“And serve me right, too. I am a fool to talk when you allow me to listen.”
“He is incorrigible!” said Zoe, pathetically. “Well, then, I refused to pout at Harrington. It is not as if he had no reason to distrust women, poor dear darling. I invited Fanny to stay a month with us; and, when once she was in the house, she soon got over me, and persuaded me to play sad, and showed me how to do it. So we wore long faces, and sweet resignation, and were never cross, but kept turning tearful eyes upon our victim.”
“Ha! ha! How absurd of Vizard to tell you that two women would be too much for one man.”
“No, it was the truth; and girls are artful creatures, especially when they put their heads together. But hear the end of all our cunning. One day, after dinner, Harrington asked us to sit opposite him; so we did, and felt guilty. He surveyed us in silence a little while, and then he said, 'My young friends, you have played your little game pretty well, especially you, Zoe, that are a novice in the fine arts compared with Miss Dover.' Histrionic talent ought to be rewarded; he would relent, and take us abroad, on one condition: there must be a chaperone. 'All the better,' said we hypocrites, eagerly; 'and who?'”
“'Oh, a person equal to the occasion—an old maid as bitter against men as ever grapes were sour. She would follow us upstairs, downstairs, and into my lady's chamber. She would have an eye at the key-hole by day, and an ear by night, when we went up to bed and talked over the events of our frivolous day.' In short, he enumerated our duenna's perfections till our blood ran cold; and it was ever so long before he would tell us who it was—Aunt Maitland. We screamed with surprise. They are like cat and dog, and never agree, except to differ. We sought an explanation of this strange choice. He obliged us. It was not for his gratification he took the old cat; it was for us. She would relieve him of a vast responsibility. The vices of her character would prove too strong for the little faults of ours, which were only volatility, frivolity, flirtation—I will not tell you what he said.”
“I seem to hear Harrington talking,” said Severne. “What on earth makes him so hard upon women? Would you mind telling me that?”
“Never ask me that question again,” said Zoe, with sudden gravity.
“Well, I won't; I'll get it out of him.”
“If you say a word to him about it, I shall be shocked and offended.”
She was pale and red by turns; but Severne bowed his head with a respectful submission that disarmed her directly. She turned her head away, and Severne, watching her, saw her eyes fill.
“How is it,” said she thoughtfully, and looking away from him, “that men leave out their sisters when they sum up womankind? Are not we women too? My poor brother quite forgets he has one woman who will never, never desert nor deceive him; dear, darling fellow!” and with these three last words she rose and kissed the tips of her fingers, and waved the kiss to Vizard with that free magnitude of gesture which belonged to antiquity: it struck the Anglo-Saxon flirt at her feet with amazement. Not having good enough under his skin to sympathize with that pious impulse, he first stagnated a little while; and then, not to be silent altogether, made his little, stale, commonplace comment on what she had told him. “Why, it is like a novel.”
“A very unromantic one,” replied Zoe.
“I don't know that. I have read very interesting novels with fewer new characters than this: there's a dark beauty, and a fair, and a duenna with an eagle eye and an aquiline nose.”
“Hush!” said Zoe: “that is her room;” and pointed to a chamber door that opened into the apartment.
Oh, marvelous female instinct! The duenna in charge was at that moment behind that very door, and her eye and her ear at the key-hole, turn about.
Severne continued his remarks, but in a lower voice.
“Then there's a woman-hater and a man-hater: good for dialogue.”
Now this banter did not please Zoe; so she fixed her eyes upon Severne, and said, “You forget the principal figure—a mysterious young gentleman who looks nineteen, and is twenty-nine, and was lost sight of in England nine years ago. He has been traveling ever since, and where-ever he went he flirted; we gather so much from his accomplishment in the art; fluent, not to say voluble at times, but no egotist, for he never tells you anything about himself, nor even about his family, still less about the numerous affaires de coeur in which he has been engaged. Perhaps he is reserving it all for the third volume.”
The attack was strong and sudden, but it failed. Severne, within the limits of his experience, was a consummate artist, and this situation was not new to him. He cast one gently reproachful glance on her, then lowered his eyes to the carpet, and kept them there. “Do you think,” said he, in a low, dejected voice, “it can be any pleasure to a man to relate the follies of an idle, aimless life? and to you, who have given me higher aspirations, and made me awfully sorry, I cannot live my whole life over again. I can't bear to think of the years I have wasted,” said he; “and how can I talk to you, whom I reverence, of the past follies I despise? No, pray don't ask me to risk your esteem. It is so dear to me.”
Then this artist put in practice a little maneuver he had learned of compressing his muscles and forcing a little unwilling water into his eyes. So, at the end of his pretty little speech, he raised two gentle, imploring eyes, with half a tear in each of them. To be sure, Nature assisted his art for once; he did bitterly regret, but out of pure egotism, the years he had wasted, and wished with all his heart he had never known any woman but Zoe Vizard.
