"A Grand Morning Concert will be given on Thursday, June 25th, at
Ebury's Rooms, by the pupils of Madame della Scala. By kind permission
of Mr. Mapleson, the following _artistes_ will appear." Then followed a
list of well known operatic vocalists, also Miss This, That, and the
other--"and Miss Cynthia West." The last half-dozen names were not as
yet famous.
The above intimation, together with much detail concerning time, place,
and performers, was printed on a very large gilt-edged card; and two
such cards, enclosed in a thick square envelope, lay upon Hubert Lepel's
breakfast-table some months after the New Year's holiday which he had
spent at Beechfield Hall.
He looked at them with an amused, interested smile, and read the words
more than once--then, with equal interest, perused a programme of the
concert, which had also been enclosed.
"So it is to-day, is it?" he said to himself, as he finished his cup of
coffee. "She is late in sending me a ticket; I shall scarcely be able to
nail any of the critics for her now. I would have got Gurney to write
her a notice if I had known earlier. Probably that is the very reason
why she did not let me know--independent young woman that she is! I'll
go and see what I can do for her even at the eleventh hour. She shall
have a good big bouquet for her _debut_, at any rate!"
He sallied forth, making his way to his club, where he found occasion to
remark to more than one of his friends that Madame della Scala's concert
would be worth going to, and that a young lady who had formerly been
known in the theatrical world--Miss Cynthia West--would make her _debut_
as a public singer that afternoon. Meeting Marcus Gurney, the well-known
musical critic of an influential paper, soon afterwards, he pressed upon
him his spare ticket for the concert, and gave him to understand that it
would be a really good-natured thing if he could turn in at Ebury's
Rooms between three and four, and write something for the _Scourge_ that
would not injure that very promising _debutante_, Miss West. Marcus
Gurney laughed and consented, and Hubert went off well pleased; he had
at least stopped the mouth of the bitterest critic in London, he
reflected--for, though Gurney was personally one of the most amiable of
men, he could be very virulent in print. Then he went off to Covent
Garden, and selected two of the loveliest bouquets he could find--one,
of course, for Cynthia, and one for her teacher, Madame della Scala. For
Hubert was wise in his generation.
He had seen very little of Cynthia West during the last few months, and
had not heard her sing at all. Shortly after his second interview with
her, he had sent her to Italy for the winter, so that she might have a
course of lessons from the most celebrated teacher in Milan. He was
gratified to hear that there had been at least nothing to unlearn. Old
Lalli had done his work very thoroughly; he had trained her voice as
only a skilled musician could have done; and, on hearing who had been
her teacher, the great Italian _maestro_ had thrown up his hands and
asked her why she came to him.
"You will have no need of me," he had said to her. "Lalli--did you not
know?--he was once our _primo tenore_ in opera! He would have been
great--ah, great--if he had not lost his voice in an expedition to your
terrible England! So he stayed there and played the violon, did he? And
he taught you to sing with your mouth round and close like that--my own
method! La, la, la, la! We shall see you at La Scala before we have
done!"
But, when the spring came, and he himself was about to fulfil an
engagement in Berlin, he handed Cynthia over to the care of Madame della
Scala, who was then going to England, and advised her to sing in
public--even to take a professional engagement--if she had the chance,
and, if not, to spend another winter under his tuition in Milan. So
Cynthia came back to London in May, and lived with Madame della Scala,
and was heard by nobody until the day of the annual semi-private
concert, which Madame della Scala loved to give for the benefit of
herself and her best pupils.
Hubert reached the rooms at three precisely. He might easily have sent
in his name and obtained a little chat with Cynthia beforehand in the
artists' room; but he did not care to do that. He wanted to see her
first; he was curious to know whether her new experiences had taken
effect upon her, and how she would bear herself before her judges. He
had seen her once only since her return from Italy, and then but for a
few minutes in the society of other people. He could not tell whether
she was changed or not; and he was curious to know.
She had written to him from Italy several times--letters like herself,
vivacious, sparkling, full of spirit and humor. He knew her very well
from these letters, and he was inclined to wish that he knew her better.
He would see how she looked before she knew that he was present; it
would be amusing to note whether she found him out or not.
Thus he argued to himself; and then, with perverse want of logic, after
saying that he did not wish her to know that he was there, he sent his
bouquets to the green-room for teacher and pupil alike, and compromised
matters by attaching his card to Madame's bouquet only, and not to that
which he sent to Cynthia West--a feeble compromise certainly, and
entirely ineffectual.
