THE GOLD SONG
As Mrs. West, with Margaret and May Thurston, had gone for a stroll
soon after the departure of David and the engineer, the mystery
concerning the identity of the person in the music-room at the time
of Billy’s misadventure remained unsolved. The subject afforded the
friends much opportunity for speculation, all of which resulted in
nothing definite. Margaret and her mother showed not the slightest
irritation over the way in which the property had been damaged; on
the contrary, they were seen to smile whenever their gaze touched
the broken place in the ceiling, which remained the mute witness to
an inglorious achievement. Saxe, while awaiting the development of
another idea for the quest, devoted himself assiduously to Margaret.
He made no effort to conceal his infatuation--or, if he did, the
attempt was futile. He was, indeed, so flagrant in his court as to
fill the engineer with an ever increasing fury of jealousy, which
threatened ill to one or the other of the two young men. On his
part, Saxe was made miserable by the affability with which Margaret
accepted the attendance of the engineer on her. It seemed monstrous
that her instinct should leave her unwarned as to the vicious
character of the fellow. Saxe felt that he, as a gentleman, could
give her no least word of admonition under the circumstances. He
could only do his best to keep at her side every moment, and in this
he succeeded remarkably well, though by no means to the extent of
his desire. As for the disposition of the girl herself, she showed
neutrality between the two men in a manner that, while equally
objectionable to each of them, must have commanded the admiration of
any unprejudiced observer.
Roy devoted himself with good grace to May Thurston, who welcomed him
candidly, for her heart was deeply wounded by the patent defection
of her lover. Masters had glibly assured her that it was the part
of diplomacy just now for him to conceal their real relation by
his attentions to Margaret, but his reasoning was not altogether
convincing to her intelligence, and the voice of instinct told
her that her love was being flouted before her very eyes. In
consequence, she greeted this new admirer gladly as a sop to her
pride and, presently, as Roy exerted himself to the utmost toward
making a favorable impression, for the sake of the genuine pleasure
his company gave her. Being a sensible young woman in the main,
the inevitable comparisons that soon began to arise in her mind
between the two young men did much toward tearing loose the roots of
love from her heart, leaving the soil there freshly tilled for the
planting of other seed.
Mrs. West played her part excellently as chaperon by giving her
society much of the time to David and Billy. She was so good to look
on in her well-preserved charms, and so wise and sympathetic in her
conversation, and so untiring a listener, that the two men found
themselves very content.
The other three members of the household, Jake, his wife, and Chris
made an amiable trio in the kitchen, where Mrs. Dustin, who, as Jake
bore witness, had always “hankered to go a-travelin’,” was never
weary of hearing the newcomer’s tales of strange places whither he
had journeyed. For the first time in his life, Chris found himself
appreciated at his full worth, perhaps beyond, not as a servant but
as a man, by those who, while of a humble walk in life, were yet
not of the servant class. He expanded under the novel and pleasing
influence, and developed a gift of narrative that surprised himself.
He felt a new sense of his own importance, which did not in the least
lessen his devotion to Mrs. West and Margaret.
On the third night after the episode in the recess, the ladies had
retired to their chambers for the night, and the indefatigable
Masters, also, had taken his departure from the cottage, but the
four friends still remained in the music-room, where Saxe had been
playing. They were smoking and chatting in care-free fashion of many
things--but not of the treasure which they had set out to find,
though that lay ready at the back of the mind of each.
Saxe lingered at the piano. Now, he was idly giving forth bits of
various compositions as they chanced to rise in memory. It was
while in this mood of desultory reminiscence that he suddenly became
aroused to knowledge of the fact that he was monotonously drumming a
tedious strain, which had neither melody or harmony to justify the
choice of it at all, much less this senseless reiteration. For a few
seconds, he found himself bewildered: he could not recall what the
music was, either the name of the composition or the name of the
author. Nor could he recollect what manner of association he had ever
had with the barren phrases, that he should thus subconsciously carry
them in memory. He was disagreeably impressed by the event, because
he prided himself on the clarity of his mental processes, and here he
found himself completely baffled. Then, in a flash, remembrance came,
and with it an even greater wonder.
This was the music that had been written by the old man of whom he
was the doubtful heir. Even while he mused, he had been continuing
the harsh fragment, and now he gave careful ear to it, seeking some
explanation of the reason why it had persisted in memory, to issue
in his playing without volition on his part. But there came no
suggestion as to that cause from the uncouth strain. He played it
once again, without any hint of understanding, then ceased, wholly at
a loss; it was another who afforded the clue that had eluded him.