The combination of art and sincerity was too much for the guileless and inexperienced Zoe. She was grieved at the pain she had given, and rose to retire, for she felt they were both on dangerous ground; but, as she turned away, she made a little, deprecating gesture, and said, softly, “Forgive me.”
That soft tone gave Severne courage, and that gesture gave him an opportunity. He seized her hand, murmured, “Angel of goodness!” and bestowed a long, loving kiss on her hand that made it quiver under his lips.
“Oh!” cried Miss Maitland, bursting into the room at the nick of time, yet feigning amazement.
Fanny heard the ejaculations, and whipped away from Harrington into the window. Zoe, with no motive but her own coyness, had already snatched her hand away from Severne.
But both young ladies were one moment too late. The eagle eye of a terrible old maid had embraced the entire situation, and they saw it had.
Harrington Vizard, Esq., smoked on, with his back to the group. But the rest were a picture—the mutinous face and keen eyes of Fanny Dover, bristling with defense, at the window; Zoe blushing crimson, and newly started away from her too-enterprising wooer; and the tall, thin, grim old maid, standing stiff, as sentinel, at the bedroom door, and gimleting both her charges alternately with steel-gray orbs; she seemed like an owl, all eyes and beak.
When the chaperon had fixed the situation thoroughly, she stalked erect into the room, and said, very expressively, “I am afraid I disturb you.”
Zoe, from crimson, blushed scarlet, and hung her head; but Fanny was ready.
“La! aunt,” said she, ironically, and with pertness infinite, “you know you are always welcome. Where ever have you been all this time? We were afraid we had lost you.”
Aunt fired her pistol in reply: “I was not far off—most fortunately.”
Zoe, finding that, even under crushing circumstances, Fanny had fight in her, glided instantly to her side, and Aunt Maitland opened battle all round.
“May I ask, sir,” said she to Severne, with a horrible smile, “what you were doing when I came in?”
Zoe clutched Fanny, and both awaited Mr. Severne's reply for one moment with keen anxiety.
“My dear Miss Maitland,” said that able young man, very respectfully, yet with a sort of cheerful readiness, as if he were delighted at her deigning to question him, “to tell you the truth, I was admiring Miss Vizard's diamond ring.”
Fanny tittered; Zoe blushed again at such a fib and such aplomb.
“Oh, indeed,” said Miss Maitland; “you were admiring it very close, sir.”
“It is like herself—it will bear inspection.”
This was wormwood to Miss Maitland. “Even in our ashes live their wonted fires;” and, though she was sixty, she disliked to hear a young woman praised. She bridled, then returned to the attack.
“Next time you wish to inspect it, you had better ask her to take it off, and show you.”
“May I, Miss Maitland?” inquired the ingenuous youth. “She would not think that a liberty?”
His mild effrontery staggered her for a moment, and she glared at him, speechless, but soon recovered, and said, bitterly, “Evidently not.” With this she turned her back on him rather ungraciously, and opened fire on her own sex.
“Zoe!” (sharply).
“Yes, aunt.” (faintly)
“Tell your brother—if he can leave off smoking—I wish to speak to him.”
Zoe hung her head, and was in no hurry to bring about the proposed conference.
While she deliberated, says Fanny, with vast alacrity, “I'll tell him, aunt.”
“Oh, Fanny!” murmured Zoe, in a reproachful whisper.
“All right!” whispered Fanny in reply, and whipped out on to the balcony. “Here's Aunt Maitland wants to know if you ever leave off smoking;” and she threw a most aggressive manner into the query.
The big man replied, composedly, “Tell her I do—at meals and prayers; but I always sleep with a pipe in my mouth—heavily insured!”
“Well, then, you mustn't; for she has something very particular to say to you when you've done smoking.”
“Something particular! That means something disagreeable. Tell her I shall be smoking all day to-day.”
Fanny danced into the room and said, “He says he shall be smoking all day, under the circumstances.”
Miss Maitland gave this faithful messenger the look of a basilisk, and flounced to her own room. The young ladies instantly stepped out on the balcony, and got one on each side of Harrington, with the feminine instinct of propitiation; for they felt sure the enemy would tell, soon or late.
“What does the old cat want to talk to me about?” said Harrington, lazily, to Fanny.
It was Zoe who replied:
“Can't you guess, dear?” said she, tenderly—“our misconduct.” Then she put her head on his shoulder, as much as to say, “But we have a more lenient judge here.”
“As if I could not see that without her assistance!” said Harrington Vizard. (Puff!) At which comfortable reply Zoe looked very rueful, and Fanny burst out laughing.
