Part 7

It seemed to me that the vivacious Molatti had noted Tom's too apparent enthusiasm, for she smiled and nodded to him as she made ready to coax her Cremona into giving her silent auditors new proof of her most amazing genius. I, a lover of music, had been carried into unknown, blissful realms by the magic of her bow, my whole being throbbing with the joy of strange, weird harmonies that lured my errant soul away from earth, away from my duties as a hostess, my worries as a wife. I came back to my music-room with a thump. Something unusual, out of the common, was taking place, but at first I could not concentrate my faculties in a way to put me in touch with my environment. Presently I realized that Signorina Molatti had left the dais and--could I believe my senses?--that Tom brazenly, nonchalantly, before the gaze of two hundred wondering eyes, had seated himself at the piano.

"What's the matter with him?" whispered Mrs. Van Corlear to me in an awe-struck tone.

"Wait," I answered, irrelevantly; "maybe he won't do it."

"Do what?" she returned, almost hysterically.

"I don't know," I gasped; and the thought flashed through my mind that possibly Tom had been drinking.

There lay the hush of expectancy on the astonished throng. Here and there furtive glances were cast at my program cards in search of Tom's name on a little list made up wholly of world-famous artists. But the large majority of my guests knew as well as I that Tom had never touched a piano in his life, that his ignorance of music was as pronounced as his detestation of it. But he might have been a Paderewski in his total absence of all awkwardness or self-consciousness as he sat motionless at the instrument for a moment, coolly surveying us all, in very truth like a master musician sure of himself and rejoicing in the delight that he was about to vouchsafe to his auditors.

I cannot recall now without a shudder the sensation that cut through my every nerve as Tom raised his large, pudgy hands above the keyboard, his small, gray eyes turned toward the ceiling just above my throbbing head. He looked at that instant like the very incarnation of Philistinism poised to hurl down destruction upon the center of all harmonies.

"It's revenge," I groaned, under my breath, and felt Mrs. Jack's cold hand creep into mine.

Down came the paws of Nemesis, and lo, the injustice that I had done to Tom was revealed to me. His touch was masterly. I could not have been more amazed had I seen an elephant threading a needle. The whole episode was strangely blended of the uncanny and realistic. I found myself noting the angle at which Tom held his chin. He always raised it thus when his man shaved him, his head thrown back and his eyes half-closed.

Then gradually it dawned on me that I was taking keen delight in his rendition of that marvelous ballade in A flat major that Chopin dedicated to Mlle. de Noailles. There is nothing more thoroughly Chopinesque in all the master's works than this perfect exposition of the refined in art. Tom's rendering of the lovely theme in F major, one of the most delicate in the world of music, thrilled me with startled admiration. But a chill came over me. What would he do with the section in C sharp minor, with its inverted dominant pedal in the right hand while the left is carrying on the theme? Without both skill and passion on the part of the performer the interpretation of this passage is certain to be commonplace. But hardly had this doubt assailed me when I knew that Tom had triumphed over every obstacle of technique and temperament, that he was approaching the harmonic grandeur of the finale with the poise and power of genius in full control of itself and its medium.

I have never fainted. Swooning went out of fashion long before my time, and I am devoted to the modern cult of self-control, but if it hadn't been for Mrs. Jack, who is really fond of me at times, I think that the last bar of Tom's Opus 47 would have seen my finish. The room had begun to whirl in a circle, like a merry-go-round in evening dress, when she steadied me by whispering:

"It's all right, my dear. Tom wins by four lengths, well in hand."

I came to myself in the very center of a storm of applause. Our guests had forgotten the conventionalities pertaining to a will-ordered musical. The men were on their feet, cheering. The women waved fans and handkerchiefs, and pelted Tom with violets and roses. The poor fellow sat at the piano in a half-dazed condition. A bunch of flowers, deftly thrown, struck him on the forehead, and he put his gifted hand to his brow as if he had just been recalled to consciousness.

"Encore! Encore!" cried our guests. Turino was gesticulating frantically, while Mlle. Vanoni and Signorina Molatti smiled and clapped their hands in exaggerated ecstasy.

