Evening Republican, Volume 15, Number 61, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 13 March 1911 — His Criticism [ARTICLE]

His Criticism

She wu ready and waiting. She was not nervous. She had too much confidence in herself for that She smiled serenely as she glanced again at the program in her hand. .How well her name looked printed, “Miss Maude Vance, Soprano.” Yes, taken all In. all, she was quite perfect in trmlntng and figure and stage presence. And her dresa—why, It was Parisian to the laßt degree and, therefore, perfect, too. She had chosen it because she had always had a fondness for pink—and she remembered that he had, too. Certainly she had thought of him. ..She bad meant from the first to show him that she could succeed, that her voice was worth something. She had never quite forgiven him what he had said that night two years ago, when she had told him that she was going abroad to study. “Don't do it, Maude." he had said. “You haven’t voice enough.” He had said it in those very Words. And he was the only one who. had ever said it Everybody else had praised her to the skies —her mother and her dearest friepds and her teachera. They must know better than he did. Yet she could never get those words of his out of her mind. And his way of saying them! He was always so deadly in earnest about everything. Especially about that How angry she had been! 'Til show you! she had flung back at him as she struggled to keep the tears from her eyes. During those two years of study that determination of hers had been ever present: ‘Til show him!” It had driven her to do, painstakingly, all the drudgery demanded of her. It had kept her on her feet under the exacting eyes of the famous maestro, who had been coaxed to accept her as his pupil, when she was ready to -fell down with fatigue. And now she had learned all there , was to learn, apparently, and had come back to show him that ahe had a voice and could glng, after all. She would flaunt her success In his face and, since he was fair, he would be obliged to admit it. Then ahe would smile at him and forgive him. She knew that he was out there in the audience with the rest—her mother and her cousins and aunts , and the old uncle who had advanced the money for her training. They were impatiently listening, she knew, to the performers that preceded her and longing for her to appear. Not one of them, except her mother, who had been her constant companion. <had heard her sing since she returned. She had been very careful that they should not. She wanted to surprise them all —him especially. It was curious that she should still care for his opinion—that she had always cared, even when she would not own It What was there, aside from his love for her, that should have any weight with her whatever? He waa not rich or handsome or of great influence, as were a half dozen other men she knew almost as well, but somehow it was always his face and not theirs that she saw in her dreams. “Miss Vance!” said the manager. Her turn had come. Prom beyond the stage came the diminishing applause of an encore. She thought “Mr. Herford must have pleased them.” Then she rose, arranged her train and followed her accompanist out upon the stage. They were all there and she faced them calmly, »miitng and bowing in acknowledgement of the whirlwind of applause that greeted her. There was her mother, very flushed and conscious In her new lavender satin; there waa Aunt Belle, her bosom twinkling with jetted lace; there was her cousin Violet Vance, who, too, longed to sing, and there was Uncle James, whose bounty had supplied her with French gowns and Italian teachers. There was he, with his lifted look and his white brow, from which the dark hair went back smoothly, and hit clear grey eyes fixed upon her! Did he notice that her fcown was pink? Or dream of its meaning? She wondered a great many things as she stood waiting for the applause to end so that she could sing. She felt eager to sing. She left capable of doing her beat. Her voice had never been better and the aria ahe had chosen waa sure to please. Ah, there was the keynote! As ahe sang, she was still conscious of what was going on before her upon the faces of the audience, which waa composed largely of people ahe had known all her life. The general look of eager expectation had changed, not to one of gratification, but to one of amazement, of perplexity, almost of pain. The one man sat very still, with his chin slightly lifted, listening cloudy. She could not understand what Jpose other faces meant and she not care. But his face ahe could icindor•fend. Oh, If only It wouldrfconvey some message to her! Aft# ail, it was really to him ahe waa wringing. It was, his approval alone fiat she sought. She bad worked hardlo show him that she could slag. Aid now slfe was showing hi*. > Th* annlause that foUowaxi n ruing She * re-no *! I gavos back smiling in response to the

