“It’s burning, I think,” suggested Zelda.
“You ought to keep stirring,” said Mrs. Forrest.
“It’s usually served hot,” remarked Leighton. “That’s what the books say.”
The successful chafing-dish cook must be a good actor also. If the wicks work badly, he must smile at his audience while his fingers burn; or he must be able to tell an amusing story while the alcohol, which is always spreading in places where it should not be, ignites grandly until the table resembles a prairie fire. When the finished rabbit pulls away from the spoon like taffy, and hardens in long strings in the air, only an operator possessing unusual dramatic powers can turn the tragedy into comedy.
“Your advice is neither asked nor desired,” Rodney Merriam said, in scorn of his critics. “I’ve been under fire before.”
“You seem to be over it just now,” remarked Zelda, who sat nearest him with her elbows on the table.
“They have smokeless powder now; maybe they’ll have fireless chafing dishes next,” said Morris.
A spot of alcohol in the far corner of the tray had suddenly risen in a thin flame, giving point to Leighton’s remark.
“Young people are terribly nervous these days,” remarked Merriam, stifling the blaze imperturbably.
“‘Myself when young—’” hummed Zelda. “We’re never really old until we begin to lament the past. But you’re doing it charmingly, uncle, with quite a touch,—avec empressement.” She raised her arm and drew an imaginary straight line in the air with the points of her fingers.
“It’s a way I have. I’m glad you appreciate it,”—and Merriam nodded to the Japanese boy to put the plates within reach. The lobster diffused a cheering aroma through the air as the old gentleman served it.
“It’s delicious. It’s a credit to Mr. à la Newberg,” said Zelda, as she tasted it.
“It’s very indigestible, isn’t it, Rodney?” asked Mrs. Forrest, guardedly.
“It is, Julia. The best authorities place it next to ten-penny nails for indigestibility. But it’s good; and it’s better to die than to live lobsterless. Morris, that bottle of ale is yours.”
Rodney Merriam had an eye for effects and he thought his guests fitted very well into his dining-room. The furniture was all massive; the walls were decorated in bright red; and the silver on the sideboard and the crystal in the quaint old cabinet in the corner added to the charm of the room. There was no jarring note; the whole house was irreproachably clean; but a man’s house always has rigid lines. It is ordained of Heaven that women shall possess certain things, and the home touch is a feminine gift, that no man has ever been able to impart, charm he never so wisely and spend he never so lavishly.
A New York friend who once spent a week with Rodney Merriam in Seminary Square said on leaving that the house was as good as a club; that the only thing he had missed was the signing of checks for what he ordered. Men regard a club as paradise brought to earth, not because they escape there from things feminine or can command a cool siphon by ringing a bell; but because they like full swing at a club kitchen. It is a heart-breaking thing in any man’s life when he knows to a moral certainty that the roast on Monday, week after week, will be beef; that on Tuesday it will be fowl, while Wednesday will bring mutton with capers, and so on, to the regular Saturday evening corned beef. It is not that he dislikes any one of these things; it’s their inevitableness that causes his brow to darken and all the griefs of a busy day to becloud his table talk. For the stomachs of men are children and like to be surprised.
Rodney Merriam enjoyed his little party. It was going well, without effort on his part. He led his guests from the dining-room to the library, where a fire of hickory wood had just been lighted.
“There’s a parlor in this house, but the less you say about it the better,” said Merriam. “I found it here when I bought the house and I have never had the nerve to change it.”
“This is better,—much more intimate and homelike. I like it, Uncle Rodney. You may graciously invite me again,” said Zelda.
“I know a trick worth two of being invited. I just come. I suggest my method as having advantages;” and Leighton smiled at her.
“Yes. One is helpless against intruders,” declared Merriam; “privacy is a lost art. But I must except present company. All I have—anything you see—is yours to command, Zee. Better throw away that cigarette and have a cigar, Morris.”
“He’s in a generous mood to-night,” said Leighton to Zelda. “It’s well to seize and appropriate his worldly goods when he offers them. He’s offered you the house and given me a cigar.”
