It was mid-afternoon when Thayer once more entered the hotel. The
proprietor met him at the door.
"This message was just telephoned in, Mr. Thayer. The boy is getting
ready to carry it to the cottage."
Thayer tore open the envelope indifferently. Exhausted by the struggle
and the shock through which he had been passing, for the time being he
felt little interest in any word which could come to him from the
outside world. His entire life seemed to him limited to one short hour
in one small room, apart from the world and its concerns. That brief
episode was too recent and too personal to allow him at once to cast off
its impression. In his present mood, it appeared to be the focal point
of his entire life, the arena upon which the two warring strains in his
blood had met to fight to a finish. The fight had been sharp and fierce;
already he was beginning to rejoice that the Puritan had conquered the
Slav. Beyond that point, as yet, he was powerless to go. Later, his
rejoicing would be increased by the knowledge that in his own words and
deeds he had never swerved from a certain loyalty towards Lorimer.
"Mr. Lorimer is--" the proprietor was beginning vaguely.
Thayer's nod was more curt than he realized.
"Mr. Lorimer is dead."
"You don't mean it! When?" The man was visibly startled.
"This morning, between seven and eight o'clock."
"It must have been very sudden?" The accent was plainly interrogative.
"Yes, at the last. He had been quite ill for twenty-four hours. He was
overtired with his walk of the day before, and then ate something that
disagreed with him. He suffered terribly, and, at the last, heart
failure developed." Thayer ended his fable with a deep breath of relief.
"But they had no doctor," the man objected.
Thayer raised his eyes and looked at him steadily for an instant.
"No," he said quietly. "Mr. Lorimer has had a number of such attacks,
and Mrs. Lorimer had all the proper remedies. Until within a few
moments of the end, there was no indication that this attack was any
more serious than the others had been, and there had never before been
any tendency to heart failure." He paused for a moment, deliberately
challenging another question. Then he added, "If your telephone is not
in use, I must send word to Mrs. Lorimer's friends." And he walked away
to the telephone closet in the corner of the office.
He called up three numbers in New York. The first one was Mr. Dane's
office, and to him Thayer announced the bare fact of Lorimer's death and
of Beatrix's need for her parents. His talk with Bobby Dane was longer,
and at intervals it became interjectional in its terseness. To Bobby,
Thayer went over the story in all its detail, yet in such guarded
phrases that no one else, listening, could have gained an inkling of the
true cause of Lorimer's death. After the first shock was over, Thayer
and Beatrix had discussed the matter fully and in all its bearings. The
attendant had his own reasons for wishing to keep the secret, and the
butler could be relied upon implicitly. Accordingly, they had decided
that there was no need of acquainting the world with the true version of
the case, and they had agreed that Bobby should be the one person to be
put in possession of all the facts. He was just; he had no sentimental
ideals to be dispelled in regard to Lorimer, and he was utterly
trustworthy.
Thayer's third message was the shortest of all.
"Not in? Very well. I am Mr. Thayer. Tell him that I will be in his
office at ten o'clock on Saturday morning."
It was then late on Thursday afternoon. Thayer had calculated that the
Danes would come in, the next day, and that the sleigh which brought
them in would also carry him out in season for the night train to New
York. There was another illness in the opera company. _Faust_ was to be
sung on the following Wednesday night, and Thayer, in sending that last
message, had given his tacit consent to singing the part of _Valentine_.
Even in the midst of his trouble, he smiled grimly to himself, as he
thought back to that far-off night in Berlin when the chord which closes
_Valentine's_ cavatina also closed his long indecision and left him
sitting with his face definitely turned towards the artist's life. It
had seemed to him then that the decision was threatening to undermine
his Puritanism; nevertheless, he had temporized with that Puritanism. In
resolving to become an artist, in so far as the possibility of art lay
in his keeping, he had likewise resolved to hold himself a man, virile
and of steady nerve. To his young enthusiasm, the two ideals had not
seemed incompatible. To his maturer judgment, they had appeared in no
sense to be at war, yet together they had been by no means easy of
attainment. All in all, he had preferred to leave to the recording angel
the balancing of his psychological accounts. He had lacked the time and
the perspective to do it for himself. But, meanwhile, he believed he
recognized the hand of fate in this second summons to sing the part of
_Valentine_. Fate and his old _maestro_ both had declared themselves for
opera. Their united will should be done.
