The fame of Haroun Alraschid and of Signora Vivanti’s beauty and talent had penetrated beyond Haslemere, and Sophy had written to her sister imploring her to secure places for an evening during her visit. A box had been taken six weeks in advance, and Eve, who was always indulged in every theatrical fancy, had not thought it necessary to inform her husband of the fact.
To forbid the occupation of that box would have been too marked an exercise of authority; to absent himself from the party would have made Eve uneasy; so he went with his wife and sister-in-law, and saw Lisa on the stage for the first time since he had watched her in the chorus at Covent Garden.
The box was one of the best in the house, and very near the stage. Vansittart felt assured that Lisa would recognize his wife and would see him standing behind her chair; and with a young woman of Lisa’s temperament he knew not what form that recognition might assume.
Fortunately Lisa had now become too much of an artist to do anything which would take her “out of the picture.” She gave Vansittart one little look which told him he was seen in the shadow where he stood; and for the rest she was no longer Lisa, the Venetian, but Haroun’s devoted slave-girl, bought from a cruel master, during one of Haroun’s nocturnal explorations of the city, and following him ever after with a devoted love, watchful, ubiquitous, his guardian angel in every danger, his resource and protection in every serio-comic dilemma. Her singing, her acting, were alike instinct with passion and genius, a genius unspoiled by that higher culture which is too apt to bring self-consciousness and over-elaboration in its train, and so to miss all broad and spontaneous effects. Fiordelisa flung herself into her rôle with a daring energy which always hit the mark.
Sefton was in the stalls, attentive, but not applauding. He left all noisy demonstration to the British public. It was enough for him to know that Lisa liked to see him there, tranquil and interested. The highest reward she had ever given him for his devotion was the confession that she missed him when he was absent, and found something wanting in her audience when his stall was empty. For the most part he went as regularly to hear Lisa sing as he took his coffee after dinner. The dinner-party must be something very much out of the common run of dinners which could draw him from his place at the Apollo; and people remarked that for the last two seasons Mr. Sefton was seldom to be met in society until late in the evening.
He went to Mrs. Vansittart’s box between the acts, and made himself particularly agreeable to Sophy, whom he had not seen since her sister’s marriage.
“This is your first season, ain’t it, Miss Marchant?” he said. “What a large reserve fund of enjoyment you must have to spend!”
Sophy was not going to accept compliments upon her ignorance.
“Fernhurst is so near town,” she said. “One sees everybody, and one breathes the town atmosphere.”
“Ah, but you only see people on their rustic side. They wear tailor gowns and talk about fox-hunting and sick cottagers. They leave their London intellect in Mayfair, like the table-knives rolled up in mutton fat, to come out sharp and bright next season. You don’t know what we are like in town if you see us only in the country.”