It was dawn when the groaning of the girl forced itself into his ears, though all doors were closed. The crisis approached. Hurried footsteps were heard and the brittle sound of china. The odors of vinegar, ether and of fumigating pastilles penetrated his nostrils. A solitary scream punctuated the air. Silence followed, profound, enigmatic. Mr. Milton tip-toed to the door and listened. The orders of the doctor had been definite; no one save Mrs. Milton was to be near the sufferer. When Ulick, at last no longer able to sit still, approached the door, the father raised his eyebrows. Not yet! At six o'clock Mrs. Milton appeared. She looked worn and her features were pinched, but she suggested hope. Trembling, Ulick took her hand. She squeezed his. Her husband had left the room.
"The crisis is passed, the doctor tells me. There remains the danger of blood-poisoning. She is weaker than her precious doll. She was delirious for a time and raved over her dream-children. She always loved babies. Poor Mona, what a disappointment her's?" He rubbed his eyes. Was he in a trance! Such people! Such a father and mother! Not a reproach. He might have been the husband of Mona. Truly they were more than Christian in their charity, in their comprehension; they were angelic—there was no other word to describe them as they really were. He asked if he might see Mona once more. She refused. "Come tonight about nine o'clock. She will surely see you then. I'll tell her you stayed near her all night. Go home, and do try to sleep. Don't worry. Everything, please providence, will come out right." Tears fell as he hurried through the morning streets.
Mona slept, though fitfully, her doll beside her. At intervals she opened her eyes murmuring. "Frustrate, frustrate!" Her mother thought that she was again raving....
III
The green and gold of summer modulated into a gorgeous autumnal symphony of faint-coloured flowers; scarlet, yellow and russet browns. October with its tonic and out-door joys was at hand. The tree-tops beckoned to the white clouds, lazily floating aloft. Ulick longed for the hills of New Hampshire, for the Franconian landscape with its sweep of horizon. One black spot in his memory had not been effaced. In review he saw the fanatics headed by the chief of the Holy Yowlers, saw Roarin' Nell and Brother Rainbow, saw, Oh! memorable moment, for the first time the glorious woman called Easter, Esther Brandès, now Istar, the famous Isolde and Brunnhilde. Would he ever see her again? Did he really long for her presence, or was it pure fancy, rather, unmitigated curiosity? Over his tea and toast this morning he couldn't reason the idea to a logical conclusion. He knew that he was fickle. But, then, that was in the past. There was only one girl now—Dora being a light-of-love—and that was Mona. She was adorable—Mona, and her parents hardly less adorable. Since that tremendous night he felt that his love for her had been tested as in a fiery furnace; and through that fiery furnace had passed Mona, little the worse for the experience; yet, as he admitted to himself, somehow changed. She was subdued, her eyes unquiet, her vivacity of speech dampened. The wound in her consciousness had left a deep scar. She could not forget. She would never forget.
He sighed as he thought of the change, yet he was reconciled to their altered relationship. Three times a week he dined at the Milton's. There was no doubt about the cordiality of the old people; they liked him and showed their liking. He was virtually the future son-in-law, and if, at times, he shuddered if he thought of marriage, the sober joy of Mona when he was with them proved a prop to buttress up his irresolution. Milt had written him a friendly letter in which transpired brotherly pride. It was a certain thing. Ulick accepted the situation. Fatalistic by temperament as well as training, he told himself it might better be Mona than any other girl. She was charming. But she was changed. She spoke no longer of her doll, of their dream-children, and once, when he had invited her to luncheon at the Maison Félicé, offering to play Chopin for her afterwards, she had refused. "I have promised," was her explanation. "You play for me at home, even if our upright isn't so splendid as your Steinway grand, we enjoy you just the same." And when he had mockingly called her a naughty little coward, she responded: "If you don't ask me the reason, perhaps that would be the best way to make me tell everything." He desisted, though he yearned for her. He was not a man to resist his amorous inclinations. Dora was off his visiting list. Mona, then, was his sole refuge. She saw that he was suffering, but she had given her word to her mother that she would never visit Ulick alone. Once only and in company with Mrs. Milton she had taken luncheon at the Maison, but when he asked them to go to his music-room she hastily refused. See that room again she could not. She feared her nerves would play her tricks. For the rest, she had been away several months, in the mountains, at the seashore. Her languour had not been dissipated; "tædium vitæ," the doctor named it. She needed, he said, an ocean trip, a complete change of scene. But she preferred not to leave Ulick.
He glanced through the news columns this bright October morning. Suddenly a headline and a name caught his eye. Istar! The elopement of the celebrated opera singer Istar with a prince of the blood royal! A half column cable despatch, evidently elaborated in the newspaper office. It described in exaggerated terms the elopement of Easter with a Bavarian princeling from Munich. She had been singing there as "guest" and the musical prince had lost his head, though married to a dowdy princess, and the father of an increasing family. The pair had run away in the night but all the machinery of policedom had been set whirring. En route for Lake Como they were tracked to Vienna and there arrested. A diplomatic arrest, be it understood. The "avenging wife" figured in the dénouement; she was said to have wielded a whip, but Istar grabbed it from her flaccid grasp and gave the unhappy woman a genuine horse-whipping. But doubtless this incident was manufactured out of the whole cloth. The wretched princeling was nipped and in company with a delegation of solemn functionaries, was sent back to Munich, where he was solemnly spanked and put to bed—metaphorically. The affair made a terrific scandal. Istar was warned by the secret police that she would be expelled if she ever crossed the Bavarian border. What amused Ulick was her reported attitude when she was intercepted. She swaggered to the prince and shaking his chilly, frightened hand, she insolently hummed a familiar tune: "Du bist verrückt mein Kind. Du muss nach Berlin...." The pompous entourage couldn't stand that and there were discreet smiles and much wagging of official skulls. Decidedly, Easter came out with flying colours....
Ulick laid down the paper. Easter was surely on the road to victory. Duels, elopements, scandals, royal favours, Good Heavens! how that girl is going straight to her goal. She is an arriviste, but all women are arrivistes. Never mind so you win! When he thought of some women and compared his own slow mode of reacting to circumstances he realised that his incompetence was encyclopaedic. He admired Easter more than ever, admired her at a distance of three thousand miles. All said and done she was more to his taste than Mona. He was worldly. He was artistic. He liked the éclat of operatic triumphs. Istar had arrived. Lilli Lehmann, retired; Ternina retired—who was there, except Olive Fremstad to take their place! Fremstad would prove a serious rival to Easter. No doubt about that. But she had visited New York before Easter, and that would give the girl a free field.
There was Mary Garden, who had been startling Paris from its musical apathy with her marvellous Mélisande. And the young Geraldine Farrar—she was cutting an artistic swath in Berlin. Yet none was so brilliant, he thought, so promising, as his beloved Easter. Beloved? The word was the father to his wish. Easter had never appeared to him in such alluring shapes. Beautiful girl, great singer—and then her sex suddenly swam before him and he literally saw crimson. His enforced chastity was telling adversely on his sanguine temperament. Be virtuous and you'll be bilious! He sourly quoted to himself. If this thing keeps on I'll be forced to ring up Dora.... He hurriedly dressed and went to his club.