“A beautiful woman,” continued Mrs. Callendar crushing out the ember of her cigarette upon the tray dedicated to the ashes of Clarence. “And now,” she added, “coming to the point, I wanted to know whether you would come sometimes and play for me in the evenings.... Not a performance, you understand, but simply to play once in a while for me and perhaps my son and Miss Cane and one or two friends.... Miss Cane—you may remember her—came home with you last night ... a clever woman. I’d pay you well ... understand that. I’d like to have you once or twice a week. I don’t go out frequently. I love music but I dislike musicians. You’ll understand that when you come to see more of them.”
For Ellen it was, of course, the opening of a new world in which she might become independent, a world such as she had imagined the city to be. It was as if, overnight, the whole course of her life had been changed. There were chances now, subtle, hidden gambits for which she had an instinct.
“Yes,” she replied quietly. “I think I could arrange it to come.”
“And very likely,” said Mrs. Callendar, “I could get other engagements for you.” She had risen now and was wrapping the sable stole about her short fat neck. “I’ll let you know when I’ll want you to come. I’ll write you a note that will be a sort of contract between us. I believe in contracts. Never trust the human race.... And now good-by, Miss Tolliver. I’m glad you’re all right again. You may have fainted out of fright. There were people there last night ... stupid people ... who would have frightened Rubinstein himself.”
So Ellen thanked her, bade her good-by and walked with her to the top of the stairs. Half way down, Mrs. Callendar turned. “I suppose,” she said with a rising inflection, “that you live here alone.”
“No,” said Ellen; but that was all she said, and Mrs. Callendar, smiling to herself, disappeared amused, no doubt, by the memory of the story which Sabine Cane had told her when she had returned across the park from the Babylon Arms.
Once the door was closed, Ellen flung herself into a chair and sat staring out of the window into the gray clouds that swept across the sky high above the North River. It must have occurred to her then that Mrs. Callendar had departed with an amazing amount of information ... knowledge which concerned herself and her family, her future, her plans, even the details of the very flat in which she lived. Her guest had, after a fashion, absorbed her and her life much as a sponge absorbs water. By now Mrs. Callendar could doubtless have drawn a detailed and accurate picture of the flat and written a history of its occupant. Indeed she had very nearly tripped Ellen into one unfortunate truthfulness. That was a fascinating thought ... Lily and her strange foreign life. Lily a widow? What were her morals? How did she live in Paris? Surely no one in the Town could have had the faintest idea. But Madame Shane! Still Mrs. Callendar might have been mistaken. It would have been, under the circumstances, a natural error. It was as though Lily was destined in some unreal fashion to play a part in Ellen’s own life. Always she was there, or at least some hint of her. Even Clarence talked of her in a way he did not use when speaking of other women. Yet no one knew anything of Lily.
Smiling dimly she rose, and before returning to her music she took the brass ash tray containing the remains of Mrs. Callendar’s scented cigarette and cleaned it thoroughly, taking care to bury the offending morsels well out of sight where Clarence could never find them. Certainly she performed this act through no fear of him. Rather it was with an air of secrecy as if already she and her visitor had entered into a conspiracy. It may have been only a touch of that curious understanding which flashes sometimes between persons of great character.
26
THE life of Mr. Wyck was no longer of interest to any one; yet there were times, usually after a stronger dose than usual of his wife’s power and independence, when Clarence sought the company of Wyck with the air of a man in need of refreshment and rest. For she had brought into the lives of both men a sense of strain which, during the days of their amiable companionship on the top floor of the Babylon Arms, had been utterly lacking. To Clarence, this new condition of affairs remained a mystery; but Wyck, with an intuition that was feminine, must sometimes have come close to the real reason.