Chapter IV: Part 4

And, to meet us, nectar fountains still
Poured forever forth their blissful rill;
Forcibly we broke the seal of Things,
And to Truth's bright sunny hills our wings
Joyously were soaring.
SCHILLER.

It was a real relief to get into the library. Tom felt it, and his face soon resumed its normal expression. The heavy shadows beneath his eyes remained, but there had come a flush into his cheeks, and he carried himself with the air of a man who has a purpose in life and is in a fair way to accomplish it. I remember that the idea came into my mind that Tom had assumed the attitude of a lawyer who has been retained by the prosecution and has but little time in which to prepare his case. I had grown tactless, I fear, in my change of mood, for I was indiscreet enough to say, as Tom seated himself beside the library-table, leaving it to me to find the books that he wished to consult; "In the case of Winifred Remsen and others, against the late Frederic Francois Chopin, charged with house-breaking and breach of the peace."

Tom turned instantly, and a gleam of anger flashed in his eyes as they met mine. "If you cannot treat this matter with the seriousness that I think that it deserves, Winifred, you would do well to retire. It's no joke. When I make a donkey of myself before a lot of perfectly respectable people, I consider it a matter of some importance. You don't seem to grasp the full horror of it all. I suppose that I'm liable to have another attack at any time. In fact, it may become chronic. I have of late come across very curious psychical phenomena in a professional way, Winifred, and I insist on taking every precaution before you are forced to place me in the hands of the alienists."

"Tom!" I cried, in horror, and remorse. "You mustn't talk like that. There's nothing the matter with your mind. I'll admit that I can't explain what happened to-night, but I'm sure that it was not caused by any mental trouble on your part. There is doubtless some very simple and commonplace explanation of your--your----"

"Call it seizure," suggested Tom, curtly. "What do you find there?"

I carried a little armful of books to the table, and placed them within Tom's reach.

"Here's a 'Life of Chopin,' by Niecks," I said. "'Frederic Chopin,' by Franz Liszt. Here's Joseph Bennett and Karasowski and the 'Histoire de ma Vie,' by George Sand. And here are Willeby and Mme. Audley. And I think I have----"

"That'll do for to-night," remarked Tom, seizing the volume nearest to his hand. "What kind of a chap was this Chopin, anyway?"

"He was simply fascinating," I remarked, indiscreetly.

"H'm!" growled Tom, angrily. "Not very respectable, I suppose you mean. George Sand! She was a woman, wasn't she? How did she happen to write his life? What did she know about him?"

I have called Tom a Philistine. Perhaps that was too harsh a term to use, but I'm sure there is a good deal of the Puritan about him.

"She used to see a good deal of him," I answered, rather lamely. "They were great chums for a while."

"H'm," growled Tom, throwing aside George Sand's work and opening another. Presently, he began to read biographical scraps aloud, for all the world like an angry police official drawing up a sweeping indictment against a man of genius.

"'The little Frederick duly received the name of Frederic Francois, after the son of Count Sharbek, who stood as his godfather,'" began Tom. "'We are told that he very soon showed a great susceptibility to musical sounds, although hardly in the direction which we should have expected, for he howled lustily whenever he heard them.'"

Tom looked up from the printed page, and our eyes met.

"That's a curious coincidence, Winifred," he remarked, musingly. "It's a family tradition that I used to yell like a young Indian whenever they tried to sing to me in my babyhood. A rattle-box would quiet me, but the sweetest lullaby always made me howl. But I must get on. Chopin began well, didn't he?"

There was silence for a time as Tom feverishly scanned the pages of his book.

"The dickens! Listen to this!" he exclaimed, presently. "'During his ninth year he was invited to assist at a concert for the benefit of the poor. He played a pianoforte concerto, the composition of Adalbert Gyrowetz, a famous composer of the time.'"

Tom placed the book on the table, and held the pages open with his hand as he glanced at me over his shoulder. "If he played that kind of thing at nine years of age, Winifred, there was something uncanny about it. It was just as unnatural as what happened to me to-night. I'm beginning to formulate a theory about this kind of thing, my dear." Tom placed the open book face downward, and turned squarely toward me. "Music, you see, may be, like electricity, imprisoned, as it were, in a universe of both conductors and non-conductors. It may be that a temperament, like mine for instance, that is permanently a non-conductor might, under given conditions become temporarily a conductor. Chopin played like a master at nine years of age. He had become a conductor, and remained so permanently. When he howled at music as a baby he was still a non-conductor--just as I had been up to to-night--or rather last night. Possibly, the conditions that made me a kind of spasmodic music-box, with the Chopin peg pulled out, may never occur again. What do you think, Winifred? Doesn't all that sound reasonable?"

Before I could formulate a sensible answer to a not very sensible proposition Tom had resumed the perusal of his book. He appeared to me like a man fascinated against his will by a line of investigation that he had begun as a disagreeable duty. But I was glad to see that he had regained full control of himself, and that his countenance no longer displayed traces of intense mental disquietude.

"He was a pretty lively boy," remarked Tom, a few moments later. "Listen, Winifred! 'At school, Frederic was a prime favorite, and was always in the midst of any fun or mischief that was going on. His talent for mimicry was always extraordinary, and has been commented on not only by George Sand and Liszt but by Balzac.'"

Tom gazed at me, musingly. "Do you consider that significant, my dear?" he asked, with a seriousness that struck me as both ludicrous and pathetic. I was getting worried by Tom's persistence in this futile line of endeavor.

