A COMEDY WITH MUSIC
The Harrigans occupied the suite in the east wing of the villa. This
consisted of a large drawing-room and two ample bedchambers, with
window-balconies and a private veranda in the rear, looking off toward the
green of the pines and the metal-like luster of the copper beeches. Always
the suite was referred to by the management as having once been tenanted
by the empress of Germany. Indeed, tourists were generally and
respectively and impressively shown the suite (provided it was not at the
moment inhabited), and were permitted to peer eagerly about for some sign
of the vanished august presence. But royalty in passing, as with the most
humble of us, leaves nothing behind save the memory of a tip, generous or
otherwise.
It was raining, a fine, soft, blurring Alpine rain, and a blue-grey
monotone prevailed upon the face of the waters and defied all save the
keenest scrutiny to discern where the mountain tops ended and the sky
began. It was a day for indoors, for dreams, good books, and good
fellows.
The old-fashioned photographer would have admired and striven to
perpetuate the group in the drawing-room. In the old days it was quite the
proper thing to snap the family group while they were engaged in some
pleasant pastime, such as spinning, or painting china, or playing the
piano, or reading a volume of poems. No one ever seemed to bother about
the incongruence of the eyes, which were invariably focused at the camera
lens. Here they all were. Mrs. Harrigan was deep in the intricate maze of
the Amelia Ars of Bologna, which, as the initiated know, is a wonderful
lace. By one of the windows sat Nora, winding interminable yards of
lace-hemming from off the willing if aching digits of the Barone, who was
speculating as to what his Neapolitan club friends would say could they
see, by some trick of crystal-gazing, his present occupation. Celeste was
at the piano, playing (_pianissimo_) snatches from the operas, while
Abbott looked on, his elbows propped upon his knees, his chin in his
palms, and a quality of ecstatic content in his eyes. He was in his
working clothes, picturesque if paint-daubed. The morning had been
pleasant enough, but just before luncheon the rain clouds had gathered and
settled down with that suddenness known only in high altitudes.
The ex-gladiator sat on one of those slender mockeries, composed of
gold-leaf and parabolic curves and faded brocade, such as one sees at the
Trianon or upon the stage or in the new home of a new millionaire, and
which, if the true facts be known, the ingenious Louis invented for the
discomfort of his favorites and the folly of future collectors. It creaked
whenever Harrigan sighed, which was often, for he was deeply immersed (and
no better word could be selected to fit his mental condition) in the
baneful book which he had hurled out of the window the night before, only
to retrieve like the good dog that he was. To-day his shoes offered no
loophole to criticism; he had very well attended to that. His tie
harmonized with his shirt and stockings; his suit was of grey tweed; in
fact, he was the glass of fashion and the mold of form, at least for the
present.
"Say, Molly, I don't see what difference it makes."
"Difference what makes, James?" Mrs. Harrigan raised her eyes from her
work. James had been so well-behaved that morning it was only logical for
her to anticipate that he was about to abolish at one fell stroke all his
hard-earned merits.
"About eating salads. We never used to put oil on our tomatoes. Sugar and
vinegar were good enough."
"Sugar and vinegar are not nourishing; olive-oil is."
"We seemed to hike along all right before we learned that." His guardian
angel was alert this time, and he returned to his delving without further
comment. By and by he got up. "Pshaw!" He dropped the wearisome volume on
the reading-table, took up a paper-covered novel, and turned to the last
fight of the blacksmith in _Rodney Stone_. Here was something that made
the invention of type excusable, even commendable.
"Play the fourth _ballade_," urged Abbott.
Celeste was really a great artist. As an interpreter of Chopin she had no
rival among women, and only one man was her equal. She had fire,
tenderness, passion, strength; she had beyond all these, soul, which is
worth more in true expression than the most marvelous technique. She had
chosen Chopin for his brilliance, as some will chose Turner in preference
to Corot: riots of color, barbaric and tingling. She was as great a genius
in her way as Nora was in hers. There was something of the elfin child in
her spirit. Whenever she played to Abbott, there was a quality in the
expression that awakened a wonderment in Nora's heart.