He seated himself on a green-colored bench on the right-hand side of the
room, and looked around him at the audience. It consisted largely of
mothers and other relatives of the pupils, some of whom came from the
most aristocratic houses in England--largely also of critics, and of
musical persons with flowing hair and note-books. Hubert knew Madame
della Scala's reputation; it was here that the _impresario_ on the watch
for new talent always came--it was here that the career of more than one
famous English singer had been successfully begun. It was of some
importance therefore that Cynthia should sing her best and do her utmost
to impress her audience.
Having looked about him and consulted his programme, Hubert glanced at
the platform, and was aware that a little comedy was being enacted for
the benefit of all persons present.
Madame della Scala was first led forward by a bevy of admiring pupils,
Cynthia not being one, and made her bow to the audience with an air of
gracious humility that was very effective indeed. She was a dark, thin
little woman who had once been handsome, and was still striking in
appearance. She had been an operatic singer in days gone by, and had
taken up the profession of a teacher only when her vocal powers began to
fail. In demi-toilette, with ribbons and medals adorning her square-cut
bodice, long gloves on her hands, and a fan between her fingers, the
little lady curtseyed, smiled, gesticulated, in a charmingly foreign
way, which procured for her the warmest plaudits of the audience. One
felt that, though she herself was not about to perform in person, she
considered herself responsible for the efforts of her pupils, and made
herself fascinating on their behalf.
A large screen was placed on one side of the platform, and a grand piano
nearly filled the other side, leaving a central space for the
performers. At first Hubert had wondered why the screen was there. Now
he saw its use. Madame della Scala seated herself in a chair behind it,
with her face to the singers--evidently under the delusion that her
figure was completely hidden from the audience, and that she could,
unseen, direct, stimulate, or reprove the singers by movement of head,
hands, handkerchief, and fan. The manoeuvre would have been successful
enough, but for the fact that the back of the platform was entirely
filled with a sheet of looking-glass, and that in this mirror her
gestures and facial contortions were all distinctly visible to the
greater number of the listeners. Hubert found great satisfaction in
watching the different expressions of her countenance; he told himself
that Madame's face was the most interesting part of the performance. How
sweetly she smiled at her favorite pupils from the shadow of the screen!
How she nodded her head and beat time with her fingers to the songs they
sang! How, in moments of uncontrollable excitement, she waved her hands
and swayed her body and gesticulated with her fan! It was a comedy in
dumb show. And, as each girl-singer, after performing her part and
curtseying to the audience, passed her teacher on the way to the
artists' room, Madame seized her impulsively by both hands, and drew her
down to impress a kiss of satisfaction on the performer's forehead. The
woman's old charm as an actress, the Southern grace and excitability and
warmth, were never more evident than when reflected in Madame's
movements behind the screen that afternoon, and visible to the
audience--did she know it after all?--only in a looking-glass.
The humor of the situation impressed Hubert, and made him glad that he
had come. The whole scene had something foreign, something half
theatrical about it. An English teacher of music would have effaced
herself--would have shaken with nervousness and scowled at her pupils.
Madame had no idea of effacing herself at all. She was benignity,
composure, affability incarnate. The girls were all her "dear angels,"
who were helping to make her concert a success. When, at a preconcerted
signal in the middle of the afternoon, she was led forward by one of her
most distinguished pupils, and presented by a group of adoring girls
with a great basket of flowers, her whole face beamed with satisfaction,
her medals and orders and brooches twinkled responsively as she
curtseyed, waved her fan, spread out her lace and silken draperies, and
slipped gracefully back into the screen's obscurity once more. Only one
little _contretemps_ occurred to mar the harmony of the scene. Just as
Madame had returned to her seat, the screen, displaced a little by her
movement, fell over, dragging down flower-pots and ferns, and almost
upsetting Madame herself. The bevy of girls rushed to pick her up,
gentlemen and attendants came to the rescue, and in a few moments Madame
was reinstated, a little shaken and flustered, but amiable as ever, the
screen was replaced more securely, and the concert proceeded with
decorum.
But where all this time was Cynthia? She had not joined the cluster of
girls who presented the flowers to Madame, or run to pick her up when
the screen fell down. Madame was reserving Cynthia for a great effect.
She did not appear until nearly the end of the first part of the
concert, when she came on to sing an Italian aria.
"More beautiful than ever!" was Hubert's first reflection. "More
beautiful than I remembered her! Is she nervous? No, I think not. Her
face will take the town if her voice does not." And then he settled
himself to listen. He was far more nervous than Cynthia herself or than
Madame della Scala, who was keeping time to the music with her fan
behind the screen.
Cynthia's beauty, of an unusually striking order, was heightened by an
excitement which lent new color to her cheeks, new fire to her eyes. She
was dressed in very pale yellow--white had been rejected as not so
becoming to her dark skin as a more decided tint--and she wore a cluster
of scarlet flowers on her left shoulder. She looked like some brilliant
tropical bird or butterfly--a thing of light and color, to whom sunlight
was as essential as food. Hubert felt vain of his _protegee_ as he heard
the little murmur of applause that greeted her appearance.
