Part 14

Now Cyrus had been "going on his nerves" for some hours and they might be more sensitive than usual. The last distressful thought showed plainly in his face. His heart began to bleed for this afflicted angel. And so pretty! So superlatively charming and desirable! As she raised the wondrous eyes and again regarded him his one ambition, at the moment, was to avoid appearing too imbecile and clownish. And lo, he was both! Never had he felt so helpless. If he knew at least the sign language there might be hope for progress. Even in that field of expression all he could recall were the doings in the pantomimes: to shut the eyes and incline your head upon your hand for sleep; to wabble your jaw for terror, and to lick your lips and rub your stomach with a rotary motion when you wanted food. But this was no moment for comic things, when his own heart and the very air he breathed were all a quiver with high adventure, with Beauty and Romance. So he stood before her in a painful, and--it seemed to him--a foolish silence. He looked down, then away, then at her, and as his drowsy eyes rested on her face he thought he detected an effort to suppress a smile. This doubled his embarrassment. He tried vainly to discover in what manner his question was mirth provoking. However, he made a brave effort to assert himself--to appear as if nobody cared. So he smiled, and straightened up a little.

"If you speak English won't you please say something? Just tell me what kind of a place this is? Where I am?"

"Non entra no signori in questo giardino."

Cyrus knew those words were Italian, and that was all. He frowned in his endeavor to guess their meaning.

"I am sorry, but I don't understand. Won't you please say that in English?"

"I said you were in a place where men are not allowed."

In pronouncing English words it seemed another voice. And he had heard it before! His drowsy eyes opened wider, his lips parted, and for a moment he stared, in wonder, as if belief came hard. Was it the voice he had heard in the darkness--in the motor, that night? As he stood in dumb surprise, hoping for the best, the girl stepped forward with a smile and extended a hand.

"Ruth!" he exclaimed. "Oh, Ruth! Really, is it you?"

It was. And great joy was in the meeting. They told each other many things. He learned that after the death of her parents she had found a refuge here, in this convent, through the influence of a friend. And he, in turn, told of his father's sudden death, of his own doings, of the Great Discovery. But he made no mention of his present affluence. He could foresee her sorrow and her sympathy for a man, otherwise normal, who told of gathering diamonds on the moon.

Leaning against the parapet, and facing the golden sky across the water, they talked, forgetful of surroundings. So engrossing was this talk of other days that they lived again in Longfields.

From this Fairy Land of childhood Ruth was the first to return to earth. "You must go, Drowsy." And she turned an anxious look toward the buildings beyond the garden.

"Oh, don't say that! Why, Ruth, this is the happiest moment of my life--a thousand times the happiest. Life has really begun again!"

"That is very polite of you, but----"

"Polite! Well, I should say! Why, Ruth, your very presence--just to look at you and hear your voice--is a--is a--breath of heaven. You are the loveliest thing I have ever seen. I can't express it!"

She laughed. "You are doing fairly well."

"Of course, you know it already, but truly, with no exaggeration, as you stand there now with that western sun for a side light you are the daintiest thing in Creation. And the same spell-binding eyes! Well, I knew that night in the dark that you were not a giantess--and that was about all."

She raised a hand for silence. "That will do, Drowsy. You have covered the ground."

But Cyrus went on. "And so angelic and pleasantly superior! Why, you are a temptation to any able-bodied lover to pick you up and run--or fly--away with you."

She blushed, frowned and laughed, all at the same time. "That will do! Now I know exactly what I am--and just how childish a man can be. I believe you are lighter headed than when you were a boy."

"I am telling the truth."

"Telling the truth! Then you have changed, indeed, for that was not your habit." In sudden alarm she straightened up. "Oh, but you mustn't be seen here, Drowsy! You must go--at once!"

"Not now? Not this very minute?"

"Yes, this very minute. Men are not allowed here, under any circumstances. If I were found talking with you it would mean--oh, anything!"

"What does it matter? You are not going to stay here."

