Beatrix had remained thoughtful for some time after Thayer's departure. Lorimer had called, that same night. His coming had been unexpected; it had taken Beatrix off her guard. She had been unfeignedly glad to see him, for his ten-days' absence from her life had been unprecedented in their acquaintance. The world is wide, yet, owing to some strange law of attraction, one invariably seems to meet the same people everywhere. Beatrix had greeted Lorimer more eagerly than she had been aware. She had tried in vain to keep the fact of the Forbes supper uppermost in her mind. Instead, it slid into the background, and its place had been taken by the thought of Lorimer's probable feelings when he received the smoking cap from the hands of Katarina Arlt. And the evening had hurried away from her. When it had gone, she had realized with a sudden shock that her girlhood was ended. She was the plighted bride of Sidney Lorimer, and, distrustful of her own mental grasp of the fact, she had ruthlessly waked up hermother to tell her what had occurred. Later, she had not understood the motive which had led her to her mother's room. As a rule, she was self-reliant, and adjusted herself to a crisis without caring to talk it over. For the once, however, she felt the need of being strengthened by the enthusiastic delight of Mrs. Dane whose sentimental hopes had centered in Lorimer from the hour of his introduction to her only child.
All this had passed in review through Beatrix's mind, and it seemed long to her since Lorimer's last words, when he said,—
"Don't think I am depreciating Thayer, Beatrix. He is one of the finest fellows who ever came out of the Creator's hands. In his worst moods, he is away ahead of most of the men one meets. Some day, I hope you may know him for what he really is."
There was true generosity underlying Lorimer's frank words. He was still smarting from his contact with Thayer, that afternoon, for Thayer had heard of a dinner at the club, on the previous night, and had spoken a quiet warning. It was only such a warning as he had given, a dozen times before; he knew just how Lorimer would resent it, then accept it, and it would have made no difference to him, could he have foreseen that,in his resentment, Lorimer's words to Beatrix would be slightly tinged with aloes. It is not certain that, foreseeing, he would have cared. Beatrix was nothing to him; of Lorimer he was strangely fond.
Beatrix had felt some curiosity as to the effect Thayer's voice might have upon her. Familiarity in all truth does breed contempt, and a second hearing often proves a disappointment. For Lorimer's sake, she was anxious to enjoy the recital, and she drew a quick, nervous breath as Thayer, followed by Arlt, came striding out across the little stage with the same unconscious ease with which he had crossed her parlor, the week before. As he waited for Arlt to seat himself, he glanced about the room, his practised eye measuring its size and the probable nature of his audience. For an instant, his glance rested upon Beatrix and Lorimer, and he gave a slight smile of recognition. Then his shoulders straightened and he came to attention, as Arlt struck the opening chord of his accompaniment.
He had chosen to begin his programme, that night, with theInfelicefor, in spite of its Verdiism, it had been a favorite of his old master in Berlin. Before he had sung a dozen notes, Beatrix, bending forward, was listening with partedlips and flushing cheeks. Of Thayer as a man who had dallied with one of her cups of tea, she took no account; but his voice, sweet and flexible, was tugging at her nerves and setting them vibrating with its note of passionate sadness. Then, gathering power and intensity, it swept its hearers along upon its furious tempest; yet, as she listened, Beatrix felt herself inspired for, underneath it all, there was the same throbbing, insistent note which seemed to assure her that the singer had hoped and lost and fought and conquered, that he knew all about it, himself.
Lorimer nodded contentedly at the stage, as Thayer ended his song.
"That's all right; but they would better save their strength, for he never gives an encore for the first number. What do you think of Thayer now, Beatrix?"
She caught her breath sharply.
"That I should be a better woman, if I could hear him sing often."
"There's something in what you say. He makes me feel it, too. I never have heard him sing better, though he always does that song well. He told me once that he felt possessed with the spirit of his own grandfather, whenever he started it. From all signs, his grandfather must havebeen an intolerable old person to get on with, if he could rage in that fashion."
"Possibly he had occasion." Beatrix forced herself to speak lightly, though it was an effort for her to resume the accent and manner which befitted the place.
"Perhaps. He was a Russian musician with a young wife. Now for the Schubert group! Thayer's reputation is made, though; he can sing through his nose now, and they will think it a beautiful manifestation of individual genius. I only hope that Arlt will do one tenth as well."
It proved that Arlt did fully six tenths as well, and was applauded to the echo. To the undiscerning ear, he won even more than his share of applause; but Beatrix, her nerves still tense fromThe Erl-King, felt a difference in the quality of the welcome to the two musicians. The critical few were impartial, and in the case of Arlt they led a wavering fugue of the uncritical many. Arlt was young, small and insignificant. His tailor was not an artist, and Arlt was too palpably conscious that his coat tails demanded respectful care. Society applauded Arlt with punctilious courtesy; but it promptly took Thayer to its bosom and caressed him with enthusiasm.
Late in the evening, Beatrix brought her fatherto the corner where Thayer, with Arlt beside him, was still holding a sort of court, and the four of them were talking quietly when Mrs. Stanley came pushing her way towards them.
"I must add my word of congratulation, Mr. Thayer," she said, as she graciously offered him a pudgy bundle of white kid fingers. "You have made a wonderful success, and it won't be long before you have New York at your feet."
Thayer glanced down at his patent leather shoes.
"It would be a good deal in the way, Mrs. Stanley. Let us hope it will stay where it belongs," he answered gravely.
"How ungrateful you artists are! But I shall always be so glad and proud to think that your first song in New York was in my house."
"But it wasn't."
Her face fell.
"I thought—Wasn't that your first recital? I am sure you said—"
His smile went no further than his lips, for his clear gray eyes appeared to be taking her mental and spiritual measure, with some little disappointment at the result.
