"Aïda" was in progress at the Metropolitan, and Jessica never lost a
night at the opera. It was the first time in all her life that enough
money had found its way into her exchequer to purchase a season's box,
and she was making the very most of it that lay in her power.
Very many persons present had observed that no woman ever found her
way into that box, and that most of the men concealed themselves in
the rear, or even contented themselves with a visit to the anteroom.
But Jessica never troubled her head about that. She didn't like women,
didn't want women, and their absence affected her not at all.
Carlita was at home, as usual, beautiful as a dream in her soft chiffon
gown, the exquisite dark hair rippling from her forehead in great waves
that no hair-dresser's art could ever imitate.
She was standing before a huge soft-coal fire, looking down into it,
with a faint smile curving the corners of her mouth, as she waited for
Olney Winthrop--a smile which deepened as she heard the chime of the
door-bell.
There was not the faintest perceptible start at the sound, not an
increase of color at the knowledge of her lover's coming. She lifted
her head to welcome him, and started, quivering in every nerve in her
body, her face flushing crimson, as she saw who it was that had pushed
aside the heavy portière and stood there in her fiancé's place.
It was Leith Pierrepont.
He came forward with the easy, nonchalant grace that was peculiar to
him, the indolent smile upon his mouth, looking handsomer than he had
ever done in his life before, and a woman would of necessity have been
made of granite not to have seen it.
He put out his hand as he joined Carlita beside the fire, and because
she could not refuse, she put her fingers into it.
She noticed that his hand had closed over hers firmly, in spite of the
fact that she had only intended that he should touch it; and while he
did not retain it, he was in no hurry whatever to loosen his grasp of
the cold palm.
"Jessica and Mrs. Chalmers are not here," she stammered, angry with
herself that she could not keep her voice steady.
"I know it," he replied, indolently. "They are at the opera. Jessica
never misses 'Aïda.' It is a favorite of mine, too, and Nordica is
excellent in it."
"And yet you are not there?"
"There are some things that I prefer even to a well-rendered opera.
Olney will not be here this evening."
"Why?"
She flashed her great eyes up at him, as if he had given her a personal
affront. He smiled enigmatically, and she flushed with anger.
"He has a headache," Leith returned, leisurely. "You know he isn't
strong. That dose of jungle fever about knocked him out."
"I'm sorry he isn't feeling well. I'm--"
She strove to infuse the sentence with earnestness, but her voice had
never sounded colder in her own ears, and she found it impossible to
finish the speech. She paused uncomfortably, and after a moment Leith
said, with another smile that somehow made her feel that she hated him
more than ever:
"Won't you ask me to sit down? I never could stand with any degree of
comfort."
"Certainly, if you wish to sit," she answered. "I thought perhaps you
would be going to the opera."
"No; I told you I shouldn't," he answered, sitting down gracefully and
looking up at her carelessly. "I had much rather hear you sing."
"But I never sing."
"Oh, yes, you do. Olney has told me. He says that you have a singularly
lovely voice, and I have always considered Olney one of the few really
good judges of music."
"I am not a musician."
"You mean you don't play your own accompaniments. That makes no
difference. I will be very glad to do it for you. I am not in
particularly good practice, but I used to be called rather good at that
sort of thing."
She had seated herself, and as he spoke he rose as if he were going to
the piano; but, instead, leaned over the back of the chair and looked
down upon her. The look seemed to get into her veins and tingle through
her blood like living fire. His voice was low and musical as that of a
thrush, as he said, softly:
"Why will you, who are always so kind and gentle to others, be cruel to
me? What have I done to win your dislike? How have I sinned that you
withdraw your friendship from me alone of all the world?"
She bit her lip to keep the hot tears out of her eyes. She could not
understand her own emotion, and hated him that he had caused it.
She arose, not even glancing toward him, and threw out her hands
deprecatingly:
"You are making too much of the fact that I do not care to sing for
strangers," she replied haughtily. "If it will interest you, I will
try, but I assure you that I am the most inexperienced of amateurs.
What would you like me to sing?"
He did not reply to her. He was leaning against the piano, looking
at her, not impertinently, but curiously, as if he did not quite
understand her. She allowed her fingers to wander over the keys idly
for a moment, then played and sang an excerpt from "Gioconda," not with
her usual style and expression at all, but still with a sweetness and
depth of voice and a breadth of expression that was infinitely pleasing.
"You can't do a thing of that sort playing your own accompaniment,"
he said, when she had finished, not complimenting her at all upon her
beauty of voice or method. "Let me sit there, will you?"
She arose at once, a trifle nettled at his lack of praise, and he
took the stool she had vacated. His fingers touched the piano with
a tenderness that went to her soul. She loved music with a sort of
ravenous passion, if one may so express it, a wild longing that had
never been gratified, and she listened with an increased fascination
that held her speechless.
"Do you know 'Aïda'?" he inquired at last.
She nodded.
"Do you remember the duet in the tomb?"
"Yes."
His fingers wandered into it, then his glorious voice, sweet as the
lower tones of a harp, rang out full and rich. She joined him when her
time came, singing as she had never sung before, enthused by the genius
which she had never expected, enchanted by the magic of his touch.
When it was finished he turned to her.
"Who taught you?" he asked, quietly.
"My mother."
"Your method is faulty. I wish you would go to Arditi for a while. Your
voice is excellent, but you waste it deplorably. You have a warmth of
coloring and a breadth of expression rarely found, and would make a
superb singer if properly taught. Will you go to Arditi? Please do."
"Perhaps. I have never heard good singers, that is, none except my
mother, and she was not great. You have studied, of course?"