"It's nearly three o'clock, Tom Remsen," I cried, standing erect. "Come up-stairs at once. It won't be fair to your clients for you to get to your office fagged out for lack of sleep."

"Sit down, Winifred," he said, peremptorily. "It's little use I'll be to my clients until I find out what happened to me in the music-room. Suppose that I should have an attack of--what shall I call it?--Chopinitis--in the court-room? I should suddenly begin to sing--or perhaps whistle a--what-d'you-call'em?--pianoforte concerto--what would the judge say? I'd be disbarred, Winifred, for indecent exposure of musical genius. No; I'm going to find out more about this strange affair--here and now."

I was forced to reseat myself, protesting silently against Tom's absurd stubbornness. I endeavored in vain to shake off a feeling of uneasiness that was creeping over me, a sensation that was closely akin to fear of the phlegmatic man who sat before me motionless and calm, pursuing a course of study that had been inspired by a most untenable supposition. What had Chopin to do with the matter? What difference could it make to Tom whether the latter had been one kind of man or another? It was ridiculous to assert that in Chopin's personality might be found an explanation of the curious incident that had made my musical so memorable. My prejudice against Spiritualists, Christian Scientists, Theosophists and other eccentrics had been, I had believed, shared by my husband. But there he sat at three o'clock in the morning trying to find among the biographical data before him some explanation of his recent "seizure," that must, of necessity, lean toward the occult. That a well-balanced, rather materialistic lawyer, whose mental methods were habitually logical, should suddenly begin to dabble in psychical mysteries in this way frightened me the more the longer I weighed Tom's words and actions in all their bearings. Nevertheless, I was forced to admit to myself that he had never looked saner in his life than he did at that moment, as he turned from his book again and gazed straight into my tired eyes.

"He was a very flirtatious chap, Winifred, and very fickle. Listen to this: 'Although of a peculiarly impressionable and susceptible disposition, and, as a not unnatural consequence, more or less fickle where women were concerned, Chopin's love affairs did, on more than one occasion, assume a serious aspect. He had conceived a fancy for the granddaughter of a celebrated master, and although contemplating matrimony with her, he had at the same time in his mind's eye another lady resident in Poland, his loyalty being engaged nowhere and his fickle heart concentrated on no one passion. One day, when visiting the former young lady in company with a musician who was at the time better known in Paris that he himself, she unconsciously offered a chair to his companion first. So piqued was he at what he considered a slight that he not only never called on her again, but dismissed her entirely from his thoughts.' Do you begin to see, Winifred, what a queer fellow he was? Really, I'm inclined to think----"

I was standing erect, gazing at him, angrily.

"If you are joking, Tom," I exclaimed, having lost all patience, "I think you are displaying most wretched taste. If you are really in earnest, I am very sorry for you. I'm going to bed. I hope I'll find you fully recovered at breakfast."

He did not seem to be at all impressed by my exhibition of temper.

"Wait just a moment, Winifred," he suggested, his eyes fixed on his book. "Here it is about George Sand--their first meeting, you know. Wait! I'll read it to you."

"I shall not wait, Tom Remsen," I cried. "Chopin's love affairs are nothing to me--and they should be nothing to you. Good night. This is my last word. Good night."

As I reached the door, I glanced over my shoulder. Tom seemed to have forgotten my existence. He had plunged again into the dust-heap of an old scandal that seemed to fascinate him--Tom Remsen, who had hitherto always deprecated and avoided that kind of research.

*CHAPTER IV.*

*SIGNORINA MOLATTI.*

And thou, too--when on me fell thine eye,
What disclos'd thy cheek's deep-purple dye?
SCHILLER.

Two days went by, and while I still pondered the great mystery and kept a close watch on Tom, I had begun to hope that the exactions of his profession had led him to abandon his effort to explain what he had called his "seizure." He had been busy of late with the technicalities involved in the formation of a new trust, and his mind seemed to be wholly engrossed by this gigantic task. By tacit consent we had both avoided all reference to my recent musical and its weird and inexplicable outcome. At times, I was almost inclined to believe that Tom had forgotten Chopin and all his works.

As for myself, I could not recover a normal state of mind. For the first time in my life, I felt an admiration for the very characteristics of my husband's make-up that hitherto had annoyed and wearied me. His ability to rebound at once from the shock that he had sustained filled me with both envy and amazement. I had begun to realize that the mental poise of an unimpressionable, unimaginative man is a very desirable and praise-worthy possession.

I regretted at times that I could not throw myself into some despotic occupation that should demand all my physical and mental energies. As yet, I had not found the courage to face the world and its questionings. For two days, I had denied myself to even my most intimate friends, not excepting Mrs. Jack Van Corlear, who had hurried to me on the day succeeding my musical. I knew that my callers were actuated by a not unnatural curiosity, and I lacked the nervous energy to face people who would politely claim the right to know why Tom had always concealed his genius as a pianist. I think I fully understand the set in which I move. We dearly love a new sensation. Without leaving my house or receiving a single visitor, I could readily grasp the fact that the leading topic of conversation in society at the moment revolved around Tom Remsen as a masterly interpreter of Chopin.

Chopin! I had begun to hate the name. But I had not been able to resist the temptation to spend many hours in the library poring over the books that dealt, directly or indirectly, with his personality and achievements. The temporary enthusiasm that Tom had displayed for research into the life of Frederic Chopin bade fair to become a permanent passion in my case. I devoted whole afternoons to playing, in my amateurish way, his waltzes, mazurkas, nocturnes and ballads. One of the latter, his Opus 47, I had not the audacity to attempt. Somehow, Tom's recent rendition of the piece seemed to stand as a barrier that it would be sacrilege for me to cross. Nevertheless, I longed to hear the ballad again, and was almost tempted to ask Tom to play it to me alone. That he was wholly incapable of repeating his recent performance, my mind refused to believe. I had returned, almost unconsciously, to my first conviction, that my husband had wilfully deceived me for years regarding his musical ability.

