Harold Macgrath

The Place of Honeymoons Harold Macgrath

Courtlandt sat perfectly straight; his ample shoulders did not touch the back of his chair;and his arms were folded tightly across his chest. The characteristic of his attitude wastenseness. The nostrils were well defined, as in one who sets the upper jaw hard upon thenether. His brown eyes-their gaze directed toward the stage whence came the voice of theprima donna-epitomized the tension, expressed the whole as in a word. Just now the voice was pathetically subdued, yet reached every part of the auditorium, kindling the ear with its singularly mellowing sweetness. To Courtlandt it resembled, as noother sound, the note of a muffled Burmese gong, struck in the dim incensed cavern of atemple. A Burmese gong: briefly and magically the stage, the audience, the amazing gleamand scintillation of the Opera, faded. He heard only the voice and saw only the purpleshadows in the temple at Rangoon, the oriental sunset splashing the golden dome, thewavering lights of the dripping candles, the dead flowers, the kneeling devoteés, theyellow-robed priests, the tatters of gold-leaf, fresh and old, upon the rows of placidgrinning Buddhas. The vision was of short duration. The sigh, which had been so longrepressed, escaped; his shoulders sank a little, and the angle of his chin became lessresolute; but only for a moment. Tension gave place to an ironical grimness. The browsrelaxed, but the lips became firmer. He listened, with this new expression unchanging, tothe high note that soared above all others. The French horns blared and the timpanicrashed. The curtain sank slowly. The audience rustled, stood up, sought its wraps, andpressed toward the exits and the grand staircase. It was all over.