In his hand Frank Etharedge held a cablegram. The emotion of the moment
was one of triumph mixed with curiosity; his sensitive face a keyboard
over which his feelings swept the octave. He was alone in his office,
and from the windows on the top floor of this giant building he saw the
harbor, saw the river maculated with craft; saw the bay, the big
Statue--best of all saw steamships. This caught his fancies into one
chord and the keynote sounded: Yes, life was a good thing sometimes. A
few months more, in the spring, he would be sailing on just such an iron
carrier of joy, sailing to Paris, to Edna. He looked at the pink message
again. It announced in disconnected words that Mrs. Etharedge had been
bidden to the Paris Grand Opéra. The cable was ten days old, and on each
of these days the lawyer had gone to his private consulting room
immediately after luncheon, and, facing seaward, read the precious
revelation: "Engaged by Gailhard for Opéra. Will write. Edna." That was
all--but it was the top of the hill for both after three years of
separation and work. He was not an expansive man and said little to his
associates of this good fortune, though there were times when he felt as
if he would like to throw open the windows and shout the glorious news
across the chimneys of the world.
Etharedge was a slim, nervous man with dark eyes and pointed beard. He
believed in his wife. Europe, artistic Europe, had for him the
fascination which sends fanatics across hot sands to Mecca shrines. He
had never seen Paris but knew its people, palaces, galleries. His whole
life was a preparation for deliberate assault upon the City by the
Seine. He spoke American-French, ate at French-American table d'hôtes,
and had been married four years to a girl of Gallic descent whose
singing held such promise of future brilliancy that finally their
household was disrupted by music and its fluent deceptions. The advice
of friends, the unfortunate praise of a few professional critics, and
Edna Etharedge accompanied by her cousin, a widow, sailed for Paris.
Each summer he made up his mind to join her; once the death of his
mother had stopped him, and a second time money matters held him in a
vise of steel, but the third season--he did not care to dwell upon that
last summer: his conscience was ill at ease. And Edna worked like the
galley slave into which operatic routine transforms the most buoyant
spirit. For the first two years her letters were as regular as the mail
service--and hopeful. She was getting on famously. Her cousin
corroborated the accounts of plain living and high singing. There were
no vacations in the simple pension on the Boulevard de Clichy. She had
the best master in Paris, the best répétiteur; and the instructor who
came to coach her in stage business declared that madame held the future
in the hollow of her pretty palm. But the third year letters began to
miss. Edna wrote irregularly in pessimistic phrases. Art was so long and
life so gray that she felt, thus she assured her husband, as if she must
give up everything and return to him. Did he miss her? Why was he
cool--above all, patient? Didn't he long for wings to fly across the
Atlantic? Then a silence of three weeks. Etharedge grew frantic. He
neglected business, spent much money in telegraph tolls, and was at last
relieved by a letter from Emmeline relating Edna's severe illness, her
close sailing to the perilous gate, and her slow recovery. He was told
not to come over as they were on the point of starting for Switzerland
where the invalid had been ordered. Frank felt happy for the first time
since his wife had gone away. After that, letters began again--old
currents ran smooth and the climax came with the wonderful news.
He would go to Paris--go in a few months, go without writing. Then,
gaining the beautiful city, he would read the announcements of Edna's
singing. With what selfish, subtle joy would he buy a box and listen to
the voice of his beautiful wife, watch the lithe figure, hear the
applause after her aria! He had sworn this was to reward his long months
of loneliness, of syncopated hopes, of tiresome labor; his profession
had become unleavened drudgery. Perhaps Edna would make him her business
man, her constant companion. Ah! what enchantment to stand in the
_coulisses_ and hold her wraps while she floated near the footlights on
the pinions of song. He would give up his distasteful practice and
devote the remainder of his life to the service of a great artist, hear
all the music he longed for, see the Paris of his dreams.
The door opened. Plunged in reverie he felt that this was but an
extension of his vision. "Edna!" he cried and flung wide his arms.
"Frank, you dear old boy, how thin you've grown! Heavens! You're not
sick? Wait, wait until I raise the window." She pushed up the sash
noisily and Frank felt the brisk air on his temples. He smiled though
his heart nipped sadly. It was Edna, Edna his wife in the flesh; and the
excitement of holding her in his willing arms drove from his brain the
vapors of idle hope. She was looking down at him a strong, handsome girl
with eyes too bright and hair too golden. "Edna," he cried, "your hair,
what have you done to your lovely black hair?" "There's a salute from a
loving husband. No surprise, though I've dropped from the clouds. But my
hair is quizzed. Now, what do you mean, Frank Etharedge?" Both were
agitated, both endeavored to dissemble. Then his eyes fell on the
cablegram. He started.