Soon after this Fanny gave Zoe a look, and they retired to their rooms; and Zoe said she would never come out again, and Fanny must stay with her. Fanny felt sure ennui would thaw that resolve in a few hours; so she submitted, but declared it was absurd, and the very way to give a perfect trifle importance.
“Kiss your hand!” said she, disdainfully—“that is nothing. If I was the man, I'd have kissed both your cheeks long before this.”
“And I should have boxed your ears and made you cry,” said Zoe, with calm superiority.
So she had her way, and the deserted Severne felt dull, but was too good a general to show it. He bestowed his welcome company on Mr. Vizard, walked with him, talked with him, and made himself so agreeable, that Vizard, who admired him greatly, said to him, “What a good fellow you are, to bestow your sunshine on me. I began to be afraid those girls had got you, and tied you to their apron-strings altogether.”
“Oh, no!” said Severne: “they are charming; but, after all, one can't do without a male friend: there are so few things that interest ladies. Unless you can talk red-hot religion, you are bound to flirt with them a little. To be sure, they look shy, if you do, but if you don't—”
“They are bored; whereas they only looked shy. I know 'em. Call another subject, please.”
“Well, I will; but perhaps it may not be so agreeable a one.”
“That is very unlikely,” said the woman-hater, dryly.
“Well, it is Tin. I'm rather short. You see, when I fell in with you at Monaco, I had no idea of coming this way; but, meeting with an old college friend—what a tie college is, isn't it? There is nothing like it; when you have been at college with a man, you seem never to wear him out, as you do the acquaintances you make afterward.”
“That is very true,” said Vizard warmly.
“Isn't it? Now, for instance, if I had only known you of late years, I should feel awfully shy of borrowing a few hundreds of you—for a month or two.”
“I don't know why you should, old fellow.”
“I should, though. But having been at college together makes all the difference. I don't mind telling you that I have never been at Homburg without taking a turn at the table, and I am grizzling awfully now at not having sent to my man of business for funds.”
“How much do you want? That is the only question.”
“Glad to hear it,” thought Severne. “Well, let me see, you can't back your luck with less than five hundred.”
“Well, but we have been out two months; I am afraid I haven't so much left. Just let me see.” He took out his pocket-book, and examined his letter of credit. “Do you want it to-day?”
“Why, yes; I do.”
“Well, then, I am afraid you can only have three hundred. But I will telegraph Herries, and funds will be here to-morrow afternoon.”
“All right,” said Severne.
Vizard took him to the bank, and exhausted his letter of credit: then to the telegraph-office, and telegraphed Herries to enlarge his credit at once. He handed Severne the three hundred pounds. The young man's eye flashed, and it cost him an effort not to snatch them and wave them over his head with joy: but he controlled himself, and took them like two-pence-halfpenny. “Thank you, old fellow,” said he. Then, still more carelessly, “Like my I O U?”
“As you please,” said Vizard, with similar indifference; only real.
After he had got the money, Severne's conversational powers relaxed—short answers—long reveries.
Vizard observed, stopped short, and eyed him. “I remember something at Oxford, and I am afraid you are a gambler; if you are, you won't be good for much till you have lost that three hundred. It will be a dull evening for me without you: I know what I'll do—I'll take my hen-party to the opera at Homburg. There are stalls to be got here. I'll get one for you, on the chance of your dropping in.”
The stalls were purchased, and the friends returned at once to the hotel, to give the ladies timely intimation. They found Fanny and Zoe seated, rather disconsolate, in the apartment Zoe had formally renounced: at sight of the stall tickets, the pair uttered joyful cries, looked at each other, and vanished.
“You won't see them any more till dinner-time,” said Vizard. “They will be discussing dress, selecting dress, trying dresses, and changing dresses, for the next three hours.” He turned round while speaking, and there was Severne slipping away to his own bedroom.
Thus deserted on all sides, he stepped into the balcony and lighted a cigar. While he was smoking it, he observed an English gentleman, with a stalwart figure and a beautiful brown beard, standing on the steps of the hotel. “Halloo!” said he, and hailed him. “Hi, Uxmoor! is that you?”
Lord Uxmoor looked up, and knew him. He entered the hotel, and the next minute the waiter ushered him into Vizard's sitting-room.
Lord Uxmoor, like Mr. Vizard, was a landed proprietor in Barfordshire. The county is large, and they lived too many miles apart to visit; but they met, and agreed, at elections and county business, and had a respect for each other.
Meeting at Frankfort, these two found plenty to say to each other about home; and as Lord Uxmoor was alone, Vizard asked him to dine. “You will balance us,” said he: “we are terribly overpetticoated, and one of them is an old maid. We generally dine at the table-d'hote, but I have ordered dinner here to-day: we are going to the opera at Homburg. You are not obliged to do that, you know. You are in for a bad dinner, that is all.”
