Part 8

"He was a very flirtatious chap, Winifred, and very fickle. Listen to this: 'Although of a peculiarly impressionable and susceptible disposition, and, as a not unnatural consequence, more or less fickle where women were concerned, Chopin's love affairs did, on more than one occasion, assume a serious aspect. He had conceived a fancy for the granddaughter of a celebrated master, and although contemplating matrimony with her, he had at the same time in his mind's eye another lady resident in Poland, his loyalty being engaged nowhere and his fickle heart concentrated on no one passion. One day, when visiting the former young lady in company with a musician who was at the time better known in Paris that he himself, she unconsciously offered a chair to his companion first. So piqued was he at what he considered a slight that he not only never called on her again, but dismissed her entirely from his thoughts.' Do you begin to see, Winifred, what a queer fellow he was? Really, I'm inclined to think----"

I was standing erect, gazing at him, angrily.

"If you are joking, Tom," I exclaimed, having lost all patience, "I think you are displaying most wretched taste. If you are really in earnest, I am very sorry for you. I'm going to bed. I hope I'll find you fully recovered at breakfast."

He did not seem to be at all impressed by my exhibition of temper.

"Wait just a moment, Winifred," he suggested, his eyes fixed on his book. "Here it is about George Sand--their first meeting, you know. Wait! I'll read it to you."

"I shall not wait, Tom Remsen," I cried. "Chopin's love affairs are nothing to me--and they should be nothing to you. Good night. This is my last word. Good night."

As I reached the door, I glanced over my shoulder. Tom seemed to have forgotten my existence. He had plunged again into the dust-heap of an old scandal that seemed to fascinate him--Tom Remsen, who had hitherto always deprecated and avoided that kind of research.

*CHAPTER IV.*

*SIGNORINA MOLATTI.*

And thou, too--when on me fell thine eye, What disclos'd thy cheek's deep-purple dye? SCHILLER.

Two days went by, and while I still pondered the great mystery and kept a close watch on Tom, I had begun to hope that the exactions of his profession had led him to abandon his effort to explain what he had called his "seizure." He had been busy of late with the technicalities involved in the formation of a new trust, and his mind seemed to be wholly engrossed by this gigantic task. By tacit consent we had both avoided all reference to my recent musical and its weird and inexplicable outcome. At times, I was almost inclined to believe that Tom had forgotten Chopin and all his works.

As for myself, I could not recover a normal state of mind. For the first time in my life, I felt an admiration for the very characteristics of my husband's make-up that hitherto had annoyed and wearied me. His ability to rebound at once from the shock that he had sustained filled me with both envy and amazement. I had begun to realize that the mental poise of an unimpressionable, unimaginative man is a very desirable and praise-worthy possession.

I regretted at times that I could not throw myself into some despotic occupation that should demand all my physical and mental energies. As yet, I had not found the courage to face the world and its questionings. For two days, I had denied myself to even my most intimate friends, not excepting Mrs. Jack Van Corlear, who had hurried to me on the day succeeding my musical. I knew that my callers were actuated by a not unnatural curiosity, and I lacked the nervous energy to face people who would politely claim the right to know why Tom had always concealed his genius as a pianist. I think I fully understand the set in which I move. We dearly love a new sensation. Without leaving my house or receiving a single visitor, I could readily grasp the fact that the leading topic of conversation in society at the moment revolved around Tom Remsen as a masterly interpreter of Chopin.

Chopin! I had begun to hate the name. But I had not been able to resist the temptation to spend many hours in the library poring over the books that dealt, directly or indirectly, with his personality and achievements. The temporary enthusiasm that Tom had displayed for research into the life of Frederic Chopin bade fair to become a permanent passion in my case. I devoted whole afternoons to playing, in my amateurish way, his waltzes, mazurkas, nocturnes and ballads. One of the latter, his Opus 47, I had not the audacity to attempt. Somehow, Tom's recent rendition of the piece seemed to stand as a barrier that it would be sacrilege for me to cross. Nevertheless, I longed to hear the ballad again, and was almost tempted to ask Tom to play it to me alone. That he was wholly incapable of repeating his recent performance, my mind refused to believe. I had returned, almost unconsciously, to my first conviction, that my husband had wilfully deceived me for years regarding his musical ability.

I sat poring over an English criticism of Chopin's posthumous works late one afternoon when a card was brought to me in the library that tempted me to come out of my self-imposed retreat. It bore the name:

SIGNORINA MOLATTI.

