Cyrilla Brindley"s face was tragic as she looked at the beautiful girl, so gracefully adjusted to the big chair. She sighed covertly. "You are lovely," she said, "and young--above all, young."
"This man is peculiar," replied Mildred forlornly. "Anyhow, he doesn"t want ME. He knows me for the futile, weak, worthless creature I am. He saw through my bluff, even before I saw through it myself. If it weren"t for him, I could go ahead--do the sensible thing--do as women usually do. But--" She came to a full stop.
"Love is a woman"s sense of honor," said Cyrilla softly. "We"re merciless and unscrupulous--anything--everything--where we don"t love.
But where we do love, we"ll go farther for honor than the most honorable man. That"s why we"re both worse and better than men--and seem to be so contradictory and puzzling."
"I"d do anything for him," said Mildred. She smiled drearily. "And he wants nothing."
She had nothing more to say. She had talked herself out about Stanley, and her mind was now filled with thoughts that could not be spoken. As she rose to go to bed, she looked appealingly at Cyrilla. Then, with a sudden and shy rush she flung her arms round her and kissed her. "Thank you--so much," she said. "You"ve done me a world of good. Saying it all out loud before YOU has made me see. I know my own mind, now."
She did not note the pathetic tenderness of Cyrilla"s face as she said, "Good night, Mildred." But she did note the use of her first name--and her own right first name--for the first time since they had known each other. She embraced and kissed her again. "Good night, Cyrilla," she said gratefully.
As she entered Jennings"s studio the next day he looked at her; and when Jennings looked, he saw--as must anyone who lives well by playing upon human nature. He did not like her expression. She did not habitually smile; her light-heartedness, her optimism, did not show themselves in that inane way. But this seriousness of hers was of a new kind, of the kind that bespeaks sobriety and saneness of soul. And that kind of seriousness--the deep, inward gravity of a person whose days of trifling with themselves and with the facts of life, and of being trifled with, are over--would have impressed Jennings equally had she come in laughing, had her every word been a jest.
"No, I didn"t come for a lesson--at least not the usual kind," said she.
He was not one to yield without a struggle. Also he wished to feel his way to the meaning of this new mood. He put her music on the rack.
"We"ll begin where we--"
"This half-hour of your time is mine, is it not?" said she quietly.
"Let"s not waste any of it. Yesterday you told me that I could not hope to make a career because my voice is unreliable. Why is it unreliable?"
"Because you have a delicate throat," replied he, yielding at once where he instinctively knew he could not win.
"Then why can I sing so well sometimes?"
"Because your throat is in good condition some days--in perfect condition."
"It"s the colds then--and the slight attacks of colds?"
"Certainly."
"If I did not catch colds--if I kept perfectly well--could I rely on my voice?"
"But that"s impossible," said he.
"Why?"
"You"re not strong enough."
"Then I haven"t the physical strength for a career?"
"That--and also you are lacking in muscular development. But after several years of lessons--"
"If I developed my muscles--if I became strong--"
"Most of the great singers come from the lower cla.s.ses--from people who do manual labor. They did manual labor in their youth. You girls of the better cla.s.s have to overcome that handicap."
"But so many of the great singers are fat."
"Yes, and under that fat you"ll find great ropes of muscle--like a blacksmith."
"What Keith meant," she said. "I wonder-- Why do I catch cold so easily? Why do I almost always have a slight catch in the throat? Have you noticed that I nearly always have to clear my throat just a little?"
Her expression held him. He hesitated, tried to evade, gave it up.
"Until that pa.s.ses, you can never hope to be a thoroughly reliable singer," said he.
"That is, I can"t hope to make a career?"
His silence was a.s.sent.
"But I have the voice?"
"You have the voice."
"An unusual voice?"
"Yes, but not so unusual as might be thought. As a matter of fact, there are thousands of fine voices. The trouble is in reliability. Only a few are reliable."
She nodded slowly and thoughtfully. "I begin to understand what Mr.
Keith meant," she said. "I begin to see what I have to do, and how--how impossible it is."
"By no means," declared Jennings. "If I did not think otherwise, I"d not be giving my time to you."
She looked at him gravely. His eyes shifted, then returned defiantly, aggressively. She said:
"You can"t help me to what I want. So this is my last lesson--for the present. I may come back some day--when I am ready for what you have to give."
"You are going to give up?"
"Oh, no--oh, dear me, no," replied she. "I realize that you"re laughing in your sleeve as I say so, because you think I"ll never get anywhere. But you--and Mr. Keith--may be mistaken." She drew from her m.u.f.f a piece of music--the "Batti Batti," from "Don Giovanni." "If you please," said she, "we"ll spend the rest of my time in going over this.
I want to be able to sing it as well as possible."
He looked searchingly at her. "If you wish," said he. "But I doubt if you"ll be able to sing at all."
"On the contrary, my cold"s entirely gone," replied she. "I had an exciting evening, I doctored myself before I went to bed, and three or four times in the night. I found, this morning, that I could sing."
And it was so. Never had she sung better. "Like a true artist!" he declared with an enthusiasm that had a foundation of sincerity. "You know, Miss Stevens, you came very near to having that rarest of all gifts--a naturally placed voice. If you hadn"t had singing teachers as a girl to make you self-conscious and to teach you wrong, you"d have been a wonder."
"I may get it back," said Mildred.
"That never happens," replied he. "But I can almost do it."
He coached her for half an hour straight ahead, sending the next pupil into the adjoining room--an unprecedented transgression of routine. He showed her for the first time what a teacher he could be, when he wished. There was an astonishing difference between her first singing of the song and her sixth and last--for they went through it carefully five times. She thanked him and then put out her hand, saying:
"This is a long good-by."