I was worried by the expression that had come into Tom's face, and made my way quickly toward the piano.

"Aren't you well, my dear?" I asked, bending toward him, while the uproar behind me decreased a bit.

"What have I been doing, Winifred?" he asked, sheepishly, like one who wakens from a dream. "Get one of your damned dagos to sing, will you? I've got to have a drink or die!"

Standing erect abruptly, Tom cast a defiant glance at the chattering throng behind me and hurriedly made his way through a side door from the music-room. As I turned away from the piano I saw that Signorina Molatti's eyes were fixed upon his retreating figure with an expression that my worldly wisdom could not interpret. There was more of wonder than of admiration in her gaze, a gleam of questioning and longing that might, it seemed to me, readily flame into hot anger.

*CHAPTER II.*

*REMSEN CONFRONTS A MYSTERY.*

From memories that come not and go not; Like music once heard by an ear That cannot forget or reclaim it; A something so shy it would shame it To make it a show. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

After saying good-night to the last of my guests, who had expressed regret at the rumor that my husband was seriously indisposed, I hurried to the smoking-room, having learned that Tom had fled thither as a refuge from the curious and the congratulatory. As I came upon him he was alternately puffing a cigar and sipping a brandy-and-soda. On the instant the conflicting emotions that had beset me during the evening became a wave of anger, sweeping over me with irresistible force.

"Why have you deceived me, Tom Remsen?" I cried, sinking into a chair and resting my aching head against its back, as I scanned his pale, weary countenance attentively. "You have always pretended that you had no knowledge of music. I have heard you say that you could not whistle even a bar of 'Yankee Doodle' correctly. What a _poseur_ you have been! And to-night, in a vulgar, theatrical way you suddenly exhibit the most astonishing talent. There is not an amateur in the world, Tom, who can interpret Chopin with such sympathy, such perfection of technique, such reserved power as you displayed this evening. You have placed me in a ridiculous position, and I can't conceive of any reasonable motive for your unnatural reticence. Why, Tom--answer me!--why have you concealed from me the fact that you are an accomplished--yes, a brilliant musician? Think of all the pleasure that we have lost in the last ten years by your deception and falsehoods--for that's what they were, Tom!" My voice broke a little, and I felt the tears creeping toward my eyes. "You have been cruel, Tom! Knowing my passionate love for music, why did you choose to hide a talent that would have drawn us so close together? And your revelation! It was the very refinement of brutality, Tom Remsen, to place me in such an awkward attitude! How could I explain my ignorance of your genius to our friends? They must consider me either a fool or a liar. As for what they think of you, Tom--"

"Stop it, Winifred!" cried my husband, hoarsely, putting up a hand protestingly. "I've had enough. I can't stand anything more to-night. If I tried to tell you the truth you wouldn't believe it, so you'd better leave me. I'll smoke another cigar. I'll never get to sleep again, I fear."

His last words sounded like a groan. My mood was softened by his evident distress.

"Do try to tell me the truth, Tom," I said, gently. "I'll believe what you say. There's a difference between positive and negative lying. I don't think you'd tell me a deliberate falsehood, Tom."

There was something in his appearance at this moment that suggested to me a wounded animal at bay. Presently he lighted a fresh cigar, and gazing at me steadily, said:

"The cold, hard truth is this, Winifred: I never touched the keys of a piano in my life until an hour ago. I remember being drawn irresistibly to the instrument. What happened afterward I don't know. The first thing that I can recall was being hit in the head with some fool woman's bouquet. I remember saying, 'No flowers, please,' in a silly kind of way, but what it all meant I didn't know, and I don't know now. Do you?"

I sat speechless, gazing at Tom in amazement. He had never, in the twelve years of our betrothal and marriage, told me an untruth. I had often caught myself envying women whose husbands spiced the realism of domestic life with a romantic tale now and again. I know a woman who derives great intellectual enjoyment from cross-questioning her lesser half every twenty-four hours in an effort to prove that nature designed her for a clever detective. She would have drooped and died had she married Tom.

As I watched his honest face, pale now and careworn, I realized that I was confronted by two explanations of the present crisis, either one of which was inconceivable. Tom had told me a deliberate lie, or a miracle, to use an unscientific word, had been wrought through forces the existence of which I had always denied.

