"Do you see Mrs. Lorimer often?"
"Every day or so. I drop in there when I can, for she's not going out
much, and she needs to see more people."
"How is she?"
"I don't know how to tell you," Bobby answered, while a note of sadness
crept into his voice. "She is giving her life to that child; and, unless
you know the child, you can't imagine the wear and tear of such an
existence. I don't know which would be worse, the watching for the
intellect which never comes, or the waiting for the convulsions that
do."
"What will be the end of it all?" Thayer broke out impetuously.
Bobby shook his head.
"God knows," he said drearily.
Bobby spoke truly, for already it seemed that the divine plan was made
to take the imperfect little life back into its keeping. A sudden chill,
a sudden cold, and then the grim word, pneumonia! For days, Beatrix and
the nurse hung over the child, struggling almost against hope to conquer
the disease. Then it was that Beatrix realized how truly she had loved
her little son, how she would miss even the constant pain of his
presence. He was her very own, the one being in the world who belonged
absolutely to her; and she fought for his life with the fierceness of
despair. Then, just as it seemed that she had triumphed and the child
was out of danger, the same insidious foe which had ended Lorimer's
life, attacked the life of his child.
Alone in the dusky room, Beatrix was sitting on the edge of the bed, her
arm around the boy who had just snuggled down for the night. Drowsily
his lids drooped; then he opened his eyes, met her eyes and struggled up
to reach her face.
"Mamma, kiss!" he begged.
That was all. Weakened by disease, the heart had been powerless to bear
the strain of the sudden motion, and the boy fell into his final sleep,
cradled in his mother's arms.
That night, Thayer sang _The Flying Dutchman_ in the same city where,
four years before, he had sung _St. Paul_. He had not been there, during
the intervening time; but his public had been faithful to his memory,
and the little opera house was packed to its utmost limits to do honor
to its former favorite, as well as to its one-night opera season. For
some unaccountable reason, Thayer had liked the place. Both the house
and the audience had pleased him, and it had been at his own request
that the manager had put on _The Flying Dutchman_, for that night.
During the last few months, _The Dutchman_ had become Thayer's favorite
role. Even _Valentine_ had palled upon him in time. Lingering deaths
become monotonous. When one dies them, four or five times a week, he
longs to hasten the course of events, to change the _Andante_ to a
_Prestissimo_. To Thayer's later mood, it seemed that, psychologically
speaking, _Valentine_ belonged to the ranks of the tenors. His riper
manhood demanded something a little more robust.
Thayer never admitted to himself that his liking for _The Dutchman_ came
from the personal interpretation which he put upon the story. In some
moods, he would have scoffed at the idea that there could be any
connection between himself, the successful artist whose single surname
on the bill boards could suffice to fill a house, and the wretched
_Dutchman_ whose one defiance hurled at fate had condemned him to
life-long wandering over the face of the deep. Of course, he wandered,
too; but it was by easy stages and by means of Pullmans. The parallelism
failed utterly. Still, there was the possibility of ultimate salvation
gained through the faithful love of a woman. Nevertheless, Thayer's
analysis always brought him to the conclusion that he liked the opera
because his death scene was consummated in the brief space of two
measures.
Thayer was feeling uncommonly alert and content, that night, and,
moreover, he liked his audience. Accordingly, he gave them of his best.
Never had his voice been richer, never had it rung with more dramatic
power than when, in his aria of the first act, he had ended his lament
with the declaration of his inevitable release on the slow-coming
Judgment Day. Then he stood waiting, a huge, lonely, brooding figure,
square-shouldered, square-jawed, defiant of fate, while softly the
chorus of sailors in the hold below echoed the closing phrase of his
song.
Even into Thayer's experience, no such ovation had ever come before. At
first, the audience sat breathless, as if stunned by the might of his
tragedy. Then the applause came crashing down from the galleries, up
from the floor, in from the boxes, focussing itself from all sides upon
that single, lonely, dominant figure before it. And Cotton Mather
Thayer, as he listened with a quiet, impassive face, felt his heart
leaping and bounding within him. He knew, by an instinct which he had
learned to trust completely, that in the years to come, he would never
reach a greater height of artistic success than he had done just then.
One such experience could justify many a year of halting indecision.
Puritan to the core, he yet had proved true to his Slavonic birthright.
As he left the stage with _Senta_ at the end of the second act, a
messenger handed him a card.
"The gentleman is waiting," he added. "He said he must see you, and that
he was in a hurry."
Thayer glanced at the card.
"Bring him to my dressing-room," he said.
He glanced up in surprise, as the door opened and Bobby Dane entered. He
had expected to see Bobby, immaculate in evening clothes, come strolling
lazily in to congratulate him, as he had so often done before when
Thayer had sung in cities near New York. Instead, Bobby was still in
morning dress, and his face and manner betokened some great excitement.
"I only heard your duet," he said abruptly; "but they are saying you
have outdone yourself. Will it break up your part, if I tell you some
news?"
Thayer paled suddenly.
"Is Beatrix--"
"No; but the boy died at six o'clock, this afternoon. I went to the
house; but I found there was nothing I could do, so I caught the seven
o'clock train and came up to tell you. Sure it won't upset your
singing?"
