"For half an hour. She was unconscious of the effect her words had upon me,--the words of another woman,--leading me back to the side of those who have gone forever. I listened to her, and then it was that I awoke. She did not know. How could she tell that the light of heaven was breaking in upon a soul that was on the brink of hell? She saved me."
"She told me nothing of that." There was a curious eagerness in her voice. "She told me nothing. Oh, how could she tell me anything? She knew nothing of it herself. She looked on you as an ordinary visitor.
She told you that I fled to her. Oh, Bertie, Bertie! those hours that I passed--the terrible conflict. But when I felt her arms about me I knew that I was safe. Then Stephen entered. I thought that we were lost--you and I; that he had returned to find you waiting. I don't know if he had a suspicion. At any rate we were saved, and by her--dear Phyllis. Oh, will she ever know, I wonder, what it is to be a woman? Bertie, she is my dearest friend--I told you so. I thought of her and you--long ago. Oh, why should you not think of her now that you have awakened and are capable of thought--the thought of a sane man?"
He sat with an elbow resting on the front of the opera box, his head upon his hand. He was not looking at her, but beyond her. He seemed to be lost in thought.
Was he considering that curious doctrine which she had propounded, that if a man really loves a woman he will marry her dearest friend?
He made no reply to her. The point required a good deal of thought, apparently.
"You hear me, Bertie--dear Bertie?" she said.
He only nodded.
She remembered that, upon a previous occasion, when she had made the same suggestion to him, he had put it aside as unworthy of comment--unworthy of a moment's thought. How could it be possible for him, loving her as he did, to admit the possibility of another's attractiveness in his eyes? The idea had seemed ludicrous to him.
But now he made no such protest. He seemed to consider her suggestion and to think it--well, worthy of consideration; and this should have been very pleasing to her; for did it not mean that she had gained her point?
"You will think over it, Bertie?" she said. Her voice was now scarcely so full of eagerness as it had been before. Was that because she did not want to weary him by her persistence? Even the suggestion to a man that he should love a certain woman should, she knew, be made with tact.
"I have been thinking over it," he said at last; but only after a long pause.
"Oh, I am so glad!"
And she actually believed that she was glad.
"I thought about her aboard the yacht."
"Did you? I fancied that you would think of---- But I am so glad!"
"I thought of her as my good angel. Those words which she said to me--"
"She has been your good angel, and I--"
"Ella, Ella, she has been our good angel--you said so."
"And don't you think that I meant it? Some women--she is one of them--are born to lead men upward; others---- Ah, there, it is on the stage:
/Carmen/, the enchantress, /Michaela/, the good angel. But I am so glad! She is coming to stay with us up the river; you must be with us too. You cannot possibly know her yet. But a week by her side--you will, I know, come to perceive what she is--the sweetest--the most perfect!"
Still he made no reply. He was looking earnestly at the conductor, who was pulling his musicians together for the second act.
"You will come to us, Bertie?" she whispered.
He shook his head.
"I dare not promise," said he. "I feel just now like a man who is still dazed, on being suddenly awakened. I have not yet begun to see things as they are. I am not sure of myself. I will let you know later on."
Then the conductor tapped his desk, and those of the audience who had left their places returned. Stephen Linton slipped into his chair; his wife took up her lorgnette as the first jingle of the tambourines was heard, and the curtain rose upon the picturesque tawdriness of the company assembled at the /Senor Lois Pastia's/ place of entertainment.
Ella gave all her attention to the opera--to that tragedy of the weakness of the flesh, albeit the spirit may be willing to listen to good. Alas! that the flesh should be so full of color and charm and seduction, while the spirit is pale, colorless, and set to music in a minor key!
/Carmen/ flashed about the stage under the brilliant lights, looking like a lovely purple butterfly--a lovely purple oriole endowed with the double glory of plumage and song, and men whose hearts beat in unison with the heart-beats of that sensuous music through which she expressed herself, loved her; watched her with ravished eyes; heard her with ravished ears--yes, as men love such women; until the senses recover from the intoxication of her eyes and her limbs and her voice.
And in the third act the sweet /Michaela/ came on with her song of the delight of purity, and peace, and home. She sang it charmingly, everyone allowed, and hoped that /Carmen/ would sing as well in the last act as she had sung in the others.
Ella Linton kept her eyes fixed upon the stage to the very end of all.
