Hearts Afire (17 page)

She was not sure whether it was better to brave out the tempest, to lose
everything nobly and generously for the sake of love, or to save appearances,
make for still waters, and in them enjoy a selfish tranquility.

At the season opening of the Brooklyn Theatre on December 5th night the play
was “The Two Orphans.”

A first night opening at the Brooklyn Theatre is always an event for the New
York public, no matter what play, old or new, is given; but when the work
happens to be a favorite the excitement becomes tremendous.

The one thousand persons, male and female, who constitute high society, go
about for a week beforehand, from house to house, from cafe to cafe, predicting
that the play will be a success. The chief roles in “The Two Orphans.” were to
be taken by Miss Kate Claxton and Mr. H. S. Murdoch, roles in which the public
was to see these actors for the first time, though they were already known to everybody,
either by reputation or from having been seen in other plays.

So, on December 5th, the one thousand members of high society put aside
their usual occupations and arranged their time in such wise as to be ready
promptly at eight o’clock, the men in their dress-suits, and the women in their
rich and beautiful evening toilets. Everybody gave up something—a walk, a call,
a luncheon, a nap—for the sake of getting betimes to the theatre.

By half-past seven the approaches to Brooklyn Theatre, its portico, its big
and little entrances, all brilliantly lighted by gas, were swarming like an
ant-hill with eager people. Some came on foot, the collars of their overcoats
turned up, showing freshly shaven faces under their tall silk hats, or freshly
waxed mustaches and beards newly pointed; others came in carriages; and before
the central door, under the entrance, which was draped with flags, passed a
constant stream of private carriages, depositing ladies muffled in dress-cloaks
of red velvet or white embroidery.

By a quarter past eight the house was full.

Charlotte, dressed in white silk, and accompanied by Guy Barrington,
occupied Box No. 19 of the first tier.

Guy Barrington appeared to give little heed to the play. He was pulling back
his long frontal hair, and studying the ladies in the Theatre, while a slight
smile played upon his lips. Presently he fixed his gaze on Charlotte. Had he
felt that he was obligated? At any rate, he kept his eyes fixed upon Charlotte.

The curtain fell on the first act.

Fans fluttered, men changed their seats, people went and came, and many of
the stalls were empty. The round of visits had begun. Husbands and brothers
left their boxes to make place for other men beside their wives and sisters; to
pay their respects to other men’s wives and sisters. There was a babble of many
voices idly chatting. It began in the first and second tiers, and it rose to
the galleries, the stronghold of students, workmen, and clerks.

Charlotte gazed sadly at that deserted box in front of her. All at once she
heard Guy Barrington say, “Your mother and you father are with the Mistress
Gordon.”

Charlotte turned round, and raised her opera-glass. They were there indeed,
visiting the Mistress Gordon; Charlotte could see the pale and noble face of
Joris
Morgan, the glowing face of
Lysbet
Morgan. The Mistress Gordon was an Austrian, very clever, very witty. She wore
a costume of red silk, and kept waving a fan of red feathers, as she talked
vivaciously with the parents of Charlotte Morgan. She must have been saying
something extremely interesting, to judge by the close attention with which
they listened to her and by the smiles with which they responded.

When Charlotte put down her opera-glass, her face had become deathly pale.

“Are you feeling ill?” asked Guy Barrington.

“No, I am fine” Charlotte replied, paler than ever.

“Do you like “The Two Orphans?
”
Guy Barrington
asked, for the sake of saying something, in the hope, perhaps, of thus
forgetting her desire to see what was going on in the box of the Mistress
Gordon.

“Very much. And you?”

“I like it immensely.”

“I am afraid—I am afraid that later on you may find it too exciting. You
know the fourth act is very terrible. Don’t you dread the impression it may
make upon you?”

“It won’t matter, Guy” Charlotte said, with a faint smile.

“Perhaps you would like to go home before the fourth act begins. If you feel
nervous about it?”