Thayer shook his head impatiently.
"I've borne worse shocks, Dane, and gone on warbling as if nothing had
happened. Did Beatrix send for me?"
"No. I only saw her for a minute. But I thought perhaps you would like
to go to her at once. She may need you."
Thayer held out his hand.
"This is like you, Dane. Thank you," he said briefly, as his man came to
warn him that _The Dutchman's_ crew had begun their chorus.
Bobby followed him into the wings.
"There's a train down at two o'clock," he suggested. "Shall we take
that?"
"The sooner, the better."
"I'll get the places, then, and meet you at the hotel afterwards." And
Bobby departed, just as the strings and wind gave out their
announcement of _The Dutchman's_ presence.
In the years to come, Thayer never knew how he went through that final
scene. It was the automatic obedience of an artistic nature to its years
of careful training. He was conscious of hearing no note from the
orchestra, no sound from his own lips. His whole being was centred in
the thought that at last Beatrix was free; that, in her final freedom,
they must face the ultimate crisis of their destinies. Would it be for
weal, or for woe? His brain refused to give back answer to the question.
And, meanwhile, the close-packed audience was thrilling with the
passionate pain of his accepted doom.
The crash of the renewed applause aroused him from his absorption and,
hand in hand with _Senta_, he emerged from his watery grave to bow his
appreciation. But it was not enough. Even to his dressing-room, he was
pursued by the cries of his name. Yielding reluctantly, he went out
before the curtain once again. Then he hurried back, and began tearing
off his costume with a feverish haste which took no account of the time
before he could get a train back to New York.
As Thayer's cab turned into the familiar street and stopped at the door
of the Lorimers' house, the gray dawn was breaking. Before its wan
color, the street lamps turned to a sickly yellow, and the asphalt
street stretched away between them like a long chalky ruler bordered
with dots of luminous paint. Above him, the lights in the house glared
out across the sombre dawn, and something in their steady, unsympathetic
glow, in the gray dawn and in the yellowing lamps carried Thayer's mind
far back to that other winter morning when he had hurried through the
storm to be with Beatrix in her hour of need.
The old butler opened the door to him, and took his coat. Then he
pointed towards the library.
"She is there," he said softly, with an odd little quaver in his thin
old voice. "I think you may go to her."
Thayer crossed the hall, laid his hand on the door, then hesitated. For
an instant, he shrank from the scene that might be before him. Then
instinctively he drew himself up and pushed open the door.
"Beatrix?" he said.
The color rushed to her face, as she sprang up and held out her hands.
"Thank God, you have come!"
* * * * *
=Little, Brown, and Co.'s New Novels=
_The Siege of Youth._ By FRANCES CHARLES, author of "In the Country God
Forgot." Illustrated. 12mo. Decorated cloth, $1.50.
This is a story of the present day, and its scene is San Francisco,
the author's home. It deals with art, with journalism, and with
human nature, and its love episodes are charming and true to life.
The three women characters of the book are finely drawn and
contrasted, there is much local color in the story, and a great
deal of bright and epigrammatic writing. The author's previous
book, "In the Country God Forgot," has been received with the
utmost favor. The _Boston Daily Advertiser_ says it "discloses a
new writer of uncommon power."
=Barbara, a Woman of the West.= By JOHN H. WHITSON. Illustrated by Chase
Emerson. 12mo. Decorated cloth, $1.50.
A distinctively American novel, dealing with life in the far West,
and in many ways remarkable, with a novel plot and unusual
situations. The scenes of the story are a Western ranch, Cripple
Creek, and the City of San Diego. The heroine, Barbara, is the
loyal wife of a somewhat self-centred man of literary tastes, Roger
Timberly, living on a ranch in Kansas. Barbara's long and patient
quest for her husband, who has gone to Cripple Creek to visit a
mine, the means which she adopts to support herself, the ardor with
which she is wooed by Gilbert Bream, and the complications which
ensue are extremely interesting.
=The Shadow of the Czar.= By JOHN R. CARLING. Illustrated. 12mo. Decorated
cloth, $1.50. _Fifth Edition_.
An engrossing romance of the sturdy, wholesome sort, in which the
action is never allowed to drag, best describes this popular novel.
"The Shadow of the Czar" is a stirring story of the romantic
attachment of a dashing English officer for Princess Barbara, of
the old Polish Principality of Czernova, and the conspiracy of the
Duke of Bora, aided by Russia, to dispossess the princess of her
throne.
=The Dominant Strain.= A Novel. By ANNA CHAPIN RAY, author of "Teddy, her
Book," etc. Illustrated in color by Harry C. Edwards. 12mo. Decorated
cloth, $1.50.
Anna Chapin Ray's new novel has for its hero Cotton Mather Thayer,
whose father was a Boston blueblood, and whose mother was a Russian
musician. The latter gave to him his musical temperament, and the
title of the book suggests the author's main motif--the warring
strains, Puritan and Slav, in her hero. The central idea is the
mistake a woman makes who attempts to reform a man after marriage.