"In the name of God, Edna, is anything the matter? This cable! Why are
you here? Are you in trouble?" The dark shadows under her eyes lightened
at the commonplace questions. She had time to tune her whirring
thoughts.
"Frank, don't ask too much at once. I'm here because I am. We have just
landed. I left Emmeline on the pier with the custom officers and came to
you immediately. Say you're glad to see me--my old Frank!"
"But, but--" he stammered.
"Yes, I know what you are thinking. I was engaged for the Paris Opéra--"
"Was?" he blankly ejaculated--"and I couldn't stand it. Locatéli--"
"Who?" "Locatéli. You remember him, Frank, my old teacher? He got me
into the Opéra and he got me out of it." "Do you mean that low-lived
scamp who gave you lessons here, the man I kicked out of doors?" She
flushed. Etharedge stared at her. He was near despair. His dream of an
artistic life on the Continent was as a bubble burst in the midday
sunlight. He loved his wife, but the shock of her unheralded arrival,
the hasty ill-news, proved too much for this patient man's nerves. So
he transposed his wrath to Locatéli.
"Well, I'm damned!" he blurted, kicking aside the chair and walking the
floor like a caged cat. "And to think that scoundrel of an Italian--"
"Frenchman, Frank," she interposed--"that foreigner, who ought to have
been shot for insulting you, that Locatéli, followed you to Paris and
mixed up in your affairs! And you say he had you pushed out of the
Opéra? The intriguing villain! How did you come to see him?"
"He gave me lessons in Paris." "Locatéli gave you--Lord!" The man was
speechless. He put his hand to his forehead several times, and then
gazed at his wife's hair. She fell to sobbing. "Frank," she wailed,
"Frank! I've come back to you because I couldn't stand it any longer--it
was killing me. Can't you see it? Can't you believe me? No woman, no
American girl can go through that life and come out of it--happy. It
made me sick, Frank, but I did not like to tell you. And now, after I've
thrown up a career simply because I can't be your wife and a great
artist at the same time, your suspicions are driving me mad." Her tone
was poignant. He looked out on the harbor as another steamer passed the
Statue bound for Europe.
"Ask Emmeline!" She, too, followed the vessel with hopeless expression
and clasped his shoulder. "Oh! Sweetheart, aren't you glad to have me
back again? It's Edna, your wife! I've been through lots for the sake of
music. Now I want my husband--I'm not happy away from him." He suddenly
embraced her. Forgotten the disappointment, forgotten the fast vanishing
hope of a luxurious life, of seeing his dream--Paris; forgotten all in
the fierce joy of having Edna with him forever. Again he experienced a
thrill that must be happiness: as if his being were dissolving into a
magnetic slumber. He searched her eyes. She bore it without blenching.
"Are you my same little Edna?" "Oh, my husband!" There was a knock at
the door; an office boy entered and gave Etharedge a letter which bore a
foreign stamp. She put out her hand greedily. "It will keep until after
dinner, Edna. We'll go to some café, drink a bottle of champagne and
celebrate. You must tell me your story--perhaps we may be able to go to
Paris, after all." "To Paris!" Edna shivered and importuned for the
letter until he showed it. "Why, it's mine!" she exclaimed. "It's the
letter I wrote you before we sailed." "You said nothing about it when
you came in?" He put it in his pocket and looked for his hat. She was
the color of clay. "It is my letter. Let me have it," she begged. "Why,
dear, what's the matter? I'll give it to you after I have read it. Why
this excitement? Besides, the address is not in your handwriting." He
trembled. "Emmeline wrote it for me; I was too busy--or sick--or--"
"Hang the letter, my dear girl. I hear the elevator. Let's run and catch
it. This is the happiest hour of my life. An 'intermezzo' you musicians
call it, don't you?" "Yes," she desperately whispered following him into
the hall, "an intermezzo of happiness--for you!"
Suddenly with a grin the man turned and handed her the letter: "Here!
I'd better not juggle with the future. You can tell me all about
it--to-morrow."
And now for the first time Edna hated him.