"Probably," replied Jennings. "He lived with her in Italy, I believe,
until he was almost grown. Then she died. You sang for him?"
"No," Mildred said it hesitatingly.
"Oh!" said Jennings, and his expression--interested, disturbed,
puzzled--made Mildred understand why she had been so reluctant to
confess. Jennings did not pursue the subject, but abruptly began the
lesson. That day and several days thereafter he put her to tests he
had never used before. She saw that he was searching for
something--for the flaw implied in the adverse verdict of the son of
Lucia Rivi. She was enormously relieved when he gave over the search
without having found the flaw. She felt that Donald Keith's verdict
had been proved false or at least faulty. Yet she was not wholly
reassured, and from time to time she suspected that Jennings had not
been, either.
Soon the gayety of the preceding winter and spring was in full swing
again. Keith did not return, did not write, and Cyrilla Brindley
inquired and telephoned in vain. Mildred worked with enthusiasm, with
hope, presently with confidence. She hoped every day that Keith would
come; she would make him listen to her, force him to admit. She caught
a slight cold, neglected it, tried to sing it away. Her voice left her
abruptly. She went to Jennings as usual the day she found herself able
to do nothing more musical than squeak. She told him her plight. Said
he:
"Begin! Let's hear."
She made a few dismal attempts, stopped short, and, half laughing, half
ashamed, faced him for the lecture she knew would be forthcoming. Now,
it so happened that Jennings was in a frightful humor that day--one of
those humors in which the most prudent lose their self-control. He had
been listening to a succession of new pupils--women with money and no
voice, women who screeched and screamed and thoroughly enjoyed
themselves and angled confidently for compliments. As Jennings had an
acute musical ear, his sufferings had been frightful. He was used to
these torments, had the habit of turning the fury into which they put
him into excellent financial or disciplinary account. But on this
particular day his nerves went to pieces, and it was with Mildred that
the explosion came. When she looked at him, she was horrified to see a
face distorted and discolored by sheer rage.
"You fool!" he shouted, storming up and down. "You fool! You can't
sing! Keith was right. You wouldn't do even for a church choir. You
can't be relied on. There's nothing behind your voice--no strength, no
endurance, no brains. No brains! Do you hear?--no brains, I say!"
Mildred was terrified. She had seen him in tantrums before, but always
there had been a judicious reserving of part of the truth. Instead of
resenting, instead of flashing eye or quivering lips, Mildred sat down
and with white face and dazed eyes stared straight before her. Jennings
raved and roared himself out. As he came to his senses from this
debauch of truth-telling his first thought was how expensive it might
be. Thus, long before there was any outward sign that the storm had
passed, the ravings, the insults were shrewdly tempered with
qualifyings. If she kept on catching these colds, if she did not obey
his instructions, she might put off her debut for years--for three
years, for two years at least. And she would always be rowing with
managers and irritating the public--and so on and on. But the mischief
had been done. The girl did not rouse.
"No use to go on to-day," he said gruffly--the pretense at last
rumblings of an expiring storm.
"Nor any other day," said Mildred.
She stood and straightened herself. Her face was beautiful rather than
lovely. Its pallor, its strong lines, the melancholy intensity of the
eyes, made her seem more the woman fully developed, less, far less, the
maturing girl.
"Nonsense!" scolded Jennings. "But no more colds like that. They
impair the quality of the voice."
"I have no voice," said the girl. "I see the truth."
Jennings was inwardly cursing his insane temper. In about the kindliest
tone he had ever used with her, he said: "My dear Miss Stevens, you
are in no condition to judge to-day. Come back to-morrow. Do
something for that cold to-night. Clear out the throat--and come back
to-morrow. You will see."
"Yes, I know those tricks," said she, with a sad little smile. "You
can make a crow seem to sing. But you told me the truth."
"To-morrow," he cried pleasantly, giving her an encouraging pat on the
shoulder. He knew the folly of talking too much, the danger of
confirming her fears by pretending to make light of them. "A good
sleep, and to-morrow things will look brighter."
He did not like her expression. It was not the one he was used to
seeing in those vain, "temperamental" pupils of his--the downcast
vanity that will be up again in a few hours. It was rather the
expression of one who has been finally and forever disillusioned.
On her way home she stopped to send Keith a telegram: "I must see you
at once."
There were several at the apartment for tea, among them Cullan, an
amateur violinist and critic on music whom she especially liked. For,
instead of the dreamy, romantic character his large brown eyes and
sensitive features suggested, he revealed in talk and actions a boyish
gayety--free, be it said, from boyish silliness--that was most
infectious. His was one of those souls that put us in the mood to
laugh at all seriousness, to forget all else in the supreme fact of the
reality of existence. He made her forget that day--forget until
Keith's answering telegram interrupted: "Next Monday afternoon."
A week less a day away! She shrank and trembled at the prospect of
relying upon herself alone for six long days. Every prop had been
taken away from her. Even the dubious prop of the strange,
unsatisfactory Keith. For had he not failed her? She had said, "must"
and "at once"; and he had responded with three words of curt refusal.
After dinner Stanley unexpectedly appeared. He hardly waited for the
necessary formalities of the greeting before he said to Mrs. Brindley:
"I want to see Mildred alone. I know you won't mind, Mrs. Brindley.
It's very important." He laughed nervously but cheerfully. "And in a
few minutes I'll call you in. I think I'll have something interesting
to tell you."
Mrs. Brindley laughed. With her cigarette in one hand and her cup of
after-dinner coffee in the other, she moved toward the door, saying
gayly to Mildred:
"I'll be in the next room. If you scream I shall hear. So don't be
alarmed."
Stanley closed the door, turned beaming upon Mildred. Said he: "Here's
my news. My missus has got her divorce."
Mildred started up.
"Yes, the real thing," he assured her. "Of course I knew what was
doing. But I kept mum--didn't want to say anything to you till I could
say everything. Mildred, I'm free. We can be married to-morrow, if you
will."
"Then you know about me?" said she, confused.
"On the way I stopped in to see Keith. He told me about that
skunk--told me you were free, too."
Mildred slowly sat down. Her elbows rested upon the table. There was
her bare forearm, slender and round, and her long, graceful fingers lay
against her cheek. The light from above reflected charmingly from the
soft waves and curves of her hair. "You're lovely--simply lovely!"
cried Stanley. "Mildred--darling--you WILL marry me, won't you? You
can go right on with the career, if you like. In fact, I'd rather you
would, for I'm frightfully proud of your voice. And I've changed a lot
since I became sincerely interested in you. The other sort of life and
people don't amuse me any more. Mildred, say you'll marry me. I'll
make you as happy as the days are long."
She moved slightly. Her hand dropped to the table.
"I guess I came down on you too suddenly," said he. "You look a bit
dazed."
"No, I'm not dazed," replied she.
"I'll call Mrs. Brindley in, and we'll all three talk it over."
"Please don't," said she. "I've got to think it out for myself."
"I know there isn't anyone else," he went on. "So, I'm sure--dead
sure, Mildred, that I can teach you to love me."