In the half-light of the drawing-room, the girl looked handsomer than in the glare of evening lamps. Her dark, oriental beauty was at its best in the subdued glow of early twilight. She was dressed in a rich but quiet Parisian costume, and I felt that her attractiveness increased the further she was removed from Signor Turino, Mlle. Vanoni and the other noted artists with whom she associated. Nevertheless, I realized that my manner was cold and unsympathetic as we seated ourselves and I awaited her pleasure. Having had business dealings with the signorina I was not willing to admit that she could assume the right to call on me as a social equal.

But patrician blood must have flowed in Molatti's veins, for she sat there silent and calm, and my skirmish line was driven back. I spoke first. The self-confidence in the girl's smile hurt me.

"It is a pleasure, signorina, to have an opportunity I had not hoped for, to thank you again for the great pleasure you afforded my guests the night before last."

"But it is me, signora, who is in the debt of you," said Molatti, in her soft, musical, broken English. "I hava coma to you to thanka you and to ask a leetle favor. Signor Remsen! oh, eet was so wonderful--so vera wonderful! I hava waited all my leetle life for eet."

I stared at the girl in astonishment. Her enthusiasm, her gestures, the brilliant glow in her dark eyes offended me. And "eet!" What was "eet," for which she had waited all her life?

"Yes?" I remarked, interrogatively. Her fervor was not cooled by the iced water of my question mark.

"Leesten to me, signora. I hava worsheeped Chopin since I was a leetle girl. I have heard alla the great interpretaires of the _maestro_. But I have nevaire heard Chopin. In my dreams--_si_, signora, but nevaire in my hours that are awake. But I cama here! Signor Remsen--he playa Chopin! Eet was no dream. Eet was the soul of the _maestro_ speaking to the soul of me. Eet was wonderful--so vera wonderful!"

Conflicting emotions warred within me. I hardly dared speak lest I should either laugh or cry hysterically. With lips compressed I sat motionless, staring at the girl, into whose eloquent eyes there had come a pleading look that suggested tears.

"Signor Remsen," she murmured, presently, like a devotee who breathes the name of an idol--"do you thinka, signora, that he would let me hear him play again? Peety me, signora! I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. I crave only the music of the _maestro_--music that I hava heard only once in my leetle life. Signor Remsen! Eef he would permeet me--justa once--to accompany him on my leetle violin--oh, signora, I coulda then die happy. I should hava leeved just a leetle while, and then I would not care. But now, I am so unhappy--so vera miserable!"

I was too nervous to stand this kind of thing any longer. I rose, and Molatti faced me, erect at once.

"You pay my husband's talent a great compliment, signorina," I said, coldly; "but I cannot take it on myself to answer you in his name. However, I shall present your request to him and let you know at once what he says." A diabolical impulse came over me, and I added: "Of course, Mr. Remsen would not wish you to starve, signorina, nor to die a horrible death from insomnia."

The girl spiked my guns--if that be the right expression--by a merry, musical laugh.

"You are so vera kind!" she cried. "I kissa your lovely hand."

Before I could prevent it she had touched my outstretched hand with her red, smiling lips; then she took her departure. I returned to the library in a condition that verged dangerously on complete nervous collapse.

At dinner that evening, Tom was unwontedly silent. As I glanced at him over my soup there was something in his face that suggested thoughts not connected with the Pepper and Salt Trust. I was soon to become accustomed to this expression and to identify it in my mind as "Chopinesque."

"Aren't you feeling well to-night, Tom?" I ventured presently, noting that he was drinking more wine than usual.

"A bit tired, Winifred," he answered, absently. Then his eyes met mine, and I saw that he was worried. I had planned to fulfill conscientiously my promise to Signorina Molatti, but the time seemed inopportune. I was glad, presently, that I had refrained from mentioning my caller and her mission. As we were sipping our coffee Tom tossed an envelope across the table to me.

I opened it with a chill misgiving. It ran as follows:

MR. THOMAS REMSEN.

DEAR SIR: As it has come to the knowledge of the Executive Committee of the Chopin Society of New York that your rendition of the works of our master is unexcelled by any living performer, we humbly beg of you to accept the hospitality of our association at an early date, to be chosen by you. Our members and their guests would consider it the highest of privileges could they be permitted to hear you play such selections from Chopin as you might wish to perform. Thanking you in advance for the great joy that you will vouchsafe to us by accepting this invitation, we remain, etc.

There lay a wan smile on Tom's face as he met my gaze. "Kind, aren't they?" he muttered. "What the deuce'll I write to 'em, Winifred?"

