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"That's what I congratulate you on. That's the great
difference between your kind and the rest of us. It's how
long you're able to keep it up that tells the story. When
you needed enthusiasm from the outside, I was able to
give it to you. Now you must let me withdraw."
"I'm not tying you, am I?" she flashed out. "But with-
draw to what? What do you want?"
Fred shrugged. "I might ask you, What have I got?
I want things that wouldn't interest you; that you prob-
ably wouldn't understand. For one thing, I want a son
to bring up."
"I can understand that. It seems to me reasonable.
Have you also found somebody you want to marry?"
"Not particularly." They turned another curve, which
brought the wind to their backs, and they walked on in
comparative calm, with the snow blowing past them. "It's
not your fault, Thea, but I've had you too much in my
mind. I've not given myself a fair chance in other direc-
tions. I was in Rome when you and Nordquist were there.
If that had kept up, it might have cured me."
"It might have cured a good many things," remarked
Thea grimly.
Fred nodded sympathetically and went on. "In my
library in St. Louis, over the fireplace, I have a property
spear I had copied from one in Venice,--oh, years ago,
after you first went abroad, while you were studying.
You'll probably be singing BRUNNHILDE pretty soon now,
and I'll send it on to you, if I may. You can take it and
its history for what they're worth. But I'm nearly forty
years old, and I've served my turn. You've done what
I hoped for you, what I was honestly willing to lose you
for--then. I'm older now, and I think I was an ass. I
wouldn't do it again if I had the chance, not much! But
I'm not sorry. It takes a great many people to make
one--BRUNNHILDE."
Thea stopped by the fence and looked over into the
black choppiness on which the snowflakes fell and dis-
appeared with magical rapidity. Her face was both angry
and troubled. "So you really feel I've been ungrateful.
I thought you sent me out to get something. I didn't
know you wanted me to bring in something easy. I
thought you wanted something--" She took a deep
breath and shrugged her shoulders. "But there! nobody
on God's earth wants it, REALLY! If one other person wanted
it,"--she thrust her hand out before him and clenched
it,--"my God, what I could do!"
Fred laughed dismally. "Even in my ashes I feel my-
self pushing you! How can anybody help it? My dear
girl, can't you see that anybody else who wanted it as you
do would be your rival, your deadliest danger? Can't you
see that it's your great good fortune that other people
can't care about it so much?"
But Thea seemed not to take in his protest at all. She
went on vindicating herself. "It's taken me a long while
to do anything, of course, and I've only begun to see day-
light. But anything good is--expensive. It hasn't
seemed long. I've always felt responsible to you."
Fred looked at her face intently, through the veil of
snowflakes, and shook his head. "To me? You are a truth-
ful woman, and you don't mean to lie to me. But after the
one responsibility you do feel, I doubt if you've enough
left to feel responsible to God! Still, if you've ever in an
idle hour fooled yourself with thinking I had anything to
do with it, Heaven knows I'm grateful."
"Even if I'd married Nordquist," Thea went on, turn-
ing down the path again, "there would have been some-
thing left out. There always is. In a way, I've always been
married to you. I'm not very flexible; never was and never
shall be. You caught me young. I could never have that
over again. One can't, after one begins to know anything.
But I look back on it. My life hasn't been a gay one, any
more than yours. If I shut things out from you, you shut
them out from me. We've been a help and a hindrance to
each other. I guess it's always that way, the good and the
bad all mixed up. There's only one thing that's all beau-
tiful--and always beautiful! That's why my interest keeps
up."
"Yes, I know." Fred looked sidewise at the outline of
her head against the thickening atmosphere. "And you
give one the impression that that is enough. I've gradu-
ally, gradually given you up."
"See, the lights are coming out." Thea pointed to where
they flickered, flashes of violet through the gray tree-tops.
Lower down the globes along the drives were becoming a
pale lemon color. "Yes, I don't see why anybody wants
to marry an artist, anyhow. I remember Ray Kennedy
used to say he didn't see how any woman could marry a
gambler, for she would only be marrying what the game
left." She shook her shoulders impatiently. "Who marries
who is a small matter, after all. But I hope I can bring
back your interest in my work. You've cared longer and
more than anybody else, and I'd like to have somebody
human to make a report to once in a while. You can send
me your spear. I'll do my best. If you're not interested,
I'll do my best anyhow. I've only a few friends, but I
can lose every one of them, if it has to be. I learned how
to lose when my mother died.-- We must hurry now. My
taxi must be waiting."
The blue light about them was growing deeper and
darker, and the falling snow and the faint trees had be-
come violet. To the south, over Broadway, there was an
orange reflection in the clouds. Motors and carriage lights
flashed by on the drive below the reservoir path, and the
air was strident with horns and shrieks from the whistles
of the mounted policemen.
Fred gave Thea his arm as they descended from the
embankment. "I guess you'll never manage to lose me or
Archie, Thea. You do pick up queer ones. But loving
you is a heroic discipline. It wears a man out. Tell me
one thing: could I have kept you, once, if I'd put on every
screw?"