"It was my first recital, Mrs. Stanley; but notmy first song. I sang German folk songs to Arlt's landlady, half the afternoon before. You remember Mr. Arlt, I think."
She glanced around with a carelessness which ignored the hand that the boy shyly extended towards her.
"Oh, yes, very pleased," she said vaguely. Then, with a resumption of her former manner, she turned back to Thayer. "And I thought you promised to drop in for a cup of tea, some Thursday, Mr. Thayer."
Beatrix was deaf to his answer. She had turned to Arlt who, scarlet with hurt and anger, stood alone in his corner by the piano.
"Mr. Arlt," she said gayly; "it is very warm here, and I know where they keep the frappé. Shall we leave my father here, and run off in search of some goodies? You ought to be hungry, after playing for two hours. Come!"
And Arlt, surprised at the sudden winning intonations which had crept into her voice, dodged around the portly back of Mrs. Stanley and followed Beatrix out of the room. For the moment, the haughty woman had changed to a jovial, friendly girl, no more awe-inspiring than Katarina, in spite of her wonderful gown and the fluffy white thing in her hair; and the artist, in histurn, changed into a normal hungry boy, as he followed her away.
So absorbed were they in each other that they failed to see Bobby Dane who met them upon the threshold, on his way to join the group they had just left.
"Beg pardon, Thayer; but can I speak to you for a moment?" he said abruptly.
His uncle turned to Mrs. Stanley with old-fashioned pomposity.
"May I have the pleasure of taking you to the dining-room?" he asked.
"What is it, Dane?" Thayer asked, as soon as they were alone, for Bobby's face showed that something was amiss.
"It's Lorimer in the smoking-room. That beast of a Lloyd Avalons has opened a perfect bar in there, and—and Lorimer is making a bit of a cad of himself," Bobby confessed reluctantly. "I tried to get him away; but he wouldn't come, and I thought perhaps you could start him. It's not that he is drunk, only he is talking rather too much, and I want to get him off before Beatrix gets wind of it. You know girls—"
"I know," Thayer assented gravely. "I'll see what I can do with him."
"You musicians make me deadly weary," Bobby proclaimed, from his favorite rostrum of the hearthrug.
"Is that the reason you are trying to sit on them, Bobby?" his cousin asked. "You'll find an easy chair just as restful to you and a good deal more so to the musician."
Bobby waved her remark aside.
"Don't interrupt me, Beatrix. I have things I wish to say."
"Very likely; but it is barely possible that somebody else also may have things he wishes to say, and can't, because you talk so much."
"Sally is busy eating bonbons, and Thayer would much better wait till I get through his indictment. He'll need all his voice to defend himself."
Sally glanced up.
"Go on, Bobby," she said encouragingly. "The sooner it is over, the better."
"Thank you. Then I have the floor. Thayer, I never believe in talking about people behindtheir backs, so I look you squarely in the eye and ask you if you ever realize that you don't amount to much, after all."
"Who told you?"
"Nobody. I evolved it."
"I didn't know you were a critic."
"I'm not, nor yet an interpreting artist. I create."
"What, I should like to know!" This was from Sally.
"Scareheads. I do them. If that's not creating, I should like to know what is. They never have any connection with facts."
"What is your grievance?" Thayer asked languidly.
"I was just getting to that. As I say, I create. You only interpret. I don't know as it counts that you don't try to interpret my scareheads, though some of them would make stunning fugues. Take the last one, for instance:Billions at Stake: Potato Corner in Prospect. You could work up something fine from that, Thayer. Think of the chest tones you could throw into the single wordPotato!"
"Bobby, you are growing discursive," his cousin reminded him.
"No; it is only my rhetorical method. I shallbring you up with a round turn, before you know it. Well, granted that we represent the two classes, the creative and the interpretive, which is the greater?"
"How can we tell, unless you stand back to back?" Sally inquired.
But by this time, Bobby was fairly launched.
"The fact is, you singers and players have a smug little fashion of forgetting that there is a composer back of you. You don't sing extempore, Thayer, make up the song as you go along. You're nothing more than a species of elocutionist, you know, trying to show the people who weren't on the spot what the composer really did when he created the thing."
"Animated phonograph records, in short?" Thayer suggested.
"Yes, if you choose to call it that. Of course you count for something, else every composer could make a set of records and dispense with his interpreting artist once for all. But you fellows honestly do make an awful fuss about yourselves; now don't you?"
"Bobby!" Beatrix protested.
"Oh, yes; but I'm not meaning anything personal," Bobby responded amicably. "We know that Thayer's voice is beyond all odds thebest we have heard for a three years. How do you do it, Thayer? You look as calm as a Dutch dolly; but you manage to tear us all to bits. Even I felt sanctified at your recital, and Miss Van Osdel's lashes were freighted with unshed tears."
"That must be one of your next week's scareheads," she objected. "I never cry in public where there are electric lights, Mr. Thayer; it's horribly unbecoming to most women. But I did have to say a nonsense rhyme over to myself, to keep steady."
"Yes, I taught you that trick," Beatrix asserted suddenly. "Lear is very soothing in an emotional crisis.The Rubáiyátfor gooseflesh and Lear for tears is my rule.The Jumbliescarried me safely through the fifth act ofCyrano. But go on, Bobby. We are nearly ready to change the subject."
"Now take that recital of yours," Bobby pursued meditatively. "You were there to interpret Schubert and Franz and those fellows; but nobody is talking about Schubert and Franz, to-day. It is all Thayer, Cotton Mather Thayer, Baritone. It's all right enough. You did them awfully well; but there's the Them in the background, and it's not decent to forget Them."
Thayer laughed good-naturedly. It was impossible to take offence at the mock seriousness of Bobby's harangue. Furthermore, it held its own grain of truth, even though the grain was buried in an infinite amount of chaff.