I sat poring over an English criticism of Chopin's posthumous works late one afternoon when a card was brought to me in the library that tempted me to come out of my self-imposed retreat. It bore the name:

SIGNORINA MOLATTI.

In the half-light of the drawing-room, the girl looked handsomer than in the glare of evening lamps. Her dark, oriental beauty was at its best in the subdued glow of early twilight. She was dressed in a rich but quiet Parisian costume, and I felt that her attractiveness increased the further she was removed from Signor Turino, Mlle. Vanoni and the other noted artists with whom she associated. Nevertheless, I realized that my manner was cold and unsympathetic as we seated ourselves and I awaited her pleasure. Having had business dealings with the signorina I was not willing to admit that she could assume the right to call on me as a social equal.

But patrician blood must have flowed in Molatti's veins, for she sat there silent and calm, and my skirmish line was driven back. I spoke first. The self-confidence in the girl's smile hurt me.

"It is a pleasure, signorina, to have an opportunity I had not hoped for, to thank you again for the great pleasure you afforded my guests the night before last."

"But it is me, signora, who is in the debt of you," said Molatti, in her soft, musical, broken English. "I hava coma to you to thanka you and to ask a leetle favor. Signor Remsen! oh, eet was so wonderful--so vera wonderful! I hava waited all my leetle life for eet."

I stared at the girl in astonishment. Her enthusiasm, her gestures, the brilliant glow in her dark eyes offended me. And "eet!" What was "eet," for which she had waited all her life?

"Yes?" I remarked, interrogatively. Her fervor was not cooled by the iced water of my question mark.

"Leesten to me, signora. I hava worsheeped Chopin since I was a leetle girl. I have heard alla the great interpretaires of the _maestro_. But I have nevaire heard Chopin. In my dreams--_si_, signora, but nevaire in my hours that are awake. But I cama here! Signor Remsen--he playa Chopin! Eet was no dream. Eet was the soul of the _maestro_ speaking to the soul of me. Eet was wonderful--so vera wonderful!"

Conflicting emotions warred within me. I hardly dared speak lest I should either laugh or cry hysterically. With lips compressed I sat motionless, staring at the girl, into whose eloquent eyes there had come a pleading look that suggested tears.

"Signor Remsen," she murmured, presently, like a devotee who breathes the name of an idol--"do you thinka, signora, that he would let me hear him play again? Peety me, signora! I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. I crave only the music of the _maestro_--music that I hava heard only once in my leetle life. Signor Remsen! Eef he would permeet me--justa once--to accompany him on my leetle violin--oh, signora, I coulda then die happy. I should hava leeved just a leetle while, and then I would not care. But now, I am so unhappy--so vera miserable!"

I was too nervous to stand this kind of thing any longer. I rose, and Molatti faced me, erect at once.

"You pay my husband's talent a great compliment, signorina," I said, coldly; "but I cannot take it on myself to answer you in his name. However, I shall present your request to him and let you know at once what he says." A diabolical impulse came over me, and I added: "Of course, Mr. Remsen would not wish you to starve, signorina, nor to die a horrible death from insomnia."

The girl spiked my guns--if that be the right expression--by a merry, musical laugh.

"You are so vera kind!" she cried. "I kissa your lovely hand."

Before I could prevent it she had touched my outstretched hand with her red, smiling lips; then she took her departure. I returned to the library in a condition that verged dangerously on complete nervous collapse.

At dinner that evening, Tom was unwontedly silent. As I glanced at him over my soup there was something in his face that suggested thoughts not connected with the Pepper and Salt Trust. I was soon to become accustomed to this expression and to identify it in my mind as "Chopinesque."

"Aren't you feeling well to-night, Tom?" I ventured presently, noting that he was drinking more wine than usual.

"A bit tired, Winifred," he answered, absently. Then his eyes met mine, and I saw that he was worried. I had planned to fulfill conscientiously my promise to Signorina Molatti, but the time seemed inopportune. I was glad, presently, that I had refrained from mentioning my caller and her mission. As we were sipping our coffee Tom tossed an envelope across the table to me.

I opened it with a chill misgiving. It ran as follows:

MR. THOMAS REMSEN.

DEAR SIR: As it has come to the knowledge of the Executive Committee of the Chopin Society of New York that your rendition of the works of our master is unexcelled by any living performer, we humbly beg of you to accept the hospitality of our association at an early date, to be chosen by you. Our members and their guests would consider it the highest of privileges could they be permitted to hear you play such selections from Chopin as you might wish to perform. Thanking you in advance for the great joy that you will vouchsafe to us by accepting this invitation, we remain, etc.

There lay a wan smile on Tom's face as he met my gaze. "Kind, aren't they?" he muttered. "What the deuce'll I write to 'em, Winifred?"

"You can't accept, of course," I said, confidently. Then I hesitated, surprised at the queer gleam in Tom's eyes. "Can you?" I added, weakly.

"I can, I suppose," he remarked, with an effort at playfulness. "There's no law against it."

His answer struck me as strangely unlike him. If he had cried, "The Chopin Society be damned!" I should have felt more at ease, less oppressed by a sensation of nameless dread. There was something distinctly uncanny in Tom's manner.