“To tell the truth,” said Lord Uxmoor, “I don't care for music.”
“Then you deserve a statue for not pretending to love it. I adore it, for my part, and I wish I was going alone, for my hens will be sure to cackle mal 'a propos, and spoil some famous melody with talking about it, and who sung it in London, instead of listening to it, and thanking God for it in deep silence.”
Lord Uxmoor stared a little at this sudden sally, for he was unacquainted with Vizard's one eccentricity, having met him only on county business, at which he was extra rational, and passed for a great scholar. He really did suck good books as well as cigars.
After a few more words, they parted till dinner-time.
Lord Uxmoor came to his appointment, and found his host and Miss Maitland, whom he knew; and he was in languid conversation with them, when a side-door opened, and in walked Fanny Dover, fair and bright, in Cambridge blue, her hair well dressed by Zoe's maid in the style of the day. Lord Uxmoor rose, and received his fair country-woman with respectful zeal; he had met her once before. She, too, sparkled with pleasure at meeting a Barfordshire squire with a long pedigree, purse, and beard—three things she admired greatly.
In the midst of this, in glided Zoe, and seemed to extinguish everybody, and even to pale the lights, with her dark yet sunlike beauty. She was dressed in a creamy-white satin that glinted like mother-of-pearl, its sheen and glory unfrittered with a single idiotic trimming; on her breast a large diamond cross. Her head was an Athenian sculpture—no chignon, but the tight coils of antiquity; at their side, one diamond star sparkled vivid flame, by its contrast with those polished ebon snakes.
Lord Uxmoor was dazzled, transfixed, at the vision, and bowed very low when Vizard introduced him in an off-hand way, saying, “My sister, Miss Vizard; but I dare say you have met her at the county balls.”
“I have never been so fortunate,” said Uxmoor, humbly.
“I have,” said Zoe; “that is, I saw you waltzing with Lady Betty Gore at the race ball two years ago.”
“What!” said Vizard, alarmed. “Uxmoor, were you waltzing with Lady Betty Gore?”
“You have it on too high an authority for me to contradict.”
Finding Zoe was to be trusted as a county chronicle, Vizard turned sharply to her, and said, “And was he flirting with her?”
Zoe colored a little, and said, “Now, Harrington, how can I tell?”
“You little hypocrite,” said Vizard, “who can tell better?”
At this retort Zoe blushed high, and the water came into her eyes.
Nobody minded that but Uxmoor, and Vizard went on to explain, “That Lady Betty Gore is as heartless a coquette as any in the county; and don't you flirt with her, or you will get entangled.”
“You disapprove her,” said Uxmoor, coolly; “then I give her up forever.” He looked at Zoe while he said this, and felt how easy it would be to resign Lady Betty and a great many more for this peerless creature. He did not mean her to understand what was passing in his mind; he did not know how subtle and observant the most innocent girl is in such matters. Zoe blushed, and drew away from him. Just then Ned Severne came in, and Vizard introduced him to Uxmoor with great geniality and pride. The charming young man was in a black surtout, with a blue scarf, the very tint for his complexion.
The girls looked at one another, and in a moment Fanny was elected Zoe's agent. She signaled Severne, and when he came to her she said, for Zoe, “Don't you know we are going to the opera at Homburg?”
“Yes, I know,” said he, “and I hope you will have a pleasanter evening than I shall.”
“You are not coming with us?”
“No,” said he, sorrowfully.
“You had better,” said Fanny, with a deal of quiet point, more, indeed, than Zoe's pride approved.
“Not if Mr. Severne has something more attractive,” said she, turning palish and pinkish by turns.
All this went on sotto voce, and Uxmoor, out of good-breeding, entered into conversation with Miss Maitland and Vizard. Severne availed himself of this diversion, and fixed his eyes on Zoe with an air of gentle reproach, then took a letter out of his pocket, and handed it to Fanny. She read it, and gave it to Zoe.
It was dated from “The Golden Star,” Homburg.
“DEAR NED—I am worse to-day, and all alone. Now and then I almost fear I may not pull through. But perhaps that is through being so hipped. Do come and spend this evening with me like a good, kind fellow.
“Telegraph reply.
“S. T.”
“Poor fellow,” said Ned; “my heart bleeds for him.”
Zoe was affected by this, and turned liquid and loving eyes on “dear Ned.” But Fanny stood her ground. “Go to 'S. T.' to-morrow morning, but don't desert 'Z. V.' and 'F. D.' to-night.” Zoe smiled.
“But I have telegraphed!” objected Ned.
“Then telegraph again—not,” said Fanny firmly.
