Dancers in the Dark. Dorothy Speare
Her lessons she attended regularly, and found herself an increasing eagerness to do so. There was some sort of fascination in going to the studio and having Pa do things to her voice. Before two weeks had passed it was hard to believe that she had not always been interested in song. Not that there was much song about it. The scales and exercises that Pa made her go through were horrible to her, as they plainly showed the imperfections in her voice. She pled for songs, and he gave her old Italian airs which required even, smooth perfection of tone and discouraged her deeply. And then it was impossible for her to run up and down a scale with any degree of swiftness, and this inability made her almost weep at times.
“Colorature!” she said bitterly to Jerry, one time when Jerry had come in and found her sitting in despair at the piano, her head in her hands. “When I can’t run up and down eight notes without sliding!”
“You’ve got to begin slowly,” said Jerry. “Walk up and down the scale, and when you’ve got it evenly matched and pointed, you’ll run like everything! Good God, Joy, if you get so down-in-the-mouth over a little scale work, what will you do when you get on a trill? I prophesy a nervous decline!”
“But when I hear of Tetrazzini—studied seven months or so——”
“That’s a thing you don’t hear about very many. And anyway, Pa mentioned colorature to you in an unguarded moment. With a lyric, it’s not born, but acquired—these stories about voices that are discovered one day and conquer the world the next, make me laugh.”
One day late in July, Packy finally called her up. He said he wanted to see her at once—to take her to a dance that night, down on the seashore. It happened that both Sarah and Jerry were going out and as Joy for once had not arranged to accompany them, she gladly accepted. Jerry put a few skilful touches to a deep midnight blue satin of Joy’s, and when Joy had supplied her rouge—she had some of her own by this time—the effect was entrancing. Sarah would not wait to greet Packy, still cherishing resentment at his desertion, and so Joy was left alone before he arrived.
He greeted her as if there had been no lapse of time in between, and they went down in the elevator to a waiting closed car.
“Where are we going?” she asked him as he began to fuss with the self-starter.
“Down to one of those summer-hotel dances, where I’m staying. It may be pretty stiff and boring, after Jerry’s parties; but on the other hand the novelty might appeal to you, and I’ve got rather an urge to see you in that sort of a place.”
“It won’t bore me,” said Joy; “you’re not a boring type.”
He laughed. “It’s awful to be in love with you and not know a thing about you. Of course I know you’re Jerry’s pal, and a singer—how did you happen to connect up with Jerry, anyway? Of course, she’s an international character, but——”
“But what?” Joy combatted. “I met her at a Prom. Then when I came to Boston—I looked her up. Staying with her is lots more fun than a boarding-house. Sarah and I don’t get on very well together—but I don’t see her much.”
“H’m.” There was a pause. “H’m—I don’t know just how to take you now. Maybe you like being an enigma. Do you?”
“I suppose every girl likes being told she is an enigma.”
“Well, you are one. I never had any trouble sizing up a girl before—maybe I can’t size you up because I’m in love with you.”
“I wish,” said Joy, irritated, “that you would stop talking about love so—so fluently. I object to taking its name in vain just to make conversation.”
He screeched the horn derisively. “What do you want to talk about? Politics? What do other men talk to you about? The weather? Besides, I really am in love with you. Lord knows I’ve said it enough—and written it—and said it with flowers—I thought I’d paved the way quite neatly!”
“If you think you’re—in love with me—well, you just plain don’t know what love is.”
“Well, do you?” She was silent. “I’ve got my own little working idea that’s large enough for me. I’d show you some of it right now if I didn’t have to drive this car.”
“That isn’t love!” she cried sharply.
“Maybe not the whole of it. I see your point. There are many girls that could get me going without falling for ’em. Sal’s that kind. But there’s something more with you—I’m really interested in you as a person, besides wanting to kiss you and all that.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re interested in me as a person, because you’re not going to kiss me and all that,” Joy retorted.
“Oh yes, I am. Don’t fool yourself.”
“Oh, no, you’re not. Don’t fool yourself.”
The conversation resolved itself into a spirited argument along this theme with variations. An old theme, but one which never fails to keep the debaters keyed to a white-hot pitch of concentration. In this case Joy and Packy were so intent that they nearly passed the Ocean House, the long line of automobiles parked on the shore-drive arresting their attention just in time.
“Well, we can continue this in our next,” said Packy as they climbed out.
Joy had never been in a summer hotel, a fact that she did not tell Packy. There was an assortment of all ages in the ball room, with a predominance of the “younger set.” Pretty girls with healthily-flushed or tanned faces and sunburnt necks which ended before their evening gowns began, spoke to Packy as they whirled by on the arms of equally tanned youths, and looked wonderingly at Joy, whose white skin proclaimed her no member of the summer band. She watched the dancers over his shoulder. The young girls all seemed so wholesome—as innocent and adorable as kittens——
“You’re not peeved, are you, Joy?” asked Packy. “You haven’t spoken a word since we got on the floor.”
“I was thinking about something else,” she said—marking the close scrutiny bent on her by an older woman sitting on the side lines. She was rather an attractive woman—but her eyes were chill, and they rested on Joy as if there was something wrong with her. It was the Boston frigidity she had heard so much about, she supposed.
The music stopped, and he led her across the floor. “The girls are losing an eye on you,” he said, “so I might as well satisfy them first as last.” They went to a corner where two sunburned couples were seeing which could hang out of the window the farthest, and he effected a somewhat informal introduction.
“Come in out of the night, Betty Grey,” he added as one of the girls was still hanging over the sill and shrieking back that she had won—“here’s a singer—you’re always saying you never meet any interesting people.”
The waving feet righted themselves, and a brown, eager face turned to Joy. “Oh, are you really a singer?” Betty cried breathlessly. “That’s what’s been the dream of my life—to be a singer—but I can’t even keep on the key! What do you sing?”
“Nothing, yet,” said Joy; “I’m just studying.”
“You ought to hear her sing,” put in Packy. “She’s got everyone I ever heard surrounded.”
Betty fairly wriggled with excitement. “I must hear you! When will you sing for me?”
Joy had no time to expostulate, as the music struck up again and Packy whirled her off.
“Betty’s a crazy kid,” said Packy paternally. “Seems to me a girl between sixteen and eighteen has got absolutely no sense at all. I like ’em when they’ve had enough experience to—well, to be interesting.”
“How much experience does it take to make a girl interesting?” Joy asked.
“Well, it takes a large order, for me. You’ve interested me so far,