"It isn't so easy to say airy nothings to an artist, when you know him
behind the scenes," Beatrix said, suddenly shifting the talk back to the
point of departure.
"Talk philosophy, then," Bobby returned.
"But I must say something to him, after he gets through singing; and now
that I have seen him, three or four times, I can't launch into a sea of
platitudes."
"I thought women could always go to sea in a platitude. It is as leaky
as a sieve, and not half so likely to upset and leave one floating
without any support at all."
Sally laughed outright.
"Beware of Bobby, when he turns metaphorical! He suggests a second-hand
curio shop."
Lorimer glanced up at her, with a whimsical smile twisting his lips.
"Your own rhetoric isn't above reproach, Miss Van Osdel. But has it ever
occurred to you that Young America has abandoned its sieve for a man of
war? I met a callow junior from Harvard, the other day, and by way of
making polite conversation, I asked him to suggest a clever subject for
a debate. He promptly told me that at his eating club they had been
discussing the origins of morality."
Bobby whistled, to the huge delight of the butler. That factotum
revelled in the pranks of "Master Bobby" who had upset his dignity at
least once a week for the past fifteen years.
"In our time we took our pleasures less sadly, Lorimer. What are we all
coming to?"
"To congenital senility."
"That is nothing more nor less than the frugal trick of making both ends
meet," Sally interpolated.
"But what shall I say to Mr. Thayer?" Beatrix reiterated.
"That it is a pleasant evening."
"That you hope he isn't very tired with singing so much," Bobby and
Sally suggested in the same breath.
Beatrix made a little gesture of scorn.
"It is your turn, Mr. Lorimer. You know him better than the rest of us.
What shall you say to him?"
"I know him so well that I rarely talk to him about his singing,"
Lorimer replied, with sudden gravity. "Thayer is too large a man to
smack his lips over sugar-plums. He knows exactly what I think of his
voice, that it is one of the best baritone voices I have ever heard. He
also knows that I am perfectly aware of the fact when he sings unusually
badly or unusually well. Under those conditions, there is no especial
need of our discussing the matter. One can have reservations with one's
friends, you know." As he spoke, his eyes met those of Beatrix, and a
smile lighted his gravity.
At a first glance, Sidney Lorimer produced the impression of being a
remarkably handsome man. The second glance, while it strengthened the
impression, nevertheless set one wondering what had created it. His
figure, his features, his coloring were all good, yet they were in no
way remarkable. A wiry, nervous, clean-cut man, with brown hair and
eyes, a slim, straight nose, and a well-set head, he would have
commanded little attention had it not been for the nameless stamp set
upon him by his training at an English public-school. It is impossible
to analyze this stamp, yet it exists and insists upon recognition.
Political life had called the elder Lorimer to England, and he had
judged it better to take his only child with him and drop him into Eton
than to leave him in America and send him to St. Paul's. He did it as a
matter of convenience, not of theory; but when his boy was ready for a
Yale diploma, the father confessed to himself that he was pleased with
the result of the experiment. Young Lorimer would never be an important
factor in the world's development; but he was an uncommonly attractive
fellow, and could hold his own in any position where chance would be
likely to place him. Only his lower lip betrayed the fact that his
mother had been a woman of uncurbed nerves.
It was the evening of the twentieth, and Lorimer was distinctly nervous.
He liked Arlt and was anxious for his success; but his anxiety for Arlt
was as nothing in comparison with that which he felt for Thayer, to whom
he gave the adoration that a weak man sometimes offers to one
immeasurably his superior. Probably Lorimer's whole life would contain
no better year than the one he had spent with Thayer in Berlin. Thayer's
influence was strongly good, and Lorimer was of plastic material. It is
doubtful whether Lorimer realized this influence; yet he was genuinely
delighted to have Thayer within easy reach once more, genuinely wishful
to have Thayer's American debut such an unqualified success that
hereafter he would regard New York as his professional home.
