“Eugenia,” said Louis Gaston, tapping at his sister-in-law’s door one
morning, “I stopped to say that I will get tickets for Miss Trevennon
and yourself for the opera Monday evening, if you say so.”
“_I_ don’t say so, my dear Louis, I assure you,” returned Mrs. Gaston
opening her door and appearing before him in a tasteful morning toilet.
“If you take Margaret and me to the opera, it must be for your own
pleasure; she is not the kind of guest to hang heavily on her hostess’
hands. I’ve never been at a loss for her entertainment for a moment
since she has been here, and what is more, scarcely ever for my own. I
find myself quite equal to the task of providing for her amusement, and
so it has not been difficult for me to keep my promise of not calling
upon you in her behalf.”
“You certainly never made me any such promise as that, and it would
have been very absurd if you had.”
“Ah, perhaps then it was to Margaret that I made it! The main point is
that I’ve kept it.”
“Of course, Eugenia, it goes without saying, that when you have a young
guest in the house my services are at your disposal.”
“Oh, certainly. Only, in this instance, I prefer to let all suggestions
come from yourself. I know you only put up with my Southern relatives
because of your regard for me, and, strong as is my faith in that
sentiment, I don’t want to test it too severely; but I won’t detain
you. Mrs. Gaston and Miss Trevennon accept with pleasure Mr. Gaston’s
kind invitation for Monday evening. The opera is _Favorita_--isn’t it?
Margaret has never heard it, I know; it will be very nice to initiate
her. Will you be at home to dinner to-day?”
“Yes, of course,” replied the young man, looking back over his shoulder
as he walked away.
“Oh, of course!” soliloquized his sister-in-law, as she turned back
into her apartment. “Quite as if you were never known to do otherwise!
Oh, the men! How facile they are! Louis, as well as the rest! I had
expected something to come of this case of propinquity, but I did _not_
expect it to come so quickly. He hasn’t dined out more than twice since
she’s been here, and then with visible reluctance, and he has only been
once to New York, and I suspect the designs are suffering. And Margaret
too! It’s quite the same with her--saying to me last night that his
manners are so fine that she is constrained to admit that, taking Louis
as an exponent of the Northern system, it must be better than the one
she had always supposed to be the best! It works rapidly both ways,
but there must be a hitch before long, for in reality they are as far
asunder as the poles. Every tradition and every prejudice of each is
diametrically opposed to the other. How _will_ it end, I wonder?”
It happened that Mrs. Gaston did an unusual amount of shopping and
visiting that day, and was so fatigued in consequence that she had
dinner served to her in her own apartment, and Margaret dined alone
with the two gentlemen. Afterward she went up and spent an hour with
the vivacious invalid, whom she found lying on the bed, surrounded
by an array of paper novels by miscellaneous authors, the titles of
which were of such a flashy and trashy order that Margaret felt sure
she would never have cared to turn the first page of any of them, and
wondered much that her intelligent and cultivated cousin could find
the least interest in their contents. Mrs. Gaston was in the habit of
ridiculing these novels herself, but would say, with a laugh, that
they were “the greatest rest to her,” and Margaret was continually
expecting to find her immersed in some abstruse work, which would
sufficiently tax her mental powers to account for the liberal allowance
of relaxation which was to counteract it; but, so far, she had been
disappointed.
Mrs. Gaston laid her novel by on Margaret’s entrance, and gave her
young cousin a cordial welcome. The two sat talking busily until
General Gaston came up to his dressing-room to prepare for a lecture to
which he was going, and to which he offered to take Margaret. His wife
put her veto on that plan, however, pronouncing it a stupid affair, and
saying that Margaret would be better entertained at home.
“But you are not to stay up here with me, my dear,” she said. “Go down
stairs. Some one will be coming in by-and-by, I dare say, and you must
not think of coming back to entertain me. I am bent on seeing how this
absurd story ends; it’s the most deliciously preposterous thing I ever
read,--so bad, that it’s good! Say good-night now, dear. I know you are
never dull; so I dismiss you to your own devices. I don’t know where
Louis is, but he may come and join you after a while. There’s never
much counting on him, however.”
