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Updated: May 2, 2025
It had gone well, unexpectedly well. Behind the scenes there were congratulations. Crayford was radiant. Mr. Mulworth wiped his brow fanatically, but looked almost human as he spoke in a hoarse remnant of voice to a master carpenter. Enid Mardon went off the stage with the massive dressmaker in almost amicable conversation.
"I suppose so," assented Peel-Swynnerton. The conversation fell for a few moments. "Staying here long?" Mr. Mardon demanded, having added up Peel- Swynnerton as a man of style and of means, and being puzzled by his presence at that table. "I don't know," said Peel-Swynnerton. This was a lie, justified in the utterer's opinion as a repulse to Mr.
Mary, of course, remained with him, and I returned to London. Towards the end of November I got a letter, to tell me that if I wished to see him alive again, I must go down at once. I went that day, and I found that the doctor had been and had said that before the morning the end must come. Mardon was perfectly conscious, in no pain, and quite calm. He was just able to speak.
She could not bear that he should be buried with a ceremony which he despised, and she was altogether free from that weakness which induces a compliance with the rites of the Church from persons who avow themselves sceptics. At last a burying-ground was found, belonging to a little half-forsaken Unitarian chapel; and there Mardon was laid.
Mr. Edward Gibbon Mardon, I observed, was slightly built, rather short, and had scanty whiskers which developed into a little thicker tuft on his chin. His eyes were pure blue, like the blue of the speedwell. They were not piercing, but perfectly transparent, indicative of a character which, if it possessed no particular creative power, would not permit self-deception.
But his information about Paris was infinitely precious and interesting to the younger man,, who saw that he had hitherto lived under strange misconceptions. "Have a whiskey?" asked Mr. Mardon, suddenly. "Very good here!" he added. "Thanks!" drawled Peel-Swynnerton. The temptation to listen to Mr. Mardon as long as Mr. Mardon would talk was not to be overcome.
But Gillier isn't a very delicate person, and he made comments before Miss Mardon, Crayford, and several of the company, before scene-shifters and stage carpenters, too. What he said was true enough. But it wasn't pleasant to hear it in such company." He came away from the piano, turned his back on her for a moment, and walked toward the farther wall of the room.
After all, Mr. Mardon was better than nobody whatever, and Matthew decided to suffer him, especially as he began without preliminary skirmishing to talk about life in Paris. An irresistible subject! Mr. Mardon said in a worldly tone that the existence of a bachelor in Paris might easily be made agreeable.
"It's the bulliest thing there's been in New York in years!" he exclaimed, as he went to his dressing-room, where he found Claude, who had been sitting in the orchestra, and who had now hurried round to ask the singers how they felt in their parts. Gillier was with Miss Mardon, at whose feet he was laying his homage. Meanwhile Charmian was still quite alone.
"There's Gillier!" whispered Charmian. "He's mad about Miss Mardon." "She's a great artist." "I know. But, oh, how I hate her!" "Why?" But Charmian would not tell him. And now they gave themselves to the last act. It went splendidly, without a hitch. After the misery of the third act this successful conclusion was the more surprising. It swept away all Charmian's doubts. She frankly exulted.
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