"No, Tom, I don't know what it means," I answered, presently. "How did you happen to choose the Chopin ballade for your debut?"

I had not intended to hurt the poor fellow's feelings, but the change in his expression from weariness to wonderment filled me with remorse.

"I didn't choose anything," he muttered, reproachfully. "If I made an ass of myself, Winifred, I was not responsible. What the deuce did I do? You haven't told me--and I don't know."

By an effort of will I controlled the nervous chill that was threatening me, and said, quietly:

"Tom, you played Chopin's Ballade Number 3, Opus 47, in a way that would have satisfied Chopin himself. No performer living could have equaled your rendition. It was masterly."

Tom's mouth fell open in amazement. He closed it over a brandy-and-soda. "I can't believe it," he cried, setting down his glass and gazing at the smoke curling up from his cigar. "Why, Winifred, the thing's absurd. I never heard the--what do you call it?--in my life. And if I'd listened to it every day for a year I couldn't play it. I couldn't even whistle it."

I laughed aloud hysterically. There was a ludicrous side to the situation, despite its uncanny features.

"What are you laughing at, Winifred?" demanded Tom, angrily. "Is there anything funny about all this? It seems, if I can believe what you say, that I made a kind of pianola of myself without knowing it. Is that a joke? I tell you, Winifred, it's paresis or something worse. Maybe I'll rob a bank next. And when I'm bailed out, I suppose I'll find you on a broad grin."

I was too near the verge of nervous collapse to repress the feeling of unreasonable annoyance that came over me at Tom's words. "I think you're very unjust, Tom," I exclaimed, with great lack of judgment.

"Unjust!" he echoed, petulantly. "Unjust to whom--to what?"

"You're unjust to Chopin," I answered, hotly, realizing that I was talking in a distinctly childish way. "Playing one of his masterpieces is not quite like robbing a bank."

"Why not," he snapped, "if I don't know how to play it? I certainly robbed those fool women of their flowers, didn't I? They pelted me with bouquets as if I were a boy wonder or a long-haired bang-the-keys, and I don't know the soft pedal from the key of E. I wouldn't do Chopin an injustice. He's dead, isn't he? But you mustn't do _me_ an injustice, Winifred. I can't stand anything more to-night."

My heart seemed to come into my throat with a sob, and I drew my chair close to Tom's and took his cold hand in mine. "I'm sorry, Tom. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, but I've been sorely tried, you must admit. I'm not quite myself, I fear."

Tom turned quickly and gazed squarely into my eyes. "Don't you worry, Winifred. You're yourself, all right. But who the dickens am I? If I'm Tom Remsen, I can't play Chopin. And you say I did play Chopin. I don't say I didn't. But how did I do it? Tom Remsen couldn't do it. Look at my hands, Winifred. Could my fingers knock a pianissimo out of a minor chord?--if that's what that fellow Chopin does. I tell you, it's queer, and I don't like it."

A well defined shudder shook Tom's heavy frame, and his hand, as it rested in mine, trembled perceptibly. His voice had sunk to a whisper as he asked: "Do you think it possible, Winifred, I was hypnotized, Winifred? I never took any stock in hypnotism, but there may be something in it. That Signor Turino has got a queer eye."

"I'm sure I don't know what to think, Tom," I admitted, reluctantly. By abandoning the theory that Tom had deceived me for a dozen years I was plunged into a tempestuous sea of mystery and conjecture. "But come, my dear boy, you are fagged out. We'll talk it over in the morning. Perhaps our minds will be clearer after a few hours' sleep."

"I couldn't sleep now," he returned nervously, glancing at his watch. "Don't go yet, Winifred. It's only two o'clock."

We sat silent for a time, hand clasped in hand, like a youth and maiden awed by a sudden realization of the marvelous mysteries of existence.

Presently Tom spoke again, and I felt that it was a lawyer, in full control of his nerves, who questioned me. "Did I look--ah--dazed--or queer--when I went to the piano, my dear?"