"I do occasionally remember that there was a composer," he suggested; "and, in case of the dead ones, you need somebody to sing them."
"Ye-es," Bobby replied grudgingly; "and in case of the live ones, too, sometimes. I have an idea that you make a good deal better noise out of it than most of these old duffers would do. It is only that you take all the glory for the whole business. The newsboys on the street corners have no right to take the credit for my scareheads."
"They are a self-respecting race, Bobby; they don't want to."
"How unkind of you, Sally! But the cases are analogous. And my final point, aside from professional jealousy, is the economy of time. You grub longer over learning to sing a song than it takes the composer to write it, and, when you're through, you've only reproduced somebody else's ideas. Why can't you be original? Next time you feel musically inclined, just say to yourself, 'Go to, now! Let us create!' It won'ttake a bit longer, and really it's not hard to do. I know, because, you see, I do it."
"Bravo, Bobby! I am delighted to hear that you ever do anything."
At the new voice, Bobby whirled around and bowed himself into a right angle, while Beatrix rose and crossed the room to greet the guest.
"Miss Gannion! What joy to see you!"
Thayer's Russian blood received swift impressions; his Puritanism made him weigh and measure with careful deliberation. Now, as he bowed in acknowledgment of the introduction, he was conscious that in Margaret Gannion he was meeting a woman who would bear either test. She seemed to him one of the most strongly individual women he had ever met; yet at the same time he had a comfortable sense of an infinite number of points of mental contact. Later, he was destined to learn that this sense was not imparted to himself alone. Margaret Gannion was tangent to many lives.
"What is the discussion?" she inquired, as she seated herself.
"No discussion at all, Miss Gannion. Bobby is doing a monologue on music, and the rest of us can't get a word in edgewise."
"Have you joined the ranks of the musicians, Bobby?"
"Yes, or the angels," Sally responded for him. "Nothing else could have such a fatal facility for harping on one string."
"I was so sorry to lose your recital, Mr. Thayer," Miss Gannion said, after a while, as she turned her steady brown eyes on the young man. "I was in Boston, that week, and I am told that I missed one of the treats of the season. When am I to have another chance of hearing you?"
Thayer hesitated for a moment, while his gray eyes met the brown ones that seemed to be taking his mental measure. Apparently both were satisfied with what they saw, for they exchanged a smile of sudden understanding. Then Thayer's face grew grave.
"Whenever you wish," he replied quietly.
"Does that mean you will sing to me, myself? I should never have dared hope for that."
"Why not? That is, if you will let me bring Arlt with me. I dislike to force him upon people; but he is the only accompanist I really enjoy."
Beatrix looked up with a laugh.
"You never asked if you might bring him here, Mr. Thayer."
Suddenly he rose.
"May I take that as a hint, Miss Dane? I can play a few accompaniments after a fashion." And, without waiting for the response which was sure to come, he crossed the room to the piano.
He sang Schubert'sHaiden Rösleinand an American song or two. The hush over the room deepened, as the last words fell on the stillness,—
"Oh barren gain! Oh bitter loss!I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learnTo kiss the cross—"
"Oh barren gain! Oh bitter loss!I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learnTo kiss the cross—"
And, in the midst of the stillness, he rose and quietly returned to his old place by the fire.
It was long before anyone spoke. Then even Miss Gannion's level voice jarred upon the silence.
"You have a wonderful gift in your keeping, Mr. Thayer," was all she said.
But Beatrix was silent, her eyes fixed on the glowing coals. At length she roused herself with an effort. Reverie was not permissible for a hostess on her reception day. She came out of hers, to find that the conversation had broken into duets. At one side of the table, Bobby and Sally were sparring vivaciously; at the other, Miss Gannion and Thayer had fallen into quiet talk about certain common friends and about the simplest method of helping Arlt to gain the professional recognition he deserved and needed.
"I'm not potent at all," Miss Gannion said regretfully. "I only know people who are, and they are not always receptive in their minds. Still, I may be able to do something, and he made a good impression at Mrs. Lloyd Avalons's recital. In the meantime, bring him to my home, some evening soon. Friday is my day; but, if you don't mind—"
Thayer understood her.
"Arlt will like it a great deal better, and so shall I. He is a shy fellow, and he never shows at his best, when too many people are about."
Miss Gannion's face betrayed her relief. She had not meant to seem inhospitable; neither had she desired apparently to be scheming for a free recital. It was a precarious matter, this establishing social relations with a really great artist who had just expressed his willingness to sing in private life. Miss Gannion's acquaintance was large and of many lines; but Thayer was a new species to her, and she had felt somewhat at a loss how to treat him, as artist or as mere man. Thayer's answer inclined her to the latter alternative.
"What about Saturday, then?" she asked. "I shall be at home, that night."
"Please ask me, Miss Gannion," Bobby entreated.
Miss Gannion shook her head.
"No; you are too much in evidence, Bobby. You would distract my mind from Mr. Arlt, and this is his party, you know. Even Mr. Thayer is subordinate. But, Beatrix child, where is Mr. Lorimer? I thought surely I should find him here, to-day. I've not congratulated him yet. That was one thing that brought me here."
Beatrix flushed a little.
"Mr. Lorimer was called to Washington, last Thursday," she answered so evenly that no one would have suspected the wondering annoyance which his hasty note of explanation had caused her.
"Then he was here for your recital." Miss Gannion turned back to Thayer once more. "Didn't someone tell me you were old friends, Mr. Thayer? It must have been a very exhilarating night for him, this American début of yours."