“I’m nothing if not polite,” declared Merriam. “But I don’t see what you’re complaining of, Morris. You haven’t lost your latch-key, have you?”
“No. But I wish to be sure that Miss Dameron understands how difficult you are.”
“Does that mean that you have to work hard to pay for the latch-key? Of course the compensations are sufficient,” observed Zelda.
“I’m not ashamed of the pains I took to get it. On the whole I think the labor flatters my good taste.”
“Oh, that!”
She was looking at Morris steadily and nodded her head gravely. The emphasis on the pronoun was very slight, but it was enough to carry a hint of impertinence.
Merriam and his sister were observing the young people from different points of view. The former was anxious for Leighton to impress Mrs. Forrest and Zelda favorably. Mrs. Forrest, on the other hand, watched the girl with an admiration that was not wholly void of anxiety. People usually laughed at what Zelda said, but Mrs. Forrest was not altogether sure in her own mind as to the quality of the girl’s humor; or perhaps she thought the amusement that Zelda created was merely another instance of the ease with which a pretty girl can carry off a situation. She wondered whether her brother had brought Zelda and Morris Leighton together with a purpose; but she saw no reason for suspecting him. It was natural that her brother should have taken up the son of an old friend; she knew that he was kind and generous; and Morris was a very presentable young man. He crossed the room now, and began talking more particularly to her, though still including the others. He was very straightforward and cordial. He spoke of Mariona social matters with an irony that had no unkindness in it; and when he appealed to her brother for corroboration there was a genuine respect under his joking.
“I’m not a social animal,” Merriam remarked. “I’ve stopped going out. If you could go to a friend’s house and hear talk that had sense or wit in it, I’d be glad to leave my slippers and go about. But every house nowadays is a museum of devices for making a row. You no sooner get your hat off than your host turns on a hideous, automatic, perfectly tireless device that squeals and roars like a circus calliope. The devil’s in the things and they never run down. The other evening I went to Carr’s, thinking I’d have a quiet evening, and he—Mike Carr—had the effrontery to turn loose an infernal machine that squealed out Hamlet’s soliloquy and vilely murdered it, so that I wouldn’t hear it again—not if Edwin Booth came back to life and offered to give it in this very room! But,—we can have better entertainment here. There’s the parlor and a piano. Let there be music.”
“Your piano is probably impossible,” suggested Mrs. Forrest.
“It’s not my fault if it isn’t in tune. I had a man at work on it all day yesterday.”
“I suppose there are books of music. We usually require something of the kind,” said Zelda.
“Um—you ought to have brought your own.”
“Not, I hope, without being urged in advance!”
“There are some things here, I think,” said Morris, “if you will let me show you the way. Mr. Merriam’s music probably dates back to the Kathleen Mavourneen period.”
“It was a good period, children; don’t speak slightingly of it.”
The old gentleman was lighting a fresh cigar at the mantel. Leighton and Zelda crossed the hall together.
“Shall we stay here?” Merriam asked his sister. “The chairs over there are pretty bad.”
The piano itself was not visible, but when the girl sat down by it her profile was turned toward them.
Leighton opened a cabinet of old music, and drew out the sheets for Zelda while they discussed the songs, which were all of a sentimental sort that had long been out of favor.
“I really don’t see how they could have done it,” said Zelda. “I suppose young women in those days were more courageous, or sentimental, or something. Perhaps we have changed for the worse.”
“I shouldn’t like to admit it.”
“I have heard that lawyers never admit anything,” she said, musingly, scanning the songs as Morris held them up for her.
“You’re conceding a good deal when you intimate that I’m a lawyer. But you’re hard to please—about the music, I mean!”
“Never mind,” she said. “I’ve thought of something;” and she struck suddenly the prelude of a song.
It was a swift rushing melody in which a gay mood had been imprisoned with an exquisite art, and the girl’s voice caught it up and sang it into life. She gave the little Provençal song in the patois; but the words did not matter. It was a song of spring, which the melody told without their aid.
