“De whiskey am frisky in its lawful place
Babe, leave some for me or I’ll slap your face.”
“Shay—whaddyouthinkthisish—blooming musical comedy?” And Wigs wept again.
Sarah’s little comrade in the corner was announcing that Sarah had “passed out”; the chunky pianist stopped drinking long enough to say that Sal was a rumhound and never knew when to stop; there seemed to be no end to Wigs’ flow of tears; Davy was chanting a new verse in which he could only get as far as “O Babe——” and then he would have to begin over. Jerry was laughing stridently at Davy between gulps of port wine. It was the worst to see Jerry so——But Sarah was the farthest along—she lay back on her cushions now without motion, her hair that was usually so exquisitely arranged, loose in loops about her face, her mouth sagging open ever so slightly.
Watching the sight before her, Joy felt a nauseation that she had ever touched liquor herself. Wigs’ tears reminded her sickeningly of her own. She had been living in a daze; but the daze had worn off. To-night was the finishing touch. Packy may have been despicable, but his words about Jerry and Sarah at this moment seemed to be justified.
She rose and left, ignoring Davy’s pleas for her to stay, and the fact that her departure threw Wigs into a fresh fit of tears. Jerry was still remarking that the evening was young and tender—and Joy had no doubt but that they would all drink until they were unable to move.
In the morning she got up early and packed her things—a decision born of the night hours, which did not change its colour in the rays of the sun. She was going home. Her visit had stretched itself far beyond its first designated limits. Her father could not understand why she had not come long since. She would go back to the Mid-Victorian house and face the family portraits—feel the protection of the four walls of the ancestral mansion around her—enjoy the peace and security of the little town.
A thought held her up, as she was folding a sweater. What of her singing? To leave Boston would be to leave Pa Graham. She had been subconsciously assuming that her music would always go on, but—how?
In a very few minutes she had dressed for the street and was hurrying out of the apartment. No one was stirring, but it was nine o clock, and she knew Pa would be in his studio. If she could only get there before his first lesson——
There is something about the personal quality of singing, and the reverence the teacher inspires as the embodiment of that great art, that draws the confidence. If singing teachers could tell half the stories of the lives of their pupils!