Now, this was unexpected. Severne had set his heart upon rouge et noir, but still he was afraid of offending Zoe; and, besides, he saw Uxmoor, with his noble beard and brown eyes, casting rapturous glances at her. “Let Miss Vizard decide,” said he. “Don't let me be so unhappy as to offend her twice in one day.”
Zoe's pride and goodness dictated her answer, in spite of her wishes. She said, in a low voice, “Go to your sick friend.”
“There,” said Severne.
“I hear,” said Fanny. “She means 'go;' but you shall repent it.”
“I mean what I say,” said Zoe, with real dignity. “It is my habit.” And the next moment she quietly left the room.
She sat down in her bedroom, mortified and alarmed. What! Had it come to this, that she felt her heart turn cold just because that young man said he could not accompany her—on a single evening! Then first she discovered that it was for him she had dressed, and had, for once, beautified her beauty—for him; that with Fanny she had dwelt upon the delights of the music, but had secretly thought of appearing publicly on his arm, and dazzling people by their united and contrasted beauty.
She rose, all of a sudden, and looked keenly at herself in the glass, to see if she had not somehow overrated her attractions. But the glass was reassuring. It told her not one man in a million could go to a sick friend that night, when he might pass the evening by her side, and visit his friend early in the morning. Best loved is best served. Tears of mortified vanity were in her eyes; but she smiled through them at the glass; then dried them carefully, and went back to the dining-room radiant, to all appearance.
Dinner was just served, and her brother, to do honor to the new-comer, waved his sister to a seat by Lord Uxmoor. He looked charmed at the arrangement, and showed a great desire to please her, but at first was unable to find good topics. After several timid overtures on his part, she assisted him, out of good-nature, She knew by report that he was a very benevolent young man, bent on improving the home, habits, wages, and comforts of the agricultural poor. She led him to this, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure, and his homely but manly face lighted, and was elevated by the sympathy she expressed in these worthy objects. He could not help thinking: “What a Lady Uxmoor this would make! She and I and her brother might leaven the county.”
And all this time she would not even bestow a glance on Severne. She was not an angel. She had said, “Go to your sick friend;” but she had not said, “I will smart alone if you do.”
Severne sat by Fanny, and seemed dejected, but, as usual, polite and charming. She was smilingly cruel; regaled him with Lord Uxmoor's wealth and virtues, and said he was an excellent match, and all she-Barfordshire pulling caps for him. Severne only sighed; he offered no resistance; and at last she could not go on nagging a handsome fellow, who only sighed, so she said, “Well, there; I advise you to join us before the opera is over, that is all.”
“I will, I will!” said he, eagerly. “Oh, thank you.”
Dinner was dispatched rather rapidly, because of the opera.
When the ladies got their cloaks and lace scarfs, to put over their heads coming home, the party proved to be only three, and the tickets five; for Miss Maitland pleaded headache.
On this, Lord Uxmoor said, rather timidly, he should like to go.
“Why, you said you hated music,” said Vizard.
Lord Uxmoor colored. “I recant,” said he, bluntly; and everybody saw what had operated his conversion. That is a pun.
It is half an hour, by rail, from Frankfort to Homburg, and the party could not be seated together. Vizard bestowed Zoe and Lord Uxmoor in one carriage, Fanny and Severne in another, and himself and a cigar in the third. Severne sat gazing piteously on Fanny Dover, but never said a word. She sat and eyed him satirically for a good while, and then she said, cheerfully, “Well, Mr. Severne, how do you like the turn things are taking?”
“Miss Dover, I am very unhappy.”
“Serves you right.”
“Oh, pray don't say that. It is on you I depend.”
“On me, sir! What have I to do with your flirtations?”
“No; but you are so clever, and so good. If for once you will take a poor fellow's part with Miss Vizard, behind my back; oh, please do—pray do,” and, in the ardor of entreaty, he caught Fanny's white hand and kissed it with warm but respectful devotion. Indeed, he held it and kissed it again and again, till Fanny, though she minded it no more than marble, was going to ask him satirically whether he had not almost done with it, when at last he contrived to squeeze out one of his little hysterical tears, and drop it on her hand.
Now, the girl was not butter, like some of her sex; far from it: but neither was she wood—indeed, she was not old enough for that—so this crocodile tear won her for the time being. “There—there,” said she; “don't be a baby. I'll be on your side tonight; only, if you care for her, come and look after her yourself. Beautiful women with money won't stand neglect, Mr. Severne; and why should they? They are not like poor me; they have got the game in their hands.” The train stopped. Vizard's party drove to the opera, and Severne ordered a cab to The Golden Star, meaning to stop it and get out; but, looking at his watch, he found it wanted half an hour to gambling time, so he settled to have a cup of coffee first, and a cigar. With this view he let the man drive him to The Golden Star.
CHAPTER III.
