The Coast of Chance

by Esther Chamberlain and Lucia Chamberlain

  VIII

  A SPARK OF HORROR

  They found Harry waiting for them in the theater lobby. He had come uptoo late from Burlingame to do more than meet the party there. TheBullers were already in the box, he said, and the second act of _I'Pagliacci_ just beginning.

  As they came to the door of the box the lights were down, the curtain upon a dim stage, and the chorus still floating into the roof, while thethree occupants of the box were indistinguishable figures, risen up andshuffling chairs to the front for Flora and Clara. It was too dark todistinguish faces.

  But dark as it was, Flora knew who was sitting behind her. She heard himspeaking. Under the notes of the recitative he was speaking to Clara.The pleasure of finding him here was sharpened by the surprise. Shelistened to his voice, the mere intonation of which brought back to hertheir walk through the Presidio woods as deliciously as if she werestill there.

  Then, as the tenor took up the theme, all talking ceased--Ella's huskywhisper, Clara's smoother syllables, and the flat, slow, variable voiceof Kerr--the whole house seemed to sink into stiller repose; the highchords floated above the heads of the black pit like colored bubbles,and Flora forgot the sapphire in the triple spell of the singing, thedarkness, and the face she was yet to see. She felt relaxed and releasedfrom her guard by this darkness around her, that blotted out the sea offaces beneath, that dissolved the walls and high galleries, thatobscured the very outline of the box where she sat, until she seemed tobe poised, half-way up a void of darkness, looking into a pit in thehollowness of which a voice was singing.

  The stage was a narrow shelf of wood swung in that void, from which thevoice sang, and a bare finger of light followed it about from place toplace. The sweet, searching tenor notes, the semblance of passion andreality the gesticulating Frenchman threw over all the stage, and the_crescendo_ of the tragedy carried her into a mood that barred out Ella,barred out Clara, barred out Harry more than any; but, unaccountably,Kerr was still with her. He was there by no will of hers, but by someessence of his own, some quality that linked him, as it linked her, tothe passionate subtleties of life. He seemed to her the eager spiritthat was prompting and putting forward this comedy and tragedy playingon before her. She heard him reasserted, vigorous, lawless, wandering,in the voice of the mimic strolling player addressing his mimicaudience. The appeal of the tenor to the voiceless galleries,"Underneath this little play we show, there is another play," seemedindeed the very voice of Kerr repeating itself. And with the climax ofthe sharp tragedy in the middle of the comic stage she placed himagain, but placed him this time in the mimic audience looking on,neither applauding nor dissenting; but rather as if he watched the playand played it, too.

  The lights went up with a spring. A wave of motion flickered over thehouse, the talking voices burst forth all at once, and she saw him,really saw him for the first time that evening, as in her fancy, part ofthe audience; as in her fancy, neither applauding nor dissenting, yetwith what a difference! He leaned back in his chair, and leaned his heada little back, as if, for weariness, he wished there were a rest behindit; and how indifferently, how critically, how levelly he surveyed thefluttered house, and the figures in the box beside him! How foreign heappeared to the ardent spirit who had dominated the dark; how emptied ofthe heat of imagination, how worn, how dry; and even in his salience,how singularly pathetic! He was neither the satanic person of the firstnight, nor her comrade of the Presidio hills. And if the expression ofhis face was not quite so cheap as cynicism, it was just the absence ofbelief in anything.

  She felt a lump in her throat, an ache of the cruelest disappointment,as though some masker, masking as the fire of life, had suddenly removedthe covering of his face and showed her the burnt-out bones beneath. Theshift from what she remembered him to what he now appeared was too rapidand considerable for her. She found herself looking at him through amist of tears--there in the heart of publicity, in the middle of thecircle of red velvet curtains!

  He turned and saw her. She watched a smile of the frankest pleasurerising, as it were, to the surface of his weary preoccupation. Somethinghad delighted him. Why, it was herself--just her being there! And shecould only helplessly blink at him. Was ever anything so stupid as to becaught in tears over nothing! For the next moment he had caught her. Sheknew by the change of his look, interrogative, amused, incredulous. Hestraightened and leaned forward.