"Stay here? Of course I am!"

"But not long?"

"So long as I live."

"You don't mean that!"

"Why not? I expect to live and die here. We are all very happy and very thankful."

"You don't mean that you are not coming back to--to Longfields--to me? You don't really mean what you say? That you are going to stay here forever?"

"Certainly. Of course. Why not?"

"Then you have changed your mind since this morning--since yesterday."

She looked up into Cyrus's face, puzzled, and disturbed. "Changed my mind? What do you mean? I really don't understand."

"Are you pretending that you don't know why I am here?"

"Pretending!"

"Any other word that you prefer. Only tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Do you mean to say that you don't know why I am here?"

"You came to see me, I suppose."

"And you had no idea I was coming?"

"Not the slightest. How could I? I never was more surprised. But it's a most welcome surprise."

Cyrus closed his eyes and drew a long breath as one who makes an effort at self control. "I ask just one thing, Ruth. Be honest with me."

"Be honest! Why, Cyrus, what _do_ you mean? Indeed I can only guess at what's in your mind. You look as if you were angry. You have no right to be. Aren't you assuming----"

"Oh, don't! Don't do that! At least be frank. Why did you call me across the water? Just for the pleasure of doing this?"

"Call you? Across the water?"

There was touch of contempt in Cyrus's manner as he replied: "You don't even know what I mean?"

"On my honor I do not!"

"And you accuse me of not being truthful!"

"Drowsy, listen. This may be our last meeting. Let us not part in this spirit--through any misunderstanding. Our friendship is too precious for that, isn't it? I beg you, tell me what you mean by my calling you. When? How? Do you mean a letter?"

"I mean the message I received last night, and again early this morning. Through the air--by wireless as it were--in the old way, years ago, that I often got your messages."

"But I have sent you no message."

"Didn't you even think of me yesterday or this morning?"

"No, I did not. I have thought of you often, and of our old childhood attachment, but not yesterday nor this morning, nor for several days."

"Perhaps you remember," said Cyrus, speaking slowly, the slumbrous eyes looking earnestly down into Ruth's, "I used to get messages from you when we were far apart, even from your house to mine."

"Indeed I do! And it was most mysterious--almost uncanny."

"And they never deceived us?"

"No, never;--as I remember them."

"Well, it was the same sort of message I received last night. It came to me twice, and the meaning of the message was as clear as any spoken word. And to this spot it guided me."

He turned and looked about the grounds, beyond the trees and garden, toward the cloisters and the chapel. "Who but you could call me here?"

Ruth, also, looked toward the convent buildings. "Is it not possible your own brain may have played you a trick? Such things happen, you know."

"My brain has not played such tricks. So far it has never deceived me. To be honest I was not thinking of you at the time. Father's death had been almost my only thought for weeks."

"What more can I say, Drowsy? I am telling you the truth. And after all why should I call you? If you are the faithful soul you pretend to be, why didn't you write me months ago?"

"How could I? I never had your address. And you promised--or almost promised--to let me have it. I waited, and waited, hoping for it--wondering in what way it was to come."

She frowned: then, with a solemn movement of the head:

"You did have it."

"I did have it! How on earth could I get it?"

"From Gertrude Page. I told her to mention a letter from me. Then, if you asked for my address, she would give it to you. But you didn't ask."

Vehemently he protested. "On my honor, Ruth, this is the first I have heard of it. She never spoke of any letter. And why should she, poor thing? For nearly a year she has been in the asylum at Worcester."

"You mean her--her mind is affected?"

"Yes;--sort of a nervous breakdown. And her memory gone."

"Oh, how dreadful!"

In the silence that followed, Ruth found the drowsy eyes looking deep into her own, as if reading her innermost thoughts. She recalled the singular power he had exercised as a boy--of seeing into other people's minds, apparently without effort, and answering questions before they were asked. At this present moment she had reasons for keeping her own thoughts to herself. She avoided his gaze, and looked away, over the water, toward the west. Too late, it seemed, for he said, quietly:

"It would have been fairer to me if you had sent it."