Beatrix Dane, the heroine of the book, discovers during her
engagement that Lorimer, her lover, has an inherited appetite for
drink, but from a mistaken sense of duty does not break her troth,
and her intimate friends shrink from any interference. Much of the
novel has a decidedly musical atmosphere, and the attitude of some
portions of New York society toward musical people is well
described.
=A Detached Pirate.= By HELEN MILCETE. Illustrated in color by I. H.
Caliga. 12mo. Decorated cloth, $1.50.
A misunderstanding, a divorce, and a reconciliation furnish the
theme of this bright, clever, witty, society novel. The events
occur in London, in Halifax and its garrison, and in New York; and
the story is told by Gay Vandeleur, a very charming heroine. The
book will entertain and delight all who read it.
=The Pharaoh and the Priest.= Translated from the original Polish of
ALEXANDER GLOVATSKI, by JEREMIAH CURTIN. Illustrated. 12mo. Decorated
cloth, $1.50. _Fifth Edition_.
A powerful portrayal of Ancient Egypt in the eleventh century
before Christ is this novel in which Alexander Glovatski has
vividly depicted the pitiless struggle between the pharaoh and the
priesthood for supremacy. "Here is a historical novel in the best
sense," says the _New York Commercial Advertiser_, "a novel which
makes a vanished civilization live again."
=Love Thrives in War.= A Romance of the Frontier in 1812. By MARY
CATHERINE CROWLEY, author of "A Daughter of New France," "The Heroine of
the Strait," etc. Illustrated by Clyde O. De Land. 12mo. Decorated
cloth, $1.50.
The surrender of General Howe and his American army to the British
and their Indian allies under Tecumseh, and other stirring events
of the War of 1812 form the historical background of Miss Crowley's
latest romance. The reader's interest is at once centered in the
heroine, Laurente Macintosh, a pretty and coquettish Scotch girl.
The many incidents which occur in the vicinity of Detroit are
related with skill and grace. The characters, real and fictitious,
are strongly contrasted. Miss Crowley's new romance is strongly
imaginative and picturesquely written, wholesome, inspiring, and
absorbing.
=The Wars of Peace.= By A. F. WILSON Illustrated by H. C. Ireland. 12mo.
Decorated cloth, $1.50.
A strong and skilfully constructed novel upon a subject of the
greatest importance and interest at the present time,--"Trusts" and
their consequences. Albion Harding, a successful and immensely
ambitious financier, organizes an industrial combination which
causes much suffering and disaster, and eventually alienates his
only son, who, declining to enter the "Trust," withdraws his
capital from his father's business, and buys a small mill and
attempts to manage it according to his own ideas. The account of
the destruction of Theodore Harding's mill, and his rescue, is
dramatic, vivid, and thrilling.
=A Prince of Sinners.= By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM, author of "A Millionaire
of Yesterday," "The Traitors," etc. Illustrated. 12mo. $1.50.
An engrossing story of English social life told by a skilled hand.
Lord Arranmore, returning to England after an absence of twenty
misspent years, finds his manly son, Kingston Brooks, unforgiving,
and determined to work out his own career. The difficulties with
which Brooks meets in carrying out his purpose, the attempts of
Lord Arranmore to assist him, together with the divided love
interest, make up an ingenious present-day romance, which possesses
an extraordinary fascination.
=A Rose of Normandy.= By WILLIAM R. A. WILSON. Illustrated by Ch.
Grunwald. 12mo. Decorated cloth, $1.50.
A most entertaining historical romance of France and Canada in the
reign of Louis XIV. Robert Cavelier, Sieur de la Salle, and his
faithful lieutenant, Henri de Tonti, are leading characters, the
latter being the hero of the book. The explorations of La Salle,
his hardships and adventures, the love of Tonti for Renee, the
"Rose of Normandy," their escapes from the Indians, and other
adventures, make up a story which the author has told with great
spirit.
=The Spoils of Empire.= A Romance of the Old World and the New. By FRANCIS
NEWTON THORPE, author of "The Constitutional History of the United
States," etc. Illustrated by Frank B. Masters. 12mo. Decorated cloth,
$1.50.
The Spanish Inquisition and the wondrous splendor and power of
Mexico in the time of Montezuma furnish the rich historical
background of this brilliant and absorbing romance. The conquest of
Mexico by the adventurous Spaniards is vividly described; and the
passion of Juan Estoval, a follower of Cortez, for the beautiful
Aztec princess, Dorothea, the daughter of Montezuma, furnishes a
tender and charming love story.
=Sarah Tuldon.= A Woman Who Had Her Way. By ORME AGNUS, author of "Love in
Our Village," "Jan Oxber," etc. Illustrated. 12mo. Decorated cloth,
$1.50.
A remarkable study of an English peasant girl of strong character
who was developed by the circumstances of her life into a fine,
noble-hearted, and generous woman. Sarah Tuldon is a very unusual,
original, and racy type of character, and outside of Thomas Hardy's
books there is no such realistic study of conditions which exist in
England to-day among the laborers, as that given in the pages of
this story. The author has genuine humor and pathos and great
dramatic skill.