When Margaret descended to the drawing-room, the library doors were
thrown apart, and through them she could see Louis Gaston bending over
some large sheets of heavy paper, on which he was drawing lines by
careful measurement. He looked up at the sound of her footsteps, and,
as she took a magazine from the table, and seated herself in a large
chair before the fire, he came in with his pencil in his hand, and
leaning his back against the end of the mantel, said:
“Eugenia tells me you have never seen _Favorita_, and I so rejoiced to
put an end to that state of affairs! You don’t know what an absolute
refreshment it has been to me to observe your enjoyment of the music
you have heard since you have been here. I don’t think I have ever
received from any one such an impression of a true appreciation of
music. It seems rather odd, as you neither play nor sing yourself.”
“It pleases me to think that my own incapacity does not interfere in
the least with my enjoyment of music,” Margaret said. “When I hear
beautiful music my pleasure in it is not impaired by any feeling of
regret that I cannot produce such a thing myself. It no more occurs to
me to long for that, than to long to create a beautiful sunset when I
see one.”
“The fact that one is attainable, while the other is not, would make
a difference, I think.” He paused a moment, and then went on with his
pleasant smile: “Do you know this discovery of mine--that of your
fastidious appreciation of music--has been the thing that deterred me
from inflicting any of my own upon you? I was so set against this that
I made Eugenia promise not to acquaint you with the fact that I can
sing a little.”
“How could you do that?” exclaimed Margaret, reproachfully, with a
keen conception of what lovely effects in singing might be produced by
this richly modulated voice, whose spoken utterances she so admired.
“I might have had such delight in hearing you sing! I am accustomed
to having music so constantly at home. We have a friend there, a
young man, who is almost like one of our own household, who sings
beautifully. He has a lovely voice, so pure and strong, but entirely
uncultivated. In some things it shows this almost painfully, but there
are others that he renders exquisitely. Sacred music he sings best.”
“Ah, that I have never tried, at least not much. Your friend’s voice
is the opposite of mine. I had really very little to begin with, and
an immense deal of practice and training has not enabled me to do much
more than direct properly the small amount of power I possess, and
disguise its insufficiency more or less. It isn’t very much, after
all, and yet how I have pegged away at my scales and exercises! I had
a most exacting master when I was in Germany, and as I was studying
my profession at the same time, I wore myself almost to a skeleton. I
studied very hard at the School of Architecture, but I never practised
less than three hours a day--often four.”
He was talking on, very lightly, but he stopped short, arrested by
an expression on the face of his companion that he was at a loss to
account for. There was a look of enthusiastic ardor in her eyes that
amounted to positive emotion.
“How can you speak so lightly of a thing that was really so noble?” she
said, in a voice full of feeling.
Louis’ face broke into a smile of sheerest astonishment, but at the
same time he felt himself strangely stirred by the feeling that he had
roused this warm admiration in the breast of this fair young lady.
“My dear Miss Trevennon,” he said earnestly, “you amaze me by applying
such a word to my conduct. I went abroad to study architecture and
music, and there was every reason why I should make the most of the
three years I had allotted to these purposes. That I did my part with
some degree of thoroughness was only what I felt bound to do, in the
simplest justice to myself and others. When I think of the fellows who
accomplished twice what I did, contending against such obstacles as
poverty, or ill-health, or the absence of proper facilities, I find
the word _noble_, as applied to myself, almost humiliating. Do you
know, your views on some points are extremely puzzling to me?”
“I am at sea,” said Margaret gently, with a hesitating little smile.
“Things that I see about me seem strange and unfamiliar, and I often
feel that I have lost my bearings. But your resolute application to
studies that must often have been wearying and laborious, to the
exclusion of the relaxations most young men find necessary, rouses my
profound admiration. I have never known a man who was capable of a
thing like that.”
“Will you do me the kindness to tell me if I am blushing?” said Louis.