"Sent what?"

"The second letter, the one you wrote to somebody else."

Ruth's little figure stiffened. Color flew to her cheeks, and there were signs of anger as she faced him.

"How do you know I wrote a second letter?"

Taken aback by this sudden change of manner, he hesitated, then he smiled, but with an obvious effort. And the smile was not of mirth. It was a smile of the joyless type, often employed to carry favor. "Why--I--er--I don't know exactly."

"Yes you do know. You pried into my thoughts. It's your old trick. And a hateful habit."

"I am sorry, Ruth. I know it's a hateful habit."

"Then why do you do it?"

"I don't do it. I didn't mean to do it then. It's not a habit any more. Years ago I gave it up. But now, I was so anxious, so very anxious to know your real thoughts--to know if you really had no love for me at all--that I couldn't resist. I swear I will not do it again. Truly I almost never do it. But now, at the critical moment of my life, when it's a matter of life or death, the temptation was too great."

"It's an exasperating, dishonorable trick, and I don't like it."

"I am sorry, Ruth. Please forgive me."

"And you are very much mistaken if you think any woman with a particle of pride is going to marry a man who can spy into her secret thoughts--and merely by staring at her."

Her eyes still avoided him. She looked over the garden, toward the cloisters, anywhere except at his face. When she spoke again, however, there was more sympathy in her voice. "But that doesn't matter. It has always been my intention to remain here."

"You don't really mean it?"

"Indeed I do! It is no sudden decision. I am very happy here."

He turned partly away, and said nothing. She glanced at his face, and its expression would have softened the Rock of Ages. There was no doubt of his sincerity; nor of his silent agony beneath the blow he had just received. No words were uttered. He simply stood and gazed--at nothing.

Across the garden, from the open windows of the central building, came the sound of a harp. It came faintly, a gentle, plaintive melody, all in harmony with the murmur of the fountain, the fading glories in the west--and an aching heart. The voice of the harp may have had its effect on Ruth. As she looked up at the face of Cyrus, with its misery, she began to feel the old-time sympathy of their childhood; the long forgotten sense of responsibility for his welfare when she was mother and sister to him, with the woman's love he had missed as a boy; also his chosen pal;--his adored and trusted playmate. She felt again the yearning to keep him out of trouble. His distress brought an almost equal suffering to herself. But when he turned his eyes again to her face she was--apparently--still studying the cloisters.

"Is this really the end?" He spoke in a lower, unsteady voice. "Do you really mean that our boy and girl days, our old affection, all those memories--and you don't know how much they have meant to me--always, always--through everything--you don't really mean--all that is--is just--nothing? That I am no more to you than anybody else?"

The heart in Ruth's little body beat so loud--it seemed to her--that a man could hear it. She tried hard to blink away the moisture in her eyes as they rested on various objects, but not on the face of Cyrus. "You will get over it, Drowsy. I feel it, in another way, as much as you do. Please don't talk about it. And you really must go. A man's presence here--and alone with me--would be very hard to explain. Please go--for my sake!"

Cyrus closed his eyes and drew a hand, slowly, across his forehead. Then, instead of the protest she expected, he straightened up in a sudden agitation, laid his hand on her arm and pointed toward the convent buildings.

The voice of a woman, singing, came floating across the silent garden.

"What is that?" he whispered.

Also in a lower tone Ruth answered: "That is Sister Francesca, singing. She has a heavenly voice."

"What is she singing?"

"An old Hungarian song. A mother's prayer for her child. She often sings it. And nothing could be more beautiful."

"Sister Francesca!" he exclaimed, but in a solemn whisper. He remembered his father's dying words.

"A famous singer," Ruth explained. "All the world has heard of her. She was never a mother but she sings this song with all the feeling and the----"

He did not hear the end of the sentence. He had started in the direction of the song, across the garden.

