VII
Thedifficulties of St. Luke’s Church had been very great. The interest on the debt was heavily in arrears, and the Ladies’ Association, selected from the active female members of the congregation, had labored early and late to find its share of the money. There had been fairs and tableaux and even Mrs. Jarley’s waxworks, but none of these things had done more than collect a tax on the members of the church. Outsiders had been absolutely shy, and the members were beginning to find a hole in both sides of their pockets. They made dainty articles for sale—splashers and whiskbroom holders and aprons—and dressed dolls and baked cakes, and then went to the bazaar and solemnly bought them back again. It had become a little wearing on sensitive nerves and pocketbooks.
Finally, as a brilliant climax, old Mrs. Payson conceived the idea of a concert that would be fine enough to coax the reluctant dollars from the Presbyterians and the Baptists, the Methodists and the Universalists and the Catholics—in fact, an entertainment that would draw the town. TheSunday-school hall, a gift from Dr. Barbour’s father, was large enough to seat almost a theater audience, and it had a fine platform, furnished with footlights, and wide enough not only for a grand piano but for a number of famous singers.
The question of paying the singers had, at first, staggered the ladies, but Mr. Payson had finally come to their relief. As the wealthiest member of the congregation, he usually had to make good the deficiencies, and he proposed to pay for some first-class performers if the ladies of the association would guarantee that they could fill the hall at good prices—five dollars for the best seats, two-fifty for the second best, and one dollar and fifty cents for children. If they sold every seat at these rates, they could cover the deficit, and Mr. Payson would escape another and heavier levy.
It was Virginia Denbigh who finally achieved it. She had taken hold with the ardor of youth and the executive ability which Colonel Denbigh proudly claimed was an attribute of his family. The thing was done. The pianist, Caraffi, was engaged and one fine singer, besides a first-rate orchestra from out of town.
“No one,” said Virginia, “will pay to hear our own people, even if they play better.”
The wisdom of this diagnosis of the popularsentiment was demonstrated by the sale of tickets. As the night drew near, it became apparent that not a seat would be vacant. The invitation to young Mrs. William Carter was a brilliantcoup. The town was anxious to see her and to hear her; the announcement that she would sing—probably a French ballad—had rushed the last seats up to a premium. For William Carter’s sudden marriage abroad had aroused no small amount of gossip.
The hall began to fill early. Virginia Denbigh, who had come down with her grandfather, glanced over it with a thrill of pleasure.
“We’re going to make it,” she said softly, “every cent! Look, grandpa, they’re selling the last seats for five dollars—away back, too!”
“Scandalous!” retorted the colonel. “Can’t see a thing there but the top of Mrs. Payson’s bonnet, and there’ll be a draft from the door. You’ve got no conscience, Jinny. Make them sell those for a dollar.”
She laughed, patting his arm.
“You go and take your seat; I’ve got to be back in the reception-room to meet the singers.”
The old man nodded, making his way to a front seat, and looking about him interestedly as he went.
The congregation was there in force, with therector and his wife well down in front; but, for the first time in the history of their church entertainments, the rest of the townspeople appeared there, too. Colonel Denbigh counted three ministers and half a dozen deacons. The black coats and white neckties were well forward, and there were three old ladies, patrons of the church, already seated, with their ear trumpets at their ears. On the rear benches the young people were congregated, and, as the hall filled, the young men of the town stood about in groups in the aisles and behind the last seats.
But it was a very solemn gathering, after all.
“Sunday-school meeting,” thought the colonel. “Hard-shelled Baptists and Methodists on one side, and High-church Episcopalians and Roman Catholics on the other. Needs something a little sprightly to make ’em sit up and take notice. I wonder——”
He looked about him curiously, and then he saw Mr. Carter going slowly down the aisle, followed by his wife and Emily.
“Hello!” said the colonel. “Didn’t expect such luck. You’ve got the seat next to me, Mrs. Carter. How are you, Emily?” He glanced rather sharply at the girl as he spoke, startled by her unusual appearance, for Emily’s white eyelashes were now a dark brown, and her nose was whitened. “Blessmy soul!” thought the colonel, and then, to Mr. Carter: “Where’s William and his pretty wife?”
“William isn’t coming,” Mr. Carter replied shortly, seating himself heavily and feeling of his necktie. “He’s at home, smoking a pipe with Dan. His wife”—Mr. Carter glanced at the lighted platform, filled with a grand piano and many palms—“I suppose she’s coming. She started with Leigh half an hour ago. He’s bringing her.”
“Humph!”
The colonel tried to think of something more to say, but Mrs. Payson relieved him. She fluttered across the aisle.
