Beth Norvell Part 36

Utterly indifferent to all of it, Ned Winston leaned his elbow on the bra.s.s rail of the first box, and gazed idly about over that sea of unknown faces. He would have much preferred not being there. To him, the theatre served merely as a stimulant to unpleasant memory. It was in this atmosphere that the ghost walked, and those hidden things of life came back to mock him. He might forget, sometimes, bending above his desk, or struggling against the perplexing problems of his profession in the field, but not here; not in the glare of the footlights, amid the hum of the crowd. He crushed the unread programme within his hand, striving to converse carelessly with the lady sitting next to him, whom he was expected to entertain. But his thoughts were afar off, his eyes seeing a gray, misty, silent expanse of desert, growing constantly clearer in its hideous desolation before the advancing dawn.

The vast steel curtain arose with apparent reluctance to the top of the proscenium arch, the chatter of voices ceased, somewhat permitting the struggling orchestra to make itself felt and heard. Winston shut his teeth, and waited uneasily, the hand upon the rail clenched. Even more than he had ever expected, awakened memory tortured. He would have gone out into the solitude of the street, except for the certainty of disturbing others. The accompanying music became faster as the inner curtain slowly rose, revealing the great stage set for the first act.

He looked at it carelessly, indifferently, his thoughts elsewhere, yet dimly conscious of the sudden hush all about him, the leaning forward of figures intent upon catching the opening words. The scene portrayed was that of a picturesque Swiss mountain village. It was brilliant in coloring, and superbly staged. For a moment the scenery; with great snow-capped peaks for background, caught his attention. If was realistic, beautifully faithful to nature, and he felt his heart throb with sudden longing to be home, to be once more in the shadow of the Rockies. But the actors did not interest him, and his thoughts again drifted far afield.

The act was nearly half finished before the Star made her appearance.

Suddenly the door of the chalet opened, and a young woman emerged, attired in peasant costume, carelessly swinging a hat in her hand, her bright face smiling, her slender figure perfectly poised. She advanced to the very centre of the wide stage. The myriad of lights rippled over her, revealing the deep brown of her abundant hair, the dark, earnest eyes, the sweet winsomeness of expression. This was the moment for which that vast audience had been waiting. Like an instantaneous explosion of artillery came the thunder of applause. Her first attempted speech lost in that outburst of acclaim, the actress stood before them bowing and smiling, the red blood surging into her unrouged cheeks, her dark eyes flashing like two diamonds. Again and again the house rose to her, the noise of greeting was deafening, and a perfect avalanche of flowers covered the stage. From boxes, from parquet, from crowded balcony, from top-most gallery the enthusiastic outburst came, spontaneous, ever growing in volume of sound, apparently never ending.

She looked out upon them almost appealingly, her hands outstretched in greeting, her eyes filling with tears. Slowly, as if drawn toward them by some impulse of grat.i.tude, she came down to the footlights, and stood there bowing to left and right, the deep swelling of her bosom evidencing her agitation.

As though some sudden remembrance had occurred to her in the midst of that turmoil, of what all this must mean to others, to those of her own blood, she turned to glance lovingly toward that box in which they sat.

Instantly she went white, her hands pressing her breast, her round throat swelling as though the effort of breathing choked her. Possibly out in front they thought it acting, perhaps a sudden nervous collapse, for as she half reeled backward to the support of a bench, the clamor died away into dull murmur. Almost with the ceasing of tumult she was upon her feet again, her lips still white, her face drawn as if in pain. Before the startled audience could awaken and realize the truth, she had commenced the speaking of her lines, forcing them into silence, into a hushed and breathless expectancy.

Winston sat leaning forward, his hand gripping the rail, staring at her. But for that one slender figure the entire stage before him was a blank. Suddenly he caught Craig by the arm.

"Who is that?" he questioned, sharply. "The one in the costume of a peasant girl?"

"Who is it? Are you crazy? Why, that 's Lizzie; read your programme, man. She must have had a faint spell just now. By Jove, I thought for a moment she was going to flop. You 're looking pretty white about the lips yourself, ain't sick, are you?"

He shook his head, sinking back into his seat. Hastily he opened the pages of the crushed programme, his hand shaking so he was scarcely able to decipher the printed lines. Ah! there it was in black-faced type: "Renee la Roux--_Miss Beth Norvell_."

CHAPTER x.x.x

THE MISSION OF A LETTER

All through the remainder of the play he sat as one stunned, scarcely removing his eyes from the glittering stage, yet seeing nothing there excepting her. He could not later have recalled a single scene.

Between the acts he conversed rationally enough with those about him, congratulating her people upon the brilliant success of the evening, and warmly commending the work of the Star. Yet this was all mechanical, automatic, his mind scarcely realizing its own action.