"It would be a good joke on 'em, wouldn't it, if I _should_ accept their bid?" he remarked as he lighted his cigar. "Confound their impudence! That's what they deserve."

"But--but--Tom, would you try to--to play?" I gasped, in dismay.

Tom laughed in a way that shocked my overwrought nerves. It was a shrill, unnatural note of merriment, that struck me as diabolical. "Play?" he repeated, sardonically. "Why not? Do you imagine, madame, that the marvelous genius of Thomas Remsen, interpreter of Frederic Francois Chopin, is to be confined strictly to your musicals? That would be a gross injustice to the music-loving world, would it not? But come into the library with me, Winifred. I must resume my studies as a student of 'the master.'"

I followed Tom mechanically, fascinated by his gruesome mood. For the life of me I couldn't tell whether he was joking or in earnest, whether it was his mind or mine that had lost its poise.

*CHAPTER V.*

*A POLISH FANTASIA.*

Ah, sure, as Hindoo legends tell,
When music's tones the bosom swell
The scenes of former life return.
DR. LEYDEN.

I made a clean breast of the whole matter to Mrs. Jack Van Corlear the next morning. I had sent for her early in the day, saying that I was in trouble and needed advice, and she came to me at once. It was a great relief to me just to look into her eyes and hold her hand.

"It's about Tom!" she remarked, sagely. "Has he done it again?"

Her question made me realize fully the awkwardness of my position. Close as our friendship had been, I had never gossipped about Tom to Mrs. Jack. If there is anything more vulgar than what Tom had once called "extra-marital confidences between women," I don't know what it is. But I was forced to talk about my husband's increasing eccentricity to somebody, or endanger my own mental health. I knew that I should derive temporary nervous restoration from a heart-to-heart confab with a woman who has the reputation of being "a mighty good fellow." I have heard people complain that Mrs. Jack was "too horsey" for their taste. But if you are seeking a friend who shall possess courage, reticence and common sense, pick out a woman that rides. A fondness for horses seems to enlarge a woman's sympathies, while at the same time it increases her discretion.

"He has not actually done it again, my dear," I answered; "but he threatens to. He informed me at breakfast this morning that he intended to accept the invitation of the Chopin Society. Furthermore, he said he was going to send the society a cheque for their Chopin Monument Fund."

"Tom's a thoroughbred, isn't he?" exclaimed Mrs. Jack, with what struck me as ill-timed enthusiasm. "But tell me more about Signorina Molatti. Did you keep your promise to her?"

"Yes; I told him this morning about her call. Do you know, he seemed to be actually pleased. It wasn't like Tom at all. Young women always bore him. And he has a special abhorrence for people connected in any way with the stage."

"Now, Winifred, tell me honestly: Has Tom never played a note in all the twelve years that you have known him?"

"Never! never! never!" I cried, hotly. It was so hard to make even Mrs. Jack, who fully understands me, get at my point of view.

"And he wins a big handicap the first time he starts," mused my confidante. "It's miraculous! Is there a strain of music in his blood, my dear? Any of the Remsens gifted that way?"

"Not that I ever heard of," I answered, rather petulantly. Mrs. Jack's surmises seemed to be as unsatisfactory as my own solitary musings.

"Is he going to play for Molatti?" she asked, presently.

The blood rushed to my cheeks as I realized that this was the keynote to the whole conversation. "He says he is," I confessed, reluctantly. "You may not believe it, but he actually joked about it; said that it would be cruel on his part to withhold from 'a worthy young woman'--what an expression!--a pleasure that might restore her appetite and sleep."

Mrs. Jack laughed aloud, despite the frown on my brow. "Give him the bit, my dear," she advised, playfully. "You aren't afraid of a little black filly over a distance, are you? But tell me, what does Tom say about it all? You tell me that he speaks of his recent rendition of the Chopin ballad as 'a seizure.'"

"For nearly two days, my dear, I fondly imagined he had forgotten all about it. He didn't speak of it. But last night he went into the library and recommenced his researches into the life of Chopin. I couldn't help laughing at some of the comments he made, but he was in dead earnest all the time. I am forced to believe Tom really thinks he is--it seems so absurd when one puts it into words--thinks he is haunted by Chopin's spirit, or something of that kind."

Mrs. Jack's mood changed and the merriment in her face disappeared. "Do you know," she remarked, thoughtfully. "I am sometimes inclined to think that we are awfully ignorant about some things. I have heard of so many queer occurrences of an uncanny nature lately--and among the very nicest kind of people, too. And it used to be really good form to have a family ghost, you know. Perhaps it's coming in again. Old fashions have a way of cropping up again, haven't they?"

I could not refrain from smiling at Mrs. Jack's peculiar attitude toward psychical mysteries. However, I refused to be led into generalities. "But just look at the ludicrousness of the idea," I began. "Admitting, my dear, that Chopin's soul has grown uneasy and desires a temporary reincarnation, would he be likely to select Tom as a--what shall I call it?--medium? Wouldn't he be more inclined to haunt a man who was naturally musical, or at least loved music? But you know, Mrs. Jack, what Tom is. He hasn't the slightest liking for music of any kind. Unless he has been a great actor for many years, never for an instant forgetting his role, I'm sure of this."

"What can we know about the methods or longings of a disembodied spirit?" argued my confidante, logically enough. "Perhaps Chopin was backing a long shot, just for the excitement of the thing."

I glanced at Mrs. Jack, half-angrily. I thought for a moment that she was inclined to poke fun at me. But her face was as serious as mine, and I repented quickly of my unjust suspicion.

