In a low chair, drawn up to secure the full light of a Welsbach
burner, a little woman sat darning stockings. Although full forty
years of age, she was astonishingly young and fresh. Her dark hair,
twisted in a shining coil at the back of a small, well-shaped head,
her rosy lips and white teeth, the look of alert interest in her
hazel eyes, the plain but becomingly arranged dress, all suggested
that her present condition of solitude was incidental rather than
habitual.
The room in which Mrs. Blair’s deft needle repaired the havoc of
stalwart feet in their daily walks to and from the money-getting
haunts of men, was clearly the resort of culture untainted by
vulgarity. On the second floor of a small three-story dwelling in a
street unknown to modern fashion, years of use as a family gathering
place had toned its modest belongings into harmonious attractiveness.
If the furniture was worn, it better accorded with the russet and
dun hues of the old books covering half the walls; and the drawn
curtains of faded crimson stuff did not rebuke the faint odor of
tobacco that lingered in their folds. Above the books hung numerous
good engravings, photographs, and etchings that lifted thought and
piqued imagination with suggestions of the wide world’s beauty and
romantic history. In the most isolated corner a substantial table,
littered with papers, a letter-press, a stray pipe or two, a big
common-sense inkstand and writing pad, with a rack of books of
reference, betrayed the snug harbor of a male brain-worker; while a
stand of blossoming plants in a south window, a tea-table set with
bits of quaint silver, and a couple of becushioned wicker chairs
indicated a woman’s idea of _dulce domum_.
This room was, in fact, the common property of a busy married pair
and their busy children, who rightly considered their reunions in its
pleasant precincts to be a fair equivalent for other things denied
them by Dame Fortune.
The house and its furniture, with a small sum of ready money,
had been the portion given to Molly Christian on her marriage,
two-and-twenty years before, with Terence Blair. He was a
good-looking, well-bred, clever Irishman, who, coming over to the
New World to make a living out of journalism, had at once anchored
himself happily by falling in love with and winning the prettiest
and best-balanced girl of his acquaintance in New York.
Mr. Christian, Molly’s father, after so contributing to his
daughter’s needs, had wisely put what remained of his fortune into an
annuity that supported the amiable but unpractical gentleman until
his death two years before our story opens. This disposition of his
funds had been indorsed by Mr. Christian’s family and friends with
more satisfaction because of his previous persistency of faith in
certain silver and copper mines that had given him every facility for
cultivating the process known as throwing good money after bad.
Although Molly’s handsome Terence had not, according to her
expectation of him, quite set the world of his craft on fire, he had
made a respectable livelihood; and she and their children adored
him for his sweet, cheery temper and easy-going ways. Late in her
life he had imported to live with them a lively little old Irish
mother--styled by the juniors “Granny”--who proved to be just the
dash of flavor needful to complete their family salad. Petulant,
affectionate, witty, and light-hearted, Granny had bravely helped her
daughter-in-law to bear the increasing burden of domestic life on a
limited income in a community where upon working people there is a
call for every dollar before it is well in hand.
As the children had grown up, and their varied mental gifts cried
aloud for the best education of the times, Molly had, indeed, had
much ado to make both ends meet. Luckily for her, the strain of
keeping up appearances was not among her trials.
When the Blairs had married, possessing between them means enough
to give and take the hospitality of that simpler period, they were
a part of the circle that in those days codified the social laws
of the metropolis. Mistress Molly, a whilom belle of her set, did
not lack for attentions, and Terence was popular. But very soon, it
became apparent to the young couple that they were straining overmuch
to keep abreast with people who affected to put aside the hum-drum
ways of their Revolutionary, or Dutch, or Puritan ancestors; that
the growing elaboration of life among their kind must drive the
Blairs either to accept without returning, or not to accept at all.