For the space of a minute, out of her four hearers, three were holding their breath. Under the promise of the strictest secrecy, Bobby had confided to Sally the story of the scene in the smoking-room; and, like two conspirators, theyhad spent a long evening in stealthy discussion of the best way to keep the matter from the ears of Beatrix. Sally liked Lorimer; Bobby detested him, yet to neither of them had the matter seemed of quite sufficient importance to justify a broken engagement, and they were too well acquainted with the strict code of Beatrix Dane to doubt what would be the outcome of the affair, if the facts were to reach her ears. Sally was less mature, less aware of the danger inherent in the situation, less strong in her condemnation of what she termed "friskiness." Bobby, with a shrug of his shoulders, admitted that a man should not be condemned for a first offence, that there was plenty of time to watch for a repetition of the affair, to warn Beatrix then and to allow her to take her own course as seemed good to her. Meanwhile, there was no use in disturbing her for nothing. It might be a single slip, such as all men are liable to make. Of course, as Sally argued, Lorimer had been under strong excitement, that evening, partly by reason of his own newly-announced engagement, partly by reason of the brilliant success of his friend. Lloyd Avalons was just the man to take advantage of such a situation, and to think it a huge piece of humorous hospitality to throw Lorimer off his guard.Lloyd Avalons had never joined the camp of the prohibitionists, himself, and he saw no reason for staying the appetites of his guests. To his mind, that Sidney Lorimer could drink too much wine in his house presupposed a certain intimacy. At least, if the incident were to be mentioned, their names were bound to be bracketed with each other. Like his wife, Lloyd Avalons possessed his social ambitions.
In the most accurate use of the words, Lorimer had not been drunk, only intoxicated. When Thayer, with Bobby at his side, had appeared in the door of the smoking-room, Lorimer had been more flushed, more garrulous than was his wont, more inclined to the French doctrine of equality and fraternity. In some moods, he would not have tolerated the arm of Lloyd Avalons which now rested across the back of his chair.
The scene lasted only for an instant. Thayer went into the room, accepted a dozen hot hands whose owners were trying rather incoherently to congratulate him upon his success, waved aside the wine offered him, and, with a word of excuse, bent down and spoke quietly to Lorimer.
"Beg pardon, Mr. Avalons," he said shortly; "but I have a message for Mr. Lorimer. He is needed on business, and I shall have to takehim away. Please give my good-night to Mrs. Avalons. My cab is waiting, and I can set Lorimer down at his club." And, with a bow, he had left the room, with Lorimer sullenly following at his heels.
In Lorimer's room, Thayer broke the silence which had lasted during their drive along the brilliantly-lighted Avenue. He had watched his companion's face keenly and with an understanding born of similar scenes, and he knew it would not be well to use many words. However, as he was leaving Lorimer, he turned back.
"This is once too often, Lorimer," he said briefly. "You've somebody besides yourself to think of now. If I were in your place, I would have important business call me to Washington, in the morning, and I would stay down there for a few days. It will give you time to think things over, and find out just where you stand."
Miss Gannion nestled luxuriously back into the depths of her easy chair.
"Do you know, Mr. Thayer, it is a very wonderful experience, this having a species of court musician?"
He laughed the silent laugh she liked so well. It came from between close-shut teeth; but it lighted his whole face.
"As wonderful as it is to have a good listener who always understands and rarely praises?" he asked.
Under her thin, middle-aged skin, the flush rose to her cheeks, turning them to the dainty likeness of youth.
"You say very pleasant things."
"True ones. If this keeps on, I shall begin using you as critic for all my new songs."
"Like the fabled dog? I wish you would. But, truly, I am not joking. You are quite spoiling me for my usual diet of recitals. Do you realize that, for the past two months, youhave sung to me on an average of two hours a week?"
Thayer smiled contentedly down at her, as he sat by the piano, with one muscular arm thrown across the rack.
"Well, what of it?" he inquired.
"Nothing, except that people say you are refusing engagements."
"A fellow must have a little time to enjoy his friends," he returned coolly. "I can't be expected to sing, six nights a week."
"Your logic betrays your artistic nature. You have sung at five recitals, this week. This is the sixth night; but you've not been silent."
"You know you wanted to hearFaustsung again."
"Yes, and so did Mrs. Stanley want you to sing at her house."
He looked up sharply.
"Who told you?"
"Mr. Arlt."
"Arlt shouldn't tell tales. But I had three good reasons for refusing: I don't like Mrs. Stanley; she doesn't treat Arlt as well as she treats her pug dog, and moreover you had asked me to dinner. I never sing after a good dinner."
"But you mustn't refuse engagements."
"I didn't. I kept one."
"Engagements to sing, I mean. You seem to forget that you are a star."
"All the more reason I should stop twinkling now and then. I can't be on duty, the whole time. Besides, Miss Gannion," he rose from the piano and came forward to her side; "we can't give out, all the time. We must stop occasionally to take something in, else our mental fuel runs low. I wonder if you realize that this is the one place in New York City where I can be entirely off my guard, entirely at home. A place like this means a good deal to an isolated man."
"I am very glad," she said quietly.
"Most people forget that a public singer has a private personality," he went on thoughtfully. "We are supposed to divide our time into even thirds, practising, singing and receiving compliments. It gets to be a positive delight to discuss the weather and the fashion in neckties."
"And to sing by the hour for your friends?" she inquired.
"It is our easiest way of speaking to them."
She laughed.
"But, on the other hand, you are demoralizing me completely. You have no idea what empty, formal affairs recitals seem to me now; they areso impersonal. I feel like grumbling, because I can't talk over each item of the programme with the one who does it. I said something of the sort to Miss Dane, the other day; but she told me she always dreaded the sound of a speaking voice after one of your songs."
"She might have a species of choral service evolved for social use," Thayer suggested dryly. "The Gregorian tones would lend dignity even to conventionalities, and they are quite within the powers of any amateur."
