The expression of Ida Mayhew's face was cold and defiant on the
following day. She did not attend church with her mother, but remained
all the morning in her room. She not only avoided opportunities
of speaking to Van Berg when coming down to dinner and during the
afternoon, but she would not even look towards him; and her manner
towards her cousin also was decidedly icy.
"I don't know what is the matter with Ida," her mother remarked to
Stanton; "she has acted so strangely of late."
"It's the old complaint, I imagine," he replied with a shrug.
"What's that?"
"Caprice."
"Oh, well! she's no worse than other pretty, fashionable girls,"
said Miss Mayhew, carelessly.
Stanton, in his anger on the previous evening, had not spoken of
his cousin to Van Berg in a very complimentary way; but the artist
remembered that the young man himself was not in a condition to
form either a correct or charitable judgment; while the fact that
Ida, as a result of his remonstrance, had gone directly to her room,
was in her favor. He still resolved to suspend his final opinion
and not to give over his project until satisfied that her nature
contained too much alloy to permit of its success. He paid no heed
therefore to her coldness of manner; and when at last meeting her
face to face on the piazza Sunday evening, he lifted his hat as
politely as possible.
Sibley did not appear until the arrival of the dinner hour. He was
under the impression that he had gone a little too far the night
before, and tried to make amends by an immaculate toilet and an
urbane yet dignified courtesy towards all whom he knew. Society
very readily winks at the indiscretions of wealthy young men.
Moreover, he had been inveigled back to his room before his condition
had been observed to any extent. There fore he found himself so
well received in the main, that he soon fully recovered his wonted
self-assurance.
Mrs. Mayhew was particularly gracious; and Ida, who at first had
been somewhat distant towards him as well as all others, concluded
that she had not sufficient cause to be ashamed of him, and so
it came about that they spent much of the afternoon and evening
together. She did not fail to note, however, that when he approached
Van Berg he received a cold and curt reception. Was jealousy
the cause of this? In her elation and excitement on the previous
evening, she had been inclined to think so, but now she feared that
it was because the artist despised the man; and in her secret soul
she was compelled to admit that he had reason to despise him--yes,
to despise them both. She felt, with bitter humiliation, that his
superiority was not assumed but real.
More than once before the day closed, she found herself contrasting
the two men. The one had not had a shred of true worth about him.
Stanton, to teaze her and to justify his interference, had told her
that Mr. Burleigh had been compelled to take charge of her companion
in order to prevent him from disgracing himself and the house.
Although too proud to acknowledge it, she still saw plainly that
it was her cousin's interference, and indirectly the intervention
of the artist that had kept her from being involved in that disgrace.
Even her perverted mind recognized that one was a gentleman, and
the other--well, "a fashionable young man," as she would phrase
it. The one, as a friend, would shield her from every detracting
breath; the other, if given a chance, would inevitably tumble into
some slough of infamy himself, and drag her after him with reckless
selfishness.
Still, with something like self-loathing, she saw that Sibley was
her natural ally and companion, and that she had far more in common
with him than with the artist. She could easily maintain with him
the inane chatter of their frivolous life, but she could not talk
with the artist, nor he with her, without an effort that was as
humiliating as it was apparent.
What was more, she saw that all others classed her with Sibley,
and that the people in the house who were akin to the artist in
character and high breeding, stood courteously but coolly aloof
from both herself and her mother. She also felt that she could
not lay all the blame of this upon her poor father. Indeed, since
the previous miserable Sunday on which Van Berg had tried to win
Mr. Mayhew from his evil habit for one day at least, and she had
thwarted his kindly intention, she had begun to feel that she and
her mother were the chief causes of his increasing degradation.
Others, she feared, and especially Van Berg, took the same view.
With such thoughts surging up in her mind and clouding her brow,
Sibley did not find her altogether the same girl that she had been
the evening before. Still, as has been said, he was her natural
ally, and she tried to second his efforts to re-establish a good
character and to keep up the appearance of fashionable respect.
Stanton was in something of a dilemma. He did not like Sibley,
and was ashamed of his recent excess; but having drank with him,
and so, in a sense, having accepted his hospitality, felt himself
obliged to be rather affable. He managed the matter by keeping out
of the way as far as possible, and was glad to remember that the
young man would depart in the morning. While scarcely acknowledging
the fact to himself, he was on the alert most of the day to find
an opportunity of enjoying a conversation with Miss Burton; but
she kept herself very much secluded. After attending church at a
neighboring village in the morning, she spent most of the afternoon
with Mrs. Burleigh, assisting her in the care of the cross baby.