  "Really," he said, "you must remember that little man has only gone outfor a glass of beer."

  So he thought it was the tenor who had brought her to the point oftears.

  "Ah, why do you say that?" she protested.

  He continued to smile indulgently upon her. "Would you really ratherbelieve it true?"

  "I don't know. But I wish _you_ hadn't thought of the beer."

  He brought the glare of his monocle to bear full upon her. "Why not? Itis all we make sure of."

  So he had taken that side of it. By his words as well as his looks herepudiated all the gallant show of romance he had paraded to her before,and had taken up the cause of the world as flatly as Harry could havedone.

  "Oh, if to be sure is all you want," she burst out; "but you don't meanit! Wouldn't you rather have something beautiful you weren't sure of,than something certain that didn't matter?"

  He nodded to this quite casually, as if it were an old acquaintance.

  "Oh, yes; but the time comes round when you want to be sure ofsomething. The sun never sets twice alike over Mont Pelee; but you canalways get the same brand of lager to-day that you had the week before."He looked at her with a faint amusement. "And by your expression I takeit you don't know how fine some of those brands are. Life is not halfbad--even when it is only a means to the beer."

  Under these garish lights, in the middle of this theater of people,facing the bland, almost banal, stare of that monocle, it lookedexceedingly probable that, after all, in spite of her dreaming, this waswhat life would prove to be. But she hated the thought, as she hatedthat Kerr should be the one to show it to her; as she would have hatedher ring if, after all its splendor in the shop, it should have turnedout to be a piece of colored glass.

  "No, no! I won't believe you," she stoutly denied him. "There _is_ morein life than you can touch. You're not like yourself to say there isnot."

  He laughed, but rather shortly.

  "My dear child, forgive me; I'm sulky to-night. I feel, as I felt ateighteen, that the world has treated me badly. I've lost my luck."

  The way his voice dropped at the last sounded to her the weariest thingshe had ever heard. He settled back in his chair again, and lookedmoodily out across the brilliant house.

  "I'm sorry." Her tone was sweetly vague. What could be the matter withhim? Then, half timidly, she rallied him. "If you go on like this, Ishall have to show you my talisman."

  "Oh, have you indeed a talisman?" he humored her. And it was as if hesaid, "Oh, have you a doll?" He did not even turn his head to look ather.

  She was chilled. She felt the disappointment, that his quick smile hadlightened, return upon her. She hardly noticed the rise of the curtainon the second little play, and the singing voices did not reach her withany poignancy. She was vaguely aware of movements in the box--ofHarry's coming in, of Clara's little rustle making room for him, of theshift of Ella's chair away from the business of listening, toward him,and her husky whisper going on with some prolonged tale of dullescapade; but to Flora they all made only a banal background for thebrooding silence of her companion. He had thrown his mood over her untilshe was ready to doubt even the potency of her talisman to counteractit.

  She felt of the stone. She drew off her glove and tried to look at it inthe dim light, but couldn't get a gleam out of it. She was as impatientfor the lights to go up that she might secretly be cheered by itswonder, as she had been that afternoon to get back from the luncheon,and make sure it was still in the drawer. She must see it in spite ofClara at her right hand, whose little chiseled profile might turn uponher at any moment a full face of i
nquiry.

  She held her left hand low in the shadow of her chair; and if, as thelights went up again, there was any change in the sapphire, it wasmerely a sharper brilliance, as if, like an eye, it had moods, and thiswas one of its moments of excitement. In its extraordinary luster itseemed to possess a beauty that could not be valued; and she wanted tohold it up to Kerr, to see if she couldn't startle him out of hismood--to see if he wouldn't respond to it, "Yes, there is more in itthan you can touch."

  She turned to him with the daring flash of timid spirits. It was sosharp a motion that he started instantly from his reverie to meet it,but his alacrity was mechanical. She felt the smile he summoned wasslow, as if he returned, from a long distance, a little painfully to hispresent surroundings.