As Celeste began the _andante_, Nora signified to the Barone to drop his
work. She let her own hands fall. Harrigan gently closed his book, for in
that rough kindly soul of his lay a mighty love of music. He himself was
without expression of any sort, and somehow music seemed to stir the dim
and not quite understandable longing for utterance. Mrs. Harrigan alone
went on with her work; she could work and listen at the same time. After
the magnificent finale, nothing in the room stirred but her needle.
"Bravo!" cried the Barone, breaking the spell.
"You never played that better," declared Nora.
Celeste, to escape the keen inquiry of her friend and to cover up her
embarrassment, dashed into one of the lighter compositions, a waltz. It
was a favorite of Nora's. She rose and went over to the piano and rested a
hand upon Celeste's shoulder. And presently her voice took up the melody.
Mrs. Harrigan dropped her needle. It was not that she was particularly
fond of music, but there was something in Nora's singing that cast a
temporary spell of enchantment over her, rendering her speechless and
motionless. She was not of an analytical turn of mind; thus, the truth
escaped her. She was really lost in admiration of herself: she had
produced this marvelous being!
"That's some!" Harrigan beat his hands together thunderously. "Great
stuff; eh, Barone?"
The Barone raised his hands as if to express his utter inability to
describe his sensations. His elation was that ascribed to those fortunate
mortals whom the gods lifted to Olympus. At his feet lay the lace-hemming,
hopelessly snarled.
"Father, father!" remonstrated Nora; "you will wake up all the old ladies
who are having their siesta."
"Bah! I'll bet a doughnut their ears are glued to their doors. What ho!
Somebody's at the portcullis. Probably the padre, come up for tea."
He was at the door instantly. He flung it open heartily. It was
characteristic of the man to open everything widely, his heart, his mind,
his hate or his affection.
"Come in, come in! Just in time for the matinee concert."
The padre was not alone. Courtlandt followed him in.
[Illustration: Courtlandt followed him in.]
"We have been standing in the corridor for ten minutes," affirmed the
padre, sending a winning smile around the room. "Mr. Courtlandt was for
going down to the bureau and sending up our cards. But I would not hear of
such formality. I am a privileged person."
"Sure yes! Molly, ring for tea, and tell 'em to make it hot. How about a
little peg, as the colonel says?"
The two men declined.
How easily and nonchalantly the man stood there by the door as Harrigan
took his hat! Celeste was aquiver with excitement. She was thoroughly a
woman: she wanted something to happen, dramatically, romantically.
But her want was a vain one. The man smiled quizzically at Nora, who
acknowledged the salutation by a curtsy which would have frightened away
the banshees of her childhood. Nora hated scenes, and Courtlandt had the
advantage of her in his knowledge of this. Celeste remained at the piano,
but Nora turned as if to move away.
"No, no!" cried the padre, his palms extended in protest. "If you stop the
music I shall leave instantly."
"But we are all through, Padre," replied Nora, pinching Celeste's arm,
which action the latter readily understood as a command to leave the
piano.
Celeste, however, had a perverse streak in her to-day. Instead of rising
as Nora expected she would, she wheeled on the stool and began _Morning
Mood_ from Peer Gynt, because the padre preferred Grieg or Beethoven to
Chopin. Nora frowned at the pretty head below her. She stooped.
"I sha'n't forgive you for this trick," she whispered.
Celeste shrugged, and her fingers did not falter. So Nora moved away this
time in earnest.
"No, you must sing. That is what I came up for," insisted the padre. If
there was any malice in the churchman, it was of a negative quality. But
it was in his Latin blood that drama should appeal to him strongly, and
here was an unusual phase in The Great Play. He had urged Courtlandt, much
against the latter's will this day, to come up with him, simply that he
might set a little scene such as this promised to be and study it from the
vantage of the prompter. He knew that the principal theme of all great
books, of all great dramas, was antagonism, antagonism between man and
woman, though by a thousand other names has it been called. He had often
said, in a spirit of raillery, that this antagonism was principally due to
the fact that Eve had been constructed (and very well) out of a rib from
Adam. Naturally she resented this, that she had not been fashioned
independently, and would hold it against man until the true secret of the
parable was made clear to her.