INA KLOSKING worked night and day upon Siebel, in Gounod's “Faust,” and upon the songs that had been added to give weight to the part.
She came early to the theater at night, and sat, half dressed, fatigued, and nervous, in her dressing-room.
Crash!—the first coup d'archet announced the overture, and roused her energy, as if Ithuriel's spear had pricked her. She came down dressed, to listen at one of the upper entrances, to fill herself with the musical theme, before taking her part in it, and also to gauge the audience and the singers.
The man Faust was a German; but the musical part Faust seems better suited to an Italian or a Frenchman. Indeed, some say that, as a rule, the German genius excels in creation and the Italian in representation or interpretation. For my part, I am unable to judge nations in the lump, as some fine fellows do, because nations are composed of very different individuals, and I know only one to the million; but I do take on me to say that the individual Herr who executed Doctor Faustus at Homburg that night had everything to learn, except what he had to unlearn. His person was obese; his delivery of the words was mouthing, chewing, and gurgling; and he uttered the notes in tune, but without point, pathos, or passion; a steady lay-clerk from York or Durham Cathedral would have done a little better, because he would have been no colder at heart, and more exact in time, and would have sung clean; whereas this gentleman set his windpipe trembling, all through the business, as if palsy were passion. By what system of leverage such a man came to be hoisted on to such a pinnacle of song as “Faust” puzzled our English friends in front as much as it did the Anglo-Danish artist at the wing; for English girls know what is what in opera.
The Marguerite had a voice of sufficient compass, and rather sweet, though thin. The part demands a better actress than Patti, and this Fraulein was not half as good: she put on the painful grin of a prize-fighter who has received a staggerer, and grinned all through the part, though there is little in it to grin at.
She also suffered by having to play to a Faust milked of his poetry, and self-smitten with a tremolo which, as I said before, is the voice of palsy, and is not, nor ever was, nor ever will be, the voice of passion. Bless your heart, passion is a manly thing, a womanly thing, a grand thing, not a feeble, quavering, palsied, anile, senile thing. Learn that, ye trembling, quavering idiots of song!
“They let me down,” whispered Ina Klosking to her faithful Ashmead. “I feel all out of tune. I shall never be able. And the audience so cold. It will be like singing in a sepulcher.”
“What would you think of them, if they applauded?” said Ashmead.
“I should say they were good, charitable souls, and the very audience I shall want in five minutes.”
“No, no,” said Ashmead, “all you want is a discriminating audience; and this is one. Remember they have all seen Patti in Marguerite. Is it likely they would applaud this tin stick?”
Ina turned the conversation with feminine quickness. “Mr. Ashmead, have you kept your promise; my name is not in the programme?”
“It is not; and a great mistake too.”
“I have not been announced by name in any way?”
“No. But, of course, I have nursed you a bit.”
“Nursed me? What is that? Oh, what have you been doing? No charlatanerie, I hope.”
“Nothing of the kind,” said Ashmead, stoutly; “only the regular business.”
“And pray what is the regular business?” inquired Ina, distrustfully.
“Why, of course, I sent on the manager to say that Mademoiselle Schwaub had been taken seriously ill; that we had been fearing we must break faith with the public for the first time; but that a cantatrice, who had left the stage, appreciating our difficulty, had, with rare kindness, come to our aid for this one night: we felt sure a Humbug audience—what am I saying?—a Homburg audience would appreciate this, and make due allowance for a performance undertaken in such a spirit, and with imperfect rehearsals, etc.—in short, the usual patter; and the usual effect, great applause. Indeed, the only applause that I have heard in this theater to-night. Ashmead ahead of Gounod, so far.”
Ina Klosking put both hands before her face, and uttered a little moan. She had really a soul above these artifices. “So, then,” said she, “if they do receive me, it will be out of charity.”
“No, no; but on your first night you must have two strings to your bow.”
“But I have only one. These cajoling speeches are a waste of breath. A singer can sing, or she can not sing, and they find out which it is as soon as she opens her mouth.”
“Well, then, you open your mouth—that is just what half the singers can't do—and they will soon find out you can sing.”
“I hope they may. I do not know. I am discouraged. I'm terrified. I think it is stage-fright,” and she began to tremble visibly, for the time drew near.
Ashmead ran off and brought her some brandy-and-water. She put up her hand against it with royal scorn. “No, sir! If the theater, and the lights, and the people, the mind of Goethe, and the music of Gounod, can't excite me without that, put me at the counter of a cafe', for I have no business here.”
The power, without violence, and the grandeur with which she said this would have brought down the house had she spoken it in a play without a note of music; and Ashmead drew back respectfully, but chuckled internally at the idea of this Minerva giving change in a cafe'.