And thus we talked in a circle for an hour or more. Mrs. Jack lunched with me, and finally persuaded me to spend the afternoon with her, driving along the river side. As we drew up in front of the house about five o'clock, I turned to her with gratitude in my heart and eyes and voice.

"Thank you so much, my dear," I said, gratefully. "I'll come to you in the morning if there are any new developments in the case." I had turned away when Mrs. Jack called me back.

"It's a problem that you and I can't solve, little woman," she said, affectionately. "If he has another attack, or any new symptoms develop, what would you think of consulting a specialist? I'd go with you, of course. We needn't give out names, you know."

"A specialist--in what?" I asked, trying to repress a feeling of annoyance that I must conceal from a friend who had been all kindness to me at a crisis.

"Think it over," returned Mrs. Jack, vaguely. "I'm sure I don't know who is an authority on--what did Tom call it--Chopinitis. But come to me in the morning, anyway; I may have something really practical to suggest. And don't touch him with the whip! Tom's a thoroughbred, you know, my dear. Good-bye!"

As I entered the hall, depressed by a quick reaction from my recent cheerfulness, I was roused from my self-absorption by a revelation that drove the blood to my head and made me dizzy for a moment. From the music-room, always unoccupied at this hour of the day, came the weird, searching harmonies of a Polish fantasia arranged for the piano and violin. The effect was marvelous. Softened by distance, the perfect accord of the two instruments bore testimony to the complete sympathy that existed between the pianist and the wielder of the bow. There was something in this half-barbaric music that set my veins on fire. Hardly knowing what I did and with no thought of what I intended to do, I crossed the drawing-room quickly and noiselessly, and stood motionless at the entrance to the music-room.

I remember now that I felt no sensation of astonishment at what I saw. It seemed to me that the picture before my eyes was just what I had come from a remote distance to gaze upon.

Tom was seated at the piano, his back toward me. Beside him stood Signorina Molatti, her Cremona resting against her shoulder. They had not heard my footsteps, and I realized that if I had yelled like a wild Indian they would not have come to earth. They played like creatures in a trance, and I felt the strange, seductive hypnotism of the mad, sweet, feverish music that they made, as I stood there voiceless, motionless, helpless, hopeless. Vainly I appealed to my pride. Vainly I strove to act as one worthy of the name of mondaine. The shock had been too sudden, too severe, and I could not trust myself.

As silently as I had come, I crept away. Recrossing the drawing-room, I encountered the butler in the hall. My face flushed with shame as I said to him:

"If Mr. Remsen asks for me, James, say that I have not returned."

Then I stumbled up-stairs to my rooms, dismissed my maid curtly, and gave way like a foolish girl to foolish tears.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*CONSULTING A SPECIALIST.*

An angel is too fine a thing
To sit behind my chair and sing
And cheer my passing day.
EDMUND E. GOSSE.

"But, madam, the symptoms, in so far as I can gather them, are insufficient for an accurate diagnosis. You have stated the case clearly and in minute detail, but my experience in the new school of medicine--if such it can be called--convinces me that you have inadvertently omitted some significant factor in the premises, without which I can vouchsafe to you nothing more valuable than sweeping generalities. In other words, you have given me an opportunity to lay before you a theory, but no chance to suggest to you a practical line of action."

I looked helplessly at Mrs. Van Corlear and saw that she was scanning Dr. Emerson Woodruff's strong, thoughtful face attentively. Presently, she glanced at me, as if asking my permission to speak, and I nodded to her in acquiescence.

"We have told you, doctor," began Mrs. Jack, "that this--ah--friend of ours plays nothing but Chopin. That's important, of course?"

"Exceedingly," remarked Dr. Woodruff, impressively, his hands folded across his chest and his head bent forward. Even at that critical moment, I found myself wondering if all practitioners of the anti-materialistic school were large, dignified, magnetic men, with majestic brows and bright, searching eyes.

"But he's not always a soloist," went on Mrs. Jack, in a low but vibrant tone; "he has shown an inclination of late to travel in double harness--piano and violin, you know."

An enigmatical smile came into Dr. Woodruff's face for an instant. The man's intuition was so quick and keen that I had begun to fear I should find it difficult to maintain my incognita.

"You say," he asked, presently, turning toward me, "that his general health remains good? He has no tendency towards melancholia; doesn't grow flighty at times in his talk?"

"I have never seen him look so well as he does at present," I answered, wearily. I had come to Dr. Woodruff against my will, succumbing weakly to Mrs. Jack's insistence. And now the whole affair appeared ridiculous and the doctor's questions irrelevant and futile. My interest in the seance--if that is the word for it--was reawakened, however, by the physician's next question.

"Who plays the violin for him?" he asked, curtly.

Mrs. Jack answered him at once. "Signorina Molatti. You know her by reputation?"

"Yes," he answered; "I have heard her play. She has a touch of genius. They must make great music together--Molatti and your friend."

A lump came into my throat and I clutched the arms of my chair awkwardly. That Dr. Woodruff had noticed my emotion, I felt sure.

"Well, what is your explanation of all this, doctor?" I asked, impatiently. I was thoroughly out of harmony with myself, Mrs. Jack and the physician, and my pride revolted at the false position in which I had been placed. A skeptic who goes to a clergyman for guidance sacrifices both his logic and his dignity. Here I sat in Dr. Emerson Woodruff's office, under an assumed name, telling a stranger weird tales about a supposititious acquaintance who was in reality my own husband. Had I not been unfair to Tom, Dr. Woodruff and myself? Surely the road to truth is not through a zigzag lane of lies!

