The Contralto

Rev. Charles Maloy, C. M.
St. Joseph's Parish, Emmitsburg, Md.

Chapter 14 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 1

The sun of a beautiful Indian summer morning had beaten into the east windows for some hours before the Professor awoke. When he did so he blinked several times, pulled up the covers, turned over and endeavored to sleep again, but the spell was broken, full consciousness swept over him. Physical discomfort made itself evident first; his whole head ached, his throat was parched, his tongue too thick for his mouth as he tried to moisten his cracked lips. The machinery of memory began the processes of reconstruction, the most awful torture in recovering from debauch.. The first scene was the singing of Miss Tyson as she faced him off the stage. The next was the shadowy porch with its temptation to kiss her, the recollection of which left him in a quandary as to whether he had yielded, with a hope he had done so; even if he was somewhat irresponsible at the time, it would be a breaking of the ice.

The thought of what condition he was in on his return from the office and whether anyone had seen him put an end to his short spasm of speculative happiness, causing him to sit up in bed and look round the room. Everything was in order, a fact which gave him another crumb of comfort, for he well knew from experience that when far gone he produced chaos in his sleeping apartment.

Finally he jumped out of bed, made for the mirror, examined his tongue and eyes, and gave vent to the expression, "Poisoned Pup!" Shrugging his shoulders and gritting his teeth, he rang for Bob, and while waiting for an answer, hastily got into his bathrobe and slippers, thinking of the impression his appearance would make on the boy. Hearing the sounds of the youngster's footsteps as he bounded up to the door, the Professor turned his back and fumbled the articles on his chiffonier.

"Morning, Professor; have a good sleep?" "Splendid, Bob," without turning; "what time is it, I forgot to wind my watch?"

"Ten-thirty, they're all talking about the play, greatest thing they ever seen. Doc Forman was up this morning but I told him you was abed and I wasn't goin' to wake you all."

"That was right, now go and fill the bath with cold water. I am going away this afternoon, pack a few things in my bag—no, I shall do that myself,—order some breakfast, just the juice of an orange and coffee. Have the horse saddled in half an hour. Is the Rector in his study?"

"Yes, sir; and, Professor, you all ain't goin' for keeps?"

"Oh no, I shall be back in a day or two."

"Good! and, Professor, Jimmy Carrigan's down stairs, been waitin' some time; I told him you was asleep; he said he'd wait."

"Bring him to me in the dining room," a vague memory stirring at mention of the artist's name.

The cold bath and brisk rub made some change for the better in his feelings but no application of boracic acid and rosewater would clear his eyes. Attempts at reconstruction of the night's events accompanied the process but the result was very unsatisfactory. His hand trembled on picking up the mail Bob left at his plate. Carrigan tiptoed in from the kitchen.

"Hello, Jimmy!" with forced cheerfulness. "Hello, Professor!" in a whisper, "how' you feelin'?"

"Pretty well," and as memory smote him, "did you come home with me this morning?"

"Just happened to meet you on the Square after you left the office and walked up with you," endeavoring to speak lightly.

"Out with the whole story, boy; I would rather know the details than worry over what may have been."

'Twant nothin', Professor, nothin' at all; I met you at the Square and walked up to the house with you; you went in as quiet as a mouse."

"Did you come up to my room?"

"Yes, there was no light and I was afraid you'd stumble."

"Come now, you put me to bed."

"Just went to your room to see that everything was all right."

"I thought so;" after a pause, "did we meet anyone?"

"Not a soul, and I took your shoes off outside." "What time was it?"

"About three o'clock."

He had eaten nothing but sat looking straight ahead, seeing with his mind's eyes the disgrace of his act, the failure of all his resolves. Mechanically he lifted the orange juice, put it to his lips, then set it back on the table without tasting.

"Eat up, Professor," gently.

"No use, Jimmy," shaking his head, "no appetite."

Producing a flask, he uncorked it and began pouring into the glass of orange juice with, "Pardon me, Professor; say when."

He was permitted to fill the glass and as the other swallowed the contents, said:

"That's better, thought you might need it. Now put that coffee under your belt."

"Thank you, Jimmy," with a choke in his voice.

"Don't mention it, and don't worry; there ain't a soul knows but me and by God! they won't know it neither."

"You said it was three o'clock when you met me; how did you happen to be out at that hour?"

"Oh, I don't know; just couldn't sleep."

"Tell the truth, my boy—all of it."