Lorimer rarely was garrulous; he was unusually silent during the long
drive to the Lloyd Avalons's. It was his first introduction to the
pseudo-fashionable world, for his own family had been of conservative
stock, and Beatrix and Bobby had been the first of the Danes to break
down the barriers of their own exclusive set. To be sure, he realized
that in a city like New York it was quite possible for circles of equal
choiceness to exist tangent to each other, yet in mutual ignorance of
one another; but his years abroad in slower-moving countries had not
prepared him for the countless agile performers clambering up and down
over the social trapeze. In his father's day, society had stood on an
elevated platform and watched the performers as they played leap-frog on
the ground. The performers had been as agile then as now; but their
agility had been free from any danger of a tumble. Between the ground
and the platform, there is no place of permanent rest. One must keep
moving, or else be pushed to the ground.
As a rule, people forgot that there was a Mr. Lloyd Avalons. He was a
little man with an imperial, and a total incapacity for telling the
truth. In that, he was inferior to his wife in point of social
evolution, for she had learned, from certain episodes which still filled
her with mortification, that fibbing was bad form. To Mrs. Lloyd
Avalons, her husband was a mere cipher. Placed before her, he added
nothing to her value; placed after and in the background, he multiplied
her importance tenfold. There were certain privileges accruing to a
woman with a husband, certain immunities that followed in the train of
matrimony. Mrs. Lloyd Avalons was quite willing to include the word
_obey_ in the marriage service; she had a distinct choice in regard to
whom it should refer.
To-night, Lloyd Avalons stood slightly in the rear of the elbow of his
wife who, resplendent in pale gray velvet and emeralds, was welcoming
her guests on the threshold of the music-room. Her gray eyes were
shining with a greenish light that matched the emeralds, for her lips
were set in a conventional smile, and there must be some escape for her
delight, as she counted over the tale of guests and recognized
individuals of many a named species from the garden of society. All in
all, this was the best success she had as yet attained.
She greeted Beatrix effusively, and cast a coy glance at Lorimer while
she murmured a few words of congratulation. Then she fell a victim to
one of Bobby's quibbles, and while she was struggling to see the point
of his joke, the others made their escape.
"At least, the architect knew what he was about," Lorimer remarked to
Beatrix, as they took their seats. "Thayer can't complain of the
acoustic effects of the place."
"When have you seen him?"
"Just before dinner. He was in superb voice then, and a fairly good
mood."
"Isn't he always?" she questioned idly, as she nodded to an acquaintance
in the next row of chairs.
"Not always. As a rule, he is the best-tempered fellow in the world.
Once in a while, though, he wraps himself up in his dignity and stalks
about like an Indian brave in his best Navajo blanket. Nobody ever knows
what is the reason, nor when he will go off into a Mood. It makes him an
uncertain quantity. For my part, I would rather a man would swear and
get it over with." Lorimer spoke easily. Unlike Thayer, he never
collided with the angles of his own temperament.
"What does it do to his singing?"
"Depends on one's taste. I like it, myself, as I like a high-flavored
cheese. People who pin their faith to Mendelssohn might be a little
over-powered. Fact is, there is a strange streak in Thayer's make-up. I
can't account for him at all."
"What is the use of trying? Aren't one's friends immune from analysis?"
"I don't care to try. I don't want to account for him; he is too large
for that. I wish you might know him; but you never will. He's not a
woman's man in the least."
Beatrix was silent for a moment. Involuntarily she was making a swift
comparison of the way in which the two men spoke of each other.
Lorimer's praise had been full of half-suppressed reservations. Thayer
had made no reservations, he had scarcely uttered a word of praise, yet
his hastily-drawn picture of Lorimer's connection with the Arlts had
proved a determining factor in her life. It had been a new phase of
Lorimer's character which Thayer had presented. It had revealed him in a
new light and one infinitely more likable than any she had yet known.
The Lorimer she had met, had been fascinating and a bit snobbish. The
friend of the Arlts was altogether lovable. It takes greater tact and
staying power to make friends outside one's social grade than in it.
People suspect the motives of those who are crossing the boundaries
between caste and caste; yet the Arlts had trusted Lorimer completely.