So Molly let go the threads of gossamer that bound her to her world,
and little by little the Blairs had drifted into insignificance. To
Terence, with his insular density as to the shades of difference
in American society, it had not seemed a mighty matter to give up
Molly’s friends; but she was a woman, and at first it had cost her a
few natural pangs. Now for nearly twenty years she and Terence had
lived their own life, and on the whole had done very well without the
things forsaken.
How was it, then, that to-night, as the little house-mother sat
at her homely task, her thoughts, roving over the field of her
interests, general and special, had settled with a tinge of
wistfulness upon a very trivial matter? In an evening newspaper she
had chanced to read the account of a ball, given the night before for
the young daughter of one of her friends of early years, when the
_débutante_ had literally walked upon flowers.
“Lilies of the valley strewing the floor of the alcove where Tilly
Beaumoris stood beside her mother to receive! And for my girl,
to-night of all nights, when she plays her violin before Levitsky,
not so much as a posy to wear in her best frock!” This was the arrow
that pierced Mrs. Molly’s armor!
Yes, it was Kathleen, bright, radiant Kathleen--her nineteen-year-old
daughter, the sunshine and perfume of their home--who had begun to
disturb the long-standing family peace.
What Molly had cheerfully accepted for herself, she now, like a true
American parent, began to think might be bettered for Kathleen.
An hour before, she had seen the child--heaven in her face--set forth
with her father for a musicale in the studio of an artist, who had
promised to fetch there to hear her play the great Herr Levitsky
himself, whose verdict made or marred an aspirant in her field. And
Molly had no sort of doubt as to Kathleen’s rare talent for the
violin.
The only cloud upon Kathleen’s horizon had been that mamma must stop
behind.
Molly had pleaded--though Kathleen quite understood it to be a
pious fiction--that she really could not make the effort to go to
Crichton’s musicale; that she was better off at home; that she would
certainly be nervous, and that Kathleen would see it, and fail to
play as well. Kathleen knew--and Molly knew she knew--that the
frugal little lady’s only remaining evening gown was too hopelessly
decrepit to make another appearance in public without the renovation
requiring time and outlay just then impossible to bestow on it. As
for its alternate--the old black satin surviving the days of a fuller
purse--that had “suffered a sea change” into modern conformity with
gores, and gathers, and what not, and was at the moment rippling
sheenfully from Kathleen’s own slender waist, the bodice veiled in
transparent gauze of the same somber hue, through which the girl’s
white throat and splendid shoulders gleamed with a pearly luster.
What Kathleen had done to bridge over the insincerity of her mother’s
excuses, was to put her strong, round arms about Molly’s neck and
half blind her with enthusiastic kisses.
Maurice, coming a moment later into the room--Molly’s oldest son,
Maurice, with his six foot one of young manhood set off by cheap
broadcloth, speckless linen, and the ruddy hues of health and
modesty--had repeated Kathleen’s onslaught; and lastly Terence,
always laggard, wearing his high hat of ceremony, and struggling into
his overcoat as he hurried in, had kissed her good-by, and bade her
be of good cheer, since their girl was sure to do them credit.
Ah, well! What did anything matter so long as she had these?
No, no, she did not envy her old friend, Lottie Earl, now the
important Mrs. Beaumoris of the society newspapers, or covet ever
so little that lady’s grand establishments in town and country, her
yacht, her travels, and her vogue. It had been only a silly passing
fancy of Molly’s about the waste of all those lilies, because
Kathleen had asked for a few to brighten her gala toilet, and could
not be gratified in view of the winter woolens needed for poor, dear
Jock--who was serenely wearing his last year’s rags in a snow-drift
up at college!
