Kenneth threw up his hands in mock defence at the barrage of questions Jane and Mamie fired at him.
“Just a minute—just a minute,” he begged them. “I could talk all night on any one of the questions you’ve asked and then not finish with it or tell you more than half. If you two will only be quiet, I’ll tell you as much as I can.”
Mrs. Harper, hearing the voices, came into the room. The three women sat in silence as Kenneth told of his years at school, of his stay in New York, his experiences in the army, of the beauties of Paris even in war time, of study at a French university. He gave to the narrative a vividness and air of reality that made his auditors see through his eyes the scenes and experiences he was describing. Though none of them had been in France, he made them feel as though they too were walking through the Place de la Concorde viewing the statues to the eight great cities of France or shopping in the Rue de la Paix or attempting to order dinner in a restaurant with an all-too-inadequate French vocabulary. He finished.
“Now you’ve got to sing for me, Jane, as a reward for all the talking I’ve been doing.”
With the usual feminine protests that she had no music with her, Jane went to the open piano. She inquired what he would like to have her sing.
“Anything except the ‘Memphis Blues,’ which is all I’ve heard since I came back to Central City,” he answered.
Jane ran over the keys experimentally, improvising. A floor lamp stood near the piano casting a soft light over her. Her long, delicately pointed fingers lingered lovingly on the ivory keys, and then she played the opening bars of Saint-Saën’s “My Heart at Thy Sweet Voice.” Her voice, a rounded, rich contralto, showing considerable training, gave to the song a tender pathos, a yearning, a promise of deep and understanding love. She sang with a grace and clear phrasing that bespoke the simple charm of the singer. Kenneth gazed at her in wonder at the amazing metamorphosis of the shy, gawky child Jane whom he had only rarely noticed, and then with the condescending air of twenty looking at twelve. In her stead had come a woman, rounded, attractive even beautiful, intelligent, and altogether desirable. The chrysalis had changed to the gorgeously coloured butterfly. Her skin was a soft brown—almost bronze. He thought of velvety pansies richly coloured—of the warmth of rubies of great price of the lustrous beauty of the sky on a spring evening. Her eyes shone with a sparkling and provocative clearness, looking straight at one from their brown depths. Little tendrils of her black hair at the back of her neck were disturbed every now and then by the breeze from the open windows, while above were piled masses of coiled blackness that shone in the dim light with a glossy lustre. To Kenneth came visions of a soft-eyed señorita in an old Spanish town leaning from her balcony while below, to the accompaniment of a muted guitar, her lover sang to her of his ardent love. Kenneth blushed when he realized that in every picture he had cast himself for the rôle of gallant troubadour.
His mother had quietly slipped from the room to retire for the evening. Mamie had gone to prepare something cool for them to drink. Kenneth had not heard them go. In fact, lost in the momentary forgetfulness created by Jane and the song, he had completely forgotten them. He did not, however, fail to realize that the dreams he was having were in large measure due to the soft light, to surprise at the great changes in Jane, to the lulling seductiveness of the music. He was sure that his feeling was due in largest measure to a reaction from his unpleasant conversation with Roy Ewing. He vaguely realized that when on the morrow he saw Jane by daylight, she would not seem half so charming and attractive. Yet he was of such a temperament that he could give himself up to the spell of the moment and extract from it all the pleasure in it. It was in that manner he put aside the things which were unpleasant, enabling him to shake off memories like mists of the morning ascending from the depths of a valley.
The song was ended. Herself caught in its spell, Jane swung into that most beautiful of the Negro spirituals, “Deep River.” Into it she poured her soul. She filled the room with the pathos of that song born in the dark days of slavery of a people torn from their home and thrust into the thraldom of human bondage.
And then Jane sang “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.” The song ended, her fingers yet clung to the keys but her hands hung listless. Kenneth knew not how or when he had risen from his chair and gone to the piano where he stood behind Jane. Something deep within them had been touched by the music—a strange thrill filled them, making them oblivious to everything except the presence of each other. Kenneth lightly placed his hands on her shoulders. Without speaking or turning, she placed her hands for a moment on his. He bent over her while she raised her face to his, her eyes misty with tears born of the emotion aroused by the song. Though often laughed at in real life and often distorted in fiction, love almost at first sight had been born within them. Kenneth slowly brought her face nearer his while Jane, with parted lips, let the back of her head rest against his breast. Love, with its strange retroactive effects, brought to both of them in that moment the sudden realization, though neither of them had known it, that they had always loved each other. Not a word had been spoken—each was busy constructing his love in silence. A great emptiness in their lives had been suddenly, miraculously filled.