“He must pay you a reasonable sum to cover that expense.”
“Oh--Anthony!” Her eyes flashed fire. “I won't touch a cent of his
money!”
“But--but--”
“Not one cent!”
Somehow I felt very sordidly masculine as I stood there trying to
explain. I gave her the reasons, as I had thought them out--that it was
mere justice to recompense her for the time he had forced her to lose.
But my voice began to falter, as I ran on with the jargon; for I saw
that she was not listening. She had become very white. She leaned
against the casement, all limp and sad, gazing out over the roofs. Her
breath was coming more quickly. And I saw her draw her under lip in a
little way between her teeth.
My voice trailed off into silence. For I suddenly knew that she was
thinking of her own utter helplessness. And as the fact tortured her
nne, free spirit, so also it tortured mine. I reached my hand toward
hers; then, since she did not see, withdrew it. There could be no help
for either of us in that contact--nothing but a deeper confusion. Then I
turned and walked away across the room, and sat gloomily on the edge of
the bed.
We must have remained silent for several minutes. It seemed an hour to
me, as I sat there, brooding, and struggling against the tendency to
brood.
Then I heard her step, and her voice; and looked up to find her standing
over me. She was actually smiling--a resolute smile.
“Forgive me, Anthony,” she said. And then, before I could exclaim at
this, she added, enthusiastically, like the girl she often seems--
“Let's make the new scales now!”
For a moment I could only look at her, wondering at her astonishing
buoyancy of spirit. Then, as she was herself carrying my phonograph to
the table and adjusting the horn, I got up--still heavy and a thought
bewildered--and brought a box of cylinders.
While I was at this, she walked a few times to the window and back,
swinging her arms freely, like a boy, and inhaling deep breaths. Her
collar evidently confined her throat, for she tore it open with an
unconscious vigor that displaced a hook and sent it flying against the
window. She seemed not to notice this. She swung up on the balls of her
feet and ran through a number of vocal exercises. It thrilled me to hear
again that wonderful voice, with the firm resonance and the fine quality
that always, to me, makes her seem something more than woman.
“It's a wonder I can bring the tones out at all,” she observed, half to
herself. “I have n't sung a note for days.”
Next she began running scales; very carefully and precisely, her
eyebrows puckered into an intent frown. And I watched her white throat,
and round chin, and delicately curving mouth.
She caught me looking at her, and flashed a smile at me. Then, with
her eyes on mine, took in a quick deep breath that filled her chest out
solidly, and, full voice, broke into the old familiar waltz song from
“Romeo and Juliet.”
I knew then that I had never really heard her sing before. She saw the
surprise on my face, I know, for her eyes suddenly sparkled anti sprung
away from mine and she flushed with pleasure; but she went right on with
the song--sang it clear through, managing the lace-like coloratura work
with perfect ease and precision, unconsciously throwing her whole body
into the glorious, swaying rhythm of the waltz, and letting out a
volume of tone--of sheer, luscious tone, without a particle of “wood”
in it--that filled the room, that would have filled the greatest opera
house in the world, that throbbed about my ears and set my emotions
vibrating in harmony with it and with the mood of the singer that
animated it.
When she had done, I stood motionless there. It seemed to me that echoes
of that wonderful voice were still floating to my sense-consciousness
from every quarter of the shabby little room. I know that I hail to look
out for a moment at the sunlight on the roofs beyond the window, and
myself take in a deep breath that, I fear, was half a sigh.
She was standing by me.
“We must get to work,” she said.
I put a cylinder on the machine. First I looked at her and tried to
speak, but could not. I don't know what it could have been that
I thought I wanted to say. Probably it was nothing more than the
inarticulate emotions her singing had stirred, groping for some outward
expression in words.
Her eyes were very bright. I motioned her to go ahead.
“You have n't wound it up,” she said, and chuckled softly. I can not
account for her moods. But, for that matter, I think I chuckled with
her.
We made twelve records. I believe they will prove to be even better, on
the whole, than the ten I destroyed. So, whatever happens, I have again
my close-interval scale; again I have the selfish gratification of
knowing that I have been enabled to establish a basis of scientific
interval comparison for the use of all students of primitive music. It
is Heloise's last gift to me, done in a strange sort of joy that, even
to-night, breaks triumphantly through the shadow that lies on her life
and mine.
She watched me while I removed the last of the twelve cylinders, and
carefully sealed it in its separate box, and wrote the label. Then she
said:
“Oh, Anthony, it is so--worth while!”
All I could say in reply--so full was my heart--was:
“Yes, dear. Work is the answer.”
And so close were we now, that I knew she did not think my reply inept.
She looked at her watch, then soberly reflected. “It is half past one,
Anthony,” she said. Conscious that I still found some difficulty in
talking, she added: “Would it do any good for me to go--with you, or
alone?”
“No,” said I, shaking my head. “Not now. It would only excite him. And
that would help nobody.”
“I know,” said she. “I hate to be passive, this way. I feel as if I were
shirking--”
“You are n't. It will take some courage to do what you must do.”
“I know,” she said again. “Be patient, keep steady; help you that way I
know, Anthony.”
It had occurred to me, when I left Crocker in the morning, that, in
the event of any actual physical encounter, there would be a quite
unnecessary danger to me in wearing my glasses. I thought of this again,
now; and going to the bureau I got my spectacle case and slipped it into
my coat pocket.
Heloise watched me, but asked no questions. I put on my hat, and took my
stick from the corner by the door.
“Good-by, Heloise,” I said. I knew that unless we parted swiftly my will
would weaken and I should take her in my arms. So I only said good-by,
and opened the door.
But she came right forward, and took my hand. Our eyes met. What I saw
in hers reassured me. She seemed very steady and strong.
“Anthony,” she said, “I have been selfish, and weak. I have made it hard
for you. But you can count on me now.”
I tried to murmur a protest to this, but she swept on: “I am going to do
whatever you decide for me. I shan't make any more difficulties. Now go.
God bless you, Anthony.”
She dropped my hand, and stepped back.
I stood there and fumbled the door knob. I felt that I was almost
certainly going to draw her to me and kiss those wonderful eyes that are
the light of my soul.
But she still looked strong.
“I wonder,” she said, musingly, “if there was ever, anywhere in the
world, a man exactly like you.”
Then she turned away. “You'd better go,” she said, with a little
gesture.