Then merry Jock passed in review in his mother’s anxious
thoughts--Jock, whom the family were putting through the university
by dint of constant self-denial and petty economy. And then, Maurice,
whose clever drawings were beginning to be sought for by the editors;
his hopes and ambitions, his loving confidence in her, flooded
her heart with tender meditation. Next, Terence had his turn, and
there was a space for Granny. And before all of these images of her
worship, Molly poured a libation of love that made her as happy
as a queen. Gone now were the barbed thoughts of a little while
before. How “they” would laugh at her next day, when she confessed
her feelings as to Mrs. Beaumoris, for to the Blairs most sentiments
were common property. Terence, his eyes full of quizzical enjoyment,
would call her a little socialist. Maurice, throwing back his head in
a jolly laugh, would declare, provided the Blanks gave him Horner’s
new novel to illustrate, Mrs. Beaumoris was welcome to strew forty
thousand lilies upon her daughter’s pathway. Granny would let fly
some cheerful satire, and Kathleen--well, if to-night Levitsky
approved of Kathleen’s playing, after this the girl would be too well
satisfied with her lot in life to bestow even a transient sigh upon
anything lacking!
As the clock on the mantelshelf chimed eleven Mrs. Blair started in
surprise. Her stockings were all done, and piled beside her in neat
rolls; and still there was time to run over those last proofs of
Terence’s, so that he, poor dear, might get to bed for once in decent
time.
It was not for the intellectual treat that Molly Blair, her rather
overtasked hazel eyes radiating contentment, next set herself, with
the careful facility of one trained to the work, to read over the
pile of galley slips representing part of her husband’s new book on
the Romance Languages, then running through the press. Truth to tell,
in her zeal of sympathy she almost knew the paragraphs by heart.
So deeply immersed in her occupation was Mr. Blair’s proofreader,
however, that by and by, although Molly had meant to listen for the
welcome sound, a latch-key was turned in the hall lock below, and she
did not hear it. A moment later, a whirlwind, apparently, bore into
her presence a young creature with the brightest eyes and ripest lips
in the world.
“Oh! little mother, darling!” cried Kathleen, breathlessly, “how
shall I tell you my good news? It was like a fairy tale; and Maurice
thinks so, too. He’s just as glad as I am, I can see; only we’ve not
had time to talk it over. Well--to begin with--_he_ was there--”
“Who, Maurice?” asked Molly, happily.
“No, you teasing mother--Levitsky--and when Mr. Crichton took me up
to introduce me, the hero just glanced me over with his cold blue
eyes, and looked about as much pleased with new company as the real
lion does at the menagerie. Then, I began to play. And what followed
I don’t know--except that the people were as still as mice, and that
I forgot even Levitsky standing there, so tall and weary, between the
folding doors. And then--and then--everybody clapped, and I played
again; and, when I had finished, papa, who was close behind me, took
my violin away. Next Levitsky came straight through the crowd, and
took me by the hand, and said--oh! what _do_ you suppose he said to
your good-for-nothing child? ‘Mademoiselle, you have all the rest,
if only you persevere till you master the technique.’ His eyes were
no longer like steel; they shone on me with the softest, friendliest
gleam. That terrible golden mane of his could never frighten me
again, I think. He was as gentle as you are, mother dear; and there
we stood talking till he left, and papa said I must come away, too.”
“You will say I was, for once, fit to take care of your treasure,
won’t you, Molly?” supplemented Terence, who had followed the family
swan upstairs. “When you see the state of excitement she is in, you
will agree that if that little head isn’t turned to-night she’ll
indeed be a lucky girl. Levitsky showed pretty plainly that it wasn’t
by any means a thing of every day for him to meet with the likes of
her; and when _he_ roared, of course all the little animals chimed
in. I suppose, there’ll be no living in the house with Kathleen after
this.”
“Oh, yes! I shall be so good, so amiable, everybody can live at peace
with me,” cried Kathleen, throwing off her fur-trimmed wrap and
revealing her beauty to the eyes that never tired of it. “But here we
are, mother, neglecting a most important duty. In the fullness of his
pride, this heedless daddy of mine has gone and invited two or three
men to come in here presently for supper.”
“Terence!” said Mrs. Blair, reproachfully.