“I am not nervous,” Charlotte murmured, as if speaking to herself. “Or, if I
am, I’d rather suffer this way than otherwise.”

“We were wrong to come,” said Guy, shaking his head.

“No, no, Guy. Let us stay. I am all right; I am enjoying it. Don’t take me
home yet.”

The house had become silent again, in anticipation of the second act. Here
and there someone who had delayed too long in a box where he was visiting,
would say good-bye quietly, and return to his place. A few such visitors,
better acquainted with their hosts, remained seated, determined not to move.
Among the latter were, of course, the lovers of the ladies, the intimate friends
of the husbands.

And now the divine voice of Kate Claxton surged up and filled the Theatre,
and Charlotte was conscious of nothing else—of nothing but the pale lighted
stage and the face of Kate Claxton shining through it, like a star through the
mist. How much time passed? She did not know. Twice Guy Barrington spoke to
her; she neither heard nor answered.

When the curtain fell again, and Charlotte issued from her trance, Guy
Barrington said, “There is
Harleigh
Daly.”

“Ah!” cried Charlotte, unable to control her feelings.

But Charlotte had self-constraint enough not to ask “
where?”
Falling
suddenly from a heaven of rapture to the hard reality of her life, where traces
of her old folly still lingered; hating her past, and wishing to obliterate it
from her memory, as the motives for it were already obliterated from her heart,
she did not ask where he was. She covered her face with her fan, and two big
tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.

Guy Barrington looked at her, desiring to speak, but fearing lest thereby he
might only make matters worse.

“We should not have come here, Charlotte,” Guy Barrington said.

“No, no,” responded Charlotte. “I am very well— I am very well “she added,
enigmatically.

Charlotte bowed her head, as if oppressed by the heat and by the excitement,
but really from a sense of self-contempt and humiliation. There was a
looking-glass behind her. She was sorry now that she hadn’t made an inspection
of herself in it. She had forgotten her own face. Fantastically, she imagined
it as brown and scarred, and hideously pallid. Her white frock made it worse.
She registered a silent vow that she would always hereafter wear black. Only
gay women could afford to dress in white.

The interval before the appearance of the orchestra was devoted by
Harleigh
to a careful survey of the theatre and the
audience. Just as the overture began Charlotte Morgan was immediately
recognized by
Harleigh
. Instantly all interest in the
play was lost. He had eyes and thoughts only for Charlotte. If one had asked
Harleigh
the next day the simplest question about the play,
it is doubtful if he could have answered it. Charlotte Morgan, unconscious of
this idolatrous adorer’s silent, soul-enraptured worship, gave all her
sympathies to the troubles and heart-grief’s of the “Two Orphans.” More than
once tears sprang to her eyes at the pathetic situations.

The curtain was rung up on the last scene of the last act. It was the hut of
the
Frochards
on the bank of the river Seine.
The scene was of the blind girl
Louise
on her pallet of straw, over whom
was bending
Pierre
Frochard
. Suddenly the
actors heard whispers of “Fire, fire,” and a shuffling to and fro behind the
scenery. Mr. Murdoch, who was playing
Pierre
, also heard the alarm, and
Miss Claxton (
Louise
) whispered to him:

“The stage is on fire!”

The play went on,
Louise
and
Pierre
continuing to recite their
parts. When Mrs.
Farren
, as
Pierre’s
mother,
rushed in and, as the action of the play demanded, seized
Louise
by the
hair and pulled her head violently backward, Miss Claxton’s eyes were turned
upward, and then she saw little tongues of flame playing over her head and
licking up the flies at the top of the scenes. There were now four persons on
the stage: Miss Claxton, Mrs.
Farren
, J. B.
Studley
and H. S. Murdoch.

As they went on with the play, they whispered to one another about the fire
and exhorted one another to do everything possible to prevent a panic in the
audience. They thought that the flames might yet be extinguished without
consuming the stage, and Miss Claxton said to Mr. Murdoch:

“Go on, go on, or there will be a panic. They’ll put the fire out from
behind.”

