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Updated: September 26, 2025
Robed in white her soft brown hair hanging loosely over her shoulders there is something weird and ghost-like in the girl, as she moves nearer and nearer to the window in the full light of the moon pleading for music that shall be worthy of the mystery and the beauty of the night. "Will you come in here if I play to you?" Mrs. Crayford asks.
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.
Every reserved seat in the house was sold for Claude's first night. Crayford stepped on air. In the afternoon of the day of production, when Charmian and Claude, shut up in their apartment at the St. Regis, and denied to all visitors, were trying to rest, and were pretending to be quite calm, a note was brought in from Mrs. Shiffney.
"You stand by and see to it, little lady," said Crayford. "Happen when I'm gone, when the slave-driver's gone, eh, he'll get slack, begin to think he knows more about it than I do! He's not too pleased making the changes. I can see that." "It will be all right, I promise you. Claude isn't so mad as to lose the chance you are offering him." "It's the chance of a lifetime. I can tell you that."
His voice had been "discovered" in America by Jacob Crayford, who had sent him to Europe to be trained, and intended, if things went well and he proved to have the value expected of him, to bring him out at the opera house in New York, which was trying to put a fight against the Metropolitan. "I shouldn't wonder if I've got another Battistini in that boy!" Crayford sometimes said to people.
The reflection had barely occurred to him Frank's thoughtless invitation to Wardour had just passed his lips when the canvas screen over the doorway was drawn aside. Captain Helding and the officers who were to leave with the exploring party returned to the main room on their way out. Seeing Crayford, Captain Helding stopped to speak to him.
Was it could it be the man who had carved the letters on the plank? Yes! Frank Aldersley! "Still at work!" Crayford exclaimed, looking at the half-demolished bed-place. "Give yourself a little rest, Richard. The exploring party is ready to start. If you wish to take leave of your brother officers before they go, you have no time to lose."
"I guess we'll let the car wait a bit, Alston," he said, lighting up. "Of course she telegraphed him to come." "I'm quite sure she didn't," said Alston emphatically. "Think I can't see?" observed Crayford drily. He sat down and crossed his legs. "No. But even you can't see what isn't." "There's not much that is this eye don't light on.
Yet he was in his own home, with a wife who was working for him, a devoted friend who was longing for his success, and a man who was seriously thinking of bringing him and his work into the notice of the vast world that loves opera. No one knew of his loneliness. No one even suspected it. And comedy hung, as it ever does, about the heels of tragedy. Crayford revealed himself in his conflict.
Aldersley, as Clara seems to have forgotten to do it for me. I am Mrs. Crayford. My husband is Lieutenant Crayford, of the Wanderer. Do you belong to that ship?" "I have not the honor, Mrs. Crayford. I belong to the Sea-mew." Mrs. Crayford's superb eyes looked shrewdly backward and forward between Clara and Francis Aldersley, and saw the untold sequel to Clara's story.
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