By HENRY O. MARTIN

(Copyright, I*lo, by AmooUm* literary Pimi )

encore, thought a little subdued, perhaps; a little less radiant. There was surely something a little wrong. She waa not making the Impression she had planned to make. "It’s hard work singing before one's own people,” she thought. “Perhaps they didn't like that French aria. “There la certainly nothing *rong with my voice or with me-” Between that appearance and her next upon the program she could not sit still, but walked about Restlessly. She knew very well what her mother thought—that she had never done so well in her life. And Uncle James — that she had given him good value for his money. “By George, that niece of mine, she's a winner.” He would be saying at his club tomorrow. And Vjolet would go home to dream of French gowns and bunches of orchids as large as her own little blonde head. Ana Aunt Belle would be planning a dinner to take place before, “Maude Starts on her tour.” But he —what did he think? His eyes were unfathomable. That was because they held so much. Had she convinced him that she coull sing? lias she? She went out again upon the stage; she bowed and smiled and sung again her best —to him. And still he sat with hit arms folded and his chin lifted and 1 his inscrutable eyes watching—watching. It was over at last. She was whisked away In Uncle James’ big motor to, their apartments, where a little supper had been arranged for her. They were all there but him. Would he come? They were all trying to talk at once about her. They wearled and worried her with their praise. Somehow It suddenly sounded meaningless to her. What she wanted waa the truth. And she felt deep down In her heart that only he could give it The apartments were suffocatingly sweet with flowers —all offerings at her shrine. He had sent his bouquet with the rest She took It up now and held It close to her face. It was pinkpink roses. And down among them was his name upon a little white card. Why didn’t he come? Why didn't he come? Suddenly the door opened and he entered. Her color rushed to meet the roses’ color in a warm sweet flood. He had seen her at once without seeming to see her, just aa ahe had seen him. And now he was coming towards her. Above his rosea their eyes met. She held out her hand. “Well?” ahe demanded, “What have you- to say?” * - “What do you wish me to say?” She looked down at the roses. And it was well, because she did not aee his face. “You know,” she said "the truth.” He caught his breath as if in pain. “The truth!” he repeated. "Ah!” And then she looked up at him sharply, for it was as if he had said: "Let me tell you something pleasanter than the truth.” “Ah,” she cried, piteously, understanding. “I have failed! I haven’t shown you ” “You have shown me,” his voice was exquisite, “That you are all things a woman should be —the rarest, the sweetest, the beat Dear,” he faltered, “I know 1 am breaking your heart, but better force me to break It who love you so than for strangers whose indifference will make them unnecessarily cruel. As I listened to you tonight, I left that I must tell you the truth even as you have asked me, before you went out Into the world In all your happy young confidence to learn It by bitter defeat. For that is that awaits you. 1 speak as a man and a critic, not as your lover. “I know that after this you will not consider me such. I am sacrificing a good deal, am I not, just to tell you the plain truth? You are a glorious woman, Maude, but you can’t sing. It is not your fault; you have been deceived by praise and flattery. But I can’t deceive you.” Above the pink roses her face waa perfectly white. She had done her best and they had all told her that she had succeeded. They had all lied to* her because they loved her —all except this one man. H Aad never lied. He was telling her the truth. Better to hear It from hia lips than, aa she said, from the lips of strangers. She thought of her tour and shuddered. She wks a brave woman and though she had her moment of bitter struggle with her spirit' rose presently from the black depths Into which he had plunged it and she looked him steadily In the face. “After all,” she said. “I did It all for you. It waa your opinion I wanted. because I knew it would be the right one. When I asked you to fell me the .truth I did It because I knew that you would tell me the truth. And you have. Thank you, Alan.” She held out her hand again. And as he lifted it reverently to hia lips he left with a sudden thrill of joy and hope and thanksgiving that the great good he craved was nearer to him than ever before —that he has, indeed, not lost, but gained all. ,