III
“Hello, Lad!” she said, not at all surprised, and apparently not very much pleased, at the sudden appearance of a young man on that quiet path through the woods.
“Hello, Ethel!” he returned, and fell into step beside her.
She didn’t trouble to glance at her companion. She knew exactly how he looked, anyhow. He was slender and supple and dark, and handsome in his way—which was not her way.
There were times when the sleekness of his hair and the brightness of his smile and the extreme fastidiousness of his clothes exasperated her. There were other times when his talk about music made her see in him the one sympathetic, understanding person on earth. He had learned to read the signs, and to tell which sort of time it was; and he fancied that this was a favorable moment.
“Have you been thinking—” he began softly.
“Naturally,” said she. “I suppose every one does, once in a while.”
Young Ladislaw Metz was not easily discouraged. He, too, was an artist.
“Do you mind my walking with you, Ethel?” he asked patiently. “I came all the way out from the city on the chance of meeting you here, because I had something special to tell you.”
She thought she knew what he meant, and frowned; but when he began to speak, the frown vanished, and she sat down on the grass to listen.
Old Mrs. Mazetti was waiting and waiting in her chair by the window. All the bright spring afternoon had passed. The sky was blue no more, but faint and mournful as the sun went down. Outside, the light lingered, but in the room it was dark—very dark, very quiet. Ethel had written to say that she would come early, and for hours the old lady had been watching the road along which her granddaughter must come. It always made her uneasy to think of a girl as young and pretty as Ethel traveling alone.
This was one of the very few ideas that[Pg 124] Aunt Amy shared with Mrs. Mazetti. Aunt Amy wanted Ethel to go properly in a motor car, but her niece was so obstinately set on going by train that she had yielded. After all, it was such a trifling matter—an hour’s journey to a suburb, to visit a grandmother. The good lady never so much as imagined the existence of Ladislaw Metz, or any one like him.
But old Mrs. Mazetti did. Not that she knew anything of this particular young man, but she had had opportunity, in her long life, to observe that in such cases there generally was a young man. When Ethel began taking more and more time between the station and the house, the old lady grew more and more sure, and more distressed.
She said nothing, however, because her grandchild showed no disposition to confide in her, and she knew that more harm than good would result from asking questions. She couldn’t get near to Ethel. She had tried time after time, with all her quiet subtlety, to bring about a greater intimacy, to show how steadfast and profound was her sympathy; but Ethel never saw.
In fact, Ethel didn’t know that she needed sympathy. She thought that all she wanted was to be let alone. Without in the least meaning to be unkind, she ignored the invaluable love that would so greatly have helped her.
For the third time the servant came in to light the lamp, and this time Mrs. Mazetti permitted it. She had given up expecting Ethel for that day.
“She has forgotten,” she thought.
In spite of her bitter disappointment, she could still smile a little over the girl’s careless youth. The sun had vanished now, and a strange yellow twilight lay over the earth like a sulphurous mist. It was a melancholy hour. The brightness of the little room made the outside world more forlorn and dim by contrast.
Mrs. Mazetti was about to turn away from the window with a sigh, when she caught sight of Ethel hurrying along the road—with a young man. The girl’s companion left her when they were still some distance from the house. If the old lady hadn’t had remarkably sharp eyes, she would never have seen him.
Ethel came in alone.
“Grandmother!” she said. “I’m awfully ashamed of myself for being so late!”
She really was ashamed and sorry, but it was not her nature to invent excuses, and she had no intention of explaining. Mrs. Mazetti saw all this perfectly, and did not fail to note something defiant in her grandchild’s expression. Nevertheless, she meant to come to the point this time.
“You were with a friend?” she asked mildly.
“Yes, grandmother.”
“Your Aunt Amy knows this friend?”
Ethel tried to imitate that tranquil, affectionate tone.
“No, grandmother, she doesn’t. He’s just a boy I met at the studio where I used to take singing lessons.”
“And you think she would not care for him?”
“I know she wouldn’t,” Ethel answered candidly. “I don’t care for him so very much myself; but we’re interested in the same things, and nobody else is.”
“In music?”
“Yes. He’s—” Ethel began, but she stopped.
What was the use of going on, and being told again how absurd she was? Mrs. Mazetti was silent, too, but not because she felt discouraged. She was thinking, trying to understand.
“You are still always thinking of the singing?” she asked softly.
Ethel’s face flushed, and her young mouth set in a harsh line.
“I’m not going to listen to any more lectures,” she thought. “No one understands. No one ever will!”
“This young man is a musician?” her grandmother asked.
“Yes, in a way,” said Ethel. “Isn’t the country pretty at this time of the year, grandmother?”
The old lady looked out of the window at the rapidly darkening sky, against which the trees stood out as black as ink. It seemed to her not at all pretty now, but vast and terrible.
“My little Ethel!” she thought. “My little bird, who longs to sing! What is this going on now, poor foolish little one? What am I to do?”
She missed her husband acutely. She missed him always, but more than ever at this instant. Ethel would have listened to him, for every one did. Quiet and tranquil as he was, there had been an air of authority about him that she had never seen disregarded.
Ethel was very still. The lamp threw a[Pg 125] clear light on her warm, vivid young face, downcast and plainly unhappy.
“If I spoke to your Aunt Amy about those lessons?” suggested the old lady.