"Oh, yes; in Paris and Italy. Shall I sing something for you?"
"If you will."
He looked up at her. There was just the glimmer of a smile in his
eyes, such a curious smile, so wistful, almost beseeching, a pathetic
smile that made her heart tremble in spite of her hatred of him, that
extraordinary hatred which she had never been able to explain to
herself, and for which she could have found not the shadow of a cause
if she had dared to question herself upon the subject.
His hands continued to wander over the keys as if he were improvising,
and after a little time his voice, sweet, gentle, so low that it could
scarcely have been heard behind the portières that fell between them
and the hall, floated out:
"'The solemn sea of silence lies between us;
I know thou livest and thou lovest me;
And yet I wish some white ship would come sailing
Across the ocean, bearing word from thee.
"'The dead calm awes me with its awful stillness,
No anxious doubts of fears disturb my breast;
I only ask some little wave of language
To stir this vast infinitude of rest.
"'Too deep the language which the spirit utters,
Too vast the knowledge which my soul hath stirred;
Send some white ship across the sea of silence
And interrupt its utterance with a word.'"
He had never removed his eyes from her while he was singing, but she
had dropped hers. The crimson glow which she could not command had
crept into her cheeks. His voice fell almost to a whisper, and as
the last word left his lips, he lifted his hands from the keys and
imprisoned both of hers together, leaning toward her with his splendid
face uplifted.
"Do you know what that sea of silence is, Carlita?" he asked, his low
voice thrilling through her like old wine. "It is that great gulf that
lies between you and me. Shall I tell you more?
"'I am oppressed with this great sense of loving--
So much I give, so much receive from thee;
Like subtle incense rising from a censer,
So floats the fragrance of thy love round me.'"
She lifted her eyes, startled, wide with horror and alarm, and would
have drawn back but that he held her, his beautiful eyes dull with
passion.
"Did you think I did not know? Did you think I should not comprehend?"
he continued in the same tone. "Did you really believe that I should
allow another to steal you from me? There have been times when I almost
thought you did not realize that you love me. There have been times
when I have believed you fancied your heart given to that other to
whom you have promised yourself, and then the knowledge of how absurd
it all was comforted me. The knowledge that some day you would turn
to me helped me to bear it all, but the sea of silence is killing me,
Carlita, drowning me in my own desire. I love you--ah! you know that,
and the words are so weak. You know that I would let the blood drain
from my body through the ends of my fingers, drop by drop, for you. I
don't believe you realized it all when you promised to be another man's
wife; but it could not be concealed from you always. Won't you send
the white ship across the sea, my darling? Won't you speak some word to
comfort my waiting?"
He had not spoken the words in the headlong, pell-mell fashion of
impassioned youth, but with a feeling that held her spell-bound until
the sound of his voice had ceased, and then things looked black and
swam before her eyes as if she were suddenly affected with vertigo.
She staggered, and would have fallen but that he arose, and, placing
his arm about her, held her closely. His warm breath aroused her, and
tearing herself from him, she sprang aside.
"False friend! Craven! Coward!" she panted. "How dare you? How dare
you speak the words to me that you have uttered? How dare you say
that I love you--you--you, the man who has played the friend to Olney
Winthrop, who has pretended to love him as a brother does? You come
here in his absence, like the coward that you are, to steal that which
belongs to him--only to him; but it is beyond you, thank God for that!
I hate you--hate you as I have never hated a human thing in my life
before--hate you for the cunning coward that you are! I shall tell
Olney Winthrop of this, and--"
Pierrepont was leaning against the piano, all his nonchalance, his
graceful indifference returned, listening to her as if she were
speaking to him only the pleasantries of the drawing-room. She burst
into tears before she could complete her sentence, and he moved for a
moment restlessly, but naturally and calmly as he usually spoke, said:
"There will be no necessity for you to take that trouble. I shall tell
him myself before I sleep tonight."
"I hope that Heaven will spare me the insult of ever looking upon your
face again!" she cried as she started from the room.
She was forced to pass him in order to reach the door, and as she would
have done so, he stepped before her almost indifferently. There was the
smile still upon his mouth, his eyes were brilliant now, and his voice
as slow and drawling as ever.
"I just want to say a word before you go," he said, quietly. "There
will come a time when you will wish to recall what you have said, when
you will yearn for the love which you disregard now. When it comes,
send for me. You need not fear that I shall harbor any resentment for
your cruelty. When you send, I shall be ready to respond, even if your
message should reach me at the other end of the earth. You are the only
woman whom I have ever loved, and some day you shall be my wife!"
He said the words with gentleness and perfect respect, but her face
crimsoned with anger.
"Never!" she cried, fiercely.
He smiled.
"I have never failed to keep my word, particularly when the promise was
made to myself," he answered, lightly. "Neither heaven nor earth, nor
life nor death, nor yet eternity itself, could stand between us!"
He stepped out of her way, not a particle of excitement visible in his
manner--on the contrary, he was calmer, more careless than usual--and
she looked into his face for one moment, then fled by him and up the
stairs to her own apartment.
Then she locked the door and threw herself upon the bed, in a passion
of tears--tears such as she had never shed, not even at the death of
her mother; but they were so different--hot, angry tears; and yet--yet
there was some grief in them, too, though she could not have told why.
It was almost daylight when Jessica and her mother returned, and yet
she was still lying there, never having removed her clothing.
She got up then, in a shamed sort of way, and undressed herself; but it
was of the man she hated that she dreamed, not the man she loved; it
was the gray eyes into which she looked, not the blue; and she rose in
the morning unrefreshed, and with eyes still swollen from weeping.