There was an interval of silence which Miss Gannion employed in bringing herself back to the physical world around her. Thayer's singing always swayed her profoundly; it gave her the impression of the ultimate satisfaction of a wish which had haunted her whole life. During the past two months, she and Thayer had established relations of cordial friendship. They had met frequently in the world which already was clamorous for Thayer's appearing, and Thayer was a frequent guest at Miss Gannion's home. He always sang to her; it had become so much a matter of routine that now he never waited for an invitation. Once seated at the piano, talking and singing by turns, she allowed him to follow out the bent of his mood; but, wherever it led him,she was always conscious of the insistent, throbbing note which told her that, underneath his self-control, there pulsed a fiery nature which was curbed, but not yet tamed, that the day might come when the Puritan would meet the Russian face to face, and the Russian would be dominant, if only for one brief hour. And then? Often as she asked herself the question, Margaret Gannion never swerved from her original answer. In the end, the Puritan would rule. No man could so dominate others and fail to dominate himself.
Thayer, meanwhile, had risen and was thoughtfully pacing the room. Miss Gannion shook off the last of her reverie and turned to watch him.
"What is it, Mr. Thayer?" she inquired suddenly.
He came back to the fire and, deliberately moving the trinkets on the mantel, made a place for his elbow. Then he hesitated, with his clear, deep-set eyes resting on her face.
"I think I am going to ask your advice," he said slowly.
"Or my approval. It amounts to the same thing in a man."
It was a direct challenge, and it was made with deliberate intention. Accustomed as she was tothe semi-imaginary mental crises of struggling, strenuous youth, she yet shrank from the intentness of Thayer's mood.
He ignored the challenge.
"No; it is advice whether to act at all. Later, when I have acted, it will be time to demand your approval."
"But you may not like my advice."
"Very possibly. I am not binding myself to follow it."
Her color came again this time not altogether from pleasure.
"Then why do you ask it?"
"Because I need fresh light on the subject. As often as I go over it, I find myself in a mental blind alley, and I am hoping that, if I talk it over with you, I shall clear up my ideas and perhaps get some new ones."
His tone was dispassionate, yet kindly. With a pang, Miss Gannion admitted to herself the futility of her ever hoping to gain so impersonal an attitude. She was intensely feminine, which is to say, intensely subjective. Talking to Thayer in his present mood gave her the feeling that unexpectedly she had collided with an iceberg. Glittering coldness is an admirable surface to watch; but not an altogether comfortable oneupon which to rest. The touch set her to stinging, although she realized that the sting was out of all proportion to the touch. She was silent, and Thayer went on,—
"You know the people, one of them much better than I do."
"Then it is not about yourself?"
Thayer shook his head.
"I rarely ask help in solving my own problems," he replied. Then, as he saw her face, he suddenly realized that he had hurt her in some unknown fashion. "That sounds rather brutal," he added; "but, if you will think it over a bit, you will see it is wise. I don't believe in wasting words, and there is no real use in talking some things over. A man knows he can't state his own problem impartially to someone else, so of course he isn't going to trust someone else's solution of the problem."
Her smile came back again.
"No," she assented; "but there is a certain comfort in talking things over."
"Not for me. If I have anything to do, I grit my teeth and do it, and waste as little thought upon it as possible. Iteration makes good into a bore. It is best to let it alone. And of bad, the less said, the better, that is, when it is a matterof one's own personality. But now I want to talk about Miss Dane."
"Beatrix?"
"Yes. I have felt anxious about her lately, and I haven't known whether to keep still, or to speak. It all seems a good deal like meddling, and I really know her so little."
It was unlike his usual directness to wander on in this fashion, and Miss Gannion wondered. She started to speak; then she thought better of it and leaned back in her chair. The ticking of the clock and the snapping of the fire mingled in a staccato duet. A stick burned in two and fell apart, with tiny, torch-like flames dancing on its upturned ends. Methodically Thayer bent over and piled up the embers. Then he spoke again.
"And so I thought I would speak to you about it. You have known Miss Dane always, and you know New York and how it looks at such things. I imagine you take it more seriously, here in America. It is serious, God knows, and yet it may not amount to anything."
Margaret Gannion straightened up and spoke with a sudden assumption of dignity which seemed to add inches to her moral and physical stature.
"To what are you referring, Mr. Thayer?"
"I beg your pardon. I thought you knew. I am talking about Lorimer."
"What about him?"
Man as he was, Thayer flinched under her keen eyes. All at once, he realized that Margaret Gannion included among her friends Beatrix Dane, and that it was Margaret Gannion's habit to fight for her friends.
"I had hoped you would understand without my putting it into so many words. Lorimer has been my friend for years, and it seems rather beastly to begin talking him over; but—"
"But?" Miss Gannion's tone was as hard and ringing as steel.
"But he sometimes takes a little more wine than is altogether wise," Thayer replied, with brief directness.
Miss Gannion dropped back in her chair.
"Does—does he get—drunk?" she questioned sharply.
"No. That is too strong a word. He is imprudent, foolish. Still, one never knows what may come."
"Poor Beatrix!" Miss Gannion said softly.
Thayer faced her again.
"Understand me, Miss Gannion; I am not doing this for love of gossip. Miss Dane isnothing to me, and I like Lorimer immensely. But there is a good deal at stake, and I am not sure how much I ought to leave to chance. Lorimer is one of the most lovable fellows in the world, generous and loyal; but he is weak. He was born so; I fancy it is in the blood. If Miss Dane is strong enough and has tact, perhaps she can hold him steady. He can't be driven an inch; but he can be led a long way."
Miss Gannion brushed her hair away from her face with an odd, bewildered gesture.
"Wait," she said breathlessly. "I love Beatrix, and it makes me slow to take this in. How long has it been going on?"
Thayer's lips tightened.
"Ever since I have known him," he answered reluctantly.
"Much?"
"No, comparatively little."
"Often?"
"Well—" The lengthening of the word told its own story.
"Does it increase?"
His expression answered her, and she took the answer in perfect silence. It was a full minute before she spoke again; but when she did speak, her voice had the old, level intonation.
