Plainfield High School - Milestone Yearbook (Plainfield, NJ)

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5 THE ORACLE underneath this blank exterior she had a woman’s heart, a woman’s impulses. “Ah reckin Ah’ll goah, ef yeh doan’t keer,” she drawled, ‘‘Pap’s awaitin’ fer me.” “Wait a moment, please.” Stanas was charming when he spoke to women. “I want to talk with you about the bird-notes in your throat.” And he smiled reassuringly. ‘Are you in too much of a hurry2” Jess Ranson started at him dully, and leaned further against the woodpile. ‘Ah kin set a spell,”’ she said. Perran Stanas was a clever talker, and he stood in the warm sun- shine and talked from his very heart, in simple words, to this strange wood-creature. Carther had described to Jess the splendor of life in the North,— the jewels of the women, the brilliancy of the lights, the many luxuries, and Stanas smiled to himself as he thought how the promise of all these tnings would appeal to the girl. It seemed a little odd that she did not question him as he went on, or grow excited over the wonders in store for her, but he reassured himself with the thought that she was shy and awkward. Really, it would be charming to watch her develop into a woman of the world, poised and purposeful. Strangely enough, he never doubted that the miracle would happen. An hour went by. The rays of the sun slanted more and more, the girl sagged lifelessly against the pile of wood, occasionally shifting her weight from one bare foot to the other, but otherwise not moving. Stanas was carried away by his theme. His quietly modulated voice went on and on, glowing with expression. At last he paused for a moment, then walked swiftly to her side. “And so you see,” he said seriously, “‘you are going to be famous, you are going to be the most adored singer of the age. Your voice has decreed it. The necessary study will only be play to you. You will be very rich. And you may start now, if you will. Please say yes.”’ She turned her face slowly to the darkening forest, and for a long time there was no sound. Stanas controlled his impatience. Then she spoke, in her fascinating monotone. ‘Ah ’low Ar’ll stay hyar. Ah doan’ keer abaout the Nawth. Ah reckin Ah won’t goah.”’ The man stared at her. “Girl, you're mad,” he exclaimed. “You don’t know what you are saying, why—”’

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-2 THE ORACLE not because he believed that there was any possibility of finding his “Dream Voice,” as he called it to himself, but because he dared not let a single chance go by. The failure to procure an unusual soprano would spell failure to his life’s work, a musical allegory, upon the suc- cess of which he had staked his reputation and fortune. He had come because Martin Carther had told him that it was worth while, and he respected Martin Carther’s opinion. Carther had spent the summer convalescing among the Kentucky mountains after a severe fever, and he had just returned to New York, wild with enthusiasm over Jess Ranson’s voice. He had made an attempt to pave the way for a flying visit from Stanas, and had done his best to make the world of beauty, fashion, and culture, the brilliant life of the northern cities, real and vivid to the ignorant mountain girl. But, somehow, he confessed to Perran, she had not seemed as much impressed with it all as one would naturally expect. In fact, he was not sure that she really understood exactly what he was talking about, but, at least, he had done his share, and his friend could be relied upon to do the rest. That was why Perran Stanas had come to Kentucky. But at the first sound of the girl’s voice, every doubt was swept away, and his imagination carried him on, through a year of careful training for her under his own direction, a tour of the Continent, and then the longed-for production of his masterpiece, “The Dawning,” and the whole world at his feet. Truly, the Fates were with him, for he had found the one thing needful to complete his dreams,—his “Dream Voice.” The music ceased. It was only a simple air, but the master mu- sician was enraptured. With an effort he brought himself back to the present. It was a late October afternoon in the mountains. The warm cnbeams slanted through the dark woods upon the cabin clearing and upon the face of the girl. Stanas felt the shock of disappointment as he looked at her. She stood dumbly before him, her face a blank, her figure lagging against the woodpile. Deep-chested she was, with brown hair and dull eyes, eveiy fibre of her deadened by hard toil, neither young nor old, neither sad nor gay,—a mountaineer, without imagination, without beauty. The man was amazed. Where did the voice come from? Was it possible for a woman to sing like that and still not know enough to live, to think, to realize the splendor of what she could do? Surely,

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THE ORACEE 9 Piven seca she said, = Ahgnealemontanaow. lytebbe Alb’d git afeerd up thar. Ah’ve allus ‘lowed Ah’d marry ole Hepp Brone, an’ Ah reckin Ah’d bettah do it. Of co’se,” (for a moment Perran be- lieved that she was going to smile, but sie didn’t.) ‘“Hepp’s goahin’ on sixty, but he’s good enuf, and Pap’s acaountin’ on it, so Ah cyan’t goah.” He stood dazed. Could it be that this girl was to prove the insur- mountable barrier to his success? It was unbelievable. He brushed his hand over his eyes. His head hurt. She slunk past him into the cabin. “Ah’m sorry, strangan, but Ah cyan’t goah.” She never went. Stanas remained in the mountains, begging, pleading, raving, but she never wavered in her determination. She rarely answered or heeded him. As the weeks went by he grew noticeably older. His fifty years showed plainly. Jess never sang for him again, but the sound of her voice was always in his ears. Gradually other sounds grew indistinct. Then he fled, panic-stricken, back to New York. It was useless. He was always haunted by the “Dream Voice.” He could neither write nor listen, all other music was as nothing to him. He began to hide from the outside world in order to catch the notes more perfectly. Ten years later an old man was found dead in his bed, in a tene- ment lodging house, and when they cleared out the room, they pushed into a waste basket the tattered manuscript which they had found clutched in his hand. It was late October in the mountains. The woman leaned over the cot and drew a ragged cover over the wasted form. Two glitter- ing eyes followed her anxiously. She leaned over to hear. “Sing, Jess,” he whispered huskily. She straightened up and opened her lips, but no sound came. She gazed wildly about, tugged for a moment at her throat, then looked helplessly down again. “It’s no use, Hepp, it’s gone. Ah cyan’t sing.” And no one heard her tearless gasp, for she was alone in the cabin. HELEN LovuisE WooLLEY.