"My dear madam," began the doctor, in his most pompous manner, "the case as you have stated it is unique in the annals of what I take the liberty to call the new science--new, that is, to the Western world. To the brooding East, the introspective, sapient, miracle-working Orient, there would be nothing strange or inexplicable in what your--er--friend calls his 'seizure.' I have seen in India phenomena that, should I describe them to you, would wholly destroy what little confidence you have in my veracity and common sense. May I ask why you have come to me, madam? You have no faith in the school to which I am devoted."

His voice had grown suddenly stern, and I avoided his gaze in confusion. The ease with which he had read my thoughts offended and frightened me.

"It's my fault, Dr. Woodruff," cried Mrs. Jack, loyally; "I persuaded her to come. I have been over the jumps before, and I rather like the course. But it's pretty stiff going at first, you must acknowledge."

To my surprise, Dr. Woodruff laughed aloud. His merriment restored my equilibrium, and I hastened to explain.

"Won't you believe me, doctor, when I say that I have not come to you in an antagonistic mood? I am intensely interested in the problem we have laid before you--and I feel sure you can help us to read the riddle. We have a friend who has no music in his soul. Suddenly, he begins to play Chopin like a master. Then he develops a fondness for duets. We fear the future. Presently, he will begin to neglect his business and his---and--"

"And his wife," added the doctor, glancing at me, quizzically. Then he turned sharply toward Mrs. Jack. "Is this man fond of horses? Does he ride?"

"Before he became so completely absorbed in his profession he was a marvel over timber," she answered, with enthusiasm. "I remember--" she began, reminiscently.

"Never mind ancient history," I cried, rather rudely. "I really can't see, Dr. Woodruff, what his cross-country skill has to do with his Chopin seizure."

"As I understand it, madam," explained the physician, evidently hurt by my petulance, "as I understand it, you are desirous of turning your--ah--friend's mind from music. You tell me that his professional duties have had no effect in this connection. To use an expression that is not often employed by psychologists, a counter-irritant is what I had in mind. It is not strictly scientific to prescribe a remedy before the diagnosis is completed, but, as I gather from your words, you wish to attempt a cure at once."

I am sure there flashed a gleam of suspicion, not unmingled with contempt, from my eyes as I scanned the doctor's face. Surely, it was absurd to suppose that if Tom was really the victim of some supernatural manifestation he could be restored to a normal condition by a resumption of his equestrian enthusiasm. Furthermore, what was I to gain by the line of treatment that this psychological _poseur_ seemed to have in mind? Was it not just as well for my peace of mind to have Tom playing duets with Signorina Molatti as chasing an anise-seed bag across fields and ditches in company with Mrs. Jack Van Corlear or some other horsey woman?

"Do you think he has been hypnotized by Signorina Molatti?" I asked, bluntly, anxious to pin the physician down to some explanation of Tom's eccentricities that should not offend against probability.

"Admitting the possibility of hypnotism in this instance," answered Dr. Woodruff, gravely, "it would seem to be much more likely that your friend had hypnotized Signorina Molatti. Do you not agree with me?"

Taking all the circumstances into consideration, I was forced to admit to myself that his argument was sound. But I could not imagine Tom in the role of a Svengali. Whichever way I turned I was at the horn of a dilemma.

"The fact is, madam," began Dr. Woodruff, very seriously, "the fact is that your reticence has placed me in a somewhat awkward position. While you have apparently made a clean breast of the whole affair, there are several gaps in your story that I must fill up before I can be of any great service to you. There are various explanations of your friend's remarkable outbreak that naturally suggest themselves. Most people would assert at once that he had deliberately concealed his musical ability for years, planning to make a sensational debut when occasion served. You have rejected this explanation as inconsistent with your knowledge of the man's character. I accept your view of the matter, and lay aside as untenable the seemingly most reasonable solution of the problem. Practically, but two lines of conjecture remain open to us. Your friend may have been hypnotized, may have become the plaything of a harmless medium who possesses a sense of humor and enjoys a practical joke. But, I must admit, this explanation appears far-fetched and involves several very improbable hypotheses."

The doctor paused for a time and eyed us musingly. I felt better disposed toward him than heretofore, recognizing the fact that I had been listening to the words of a well-balanced, logical man who might tread lofty heights, but who always stepped with care. If Dr. Emerson Woodruff was a mystic and a dreamer, there was nothing in his outward seeming or his mental methods to indicate it.

"How many hurdles on the other track?" asked Mrs. Jack, abruptly.

"Pardon me," said the physician, gently; "I didn't catch your meaning."

"There were two lines of conjecture open to us," explained Mrs. Jack, "after we had agreed that--what shall I call him?--the man with Chopinitis is not a liar. You don't accept the hypnotic theory, Dr. Woodruff. What's the other?"

"Would you be shocked," asked the psychologist, suavely, "if I should suggest that your friend may be possibly under the direct influence of the spirit of the late Frederic Francois Chopin?"

"That's what Tom thinks!" I cried, excitedly, and then bit my tongue, regretfully. Dr. Woodruff's penetrating eyes were fixed on me.

"I said that there were gaps in your narrative," he remarked, reproachfully. "Your friend--I take it that his name is Tom--believes, then, that he is under the control of Chopin?"

"I think he does," I answered, not very graciously; "he has spent much time of late reading the details of Chopin's life."

"H'm!" exclaimed the doctor, like one who comes gladly on a new symptom in a puzzling case; "would it not be possible, madam, for me to see this man, unobserved myself? If I could hear him play it would be throwing a flood of light on the case. As it is, I am groping in the dark."