Van Berg, much to Stanton's envy, found her as genial and cheery
as ever when they met at the table. He learned, from her manner
more than from anything she said, that the day and its associations
were sacred to her. She affected no solemnity and seemed under
no constraint, only her thought and bearing had a somewhat soberer
coloring, like the shading of a picture. To his mind it was but
another example of her entire reticence in regard to herself, while
her smiling face seemed as open as the light.
But as she came out from supper the children pounced upon her,
clamorous for a story. She assented on condition that Mr. Burleigh
would give them the use of one of the private parlors--a stipulation
speedily complied with; and soon she had nearly all the small folk
in the hotel gathered round her.
"I shall stand without, like the 'Peri at the gate,'" Stanton found
a chance to say.
"The resemblance is very striking," was her smiling reply; but for
some reason he winced under it and wished he had not spoken.
When she dismissed her little audience there were traces of tears
on some of the children's faces, proving that she could tell
a pathetic, as well as a jolly story; and Van Berg observed with
interest how the power of her magnetism kept them lingering near
her even after she entered the parlor and sought a quiet nook near
the old gentleman and lady to whom she had been reading the previous
evening.
Mrs. Chints, who liked to be prominent on all occasions, very
proudly felt that sacred music would be the right thing on Sabbath
evening, and, with a few of hew own ilk, was giving a florid and
imperfect rendering of that peculiar style of composition that
suggests a poor opera while making a rather shocking and irreverent
use of words taken from Scriptures.
Van Berg and Stanton, who were out on the piazza, were ready to
grate their teeth in anguish, finding the narcotic influence of
the strongest cigar no match for Mrs. Chints's voice.
Suddenly that irrepressible lady spied Miss Burton, and she swooped
down upon her in a characteristic manner, exclaiming:
"You can't decline; you needn't say you don't; I've heard you. If
you sing half as well for us as you did to Mrs. Burleigh's baby
this afternoon, we'll be more than satisfied. Now come; one sweet
solo--just one."
Stanton craned his neck from where he sat to see the result of this
onslaught, but Miss Burton shook her head.
"Well, then, won't you join in with us?" persisted Mrs. Chints.
"Sacred music is so lovely and appropriate on Sunday night."
"You are right in that respect, Mrs. Chints. If it is the wish of
those present I think some simple hymns in which we can all join
might be generally enjoyed."
"Now, my dear, you have just hit it," said the old lady at her
side. "I, for one, would very much like to hear some simple music
like that we had when I was young."
The old lady's preference was taken up and echoed on every side.
Indeed the majority were ready for any change from Mrs. Chints's
strident tones.
"Well, my dear," said the lady, "it shall be as you say." Then she
added, "sotto voce," with a complacent nod, "I suppose the music
we were giving is beyond the masses, but if you could once hear
Madame Skaronni render it in our choir at the Church of the (something
that sounded like 'pica-ninny,' as by Mrs. Chints pronounced) you
would wish for no other. Will you play, my dear?"
"Ah, yes, please do," exclaimed some of the children who had gathered
around her.
"In mercy to us poor mortals for whom there is no escape save going
to bed, please comply," whispered the old lady in her ear.
The light in Miss Burton's eyes was mirthful rather than sacred as
she rose and went to the piano, and at once an air of breezy and
interested expectancy took the place of the previous bored expression.
"Come, Van," said Stanton, throwing away his cigar, "we'll need
your tenor voice. We must stand by that little woman. The Chints
tribe have incited to profanity long enough, and shall make the
night hideous no more. If we could only drown them instead of their
voices, what a mercy it would be!" and the young men went around
and stood in the open door near the piano.
"You are to sing," said Miss Burton, with a decided little nod at
them.
"We intend to," replied Stanton, "since you are to accompany us."
She started "Coronation," that spirited and always inspiriting
battle song of the church--jubilant and militant--a melody that is
also admirably adapted for blending rough and inharmonious voices.
For a moment her own voice was like that of a singing lark, mounting
from its daisy covert; or rather, like the flow of a silver rill
whose music was soon lost, however, in the tumultuous rush of other
tributary streams of sound; still, the general effect was good, and
the people enjoyed it. By the time the second stanza was reached
the majority were singing with hearty good-will, the children
gathering near and joining in with delight.
Other familiar and old-fashioned hymns followed, and then one and
another began to ask for their favorites. Fortunately Mrs. Chints's
knowledge of sacred music was limited, and so she retired on the
laurels of having called Miss Burton out, informing half the company
of the fact with an important nod; and in remembrance of this fact
they were inclined to forgive her the anguish she had personally
caused them.