"You can't accept, of course," I said, confidently. Then I hesitated, surprised at the queer gleam in Tom's eyes. "Can you?" I added, weakly.

"I can, I suppose," he remarked, with an effort at playfulness. "There's no law against it."

His answer struck me as strangely unlike him. If he had cried, "The Chopin Society be damned!" I should have felt more at ease, less oppressed by a sensation of nameless dread. There was something distinctly uncanny in Tom's manner.

"It would be a good joke on 'em, wouldn't it, if I _should_ accept their bid?" he remarked as he lighted his cigar. "Confound their impudence! That's what they deserve."

"But--but--Tom, would you try to--to play?" I gasped, in dismay.

Tom laughed in a way that shocked my overwrought nerves. It was a shrill, unnatural note of merriment, that struck me as diabolical. "Play?" he repeated, sardonically. "Why not? Do you imagine, madame, that the marvelous genius of Thomas Remsen, interpreter of Frederic Francois Chopin, is to be confined strictly to your musicals? That would be a gross injustice to the music-loving world, would it not? But come into the library with me, Winifred. I must resume my studies as a student of 'the master.'"

I followed Tom mechanically, fascinated by his gruesome mood. For the life of me I couldn't tell whether he was joking or in earnest, whether it was his mind or mine that had lost its poise.

*CHAPTER V.*

*A POLISH FANTASIA.*

Ah, sure, as Hindoo legends tell, When music's tones the bosom swell The scenes of former life return. DR. LEYDEN.

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 gossipped 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 that 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 role, 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 out 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.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*CONSULTING A SPECIALIST.*

An angel is too fine a thing To sit behind my chair and sing And cheer my passing day. EDMUND E. GOSSE.

"But, madam, the symptoms, in so far as I can gather them, are insufficient for an accurate diagnosis. You have stated the case clearly and in minute detail, but my experience in the new school of medicine--if such it can be called--convinces me that you have inadvertently omitted some significant factor in the premises, without which I can vouchsafe to you nothing more valuable than sweeping generalities. In other words, you have given me an opportunity to lay before you a theory, but no chance to suggest to you a practical line of action."

I looked helplessly at Mrs. Van Corlear and saw that she was scanning Dr. Emerson Woodruff's strong, thoughtful face attentively. Presently, she glanced at me, as if asking my permission to speak, and I nodded to her in acquiescence.

"We have told you, doctor," began Mrs. Jack, "that this--ah--friend of ours plays nothing but Chopin. That's important, of course?"

"Exceedingly," remarked Dr. Woodruff, impressively, his hands folded across his chest and his head bent forward. Even at that critical moment, I found myself wondering if all practitioners of the anti-materialistic school were large, dignified, magnetic men, with majestic brows and bright, searching eyes.

"But he's not always a soloist," went on Mrs. Jack, in a low but vibrant tone; "he has shown an inclination of late to travel in double harness--piano and violin, you know."

An enigmatical smile came into Dr. Woodruff's face for an instant. The man's intuition was so quick and keen that I had begun to fear I should find it difficult to maintain my incognita.

"You say," he asked, presently, turning toward me, "that his general health remains good? He has no tendency towards melancholia; doesn't grow flighty at times in his talk?"

"I have never seen him look so well as he does at present," I answered, wearily. I had come to Dr. Woodruff against my will, succumbing weakly to Mrs. Jack's insistence. And now the whole affair appeared ridiculous and the doctor's questions irrelevant and futile. My interest in the seance--if that is the word for it--was reawakened, however, by the physician's next question.

"Who plays the violin for him?" he asked, curtly.

Mrs. Jack answered him at once. "Signorina Molatti. You know her by reputation?"

"Yes," he answered; "I have heard her play. She has a touch of genius. They must make great music together--Molatti and your friend."

A lump came into my throat and I clutched the arms of my chair awkwardly. That Dr. Woodruff had noticed my emotion, I felt sure.

"Well, what is your explanation of all this, doctor?" I asked, impatiently. I was thoroughly out of harmony with myself, Mrs. Jack and the physician, and my pride revolted at the false position in which I had been placed. A skeptic who goes to a clergyman for guidance sacrifices both his logic and his dignity. Here I sat in Dr. Emerson Woodruff's office, under an assumed name, telling a stranger weird tales about a supposititious acquaintance who was in reality my own husband. Had I not been unfair to Tom, Dr. Woodruff and myself? Surely the road to truth is not through a zigzag lane of lies!