"And--and--in case, sir, that your worst fears are realized," I faltered, "can you do anything for him? Can he be cured?"

"You see, doctor, she didn't marry Chopin. Naturally--"

The look that I gave Mrs. Jack quieted her restless tongue. But the fat was in the fire.

"Yes, the murder's out, Dr. Woodruff," I confessed, wearily. "We've been talking about my husband. We were very happy together before his seizure. And--and--now----"

"And now his wife isn't one, two, three," cried Mrs. Jack, excitedly; "and it's a burning shame. Can you do something for him, doctor? Surely you don't think it's chronic, do you?"

The suspicion of a smile crossed the physician's face, and I felt the blood come into my cheeks. I had no intention of laying my marital misery before the keen eyes of this strangely powerful man, but somehow I felt a sense of relief now that he had come into possession of all the facts.

"If you think it advisable, doctor, for you to hear my husband play," I said, presently, "I'm sure it can be arranged. He has agreed to give a recital at the rooms of the Chopin Society to-morrow evening. He has asked us to go with him. Could you not obtain a card? He would not know, of course, why you were there."

"I have many friends among the Chopin idolaters; it is easily arranged," remarked Dr. Woodruff, as he rose and ushered us toward the exit from his inner office. "Meanwhile, madam, I shall make a close study of the case from the data already at hand. I am very grateful to you for coming to me, and I think I can safely promise to be of service to you. Au revoir. To-morrow evening at eight."

As we seated ourselves in the carriage, I turned angrily to Mrs. Jack. "Why did you betray me?" I cried. "It was cruel, cruel!"

Mrs. Jack smiled affectionately and seized my hand. "Don't be annoyed at me, my dear. I was merely doing justice to Dr. Woodruff. It's absurd to try to put a thoroughbred over the water jump with blinders. It's unfair to the horse, to say the least."

*CHAPTER VII.*

*A PRELIMINARY CANTER.*

So comes, at last,
The answer from the Vast.
MAURICE THOMPSON.

"Do you really intend to go, Tom? But suppose, dear, you don't feel like playing; what will happen then? Do be sensible, old fellow, and stay home with me. You always shunned notoriety--and now you go in search of it. What is the matter with you, Tom? You haven't been at all frank with me since--since--"

"Since when, my dear?" asked my husband, smiling at me kindly over his demi-tasse.

"Since you played that duet with Signorina Molatti in the music-room," I answered, ashamed of the feeling of jealousy that I had nourished for several days. As I gazed at Tom's honest face the absurdity of the accusation that I had brought against him in this undirect way forced itself upon me. My husband at that moment struck me as the least flirtatious-looking man I had ever seen. But facts are stubborn things. I had good reason to believe that Tom had accompanied a famous violiniste, not only in our music-room but in the signorina's own drawing-room. It is astonishing how quickly a suspicious wife develops into a female Sherlock Holmes!

"I plead guilty to the indictment," said Tom presently, lighting a cigar. "Suppose we go into the library, Winifred. We can have a quiet half-hour at least before we start."

I derived both pleasure and pain from this suggestion. It was satisfactory to find Tom more inclined to be companionable than he had been for nearly a week. On the other hand, I was disappointed at discovering that his determination to attend the meeting of the Chopin Society remained unshaken. That any further protest from me would be futile, I fully realized, and it was with a feeling of apprehension and disquietude that I seated myself in the library, and watched Tom as he dreamily blew smoke into the air, seemingly forgetful of my presence. After a time, he began to speak, more like a poet soliloquizing than an unimaginative lawyer addressing his wife.

"It was a strangely vivid vision. I have had dreams that were like reality, but none that approached this one in intensity. I passed first through a doorway that led into old picturesque, crumbling cloisters, forming a quadrangle. Stretching away from these cloisters ran long corridors with vaulted roofs. Down one of the corridors, I hurried toward a light that seemed to come through a rose window, intensifying the grim darkness surrounding me. It was bitterly cold; the chill of death seemed to clutch at my heart. And always I heard the sound of mournful voices through the resounding galleries."

"Tom!" I cried, shocked by the queer gleam in his eyes.

But he went on as if he had not heard me. "There were other noises, some harsh, others majestically musical. There came to me the mighty roaring of a storm-swept sea beating against a rocky shore. The winds sobbed and thundered and whistled and fell away. Then I could hear the plaintive notes of sea-birds outside the stone walls of the monastery. But always it was the chill dampness that appalled me. I was forever hurrying toward the rose window, where warmth and love and joy awaited me; but always it fled before me, and the long black corridor lay between me and my goal. It was horrible."

"What had you been doing, Tom?" I asked, in a desperate effort to recall him to his present environment. "Had you been eating a Welsh rabbit at the club?"

He gazed at me, defiantly. "No," he said, gloomily, "I had been playing Chopin with Signorina Moletti."

By an effort of will, I restrained the words that rushed to my lips, and asked, quietly: "And which of his works had you been playing?"

"I don't know," he answered, wearily. "I think the signorina said our last rendition was No. 1 of Opus 40, whatever that may mean."

Tom glanced at me sheepishly, for all the world like a mischievous schoolboy who has been forced to make a confession. My mind was hard at work trying to recall the details of my recent researches into the life of Chopin. To refresh my memory, I opened a book that lay among other Lives of "the master" on the library-table.

"'No. 1 of Opus 40,'" I presently found myself reading aloud, "'is in A major, and is throughout an intensely martial composition. There is a spirit of victory and conquest about it. The most remarkable circumstances attached to it seems to lie in the fact that it is supposed to have been written during Chopin's sojourn at the Carthusian monastery on the island of Mallorca with George Sand.'"