That evening was the longest he had ever spent, so long that in reality
it lasted until the gray dawn. The eastern sky was tinging itself with
yellow when he roused himself from the reverie which had held him since
he had left the dinner table. Rising to his feet, he drew himself to the
full of his towering height and took a slow, full breath. Then
deliberately he pushed his trunk into the middle of the floor and began
packing it, with the quiet method which characterized all his personal
arrangements. At first, he worked in grim silence; then, by almost
imperceptible degrees, his face lighted and he fell to humming over to
himself the familiar song,--
_"Even bravest heart may swell
In the moment of farewell--"_
Little by little, the humming rose and filled the room, at first the one
phrase repeated over and over again; then all at once, deep and
resonant, Thayer's full voice came leaping out in the rich Italian
words,--
_"La sul campo nel di della pugna,
Ah! si, Fra le file primiero saro."_
The past was already the past. "Blithe as a knight in his bridal array,"
Thayer was echoing the call of his future destiny. Because he had won a
single battle, there was no reason he should lay down his arms.
_"Careless what fate may befall me,
When Glory shall call me."_
He sang it boldly, joyously. He was not forgetful, only hopeful. He
would leave to the choice of fate the field in which his mastery should
lie. Master he would be at any cost.
_"Careless what fate may befall me,
When Glory shall call me."_
For the last time, that little room was echoing with his voice.
His own rooms in New York were echoing with the same song, when Bobby
Dane entered them, the next Saturday night.
"Well, at least, you don't sound broken-hearted," he observed, as he
took off his coat.
"The sight of you would go far to cure me, if I were," Thayer retorted.
His words were light; but his face and his grip on Bobby's two hands
contradicted his tone.
"Glad of it," Bobby said flatly. "But tell me about Beatrix. How did the
poor girl stand it?"
"Like herself," Thayer answered. "It was enough to shake the nerves of
the Winged Victory; but Mrs. Lorimer went through it like a heroine."
"It was D.T.?"
"Yes."
"It was better that you kept the secret," Bobby said thoughtfully, as he
dropped into a chair by the piano. He sat silent for a moment while,
bending forward, he idly picked out the first few notes of the cavatina
on the lowest octave of the bass. Then he added, "I don't see how you
managed it, Thayer; but it is a good deed done. Was there any trouble
about the certificate?"
"No. It was heart failure, true enough, and there was no need to go into
secondary causes."
"I am glad the doctor was a man of sense. If he had been a martinet, it
would have been worse for us all. Of course, there is no telling how far
people will accept the story; but we may as well try to act as if it
were true." There was a pause. Then Bobby inquired, "Well, and now what
are you going to do next?"
"_Valentine_ in _Faust_," Thayer replied briefly.
"The deuce you are! When?"
"Next Wednesday."
Bobby's face fell.
"Oh, I wanted you, myself, for that day. Isn't it rather sudden?"
"So sudden that I didn't half realize it, till I found myself at
rehearsal, this morning. It is to be announced in to-morrow's papers, I
suppose. Not even Arlt knows it yet."
Bobby meditated for the space of several seconds.
"Thayer, I am delighted," he said then. "I was so afraid your stopping
now might mean a permanent break-up in your work. Now you are going into
your right field at last. You've been too large for oratorio; you fill
altogether too much space, and crowd out the chorus. You need a whole
stage to ramp around in. Moreover, if I have any idea what Gounod meant,
he had your voice in mind, when he created the part. Go in, and you are
sure to win; and not a soul in the city will be gladder of it than I."
Thayers face softened. His life, successful as it was, had been
singularly barren of endearments, and Bobby's words touched him keenly.
Heretofore, only Arlt had manifested any personal interest in his
successes, and Arlt was a true German, chary of his words. Thayer held
out his hand to Bobby.
"Thank you, Dane. I believe you," he said.