Suddenly the tempo of the music changed; the subtle charm of a simple old melody was pulsing on the air and now it dwindled into a vague diminuendo, and then to a pizzicato echo, in the midst of which a clear, brilliant voice sounded singing in the distance. The curtain went up with a rush; the stage was revealed flooded with yellow sunlight and all a-dapple with the shadows of swaying peach-leaves from boughs waving in the wind above. And what was that effect? How could they have such strangely perfect scenery—the purple mountains, the azure ranges of the distance, the blue sky bedight with a cloud all opal and gold, and a river with a crystalline reflex of its splendour. Before the simple expedient of dropping a section of the canvas occurred to their minds a figure, lightsome, airy, featly dancing, bounded into the illuminated centre of the scene. There was one moment of amazed scrutiny—it was like some classic canephora of painting or sculpture; then the eye recognised in the basket-like vessel poised on the head, filled with trailing vines and purple grape clusters, the familiar cedar piggin of the mountains; the antique-draped garb was but the up-caught skirt of the conventional make, but with the yellow folds so craftily held in plaits that they sustained a wealth of the grapes, picturesquely trailing down over a dark wine-tinted petticoat, short enough to disclose ankles and feet of a wonderful agility. The auburn hair, soft, fluffy, rayonnant, was coiled in a knot of negligent charm, and the head was thrown back as the dancer leaped with incredible lightness and grace, catching with one hand toward the lure of a peach on a bough out of her reach, now and then lifting it to poise the basket, singing in a clear, true, sweet voice the lilting measures of the old song. It was a short "turn"; she knew but the single stanza. The effect was like some radiant, transient vision, the fleeting allurement of the senses in a dream, as the curtain suddenly descended, the light went out, and the vibrating echo of the violins ceased.
A moment of silent surprise; then the sound of the clapping of one enthusiastic pair of hands, and presently the tent rocked with a tumult of applause.
"By George—that's great!" cried Frank Laniston, red in the face from his exertions, his hands banging together like machinery. He gazed in sympathy at Jardine, who was fairly startled out of his composure and applauding with a will.
"It is absolutely beautiful, and perfectly unique," he exclaimed.
The two young ladies were trying what resources of clatter the sticks of their white fans might compass as they struck them against the palms of their small white gloved hands.
The man in the old whitish grey coat, whom Lloyd had noticed earlier in the audience, experiencing renewed anxiety lest some inimical espionage might account for his purchase of a ticket to a performance so ludicrous to his taste, sat in the midst of the clamour as still as if he had been carved in stone. The enthusiasm had illumined all faces save his—some subtle shadow of despondency had fallen upon it. He no longer held it half muffled in the high collar and lapels of the big old coat. It was shielded only by the drooping brim of the limp white hat and he presently turned it hither and thither, looking in stunned amazement and a deprecatory, remonstrant, unconscious inquiry at the neighbouring spectators among the crowded benches. The flavour of his secret jest had evaporated—he seemed to find naught to ridicule now.
"Why don't they raise that curtain, I wonder," growled Frank Laniston. "It's as hot as Hades in here, working this way. Bless my soul, won't she accept an encore?"
For the curtain remained immovable. Lloyd, startled by the unexpected endorsement of the attraction he had devised, that had hitherto fallen so flat, gratified by the applause as if it were a personal commendation, flushed deeply red as he sat near the orchestra and with smiling eyes waited too with all the rest for the conventional rising of the curtain and the complaisant repetition of the number. He had left nothing unforeseen in his instructions to the tyro. Clotilda had been fully informed of the nature and exigencies of an encore, and the course proper for her to pursue as the recipient of that great compliment. But, alack, the turn had never received before a hand of applause. In dead silence the rural crowd had heretofore watched the scene and wondered futilely what was the point when a simple country girl, in her old calico "coat," jumped around under a peach tree, and sang a verse of an old song, a thing to be seen on any roadside. Then they had silently filed out and there was an end for the time. Now, however, since there was applause from so experienced and discerning a source, a revised estimate seemed in order. Perhaps a new interpretation waited upon a more æsthetic point of view. The applause was hearty and general, and rose presently to an insistent clamour.
Clotilda, having had no occasion to respond to the plaudits of the public, had forgotten every syllable of her instructions. Lloyd remained yet some moments waiting, like the rest, eyeing the curtain, in the immediate expectation of seeing it rise. The musicians had their instruments in hand—at the tinkle of the bell they would begin da capo. But the curtain continued absolutely blank; no sign of the golden glow of the artificial light could be discerned, naught but the ripples of the air, swiftly running over it as the draught from the lowered canvas at the rear struck upon the fabric. Lloyd began to look discomposed, then anxious, then as the applause redoubled its demand he waited one uncertain moment longer, rose, advanced amongst the orchestra, sprang upon the stage, pushed the curtain aside and vanished behind its sphinx-like blankness.
"I never did really believe that he was the manager till this moment," said Lucia, a regretful cadence in her voice.