In the latter part of the scene, where
Pierre
approaches
Louise
,
and she draws back, exclaiming, “I forbid you to touch me!” Mr.
Studley
, as
Pierre
, turned his back to the audience
upon approaching Miss Claxton, and whispered to her, while the burning beams
above were almost ready to fall upon them, and they knew it:

“Be quiet! Stand perfectly still!” and extending his arms, Miss Claxton
remained immovable.

The audience had not yet discovered the fire; but after the passionate
exclamation, “I forbid you to touch me!” Miss Claxton glanced upward at the
roaring flames that were now leaping from scene to scene, and hesitated,
uncertain what to do. At this moment those sitting in the body of the house
caught sight of the red flames at the top of the stage. Instantly wild cries of
“Fire!” “Fire!” were heard, and the people sprang to their feet terrified, and
rushed, stumbling over the seats and crushing one another, toward the entrance.

Cinders were then falling upon the stage, and Miss Claxton, Mrs.
Farren
, Mr. Murdoch, and Mr.
Studley
advanced together to the footlights with panic written on their faces. Mr.
Studley
, in his stentorian tones, shouted to the affrighted
people that they were safe if they kept quiet.

“There will, of course,” he said, “be no further performance, but you’ve all
time to get out if you go quietly.”

Several persons in the orchestra were recalled to their senses by these
words, and they sat down again. The men appeared to be more excited than the
women. The aristocratic Guy Barrington, at the first alarm, was seized with a
most uncontrollable fear—his handsome face was the color of chalk, and his thin
legs knocked together like reeds shaken by the winter wind. Forgetting all else
but his own person in a selfish scramble for safety, he started to his feet and
was rushing away. Charlotte Morgan, although terrified beyond measure, had
presence of mind enough left to see that haste would only increase the danger.
She caught her frightened escort by the hand, and pulled him into the seat
beside her.

“Don’t run,” Charlotte cried; “we will get out better if we go slowly.”

The musicians in the orchestra were urging the people to retire quietly, and
so were the actors. Guy Barrington instinctively turned his eyes toward them,
and saw a mass of flame behind the actors, with bits of burning wood dropping
down, and the sight seemed to craze him. He started to his feet, tore violently
away from Charlotte, and dashed into the crowd struggling to escape. The
instinct of self-preservation had overcome reason, and the struggle for life
became fierce and uncontrollable.

As Guy Barrington thus basely deserted her, Charlotte’s self-possession
fled, and with a low moan of anguish she sank back upon the seat and covered
her face with her hands.

Intent on watching Charlotte,
Harleigh
saw little
of the play. When the first cry of “Fire” was raised, he started to his feet
and leaned eagerly forward. He saw the sparks falling upon the stage among the
actors—he heard Miss Claxton cry: “Will the people keep their seats? We are
between you and the flames, and will be burned first. Will the people in the
front seats sit down?”

Then
Harleigh
saw the people in the orchestra
seats pause for a moment, saw the frightened look on the face of Guy Barrington
as Charlotte pulled him down beside her, and then, as the coward basely
deserted her, he sprang upon the gallery railing, lowered himself to the family
circle, from thence down into the body of the house, and in a moment was by the
side of the girl he so passionately loved.

Charlotte startled when
Harleigh
placed his hand
upon her shoulder, and then, as her eyes encountered the hungry flames reaching
out their long arms, and consuming with lightning rapidity the canvas scenes,
hid her face again and shuddered convulsively.

Harleigh
, with his hand still upon her shoulder,
looked in the same direction. The beams, supporting the roof of the boat-house,
were falling in all directions, and the actors, conscious of their imminent
peril, were in the act of rushing from the stage through a perfect rain of
fire. As they disappeared a bright tongue of flame shot out over their heads
toward the audience. It was like a transformation scene in a spectacle. The
musicians were disappearing under the stage. Escape seemed to lie in that
direction.

“Come, Charlotte,” cried
Harleigh
. “We must not
perish. I will save you.”