"I do hope I shall succeed," she said again. "I never had dreamed that a woman could accept all that I have taken from you, Dave. If this means that I shall have gained my independence, I shall be happy indeed, but I will always remember that the time I leaned upon you was made sweet and hopeful by your consideration and friendship. Come, David, it is time to go, I think. I feel that when I return, this evening, I may be able to express a little of what I owe you, and, then, thank G.o.d on my bended knees."

"I shall be so proud to watch the dawning of your success and happiness," I told her, with a catch in my throat.

"Yes, success would be splendid, Dave, but the happiness has been coming a long time. You brought me some of it in your pockets all last summer and gave it to me every week. Oh! Dave! G.o.d bless you!"

She put out her hand to me and looked deeply in my eyes. Her heart was very full, I know, but I felt that it was the grat.i.tude a woman could give to a beloved brother.

And so we went away, with a last kiss blown at Baby Paul and a thousand good wishes from Eulalie. The taxi I had ordered was at the door and drove first to Dr. Porter's, and then to Frieda's, who was waiting for us, a very shapeless bundle done up in an ample and all-concealing cloak. I was thankful that her head was bare, having dreaded some abomination in the way of a hat.

"Oof!" she exclaimed. "My gown's horribly tight. Had to have the janitress come up to hook it in the back and I hope nothing gives way.

We're an awfully swell lot this evening. First thing you know they'll be talking about us in the papers, under the heading of Society News."

She maintained an endless chatter, in which I discovered much method. It was evidently her purpose to keep Frances from getting nervous. Finally, we reached the concert hall, in which people were still crowding.

Richetti's circle of acquaintances is a vast and distinguished one and his concerts, few and far between, are events in the musical world.

Frances and Frieda stood on the sidewalk, while I was paying the driver.

"We are going in by another entrance, David," she told me. "You go and find your seats and possess your souls in patience. You will hear some excellent music. When I come on, don't make too much noise because it might distract my attention."

I gave her my hand, which she pressed in a strong and nervous clasp that lasted for a fraction of a second, and then the two disappeared among the many people surging towards the doors.

For some minutes Porter and I stood at the back of the hall, as did many others, in order not to interrupt a duet between ba.s.so and soprano, most creditable to two young people, who retired with many bows and much approval from the audience. The young lady was quite collected and smiling, but the heavy-chested youth was blushing and evidently glad to have pa.s.sed through the ordeal. Women, I think, average greater courage than men. In the interval before the next number we sought our places and I had but slipped my hat in the grooves beneath my seat when my nearest neighbor, a very charming young person, addressed me at once, and I recognized in her the little lady who had called me an old fogy at the Van Rossums.

"Why, how do you do, Mr. Lambley," she said, and turned to a short and wide-shouldered youth who appeared to have taken the place of the six-footer. "Freddy dear, I want to introduce Professor Lambley, who has written a great essay on Dionysius the Areopagite."

The young man pushed an able hand towards me and grasped mine.

"How jolly!" he exclaimed. "Something to do with aviation, isn't it?

I'm expecting to take it up soon."

"How silly you are, Freddy," the young woman reproved him, "it's an awfully scientific thing."

"Oh! Well, then, that lets me out," acknowledged Freddy, conscientiously, "but I think a lot of the fellows who work out those affairs. Knew a chap who was drowned at Montauk last summer, who was keen on bees and bugs. Queer Johnnie!"

Our scientific and literary symposium ceased abruptly. The accompanist came in and sat at the piano, being immediately followed by a young lady I remembered seeing in Richetti's rooms. My little neighbor applauded, frantically, as did most of the audience.

"Her father's worth two millions," she informed me, "and she thinks her voice is the biggest ever. Her hair doesn't naturally wave that way and she's got too much rouge on. Richetti didn't want her to go on yet, but she made her father insist."

My own knowledge of the divine art of singing, as I have confessed a thousand times, amounts to little or nothing, but I found something pleasurable in listening to the plutocratic contralto. She was by no means embarra.s.sed and began the "Angelic Voice" from _Gioconda_ in a most business-like fashion, finishing amid a salvo of applause.

"There! I've gone and split my glove," said the young lady beside me, "but I just had to do it. I'm going to their house-party next week and the place is perfectly gorgeous."

Next, as an encore, came "He shall feed His flocks" from the _Messiah_, which received similar encomiums and the singer retired, smothered in flowers and followed by uproarious approval.

"Funny she should have selected that," came the voice near me, "seeing that her father made all his money in wool."

In rapid succession came several other singers, all of whom appeared to impress the audience favorably. My heart was beginning to thump again in my breast, for the moment was approaching and I suffered from a vicarious stage-fright that could have been no greater had I myself been sentenced to appear upon the stage. It may be that the hall was overheated; at any rate I had to pa.s.s my handkerchief a number of times over my forehead, and my high collar began to choke me. I was grasping Porter's arm, convulsively, when, all of a sudden, before I could realize that the moment had come, she stood before the footlights, bowing before the moderate clapping of hands, and Richetti himself sat at the piano.

"Great Scott!" said the wide-shouldered young man, "ain't she a stunner!"