Bitterly did I regret my indiscreet quotation. Tom had turned white and there had come into his eyes an appealing, despairing expression that reminded me of a deer I had once seen brought to bay in the Adirondack forest.

"Mrs. Van Corlear," announced the butler at the door of the library, and Mrs. Jack, who had the run of the house, came toward us gaily.

"And how is our boy-wonder this evening?" she cried, laughingly. "I'm backing Tom Remsen for the great Chopin handicap to-night. Are you quite fit, Tom? Do I get a run for my money?"

How easy it is for our most intimate friends to take our troubles lightly! Although I realized that underlying Mrs. Jack's levity was a kindly motive--a desire to carry off an awkward situation with the least possible friction--I could not help feeling annoyed at her flippant words. Grateful as I was to her for her loyal interest in my peculiar affliction, it was unpleasant to feel that Mrs. Jack was treating as a light comedy what seemed to me to involve all the elements of a tragedy. There was nothing farcical, surely, in Tom's appearance as he stood there, pale, silent, smiling perfunctorily at our guest, every inch a modern gentleman, but strangely like the tagonist of some classic drama, the rebellious but impotent plaything of vindictive gods.

"Come, let us go," I cried, nervously, anxious to put an end to a most uncomfortable situation. "Do you really feel up to it, Tom? There is still time to back out of it, you know. A solo before a crowd is much more trying than a duet in private."

I had not intended to hurt Tom's feelings, but my words had displayed a plentiful lack of tact. And the worst of it was that Mrs. Jack seemed to be in a diabolical mood, for she at once jumped at the chance to make mischief.

"I have heard of your fondness for duets, Tom," she remarked, and I was reminded of the soft purring of a cat preparing to pounce on a helpless mouse. "What a delight it must be to Signorina Molatti to find an interpreter of Chopin worthy of her fiddle! You find her a very interesting personality, do you not?"

Tom stopped short--we were slowly making our exit from the library--and gazed at Mrs. Jack with a puzzled expression in his eyes. "Signorina Molatti?" he queried, musingly. "What do I think of her? I really don't know. I never considered the question before. She's merely a part of the music--not an individual, don't you see?" Suddenly his face changed, and he put his hand to his brow as if a sharp pain had tormented him. "Wait a moment! Don't go!" he implored us, in a labored, unnatural voice. "What does it all mean? Tell me! What am I doing? I can't play Chopin! I can't play anything! Have I been hypnotized? I tell you, Winifred--Mrs. Jack--'tis all a mistake, a mystery, an uncanny, hideous bedevilment. It's demoniac possession--or something of that kind. And what'll the Chopin Society think if I make a horrible flunk? At this moment, I don't feel as if I could play a note. Come into the music-room!" he ended, a touch of wildness in his voice and manner.

Mrs. Jack and I followed him, silently. There was in Tom's way of hurrying across the drawing-room a mingling of eagerness and dread that was wholly uncharacteristic of the man. As he hastened feverishly toward the piano, a hectic flush on his cheeks and his eyes aglow, he reminded me of a youth I had seen at Monte Carlo staking his whole fortune on a turn of the roulette wheel.

For a time, Tom sat at the instrument, his head bowed low and his hands hanging listlessly at his side. Mrs. Jack's arm was round my waist, and I could hear her deep, hurried breathing and feel the nervous tremor of her slender, well-knit form. It was indeed a most trying crisis that could disturb the poise of the athletic woman beside me.

"He doesn't connect," she whispered to me, presently. "I wish Dr. Woodruff were here."

But Mrs. Jack had spoken prematurely. Suddenly Tom's hands were raised and he struck the opening chords of Chopin's Scherzo in B minor, Opus 20. The fury of the following measures he rendered with stunning effect. Then the vigor of the rushing quaver figure lessened gradually, and, at the repeat, Tom sprang erect and turned toward us, an expression of weird ecstasy on his face.

"It's all right, girls!" he cried, with a boyish lack of dignity. "Come on! We're late, as it is. I'll show those Chopin people something they'll never forget! Come on!"

"He's fit!" whispered Mrs. Jack to me. "It wasn't much of a preliminary canter--but he's in the running fast enough!"

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*THE CHOPIN SOCIETY.*

In this dark world where now I stay,
I scarce can see myself;
The radiant soul shines on my way
As my fair guiding elf.
VICTOR HUGO.

Molatti was a marvel of beauty that evening. Great as was my prejudice against the girl, I was forced to admit to myself, as we entered the crowded rooms of the Chopin Society, that I had never seen a handsomer creature, nor one more radiant with the joy of life. The glory of youth, the fire of genius were in her eyes. There were many striking faces in evidence that evening, faces full of the subtle charm that the worship of music frequently begets; ugly faces alight with an inward glow, symmetrical faces whose regularity was not insipid; plebeian faces stamped by an acquired distinction; patrician faces warmed by an esthetic enthusiasm; faces that told their story of struggle and defeat, and others that bore the mysterious imprint of success. But there was only one countenance in all that picturesque throng to which my gaze constantly returned, paying unwilling homage to a fascination against which I vainly rebelled. I found it difficult to believe that Tom had never noticed the signorina's wonderful beauty of face and form, that he had always considered her, as he had said, "merely a part of the music."

Mrs. Jack, who had been watching me closely, seemed to read my mind, for she whispered to me teasingly: "Tom'll sit up and take notice to-night, don't you think? She's well groomed and shows blood, doesn't she?"