom she was turning the
battery of those lovely eyes; those little boys who were, he knew,
jumping up and down in their little Dutch colonial beds, and calling
"Norma--Norma--Norma!" were her half-brothers.
He glanced toward Annie; her beautiful figure wrapped in a sparkling
robe that swept about her like a regal mantle, her fair hair scalloped
like waves of carved gold, her fingers and throat and hair and ears
sparkling with diamonds. Annie had on the famous Murison pearls, too,
to-night; she was twisting them in her fingers as her creditable Italian
delighted the ears of the Italian ambassador. Her own daughter to-night
sat among her guests. Chris liked to think himself above surprise, but
the strangeness of the situation was never absent a second from his
thoughts. He drifted toward his hostess; he was proud of his own
languages, and when Norma came back she came to stand wistfully beside
them, wondering if ever--ever--ever--she would be able to do that!
It was all thrilling--exhilarating--wonderful! Norma's heart thumped
delightfully as the big motor-cars turned into Broadway and took their
place in the slowly moving line. She pressed her radiant face close to
the window; snow was fluttering softly down in the darkness, and men
were pushing it from the sidewalks, and shouting in the night. There
was the usual fringe of onlookers in front of the opera house, and it
required all Norma's self-control to seem quite naturally absorbed in
getting herself safely out of the motor-car, and quite unconscious that
her pretty ankles, and her pretty head, and the great bunched wrap, were
not being generally appraised.
Women were stepping about gingerly in high heels; lights flashed on
quivering aigrettes, on the pressed, intense faces of the watchers, and
on the gently turning and falling snow, against the dark street. Norma
was caught in some man's protecting arm, to push through into the
churning crowd in the foyer; she had a glimpse of uniformed ushers and
programme boys, of furred shoulders, of bared shoulders, of silk hats,
of a sign that said: "Footmen Are Not Allowed in This Lobby."
Then somehow through, criss-crossed currents in the crowd, they reached
the mysterious door of the box, and Norma saw for the first time the
great, dimly lighted circle of the opera house, the enormous rise of
balcony above balcony, the double tiers of boxes, and the rows of seats
downstairs, separated by wide aisles, and rapidly filling now with the
men and women who were coming down to their places almost on a run.
The orchestra was already seated, and as Norma stood awed and ecstatic
in the front of the Von Behrens box, the conductor came in, and was met
with a wave of applause, which had no sooner died away than the lights
fanned softly and quickly down, there was the click of a baton on wood,
and in the instantly ensuing hush the first quivering notes of the opera
began.
"Sit down, you web-foot!" Acton Liggett whispered, laughing, and Norma
sank stiffly upon her chair, risking, as the curtain had not yet risen,
a swift, bewildered smile of apology toward the dim forms that were
rustling and settling behind her.
"Oo--oo--ooo!" was all that she could whisper when presently Chris
murmured a question in her ear. And when the lights were on again, and
the stars taking their calls, he saw that her face was wet, and her
lashes were caught together with tears.
"It _is_ wonderful music; the best of Verdi!" he said to Annie; and
Annie, agreeing, sent him off with "that baby," to have her dry her
eyes. Norma liked his not speaking to her, on her way to the great
parlour where women were circling about the long mirrors, but when she
rejoined him she was quite herself, laughing, excited, half dancing as
he took her back to the box.
She sat down again, her beautiful little head, with its innocent sweep
of smooth hair, visible from almost every part of the house, her
questions incessant as the blue eyes and the great fan swept to and fro.
Once, when she turned suddenly toward him, in the second entr'acte, she
saw a look on Chris's face that gave her an odd second of something like
fear, but the house darkened again before she could analyze the emotion,
and Norma glued her eyes to the footlights.
What she did not see was a man, not quite at ease at his own first grand
opera, not quite comfortable in his own first evening dress, lost--and
willingly lost, among the hundreds who had come in just to stand far at
the back, behind the seats, edging and elbowing each other, changing
feet, and resting against any chair-back or column that offered itself,
and sitting down, between acts, on the floor.
Wolf was not restless. He was strong enough to stand like an Indian, and
tall enough to look easily over the surrounding heads. More than that,
"Aïda" did not interest him in itself, and at some of its most brilliant
passages he was guilty of slipping away to pace the hallways in
solitude, or steal to the foyer for a brief cigarette. But when the
house was lighted again, he went back into the auditorium, and then his
eyes never left the little dark head of the girl who sat forward in one
of the lower tier of boxes, waving her big fan, and talking over her
bare shoulder to one or another of the persons beside or behind her.