Leighton was standing by her and the sudden out-leaping of the song laid a spell upon him. There was something delightfully joyous and spontaneous in it—as though it were a newly created thing that would always remain in the world, now that a voice had been found for it. He knew nothing of music and the finish of the girl’s singing was wasted on him; but the spirit with which she gave the chansonnette amazed him. He had felt that there was a kind of languor in her, an impression created by her way of speaking; but her singing voice dispelled the illusion. There was in her prayer to the spirit of spring a strange new note of passion that struck into his heart and thrilled it.
The song ended as abruptly as it began. The house was very still, save that the voices of Mrs. Forrest and her brother were heard across the hall. Leighton waited; it was not for him to profane the silence into which such melody had gone.
Rodney Merriam looked at his sister inquiringly.
“You never told me—”
“That it was like that? It is wonderful. I never dared try to tell you. I never understood it myself. Technically it is not so good, her teachers say; but the girl’s self gets into it and carries her away. I sometimes wonder whether it is quite right to encourage her. A girl’s soul ought to be shielded—”
Mrs. Forrest paused in her helpless way.
“Her soul will take care of itself, I think,” said Rodney Merriam.
Zelda turned abruptly to Morris.
“Just once more, if you can stand it. Don’t say a word! But I rarely sing anything unless I try a certain piece for my own satisfaction. It’s for bigger voices than mine. Dreams—you know—a study for Tristan and Isolde. I really hope you won’t like it at all, for I want it all to myself, no matter how badly I do it. Go on talking,” she called to the others across the hall; “this isn’t a stunt,—it’s just my own little meditation.”
She bent her head with an air of preoccupation for a moment, her face wholly serious, before she began:
“Say, oh say, what wondrous dreamings—”
She did not turn at once when the song was done, but sat for a moment very still. She rose smiling.
“Well, there has been music—of a kind, mon oncle. Don’t you fiddle or do something, Mr. Leighton? I oughtn’t to be made the only victim. No! Nothing more from me! That is always my finale.”
Rodney Merriam had come into the room and he took her cheeks between his hands and kissed her on the forehead.
“I wish I could say it, dear. It’s too much—too much—to think of, and a little kid like you!”
The tears glistened in his eyes, but he smiled happily; it did not often happen in Rodney Merriam’s life that a smile caught tears on his dark face.
“Dear Uncle Rodney,” she said, and rested her hands on his shoulders.
“Let’s get out of this,” said the old gentleman. “The place is sacred to your singing hereafter.” He led the way into the library and poked the fire until it crackled and leaped into the chimney in the way that he liked it.
“We must go home,” Mrs. Forrest announced presently.
“Nonsense,” growled her brother, who had reached the tranquillity of his fireside pipe and hated to be disturbed.
“Yes; I promised father to be home at ten, and he will stay up for me,” Zelda answered brightly, and rose to go. She went up stairs for her wraps and was down at once. Leighton, who had gone to call Mrs. Forrest’s carriage, met her in the hall. Merriam had waited for his sister at the foot of the stairs and stood talking to her there.
Zelda was drawing on her gloves. Morris had never consciously watched this process before, and he followed her movements with the wonder that is always awakened in a young man by this sort of feminine legerdemain.
“I didn’t say anything about your singing—” began Morris.
“I noticed it!”
“But that was because I couldn’t. It was beautiful beyond any words of mine to tell you.”
He was speaking earnestly; he was a very earnest fellow, and his gray eyes were honest and friendly. It was always easy to laugh off the compliments of people who did not mean them; but he clearly was not of that kind.
“I’m glad you liked it,” she said simply. “What’s the name of that animal?” She indicated a great head that hung on the wall above them.
“That’s a moose-head. Your uncle has a fondness for the moose, and goes after one occasionally.”
“And gets it? I’m sure Uncle Rodney always gets what he goes for. That’s my opinion of him.”
“Your faith isn’t misplaced. Whether it’s a moose or billiards, or a bout at fencing, he’s always sure to score.”
“Where do you keep your moose, Mr. Leighton?”
She asked the question with a disconcerting directness, and he answered soberly.
“I haven’t any place to put my moose, so I haven’t caught him yet.”
“Oh—that!”