"Stop! Stop! Cyrus, stop. You don't know what you are doing!"

But he paid no attention. Again she called. She entreated, then commanded. Still he paid no attention. And he walked so fast that she stopped and stood still in helpless terror. She could only guess at what this humiliating misadventure might signify to the other sisters. On second thought she followed, but with the courage of despair. The catastrophe was at hand, and she would face it. As for Cyrus, he heard her not. He heard only the song. He heard only the woman singing--the voice and the song that had come to him beneath the stars, at Longfields!

At last he stopped. And when he stopped he was standing upon a stone terrace, where high arched windows reached the floor, their heavy casements now wide open.

There he stood, and listened.

Although a lover of music, and keenly sensitive to its charm, this prayer affected him beyond any other song. Its pathos, with the divine voice that had thrilled the world, reached deeper than his emotions. Into his very soul it sank. It seemed to open the doors of memory--the memory of things long forgotten; things almost of another life.

Under a spell he listened, and the spell was intensified by the scene about him,--an enchanted garden high above the world. Against the gold and crimson in the West stood the statues at the garden's edge, their purple shadows reaching almost to the terrace. With the warm, soft light that enveloped all things came a peace and a beauty that were more of paradise than of earth. And, as if to complete the illusion of the upper realms, the voice of the singer seemed to lift him yet further from the world of common things. Between this voice and his spiritual self came a new born harmony. It came to him as a message between two hearts, wafted across a gulf of years. The message it brought was intimate, for him alone. To the voice itself, a tendril of love, all the chords of his own heart were vibrating. Some mysterious power reawakened elusive but imperishable bonds between itself and him.

He closed his eyes, shut out the world about him, and his soul and the soul of the singer were one.

XVI

THE SOUL OF A SONG

Within, at one side of the room, a group of forty sisters, more or less, sat listening to the song. The room was spacious. Against its white walls hung various paintings by old masters. The further wall, facing the western windows, was partly covered by an enormous tapestry representing Esther and her handmaidens before King Ahasuerus. The king was on a throne, amid the splendors of his court. Now, at this hour, its colors were all aglow at the touch of the sinking sun. Between the three long windows stood growing plants in massive pots of Siena marble.

Across the room, facing the sisters, stood Madame Francesca; and, not far away, the accompanist with her harp.

The various members of the little audience were affected by the song in different ways and in different degree, according to temperament. Some, enraptured by her voice and art, leaned forward in æsthetic joy. Others, with moister eyes and quicker breath, gave out their hearts to the deeper meaning of the song. Madame Drusilla, an older woman whose two young sons had fallen in the war, sat always, on these occasions, with head bent low, her face in her hands. But all the others kept their eyes upon the singer. For the personality of Madame Francesca--as she wished to be called since her retirement from the world--possessed in itself an irresistible charm. Now, standing in her light gray uniform, in the flood of golden light from the great windows, she seemed transfigured--a celestial being from another sphere.

The song itself was the outpouring of a mother's love. And it was rendered with a pathos, a beauty and a depth of feeling that stirred the heart of every listener. It seemed to the sisters a marvel of dramatic art that a woman, however great an artist, could so touch the hearts of others when not herself a mother. And they marveled that a woman whose physicians forbade excitement could so move an audience and not be overwhelmed herself by emotion.

The song ended. As the fingers of the harpist moved gently across the strings, in the last notes of the accompaniment, Madame Francesca stood for a moment with closed eyes. Her breathing and the color in her cheeks showed a degree of feeling which Sister Lucrezia, the physician, did not approve.

Then came a climax to the song--a climax far transcending any singer's art. In this short, somewhat solemn silence that followed the song, there appeared in one of the long windows that opened to the floor, a figure rarely seen within the convent walls. It was a man. And the man was neither workman, priest, grand duke or king. Neither was he old. Men visitors were rare, and the few that entered were usually middle aged or churchly. This visitor was young, hatless, his hair in disorder. He wore a checkered suit and leather leggings, and he was in no way ecclesiastical. His manner was eager,--somewhat excited, with eyes fixed earnestly on Sister Francesca. He paid no attention to the other sisters. If such a thing was possible he was ignorant of their presence. As for the sisters they were too surprised to speak, or move. They merely sat and stared.