“I veritably believe so, and as it is a thing I have never been
known to do before, I should like to have the occurrence certified
to. I venture to hope, however, that the fact is accounted for by my
being physically thick skinned, and not morally so, for I have known
myself to be blushing when the fact would not have been suspected by
outsiders. Just now, however, I fancy it must have been evident to the
most casual observer.”
He saw that the levity of his words and tones were, for some reason,
discordant to Miss Trevennon, and so he spoke in a graver voice, as he
said:
“I feel musical to-night, and almost as if I could overcome the
hesitation I have spoken of sufficiently to sing you some of the music
of _Favorita_ in anticipation of Monday night.”
“Oh, why don’t you? It would be so delightful!” exclaimed Margaret,
fired at the suggestion.
“I never feel that I can sing well when I have to play my own
accompaniments,” he said. “But for that----”
“Oh, if you have the music, do let me play for you!”
“Could you do it? I thought you did not play. Have you also been
practising concealment?”
“My music amounts to nothing, but I could easily manage an
accompaniment. Have you the notes?”
“Yes, just at hand. What a delightful idea! I never thought of this.
You shouldn’t have cheated me out of such a pleasure all this time. Let
me open the piano. Come!”
He tossed his pencil down upon the table, and moved across the room
as he spoke. Seeing his action, Margaret checked herself as she was
following, and said suddenly:
“I forgot your work. I really cannot interfere with that.”
“Never mind the work. The work may go. I’ll make it up somehow. Could
you manage this, do you think?”
By way of answer, Margaret seated herself and ran over the prelude with
tolerable ease, and at the proper time nodded to him to begin.
There was no interruption until the really impressive voice had died
away in the last note, and then Margaret dropped her hands on her lap
and said, with a long-drawn breath:
“I can see no lack. It is most beautiful. I think you must have
greatly under-estimated your voice. It has a quality that touches me
deeply.”
“What there is of it does pretty well,” Louis answered, smiling, well
pleased at her earnest commendation. “Ames says I’m the best singer
to have no voice that he ever heard, which is the greatest amount of
praise I can lay claim to.”
“I feel more than ever, now, the lack of cultivation in Mr. Somers’
voice,” said Margaret. “It is really a grand organ, but he scarcely
knows how to sing anything with entire correctness, unless it is
something in which he has been carefully drilled by some one who knows
a little more than himself. I wish he could hear you sing.”
“I wish I could hear him,” said Louis. “If he has the voice, the
cultivation can be acquired readily enough; but with me the utmost has
been done. Much of this music is rather beyond me. Let us try a ballad.”
He was bending over the rack, in search of some particular piece, when
the door-bell sounded. They both heard it, and their eyes met with a
look of disappointment.
“It’s too bad,” said Margaret, regretfully. “I don’t want to be
interrupted.”
“In that case,” said Louis, promptly, arresting the servant on his way
to the door by a quick motion of the hand, “suppose you allow me to
have the ladies excused.”
Margaret assented readily, and the order was accordingly given.
A moment later the servant came into the room, presenting two cards
on a tray. Gaston glanced at them, and Margaret saw his face change
slightly.
“I am afraid Eugenia will make me suffer for this,” he said. “One of
these visitors was young Leary.”
“Who is he?” asked Margaret, simply.
“You surely know who the Learys are?” Gaston replied, in a tone of
reproachful incredulity that was almost severe. “They come of one
of the most distinguished families at the North, and are here for
the winter. The father of this young man has held various important
diplomatic and political offices. They visit very little, and Eugenia
will be annoyed that young Leary has not been admitted. I don’t think
he has ever called here before, except to acknowledge an invitation. He
sat near us at the theatre the other night, and I saw that he observed
you; so this visit is probably a tribute to you.”
“I don’t know that you have said anything about him to make me regret
him especially,” said Margaret, “only that he’s Mr. Leary; and what’s
in a name? Is there any reason why one should particularly desire him
as an acquaintance?”