And now her cue was coming. She ordered everybody out of the entrance not very ceremoniously, and drew well back. Then, at her cue, she made a stately rush, and so, being in full swing before she cleared the wing, she swept into the center of the stage with great rapidity and resolution; no trace either of her sorrowful heart or her quaking limbs was visible from the front.
There was a little applause, all due to Ashmead's preliminary apology, but there was no real reception; for Germany is large and musical, and she was not immediately recognized at Homburg. But there was that indescribable flutter which marks a good impression and keen expectation suddenly aroused. She was beautiful on the stage for one thing; her figure rather tall and stately, and her face full of power: and then the very way she came on showed the step and carriage of an artist at home upon the boards.
She cast a rapid glance round the house, observed its size, and felt her way. She sung her first song evenly, but not tamely, yet with restrained power; but the tones were so full and flexible, the expression so easy yet exact, that the judges saw there was no effort, and suspected something big might be yet in store to-night. At the end of her song she did let out for a moment, and, at this well-timed foretaste of her power, there was applause, but nothing extravagant.
She was quite content, however. She met Ashmead, as she came off, and said, “All is well, my friend, so far. They are sitting in judgment on me, like sensible people, and not in a hurry. I rather like that.”
“Your own fault,” said Joseph. “You should have been announced. Prejudice is a surer card than judgment. The public is an ass.”
“It must come to the same thing in the end,” said the Klosking firmly. “One can sing, or one cannot.”
Her next song was encored, and she came off flushed with art and gratified pride. “I have no fears now,” said she, to her Achates, firmly. “I have my barometer; a young lady in the stalls. Oh, such a beautiful creature, with black hair and eyes! She applauds me fearlessly. Her glorious eyes speak to mine, and inspire me. She is happy, she is. I drink sunbeams at her. I shall act and sing 'Le Parlate d'Amor' for her—and you will see.”
Between the acts, who should come in but Ned Severne, and glided into the vacant stall by Zoe's side.
She quivered at his coming near her; he saw it, and felt a thrill of pleasure himself.
“How is 'S. T.'?” said she, kindly.
“'S. T.'?” said he, forgetting.
“Why, your sick friend, to be sure.”
“Oh, not half so bad as he thought. I was a fool to lose an hour of you for him. He was hipped; had lost all his money at rouge et noir. So I lent him fifty pounds, and that did him more good than the doctor. You forgive me?”
“Forgive you? I approve. Are you going back to him?” said she, demurely.
“No, thank you, I have made sacrifices enough.”
And so indeed he had, having got cleaned out of three hundred pounds through preferring gambling to beauty.
“Singers good?” he inquired.
“Wretched, all but one; and she is divine.”
“Indeed. Who is she?”
“I don't know. A gentleman in black came out—”
“Mephistopheles?”
“No—how dare you?—and said a singer that had retired would perform the part of 'Siebel, to oblige; and she has obliged me for one. She is, oh, so superior to the others! Such a heavenly contralto; and her upper notes, honey dropping from the comb. And then she is so modest, so dignified, and so beautiful. She is fair as a lily; and such a queen-like brow, and deep, gray eyes, full of sadness and soul. I'm afraid she is not happy. Once or twice she fixed them on me, and they magnetized me, and drew me to her. So I magnetized her in return. I should know her anywhere fifty years hence. Now, if I were a man, I should love that woman and make her love me.”
“Then I am very glad you are not a man,” said Severne, tenderly.
“So am I,” whispered Zoe, and blushed. The curtain rose.
“Listen now, Mr. Chatterbox,” said Zoe.
Ned Severne composed himself to listen; but Fraulein Graas had not sung many bars before he revolted. “Listen to what?” said he; “and look at what? The only Marguerite in the place is by my side.”
Zoe colored with pleasure; but her good sense was not to be blinded. “The only good black Mephistophe-less you mean,” said she. “To be Marguerite, one must be great, and sweet, and tender; yes, and far more lovely than ever woman was. That lady is a better color for the part than I am; but neither she nor I shall ever be Marguerite.”
He murmured in her ear. “You are Marguerite, for you could fire a man's heart so that he would sell his soul to gain you.”
It was the accent of passion and the sensitive girl quivered. Yet she defended herself—in words, “Hush!” said she. “That is wicked—out of an opera. Fanny would laugh at you, if she heard.”
Here were two reasons for not making such hot love in the stalls of an opera. Which of the two weighed most with the fair reasoner shall be left to her own sex.
The brief scene ended with the declaration of the evil spirit that Marguerite is lost.
“There,” said Zoe, naively, “that is over, thank goodness: now you will hear my singer.”
