AT THE OPERA
When John Steele left the court toward the end of the day, he held his
head as a man who thinks deeply. From the door he directed his steps
toward Charing Cross. But only to wheel abruptly, and retrace his way.
He was not an absent-minded man, yet he had been striding unconsciously
not toward his customary destination at that hour, the several chambers
at once his office and his home. For a moment the strong face of the man
relaxed, as if in amusement at his own remissness; gradually however, it
once more resumed its expression of musing thoughtfulness. The stream of
human beings, in the main, flowed toward him; he breasted the current as
he had for many evenings, only this night he did not look into the faces
of these, his neighbors; the great city's concourse of atoms swept
unmeaningly by.
Turning into a narrow way, not far from the embankment, he stopped
before the door of a solid-looking brick building, let himself in, and
made his way up-stairs. On the third floor he applied another and
smaller key to another lock and, from a hall, entered a large apartment,
noteworthy for its handsome array of books that reached from floor to
ceiling wherever there was shelf space. Most of these volumes were
soberly bound in conventional legal garb but others in elegant, more
gracious array, congregated, a little cosmopolitan community, in a
section by themselves.
Passing through this apartment, John Steele stepped into that adjoining,
the sitting-and dining-room. The small table had already been set; the
sun's dying rays that shot through the window revealed snowy linen,
brightly gleaming silver and a number of papers and letters. They
showed, also, a large cage with a small bird that chirped as the man
came in; John Steele looked at it a moment, walked to a mirror and
looked at himself. Long the deep eyes studied the firm resolute face;
they seemed endeavoring to gaze beyond it; but the present visage, like
a shadow, waved before him. The man's expression became inscrutable;
stepping to the window, he gazed out on the Thames. A purplish glimmer
lent enchantment to the noble stream; it may be as he looked upon it,
his thoughts flowed with the river, past dilapidated structures, between
whispering reeds on green banks, to the sea!
A discreet rapping at the door, followed by the appearance of a
round-faced little man, with a tray, interrupted further contemplation
or reverie on John Steele's part. Seating himself at the table, he
responded negatively to the servant's inquiry if "anythink" else would
be required, and when the man had withdrawn, mechanically turned to his
letters and to his simple evening repast. He ate with no great evidence
of appetite, soon brushed the missives, half-read, aside, and pushed
back his chair.
Lighting a pipe he picked up one of the papers, and for some moments his
attention seemed fairly divided between a casual inspection of the light
arabesques that ascended in clouds from his lips and the heavy-looking
columns of the morning sheet. Suddenly, however, the latter dissipated
his further concern in his pipe; he put it down and spread out the big
paper in both hands. Amid voluminous wastes of type an item, in the
court and society column, had caught his eye:
"Sir Charles and Lady Wray, who are intending
henceforth to reside in England, have
returned to the stately Wray mansion in Piccadilly,
where they will be for the season. Our
well-known Governor and his Lady are accompanied
by their niece, the beautiful and accomplished
Miss Jocelyn Wray, only child of Sir
Charles' younger brother, the late Honorable
Mr. Richard Wray, whose estate included enormous
holdings in Australia as well as several
thousand acres in Devonshire. This charming
young colonial has already captivated London
society."
John Steele read carefully this bit of news, and then re-read it; he
even found himself guilty of perusing all the other paragraphs; the
comings and goings, the fine doings! They related to a world he had
thought little about; a world within the world; just as the people who
lived in tunnels and dark passages constituted another world within the
world. Her name danced in illustrious company; here were dukes and earls
and viscounts; a sprinkling of the foreign element: begums, emirs, the
nation's guests. He saw, also, "Sir Charles, Lady Wray and Miss Wray"
among the long list of box-holders for that night at the opera, a gala
occasion, commanded by royalty for the entertainment of royalty, and,
incidentally, of certain barbarian personages who had come across the
seas to be diplomatically coddled and fed.
Folding his newspaper, John Steele turned to his legal papers; strove to
replace idleness by industry; but the spirit of work failed to respond.
He looked at his watch, rang sharply a bell.
"Put out my clothes," he said to the servant who appeared with a lamp,
"and have a cab at the door."
The opera had already begun, but pandemonium still reigned about the
box-office, and it was half an hour before John Steele succeeded in
reaching the little aperture, with a request for anything that chanced
to be left down-stairs. Armed with a bit of pasteboard, Steele was
stopped as he was about to enter. A thunder of applause from within,
indicating that the first act had come to an end, was followed by the
usual egress of black and white figures, impatient for cigarettes and
light lobby gossip.
"Divine, eh? The opera, I mean!" A voice accosted John Steele, and,
turning, he beheld a familiar face with black whiskers, that of Captain
Forsythe. "This is somewhat different from the morning's environment?"
"Yes," said the other. "But your first question," with a smile, "I'm
afraid I can't answer. I've just come; and, if I hadn't--well, I'm no
judge of music."
"Then you must look as if you were!" laughed the captain frankly. "Don't
know one jolly note from another, but, for goodness' sake, don't betray
me. Just been discussing trills and pizzicatos with Lady Wray."