She never glanced in that direction again; during all the four acts not once did she permit her eyes to rest upon their box. The others may not have noticed the omission, but he did, his interpretation of the action becoming a pain. It served to strengthen the resolve which was taking possession of him. He noticed, also, that she played feverishly, vehemently, not with that quiet restraint, that promise of reserve power, always so noticeable in the old days. It caused him to realize that she was working upon her nerves, holding herself up to the strain by the sheer strength of will. The papers the next day commented upon this, hinting at nervousness, at exhilaration consequent upon so notable a greeting. But Winston knew the cause better--he knew the spectre which had so suddenly risen before her, turning her white and frightened at the very moment of supreme triumph. There, in front of them all, under the full glare of the lights, herself the very focus of thousands of eyes, she had been compelled to fight down her heart, and win a victory greater than that of the actress. In that instant she had conquered herself, had trodden, smiling and confident, over the awakened memories of the past.

After the curtain had fallen--fallen and lifted, again and again, to permit of her standing in the glare, smiling happily, and kissing her hands toward the enthusiastic mult.i.tude--he pa.s.sed out with the others, still partially dazed, his mind remaining undecided, irresolute. With the cool night air fanning his cheeks as their car rolled southward, clearer consciousness came back, bringing with it firmer resolve. She had not wanted him; in all those years there had not come from her a single word. Now, on this night of her triumph, in the midst of family rejoicing, he had no part. It had all been a mistake, a most unhappy mistake, yet he would do now everything in his power to remedy it. His further presence should not be allowed to detract from her happiness, should not continue to embarra.s.s her. The past between them was dead; undoubtedly she wished it dead. Very well, then, he would help her to bury it, now and forever. Not through any neglect on his part should that past ever again rise up to haunt her in the hour of success. She had discovered her ideal, she had attained to the height of her ambition. She should be left to enjoy the victory undisturbed. Within the hotel rotunda, under the multicolored lights, he halted Craig, hurrying forward to a conference with the steward.

"I am awfully sorry, old man," he explained apologetically, "but the fact is, I do not feel well enough to remain down here to the spread.

Nothing serious, you know--indigestion or something like that. I 'll run up to my room and lie down for a while; if I feel better I may wander in later."

Craig looked concerned.

"Thought you were mighty white about the gills all the evening, Ned--the lobster salad, likely. I hate letting you go, awfully; upon my word, I do. I wanted Lizzie to meet you; she 's always heard me singing your praises, and your not being there will prove quite a disappointment to her. But Lord! if you 're sick, why, of course, there's no help for it. Come down later, if you can, and I 'll run up there as soon as I can break away from the bunch. Sure you don't need the house physician?"

"Perfectly sure; all I require is rest and a bit of sleep. Been working too hard, and am dead tired."

He sank down within the great arm-chair in the silence of his own room, not even taking trouble to turn on the lights; mechanically lit a cigar, and sat staring out of the window. Before him the black, threatening cloud-shadows hung over the dark water of the lake; far below resounded the ceaseless clatter of hoofs along the fashionable avenue. He neither saw nor heard. Over and over again he reviewed the past, bringing back to memory each word and glance which had ever, pa.s.sed between them. He was again with the "Heart of the World"

strollers, he was struggling with Burke in the depths of the mine, he was pa.s.sing through that day and night of misfortune on the ridge overlooking Echo Canyon, he was riding for life--her life--across the trackless desert. It all came before him in unnatural vividness, seemingly as though each separate scene had been painted across that black sky without. Then he perceived the great playhouse he had just left, the glorious glitter of lights, the reverberation of applause, the cheering mob of men and women, and her--her bowing and smiling at them, her dark eyes dancing with happiness and ignoring him utterly, her whole body trembling to the intoxication of success. Oh, it was all over; even if there had been no gulf of death between them, it was all over. She had deliberately chosen to forget, under the inspiration of her art she had forgotten. It had usurped her thought, her ambition, her every energy. She had won her way through the throng, yet the very struggle of such winning had sufficed to crowd him out from memory had left the past as barren as was the desert amid the dreariness of which they had parted. He set his teeth hard, striking his clenched fist against the cushioned arm of the chair. Then he sat silent, his cigar extinguished. Once he glanced at his watch, but already the hour was too late for any hope of catching the west-bound train, and he dropped it back in his pocket, and sat motionless.

Suddenly some one rapped upon the outside door. It would be Craig, probably, and he called out a regretful "Come in." A bell-boy stood there, his b.u.t.toned-up figure silhouetted against the lights in the hall.

"Lady in Parlor D asked me to hand you this, sir," the boy said.

He accepted the slight bit of paper, scarcely comprehending what it could all mean, turned on an electric bulb over the dresser, and looked at it. A single line of delicate writing confronted him, so faint that he was compelled to bend closer to decipher: "_If you are waiting my word, I send it._"

He caught at the dresser-top as though some one had struck him, staring down at the card in his hand, and then around the silent room, his breath grown rapid. At first the words were almost meaningless; then the blood came surging up into his face, and he walked toward the door.

