But Sylvia’s outlook upon life, as has been seen, was distorted in many ways; and she was destined to realize that she must form new conclusions as to this woman who had come to see her in her loneliness.
Mrs. Mendoza was tactful and kind. She assumed nothing, save that Sylvia was not very thoroughly acquainted in the town, and that as she had had her own house now for a month or two, she would expect people to be neighborly. She discussed the difficulties of housekeeping so far from the source of supplies. She was able, incidentally, to give Sylvia a number of valuable hints touching these difficulties. She discussed the subject of Mexican help without self-consciousness. During her call it developed that she was fond of music—that in fact she was (or had been) a musician. And for the first time since Sylvia’s marriage there was music on the piano up in the boudoir.
Mrs. Mendoza played with a passionateness which was quite out of keeping with her mask-like expression. It was like finding a pearl in an oyster, hearing her at the piano. She played certain airs from Fra Diavolo so skilfully that she seemed to be letting bandits into the house; and when she saw that Sylvia was following with deep appreciation she passed on to the Tower Scene, giving to the minor chords a quality of massiveness. Her expression changed oddly. There was color in her cheeks and a stancher adjustment of the lines of her face. She suggested a good woman struggling through flames to achieve safety. When she played from Il Trovatore you did not think of a conservatory, but of a prison.
She stopped after a time and the color swiftly receded from her cheeks. “I’m afraid I’ve been rather in earnest,” she said apologetically. “I haven’t played on a good piano for quite a long time.” She added, as if her remark might seem an appeal for pity, “the climate here injures a piano in a year or so. The fine sand, you know.”
“You must come and use mine whenever you will,” said Sylvia heartily. “I love it, though I’ve never cared to play myself.”
“I wonder why?”
“Ah, I could scarcely explain. I’ve been too busy living. It has always seemed to me that music and pictures and books were for people who had been caught in an eddy and couldn’t go on with the stream.” She realized the tactlessness of this immediately, and added: “That’s just a silly fancy. What I should have said, of course, is that I haven’t the talent.”
“Don’t spoil it,” remonstrated the other woman thoughtfully. “But you must remember that few of us can always go on with the stream.”
“Sometimes you get caught in the whirlpools,” said Sylvia, as they were going down the stairs, “and then you can’t stop, even if you’d like to.”
I doubt if either woman derived a great deal of benefit from this visit. They might have become helpful friends under happier conditions; but neither had anything to offer the other save the white logic of untoward circumstances and defeat.