“Dear Mrs. Carter, we’re all crazy to hear your new daughter sing! Judge Jessup says she’s got a lovely voice.”
Mrs. Carter smiled tremulously and blushed.
“Yes,” she said faintly, but with some pride in her voice. “The judge heard her the other night. She’s—she’s coming with Leigh.”
As she spoke there was a flutter and stir in the audience, and Mrs. Payson retreated hastily to a front seat. Judge Jessup had just appeared on the platform with a tall, thin man who wore an immaculate dress-suit and displayed an amazing head of black hair.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the judge in hisdeep bass, “it’s my duty and my pleasure to introduce the great pianist, Signor Caraffi.”
Colonel Denbigh led the applause, and for a moment it was deafening. The pianist, thrusting one hand in the front of his white satin waistcoat, bowed low. Judge Jessup discreetly withdrew into the shadow of the palms where—at intervals—the audience glimpsed white skirts and pink skirts and blue skirts, and two or three amazing pairs of feet skirmishing behind the foliage and between the substantial green tubs. But even these things became less diverting when the hirsute gentleman began to play.
“Oh, how wonderful!” breathed Mrs. Carter with relief.
Colonel Denbigh nodded.
“Looks like a hair-restorer advertisement,” he replied gently; “but he can play. I reckon it’s genius that makes his hair grow!”
It certainly looked like genius, for he was really a great pianist. For a while he held the audience spellbound. Splendid music filled their ears and, in some cases at least, stirred their souls. Even the more frivolous listeners forgot to make fun of the huge, shaggy head as it bent and swayed and nodded while the pianist forgot himself and forgot the world in his conflict with the instrument—aconflict that always left him supremely master of heavenly harmonies.
Back in the little room behind the platform, Virginia listened and forgot that she was worn out with superintending it all; forgot that she still had her anxieties, and would have them until the last number was successfully rendered, for Mrs. William Carter was next on the bill, and Mrs. Carter had not come. Not yet! Virginia was waiting for her, much against her will, for there were two or three operatic strangers waiting also, and that intolerable man Corwin, Caraffi’s manager.
Virginia was aware of him, aware of his sleek good looks and his watchful eyes. Finding them fixed in her direction, she turned her shoulder toward him, and was thus the first to see the arrival of Fanchon and Leigh. They came in softly, Fanchon on tiptoe, listening to Caraffi, and Leigh laden with her wraps and her music-roll, his young, flushed face turned adoringly toward his sister-in-law.
Virginia could not blame him. It seemed to her that the girl—she looked no more than seventeen or eighteen—was wonderfully pretty. For Fanchon had stopped just inside the door, where the light fell full upon her, and was listening, her head a little bent and her finger on her lips. Shehad given her wrap to Leigh, and stood there, a shining little figure, in white and silver, muchdécolleté, her slender arms and her lovely young throat unornamented. Her gown—a Parisian thing, Virginia thought—clung to her in a wonderful way, like the shining calyx of a flower; and yet it floated, too, when she moved. Her dusky hair, her wonderful dark eyes, and the piquant little face, needed no better frame than the glimpse of starry night in the open door behind her and the glimmer of shaded lights overhead.
Virginia went forward.
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said softly. “Your number is the next one, Mrs. Carter.”
Fanchon turned to answer, putting out a small, bejeweled hand, confident and smiling, a sparkling little creature. Then suddenly there came a change. She stopped short and stood motionless. She scarcely seemed to breathe. It was as if some force stronger than her will had arrested her.
Watching her face, Virginia felt the shock of it, without knowing what it was—fear or hate, or a mingling of both. But Fanchon’s eyes were fixed on Corwin, and they were no longer soft. It was not the look of a wild fawn, but of a tigress at bay. Something within, some feeling as strong as it was extraordinary, transformed her. For aninstant she seemed to flinch, then she stood facing him.
The man, turning as suddenly, saw her. He jumped to his feet.
“Fanchon la Fare!” he exclaimed, and came toward her, speaking rapidly in French.
Virginia turned away. She did not want to listen, but she heard an exclamation from Fanchon, and saw her leave Corwin standing, an odd look on his face.
Leigh, who had been busy with the wraps, turned, saw the meeting and Fanchon’s face. He dropped his burden and crossed over to her quickly.
“What did he say to you, Fanchon?” he panted. “If he was rude to you, I’ll—I’ll thrash him!”
Fanchon laughed a wild little laugh.
“Dear boy!” she said softly, and stroked his hand. “Je t’adore!”
Leigh flushed, his lowering gaze fastened angrily on Corwin, and Virginia drew a breath of relief when she heard the applause outside. Caraffi had given them a cheery encore; he was coming off the platform, and Fanchon must go on. Virginia called to her softly.