"Are you willing to tell me just how far the trouble has gone, Mr. Thayer?"
"It is a hard matter to measure. Lorimer drinks less than a good many men; but it takes less to upset him. In Germany, the students all drink, and he was with them. As a rule, he stopped in time, but occasionally he was a little silly. Once or twice it was worse."
"How much worse?" The question was almost masculine in its direct brevity.
"I helped him to bed."
She compressed her lips. Then,—
"Go on," she said.
"I can't tell what happened while I was in Italy, and Lorimer had left Berlin before I went back there, so I didn't see him till I came to New York. At first, I thought he had stopped all that sort of thing. His color was better, his hand steadier. I knew the temptation was less here, and I hoped he was so taken up with Miss Dane that he wouldn't have time to get into the wrong set. The night of the Lloyd Avalons's recital, he was not quite himself, and I advised him to go to Washington while the matter blew over."
"Strange I didn't hear of it," Miss Gannion said thoughtfully.
"Dane and I saw to it that the story shouldn'tget outside the walls of the smoking-room. Dane is a good fellow, and no fool. He got wind of the trouble and came for me, and we hurried Lorimer away as fast as possible. The next day, I began to hear of a supper or two where Lorimer had been making himself a bit conspicuous."
"And since then?"
"Only twice."
"But twice is more than enough."
"It shows that the trouble is still there, that one can't count on his promises," Thayer assented gravely.
"He does promise?"
"Yes, like a child. That is the pitiful part of it, pitiful and yet exasperating. He admits his own weakness, and is sorry and ashamed, as soon as he comes to himself. For a time, he is a model of caution and sobriety. Then he blunders into the way of temptation and makes a mess of it all." Unconsciously Thayer's voice betrayed his dislike of a weakness of which he had no comprehension. An instant later, he seemed to realize his own self-betrayal and he pulled himself up sharply. "I wish you knew Lorimer better, Miss Gannion. Then you would understand why I am telling you all this. He is so loyal, so generous to his friends, so full of talent. At Göttingen, they called himthe most brilliant American who had ever studied there, and he was by all odds the most popular fellow of his time. His very popularity increased the danger." As if he had been pleading his own cause, Thayer's voice was full of earnest eagerness. Even in the midst of her anxiety and pain, Miss Gannion felt the power of its flexible modulation; and her half-formulated condemnation of Lorimer stayed itself.
Thayer broke the silence which followed, and his accent was resonant again.
"There's no especial use in thrashing over the past. The present is none too good; but my question is simply in relation to the future."
"And the question is?" Miss Gannion asked.
"Whether we ought to tell Miss Dane," he answered briefly.
"It will kill her." The feminine in Margaret Gannion was uppermost once more.
"Such wounds are more likely to mangle than to kill." Thayer spoke grimly.
"Poor Beatrix!"
"She does love him, then? I didn't see how she could help it."
Margaret Gannion's hands shut on a fold of her skirt.
"She loves him better than she loves her life; but she loves right better than either."
"And what is right?"
"I am not sure," she confessed weakly. "I can't seem to analyze it at all. What do you think?"
"That she ought to be told."
"What good will it do?"
"At least, it will put her on her guard."
"Against what? From your own showing, it is like fighting an unseen enemy. One never knows when or where it will come. She will only be put under a terrible nervous strain, faced by a fear that will haunt her, day and night. Besides, she might break the engagement. Have you thought of that?"
"It was of that I was thinking. She ought to have the facts, and be allowed to face the alternatives before it is too late. Miss Gannion," he turned upon her sharply; "can't you realize the pain it is to me to be saying this? I love Lorimer, love him as one man rarely loves another. Perhaps I love him all the more for his lack of strength. But that is no reason I should let him make havoc of a girl's whole life, perhaps of other lives to come. Miss Dane loves him; moreover, she is very proud. She is bound to suffer keenly on both scores."
"Then you think—"
"That the trouble is likely to increase."
"And, if she breaks her engagement to him?"
"That it will increase all the faster. She has a strong hold on him."
"And you would run the risk of loosing this hold, when you know the danger to your friend?"
"Yes, when I see the danger to Miss Dane."
Miss Gannion's hands unclasped, and she looked up at him with the pitiful, drooping lips of a frightened child. Like Thayer, she too loved Lorimer.
"It is terrible, Mr. Thayer. I can see no way out of the trouble; it stands on either side of the path. But do you think she could hold him, if she were to try?"
"It is an open question. Lorimer is weak; but I am not sure how strong she is, nor how patient. If she could steady him and forgive him ninety-nine times, it is possible that, on the hundredth, she would have nothing to forgive. But that is asking too much of a woman, that she should sacrifice her pride and her hope to her loyalty and her love."
"I think Beatrix would do it."
"Perhaps. At least, though, she ought to have the right to choose for herself."
Once more Miss Gannion mastered herself.
"I am not sure. You make the alternatives certain ruin and possible salvation. I should cling to the chance."
"And take the responsibility of silence?"
"It is a responsibility; but I should assume it for the present. What we should say to her could never be unsaid. It might do good; it might do terrible harm. It is possible that the truth may come to her in some other way. I should certainly prefer that it might."
He bent over the fire for a moment. Then he straightened up and threw back his shoulders, like a man relieved of the burden of a heavy load.
"Then that is your final advice?" he asked slowly.
She made answer just as slowly,—
"Mr. Thayer, I am growing older than I used to be, and things don't look quite so plain to me as they did once. Motives mix themselves more, and I am not so ready to put my finger on my neighbor's nerve. If I were in your place, I—rather think I should say my prayers, and then wait."
"I believe I should hate to have Mr. Thayer fall in love with me," Sally observed thoughtfully.
"I wouldn't worry about it yet," Bobby said unkindly. "He yawned twice, last night, while he was talking to you."
