Part 8 (1/2)
At the new voice, Bobby whirled around and bowed himself into a right angle, while Beatrix rose and crossed the room to greet the guest.
”Miss Gannion! What joy to see you!”
Thayer's Russian blood received swift impressions; his Puritanism made him weigh and measure with careful deliberation. Now, as he bowed in acknowledgment of the introduction, he was conscious that in Margaret Gannion he was meeting a woman who would bear either test. She seemed to him one of the most strongly individual women he had ever met; yet at the same time he had a comfortable sense of an infinite number of points of mental contact. Later, he was destined to learn that this sense was not imparted to himself alone. Margaret Gannion was tangent to many lives.
”What is the discussion?” she inquired, as she seated herself.
”No discussion at all, Miss Gannion. Bobby is doing a monologue on music, and the rest of us can't get a word in edgewise.”
”Have you joined the ranks of the musicians, Bobby?”
”Yes, or the angels,” Sally responded for him. ”Nothing else could have such a fatal facility for harping on one string.”
”I was so sorry to lose your recital, Mr. Thayer,” Miss Gannion said, after a while, as she turned her steady brown eyes on the young man. ”I was in Boston, that week, and I am told that I missed one of the treats of the season. When am I to have another chance of hearing you?”
Thayer hesitated for a moment, while his gray eyes met the brown ones that seemed to be taking his mental measure. Apparently both were satisfied with what they saw, for they exchanged a smile of sudden understanding. Then Thayer's face grew grave.
”Whenever you wish,” he replied quietly.
”Does that mean you will sing to me, myself? I should never have dared hope for that.”
”Why not? That is, if you will let me bring Arlt with me. I dislike to force him upon people; but he is the only accompanist I really enjoy.”
Beatrix looked up with a laugh.
”You never asked if you might bring him here, Mr. Thayer.”
Suddenly he rose.
”May I take that as a hint, Miss Dane? I can play a few accompaniments after a fas.h.i.+on.” And, without waiting for the response which was sure to come, he crossed the room to the piano.
He sang Schubert's _Haiden Roslein_ and an American song or two. The hush over the room deepened, as the last words fell on the stillness,--
_”Oh barren gain! Oh bitter loss!
I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn To kiss the cross--”_
And, in the midst of the stillness, he rose and quietly returned to his old place by the fire.
It was long before anyone spoke. Then even Miss Gannion's level voice jarred upon the silence.
”You have a wonderful gift in your keeping, Mr. Thayer,” was all she said.
But Beatrix was silent, her eyes fixed on the glowing coals. At length she roused herself with an effort. Reverie was not permissible for a hostess on her reception day. She came out of hers, to find that the conversation had broken into duets. At one side of the table, Bobby and Sally were sparring vivaciously; at the other, Miss Gannion and Thayer had fallen into quiet talk about certain common friends and about the simplest method of helping Arlt to gain the professional recognition he deserved and needed.
”I'm not potent at all,” Miss Gannion said regretfully. ”I only know people who are, and they are not always receptive in their minds. Still, I may be able to do something, and he made a good impression at Mrs.
Lloyd Avalons's recital. In the meantime, bring him to my home, some evening soon. Friday is my day; but, if you don't mind--”