“It’s only Malvolio, Molly dear, and little Catullus Clarke--”
“Such a beautiful new poet, Mr. Clarke is, mother, with night-black,
silky hair and chiseled features--don’t you remember papa’s review
of his book Sunday before last--here it is, this dark-green duck of a
booklet, with every modern idea in the make-up--”
“But my dears, however will Mr. Catullus Clarke bring himself to
consort with a Welsh rarebit?” interrupted the housekeeper, with some
severity. “And to save my life, that is all I can think of to offer
him.”
“He’ll tackle it fast enough,” said Terence, comfortably. “But
don’t fash yourself, Molly; there’ll be oysters to stew in the big
chafing-dish. Maurice stopped behind us to fetch them from our old
friend Felsenberg’s, whose place was open and in full blast as we
passed. Come downstairs now, and get things ready in the dining-room,
for it isn’t every day we celebrate our daughter’s first step in the
temple of Fame, I’d have you remember, ma’am.”
“And, mother,” put in Kathleen, as they adjourned below for action,
“you will never guess whom I met at Crichton’s! Mrs. Beaumoris and
her older daughter, who is a fanatic for music.”
“Lottie Beaumoris?” said Molly, remembering with a blush her envious
soliloquy of a little while ago.
“Yes, you know she is by way of being a patroness of talent, and
the daughter is one of the little fishes that swim after Levitsky.
They were amazingly condescending to me, not in the least identifying
your child. Here comes the wonderful part, mother. Mrs. Beaumoris has
engaged me to play at an afternoon party on the 25th, when Levitsky’s
to be the star! I saw in a minute that the master had suggested me,
and felt perfectly overwhelmed with thankfulness. And the price,
mamma--the price I am to be paid is stunning. Perhaps Mrs. Beaumoris
may not think so, for I noticed she hesitated when she offered
it--but she little knew how my spirit bounded at the offer. Let me
whisper, dear; I don’t mean that any one else shall hear.”
And bending her stately head to the level of Molly’s little pink
ear, she breathed into it a sum which, to the simple notions of
the mother, seemed more than generous, although, as Mrs. Beaumoris
afterward boasted, she was “getting this new girl for half price.”
“Is Kathleen telling of her latest captive?” said Maurice, arriving
with his can of oysters, to find their little dining-room aglow with
warmth and comfort.
“Nonsense, Morry,” said his sister.
“Yes, but it’s true, she has got her net over not only the great
Levitsky, but a man who can help her on tremendously, if he chooses
to. And he does choose apparently, since he asked me when he might
call here--and by the same token, I told him we’d be having a bit of
supper later on, and would be glad to have him drop in.”
“Morry!” said both women, in a breath.
“Well, now, mother, isn’t it my business to look after Kathleen’s
musical interests? And didn’t Crichton tell me this fellow was no
end of a swell in musical high society? The first time I noticed him
was in the train of those Beaumoris females, who appealed to him for
everything. But he couldn’t take his eyes off my little sister after
she began to play.”
“I never even saw him,” exclaimed Kathleen. “Or, stop! could that
have been the beautiful Raphael-faced creature who was standing
between the doors during my first piece?”
“I suppose _you_ might call him Raphael-faced,” said Maurice, with a
brother’s fine scorn of his sister’s enthusiasm for any man. “But _I_
looked at him purely in a business light, as an impresario of young
genius. He talked to me some time, and accepted my invitation to drop
in. I don’t know, now that I come to think of it, what there is about
Thorndyke, but it’s something not quite--well, I give it up. Judge
for yourselves when he arrives.”
And now, all was in readiness for the impromptu feast. On the hob
of the grate fire, a kettle, indispensable to the impending brew
of Terence’s famous punch, simmered assurance of speedy boiling.
Terence--trusting to no one the concoction of a Welsh rarebit, for
which he had won renown at Trinity College, Dublin, now years too
many ago to be mentioned--was already at work over a chafing-dish.
Kathleen, her cheeks crimson, her lips of the true pomegranate tint
parted with delight--a large damask napkin pinned over the front of
her made-over black satin--was peeling a lemon for the punch. In this
branch of culinary service she was admitted to be an adept--so thin,
so even, so unbroken the golden spirals she produced!
