第70章

``What's all this about, anyhow?'' demanded he.``Idon't see any sign of it in your face.You wouldn't take it so coolly if it were so.''

``I don't understand why I'm not wringing my hands and weeping,'' replied she.``Every few minutes I tell myself that I ought to be.But I stay quite calm.Isuppose I'm--sort of stupefied.''

``Do you really mean that you've given up?'' cried he.

``It's no use to waste the money, Stanley.I've got the voice, and that's what deceived us all.But there's nothing BEHIND the voice.With a great singer the greatness is in what's behind the voice, not in the voice itself.''

``I don't believe a word of it,'' cried he violently.

``You've been discouraged by a little cold.Everybody has colds.Why, in this climate the colds are always getting the Metropolitan singers down.''

``But they've got strong throats, and my throat's delicate.''

``You must go to a better climate.You ought to be abroad, anyhow.That was part of my plan--for us to go abroad--'' He stopped in confusion, reddened, went bravely on--``and you to study there and make your debut.''

Mildred shook her head.``That's all over,'' said she.

``I've got to change my plans entirely.''

``You're a little depressed, that's all.For a minute you almost convinced me.What a turn you did give me! I forgot how your voice sounded the last time I heard it.No, you'd not be so calm, if you didn't know everything was all right.''

Her eyes lit up with sly humor.``Perhaps I'm calm because I feel that my future's secure as your wife.

What more could a woman ask?''

He forced an uncomfortable laugh.``Of course--of course,'' he said with a painful effort to be easy and jocose.

``I knew you'd marry me, even if I couldn't sing a note.I knew your belief in my career had nothing to do with it.''

He hesitated, blurted out the truth.``Speaking seriously, that isn't quite so,'' said he.``I've got my heart set on your making a great tear--and I know you'll do it.''

``And if you knew I wouldn't, you'd not want to marry me?''

``I don't say that,'' protested he.``How can I say how I'd feel if you were different?''

She nodded.``That's sensible, and it's candid,'' she said.She laid her hand impulsively on his arm.``IDO like you, Stanley.You have got such a lot of good qualities.Don't worry.I'm not going to insist on your marrying me.''

``You don't have to do that, Mildred,'' said he.

``I'm staring, raving crazy about you, though I'm a damn fool to let you know it.''

``Yes, it is foolish,'' said she.``If you'd kept me worrying-- Still, I guess not.But it doesn't matter.

You can protest and urge all you please, quite safely.

I'm not going to marry you.Now let's talk business.''

``Let's talk marriage,'' said he.``I want this thing settled.You know you intend to marry me, Mildred.

Why not say so? Why keep me gasping on the hook?''

They heard the front door open, and the rustling of skirts down the hall.Mildred called:

``Mrs.Brindley! Cyrilla!''

An instant and Cyrilla appeared in the doorway.

When she and Baird had shaken hands, Mildred said:

``Cyrilla, I want you to tell the exact, honest truth.

Is there any hope for a woman with a delicate throat to make a grand-opera career?''

Cyrilla paled, looked pleadingly at Mildred.

``Tell him,'' commanded Mildred.

``Very little,'' said Mrs.Brindley.``But--''

``Don't try to soften it,'' interrupted Mildred.

``The truth, the plain truth.''

``You've no right to draw me into this,'' cried Cyrilla indignantly, and she started to leave the room.

``I want him to know,'' said Mildred.``And he wants to know.''

``I refuse to be drawn into it,'' Cyrilla said, and disappeared.

But Mildred saw that Stanley had been shaken.She proceeded to explain to him at length what a singer's career meant--the hardships, the drafts on health and strength, the absolute necessity of being reliable, of singing true, of not disappointing audiences--what a delicate throat meant--how delicate her throat was --how deficient she was in the kind of physical strength needed--muscular power with endurance back of it.

When she finished he understood.

``I'd always thought of it as an art,'' he said ruefully.``Why, it's mostly health and muscles and things that have nothing to do with music.'' He was dazed and offended by this uncovering of the mechanism of the art--by the discovery of the coarse and painful toil, the grossly physical basis, of what had seemed to him all idealism.He had been full of the delusions of spontaneity and inspiration, like all laymen, and all artists, too, except those of the higher ranks--those who have fought their way up to the heights and, so, have learned that one does not achieve them by being caught up to them gloriously in a fiery cloud, but by doggedly and dirtily and sweatily toiling over every inch of the cruel climb.

He sat silent when she had finished.She waited, then said:

``Now, you see.I release you, and I'll take no more money to waste.''

He looked at her with dumb misery that smote her heart.Then his expression changed--to the shining, hungry eyes, the swollen veins, the reddened countenance, the watering lips of desire.He seized her in his arms, and in a voice trembling with passion, he cried:

``You must marry me, anyhow! I've GOT to have you, Mildred.''

If she had loved him, his expression, his impassioned voice would have thrilled her.But she did not love him.

It took all her liking for him, and the memory of all she owed him--that unpaid debt!--to enable her to push him away gently and to say without any show of the repulsion she felt:

``Stanley, you mustn't do that.And it's useless to talk of marriage.You're generous, so you are taking pity on me.But believe me, I'll get along somehow.''

``Pity? I tell you I love you,'' he cried, catching desperately at her hands and holding them in a grip she could not break.``You've no right to treat me like this.''