But the applause that followed her singing swamped every other
manifestation of approval. Cynthia surpassed herself. Her voice and her
method of singing were infinitely improved; the sweet high notes were
sweeter than ever, and were full of an exquisite thrill of feeling which
struck Hubert as something new in her musical development. There was no
doubt about her success. No other singer had roused the audience to such
a pitch of excitement and admiration.
Hubert glanced at Madame della Scala. She was sitting with her hands
folded, a placid smile of achievement upon her lips; she had produced
all the impression that she wished to make, and for once was completely
satisfied. Hubert read it in her look.
Cynthia was curtseying to the audience, when, for the first time, Hubert
caught her eye--or rather it was for the first time only that she
allowed him to see that she observed him; as a matter of fact, she had
been conscious of his presence ever since she entered the concert-room.
She flashed a quick smile at him, bowed openly in his direction, and--as
if by accident--touched the belt of her dress. He was quick enough to
see what she meant; some flowers from his bouquet were fastened at her
waist. He half rose from his seat, involuntarily, and almost as if he
wanted to join her on the platform, then sat down again, vexed at his
own movement, and blushing like a schoolboy. He did not know what had
come to him, he told himself; for a moment he had been quite embarrassed
and overwhelmed by this girl's bright glance and smile. She was
certainly very handsome; and it was embarrassing--yes, it was decidedly
a little embarrassing--to be recognised by her so publicly at the very
moment of her first success.
"Know her?" said a voice at his shoulder--it was the voice of a critic.
"Why, she's first-rate! Isn't she the girl that used to play small parts
at the Frivolity? Who discovered that she had a voice?"
"Old Lalli, I believe--first-violin in the orchestra," said Hubert.
"Ah! Did he teach her, then? How did she get to della Scala? That
woman's charges are enormous--as big as Lamperti's!"
"Couldn't say, I'm sure," returned Hubert, with perfect coolness.
"Well, della Scala made a big hit this time, at any rate. Old Mitcham's
prowling about--from Covent Garden, do you see him? That girl will have
an engagement before the day's out--mark my words! There hasn't been
such a brilliant success for the last ten years."
And then the second part of the concert began, and Hubert was left in
peace.
Cynthia's second song was a greater success even than the first. There
could be no doubt that she would attain a great height in her profession
if she wished to do so; she had a splendid organ, she had been well
taught, and she was remarkably handsome. Her stage-training prevented
nervousness; and that she had dramatic talent was evidenced by her
singing of the two airs put down for her in the programme. But she took
everybody by surprise when she was _encored_. Instead of repeating her
last aria, she said a word in the accompanist's ear, and launched at
once into the song of Schubert's which she had sung in Hubert's rooms.
It was a complete change from the Italian music that constituted the
staple of Madame della Scala's concerts; but it revealed new capacities
of passion in the singer's voice, and was not unwelcome, even to Madame
herself, as showing the girl's talent and versatility. As she passed off
the platform, Madame caught the girl in her arms and kissed her
enthusiastically. The pupil's success was the teacher's success--and
Madame was delighted accordingly.
Hubert was leaving the room at the conclusion of the concert, when an
attendant accosted him.
"Beg pardon, sir! Mr. Lepel, sir?"
"Yes; what is it?"
"Miss West told me to give you this, sir;" and he put a twisted slip of
paper into Hubert's hand.
Hubert turned aside and opened the note. He could have smiled at its
abruptness--so like what he already knew of Cynthia West.
"Why didn't you come round in the interval and let me thank you? If I
have been successful, it is all owing to you. Please come to see us this
evening if you can; I want very much to consult you. You know my
address. Madame won't let me stay now. "C. W."
"Impetuous little creature!" Hubert smiled to himself--although Cynthia
was not little.
He thrust the note into his pocket, and went home to dine and dress. He
knew Madame della Scala's ways. This old lady, with whom Cynthia was now
staying, loved to hold a little reception on the evening of the day of
her yearly concert, and she would be delighted to see Mr. Lepel,
although she had not sent him any formal invitation. For Cynthia's sake
he made up his mind to go.
"For Cynthia's sake." How lightly he said the words! In after-days no
words were fraught with deeper and sadder suggestion for him; none bowed
him down more heavily with a sense of obligation and shame and
passionate remorse than these--"For Cynthia's sake."
He went that night to Madame della Scala's house and sat for a full
hour, in a little conservatory lighted with Chinese lanterns, alone with
Cynthia West.