Part 52 (2/2)
Robert Dearborn put his hand on Potowski's shoulder and said--
”We love your husband, madame. He has been such a bully friend to us, such a wonderful friend.”
”Poof, my dear Bobbie,” murmured Potowski.
(”J'ai perdu ma tourterelle.”)
Fairfax asked, looking directly at her, ”Will you really sing for us, Madame Potowski? Can you sing some old English ballad? We have not heard a word of English for many a long day.”
Potowski wandered softly into a familiar tune. He smiled over his shoulder at his wife, and, standing by the piano, Caroline Carew--Carolina Potowski--put her hands over her husband's on the keys and indicated an accompaniment, humming.
”If you can, dear, I will sing Mr. Rainsford _this_.”
Tony took his place on the divan.
Then Madame Potowski sang:
”Flow gently, sweet Afton.”
In New York Tony had said, as he sat in the big Puritan parlour, that her voice was divine. No one who has ever heard Carolina Potowski sing ”Flow gently, sweet Afton” can ever forget it. Tony covered his face with his hands and said to himself, being an artist as well, ”No matter what she has done, it was worth it to produce such art as that.”
”Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise, My Mary is asleep by your turbulent stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.”
Little Gardiner once more leaned against his arm; restless little Bella in red, her hair down her back, slipped out of the room to read in peace, and he sat there, a homeless stranger in a Northern city without a cent of money in his pocket, and the desires of life and art s.h.i.+ning in his soul.
”Flow gently, sweet Afton.”
He indistinctly heard Dearborn open the door. A woman slipped in and went over and sat down by her lover. The two sat together holding hands, and ”Sweet Afton” flowed on, and n.o.body's dream was disturbed. Little Gardiner slept his peaceful sleep in his child's grave; his mother slept her sleep in a Southern cemetery; the Angel of Resurrection raised his spotless wings over the city of the silent dead, and Antony's heart swelled in his breast.
When the Comtesse Potowski stopped singing no one said a word. Her husband played a few bars of Werther and she sang the ”Love Letters.”
Then, before she ceased, Antony was conscious that Nora Scarlet had recognized him. Before any embarra.s.sment could be between them, he went over to her and took her hand, saying warmly--
”I am so glad, Miss Scarlet. Dearborn has told me of his good fortune.
He is the best fellow in the world, and I know how lucky he is,” and Nora Scarlet murmured something, with her eyes turned away from him.
Tony turned to Madame Potowski and said ardently, ”You must let me come to see you to-morrow. I want to thank you for this wonderful treat.”
And when Potowski and his Aunt Caroline had gone, and when Dearborn had taken Nora Scarlet home, Antony stood in the studio, which still vibrated with the tones of the lovely voice. He had lived once again a part of his old life. This was his mother's sister, and she had made havoc of her home. He thought of little Bella's visit to him in Albany.
”Mother has done something perfectly terrible, Cousin Antony--something a daughter is not supposed to know.”
Well, the something perfectly terrible was, she had set herself free from a man she did not love; that she was making Potowski happy; that she had found her sphere and soared into it.
Fairfax tried in vain to think of himself now and Mary Faversham, but he could not. The past rushed on him with its palpitating wings. He groaned and stretched out his arms into the shadows of the room.
”There is something that chains me, holds me prisoner. I am wedded to something--is it death and a tomb?”
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