"Well, after I closed the hall I walked through the alley intendin' to finish the pint; you crossed the alley goin' towards the office before I got out on the street. Just in front of John Glass's house, Miss Marion stepped from behind a tree. She says to me, "The Professor has gone to the Chronicle, he isn't well tonight, all wrought up and nervous, I want you to wait and see that he gets home, will you do it?' 'Surest thing you know, Miss Marion,' I says. Then she grabs me by the arm and says, 'Are you sober, Jimmy?' I says, 'Sure.' Then she says, 'Have you any liquor?' I says, 'Only one drink.' 'Give it to me,' she says. I didn't like to, but she held on to me and I had to come across. She took the bottle, smashed it on the stones in the gutter and I walked up to the Square and waited."

NE corner of the Square ~ 1896

"Horse ready," shouted Bob.

Harry rose, grasped the painter by the hand, held it in a long grip and went out. Going to his rooms before mounting the horse, he took a pair of goggle, from his trunk, and put them on. Climbing into the saddle, he smiled wanly, saying, "One drink of liquor makes all the guild kin."

At the gate of the parsonage he hesitated which way he should ride, while the dog stood, one fore-paw gathered under him, pointer fashion. Fear of meeting people generated by his guilty conscience, caused him to turn from the town and strike off to the north on the road that led to the Battlefield. The horse having been in the stable for some days was anxious to stretch his muscles and broke into a brisk canter. The air beating into his face brought color to his cheeks. Holding the rein taut to guide the Admiral over the rough way gave him a sense of nerve confidence that was physically reassuring.

His mind would, however, stick to no groove of thought, jumping from considerations of Miss Tyson, which caused sinking sensations of shame, to the opinion Emmitsburg must have of him once it knew the facts, producing feelings of self-contempt mixed with bravado. He was doomed to recurrent outbreaks, he philosophized gloomily, so what was the use of postponing the expose that must come sometime?

'Midst the shuttlecock and battledore of these thoughts he came, at the top of a hill, to a lane which led off from the main road, and which he had never explored. He turned in, whistling to the dog who had frisked before, telling himself he was less likely to meet anyone. Near a tumble-down shack surrounded by a picket fence within which some chickens scratched and a pig rooted, he noticed a horse saddled. He recognized the animal at once, drew on the rein as though to turn back, but as his own horse whinnied in response to the tethered one, reconsidered and went on. In passing the house, Miss Tyson hailed him from the door:

"Good morning, if you are not in a hurry, I shall join you," her eyes beaming with smiles.

"I shall be delighted," pulling up, dismounting to help her, while three children, not at all ragged as their environment would seem to indicate, watched her from the window. The collie received a hug for which he was waiting, the Admiral a pat on the muzzle before she mounted. Riding side by side, Prince perfectly behaved in the company of his more sensible horse friend, the two travelled some distance before the girl asked:

"Are you feeling better?"

"Quite myself this morning," he lied, gracefully, his swollen and blinking eyes hid by the smoked goggles, "and you?"

"Provokingly healthy; I cannot even develop a tired look; sympathy never comes my way, I cannot grow pale under my copper complexion."

"You sang adorably last night. I never heard anything sweeter."

"Thank you."

"That is not my opinion only, perhaps mine is not worth having, but the judgment of Mr. Galt and everyone."

"I did not solicit the judgment of Mr. Galt and everyone," looking straight before her.

"They think you should have a wider sphere for your talent or genius," recalling the discussion of the night previous.

"Indeed! and what might that wider field be?"

"The operatic stage I presume, at least that is what I gather."

"Quite an elevating avocation; to grow fat and beefy, to prance before the footlights and sing to a crowd of matinee girls who munch bob-bons, flirt with young cubs, and talk about their adoration of Wagner and willowy plumes in the same breath."

"But they are not the only audience; at the night performance you would have—"

"A bunch of dowagers who should be home knitting stockings," she interrupted scornfully, "a host of young matrons who exhibit their charms and jewelry for other men than their husbands, and to quote a friend, 'a gang of rounders who would much prefer to be across the street in the Rathskellar, their fingers draping a mug of malt, their souls regaled with the beauties of rag-time discoursed by a four-piece orchestra.' "

"You have a good memory," he laughed.

"The glamor of the footlights has not entered my soul; not yet at least;" then turning from the subject, "When do you leave for Washington?"

"This afternoon at three-thirty."

"And you return?"

"Tomorrow evening; I presume there will be nothing to keep us longer."

"I hope not," with a well-defined solicitude in her tone.

"Which means?"

"Nothing; that is, everyone shall be waiting to begin rehearsals for our next play."

"I think, Miss Tyson," he said, slowly, "that we are intimate enough to tell each other the truth, and not yet so intimate as to be forced to prevaricate. I am going to be perfectly plain: I was beastly drunk last night; was put to bed by Jimmy Carrigan at three in the morning."