Siebel and Marta came on from opposite sides of the stage. “See!” said Zoe, “isn't she lovely?” and she turned her beaming face full on Severne, to share her pleasure with him. To her amazement the man seemed transformed: a dark cloud had come over his sunny countenance. He sat, pale, and seemed to stare at the tall, majestic, dreamy singer, who stood immovable, dressed like a velvet youth, yet looking like no earthly boy, but a draped statue of Mercury,
“New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill.”
The blood left his lips, and Zoe thought he was faint; but the next moment he put his handkerchief hastily to his nose, and wriggled his way out, with a rush and a crawl, strangely combined, at the very moment when the singer delivered her first commanding note of recitative.
Everybody about looked surprised and disgusted at so ill-timed an exit; but Zoe, who had seen his white face, was seriously alarmed, and made a movement to rise too, and watch, or even follow him; but, when he got to the side, he looked back to her, and made her a signal that his nose was bleeding, but it was of no great consequence. He even pointed with his finger out and then back again, indicating he should not be long gone.
This re-assured her greatly; for she had always been told a little bleeding of that sort was good for hot-headed young people. Then the singer took complete hold of her. The composer, to balance the delightful part of Marguerite, has given Siebel a melody with which wonders can be done; and the Klosking had made a considerable reserve of her powers for this crowning effort. After a recitative that rivaled the silver trumpet, she flung herself with immediate and electrifying ardor into the melody; the orchestra, taken by surprise, fought feebly for the old ripple; but the Klosking, resolute by nature, was now mighty as Neptune, and would have her big waves. The momentary struggle, in which she was loyally seconded by the conductor, evoked her grand powers. Catgut had to yield to brains, and the whole orchestra, composed, after all, of good musicians, soon caught the divine afflatus, and the little theater seemed on fire with music; the air, sung with a large rhythm, swelled and rose, and thrilled every breast with amazement and delight; the house hung breathless: by-and-by there were pale cheeks, panting bosoms, and wet eyes, the true, rare triumphs of the sovereigns of song; and when the last note had pealed and ceased to vibrate, the pent-up feelings broke forth in a roar of applause, which shook the dome, followed by a clapping of hands, like a salvo, that never stopped till Ina Klosking, who had retired, came forward again.
She courtesied with admirable dignity, modesty, and respectful gravity, and the applause thundered, and people rose at her in clusters about the house, and waved their hats and handkerchiefs at her, and a little Italian recognized her, and cried out as loud as he could, “Viva la Klosking! viva!” and she heard that, and it gave her a thrill; and Zoe Vizard, being out of England, and, therefore, brave as a lioness, stood boldly up at her full height, and, taking her bouquet in her right hand, carried it swiftly to her left ear, and so flung it, with a free back-handed sweep, more Oriental than English, into the air, and it lighted beside the singer; and she saw the noble motion, and the bouquet fly, and, when she made her last courtesy at the wing, she fixed her eyes on Zoe, and then put her hand to her heart with a most touching gesture that said, “Most of all I value your bouquet and your praise.”
Then the house buzzed, and ranks were leveled; little people spoke to big people, and big to little, in mutual congratulation; for at such rare moments (except in Anglo-Saxony) instinct seems to tell men that true art is a sunshine of the soul, and blesses the rich and the poor alike.
One person was affected in another way. Harrington Vizard sat rapt in attention, and never took his eyes off her, yet said not a word.
Several Russian and Prussian grandees sought an introduction to the new singer. But she pleaded fatigue.
The manager entreated her to sup with him, and meet the Grand Duke of Hesse. She said she had a prior engagement.
She went quietly home, and supped with her faithful Ashmead, and very heartily too; for nature was exhausted, and agitation had quite spoiled her dinner.
Joseph Ashmead, in the pride of his heart, proposed a bottle of champagne. The Queen of Song, with triumph flushed, looked rather blue at that. “My friend,” said she, in a meek, deprecating way, “we are working-people: is not Bordeaux good enough for us?”
“Yes; but it is not good enough for the occasion,” said Joseph, a little testily. “Well, never mind;” and he muttered to himself, “that is the worst of good women: they are so terribly stingy.”
The Queen of Song, with triumph flushed, did not catch these words, but only a little growling. However, as supper proceeded, she got uneasy. So she rang the bell, and ordered a pint: of this she drank one spoonful. The remainder, co-operating with triumph and claret, kept Ashmead in a great flow of spirits. He traced her a brilliant career. To be photographed tomorrow morning as Siebel, and in plain dress. Paragraphs in Era, Figaro, Galignani, Inde'pendance Belge, and the leading dailies. Large wood-cuts before leaving Homburg for Paris, London, Vienna, St. Petersburg, and New York.”
“I'm in your hands,” said she, and smiled languidly, to please him.
But by-and-by he looked at her, and found she was taking a little cry all to herself.
“Dear me!” said he, “what is the matter?”
“My friend, forgive me. He was not there to share my triumph.”