As the echoes died away, Billy Walker rumbled a comment from his
luxurious huddling in the depths of the chair:
“Sounds like money--heaps of money--gold, you know, all in stacks,
being counted--clink, clink! Clink, clink!”
Saxe whirled on the piano-stool, an expression of amazement on his
face as he stared at his unmusical friend.
“By heavens, Billy,” he cried excitedly, “you’ve got it--you’ve
got it exactly! That’s what it is; it’s the clink, clink, clink of
the gold-pieces, as they’re piled up.” He was astounded by this
perspicacity on the part of one who had no soul for music, yet had
succeeded here, where he himself had failed. He had no particle of
doubt that this explanation as to the meaning of the music was the
true one. He played the piece once again, emphasizing the accent in
the bass a little, so that the effect was even more pronounced. There
could be no mistake.
Roy spoke with sudden appreciation of the fact:
“Why, that’s the piece you played the other night--the weird one.
I’d been wondering where I’d heard it. It’s the one that got on
Miss Thurston’s nerves so, because the old man was always playing
it toward the last. It’s enough to get on anyone’s nerves, for that
matter, but Billy hit the idea all right.”
David Thwing, nodding energetically, turned his protuberant eyes on
Billy.
“Yes, you hit it, old man,” he exclaimed. “You got the idea we were
all looking for, and couldn’t quite catch hold of. Bully for you! But
how in the world did you ever come to do it? You, a music sharp!” He
burst into a mellow peal of laughter, in which the others joined.
Suddenly, Saxe sprang to his feet, with a display of emotion that
was contrary to his habit, for he had schooled himself to a certain
phlegmatic bearing that masked the native susceptibility of his
moods. Now, however, he forgot restraint in the agitation of his
feeling, and addressed his friends with a vehemence that astonished
them. His swift gestures and the changing play of his features
revealed the volatile artistic temperament, which was ordinarily
shrouded within a veil of imperturbable calm.
“I know, I understand it all now,” he declared eagerly. “In this
music, the old man crystallized his besetting sin. This composition
of his is the song of gold; it is the miser’s song. In it, he
translates into musical terms the vice that corroded his soul. In
it, he expresses the sordidness of that vice, even as he himself
knew it out of dreadful personal experience. And, somehow, he put
into the music the strength of the spell that was laid on him. It
is there--some malignant fascination which each and every one of us
has felt in a fashion of his own. That is why it so gripped Miss
Thurston, and why it affected her so disagreeably. It has in it a
subtle, irresistible suggestion of the hideous. The ignominy and
the power of greed alike sound in the monotony of its rhythm, its
harshness, its fearful simplicity. It is uncouth, it is as if it
were calloused. Yet, it is full of vital, frightful emotion. It is
a statement of ghastly truth, it is a confession of degradation, it
is a wail of utter despair. In short, it is the heart-song of the
miser, written by the brain that looked into the heart and learned
its hateful mystery.”
The others had listened in tense silence, surprised beyond measure
before this outbreak from one always hitherto so tranquil, so serene
amid the varying stresses of affairs. It was the revelation of their
friend in a new light, wherein he showed with an impressiveness
strange to them. They watched him intently as he stood there before
them, all animation, his handsome face flushed in the passion of
the moment. A little sigh of appreciation issued from the lips of
each as, with the last words, he sank again to the piano-stool, and
dropped his hands to the keys. So, once again, he played the music
of that dead man who had given himself to a gross, an evil worship.
Still under the influence of deep emotion, the player now abandoned
himself to the theme, and wrought on it with all his skill in music,
with all the feeling of repulsion that held him in thrall.
There was not in this improvisation the power, the mastery, that had
marked the frenzied interpretation by which the composer had amazed
the night. But Saxe Temple was not wanting a large measure of skill,
and to this he added the sympathy of the true artist, surcharged with
a profound emotion. The uncanny spell of the music laid its hold on
them all as he went on playing, gripped them, sent weird visions
reeling before their fancy. Even Billy Walker for once was beguiled
into a curious receptivity, so that he saw vistas of crouched
specters, which ceaselessly shuffled golden coins to and fro, in a
frenetic joy that was the madness of anguish. May Thurston, asleep in
her chamber, turned uneasily, and her dreams grew troubled.
When, at last, Saxe had made an end of playing, there followed a
long silence. It was Billy Walker who broke it. His great voice rang
through the room, harsh, compelling:
“It’s there,” he said, with simple finality. “It’s there--the clue!”