Beatrix had remained thoughtful for some time after Thayer's departure.
Lorimer had called, that same night. His coming had been unexpected; it
had taken Beatrix off her guard. She had been unfeignedly glad to see
him, for his ten-days' absence from her life had been unprecedented in
their acquaintance. The world is wide, yet, owing to some strange law of
attraction, one invariably seems to meet the same people everywhere.
Beatrix had greeted Lorimer more eagerly than she had been aware. She
had tried in vain to keep the fact of the Forbes supper uppermost in her
mind. Instead, it slid into the background, and its place had been taken
by the thought of Lorimer's probable feelings when he received the
smoking cap from the hands of Katarina Arlt. And the evening had hurried
away from her. When it had gone, she had realized with a sudden shock
that her girlhood was ended. She was the plighted bride of Sidney
Lorimer, and, distrustful of her own mental grasp of the fact, she had
ruthlessly waked up her mother to tell her what had occurred. Later,
she had not understood the motive which had led her to her mother's
room. As a rule, she was self-reliant, and adjusted herself to a crisis
without caring to talk it over. For the once, however, she felt the need
of being strengthened by the enthusiastic delight of Mrs. Dane whose
sentimental hopes had centered in Lorimer from the hour of his
introduction to her only child.
All this had passed in review through Beatrix's mind, and it seemed long
to her since Lorimer's last words, when he said,--
"Don't think I am depreciating Thayer, Beatrix. He is one of the finest
fellows who ever came out of the Creator's hands. In his worst moods, he
is away ahead of most of the men one meets. Some day, I hope you may
know him for what he really is."
There was true generosity underlying Lorimer's frank words. He was still
smarting from his contact with Thayer, that afternoon, for Thayer had
heard of a dinner at the club, on the previous night, and had spoken a
quiet warning. It was only such a warning as he had given, a dozen times
before; he knew just how Lorimer would resent it, then accept it, and it
would have made no difference to him, could he have foreseen that, in
his resentment, Lorimer's words to Beatrix would be slightly tinged with
aloes. It is not certain that, foreseeing, he would have cared. Beatrix
was nothing to him; of Lorimer he was strangely fond.
Beatrix had felt some curiosity as to the effect Thayer's voice might
have upon her. Familiarity in all truth does breed contempt, and a
second hearing often proves a disappointment. For Lorimer's sake, she
was anxious to enjoy the recital, and she drew a quick, nervous breath
as Thayer, followed by Arlt, came striding out across the little stage
with the same unconscious ease with which he had crossed her parlor, the
week before. As he waited for Arlt to seat himself, he glanced about the
room, his practised eye measuring its size and the probable nature of
his audience. For an instant, his glance rested upon Beatrix and
Lorimer, and he gave a slight smile of recognition. Then his shoulders
straightened and he came to attention, as Arlt struck the opening chord
of his accompaniment.
He had chosen to begin his programme, that night, with the _Infelice_
for, in spite of its Verdiism, it had been a favorite of his old master
in Berlin. Before he had sung a dozen notes, Beatrix, bending forward,
was listening with parted lips and flushing cheeks. Of Thayer as a man
who had dallied with one of her cups of tea, she took no account; but
his voice, sweet and flexible, was tugging at her nerves and setting
them vibrating with its note of passionate sadness. Then, gathering
power and intensity, it swept its hearers along upon its furious
tempest; yet, as she listened, Beatrix felt herself inspired for,
underneath it all, there was the same throbbing, insistent note which
seemed to assure her that the singer had hoped and lost and fought and
conquered, that he knew all about it, himself.
Lorimer nodded contentedly at the stage, as Thayer ended his song.
"That's all right; but they would better save their strength, for he
never gives an encore for the first number. What do you think of Thayer
now, Beatrix?"
She caught her breath sharply.
"That I should be a better woman, if I could hear him sing often."
"There's something in what you say. He makes me feel it, too. I never
have heard him sing better, though he always does that song well. He
told me once that he felt possessed with the spirit of his own
grandfather, whenever he started it. From all signs, his grandfather
must have been an intolerable old person to get on with, if he could
rage in that fashion."