“It wouldn’t do the least bit of good, grandmother. I’ve said everything there is to be said; and—anyhow, I don’t care now.”
“Why not, Ethel? Why not now?”
“Oh, I don’t know!” Ethel replied airily. “Let’s not talk about it, grandmother. I’ve brought some candied fruit. You like that, don’t you?”
The old lady untied the flamboyant package with fingers that were not very steady. While she was doing so, the clock struck six.
“I’ll have to go,” said Ethel quickly. “I’m sorry I came so late and had such a tiny visit, grandmother, but—”
“Wait, my little Ethel. Gianetta will order a taxi.”
“Oh, no, thanks!” said Ethel. “I like the walk.”
“Not now, in the dark, my dear.”
“I don’t mind the dark. It’s really not at all late. I’ll—”
“No!” said the old lady with unexpected firmness. “There must be a taxi, and Gianetta will go with you to the train.”
Ethel answered politely, but with equal firmness, that she didn’t want that.
“Come here, my little Ethel!” said her grandmother. When the girl stood before her, she took both of her hands. “This friend—this young man—is waiting for you?”
Ethel flushed, but she answered with the fine honesty that had been hers all her life.
“Yes!” she said, in just the sturdy, defiant tone she used to confess a piece of childish mischief years and years ago.
“You see me here,” said Mrs. Mazetti, “unable even to rise from my chair. I could do nothing to stop you, if I wished. I do not wish, because I trust you; only I ask you to tell me a little.”
Ethel was more moved than she wished to be. She bent to kiss the soft white hair.
“I’d rather not, please!” she said.
“If you will remember, my little Ethel, that your mother always came to me, always told me what troubled her! I am very old. I have learned very much, seen very much. I could help you.”
“But you wouldn’t, grandmother. You wouldn’t like my—plan.”
“Then perhaps I could make a better one.”
Mrs. Mazetti felt the girl’s warm hands tremble, and saw her lip quiver. She waited, terribly anxious.
“You see,” said Ethel, “all I care about is being able to sing. Nobody believes that. No one understands except Ladislaw!”
“That is the young man?”
“Yes—Ladislaw Metz,” said Ethel, a little impatient at this interest in the least important part of her story. “He knows what it means to me.”
“What is he? He sings?”
“He’s a barytone. He’s going to be a wonderful singer some day.”
“But now? What is he now?”
“Well, you see, he’s poor, and he can’t afford to go on studying just now. So—I don’t like to tell you, because you’ll think he’s not really a musician—he’s on the stage.”
“Ah!” said the old lady, with perfect composure. “The theater? An operetta?”
“Well, no—it’s vaudeville. He’s been singing awful, cheap, popular songs, just to keep himself alive. Now he wants a partner for a better sort of turn—an act, you know. We should sing—”
“We?”
“He’s going to give me a chance,” said Ethel quietly. The old lady was silent for a moment.
“I should like to hear about it,” she told the girl at last, in a voice that touched Ethel profoundly—a voice so determined to sound cheerful and sympathetic.
“I can’t tell you, grandmother,” she said gently; “because you’d think it was your duty to tell Aunt Amy, and she’d try to stop me. I don’t intend to be stopped. I may never have another chance. I don’t care what I have to sacrifice. I’d gladly give up anything on earth for my singing. You can’t think what it’s like to have that in you—such a terrible longing—to know that you can do it, and to be stopped and turned aside and laughed at!” She bent and kissed the old lady again. “I’ve got to go now, grandmother dear!” she said, with a sob.
“No! Little Ethel! No!”
“I’ve got to, grandmother. I promised.”
“Ethel! You promised what?”
The girl was frankly crying now.
“Good-by, darling!” she said. “You’ve always been my dearest, kindest friend. If I hadn’t been a little beast, I’d never have[Pg 126] left you; but I am a little beast. I must go my own way. I’ve got to go. Good-by, dear!”
Her hand was on the door knob.
“No, Ethel, no!” cried the old lady.
With one backward glance, tearful, soft, but utterly resolute, the girl was gone.
“Gianetta!” called Mrs. Mazetti.
Gianetta came in from the kitchen with the querulous expression natural to her. She had been the old lady’s servant for nearly twenty years. She adored her, and had never found her anything but just, kind, and generous. Nevertheless, Gianetta had a great many grievances, and did not keep them to herself.
“Telephone,” said her mistress, “and order me a taxi.”
“You? You a taxi?” cried Gianetta. “But that is mad!”
“Quick, Gianetta!”
“But you are very ill! With this rheumatism, you can’t walk! How do you think then that you—”
“Quick, Gianetta!”
“Patience! Patience!” said Gianetta, in her most annoying tone. “I order this taxi, but you cannot get into it. It is only a waste of money. No matter—you are the mistress. I telephone!”
“Now!” said the old lady to herself. “I must get up. Leo always said that what one ought to do, one would find strength for. I must do this. For one minute more I shall sit quietly here, and then I shall rise and get myself ready.”
She clasped her hands in her lap and laid her head against the back of the chair, looking out at the sky, now quite dark. Then, with a long sigh, she grasped the arms and slowly raised herself to her feet.
Gianetta, coming in again, gave a loud shriek.
“Silence, you foolish one,” said the old lady. “Get me my cloak and hat.”