It was more lonely often than if she had lived all alone, and so no wonder she thought of Leith Pierrepont's words at last and of—Arditi.
She hated the very name of the man at first, because Leith had asked her to study under him, and then by degrees the thought became less repulsive to her, and she finally concluded that in sheer self-defense she would go and see him anyway, just to satisfy herself as to whether she had any voice or not, and to relieve the awful monotony of existence.
She found him—the great artist—in his studio, and he listened kindly to her words and then tried her voice. It was really a superb voice, filled with color and feeling, and a breadth of tone that was wonderful. He was delighted—as who would not have been?—and accepted her as his pupil gladly, almost joyfully.
After that the work fascinated her, and she toiled faithfully, making marvelous strides, assisted perhaps by the very ache in her heart, for there is nothing under heaven that develops the soul like sorrow. I doubt whether a person has any very great amount of soul cultivation until grief has brought it there. And Carlita certainly suffered.
The letters had ceased altogether.
She was not particularly surprised at first, because Olney had told her of the wretched condition of the railroads, and consequently of the mail service; but it couldn't have been quite so bad as all that, to give her no letter in five long, apparently endless weeks.
But she covered up the hurt in her devotion to her new art, and Mrs. Chalmers and Jessica watched her curiously.
"Who could wish for anything better than this?" Jessica asked of her mother one day, as they heard the strains of the piano from the room which, at her request, had been set apart for her own particular use.
"No one—if it could only last," returned Mrs. Chalmers, with a little, only half-suppressed sigh.
But of course it couldn't, and that was the horrible pity of it all.