  The _Intermezzo_ was playing, and to speak under the music he leaned soclose his shoulder touched her chair. Through that narrow space betweenthem, almost beneath his eyes, she moved her hand--a gesture so slightlyemphasized as to seem accident. He had started to speak, but her motionseemed to stop his tongue. He looked hard at her hand, and somethingviolent in his intentness made her clutch the side of the chair.Instantly she met his look, so fiercely, cruelly challenging, that ittook her like a blow. For a moment they looked at each other, her eyeswide with fright, his narrowed to a glare under the terrible intentnessof his brows. What had she done? What threatened her? What could saveher in this sea of people? Then, while she gazed, his challenge burnedout to a pale hard scrutiny, that faded to no expression at all--or wasit that any expression would have seemed dim after the terrible one thathad flashed across his face?

  She was as shaken as if he had seized hold of her. If he had snatchedthe ring off her finger she wouldn't have been more shocked. The wholebox must be transfixed by him, and the whole house be looking at nothingbut their little circle of horror! She was ready for it. She was bracedfor anything but the fact which actually confronted her--that no one hadnoticed them at all. It was monstrous that such a thing could have beenwithout their knowing! But there was no face in all the orchestra, thecrowded galleries, or the tiers of boxes to affirm that anything hadhappened; no face in their own box had even stirred, but Clara's, andthat had merely turned from profile to the full, faintly inquiring,mild, and palely pink in the warm reflections of the red velvetcurtains.

  And what could Clara have seen, if she had seen at all, but Flora alittle paler than usual with a hand that trembled; and what worse couldClara conjecture than that she was being silly about Kerr? She turnedslowly toward him, and looked at him with a courage that was part of herfear. But wasn't she, in a way, being silly about Kerr? What had becomeof his expression that had threatened her? There was nothing left of itbut her own violent impression--and the longer Kerr sat there, talkingfrom her to Clara, from Clara to Judge Buller, his eyes keeping pacewith his light conversational flights, the less Flora felt sure he hadever fixed her with that intensity.

  And yet the thing had actually happened. Its evidence was before her. Hehad been silent. Now he was talking. He had been absent. Now she thoughtshe had never seen him more vividly concerned with the moment. Yet forall his cool looks and diffuse talk around the box, she felt uneasilythat his concern was pointed at her, and that he would never let her go.He only waited for the cover of the last act to come back to hersingle-handed.

  She would have deflected his attack, but it was too quick, toounexpected for her to do more than sit helpless, and let him lift up herleft hand, delicately between thumb and finger, as if in itself it wassome rare, fine curio, and, bending close, contemplate the sapphireunwinkingly. She had an instant when she thought she must cry out, buthow impossible in the awful publicity of her place--a pinnacle in theface of thousands! And after the first fluttered impulse came a certainreassurance in such a frank and trivial action. For all its intensity,how could it be construed otherwise than a lively if unconventionalinterest? It must have been her own fancy which had discerned anythingmore than that in his first look at her. And yet, when he had laid herhand lightly back, and readjusted his monocle, and looked out, away fromher, across the black house, she didn't know whether she was morereassured or troubled because he had not spoken a word. Yet the nextmoment he looked around at her.

  "We shan't meet every evening in such a way as this," he said, and leftthe statement dangling unanswerable between them. It soundedportentous--final. She wondered that in the middle of her fear it couldstrike such a sharp note of regret in her. She knew she would regret notmeeting him again; and yet she shrank from the thought she could stillwant to meet him. By one look her whole feeling of sympathy, ofreliance, of admiration, that had flowed out to him so naturally she hadscarcely been aware of it, had been troubled and mixed with fear. Shecouldn't answer. She could only look at him with a reflection of hertrouble in her face.

  "Are you surprised that I thought of that?" he inquired. "It's not soodd as you seem to think that I should want to see you again. I don'twant to leave it to chance; do you?" He shot the question at her sosuddenly, with such a casual eye, and such dry gravity of mouth, that hehad her admission out of her before she realized the extent of itsmeaning. And the way he took that admission for granted, and overlookedher confusion, made her feel that for the sake of whatever he was afterhe was intentionally ignoring what it did not suit his convenience tosee. She knew he must have seen; that every moment while she had changedand fluttered his eye had never left her.