"Possibly he had occasion." Beatrix forced herself to speak lightly,
though it was an effort for her to resume the accent and manner which
befitted the place.
"Perhaps. He was a Russian musician with a young wife. Now for the
Schubert group! Thayer's reputation is made, though; he can sing through
his nose now, and they will think it a beautiful manifestation of
individual genius. I only hope that Arlt will do one tenth as well."
It proved that Arlt did fully six tenths as well, and was applauded to
the echo. To the undiscerning ear, he won even more than his share of
applause; but Beatrix, her nerves still tense from _The Erl-King_, felt
a difference in the quality of the welcome to the two musicians. The
critical few were impartial, and in the case of Arlt they led a wavering
fugue of the uncritical many. Arlt was young, small and insignificant.
His tailor was not an artist, and Arlt was too palpably conscious that
his coat tails demanded respectful care. Society applauded Arlt with
punctilious courtesy; but it promptly took Thayer to its bosom and
caressed him with enthusiasm.
Late in the evening, Beatrix brought her father to the corner where
Thayer, with Arlt beside him, was still holding a sort of court, and the
four of them were talking quietly when Mrs. Stanley came pushing her way
towards them.
"I must add my word of congratulation, Mr. Thayer," she said, as she
graciously offered him a pudgy bundle of white kid fingers. "You have
made a wonderful success, and it won't be long before you have New York
at your feet."
Thayer glanced down at his patent leather shoes.
"It would be a good deal in the way, Mrs. Stanley. Let us hope it will
stay where it belongs," he answered gravely.
"How ungrateful you artists are! But I shall always be so glad and proud
to think that your first song in New York was in my house."
"But it wasn't."
Her face fell.
"I thought--Wasn't that your first recital? I am sure you said--"
His smile went no further than his lips, for his clear gray eyes
appeared to be taking her mental and spiritual measure, with some little
disappointment at the result.
"It was my first recital, Mrs. Stanley; but not my first song. I sang
German folk songs to Arlt's landlady, half the afternoon before. You
remember Mr. Arlt, I think."
She glanced around with a carelessness which ignored the hand that the
boy shyly extended towards her.
"Oh, yes, very pleased," she said vaguely. Then, with a resumption of
her former manner, she turned back to Thayer. "And I thought you
promised to drop in for a cup of tea, some Thursday, Mr. Thayer."
Beatrix was deaf to his answer. She had turned to Arlt who, scarlet with
hurt and anger, stood alone in his corner by the piano.
"Mr. Arlt," she said gayly; "it is very warm here, and I know where they
keep the frappe. Shall we leave my father here, and run off in search of
some goodies? You ought to be hungry, after playing for two hours.
Come!"
And Arlt, surprised at the sudden winning intonations which had crept
into her voice, dodged around the portly back of Mrs. Stanley and
followed Beatrix out of the room. For the moment, the haughty woman had
changed to a jovial, friendly girl, no more awe-inspiring than Katarina,
in spite of her wonderful gown and the fluffy white thing in her hair;
and the artist, in his turn, changed into a normal hungry boy, as he
followed her away.
So absorbed were they in each other that they failed to see Bobby Dane
who met them upon the threshold, on his way to join the group they had
just left.
"Beg pardon, Thayer; but can I speak to you for a moment?" he said
abruptly.
His uncle turned to Mrs. Stanley with old-fashioned pomposity.
"May I have the pleasure of taking you to the dining-room?" he asked.
"What is it, Dane?" Thayer asked, as soon as they were alone, for
Bobby's face showed that something was amiss.
"It's Lorimer in the smoking-room. That beast of a Lloyd Avalons has
opened a perfect bar in there, and--and Lorimer is making a bit of a cad
of himself," Bobby confessed reluctantly. "I tried to get him away; but
he wouldn't come, and I thought perhaps you could start him. It's not
that he is drunk, only he is talking rather too much, and I want to get
him off before Beatrix gets wind of it. You know girls--"
"I know," Thayer assented gravely. "I'll see what I can do with him."