"I've borne worse shocks, Dane, and gone on warbling as if nothing had happened. Did Beatrix send for me?"
"No. I only saw her for a minute. But I thought perhaps you would like to go to her at once. She may need you."
Thayer held out his hand.
"This is like you, Dane. Thank you," he said briefly, as his man came to warn him that The Dutchman's crew had begun their chorus.
Bobby followed him into the wings.
"There's a train down at two o'clock," he suggested. "Shall we take that?"
"The sooner, the better."
"I'll get the places, then, and meet you at the hotel afterwards." And Bobby departed, just as the strings and wind gave out their announcement of The Dutchman's presence.
In the years to come, Thayer never knew how he went through that final scene. It was the automatic obedience of an artistic nature to its years of careful training. He was conscious of hearing no note from the orchestra, no sound from his own lips. His whole being was centred in the thought that at last Beatrix was free; that, in her final freedom, they must face the ultimate crisis of their destinies. Would it be for weal, or for woe? His brain refused to give back answer to the question. And, meanwhile, the close-packed audience was thrilling with the passionate pain of his accepted doom.
The crash of the renewed applause aroused him from his absorption and, hand in hand with Senta, he emerged from his watery grave to bow his appreciation. But it was not enough. Even to his dressing-room, he was pursued by the cries of his name. Yielding reluctantly, he went out before the curtain once again. Then he hurried back, and began tearing off his costume with a feverish haste which took no account of the time before he could get a train back to New York.