Part 46 (1/2)

On the stage, Elsa had cast herself into the arms of Lohengrin, and the voice of love dominant was translated into song. The music filled the house with a throbbing ecstasy--an ecstasy that had captured in its notes the joys of all the senses--the light to the eye of a spring morning, the perfume to the nostrils of fresh meadows, the warmth to the touch of falling suns.h.i.+ne. It was the voice of love ethereal--of love triumphant over flesh, of love holding to its breast the phantom of its dreams. It was the old, ever-young voice of the human heart panting for the possession of its vision--the vision realized in the land of legends.

The curtain was rung down, and in a moment Nevins came in and they fell to talking. They spoke of the tenor, of the fact that the prima donna's voice had strengthened, and of Madame Cambria, the contralto, who was a little hoa.r.s.e. Then they spoke of the people in the boxes and of the absence of several whose names they mentioned.

Father Algarcife was silent, and he only aroused himself to attention when Miss Darcy, lowering her opera-gla.s.s, turned to Nevins inquiringly.

”Do tell me if that is Mrs. Gore across from us--the one in green and violets?”

Nevins replied constrainedly. ”Yes,” he said; ”I think so. The other is Miss Ramsey, I believe--a friend who lives with her.”

Miss Darcy smiled.

”Why, I thought she lived alone,” she returned; ”but I have heard so many odd things about her that I may be mistaken in this one. She is evidently the kind of person that n.o.body possesses any positive information about.”

”Perhaps it is as well,” observed Mrs. Ryder, stiffly. ”It is better to know too little on such subjects than too much.”

Nevins was writhing in his chair, his mouth half open, when Father Algarcife spoke.

”In this case,” he said, and his voice sounded cold and firm, ”what is not known seems to be incorrectly surmised. I knew Mrs.

Gore--before--before her marriage. She is a Southerner.”

Mrs. Ryder looked up.

”Yes?” she interrogated, as he paused.

”And, although I cannot vouch for her discretion, I can for her innate purity of character.”

Mrs. Ryder flushed, and spoke with a beautiful contrition in her eyes.

”I was wrong,” she said, ”to trust rumor. It makes me ashamed of myself--of my lack of generosity.”

The curtain rose, and Father Algarcife turned to the stage. But he did not see it. The figures were blurred before his eyes and the glare tortured him. Across the circle of s.p.a.ce he knew that Mariana was sitting, her head upraised, her cheek resting upon her hand, her face in the shadow. He could almost see her eyes growing rich and soft like green velvet.

Then, as the voice of the soprano rang out, he started slightly.

Beneath the song of love he heard the cry of ambition--a cry that said:

_”I would give half my life for this--to sing with Alvary.”_

Whence the words came he did not know. He had no memory of them in time or place, but they struggled in the throat of the soprano and filled the air.

He turned and looked at her as she sat across from him, her cheek resting in her hand against a blaze of diamonds. She looked white, he thought, and wistful and unsatisfied. Then a fierce joy took possession of him--a joy akin to the gloating of a savage cruelty. She had failed.

Yes, in spite of the brocade of her gown, in spite of the diamonds in her hair, in spite of the homage in the eyes of men that followed her--she had failed.

The blood rushed into his temples, and he felt it beating in his pulses.

He was glad--glad that she was unsatisfied--glad of the struggle and of the failure--glad of the slow torture of famished aspirations.

And from the throat of the soprano the words rang heavy with throbs of unfulfilment: