On Miss Edgar's return to her room, as she opened the door, a flood of
fragrance rolled upon her. She put up her hand in hasty gesture, as if
to rebuke or resist it, while a shade of displeasure crossed her face.
On the piano lay a bouquet of flowers, richest in hue and fragrance that
garden or hot-house knows. All the season's splendor seemed concentrated
within those narrow bounds.
The gas was already burning from a single jet, which she approached
without observing the unusual fact, for the organist was accustomed in
this room herself to control light and darkness.
One glance only was needed to convince her through what avenue this
flowery gift had come.
Such gifts were offerings of more than common significance. Their
renewal at this day seemed to disturb the organist as she turned the
bouquet slowly in her hand and perceived how the old arrangement had
been adhered to, from passion-flower to camellia, whitest white lily,
and most delicate of roses; moss and vine-tendril, jessamine,
heliotrope, violet, ivy: it was a work of Art consummating that of
Nature, and complete.
With the bouquet in her hand, she went and sat down at the window. It
was easy to see, by the changes of countenance, that she was fast
assuming the reins of a resolution. Would the door of the organist of
St. Peter's never open but to guests ethereal as these? The question was
somehow asked, and she could not choose but hear it.
If he who sent the gift had pondered it, no less did she. And for
result, at an early hour the next morning, the lady who had lived her
life in sovereign independence and an almost absolute solitude, week
after week these many months here in H----, was on her way to the studio
of Adam von Gelhorn.
As to the lady, what image has the reader conjured up to fancy? Any
vision? She was the shadow of a woman. Rachel, in her last days, not
_more_ ethereal. Two pale-faced, blue-eyed women could not be more
dissimilar than the organist and her soprano. For the organist plainly
was herself, with merely an abatement, that might have risen from
anxiety, work, or study; whatever her disturbance, she made no
exhibition of it; it was always a tranquil face, and no storms or wrecks
were discoverable in those deep blue eyes. What those few faint lines on
her countenance might mean she does not choose you shall interpret;
therefore attempt it not. But when you look at Sybella, it is sorrow you
see; and she says as plainly as if you heard her voice,--
"I have come to the great state where I expect nothing and am content."
Yet _content_! _Is_ it content you read in her face, in her smile? Is it
satisfaction that can gaze out thus upon the world?
It is sorrow rather,--and sorrow, with a questioning thereat, that seems
prophetic of an answer that shall yet overthrow all the grim deductions,
and restore the early imaginings, pure hopes, desires, and loving aims.
You will choose to gaze rather after this shadowy vision of the fair,
golden hair that lies tranquilly on the high and beautiful forehead; the
face, pale as pallor itself, which seems to have no color, except in
eyes and lips: the eyes so large and blue; the lips with their story of
firm courage and true genius, so grand in calm. A figure, however, not
likely to attract the many, but whom it held for once it held forever.
So the organist came to the room of Adam von Gelhorn.
She knew his working hours and habits, it seemed; at least, she did not
fail to find him, and at work.
As she stepped forward into the apartment, before whose door she had
paused a moment, no trace of embarrassment or of irresolution was to be
seen in face, eye, or movement.
But the artist, who arose from his work, _was_ taken by surprise.
The armor of the world did not suffice to protect him at this moment. He
was at the mercy of the woman who was here.
"Mrs. Edgar!"
"Adam."
"Here!"
"To thank you for the flowers, and to warn you that setting them in
deserts is neither safe nor providential."
And now her eyes ran round the room,--a flash in which was sheathed a
smile of satisfaction and of friendly pride. She had come here full of
reproaches, but surely there was some enchantment against her.
"You will order a picture, perhaps?" said the artist, restored to at
least an appearance of ease.
But his eyes did not follow hers. They stopped with her: with some
misgiving, some doubt, some perplexity, for he knew not perfectly the
ground on which he stood.
"You have been twice to see me, and both times have missed me," she
said. "I was sorry for that. I did not know until then that you were
living here."
"But what does it mean, that nobody in H---- has heard the voice yet? It
has distracted me to think, perhaps, some harm has come to it."
"Let that fear rest. The voice has had its day. I left it behind me at
Havre. Any repetition of what we used to imagine were triumphs in the
wonderful Düsseldorf days would now seem absurd, to the painter of these
pictures, as to me."
"They were triumphs! Besides, have you forgotten? Was it not in New
York, in '58, that you imported the voice from Havre, left behind by
mistake? What more could be asked than to inspire a town with
enthusiasm, so that the dullest should feel the contagion? They were
triumphs such as women have seldom achieved. If _you_ disdain them,
recollect that human nature is still the same, and all that I have done
is under the inspiration of a voice that broke on me in Düsseldorf, and
opened heaven. And people find some pleasure in my pictures."
"Well may they! You, also. You have kept that power separate from
sinners, unless I mistake. If it be my music, or the face yonder, that
has helped you, or something else, unconfessed, perhaps unknown, you
can, I perceive, at least love Art worthily, and be constant. As for St.
Peter's, and myself, I find the fine organ there quite enough, with the
boys to train and Miss Sybella Ives to instruct. It isn't much I can do
for her, though; she is already a great and wonderful artist."
"Is it possible you think so!"
Was it really wonder at the judgment she heard in that exclamation? The
voice sounded void of all except wonder,--yet wonder, perhaps, least of
all was paramount in the pavilion of his secret thoughts.
"Decidedly. But I only engaged there as organist. I find sufficient
pleasure instructing the young lady, without feeling ambitious to appear
there as her rival."
"But you know she is not a professional singer": these words escaped the
artist in spite of him. "She is an heiress of one of the wealthiest old
families of this old town."
"Nevertheless, she is growing so rarely in these days I would not for
the world check that growth, as I see I might. Besides, I am selfish;
it's best for _me_ to keep to my engagement, and not volunteer
anything."
"And so we who have memories must rest content with them. I am glad you
tell me, if it must be so. I have not haunted you, and I feel as if I
almost deserved your thanks on that account. I've haunted the church,
though, but"----
"Well."
"Miss Ives sings better than she did,--too well for such a girl in such
a place."
"Why?"
"Because, as I said before, neither Art nor fortune justifies her, and
what she gets will spoil her."
He ended in confusion; some thought unexpressed overthrew him just here,
and he could not instantly gather himself up again.
"Do not fear," was the calm answer. "She is sacredly safe from that,--as
safe as I am. For so young a person, she is rich in safeguards, though
she seems to be alone; and she is brave enough to use them. If you come
to the church to-morrow, you will be converted from the error of some of
your worst thoughts."
"I told you in secret once, Heaven knows under what insane infatuation,
what I could tell you now with husband or child for audience,--there is,
there has ever been, but one voice for me."
For answer the organist lifted the lid of the artist's piano, touched a
few notes, and sang.
Was that the voice that once brought out the applause of the people,
rushing and roaring like the waves of the sea?
The same, etherealized, strengthened,--meeting the desire of the trained
and cultured man, as once it had the impassioned aspiration of youth.
He stood there, as of old, completely subject to her will; and of old
she had worked for good, as one of God's accredited angels. Every evil
passion in those days had stood rebuked before the charmed circle of her
influences: a voice to long for as the hart longs for the water-brooks;
a spirit to trust for work, or for love, or for truth,--"truest truth,"
and stanchest loyalty, as one might trust those who are delivered
forever from the power of temptation.
When she had ended the song, she had indeed ended. Not one note more.
Closing the piano, she walked about the room, looking at his pictures
one after another, pausing long before some, but the silence in which
she made the circuit was unbroken.
At last she came to the last-painted picture, where a soldier lay dying,
with glory on his face, victory in his eyes. Beside this she remained.
"There's many a realization of that dream," she said.
The words seemed to sting the artist as though she had said instead,
"Here's one who is in no danger of realizing it."
"I thought," said he, "I might one day prove for myself the emotions
attributed to that soldier."
She hesitated before answering. A vision rose before her,--a vision of
fields covered with the slain, unburied dead. Here the paths of honor
were cut short by the grave. She looked at Adam von Gelhorn. Here was no
warrior except for courage, no knight but for chivalry. Yet how proudly
his eyes met hers! What was this glance that seemed suddenly to fall
upon her from some unbroken, awful height? It was a great thing to say,
with the knowledge that came with that glance,--
"Do you no longer think so? Patriotism has its tests. This war will be
long enough to sift enthusiasms."