"Oh nothing," he returned abruptly, looked about in confusion and
finally selected the piano stool, which, however, was so close to Erna's
chair that his confusion grew. The girl, herself, had betrayed a little
embarrassment once or twice, but she had conquered its last sign. This
was perhaps possible because of her enjoyment of Carstairs' rather
pathetic condition. Erna loved and craved praise or flattery, and the
young composer's substitute for them was certainly a decided tribute.
"It's awful nice here," she repeated.
"I'm glad you think so," he responded gratefully, and glanced toward
her, only to look away.
"It's kind o' restful too."
This was an excellent opening.
"You must be very tired," he declared.
"A little bit."
"You've been working all day?"
"Since six-thirty this morning."
"Lord, then you must be tired."
"Not so very much," she denied with pride. "I can stand work."
He dared a glance at her strong body and her bold eyes. How splendid she
was!
"But _you_ must be tired," she continued.
"Yes,--no, only a very little."
"You've been workin' all day too."
"At the afternoon performance. I didn't get away until six o'clock."
"An' you go on to-night?"
"From nine to eleven, yes," he explained, and felt ashamed that he was
so weary. And she had been working in that stuffy, unhealthy dining room
and kitchen since half-past six and was as cheerful as ever.
"You'll be needin' a rest now," she went on.
"Oh no!" he hastily assured her.
"Then will you play for me? I never heard you play, an' I've heard Mr.
Breen an' Mr. Nielsen talk so much about you."
"They are flatterers," he said, with a self-conscious laugh. "But if
you'd like--if you--would you really like to have me?"
"Of course."
This was his next opportunity, but again, his courage would not assist
him. What should he play? "Do you really feel like listening?" he began
once more.
"Of course--I like music," she argued.
There was nothing else to do. He had better start playing. And Carstairs
turned on the stool. "What shall I play for you?"
"Anything at all."
"But wouldn't you rather--"
"Play somethin' you like yourself," she interrupted.
Carstairs hesitated. He had not had the faintest idea how difficult it
would be. Moreover, he could feel her soft brown eyes resting on him.
And he had been vowing such wonderful deeds of late: that he would play
for her as he never had for any one--that he would play her composition,
which belonged so naturally to her. Instead, he could scarcely touch a
key.
A spirit of self-condemnation took possession of him. He must forget
himself. She would think him a fool. Besides, she might learn how much
he--No, she must not learn that. He commenced improvising.
The young composer blundered considerably at first, but his
self-resentment helped him, and his efforts soon displayed more
coherence and warmth. Should he open his program with "To Thee"? Why
not? Why wait until later? But she might understand. She might catch its
significance and then--But how could she know that he had written the
composition? It might just as easily belong to some other composer. Yes,
he would play it.
"Are you ready?" he asked with attempted levity.
"Of course, don't stop!" she encouraged him.
Carstairs played "To Thee", at first, with timidity and uncertainty, but
by and by with more resolution and consequent expressiveness as his
faith in the composition, as an expression of himself, returned.
Gradually, too, he realized how appropriate was the mood that flowed
through its measures.
Erna watched him. A greedy little smile played about the corners of her
mouth and her nose twitched slightly. But the corners straightened and
her nose stopped twitching.
No, he was too soft. His shoulders were so weak and his hands so small
and his face so pale--just like his nature. He belonged to his mother up
there and to that soft pretty face over there. But he was a nice, decent
fellow. And he was lots of fun, he was so different from other men. But
he was sad. She loved joy and freedom. He seemed like a mean little
prisoner, and he made her feel soft too. But he had always been decent
toward her. Yes, he belonged to such as his mother and the pretty face.
Anyhow, he knew how to play the piano.... What a different time she had
had last night! Jimmy was such a big, strong, happy fellow. But even he
did not quite satisfy her. Erna sighed just a little.
She regained immediate control of herself and stopped studying
Carstairs. Instead, she followed the patterns in the small rug at her
feet. Presently, she gave herself up to the music. It was very pretty.
It sounded familiar too.
Carstairs finished playing.
"I like that," she said instantly.
"Do you?" he demanded, wheeling toward her.
"Yes, it's awful nice," she complimented him.
He brightened perceptibly. "Do you really think so? Do you really like
it?"
"Of course!"
He could not repress his emotion. "Do you--I--what do you think?" he
asked with enthusiasm.
"What?"
"Do you know who wrote that?"
"No."
"I wrote that," he broke out, and leaned forward.
"You did?"
"Yes!"
"It's awful nice," she repeated.
This was not very strong applause, but it was more than sufficient for
Carstairs, and he grew reckless. In one moment, he had confessed himself
the author of the work, and in the next, such was his present rashness,
he was about to go much farther.
"How would you like--" but he stopped, and smiled in a happy way.
"What?" she urged him.
"You're sure you like it?" he repeated.
"Yes."
"Would you like to have it?" he asked with sudden boldness.
"What do you mean?"
"Don't you understand?" he rambled on, and explained: "Composers, you
know, write songs and piano pieces and orchestral works, and afterward
they often dedicate them to somebody--to one of their friends or--or one
of their relatives. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"That's what I want to do," he continued excitedly. "I wrote the
piece--it's nothing wonderful, but I--I put myself into it and--and you
like it--"
"Yes."
"So I'd like to give it to you."
"But I don't play," she protested.
"That isn't the point," he declared. "I'm dedicating it to you--that is,
your name appears on it: first, the name of the composition, then my
name, as composer, and then 'to Miss Erna Vitek.' Do you see?"
"Oh yes!"
"Do you like the idea?"
"Yes, that's fine."
"Great!" he cried.
"But what's the name o' the piece?" she requested quietly.
"Why, I--I gave it a name--but suppose I call it simply: 'A Song'?"
"Yes."
"Sure! That'd be a nice title, wouldn't it?"
"Yes."
His emotions threatened to run over. He wanted to tell her the rest:
that, as a matter of fact, she had been the one to inspire the
composition--his inspiration--but, well, that would be going too far.
She would be learning too much. But this was the happiest day of his
life. He had made a long stride, even over the evening when, for a few
confidential minutes, she had confided to him those details of her past
relation with Allen. He must compose many compositions for her.
Carstairs played other music, composition after composition, many of
them his own, but all the while he waited to hear Erna ask him to repeat
her composition. She did not do so at once, but eventually, bored--to
tell the truth--by the incessant flow of music, she made the request.
Overjoyed, he repeated the work, and every measure lingered, breathed
and swayed with the mood of its creator. Near the close, Erna succeeded
in stifling a yawn.
It was after nine o'clock when Carstairs conducted her down the three
flights. He would receive a reprimand and fine when he reported at the
music hall. But what did he care?
The young composer did not return to his sanctum until eleven thirty. He
quickly lit the gas. At the theatre, a thought had come to torment him,
as he had rehearsed the evening's doings and joys many times over. He
went to the piano and took down the picture of the girl. Presently, he
buried it under a heap of odds and ends that littered the drawer of a
bureau, and said to himself for at least the fiftieth time: "What a
careless damned fool I am!"