"Well, what of it?" with a defiant inflection.

"Simply this," surprised at the absence of scandal in her voice, "I feel I should tell you, should let you know my obsessing vice, should make confession that I am here for no other reason than to learn self-control, and yet am a dismal joke at it; the very first temptation floors me. I saw someone with a flask during the performance, and—"

"I saw it," she said softly.

"You did?"

"Yes, I was standing in the opposite wing waiting for my cue."

"That's why you were there–that's why you made Jimmy wait for me to come from Galt's office." "Who told you that?"

"I forced Carrigan to tell me everything this morning; Marion, I am deeply grateful to you."

"Forget it," said the girl hastily and with annoyance. She was not seeking expressions of gratitude. Pulling the rein, her horse broke into a lope followed by the Admiral, while the dog scampered joyously before and talking became impossible. He watched her confident pose in the saddle, her rhythmic rise and fall with the horse's gait, her control of the beast with strong gauntleted hands, and his heart called to him to be forever in touch with this woman, to ask her help in his struggle with the devil who threatened to overwhelm him. Yet it was no man's right to ask any girl to share his weakness, to forge a chain that would tie her forever to an invalid, an imbecile, as he termed himself in his fit of remorse. And his work in the world of ideas; 'L'homvne n'est Tien, l'oevre eat tout," he quoted, for he was an egoist.

Old Emmitsburg Road - Now Rt. 15. ~ 1900
(Taken from the Mason Dixon line looking south toward Emmitsburg)

They turned down a road leading back to the village, bringing their horses to a walk as they came to a hill. The clock was striking and the clear tone floated out to them on the still autumn air. As his horse came abreast, she asked:

"Did you congratulate Vinny?"

"I haven't seen her yet, in fact I have not seen any of the cast except yourself."

"Please see Vinny before you go to Washington. That girl made great sacrifices for the success of the operetta; no one but you could draw her from her shell of reserve."

"I shall see her most assuredly. I appreciate her kindness very sincerely."

"I do hope Higbee will give her full mention in his article. She deserves it."

A space of that silence which follows the exhaustion of a topic prevailed, and during it he ruminated on the unselfishness of his companion, even going into the abstract consideration of woman's jealousy and its causes. The first houses of the village came in sight, the horses showing an inclination to gallop, their riders being forced to restrain them. Clattering over the bridge which spans Flat Run, the noise of the loose planking annoyed the black, and while soothing him, Marion asked:

"You will surely return from Washington tomorrow night?"

"Or call you on long distance."

"Thank you, Harry, you great big boy, and God love you!"

This manifestation of feeling caused him to look at her with surprise and gratitude on his countenance. She continued: "We are intimate enough to wish each other well and something tells me you should not prolong your stay at the capital."

"There will be nothing to keep me; besides I shall be auto and trolley shy," with a smile.

"Don't forget to see Vinny, you can stop on your way up the street; good-bye and be good."

The ride had done him good; once more the blood, which for days seemed stagnant, sang in his veins; his body glowed, his cheeks flamed and the fear of meeting people had vanished. The absolution given by Miss Tyson heartened him and he resolved to justify her faith; he would go to Washington and return in such condition as to demonstrate his strength of will. In fact he needed some strong temptation to awaken his fighting spirit; he was in a dramatic mood.

At the Seabold home the girl received him, frankly confessing surprise and pleasure at her success. There was no attempt at false modesty, but she grew ecstatic in her appreciation of Marion. There was nothing in the world for the contralto but the operatic stage; it was his evident duty to persuade it. Accompanying him to the door they met her father, who, during the introduction, looked the young man over shrewdly from under his shaggy eyebrows, then passed into the house. Vinny held his hand warmly for a moment, saying:

"I want you to meet father often, and I want you to like him."

"Not a very onerous task, Miss Seabold, since he is your father, and I am sure very likeable in himself."

Her insistence on Marion's ability as a singer, coupled with what Galt had said, was a new and troublesome factor in his equation which detracted from the joy he had been feeling. Perhaps the contralto's life orbit lay beyond his universe, perhaps for her: "La femme n'est rien, I'oeuvre est tout."

The time after luncheon was spent in packing his grip and in conversation with the Rector, who much to Harry's comfort, betrayed no signs of knowledge of the dark events of the previous night. At three-thirty the carriage drove up which was to take him and the editor to Brookville, whence the P. R. train would rush them to Washington. As he waved them adieu the Rector wondered if he had done right in not advising against the trip for his boy; it was a source of great temptation; but gold is refined in the fire; and the ways of Providence are past finding out; and he hoped for the best.

Chapter 15

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