For a few moments they continued their talk; chance had made them known
to each other some time before, and Captain Forsythe had improved every
opportunity to become better acquainted with one for whom he entertained
a frank admiration. Steele's reserve, however, was not easily
penetrated; he accepted and repaid the other's advances with uniform
courtesy but Forsythe could not flatter himself the acquaintance had
progressed greatly since their first meeting.
A bell sounded; John Steele, excusing himself, entered the auditorium
and was shown to his seat. It proved excellently located, and, looking
around, he found himself afforded a comprehensive view of a spectacle
brilliant and dazzling. Boxes shone with brave hues; gems gleamed
over-plentifully; here and there, accentuating the picture, the gorgeous
colors of some eastern prince stood out like the brighter bits in a
kaleidoscope. Steele's glance swept over royalty, rank and condition. It
took in persons who were more than persons--personages; it passed over
the impassive face of a dark ameer who looked as if he might have
stepped from one of the pages of _The Arabian Nights_, and lingered on a
box a little farther to one side. Here were seated Sir Charles and his
wife and party; and among them he could discern the features of Jocelyn
Wray--not plainly, she was so far away! Only her golden hair appeared
distinct amid many tints.
The curtain went up at last; the music began; melodies that seemed born
in the springtime succeeded one another. Perennial in freshness, theme
followed theme; what joy, what gladness; what merriment, what madness!
John Steele, in the main, kept his attention directed toward the stage;
once or twice he glanced quickly aside and upward; now in the dimness,
however, the people in the boxes conveyed only a vague shadowy
impression. How long was the act; how short? It came to a sudden end;
after applause and bravos, men again got up and walked out; he, too,
left his seat and strolled toward the back.
"Mr. Steele! One moment!" He found himself once more addressed by the
good-humored Captain Forsythe. "Behold in me a Mercury, committed to an
imperative mission. You are commanded to appear--not in the royal
box--but in Sir Charles'."
"Sir Charles Wray's?" John Steele regarded the speaker quickly.
"Yes," laughed the other. "You see I happened to mention I had seen you.
'Why didn't you bring him with you to the box?' queried Sir Charles. He,
by the by, went in for law himself, before he became governor. 'Only had
time to shake hands this morning!' 'Yes, why didn't you?' spoke up Miss
Jocelyn. 'You _command_ me to bring him?' I inquired. 'By all means!'
she laughed, 'I command.' So here I am."
John Steele did not answer, but Captain Forsythe, without waiting for a
reply, turned and started up the broad stairway. The other, after a
moment's hesitation, followed, duly entered one of the larger boxes,
spoke to Sir Charles and his wife and returned the bow of their niece.
Amid varied platitudes Steele's glance turned oftenest to the girl. She
was dressed in white; a snowy boa drooped from the slender bare
shoulders as if it might any moment slip off; a string of pearls, each
one with a pearl of pure light in the center, clasped her throat. In her
eyes the brightness seemed to sing of dancing cadenzas; her lips,
slightly parted, wore the faint suggestion of a smile, as if some
canticle or clear cadence had just trembled from them. The small shoe
that peeped from beneath silken folds tapped softly to rhythms yet
lingering; on her cheeks two small roses unfolded their glad petals.
"I trust Captain Forsythe did not repeat that absurd remark of mine?"
she observed lightly, when John Steele, after a few moments' general
talk, found himself somehow by her side.
"About 'commanding'?"
"So he did?" she answered gaily. "He told me he was going to. It is like
him; he poses as a _bel esprit_. Stupid, was it not?"
He answered a word in the negative; the girl smiled; where other men
would press the opportunity for a compliment he apparently found no
opening.
She waved her hand to the seat next to her, and as he sat down--"Isn't
it splendid!" irrelevantly.
"The spectacle, or the opera?" he asked slowly, looking into blue eyes.
"It was the opera I meant. I suppose the spectacle is very grand; but,"
enthusiastically, "it was the music I was thinking of--how it grips one!
Tell me what you think of _The Barber_, Mr. Steele."
"I'm afraid my views wouldn't be very interesting," he answered. "I know
nothing whatever about music."
"Nothing?" Her eyes widened a little; in her accent was mild wonder.
He looked down at the shimmering white folds near his feet. "In earlier
days my environment was not exactly a musical one."
"No? I suppose you were engaged in more practical concerns?"
He did not answer directly. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me
something about Rossini's music, Miss Wray?"
"I tell you?" Her light silvery laugh rang out. "And Captain Forsythe
has only been telling me--all of us--that you were one of the best
informed men he had ever met."
"You see how wrong he was!"
"Quite!" The blue eyes regarded him sidewise. He, the keen, strong man,
so assured, so invincible in the court room, sat most humbly by her
side, confessing his ignorance, want of knowledge about something every
school-girl is mistress of! "Or, perhaps, it is because your world is so
different from mine! Music, laughter, the traditions of Italian _bel
canto_, you have no room for them, they are too light, too trifling. You
are above them," poising her fair head a little higher.
"Perhaps they have been above me," he answered, his tone unconsciously
taking an accent of gaiety from the lightness of hers.
