The lights in the house were fading and the orchestra had swung into a soft and measured air. The rustle and chatter among the seats stilled: the curtain was rising. After the few words of greeting, Harry dropped into the vacant chair behind Echo's, in the rear of the enclosure. He had a feeling that again a satiric chance had snatched the reins of conduct from his hands. His unseeing gaze was set upon the crowded tiers beneath, but he was conscious of nothing but that small, delicately-shaped head like one in a Greek frieze, that clear-cut profile softly tinged by the dim rose-lamps of the box, the clasped, unringed hands, the lacy sweep of the pale evening-dress silhouetted against the curtain. Beyond the range of his vision manikins came and went upon the stage, speaking meaningless words. At the other side of the box Mrs. Spottiswoode was whispering some humorous adventure to Treadwell and Brent, whose heads were bent toward her. Everything else seemed unreal and far-away, and he and Echo the only realities in a chapter of banality.
He became conscious all at once that her head was turned toward him, and as though by magnetic compulsion his own eyes looked into hers.
"I want to say something to you." The words were the merest whisper on her parted lips, yet he heard. He drew his chair nearer till his bent head was at her shoulder. "Yes," he said.
Her lips trembled, but she spoke in a clear undertone, audible only to him, which faltered the merest trifle:
"I don't know whether—now—it makes any difference to you," she said. "But I—I was not myself when I—wrote you that note, the day you—went away. There was a reason why I—acted as I did. You—"
The low voice failed. There had been in the hesitant words failing pride and shame, mingled with the love that had been so long denied—a revelation which welled from the pure, outspoken honesty of heart that compelled it, demanding, at all odds, so far as he was concerned, openness and understanding. The shaken voice, the tremulous lips, the moon-soft fire of her eyes and the faint scent of her clothing, all the sweet suggestions of her presence were crying aloud to Harry, tempting him with a vision of promise. What if she had failed him—then? What if that courage he had dreamed, put to the touch, had shown but cowardice, that love of him a secondary thing to her? She was what he wanted—to yield himself to her arms as a swimmer to the sea! As much as she loved any one—save herself—she loved him! Was not a half loaf better than no bread? The icy barrier of reserve which he had reared crumbled down, and he felt the thing he had tried to imprison leap up, savage and not to be denied. His groping hand went out and touched her arm.
"Echo!" he whispered hoarsely. "Echo—"
His voice died in his throat. Her hands in her lap held the theatrical programme, and words in heavy black-letter—the title of the piece—were staring up at him from the white paper—
THE JAILBIRD