Cyrus stepped within, slowly, as in a trance. Slowly he advanced toward Madame Francesca. She, as surprised as any of the others, regarded him in silence until he stopped before her. As they stood facing each other, the western light on both their faces, the spectators--including Ruth, now at the open window--began to marvel. Fear began to mingle with surprise, for many in the audience knew that famous beauties could be tormented by crazy lovers. But fear, in turn, gave way to wonder, for it proved a strange interview, never forgotten by those who saw it. No words were spoken. No words were needed. In the eyes that looked into his own Cyrus read their greeting as clearly as in an open book. And she, as clearly, looked deep into his heart--as she had looked into the heart of his father. Now in his responsive, eager face she saw the confirmation of his father's letters, that she had bequeathed to her child her own extraordinary faculty. It brought a sudden joy, this assurance of a perfect understanding. Each received, in full, the other's message. In the face of Cyrus--with his grandfather's drowsy eyes--she saw his happiness in this meeting. He was telling her in unspoken words of his childhood yearnings; how he had thought and dreamed of her from early boyhood; that he had prayed and hoped for this meeting. And now--here, had come the fulfillment of all his dreams, his hopes, his prayers! And he, as he fathomed to their secret depths the tragic but tender eyes, found love and a heart-expanding welcome.

The little audience, however, saw nothing but the outward, silent greetings. To them was not revealed the greater happiness, the imperishable bond.

But this silent meeting, with its overwhelming joy, was the prelude to the drama--its silent overture. The curtain had risen on the Diva's final triumph, the Immortal Opera with its happy ending.

To the amazement of the audience she drew the young man's face to hers and kissed him on either cheek. Then, overcome by emotion, as it seemed, her head fell slowly forward on his breast. Without his supporting arms she would have sunk to the floor. The sisters saw, and hastened to her side. Cyrus, with their help, carried the fainting figure to a nearby bench, where they laid her, with a cushion beneath her head. Sister Lucrezia, the physician, bent anxiously over the unconscious form. And so sudden was it all that her hearers could hardly believe her when at last she arose, and solemnly announced that the spirit of Madame Francesca had risen to another life.

She spoke in Italian but Cyrus knew its meaning. His head drooped and he stood motionless, crushed, as if his own spirit and that of the sleeping figure on the bench were still together.

It was the Diva's long sleep. The last notes of her enchanting voice had died away; the curtain was down, the orchestra gone, the lights out. The audience had vanished. No more in the empty house would be heard the clapping of hands, the cries of enthusiasm, the _bravos_ and _encores_.

But there are memories that never die. And now, to those who looked upon the tranquil face, it seemed as if memories of conquest and of triumph--or of something higher--still lingered in her heart. For the face was more than peaceful. There was a smile upon the lips that bore witness to a perfect contentment beyond the touch of death.

* * * * *

Cyrus was recalled to himself by the voice of the Mother Superior, a tall, gray-haired, kind-faced woman. She approached him, and in a voice of sympathy addressed him, in Italian. He understood the meaning of the message; that she shared his grief, but the presence of men was forbidden; the rules were strict, and she begged him to go. He expressed his gratitude by a respectful inclination and a few words in English. Then he walked over to the silent figure. Upon her folded hands he laid one of his own and stood, for a moment, looking down upon the face. The rosy light from the western sky seemed to bring the flush of life to the Diva's cheeks. He knelt beside the bench. Reverently he touched his lips to the sleeper's forehead.

He arose and moved toward the terrace. Near the window he stopped, and to the watching sisters he bowed. In this obeisance he told his sorrow and his profound respect. Then he turned and went out as he came.