Part 48 (1/2)
Mrs. Mansfield had been the friend, was the friend, of many successful men. They came to her for sympathy, advice. She followed their upward careers with interest, rejoiced in their triumphs. But she cared for the talent in a man rather than for what it brought him. Charmian knew that.
And long ago Mrs. Mansfield had spoken of the plant that must grow in darkness. At this time Charmian began almost to dread her mother's influence upon her husband.
She was cheered by a little success.
Claude set Watson's poem rapidly. He played the song to Charmian, and she was delighted with it.
”I know people would love that!” she cried.
”If it was properly sung by someone with temperament,” he replied. ”And now I can go on with _The Hound of Heaven_.”
Her heart sank.
”I'm only a little afraid they may think you are imitating Elgar,” she murmured after a moment.
”Imitating Elgar!”
”Not that you are, or ever would do such a thing. It isn't your music, it's the subject, that makes me a little afraid. It seems to me to be an Elgar subject.”
”Really!”
The conversation dropped, and was not resumed. But a fortnight later, when Charmian came to make tea in the studio, and asked as to the progress of the new work, Claude said rather coldly:
”I'm not going on with it at present.”
She saw that he was feeling depressed, and realized why. But she was secretly triumphant at the success of her influence, secretly delighted with her own cleverness. How deftly, with scarcely more than a word, she had turned him from his task. Surely thus had Madame Sennier influenced, guided her husband.
”I believe I could do anything with Claude,” she said to herself that day.
”Play me your Watson song again, Claudie,” she said. ”I do love it so.”
”It's only a trifle.”
”I love it!” she repeated.
He sat down at the piano and played it to her once more. When he had finished she said:
”I've found someone who could sing that gloriously.”
”Who?” he asked.
Playing the song had excited him. He turned eagerly toward her.
”A young American who has been studying in Paris. I met him at the Drakes' two or three days ago. Mr. Jacob Crayford, the opera man, thinks a great deal of him, I'm told. Let me ask him to come here one day and try the _Wild Heart_. May I?”
”Yes, do,” said Claude.
”And meanwhile what are you working on instead of _The Hound of Heaven_?”
Claude's expression changed. He seemed to stiffen with reserve. But he replied, with a kind of elaborate carelessness: