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Updated: June 3, 2025
"Can it be ready?" "We mean to try." "Ah, you are workers! And Mr. Crayford's a wonder. Good-night, dear Charmian! What a night for you!" She buttoned her sable coat at the neck and went away with Ramer and Armand Gillier. As she turned to the right in the corridor she murmured to Gillier: "Why didn't you give it to Jacques? Oh, the pity of it!"
Crayford's treatment of the affair had disgusted him. For Crayford, with his sharp eye to business, had seen at once that their "game" was, of course with all delicacy, all subtlety, to accept the imputation of shrewdness. The innocent "stunt" was "no good to anyone" in his opinion. And he had not scrupled to say so to Claude.
"My dear fellow," he said, "come to our wedding, and judge for yourself." "Come to your wedding?" Crayford noticed it, and Crayford's blood ran cold. Comparing the words which Wardour had spoken to him while they were alone together with the words that had just passed in his presence, he could draw but one conclusion. The woman whom Wardour had loved and lost was Clara Burnham.
Musical critics and newspaper men gathered in knots and discussed the musical season, the fight that was "on" between the two opera houses, the libretto-scandal, which had not yet entirely died down, Jacob Crayford's prospects of becoming a really great power in opera. Crayford's indomitable pluck and determined spending of money, had impressed the American imagination.
'Love him! love him, Clara, for helping me! No wind could float that away! 'Love him, Clara " His voice sank into silence; his head dropped on Crayford's breast. Frank saw it. Frank struggled up on his bleeding feet and parted the friendly throng round him. Frank had not forgotten the man who had saved him. "Let me go to him!" he cried. "I must and will go to him! Clara, come with me."
Crayford's warning forgets Richard Wardour himself turns suddenly, with a loving woman's desperate disregard of everything but her love nestles her head on his bosom, and answers him in that way, at last!
But even as he went, with an extraordinary swiftness he reviewed the incidents of his short time in America; the arrival in the cruel coldness of a winter dawn; the immensity of the city's aspect seen across the tufted waters, its towers as they had seemed to him then climbing into Heaven, its voices companioning its towers; the throngs of pressmen and photographers, who had gazed at him with piercing, yet not unkind, eyes, searching him for his secrets; the meeting with Crayford and Crayford's small army of helpers; publicity agents, business and stage managers, conductors, producers, machinists, typewriters, box-office people, scene painters, singers, instrumentalists.
Will you promise not to deceive me about Frank?" The gentle resignation in her voice, the sad pleading in her look, shook Crayford's self-possession at the outset. He answered her in the worst possible manner; he answered evasively. "My dear Clara," he said, "what have I done that you should suspect me of deceiving you?"
"And we've got Crayford's back of ours," said Alston, putting his arms behind him into the sleeves of his coat. "Good-morning! I'm really going." And he went. Charmian had got up from her sofa, and was standing by the writing-table, which was in an angle of the room on the right of the window.
She lived in the opera, as the opera lived in the vast theater. She was, as it were, enclosed in a shell within a shell. New York was the great sea murmuring outside. And always it was murmuring of the opera. In consequence of Jacob Crayford's great opinion of Charmian she was the spoilt child in his theater. Her situation there was delightful. Everybody took his cue from Crayford.
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