"Sing that, Padre?" said Nora. "Why, there are no words to it that I
know."
"Words? _Peste!_ Who cares for words no one really ever understands? It is
the voice, my child. Go on, or I shall make you do some frightful
penance."
Nora saw that further opposition would be useless. After all, it would be
better to sing. She would not be compelled to look at this man she so
despised. For a moment her tones were not quite clear; but Celeste
increased the volume of sound warningly, and as this required more force
on Nora's part, the little cross-current was passed without mishap. It was
mere pastime for her to follow these wonderful melodies. She had no words
to recall so that her voice was free to do with as she elected. There were
bars absolutely impossible to follow, note for note, but she got around
this difficulty by taking the key and holding it strongly and evenly. In
ordinary times Nora never refused to sing for her guests, if she happened
to be in voice. There was none of that conceited arrogance behind which
most of the vocal celebrities hide themselves. At the beginning she had
intended to sing badly; but as the music proceeded, she sang as she had
not sung in weeks. To fill this man's soul with a hunger for the sound of
her voice, to pour into his heart a fresh knowledge of what he had lost
forever and forever!
Courtlandt sat on the divan beside Harrigan who, with that friendly spirit
which he observed toward all whom he liked, whether of long or short
acquaintance, had thrown his arm across Courtlandt's shoulder. The younger
man understood all that lay behind the simple gesture, and he was secretly
pleased.
But Mrs. Harrigan was not. She was openly displeased, and in vain she
tried to catch the eye of her wayward lord. A man he had known but
twenty-four hours, and to greet him with such coarse familiarity!
Celeste was not wholly unmerciful. She did not finish the suite, but
turned from the keys after the final chords of _Morning Mood_.
"Thank you!" said Nora.
"Do not stop," begged Courtlandt.
Nora looked directly into his eyes as she replied: "One's voice can not go
on forever, and mine is not at all strong."
And thus, without having originally the least intent to do so, they broke
the mutual contract on which they had separately and secretly agreed:
never to speak directly to each other. Nora was first to realize what she
had done, and she was furiously angry with herself. She left the piano.
As if her mind had opened suddenly like a book, Courtlandt sprang from the
divan and reached for the fat ball of lace-hemming. He sat down in Nora's
chair and nodded significantly to the Barone, who blushed. To hold the
delicate material for Nora's unwinding was a privilege of the gods, but to
hold it for this man for whom he held a dim feeling of antagonism was
altogether a different matter.
"It is horribly tangled," he admitted, hoping thus to escape.
"No matter. You hold the ball. I'll untangle it. I never saw a fish-line I
could not straighten out."
Nora laughed. It was not possible for her to repress the sound. Her sense
of humor was too strong in this case to be denied its release in laughter.
It was free of the subtler emotions; frank merriment, no more, no less.
And possessing the hunter's extraordinarily keen ear, Courtlandt
recognized the quality; and the weight of a thousand worlds lightened its
pressure upon his heart. And the Barone laughed, too. So there they were,
the three of them. But Nora's ineffectual battle for repression had driven
her near to hysteria. To escape this dire calamity, she flung open a
casement window and stood within it, breathing in the heavy fragrance of
the rain-laden air.
This little comedy had the effect of relaxing them all; and the laughter
became general. Abbott's smile faded soonest. He stared at his friend in
wonder not wholly free from a sense of evil fortune. Never had he known
Courtlandt to aspire to be a squire of dames. To see the Barone hold the
ball as if it were hot shot was amusing; but the cool imperturbable manner
with which Courtlandt proceeded to untangle the snarl was disturbing. Why
the deuce wasn't he himself big and strong, silent and purposeful, instead
of being a dawdling fool of an artist?
No answer came to his inquiry, but there was a knock at the door. The
managing director handed Harrigan a card.
"Herr Rosen," he read aloud. "Send him up. Some friend of yours, Nora;
Herr Rosen. I told Mr. Jilli to send him up."
The padre drew his feet under his cassock, a sign of perturbation;
Courtlandt continued to unwind; the Barone glanced fiercely at Nora, who
smiled enigmatically.