“It’s gone,” she answered in a wail of agony; “it’s gone. My voice has gone! What shall I do? It’s gone!”
“Your fright of last night has affected it,” he said, speaking as kindly as he could, “and you’re not well. I told you you were feverish and ought not to sing. Rest will probably restore it.”
“Let me try it again,” she said wildly. “It may be better. Play again.”
He played over the opening bars again, and once more she drew the deep breath that in the past had always brought with it so much of exultation and began to sing. The same feeble sounds, obscured as though passing through a thick, muffling medium, hoarse, flat, unlovely, came with labor from her parted lips.
They broke suddenly into a wild animal cry of despair. Pierpont rose from the stool and went toward her where she stood with her arms drooping by her sides, pallid and terrible.
“Don’t look like that,” he said, taking her hand; “there’s no doubt the voice has been injured. But rest does a great deal, and after a shock like last night—”
She tore herself away from him and ran to the door crying:
“Oh, my voice! My voice! It was all I had!”
He followed her into the hall, not knowing what to say in the face of such a calamity, only anxious to offer her some consolation. But she ran from him, up the stairs with a frantic speed. As he put his foot on the lower step he heard her door.
He turned round and went back slowly to his room. He was shocked and amazed, and a little relieved that he had failed to catch her for he had no words ready for such a misfortune. Her voice was completely gone. She was unquestionably ill and nervous—but— He sat down on the divan, shaking his head. He had never heard a voice more utterly lost and wrecked.