“And they’re expensive,—time—money.”
“I suppose so. Still, I think I should get a moose. Oh, Aunt Julia, we really must—”
“Yes; I’m ready.”
“Father was very sorry he couldn’t come,” said Zelda, to her uncle. “But he always goes to church Sunday evening. He asked me to explain.”
“It’s too bad he couldn’t come. I didn’t think of church. I thought Sunday night church wasn’t done any more.”
“Father’s a creature of habit, I find. He always goes,—and to prayer meeting, and to all those things.”
“Ah, very likely. I suppose he doesn’t insist on the prayer meetings for you.”
“No, but I’ve volunteered! I’m to begin next Thursday night. I’m sure I shall enjoy them.”
Merriam looked at her gravely. When she spoke in this way, softly, with her lingering, caressing note at the end of sentences, he did not know what to make of her. He was half disposed to believe she was chaffing him; for she was too clever to be deceived by her father,—for very long, at least. Rodney Merriam was expecting daily that she would throw him over and cease trying to make the best of him and his ugly, forbidding home. His wrath rose every time he reviewed the situation and Zelda’s reply just now had sent a wave of hot blood to his face. But she was a Merriam, he remembered. She put her arms about his neck and kissed him good night.
Morris went with them to the carriage. Mrs. Forrest had brought Zelda and was taking her home. Merriam waited for Morris in the library.
“Sit down, lad,” said the old gentleman; “don’t begin running away.”
“Very good. I want to leave you comfortable; but I must be going—”
“Going? No! I refuse to be left here alone yet.”
The Japanese boy brought whisky and water, and the old man scolded Morris for taking Scotch, which he pronounced a barbarous liquor, unfit for Americans.
“Well?” he said finally, slowly sipping his own whisky.
“It was a great evening,” said Morris.
“Um. How did you get on with my sister?”
“All right, I hope. She asked me to call. I liked her particularly.”
“That’s good. But for heaven’s sake don’t call on Sunday afternoons, when she sleeps; and don’t ask her how she likes things. She likes most things, but it bores her to be asked. She has a lot of sense,—do you understand? And if she takes a fancy to you, she’ll do a lot for you.”
Leighton laughed. “Don’t embarrass me that way. I can’t work two people at once in the same family,—and I’m working you.”
“Oh, you are, are you? Bah! That whisky has a green streak in it somewhere.”
He set down his glass and put the tips of his fingers together, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair. Then with sudden energy he roared:
“I don’t see why you don’t like her.”
“Mrs. Forrest? Of course I like her. I just said so.”
“I heard you. I’m not talking about Mrs. Forrest. Why weren’t you decent to my niece? I brought her here so that you could get acquainted with her. I was fool enough to think you had some sense—some social instinct, some idea of good manners, but you acted like a perfect damned clam.”
“I am very sorry,” said Morris, sitting forward in his chair. “I don’t know what you expected. I did my poor level best.”
“And it was damned poor, sir, I’d have you know.”
Morris was trying hard not to laugh. The old gentleman glared at him fiercely. There was a moment’s silence, and then Leighton said, very quietly:
“She is charming,—more than that. There is something very unusual about her. I knew that before she sang; and her singing sets her apart from all the world.”
Merriam’s face changed slowly. He was listening carefully. He had used his bluster to draw Morris out. He assumed now an air of indifference as Leighton went on:
“I didn’t know that singing could be like that. I don’t believe I ever heard anybody sing before! There was something strange about it—almost uncanny—in what seemed to lie back of it.”
“You noticed it—you felt it?”
Merriam rose and walked back and forth before the fire, with his hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets.
“A savage would feel it. It was as though—”
The old man paused suddenly and glared at Morris.
“Yes, it was like what?” he demanded impatiently.
“Like the cry of a soul in pain. No! you can’t tell what it was; but it hurt. It was as though a child had suddenly gained the power to tell of a deep, heart-breaking grief in a great way.”
“Yes,” Merriam said; and then he added very softly: “Yes, it was like that.”
They sat together until late, talking of many things; but they did not refer again to Zelda Dameron.