"No, Tom," I answered, after a pause. "You--you--now, don't think me flippant--you looked just as you do when you're being shaved."

"Before all those people!" he gasped. "What _do_ you mean, Winifred?"

"Your chin was up in the air, Tom, and your head was thrown back."

"But you didn't see any lather?" he asked, foolishly.

"Don't be silly, Tom," I cried, petulantly. But I had done him another injustice; he had not intended to be jocose.

"And then what did I do?" he asked, eagerly.

"And then you played that ballade with the inspiration of genius and the technique of a master."

"It stumps me!" he muttered. "Winifred, is there anything about this fellow Chopin in the library? Any books about him?"

"Yes, Tom, several; but you'd better not look at them to-night--if at all. Perhaps to-morrow you won't care to."

Tom's heavy features assumed their most stubborn aspect. He stood erect, still holding my hand, and I was forced to rise.

"Come with me, Winifred. I'm going to solve this mystery before I sleep, even if it takes two days. Come!"

Without further protest I accompanied Tom to the library.

*CHAPTER III.*

*BIOGRAPHICAL DATA.*

And, to meet us, nectar fountains still Poured forever forth their blissful rill; Forcibly we broke the seal of Things, And to Truth's bright sunny hills our wings Joyously were soaring. SCHILLER.

It was a real relief to get into the library. Tom felt it, and his face soon resumed its normal expression. The heavy shadows beneath his eyes remained, but there had come a flush into his cheeks, and he carried himself with the air of a man who has a purpose in life and is in a fair way to accomplish it. I remember that the idea came into my mind that Tom had assumed the attitude of a lawyer who has been retained by the prosecution and has but little time in which to prepare his case. I had grown tactless, I fear, in my change of mood, for I was indiscreet enough to say, as Tom seated himself beside the library-table, leaving it to me to find the books that he wished to consult; "In the case of Winifred Remsen and others, against the late Frederic Francois Chopin, charged with house-breaking and breach of the peace."

Tom turned instantly, and a gleam of anger flashed in his eyes as they met mine. "If you cannot treat this matter with the seriousness that I think that it deserves, Winifred, you would do well to retire. It's no joke. When I make a donkey of myself before a lot of perfectly respectable people, I consider it a matter of some importance. You don't seem to grasp the full horror of it all. I suppose that I'm liable to have another attack at any time. In fact, it may become chronic. I have of late come across very curious psychical phenomena in a professional way, Winifred, and I insist on taking every precaution before you are forced to place me in the hands of the alienists."

"Tom!" I cried, in horror, and remorse. "You mustn't talk like that. There's nothing the matter with your mind. I'll admit that I can't explain what happened to-night, but I'm sure that it was not caused by any mental trouble on your part. There is doubtless some very simple and commonplace explanation of your--your----"

"Call it seizure," suggested Tom, curtly. "What do you find there?"

I carried a little armful of books to the table, and placed them within Tom's reach.

"Here's a 'Life of Chopin,' by Niecks," I said. "'Frederic Chopin,' by Franz Liszt. Here's Joseph Bennett and Karasowski and the 'Histoire de ma Vie,' by George Sand. And here are Willeby and Mme. Audley. And I think I have----"

"That'll do for to-night," remarked Tom, seizing the volume nearest to his hand. "What kind of a chap was this Chopin, anyway?"

"He was simply fascinating," I remarked, indiscreetly.

"H'm!" growled Tom, angrily. "Not very respectable, I suppose you mean. George Sand! She was a woman, wasn't she? How did she happen to write his life? What did she know about him?"

I have called Tom a Philistine. Perhaps that was too harsh a term to use, but I'm sure there is a good deal of the Puritan about him.

"She used to see a good deal of him," I answered, rather lamely. "They were great chums for a while."

"H'm," growled Tom, throwing aside George Sand's work and opening another. Presently, he began to read biographical scraps aloud, for all the world like an angry police official drawing up a sweeping indictment against a man of genius.

"'The little Frederick duly received the name of Frederic Francois, after the son of Count Sharbek, who stood as his godfather,'" began Tom. "'We are told that he very soon showed a great susceptibility to musical sounds, although hardly in the direction which we should have expected, for he howled lustily whenever he heard them.'"