Mrs. Burleigh, who had stolen into the parlor for a little while
that she might enjoy the singing, remembered that she had a pile
of note-books that had grown dusty on a shelf since the baby had
furnished the music of the household. These were brought, and
higher and fuller musical themes were attempted, until the singers
dwindled to a quartet composed of a lady who had a fair soprano
voice, Miss Burton, Stanton and Van Berg. Their selections, however,
continued truly sacred in character, thus differing radically from
the florid style that Mrs. Chints had introduced.
The sweet and penetrating power of Miss Burton's voice could now
be distinguished. For some reason it thrilled and touched its
hearers in a way that they could not account for. The majority
present at once realized that she was not, and never could become,
a great singer. But within the compass of her voice, she could
pronounce sacred words in a manner that send them home to the hears
of the listeners like rays that could both cheer and melt.
At last she rose from the piano, remarking that there were other
musicians present; and no amount of persuasion could induce her to
remain there any longer.
"Perhaps you gentlemen play," she said, turning to the young men
who were about to depart. "A man's touch and leadership is so much
more decisive and vigorous than a lady's!"
"Mr. Van Berg plays very well indeed, considering his youth and
diffidence!" remarked Stanton.
"And he has been taking advantage of a defenceless woman all this
time! Mr. Van Berg, if you do not wish to lose your character
utterly, you must take my place at the piano."
"I admit," he replied, "that I have taken more pleasure than you
will believe in your in your contribution to our evening's enjoyment,
but rather than lose your good opinion I will attempt to play or
sing anything you dictate, even though I put every one in the parlor
to flight, with their fingers in their ears."
"And you fear my taste will impose on you some such blood-curdling
combination of sounds? Thank you."
"Now, Van, you have taught us what unconditional surrender means.
Miss Burton, ask him to play and sing some selections from the
Oratorio of the Messiah."
"Are you familiar with that?" she asked, with a sudden lighting up
of her face.
"Somewhat so, only as an amateur can be; but I see, from your
expression, that you are."
"I've contributed my share this evening," she said, decisively.
"Please give us some selections from the Oratorio."
"Lay your command, then, on Stanton also. There's a part that we
have sung together as a duet occasionally, although it is not 'so
nominated in the bond,' or score, rather."
"If Mr. Stanton does not stand by his friend, then he should be
left to stand by himself."
"In the corner, I suppose you mean. But do not leave, Miss Burton.
If you do not stand by Mr. Van Berg and sing with him the duet that
begins with the words--
'O death! where is thy sting?'
you will deprive us all of the chief pleasure of the evening, and
it's not in your nature to do that."
"Please, please do, Miss Burton," cried a score of voices.
"You know nothing about my nature, sir. I assure you that I can
be a veritable dragon. But out of regard for Mr. Van Berg's 'youth
and diffidence' I will sustain him."
Van Berg's voice was not strong, but he sang with taste and good
expression. It suggested refinement and culture rather than deep,
repressed feeling, as had been the case in Miss Burton's singing.
His style would be admired, and would not give much occasion for
criticism, but, as a general thing, it would not stir and move the
heart. Still, the audience gave close and pleased attention.
Ida Mayhew, who all this time had been out on the piazza and but
half listening to Mr. Sibley's compliments in her attention to the
scenes at the piano, now rose and came to one of the open windows,
where, while hidden from the singer, she could hear more distinctly.
Her features did not indicate that she shared in the pleasure
expressed on the other faces within, and her gathering frown was
deepened by the shadow of the window frame.
"You do not enjoy it!" said Mr. Sibley, complacently.
"No," she answered, laconically; but for reasons he little understood.
"Now you show your taste, Miss Mayhew."
"I fear I do. Hush!" But when Van Berg's solo ended, she breathed
a deep sigh.
Then Stanton's rich, but uncultivated bass voice joined in the
melody. Still the effect was better tahn would have been expected
from amateurs. After a few moments, Stanton stood back and Miss
Burton and Van Berg sang together; then every one leaned forward
and listened with a breathless hush. Her voice seemed to pervade
his with sould and feeling that had been lacking hitherto.
As the last rich chords died away, the strongest expression of
pleasure were heard on every side; but Ida Mayhew stepped abruptly
out into the dusk of the piazza with clenched hands and compressed
lips.
"'Peste!'" she exclaimed under her breath. "What a contrast between
Sibley and myself last evening and these two people to-night! What
a worse contrast there might have been if Ik had not interfered in
time! I have a good voice, but the guests of the house have not
even thought of me in connection with this evening's entertainment.
I am associated only with the Sibley style of amusements."