Part 4 (1/2)

CHAPTER IV

A CRISIS

While Wyllard made arrangements for his journey, and Sally Creighton went very quietly about her work on the lonely prairie farm, it happened one evening that Miss Winifred Rawlinson sat uneasily expectant far back under the gallery of a concert-hall in an English manufacturing town. In her back seat Miss Rawlinson could not hear very well, but it was the cheapest place she could obtain, and economy was of some little importance to her. Besides, by craning her neck a little to avoid the hat of the strikingly dressed young woman in front of her, she could, at least, see the stage. The programme which she held in one hand announced that Miss Agatha Ismay would sing a certain aria from a great composer's oratorio. Miss Rawlinson leaned further forward in her chair when a girl of about her own age, which was twenty-four, slowly advanced to the center of the stage.

The girl on the stage was a tall, well-made, brown-haired girl, with a quiet grace of movement and a comely face. She was attired in a long trailing dress of a s.h.i.+mmering corn-straw tint. Agatha Ismay had sung at unimportant concerts with marked success, but that evening there was something very like shrinking in her eyes.

A crash of chords from the piano melted into a rippling prelude, and Winifred breathed easier when her friend began to sing. The voice was sweet and excellently trained, and there was a deep stillness of appreciation when the clear notes thrilled through the closely-packed hall. No one could doubt that the first part of the aria was a success, for half-subdued applause broke out when the voice sank into silence, and for a few moments the piano rippled on alone; but it seemed to Winifred that there was a look of tension in the singer's face, and she grew uneasy, for she understood the cause for it.

”The last bit of the second part's rather trying,” remarked a young man behind her. ”There's an awkward jump at two full tones that was too much for our soprano when we tried it at the choral union. Miss Ismay's voice is very true in intonation, but I don't suppose most of the audience would notice it if she s.h.i.+rked a little and left that high sharp out.”

Winifred had little knowledge of music, but she was sufficiently acquainted with her friend's character to be certain that Agatha would not attempt to leave out the sharp in question. This was one reason why she sat rigidly still when the clear voice rang out again. It rose from note to note, full and even, but she could see the singer's face, and there was no doubt whatever that Agatha was making a strenuous effort.

n.o.body else, however, seemed to notice it, for Winifred flung a swift glance around, and then fixed her eyes upon the dominant figure in the corn-straw dress. The sweet voice was still rising and the interested listener hoped that the accompanist would force the tone to cover it a little, and put on the loud pedal. The pianist, however, was gazing at his music, and played on until, with startling suddenness, the climax came.

The voice sank a full tone, rose, and hoa.r.s.ely trailed off into silence again. Then the accompanist glanced over his shoulder, and struck a ringing chord while he waited for a sign. There was a curious stirring in the audience. The girl in the s.h.i.+mmering dress stood quite still for a moment with a spot of crimson in her cheek and a half-dazed look in her eyes. Then, turning swiftly, she moved off the stage.

Winifred rose with a gasp, and turned upon the young man next her, who looked up inquiringly.

”Yes,” she said sharply; ”can't you let me pa.s.s? I'm going out.”

It was about half-past nine when she reached the wet street. A fine rain drove into her face, and she had rather more than a mile to walk without an escort, but that was a matter which caused her no concern. She was a self-reliant young woman, and accustomed to going about unattended. She was quite aware that the scene she had just witnessed would bring about a crisis in her own and her friend's affairs. For all that, she was unpleasantly conscious of the leak in one shabby boot when she stepped down from the sidewalk to cross the street, and when she opened her umbrella beneath a gas lamp she pursed up her mouth. There were holes in the umbrella near where the ribs ran into the ferrule; she had not noticed them before. She, however, resolutely plodded on through the drizzle, until three young fellows who came with linked arms down the pavement of a quieter street barred her way. One wore his hat on one side, the one nearest the curb flourished a little cane, and the third smiled at her fatuously.

”Oh my!” he jeered. ”Where's dear Jemima off to in such a hurry?”

Winifred drew herself up. She was little and determined, and, it must be admitted, not quite unaccustomed to that kind of thing.

”Will you let me pa.s.s?” she asked angrily. ”There's a policeman at the next turning.”

”There really is,” said one of the youths. ”The Dook has another engagement. Dream of me, Olivia!”

A beat of heavy feet drew nearer, and the three roysterers disappeared in the direction of a flaming music-hall, where the second ”house” was probably beginning. Winifred, who had stepped into the gutter to avoid the roysterer with the cane, turned as a stalwart, blue-coated figure moved towards her.

”Thank you, officer,” she said, ”they've gone.”

The policeman merely raised a hand as if in comprehension, and plodded back to his post. Winifred went on until she let herself into a house in a quiet street, and ascending to the second floor entered a simply furnished room, which, however, contained a piano, and a table on which a typewriter stood amid a litter of papers. The girl took off her water-proof and sat down in a low chair beside the little fire. She was not a handsome girl, and it was evident that she did not trouble herself greatly about her attire. Her face was too thin and her figure too slight and spare, but there was usually, even when she was anxious, as she certainly was that night, a shrewdly whimsical twinkle in her eyes, and though her lips were set, her expression was compa.s.sionate.

She was not the person to sit still very long, and in a minute or two she rose to place a little kettle on the fire. She took a few scones, a coffee-pot, and a tin of condensed milk from a cupboard. When she had spread them out upon a table she discovered that there was some of the condensed milk upon her fingers, and it must be admitted that she sucked them. They were little, stubby fingers, which somehow looked capable.

”It must have been four o'clock when I had that bun and a cup of tea,”

she remarked, half aloud.

She glanced at the table longingly, for she occasionally found it necessary to place a certain check upon a healthy appet.i.te. The practice of such self-denial is unfortunately, not a very unusual thing in the case of many young women who work hard in the great cities.

”I must wait for Agatha,” she said, with a resolute shake of the head.

Crossing the room toward the typewriter table she stopped to glance at a little framed photograph that stood upon the mantel. It was a portrait of Gregory Hawtrey taken years before, and she apostrophized it with quiet scorn.

”Now you're wanted you're naturally away out yonder,” she declared accusingly. ”You're like the rest of them--despicable!”