“Now, please, Mrs. Carter!” she said.
Fanchon turned and looked at her, saw by her face that Virginia had seen too much, and hereyes blazed with anger. She took a step forward and snatched up her music-roll, running her fingers over the leaves and biting her lip.
“Tell them to play this, please,” she said, with her head up.
Without looking at it, Virginia took it to the director of the orchestra, glad to escape the little scene. It seemed to her that the air was charged, and she knew that the wait had been too long already. She could hear the impatient stir outside.
There was, indeed, a little stir of impatience in the hall. Two or three young ushers went up and down the aisles with pitchers of iced water, and the rear seats began to fill up with gentlemen who were eating cloves. The rest of the audience studied the program, expectant. “No. 2, Mrs. William Carter, solo,” appeared on it in fine type.
“My daughter-in-law’s going to sing next,” said Mr. Carter, remembering the broken engagement and putting out a feeler. “Seen her yet, colonel?”
“Saw her the other day.” The colonel clasped the top of his cane, leaning on it, and looking absently at an amazing pair of feet and ankles that he saw approaching from behind the palms. “She’s mighty pretty.”
“Think so?” Mr. Carter smiled. “Notice hereyes? Something fawn-like about them—and velvety. We’ve got to calling her—among ourselves, of course—‘the wild fawn.’”
At this moment one of the old ladies behind them interrupted. She tapped Mr. Carter’s shoulder with her fan.
“I do like music,” she said in a loud whisper. “It’s so churchy. I can’t hear much, but I feel it down my spine. Now, tableaux—well, sometimes they’re not just the thing, but music for the church, it’s—it’s safe!”
Colonel Denbigh, overhearing, pulled his mustache. His ear had caught the first notes of a piece that was not “churchy”; it was far too light and too fantastic.
“The kind of tune that makes a fellow sit up and take notice,” the colonel thought. “I wonder——”
He got no farther before he was drowned in applause. A small, graceful, shimmering figure had slipped out from behind the palms. Fanchon stood in the center of the stage, her slender arms raised and her hands clasped behind her head, her eyes bent downward, the shadowy hair framing a low, white brow, her red lips slightly parted. If she heard the applause, she did not heed it. She made no response; she only waited.
Then, as the soft, seductive strains began tofill the hall with music, she began to sing—softly at first, then rising note by note until her clear soprano floated upward like the song of a bird. Then, just as the tension seemed to relax and a deep sigh of pleasure came from the most anxious of the audience, she began to dance.
Still singing, she danced wonderfully, strangely, wildly. Her skirt, clinging and shimmering and floating at the edges, clung to her. It unfolded like a flower as she stepped, and folded again about her slender ankles, above the marvel of her dancing feet. She swayed lightly from side to side, her slender body the very embodiment of grace and motion, as her dancing seemed to be the interpretation of the music, subtle, seductive, wonderful. So might the daughter of Herodias have danced before Herod Antipas!
Breathless, the good people in the front rows stared. Movement was impossible, every sense seemed suspended, everything but the sensation of amazement. Mrs. Carter looked in a frightened way at her husband and caught the twinkle in Colonel Denbigh’s eye. Then she saw her rector mop his forehead with his handkerchief, and she raised her shamed eyes to the stage. Fanchon was pirouetting on one toe! Applause had started in the back rows, among the black sheep, and wasrunning down the side aisles like a prairie-fire when Mr. Carter abruptly rose.
“Excuse me,” he said roughly to Colonel Denbigh as he clambered over him. “I—I’ve forgotten something!”
Mrs. Carter half rose and then sank back, pulled down by Emily, but she seemed to hear, through the spluttering applause, her husband’s crashing exit.
It might be said that Mr. Carter had the effect of a stone thrown from an ancient catapult, he went with such bounds and rushes. For a stout man his performance was little short of miraculous. He covered the distance to his own door in ten minutes, got out his latch-key, found the key-hole unerringly in the dark, went in, and banged the door to with a violence that made the ornaments on the hall mantel rattle.
The hall was vacant, but he saw a stream of light coming out of the library, and headed violently for it. William was alone, huddled in an easy chair, smoking and reading. Mr. Carter came in and shut the door. Then he advanced on his son with a face of thunder.
“William Henry Carter,” said he, “you’ve married a dancer—a French dancer!”
William, overtaken by the unexpected, laid down his book and stared. But his father onlyroared the louder. He seemed to think that his son had grown suddenly deaf.
“Do you hear me, sir?” he bellowed fiercely. “You’ve married a—a dyed-in-the-wool ballet-dancer!”