Sally's answer was prompt.
"Yes, we were discussing you."
"Why didn't you call me over to give you some points? It is the only subject upon which I can speak with authority. But just think what a lover Thayer would make, troubadouring around under windows!"
Sally counted swiftly.
"There are nineteen families in our hotel, Bobby, and thirteen of them have marriageable daughters. Imagine the creaking of casements, when Mr. Thayer warbled, 'Open the window to me, Love!' Troubadours will do for the country; in town, one can heed only the impersonal strains of the hurdy-gurdy. But really—"
"Yes?" Bobby's accent was encouraging.
"If Mr. Thayer should fall in love and get engaged, what could the girl call him? His name doesn't lend itself easily to endearments."
"His mother ought to have thought of that, when she named him."
"It is a case of visiting the father's sins upon the child of the sixth generation. He is only Volume Seven in the series of Cotton Mathers."
Bobby plunged his fists into his pockets.
"That is a respectable custom; but a mighty stupid one. A fellow oughtn't to be labelled like one of a class. Might as well catalogue children, and done with it, Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and so on through the list of Thayers. Then, when he came to years of discretion, he could pick for himself. Do you suppose I would have been Bobby, if I had been consulted?"
"What then?" Beatrix asked, pausing in her talk with Lorimer.
"Demosthenes Alphonso, of course. That's something worth while."
"Demosthenes Alphonso Dane. D. A. D." Sally commented irrepressibly. Then she swept across the room and, parting the curtains, peeped out between them. "Beatrix, the Philistines be upon you! Here comes Mrs. Lloyd Avalons. Oh, why was I the first to come? As a rule, Ibelieve in the rotation of callers as implicitly as I do in the rotation of crops. Bobby, you came next. How long do you mean to stay?"
"Till the almonds are gone, or till Beatrix turns me out," he replied imperturbably.
"All right. Give me five minutes' warning. You can twirl your thumbs, when it is time for me to start; but I am bound to see some of the fun."
"Now, children, you must be good," Beatrix implored them hurriedly. "Bobby, do try to talk about something she can understand."
"If you want to condemn me to the conversational limits of a mummy, say so in plain Saxon," he retorted. "How can I talk about something that doesn't exist?"
"Bobby!" Sally's tone was full of warning, as Beatrix rose to meet her guest.
Mrs. Lloyd Avalons had gained one distinct point in her social training. She had learned to cross a room as if she were doing her hostess a favor by appearing. Even Beatrix was impressed by the swift, dainty sweep with which she came forward, and she cast a hasty thought to the quality of her tea. Bobby, meanwhile, was taking mental stock of Mrs. Lloyd Avalons's tailor and deciding that he could give points to his own fellow. For a person who professed to ignore all such detail, Bobby Dane was singularly critical of feminine dress, as Beatrix had learned to her cost.
Seated by the tea-table, balancing a Sèvres cup in her hand, Mrs. Lloyd Avalons appeared to be casting about in her mind for a subject of conversation. Bobby came to her relief.
"When you appeared, Mrs. Avalons, we were just speaking of mummies. Have you seen the latest importation at the Metropolitan?"
"Mr. Dane!" she remonstrated hastily. "Do you suppose I—"
"Certainly," Bobby assured her gravely. "I often spend an hour looking at them, and I always feel the better for the time passed in their society. They remind me of the futility of earthly things, and inspire me to higher aims."
Mrs. Lloyd Avalons smiled faintly.
"You literary people have strange thoughts," she observed, addressing the room at large. "I have often thought I should like to write, if I only had the time."
"Why don't you?" Bobby inquired blandly. "The result would be sure to be interesting."
But Beatrix interposed.
"Are you as busy as ever, Mrs. Avalons?"
"Busier. It is such a bore to be in this perpetual rush; but I can't seem to help it. Lent didn't bring me any rest, this year; and, now that Easter is over, it seems to me that we are more gay than ever."
"That is the penalty of having an early Easter," Sally suggested. "We had to stop for Lent in the middle of the season, and now we are finishing up the sins of which we have already repented."
"Oh—yes," Mrs. Lloyd Avalons responded blankly.
"Can you get all your arrears of penitence done up in six weeks, Sally?" Bobby asked, as he passed her the almonds.
"Yes, if I've not seen too much of you," she returned. "Mrs. Avalons, when are you going to give us another recital?"
Mrs. Lloyd Avalons rose to the cast.
"Wasn't that a success? Mr. Thayer quite covered himself with glory."
"His mantle fell over some of the rest of us, and we gained lustre from his glory." Sally's tone was slightly malicious.
"He is certainly a great artist, and I am proud to have discovered him."
"But I thought Mrs. Stanley discovered him. He sang for her first."
Mrs. Lloyd Avalons straightened in her chair.She had no intention of allowing to Mrs. Stanley the prestige which belonged to herself. Mrs. Stanley was several rounds farther up the social ladder than she was, herself; but Mrs. Stanley lacked initiative and was rapidly losing her start. In the seasons to come, she would find herself playing the part of understudy to Mrs. Lloyd Avalons.
"Oh, Mrs. Stanley heard he was to sing for me, and she cabled across to him to take an earlier steamer and sing for her first. It was a little tricky. What is it you call it in the business world, Mr. Dane?"
"A corner in Cotton," Bobby replied gravely.
Mrs. Lloyd Avalons thought she could see that the point of this joke was directed against Mrs. Stanley, and she laughed rather more heartily than good breeding required. In her mirth, she even bent forward in her chair, writhing slightly to and fro, while her silken linings hissed like angry snakes. Suddenly she realized that she had prolonged her mirth beyond the limits of the others, and she straightened her face abruptly.
"But I am so glad the subject has come up, Miss Dane," she went on. "I was meaning to ask you whether you thought I could get Mr. Thayer to sing for our Fresh Air Fund."