Tom looked up from the printed page, and our eyes met.

"That's a curious coincidence, Winifred," he remarked, musingly. "It's a family tradition that I used to yell like a young Indian whenever they tried to sing to me in my babyhood. A rattle-box would quiet me, but the sweetest lullaby always made me howl. But I must get on. Chopin began well, didn't he?"

There was silence for a time as Tom feverishly scanned the pages of his book.

"The dickens! Listen to this!" he exclaimed, presently. "'During his ninth year he was invited to assist at a concert for the benefit of the poor. He played a pianoforte concerto, the composition of Adalbert Gyrowetz, a famous composer of the time.'"

Tom placed the book on the table, and held the pages open with his hand as he glanced at me over his shoulder. "If he played that kind of thing at nine years of age, Winifred, there was something uncanny about it. It was just as unnatural as what happened to me to-night. I'm beginning to formulate a theory about this kind of thing, my dear." Tom placed the open book face downward, and turned squarely toward me. "Music, you see, may be, like electricity, imprisoned, as it were, in a universe of both conductors and non-conductors. It may be that a temperament, like mine for instance, that is permanently a non-conductor might, under given conditions become temporarily a conductor. Chopin played like a master at nine years of age. He had become a conductor, and remained so permanently. When he howled at music as a baby he was still a non-conductor--just as I had been up to to-night--or rather last night. Possibly, the conditions that made me a kind of spasmodic music-box, with the Chopin peg pulled out, may never occur again. What do you think, Winifred? Doesn't all that sound reasonable?"

Before I could formulate a sensible answer to a not very sensible proposition Tom had resumed the perusal of his book. He appeared to me like a man fascinated against his will by a line of investigation that he had begun as a disagreeable duty. But I was glad to see that he had regained full control of himself, and that his countenance no longer displayed traces of intense mental disquietude.

"He was a pretty lively boy," remarked Tom, a few moments later. "Listen, Winifred! 'At school, Frederic was a prime favorite, and was always in the midst of any fun or mischief that was going on. His talent for mimicry was always extraordinary, and has been commented on not only by George Sand and Liszt but by Balzac.'"

Tom gazed at me, musingly. "Do you consider that significant, my dear?" he asked, with a seriousness that struck me as both ludicrous and pathetic. I was getting worried by Tom's persistence in this futile line of endeavor.

"It's nearly three o'clock, Tom Remsen," I cried, standing erect. "Come up-stairs at once. It won't be fair to your clients for you to get to your office fagged out for lack of sleep."

"Sit down, Winifred," he said, peremptorily. "It's little use I'll be to my clients until I find out what happened to me in the music-room. Suppose that I should have an attack of--what shall I call it?--Chopinitis--in the court-room? I should suddenly begin to sing--or perhaps whistle a--what-d'you-call'em?--pianoforte concerto--what would the judge say? I'd be disbarred, Winifred, for indecent exposure of musical genius. No; I'm going to find out more about this strange affair--here and now."

I was forced to reseat myself, protesting silently against Tom's absurd stubbornness. I endeavored in vain to shake off a feeling of uneasiness that was creeping over me, a sensation that was closely akin to fear of the phlegmatic man who sat before me motionless and calm, pursuing a course of study that had been inspired by a most untenable supposition. What had Chopin to do with the matter? What difference could it make to Tom whether the latter had been one kind of man or another? It was ridiculous to assert that in Chopin's personality might be found an explanation of the curious incident that had made my musical so memorable. My prejudice against Spiritualists, Christian Scientists, Theosophists and other eccentrics had been, I had believed, shared by my husband. But there he sat at three o'clock in the morning trying to find among the biographical data before him some explanation of his recent "seizure," that must, of necessity, lean toward the occult. That a well-balanced, rather materialistic lawyer, whose mental methods were habitually logical, should suddenly begin to dabble in psychical mysteries in this way frightened me the more the longer I weighed Tom's words and actions in all their bearings. Nevertheless, I was forced to admit to myself that he had never looked saner in his life than he did at that moment, as he turned from his book again and gazed straight into my tired eyes.