Thea hurried him along, talking rapidly, as if to get it
over. "You might have kept me in misery for a while,
perhaps. I don't know. I have to think well of myself, to
work. You could have made it hard. I'm not ungrateful.
I was a difficult proposition to deal with. I understand now,
of course. Since you didn't tell me the truth in the be-
ginning, you couldn't very well turn back after I'd set
my head. At least, if you'd been the sort who could, you
wouldn't have had to,--for I'd not have cared a button
for that sort, even then." She stopped beside a car that
waited at the curb and gave him her hand. "There. We
part friends?"
Fred looked at her. "You know. Ten years."
"I'm not ungrateful," Thea repeated as she got into
her cab.
"Yes," she reflected, as the taxi cut into the Park carriage
road, "we don't get fairy tales in this world, and he has,
after all, cared more and longer than anybody else." It
was dark outside now, and the light from the lamps along
the drive flashed into the cab. The snowflakes hovered
like swarms of white bees about the globes.
Thea sat motionless in one corner staring out of the
window at the cab lights that wove in and out among
the trees, all seeming to be bent upon joyous courses.
Taxicabs were still new in New York, and the theme of
popular minstrelsy. Landry had sung her a ditty he heard
in some theater on Third Avenue, about
"But there passed him a bright-eyed taxi
With the girl of his heart inside."
Almost inaudibly Thea began to hum the air, though she
was thinking of something serious, something that had
touched her deeply. At the beginning of the season, when
she was not singing often, she had gone one afternoon to
hear Paderewski's recital. In front of her sat an old Ger-
man couple, evidently poor people who had made sacri-
fices to pay for their excellent seats. Their intelligent
enjoyment of the music, and their friendliness with each
other, had interested her more than anything on the pro-
gramme. When the pianist began a lovely melody in the
first movement of the Beethoven D minor sonata, the
old lady put out her plump hand and touched her hus-
band's sleeve and they looked at each other in recognition.
They both wore glasses, but such a look! Like forget-me-
nots, and so full of happy recollections. Thea wanted to
put her arms around them and ask them how they had
been able to keep a feeling like that, like a nosegay in a
glass of water.
XI
DR. ARCHIE saw nothing of Thea during the follow-
ing week. After several fruitless efforts, he succeeded
in getting a word with her over the telephone, but she
sounded so distracted and driven that he was glad to say
good-night and hang up the instrument. There were, she
told him, rehearsals not only for "Walkure," but also for
"Gotterdammerung," in which she was to sing WALTRAUTE
two weeks later.
On Thursday afternoon Thea got home late, after an
exhausting rehearsal. She was in no happy frame of mind.
Madame Necker, who had been very gracious to her
that night when she went on to complete Gloeckler's
performance of SIEGLINDE, had, since Thea was cast to sing
the part instead of Gloeckler in the production of the
"Ring," been chilly and disapproving, distinctly hostile.
Thea had always felt that she and Necker stood for the
same sort of endeavor, and that Necker recognized it and
had a cordial feeling for her. In Germany she had several
times sung BRANGAENA to Necker's ISOLDE, and the older
artist had let her know that she thought she sang it beau-
tifully. It was a bitter disappointment to find that the
approval of so honest an artist as Necker could not stand
the test of any significant recognition by the management.
Madame Necker was forty, and her voice was failing just
when her powers were at their height. Every fresh young
voice was an enemy, and this one was accompanied by
gifts which she could not fail to recognize.
Thea had her dinner sent up to her apartment, and it
was a very poor one. She tasted the soup and then indig-
nantly put on her wraps to go out and hunt a dinner. As
she was going to the elevator, she had to admit that she
was behaving foolishly. She took off her hat and coat
and ordered another dinner. When it arrived, it was no
better than the first. There was even a burnt match under
the milk toast. She had a sore throat, which made swal-
lowing painful and boded ill for the morrow. Although she
had been speaking in whispers all day to save her throat,
she now perversely summoned the housekeeper and de-
manded an account of some laundry that had been lost.
The housekeeper was indifferent and impertinent, and
Thea got angry and scolded violently. She knew it was
very bad for her to get into a rage just before bedtime, and
after the housekeeper left she realized that for ten dollars'
worth of underclothing she had been unfitting herself for
a performance which might eventually mean many thous-
ands. The best thing now was to stop reproaching herself
for her lack of sense, but she was too tired to control her
thoughts.
While she was undressing--Therese was brushing out
her SIEGLINDE wig in the trunk-room--she went on chid-
ing herself bitterly. "And how am I ever going to get to
sleep in this state?" she kept asking herself. "If I don't
sleep, I'll be perfectly worthless to-morrow. I'll go down
there to-morrow and make a fool of myself. If I'd let that
laundry alone with whatever nigger has stolen it-- WHY
did I undertake to reform the management of...
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