"Really, I have no idea of Mr. Thayer's engagements," Beatrix said drily.
"But I thought you knew him so well."
Beatrix's face expressed her surprise.
"I know him as I know any number of people, Mrs. Avalons. That doesn't mean that Mr. Thayer consults me in regard to his plans."
"Oh, no," Mrs. Lloyd Avalons responded vivaciously. "But couldn't you just say a good word for us?"
"I am afraid it wouldn't count for much."
Mrs. Lloyd Avalons raised her brows and made a delicate, pushing gesture with her outspread palms.
"You are too modest, Miss Dane. We all know your powers of persuasion, and we are counting on you."
"Who arewe?" Sally inquired, in flat curiosity.
"Mrs. Van Bleeker and Mrs. Knickerbocker and I. We are the committee, this year, and we are trying to have an uncommonly good concert."
"It must be very hard for you to work on a music committee with Mrs. Van Bleeker," Bobby suggested. "She doesn't know a fugue from a bass viol, and she never hesitates to say so."
"Therein she differs from most unmusical people," Sally responded, in a swift aside. "Eventruthful people will fib valiantly, where music is concerned, and go into raptures, when they have hard work to suppress their yawns. It was a sorry day for music, when it became the fashion."
"How droll you are, Miss Van Osdel!" Mrs. Lloyd Avalons was nothing, if not direct, in her personal comments. Then she answered Bobby. "Even if Mrs. Van Bleeker isn't really musical, it is a delight to work with her, she is so very charming and so business-like. Strange as it may seem, I actually take pleasure in our committee meetings, Mr. Dane."
"I haven't the slightest doubt of it," Bobby responded, with unctuous emphasis.
"When is the concert to be, Mrs. Avalons?" Beatrix asked hastily, with a frown at her cousin who stared blandly back at her.
"The first week in May, if we can possibly be ready for it. There was so much, just before Lent, that we postponed it until after Easter. Now we are no better off, for every day is full, so we are delaying it again. We want to make it a large affair, don't you know, something that will attract the swell set and the musical people, too."
If Bobby Dane hated one word in the language, that word wasswell. Accordingly, he glared haughtily across the table at Mrs. Lloyd Avalons,noting, as he did so, the scornful cadence of her voice over the final phrase.
"The two sets rarely mingle, Mrs. Avalons. Which is under your especial care?"
Lorimer interposed hurriedly, for he felt the hostility in Bobby's tone, and he was ignorant of the thickness of Mrs. Lloyd Avalons's skin.
"Both, I should say from the make-up of your recital, Mrs. Avalons. Society and art both spelled themselves with capital letters, that night."
"I am sure it is very kind of you to say so," she answered, while her pleasure brought the first sincere note into her voice. "I tried to have something really good. But about this concert; we are to have a soprano from the Metropolitan Opera House, and possibly a violinist, and we want Mr. Thayer so much. Do you suppose we could get him?"
"It might depend a little upon the state of your finances," Bobby suggested.
"Oh; but it is for charity, you know."
"Yes, charity is supposed to be like molasses, sweet and cheap. It isn't very nourishing to a professional man, though."
"But Mr. Thayer is not poor."
"That doesn't signify that he can give all his time for nothing," Bobby answered rather warmly,considering that the question was utterly impersonal. "If he sang every day, all winter, for some charity or other, he couldn't begin to get round in ten years. There ought to be a new mission started, a Society for the Protection of Over-begged Artists."
"But I am only asking him for one charity."
"That's all anybody is supposed to do. The time hasn't come yet when you syndicate the job, though I suppose it is only a matter of time."
Mrs. Lloyd Avalons looked at him distrustfully for a moment; then she laughed with a dainty vagueness.
"You are so amusing, Mr. Dane! One never really knows whether you're in earnest or not. How many tickets did you say you would take?"
"One and a half," Sally advised, while Bobby stared at Mrs. Lloyd Avalons in speechless disgust. "He will go, and take me with him; but newspaper men are always admitted at half-rates."
"And you really think Mr. Thayer will sing for us?" Mrs. Lloyd Avalons went on, turning back to Beatrix. "It will be an advantage to him, in a way, to have sung under the auspices of our committee."
This time, even Beatrix felt herself antagonized. Thayer belonged to her own class, and her classwas scarcely of the type to need the official social sanction of Mrs. Lloyd Avalons.
"I have no idea at all in regard to the matter," she answered a little coldly. "Mr. Thayer appears to me to be able to hold his own, without the backing of any committee. It simply depends upon his personal generosity."
"But it is such a worthy object. And don't you think we could get that little Arlt to fill in with?"
"From, by, in, or with charity, and to or for a charity?" Bobby asked savagely.
"Oh, of course, we couldn't pay him." There was a falling inflection of the last word.
"Then I should advise him to decline charity altogether," Bobby retorted.
"It would be an advantage to him to play on such a programme," Mrs. Lloyd Avalons asserted, as she set down her cup.
"It would also be an advantage to him to get a little money, now and then."
Mrs. Lloyd Avalons raised her brows. They were daintily-marked brows, and the expression suited her pretty, empty little face.
"I think it is something for a man of no reputation at all to have a chance to be heard in such a connection," she replied a little tartly.
"Ye-es." Bobby rose with provoking deliberation. "And it is also possible, Mrs. Avalons, that when we are thankful even to be charted in Woodlawn, Mr. Arlt's name may be a good deal better known than it is now. Sally, we are due at the Stuyvesants', and I think we must tear ourselves away."
Out in the hall, he addressed himself to Sally.
"For social pulleys, give me three: music, cheek, and charity, but the greatest of these is ch—"
"Charity," amended Sally promptly.
Bobby gloomily pulled himself into his overcoat.
"Sally, I abhor that woman," he said.