The green and gold of summer modulated into a gorgeous autumnal
symphony of faint-coloured flowers; scarlet, yellow and russet browns.
October with its tonic and out-door joys was at hand. The tree-tops
beckoned to the white clouds, lazily floating aloft. Ulick longed for
the hills of New Hampshire, for the Franconian landscape with its
sweep of horizon. One black spot in his memory had not been effaced.
In review he saw the fanatics headed by the chief of the Holy Yowlers,
saw Roarin' Nell and Brother Rainbow, saw, Oh! memorable moment, for
the first time the glorious woman called Easter, Esther Brandès, now
Istar, the famous Isolde and Brunnhilde. Would he ever see her again?
Did he really long for her presence, or was it pure fancy, rather,
unmitigated curiosity? Over his tea and toast this morning he couldn't
reason the idea to a logical conclusion. He knew that he was fickle.
But, then, that was in the past. There was only one girl now--Dora
being a light-of-love--and that was Mona. She was adorable--Mona,
and her parents hardly less adorable. Since that tremendous night he
felt that his love for her had been tested as in a fiery furnace; and
through that fiery furnace had passed Mona, little the worse for the
experience; yet, as he admitted to himself, somehow changed. She was
subdued, her eyes unquiet, her vivacity of speech dampened. The wound
in her consciousness had left a deep scar. She could not forget. She
would never forget.
He sighed as he thought of the change, yet he was reconciled to their
altered relationship. Three times a week he dined at the Milton's.
There was no doubt about the cordiality of the old people; they liked
him and showed their liking. He was virtually the future son-in-law,
and if, at times, he shuddered if he thought of marriage, the sober
joy of Mona when he was with them proved a prop to buttress up his
irresolution. Milt had written him a friendly letter in which transpired
brotherly pride. It was a certain thing. Ulick accepted the
situation. Fatalistic by temperament as well as training, he told
himself it might better be Mona than any other girl. She was charming.
But she was changed. She spoke no longer of her doll, of their
dream-children, and once, when he had invited her to luncheon at the
Maison Félicé, offering to play Chopin for her afterwards, she had
refused. "I have promised," was her explanation. "You play for me at
home, even if our upright isn't so splendid as your Steinway grand,
we enjoy you just the same." And when he had mockingly called her a
naughty little coward, she responded: "If you don't ask me the reason,
perhaps that would be the best way to make me tell everything." He
desisted, though he yearned for her. He was not a man to resist his
amorous inclinations. Dora was off his visiting list. Mona, then, was
his sole refuge. She saw that he was suffering, but she had given her
word to her mother that she would never visit Ulick alone. Once only
and in company with Mrs. Milton she had taken luncheon at the Maison,
but when he asked them to go to his music-room she hastily refused.
See that room again she could not. She feared her nerves would play
her tricks. For the rest, she had been away several months, in the
mountains, at the seashore. Her languour had not been dissipated;
"tædium vitæ," the doctor named it. She needed, he said, an ocean trip,
a complete change of scene. But she preferred not to leave Ulick.
He glanced through the news columns this bright October morning.
Suddenly a headline and a name caught his eye. Istar! The elopement of
the celebrated opera singer Istar with a prince of the blood royal!
A half column cable despatch, evidently elaborated in the newspaper
office. It described in exaggerated terms the elopement of Easter
with a Bavarian princeling from Munich. She had been singing there as
"guest" and the musical prince had lost his head, though married to a
dowdy princess, and the father of an increasing family. The pair had
run away in the night but all the machinery of policedom had been set
whirring. En route for Lake Como they were tracked to Vienna and there
arrested. A diplomatic arrest, be it understood. The "avenging wife"
figured in the dénouement; she was said to have wielded a whip, but
Istar grabbed it from her flaccid grasp and gave the unhappy woman a
genuine horse-whipping. But doubtless this incident was manufactured
out of the whole cloth. The wretched princeling was nipped and in
company with a delegation of solemn functionaries, was sent back to
Munich, where he was solemnly spanked and put to bed--metaphorically.
The affair made a terrific scandal. Istar was warned by the secret
police that she would be expelled if she ever crossed the Bavarian
border. What amused Ulick was her reported attitude when she was
intercepted. She swaggered to the prince and shaking his chilly,
frightened hand, she insolently hummed a familiar tune: "Du bist
verrückt mein Kind. Du muss nach Berlin...." The pompous entourage
couldn't stand that and there were discreet smiles and much wagging of
official skulls. Decidedly, Easter came out with flying colours....
Ulick laid down the paper. Easter was surely on the road to victory.
Duels, elopements, scandals, royal favours, Good Heavens! how that girl
is going straight to her goal. She is an arriviste, but all women are
arrivistes. Never mind so you win! When he thought of some women and
compared his own slow mode of reacting to circumstances he realised
that his incompetence was encyclopaedic. He admired Easter more than
ever, admired her at a distance of three thousand miles. All said
and done she was more to his taste than Mona. He was worldly. He was
artistic. He liked the éclat of operatic triumphs. Istar had arrived.
Lilli Lehmann, retired; Ternina retired--who was there, except Olive
Fremstad to take their place! Fremstad would prove a serious rival
to Easter. No doubt about that. But she had visited New York before
Easter, and that would give the girl a free field.
There was Mary Garden, who had been startling Paris from its musical
apathy with her marvellous Mélisande. And the young Geraldine
Farrar--she was cutting an artistic swath in Berlin. Yet none was so
brilliant, he thought, so promising, as his beloved Easter. Beloved?
The word was the father to his wish. Easter had never appeared to him
in such alluring shapes. Beautiful girl, great singer--and then her sex
suddenly swam before him and he literally saw crimson. His enforced
chastity was telling adversely on his sanguine temperament. Be virtuous
and you'll be bilious! He sourly quoted to himself. If this thing keeps
on I'll be forced to ring up Dora.... He hurriedly dressed and went to
his club.