V
A POLISH FANTASIA
I made a clean breast of the whole matter to Mrs. Jack Van Corlear the next morning. I had sent for her early in the day, saying that I was in trouble and needed advice, and she came to me at once. It was a great relief to me just to look into her eyes and hold her hand.
"It's about Tom!" she remarked,sagely. "Has he done it again?"
Her question made me realize fully the awkwardness of my position. Close as our friendship had been, I had never gossiped about Tom to Mrs. Jack. If there is anything more vulgar than what Tom had once called "extra-marital confidences between women," I don't know what it is. But I was forced to talk about my husband's increasing eccentricity to somebody, or endanger my own mental health. I knew that I should derive temporary nervous restoration from a heart-to-heart confab with a woman who has the reputation of being "a mighty good fellow." I have heard people complain that Mrs. Jack was "too horsey" for their taste. But if you are seeking a friend who shall possess courage, reticence and common sense, pick out a woman that rides. A fondness for horses seems to enlarge a woman's sympathies, while at the same time it increases her discretion.
"He has not actually done it again, my dear," I answered; "but he threatens to. He informed me at breakfast this morning that he intended to accept the invitation of the Chopin Society. Furthermore, he said he was going to send the society a cheque for their Chopin Monument Fund."
"Tom's a thoroughbred, isn't he?" exclaimed Mrs. Jack, with what struck me as ill-timed enthusiasm. "But tell me more about Signorina Molatti. Did you keep your promise to her?"
"Yes; I told him this morning about her call. Do you know, he seemed to be actually pleased. It wasn't like Tom at all. Young women always bore him. And he has a special abhorrence for people connected in any way with the stage."
"Now, Winifred, tell me honestly: Has Tom never played a note in all the twelve years that you have known him?"
"Never! never! never!" I cried, hotly. It was so hard to make even Mrs. Jack, who fully understands me, get at my point of view.
"And he wins a big handicap the first time he starts," mused my confidante. "It's miraculous! Is there a strain of music in his blood, my dear? Any of the Remsens gifted that way?"
"Not that I ever heard of," I answered, rather petulantly. Mrs. Jack's surmises seemed to be as unsatisfactory as my own solitary musings.
"Is he going to play for Molatti?" she asked, presently.
The blood rushed to my cheeks as I realized that this was the keynote to the whole conversation. "He says he is," I confessed, reluctantly. "You may not believe it, but he actually joked about it; said that it would be cruel on his part to withhold from 'a worthy young woman'—what an expression!— a pleasure that might restore her appetite and sleep."
Mrs. Jack laughed aloud, despite the frown on my brow. "Give him the bit, my dear," she advised, playfully. "You aren't afraid of a little black filly over a distance, are you? But tell me, what does Tom say about it all? You tell me that he speaks of his recent rendition of the Chopin ballad as 'a seizure.’"
"For nearly two days, my dear, I fondly imagined he had forgotten all about it. He didn't speak of it. But last night he went into the library and recommenced his researches into the life of Chopin. I couldn't help laughing at some of the comments he made, but he was in dead earnest all the time. I am forced to believe Tom really thinks he is—it seems so absurd when one puts it into words—thinks he is haunted by Chopin's spirit, or something of that kind."
Mrs. Jack's mood changed and the merriment in her face disappeared. "Do you know," she remarked, thoughtfully, "I am sometimes inclined to think we are awfully ignorant about some things. I have heard of so many queer occurrences of an uncanny nature lately—and among the very nicest kind of people, too. And it used to be really good form to have a family ghost, you know. Perhaps it's coming in again. Old fashions have a way of cropping up again, haven't they?"
I could not refrain from smiling at Mrs. Jack's peculiar attitude toward psychical mysteries. However, I refused to be led into generalities. "But just look at the ludicrousness of the idea," I began. "Admitting, my dear, that Chopin's soul has grown uneasy and desires a temporary reincarnation, would he be likely to select Tom as a—what shall I call it?—medium? Wouldn't he be more inclined to haunt a man who was naturally musical, or at least loved music? But you know, Mrs. Jack, what Tom is. He hasn't the slightest liking for music of any kind. Unless he has been a great actor for many years, never for an instant forgetting his rôle, I'm sure of this."
"What can we know about the methods or longings of a disembodied spirit?" argued my confidante, logically enough. "Perhaps Chopin was backing a long shot, just for the excitement of the thing."
I glanced at Mrs. Jack half-angrily. I thought for a moment that she was inclined to poke fun at me. But her face was as serious as mine, and I repented quickly of my unjust suspicion.
And thus we talked in a circle for an hour or more. Mrs. Jack lunched with me, and finally persuaded me to spend the afternoon with her, driving along the river side. As we drew up in front of the house about five o'clock, I turned to her with gratitude in my heart and eyes and voice.
"Thank you so much, my dear," I said, gratefully. "I'll come to you in the morning if there are any new developments in the case." I had turned away when Mrs. Jack called me back.
"It's a problem that you and I can't solve, little woman," she said, affectionately. "If he has another attack, or any new symptoms develop, what would you think of consulting a specialist? I'd go with you, of course. We needn't give our names, you know."
"A specialist—in what?" I asked, trying to repress a feeling of annoyance that I must conceal from a friend who had been all kindness to me at a crisis.
"Think it over," returned Mrs. Jack, vaguely. "I'm sure I don't know who is an authority on—what did Tom call it?—Chopinitis. But come to me in the morning, anyway; I may have something really practical to suggest. And don't touch him with the whip! Tom's a thoroughbred, you know, my dear. Good-bye!"
As I entered the hall, depressed by a quick reaction from my recent cheerfulness, I was roused from my self-absorption by a revelation that drove the blood to my head and made me dizzy for a moment. From the music-room, always unoccupied at this hour of the day, came the weird, searching harmonies of a Polish fantasia arranged for the piano and violin. The effect was marvelous. Softened by distance, the perfect accord of the two instruments bore testimony to the complete sympathy that existed between the pianist and the wielder of the bow. There was something in this half-barbaric music that set my veins on fire. Hardly knowing what I did and with no thought of what I intended to do, I crossed the drawing-room quickly and noiselessly, and stood motionless at the entrance to the music-room.
I remember now that I felt no sensation of astonishment at what I saw. It seemed to me that the picture before my eyes was just what I had come from a remote distance to gaze upon.
Tom was seated at the piano, his back toward me. Beside him stood Signorina Molatti, her Cremona resting against her shoulder. They had not heard my footsteps, and I realized that if I had yelled like a wild Indian they would not have come to earth. They played like creatures in a trance, and I felt the strange, seductive hypnotism of the mad, sweet, feverish music that they made, as I stood there voiceless, motionless, helpless, hopeless. Vainly I appealed to my pride. Vainly I strove to act as one worthy of the name of mondaine. The shock had been too sudden, too severe, and I could not trust myself.
As silently as I had come, I crept away. Recrossing the drawing-room, I encountered the butler in the hall. My face flushed with shame as I said to him:
"If Mr. Remsen asks for me, James, say that I have not returned."
Then I stumbled up-stairs to my rooms, dismissed my maid curtly, and gave way like a foolish girl to foolish tears.