Maurice, perched on the arm of his sister’s chair, fell into lively
whispering--for, to Kathleen, almost before his mother, the boy was
accustomed to carry his hopes and fears. To him also that evening had
fallen a stroke of good fortune. Had not he heard from Mr. Malvolio,
the art-critic of the _Regulator_, that ---- had spoken to him of
putting the illustrations of Horner’s book into the hands of “that
young Blair?” And was not ---- the member of the great publishing
firm most to be relied upon for the distribution of covetable plums?
Mrs. Blair, glancing back as she went into the pantry to prepare
for her oyster stew, thought the old clock under which her children
sat--whose broad face had looked down for so many years on the
councils of her family--had never seen a fresher, a more winsome
pair, eager to confront the great world on their own account.
The father, affecting not to be conscious of Morry’s confidence to
Kathleen, recalled the days when he had peeped in on them at early
morning in their nursery, to find both youngsters sitting in the
same crib, with heads together and tongues wagging industriously
over their forecasts for a day, then as wide and broad to them as
was the future now. Neither of his children, Terence decided with
satisfaction, had parted with the simple straightforwardness of that
primal period.
Mr. Malvolio, whose ring startled Maurice from his perch, and sent
him to open the front door, considered himself well favored in being
admitted to one of Blair’s little off-hand suppers. As the famous
critic and dictator upon matters of pictorial art came into the room,
his pallid, mask-like face, and snaky, black locks disheveled over a
high forehead, suggested rather a ghost at the feast than a would-be
reveler.
After him presently arrived Mr. Catullus Clarke, whose overcoat and
galoches had but just been deposited in the little hall, when a third
ring made itself audible.
“That’s Thorndyke, probably,” said Maurice, hastening away--the maid
servants of the Blair household having been long abed and slumbering.
“Maurice has asked an important stranger to join us,” said Mrs.
Blair, with a little air of apology to Malvolio.
“Thorndyke--I should think so,” said Malvolio, but interrupted
himself upon the entrance of Kathleen’s “Raphael-faced” young man.
He had been going to say that Thorndyke was much oftener visible in
houses of the Beaumoris variety than in the haunts of upper Bohemia,
but this struck him as hardly a gracious observation, even among the
easy-going Blairs.
The first appearance of the musical virtuoso confirmed, in her
mother’s eyes, Kathleen’s description of him. There was an expression
singularly unworldly and winning about his fair, handsome face.
In his hand he bore a cluster of rare white orchids, fringed with
maiden hair fern--“a real Beaumoris bouquet,” said proud Molly to
herself--which, with an almost reverential air, upon being presented
to that young lady by her brother, he offered to Kathleen.
This act of public tribute from an oracle of such repute in the world
where she aspired to shine filled the girl with tremulous delight.
It also disposed her to think more than kindly of the giver. But
Thorndyke did not follow up his advantage by pressing himself upon
her further notice. He talked in turn with Terence Blair, Mrs. Blair,
and Malvolio; tasted and praised Molly’s oysters, declined Terence’s
punch, and settled down in a corner to await further developments.
At this point of the proceedings still another ring was heard--brisk,
fearless, insistent, the sort of ring Jack might have caused to
resound through the Giant’s castle.
“Who can that be?” asked Mrs. Blair. Terence, to whom she addressed
herself, did not reply in words, but, with a sly smile twinkling
about his eyes and lips, referred her to Kathleen.
Kathleen, engaged in conversation with Mr. Malvolio, whose quaint
drolleries of speech gave her continual pleasure, turned around with
a movement half impatient, half resigned.
“Ask Morry,” she said. But Maurice, quite under the spell of Mr.
Thorndyke, was listening with delight to that gentleman’s discourse
upon some theme evidently kindling to the imagination.
“Morry _would_ invite him, mother,” the girl went on, with a trifle
of petulance in her voice. “It is only just Colin.”