CHAPTER IV
A CRISIS
While Wyllard made arrangements for his journey, and Sally Creighton went very quietly about her work on the lonely prairie farm, it happened one evening that Miss Winifred Rawlinson sat uneasily expectant far back under the gallery of a concert-hall in an English manufacturing town. In her back seat Miss Rawlinson could not hear very well, but it was the cheapest place she could obtain, and economy was of some little importance to her. Besides, by craning her neck a little to avoid the hat of the strikingly dressed young woman in front of her, she could, at least, see the stage. The programme which she held in one hand announced that Miss Agatha Ismay would sing a certain aria from a great composer’s oratorio. Miss Rawlinson leaned further forward in her chair when a girl of about her own age, which was twenty-four, slowly advanced to the center of the stage.
The girl on the stage was a tall, well-made, brown-haired girl, with a quiet grace of movement and a comely face. She was attired in a long trailing dress of a shimmering corn-straw tint. Agatha Ismay had sung at unimportant concerts with marked success, but that evening there was something very like shrinking in her eyes.
A crash of chords from the piano melted into a rippling prelude, and Winifred breathed easier when her friend began to sing. The voice was sweet and excellently trained, and there was a deep stillness of appreciation when the clear notes thrilled through the closely-packed hall. No one could doubt that the first part of the aria was a success, for half-subdued applause broke out when the voice sank into silence, and for a few moments the piano rippled on alone; but it seemed to Winifred that there was a look of tension in the singer’s face, and she grew uneasy, for she understood the cause for it.
“The last bit of the second part’s rather trying,” remarked a young man behind her. “There’s an awkward jump at two full tones that was too much for our soprano when we tried it at the choral union. Miss Ismay’s voice is very true in intonation, but I don’t suppose most of the audience would notice it if she shirked a little and left that high sharp out.”
Winifred had little knowledge of music, but she was sufficiently acquainted with her friend’s character to be certain that Agatha would not attempt to leave out the sharp in question. This was one reason why she sat rigidly still when the clear voice rang out again. It rose from note to note, full and even, but she could see the singer’s face, and there was no doubt whatever that Agatha was making a strenuous effort. Nobody else, however, seemed to notice it, for Winifred flung a swift glance around, and then fixed her eyes upon the dominant figure in the corn-straw dress. The sweet voice was still rising and the interested listener hoped that the accompanist would force the tone to cover it a little, and put on the loud pedal. The pianist, however, was gazing at his music, and played on until, with startling suddenness, the climax came.
The voice sank a full tone, rose, and hoarsely trailed off into silence again. Then the accompanist glanced over his shoulder, and struck a ringing chord while he waited for a sign. There was a curious stirring in the audience. The girl in the shimmering dress stood quite still for a moment with a spot of crimson in her cheek and a half-dazed look in her eyes. Then, turning swiftly, she moved off the stage.
Winifred rose with a gasp, and turned upon the young man next her, who looked up inquiringly.
“Yes,” she said sharply; “can’t you let me pass? I’m going out.”