CHAPTER XVI. MISS MABEL FAY.
The cab pulled up with a jerk underneath a long row of brightly burninglights. We dismounted, and I followed Mr. Marx up a broad flight ofthickly carpeted stairs into a semi-circular corridor draped with crimsonhangings and dimly lit with rose-coloured lights. A faint perfume hungabout the place, and from below came the soft melody of a rhythmicalGerman waltz which the orchestra was playing. I almost held my breath,with a curious mixture of expectation and excitement, as I followed Mr.Marx and an attendant down the corridor.
The latter threw open the door of what appeared to be a little room andwe entered. Mr. Marx at once moved to the front, and, throwing thecurtains back, beckoned me to his side. I obeyed him and looked around inwonder.
It happened to be a fashionable night and the place was crammed. On thelevel with us--we were in a box--were rows of men and women in eveningattire; above, a somewhat disorderly mob in the gallery; and below, adense throng--at least, it seemed so to me--of seated people werebetraying their impatience for the performance by a continual stamping offeet and other rumbling noises.
To a regular playgoer it was a very ordinary sight indeed; to me it was arevelation. I stood at the front of the box, looking round, until Mr.Marx, smiling, pushed a chair up to me and bade me sit down. Then Iturned towards the stage and remained with my eyes fixed upon thecurtain, longing impatiently for it to rise.
Alas for my expectations! When at last the time came it was a charmingpicture indeed upon which I looked, but how different! A group of girlsin short skirts and picturesque peasant attire moving lightly about thestage and singing; a man in uniform making passionate love to one ofthem, who was coyly motioning him away with her hand and bidding him staywith her eyes. A pretty picture it all made and a dazzling one. But whatdid it all mean?
Mr. Marx had been watching my face, and leaned over towards me with aquestion upon his lips.
"What does it all mean?" I whispered. "This isn't a play, is it? I don'tremember one like it."
"A play? No; it's a comic opera," he answered.
I turned away and watched the performance again. I suppose I looked alittle disappointed; but by degrees my disappointment died away. It wasall so fresh to me.
Towards the close of the first act, in connection with one of theincidents, several fresh characters--amongst them the girl who was takingthe principal part--appeared on the stage. There was a little round ofapplause and I was on the point of turning to make some remark to Mr.Marx, when I heard a sharp, half-suppressed exclamation escape from hislips and felt his hot breath upon my cheek.
I looked at him in surprise. He had risen from his chair and was standingclose to my elbow, leaning over me, with eyes fixed upon the centre ofthe stage and an incredulous look on his pale face. Instinctively Ifollowed the direction of his rapt gaze. It seemed to me to be bent uponthe girl who had last appeared, and who, with the skirts of herdark-green riding-habit gathered up in her hand, was preparing to sing.
He recovered from his surprise, or whatever emotion it was, very quickly,and broke into a short laugh. But I noticed that he pushed his chairfarther back into the box and drew the curtains a little more forward.
"Is anything the matter, Mr. Marx?" I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders and frowned a little.
"Nothing at all. I fancied that I recognised a face upon the stage, but Iwas mistaken. Good-looking girl, isn't she--the one singing, I mean?"
I thought that good-looking was a very feeble mode of expression, and Isaid so emphatically. In fact, I thought her the most beautiful and mostgraceful creature I had ever seen; and, as the evening wore on, I foundmyself applauding her songs so vigorously that she glanced, smiling, intoour box, and Mr. Marx, who was still sitting behind the curtain, lookedat me with an amused twitching of the lips.
"Morton, Morton, this won't do!" he exclaimed, laughing. "You'll befalling head over ears in love with that young woman presently."
I became in a moment very red and uncomfortable, for she had just cast asmiling glance up at us and Mr. Marx had intercepted it. I was bothashamed and angry with myself for having applauded so loudly as to havebecome noticeable; but Mr. Marx seemed to think nothing of it.
"There is a better way of showing your appreciation of that young lady'stalents--Miss Mabel Fay, I see her name is--than by applause. See theseflowers?"
I turned round and saw a large bouquet of white azaleas and roses, whichthe attendant must have brought in.
"You can give them to her if you like," Mr. Marx suggested.
I shook my head immediately, fully determined that I would do nothing ofthe sort. But Mr. Marx was equally determined that I should. It was quitethe correct thing, he assured me; he had sent for them on purpose and Ihad only to stand up and throw them to her. While he talked he waswriting on a plain card, which he pinned to the flowers and then thrustthem into my hand.
How it happened I don't quite know, but Mr. Marx had his own way. It wasthe close of the act and everyone was applauding Mabel Fay's song. Shestood facing the house, bowing and smiling, and her laughing eyes metmine for a moment, then rested upon the flowers which I was holding andfinally glanced back into mine full of mute invitation.
I raised my hand. Mr. Marx whispered, "Now!" And the bouquet was lying ather feet. She picked it up gracefully, shot a coquettish glance uptowards me, and then the curtain fell, and I sat back in my chair,feeling quite convinced that I had made an utter fool of myself.
About the middle of the third act Mr. Marx rose and walked to the door.Holding it open in his hand for a moment, he paused and looked round.
"I am going to leave you for a few minutes," he said. "I shall not bevery long."
Then he went and I heard him walk down the corridor.
An hour passed and he did not return. The last act came, the curtain felland, with a sigh of regret, I rose to go. Still he had not come back.
I put on my coat and lingered about, uncertain what to do. Then therecame a knock at the box-door, but, instead of Mr. Marx, an attendantentered, and handed me a note. I tore it open and read, hastily scrawledin pencil:
"I am round at the back of the house. Come to me. The bearer will showyou the way.--M."
Mr. Marx's Secret Page 17