His companion replied something, but I did not listen. Richetti was playing a few preliminary bars of the melody. I saw her eyes moving confidently over the orchestra seats and thought she recognized us with a nearly imperceptible accentuation of her smile. She was holding the sheets of music before her, but in them I could not detect the slightest trace of tremor. Then, her gaze was uplifted a little and the song began, while all sense of fear left me and I breathed easily, leaning forward eagerly while each note entered my soul. It was Mendelssohn's "On Wings of Song." It seemed to me that the silence urbanely granted to the other singers became more profound. The audience was surely holding its breath. Not a stir of programmes sounded. Faces were no longer expressing tolerant civility, for they had become intent and fervent.

Something like the awed respect of a great churchly crowd filled the hall and was maintained till the very last note, after which came a very storm of applause, delirious, impulsive, unrestrained for the longest time, while she bowed again and again, and Richetti stood up beside her for his share of the triumph.

And after this she gave us "Chantez, Riez" of Gounod, and the gorgeous swing of it was uplifting, and the wonderful tone lent it greatness and the lilt of it a true significance of the joy of living. As a further encore she sang Rossini's "Stabat Mater." Her voice broke into the pa.s.sion of grief of the mother bereft, in the grandeur of the hope eternal, and the people were hushed, breathless, conquered.

At last she was allowed to leave the stage, with Richetti's hand held in her own. The man was beaming, delighted.

"Come with me," I cried to Porter. "We are to be allowed back of the stage. She's expecting us. Did you see Richetti's look of pride? You're far more responsible for this result than he, bless your heart! Come along."

And so we made our way to a large room at the back of the hall. It was much crowded with women in gorgeous dresses and men among whom I recognized Bartolo Cenci of the Metropolitan and Colonel Duff, the great impresario of con-certs and lecture tours, and the shrewd features of FitzMaurice the musical critic of the _Banner_, small, hawk-eyed and of bustling manner.

In a corner, with Frieda at her side, stood Frances, with a little court surrounding her. Richetti, a few paces away, was talking volubly with men, who were probably of the Press. We went to the new diva, who did not await our coming, but stepped towards us, with both hands extended.

"I'll tell you later all that I feel, Dave," she half whispered to me.

"Oh! Dr. Porter, dear friend, I am so glad that you have been able to see the results of your work. Come with me!"

She took him by the arm and led him to Richetti.

"Professor, I want to present Dr. Porter. I could not sing a note, and he worked marvels upon me; gave me a new throat, I think, and a better one than ever."

Upon this, the _maestro_ nearly fell on Porter's neck and wept, calling him a savior and a performer of miracles, after which he insisted on introducing him to a number of the eager gatherers of information and to Bartolo Cenci, who wrote down his address on his cuff. Our good little Porter was nearly overwhelmed.

Finally a number of us were haled off to Richetti's rooms where a great table was set with flasks of _Chianti_ and a huge Milanese _risotto_, and it was nearly two o'clock before we packed ourselves in a taxi, feeling as if such a superfluous thing as sleep could be put off till the Greek Kalends.

Frieda refused to be dropped off at her flat. Porter was also compelled to come to the top of the little brownstone house. We did our best to be quiet in going up, and I hope we awoke no honest sleepers. They crowded into my room, Frances leaving us to see that Baby Paul was thriving. She returned on tiptoe.

"Eulalie is snoring on the sofa," she announced, "and Baby is sleeping like an angel."

So we remained there for an hour, at least, and Frieda told us how Colonel Duff had rushed up to ask about Frances's plans for the rest of the winter, and Cenci had inquired, most pointedly, whether she already had an engagement for next season and what operas she had studied, to which she had replied that her arrangements were in Richetti's hands, whereupon they had a.s.saulted the _maestro_ and nearly torn him limb from limb in their eagerness to engage her.

"The proudest man in the world, some day," said Frieda, "will be Baby Paul. He will be going about boasting that Madame Francesca is his mother, and people will love him for her sake."

Then Frances clasped as much of Frieda's form as she could possibly hold in her arms, and kissed her, telling her that she was saying a lot of nonsense, and finally our stout friend went away under Porter's guidance, who had promised to see her home, and Frances and I were left alone on the landing.

Here, a little yellow gas-jet was flickering, very small and poor, and the bal.u.s.trade upon which I leaned gave a crackling groan. We heard the closing of the front door and turned to one another. Again her hand was put forth and I took it and raised it to my lips. When I lifted my head I dimly saw a tear shining upon her cheek.

"Dear friend," she said, "I owe it all to you."

With this she clasped my shoulders in both hands and, for an instant, her lips touched the side of my face.

A second later she had closed her door behind her, and I feverishly changed my coat. Then, I put on my heavy ulster and made my way to the old square, where I sat down in the frosty air. That touch upon my cheek had left my temples throbbing, my heart on fire. The whole world seemed confused, the shining stars were dancing overhead, the noises of the sleeping city buzzed in my head, maddeningly.

Finally, I began to feel the cold, and the earth grew stiller and more peaceful. An instant later a great milk-dray rattled across the square, going up Fifth Avenue, the usual alarm warning me of bedtime. So I went home, collected again and tranquil. She had given me a tiny fragment of herself, a reward perhaps too great for the little I had been able to do for her. Peace had returned to me and I fell asleep.

CHAPTER XXII