There he paused, his hand already upon the k.n.o.b. What use? What use?

Why should he seek her, even although she bade him come? She might no longer care, but he did; to her such a meeting might be only a mere incident, an experience to be lightly talked over, but to him such an interview could only prove continual torture. But no! The thought wronged her; such an action would not be possible to Beth Norvell. If she despatched this message it had been done honestly, done graciously.

He would show himself a craven if he failed to face whatever awaited him below. With tightly compressed lips, he closed the door, and walked to the elevator.

She stood waiting him alone, slightly within the parlor door, her cheeks flushed, her red lips parted in an attempt to smile. With a single glance he saw her as of old, supremely happy, her dark eyes clear, her slender form swaying slightly toward him as if in welcome.

For an instant their gaze met, his full of uncertainty, hers of confidence; then she stretched out to him her two ungloved hands.

"You gave me a terrible scare to-night," she said, endeavoring to speak lightly, "and then, to make matters worse, you ran away. It was not like you to do that."

"I could not bring myself to mar the further happiness of your night,"

he explained, feeling the words choke in his throat as he uttered them.

"My being present at the Opera House was all a mistake; I did not dream it was you until too late. But the supper was another thing."

She looked intently at him, her expression clearly denoting surprise.

"I really cannot believe you to be as indifferent as you strive to appear," she said at last, her breath quickening. "One does not forget entirely in three short years, and I--I caught that one glimpse of you in the box. It was that--that look upon your face which gave me courage to send my card to your room." She paused, dropping her eyes to the carpet, her fingers nervously playing with the tr.i.m.m.i.n.g of her waist. "It may, perhaps, sound strange, yet in spite of my exhibit of feeling at first discovering your presence, I had faith all day that you would come."

"Is it possible you mean that you wished me there?"

"Quite possible; only it would have been ever so much better had I known before. It actually seemed when I saw your face to-night as if G.o.d had brought you--it was like a miracle. Do you know why? Because, for the first time in three years, I can welcome you with all my heart."

"Beth, Beth," utterly forgetting everything but the mystery of her words, his gray eyes darkening from eagerness, "what is it you mean?

For G.o.d's sake tell me! These years have been centuries; through them all I have been waiting your word."

She drew in her breath sharply, reaching out one hand to grasp the back of a chair.

"It--it could not be spoken," she said, her voice faltering. "Not until to-day was it possible for me to break the silence."

"And now--to-day?"

She smiled suddenly up at him, her eyes filled with promise.

"G.o.d has been good," she whispered, drawing from within the lace of her waist a crumpled envelope,--"oh, so good, even when I doubted Him.

See, I have kept this hidden there every moment since it first came, even on the stage in my changes of costume. I dared not part with it for a single instant--it was far too precious." She sank back upon the chair, holding out toward him the paper. "Read that yourself, if my tears have not made the lines illegible."

He took it from her, his hands trembling, and drew forth the enclosure, a single sheet of rough yellow paper. Once he paused, glancing toward where she sat, her face buried in her arms across the chair-back. Then he smoothed out the wrinkles, and read slowly, studying over each pencil-written, ill-spelled word, every crease and stain leaving an impression upon his brain:

"SAN JUAN, COL., DEC. 12, 1904.

"Deer Miss: I see your name agin in a Denver paper what Bill brought out frum town ternight, an read thar that you wus goin ter play a piece in Chicago. I aint seen yer name in ther papers afore fer a long time.

So I thot I 'd write yer a line, cause Bill thinks yer never got it straight bout ther way Biff Farnham died. He ses thet you an Mister Winston hes got ther whol affair all mixed up, an that maybe it's a keepin ther two of yer sorter sore on each other. Now, I dont wanter b.u.t.t in none in yer affairs, an then agin it aint overly plisent fer me to make a clean breast ov it this way on paper. Not that I 'm afeard, er nothin, only it dont just look nice. No more do I want enything whut I did ter be makin you fokes a heep o trouble. That aint my style. I reckon I must a bin plum crazy whin I did it, fer I wus mighty nigh that fer six months after--et least Bill ses so. But it wus me all right whut killed Farnham. It wan't no murder es I see it, tho I was huntin him all right, fer he saw me furst, an hed his gun out, when I let drive. Enyhow, he got whut wus comin ter him, an I aint got no regrets. We're a doin all right out yere now, me an Bill--ther claim is payin big, but I never aint got over thinkin bout Mercedes. I sh.o.r.e loved her, an I do yit. You was awful good to her, an I reckon she 'd sorter want me to tell you jist how it wus. Hopin this will clar up som ov them troubles between you an Mister Winston, I am Yours with respects,

"WILLIAM BROWN."

Winston stood there in silence, yet holding the paper in his hand.