  "Then when are you at home?" he asked her; and by his tone, he conveyedthe impression that he was only making courteous response to someinvitation she had offered him; though, when she thought, she had notoffered it, he had got it out of her. He had got it by sheerimpertinence. But none the less he had it. She couldn't escape himthere.

  She answered somewhat stiffly: "Fridays, second and fourth."

  He looked at her with a humorous twist of mouth. "What? So seldom?"

  She was impotent if he wouldn't be snubbed; but at the worst shewouldn't be cornered. "Oh, dear, no--but people who come at other timestake a chance."

  "Does that mean that I may take mine to-morrow?"

  He was pressing her too hard. Why was he so anxious to see her, as hehad not been the first night or yesterday, or even ten minutes ago? She,who, ten minutes ago, would have been glad, now was doing her best toput him off. She was silent a moment, considering the conventions, andthen, like him, she abandoned them. Without a word she turned away fromhim. Whatever she said, he had her. But, if she said nothing and stillhe came to-morrow, whatever she did then, he would have to take theconsequences of his insistence. Her only desire now was to evade him,lest he should force her out of her non-committal attitude. She wantedto shield herself from further pursuit.

  She couldn't escape yet, for the figures on the stage were stillgesticulating and trilling, and the people around her, in the smallinclosure where she sat, hemmed her in so that she could no more moveaway from Kerr than if she had been that impaled specimen he had madeher feel at their first meeting. The most she could do was to turn away,but even thus, with her eyes averted and her ears full of Ella's voice,she was still acutely aware of him, sitting looking straight before himacross the black house with a face worn, wary, weathered to anycatastrophe, and such an air of being alertly fixed on something a longway off, that her silence made no more difference to him than herflutterings and her rudeness. And yet she knew he was only waiting;waiting his chance to get at her again and make her commit herself; andthat, she was determined, should not happen.

  What had already happened, through its very violence, had left animpression like a dream. It seemed unreal, and yet it had made herforget everything else--the stage, the people around her, and even thevery sapphire that had generated her inexplicable situation. She drewher glove over the ring. The lights were imminent. It would be hard tohide the great flash of the jewel. And besides, she didn't trust it. Shecouldn't tell in what direction it might not strike out a spark ofhorror next.

  The rustle of final departure was all over the house. Th
e people in thebox were stirring and beginning to stand up; and Flora saw Kerr turn andlook at her. She wanted some one to stand between herself and Kerr, andit was to Harry that she turned; not alone that he was so large andadequate, but because she thought she saw in him an inclination to stepinto that very place where she wanted him. She saw he was a littlesullen, and though she didn't suspect him quite of jealousy, shewondered if he had not a right to blame her for the appearance offlirtation that she and Kerr must have presented. Then how much moremight he blame her for what she had actually done--for deliberatelyshowing the sapphire to Kerr! The very thought of it frightened her. Sheknew she was rattling to Harry all the while he fetched her cloak andput it on her, and she was glad now of that ability she had cultivatedin herself of making a smooth crust of talk over her seething feelings.She talked the harder, she even took hold of Harry's arm to be sure ofkeeping him there between her and what she was afraid of, as they cameout on the sidewalk and stood waiting in the windy night for theapproach of their carriage lights.

  Row upon row of street lamps flared in the traveling gusts. The midnightnoises of the city were at their loudest; and half their volume seemedto be a scattered chorus of hoarse voices yelling all together like apack of wolves. Thin, ragged shapes shot in and out among the crowd,ducked under horses' feet and cut wild zigzags across the street likeflying goblins. The sense of their cry was indistinguishable, but it wasthe same--the same inarticulate shape of sound on every tongue. Firstone throat, then another took up the raucous singsong shout, then alltogether again, as if the pack were in full cry on the scent ofsomething. What was this fresh quarry of the press, Flora wondered, thatmade it give tongue so hideously? The hunting note of it made her wantto cover her ears, and yet she strained to catch its meaning.

  She had stooped her head to the carriage door, when Harry stopped andtook one of the damp papers from a crier in the pack. She saw thehead-line. It covered half the sheet--the great figure that was offeredfor the return of the Chatworth ring.