He was not in sight when I came back, more than an hour later. So I
haven't to face that cynical, drooping eye to-night, at least.
It is pitifully indiscreet of her to use her real name this way--in the
circumstances. But oh, I am glad, just the same!
_April 6th. Night._
|WE worked hard this morning, she and I. And a little this afternoon.
That is the thing, of course--work. It steadies me. And it is her only
hope. For she has a life to build, poor child!
April 7th.
|HER name is Héloïse.
I like it. It fits her. Or it would fit her real self. Despite the
fact that she is now in a disheartened, quite apathetic phase, I catch
glimpses of a Gallic effectiveness about her. It is in her face, in the
poise of her body, in the way she wears her clothes.
Yesterday, all day, I successfully avoided Sir Robert. This afternoon,
for a moment, he caught me; but I deliberately said good-day and walked
off. It was rude. But he, as an Englishman, would not hesitate an
instant to be rude to me if the fancy took him. Curiously, he is
anything but rude to me. I believe he stations himself where there
appears to be a chance of waylaying me. He is even foregoing the big
hotel in the Legation Quarter and having some of his meals here, in his
room, directly across from hers. Which is disturbing--rather.
April 8th. Noon.
|WE have a perfect half scale, at last--_c_ to _g_.
I shall now drive ahead after the rest of it. It has been a rather
more exacting task than either of us foresaw. But she is persistent. If
anything she throws too much nervous intensity into her work. She
has asked me for copying to do, and even secretarial work. With her
reasonably complete musical education she is quite competent to take
down from the phonograph the notation of melodies and themes. She shuts
herself in at night and works over my papers and music sheets until she
is quite exhausted. I have tried to remonstrate; but she insists that
she likes having the work to do. Poor child!
She has told me a good deal about her musical life. Not the least of her
troubles is the fact that it would take at least two years of the very
best coaching to fit her for opera. She has no repertoire to speak of.
She has dreamed of the operatic stage from her earliest girlhood.
But while she was young the opportunity was lacking. Her father was a
high-school superintendent--a man of fineness and principle, I take it,
but desperately poor. Her mother, who had been a singer, died when she
was a child, the father two years ago. And then after her early marriage
to Crocker, her life took a new and strange direction. She says nothing
about Crocker. What little she does tell of this more recent part of
her life she tells in a very quiet, reserved manner, implying an
understanding that I will display no curiosity to learn more.
Yes, she accepts me as a friend. And she still thinks I know nothing
of her beyond her bare name. I lie to her a dozen times a day, in my
silences. But I don't see what else I can do. Certainly I can't offer
her money. I can't buy her a ticket over the Trans-Siberian and send her
off to Europe to study for opera. I am foolish enough to have moments
of wishing to do just that; but it is, of course, an impossible thought.
And to tell her the painful knowledge that is at present locked up in my
mind would simply shock and hurt her to no purpose that I can perceive.
We have at least one meal a day together. Yesterday we shared all three
meals--breakfast in her room, luncheon and dinner in mine. It seemed the
natural thing to do. Excepting the breakfast--that was perhaps a trifle
odd. But all during the night, at intervals, I heard her stirring about
in her room, and saw that her light was on. Toward morning, feeling
rather disturbed about her, I got up, and, at length, dressed. This was
about six o'clock.
At six-thirty I stepped out on the narrow little French balcony outside
my window. It is less than a foot wide, this balcony, and has a fancy
wrought-iron railing.
She also has a balcony, and while I stood there she came out. She was
dressed. And she seemed so frankly glad to see me, that I suggested the
breakfast. She looked very tired about the eyes. Indeed, I am not sure
that she does not grow a shade more tired, a shade slimmer, each day.
She eats next to nothing at all.
Certainly, each day she works harder. I am going to think out some way
in which I can offer to pay her for this work. It is most assuredly
worth something. As it stands now, she even insists on paying for her
share of the meals.
_Night._
|SIR ROBERT spoke to her to-day. As luck would have it, I was not at
hand.
It has been cloudy, and when she went out for her walk this afternoon
she forgot to take her umbrella. She is not timid about the weather,
anyway. I have thought once or twice that she likes storms.
She was on her way back to the hotel when the storm broke--not far from
the Arcade, where the moving pictures are shown. She took refuge in the
entrance to the Arcade until the worst of the rain appeared to be over,
then started out again through the wet.
Sir Robert appeared at her elbow, with an umbrella. She did not observe
whether he had been following her or merely happened to meet her. He
walked to the hotel with her. This was all she told me; but I am sure it
was not quite all that occurred.
She asked if he was n't a judge.
“Yes,” I replied. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh,” said she--“it was something he said.”
Which was all I learned about that episode.
It did not seem to disturb her materially. I was glad it did n't. I made
a strong effort to conceal my own foolish anger over it, and trust that
I succeeded. At any rate, we dropped the subject.
_April 10th._
|THIS afternoon, late, I came into the hotel from a walk in the rain and
went directly upstairs. I had my rubbers on.
The upper corridor was nearly dark, particularly to my eyes that were
fresh from the street and the bright lights of the office.