A mixed quartette presently broke into song behind him. Bellair’s thoughts were far from song. He was not expectant of music that would satisfy. Still something tugged him—again and again—until he really listened, but without turning. It was the voice of the contralto that was making an impression deep where his need was. There seemed an endless purple background to it, like a night of stars and south wind; the soft, deep volume rolled forth for him, and found itself expressed without amazement or travail. He turned now. The one voice was from the throat of a girl, just a girl, and though it was a gusty November, she was still wearing her summer hat.
The face was merely pretty, but the voice was drama; flame of poppies in the presence of a fabulous orchid. Bellair’s heart may have been particularly sensitive to impression that night. The big brilliant den known as Brandt’s did not seem to have been cast into any enchantment; and yet it was likely that Bellair knew as much about music natively and by acquisition as any one present. In fact, he had reached the state of appreciation which dares to enjoy that which appeals and to say so, having endured for several winters a zeal which rushed him from one to another musical event, intolerant of all save classic symphonies. It wasn’t the music that held him now—a high flowery operatic matter not particularly interesting nor well-done—but the contralto was just a little girl, and the round girlish breast which held nothing miraculous for the many, was sending forth tones that quivered through Bellair, spine and thigh, and thrilling his mind with a profound passion to do something for the singer—an intrinsic and clean emotion, but one which made him ashamed. For an instant, he felt himself setting out on the great adventure of his life, the faintest aroma of its romance touching his senses; something akin to his dreams in the prison of Lot & Company, and which he had not sensed at all since his departure, until this instant. Quickly it passed; yet he had the sense that this great romance had to do with the little singer.
At once he wanted to take her from the other three; dreamed of working for her, so that she might have the chance she craved. Of course, she wanted something terribly; passionate want always went with such a voice. He saw her future alone. Some vampire of a manager would hear her. She would tie up—the little summer hat told him that. She would tie up, and New York would take her bloom before the flower matured—would take more than her little song. Here she was in Brandt’s already, and singing as if for the angels.
Bellair was four-fifths undiscovered country, as are all men but the very few, who dare to be themselves. Already the world was calling to him sharply for this first step aside from the worn highways of the crowd. He had not been normal to-night, even in his room; and his present adventure had already summoned forth all the hateful reserves of his training, as Prentidd’s departure had started the lies through the floors and halls of Lot & Company. His heart was calling out to the little singer, that here was a friend, one who understood and wanted nothing but to give; yet all that he had learned from the world was beating him back into the crowd.
He saw that the music had hardly penetrated the vast vulgar throng. New York is so accustomed to be amused, to dine to music and forget itself in various entertainments, that the quartette barely held its own against the routine of eating and drink and the voices of rising stimulation. It was Bellair who started the little applause when the first number was over. He hated to do it. The clapping of hands drew to himself eyes that he did not care to cultivate, but it seemed the only way just then to help her to make good.
The four of the quartette looked at him curiously, appraising his value as a critic, perhaps. Was he drunk or really appealed to? Was he worth considering? Applause at any price is dearly to be had. They took him in good faith, since he was not without desirable appearance. The young girl and the tenor arose and sang:
“Oh, that we two were Maying——”
The old song was a kind of fulfilment for Bellair, and preciously wrung his heart. He had never been Maying; wasn’t sure what sort of holidays were pulled off in regular Mayings; but he liked the song, and for all he knew the familiar sentiment was evoked bewitchingly. Many others now caught the thrall. These things are infectious. From hatred, he came to love Brandt’s—as if he had come home, and had been long away hungering—as if this were life, indeed.... They sang the last verse again, and sat down for hurried refreshment. The four were very near. The young girl caught Bellair’s eye, regarded him shyly for an instant, and turned to whisper to the bass, who seemed in charge of the four.
“... Yes, but hurry back. We’ve got to pull out of here.”
Bellair wasn’t dangling. Never had he been more intent to be decent and helpful. No one knew this. Even the girl was far from expectant. ... She sat down beside him.