The abrupt appearance of the musicians and the dissonances attendant on
tuning, interrupted her response; Steele rose and was about to take his
departure, when Sir Charles intervened.
"Why don't you stay?" he asked, with true colonial heartiness. "Plenty
of room! Unless you've a better place! Two vacant chairs!"
John Steele looked around; he saw three vacant chairs and took one, a
little aside and slightly behind the young girl, while the governor's
wife, who had moved from the front at the conclusion of the previous
act, now returned to her place, next her niece. During the act, some one
came in and took a seat in the background; if Steele heard, he did not
look around. His gaze remained fastened on the stage; between him and
it--or them, art's gaily attired illusions!--a tress of golden hair
sometimes intervened, but he did not move. Through threads like woven
flashes of light he regarded the scene of the poet's fantasy. Did they
make her a part of it,--did they seem to the man the fantasy's
intangible medium, its imagery? Threads of gold, threads of melody! He
saw the former, heard the latter. They rose and fell wilfully,
capriciously, with many an airy and fanciful turn. The man leaned his
head on his hand; a clear strain died like a filament of purest metal
gently broken. She breathed a little quicker; leaned farther forward;
now her slender figure obtruded slightly between him and the performers.
He seemed content with a partial view of the stage, and so remained
until the curtain went down. The girl turned; in her eyes was a
question.
"Beautiful!" said the man, looking at her.
"Charming! What colorature! And the bravura!" Captain Forsythe applauded
vigorously.
"You've never met Lord Ronsdale, I believe, Mr. Steele?" Sir Charles'
voice, close to his ear, inquired.
"Lord Ronsdale!" John Steele looked perfunctorily around toward the back
of the box and saw there a face faintly illumined in the light from the
stage: a cynical face, white, mask-like. Had his own features not been
set from the partial glow that sifted upward, the sudden emotion that
swept Steele's countenance would have been observed. A sound escaped his
lips; was drowned, however, in a renewed outbreak of applause. The diva
came tripping out once more, the others, too--bowing,
smiling--recipients of flowers. John Steele's hand had gripped his knee
tightly; he was no longer aware of the stage, the people, even Jocelyn
Wray. The girl's attention had again centered on the actors; she with
the others had been oblivious to the glint of his eyes, the hard, set
expression of his features.
"Old friend, don't you know," went on the voice of Sir Charles when this
second tumult of applause had subsided. "Had one rare adventure
together. One of the kind that cements a man to you."
As he spoke, the light in the theater flared up; John Steele, no longer
hesitating, uncertain, rose; his face had regained its composure. He
regarded the slender, aristocratic figure of the nobleman in the
background; faultlessly dressed, Lord Ronsdale carried himself with his
habitual languid air of assurance. The two bowed; the stony glance of
the lord met the impassive one of the man. Then a puzzled look came into
the nobleman's eyes; he gazed at Steele more closely; his glance
cleared.
"Thought for an instant I'd seen you somewhere before, b'Jove!" he
drawled in his metallic tone. "But, of course, I haven't. Never forget a
face, don't you know."
"I may not say so much, may not have the diplomat's gift of always
remembering people to the extent your lordship possesses it, but I am
equally certain I have never before enjoyed the honor of being presented
to your lordship!" said John Steele. The words were punctiliously
spoken, his accents as cold as the other's. An infinitesimal trace of
constraint seemed to have crept into the box; Steele turned and holding
out his hand, thanked Sir Charles and his wife for their courtesy.
Jocelyn Wray gazed around. "You are leaving before the last act?" she
said with an accent of surprise.
He looked down at her. "Not through preference!"
"Ah!" she laughed. "Business before--music, of course!"
"Our day at home, Mr. Steele, is Thursday," put in the governor's lady,
majestically gracious.
"And you'll meet a lot of learned people only too glad to talk about
music," added the young girl in a light tone. "That is, if you were
sincere in your request for knowledge, and care to profit by the
opportunity?"
His face, which had been contained, impassive, now betrayed in the
slightest degree an expression of irresolution. Her quick look caught
it, became more whimsical; he seemed actually, for an instant, asking
himself if he should come. She laughed ever so slightly; the experience
was novel; who before had ever weighed the pros and cons when extended
this privilege? Then, the next moment, the blue eyes lost some of their
mirth; perhaps his manner made her feel the frank informality she had
unconsciously been guilty of; she regarded him more coldly.
"Thank you," he said. "You are very good. I shall be most glad."
And bowing to her and to the others he once more turned; as he passed
Lord Ronadsle, the eyes of the two men again met; those of the nobleman
suddenly dilated and he started.
"B'Jove!" he exclaimed, his gaze following the retreating figure.
"What is it?" Sir Charles looked around. "Recall where you thought you
saw him?"
Lord Ronsdale did not at once answer and Sir Charles repeated his
question; the nobleman mechanically raised his hand to his face. "Yes; a
mere fugitive resemblance," he answered rather hurriedly. "Some
one--you--you never met. Altogether quite a different sort of person,
don't you know!" regaining his drawl.
"Well," observed Sir Charles, "fugitive resemblances will happen!"
* * * * *