Mr. Gaston looked slightly bewildered. Then he began to speak, and
checked himself suddenly. Then, turning back to the piano, and
beginning to look over the music, he said, somewhat hurriedly:
“It is only that they are people it’s well to be civil to.”
There was something in the tone Louis took, in regard to this matter,
that puzzled Margaret--a tone that had also puzzled her in the other
members of the Gaston family. There seemed to be a certain anxiety with
all of them to know the right people, and be seen at the proper houses,
and have only the best people at their own. Margaret Trevennon, for her
part, had never had a qualm of this sort in her life, and supposed,
moreover, that only vulgar or uncertainly posed people could possibly
be subject to them. And yet here were people who were not only not
vulgar but more elegant and charming than any men and women she had
ever known, who were entitled to, and actually held, an unimpeachable
social position, and who yet seemed to find it necessary to struggle
hard to maintain it, and were continually possessed by a positive
anxiety to appear to be distinguished! Really, it seemed their first
and principal concern. This was the first time she had seen a decided
indication of the feeling in Louis Gaston, and somehow it hurt her
more in him than in the others. Unconsciously she gave a little sigh.
“Dear me!” she thought to herself, “what an unpleasant idea! Why need
people assume anything, when they actually have it all? It never
occurred to me that really nice people could give themselves any
concern of this sort.”
And then, as she turned and suddenly met Louis’ eyes, her face broke
into a smile of sudden amusement.
“What is it?” said the young man, eagerly.
“I was laughing at some lines from the ‘Bab Ballads’ that happened to
come into my head just then,” she said.
“What were they? I dote upon the Babs. Do let’s have them.”
“Lord Lardy would smile and observe,
‘How strange are the customs of France!’”
quoted Margaret. “I dare say they don’t seem very relevant. But come,
let’s go on with the music,” she added, hurriedly. “We must not prolong
the interruption.”
Mr. Gaston had smiled at her quotation and then become suddenly grave.
As he selected a sheet of music and put it on the rack before her, he
said seriously:
“I sometimes see that there are little points that we look at very
differently. Perhaps we may come to understand each other by-and-by.
I hope so, sincerely. And now, are you familiar with this, and do you
care for it?”
The selection happened to be a favorite of Margaret’s, and she entered
delightedly into its rendition, and very soon the lovely strains of
the sweet, sympathetic voice had banished all discordant thoughts and
memories.
“There, Miss Trevennon,” he said, as the song came to an end, “you’ve
heard me do my little best now. Your accompaniments suit me perfectly.
I am sure I never sang better. I hope we may have many another pleasant
evening, such as this, together.”
Margaret had risen from the piano and was standing before the fire,
and she watched him with mingled interest and surprise, as he neatly
replaced the music in the rack, lowered the instrument, and carefully
arranged the cover, with a habit of orderliness of which she had also
seen indications in General Gaston. It was to her almost a new trait,
in men.
“Cousin Eugenia insists upon early hours, now that I am not going out,”
said Margaret, “so, as it is half-past ten, I will say good-night.
I feel rather guilty,” she added, pausing in the door-way, “for
interrupting your work to-night. I dare say you wanted to finish it.”
“Oh, as to that, it isn’t a matter of choice,” he murmured; “Ames must
have those estimates to-morrow, and they are bound to go on the morning
train.”
“And when are they to be done?”
“Now, at once. I can easily finish them off to-night,” he replied
carelessly. “Pray don’t look as if you had committed a mortal sin, Miss
Trevennon,” he added, smiling. “I assure you I don’t weigh this little
nocturnal application as dust in the balance against the pleasure I’ve
had in this musical evening with you. I hope it is not on my account
you are hurrying off. I assure you there is abundance of time for my
purposes. I shall take these papers to my room and finish them.”
But Margaret, bent upon not hindering him further, retired at once.
The next morning Mrs. Gaston asked her brother-in-law at breakfast,
whether he had not passed her room about sunrise, and, with some
confusion, he was compelled to own that he had.
“What provoking ears you have, Eugenia!” he said; “I flattered myself
that a mouse could not have been more noiseless. I am sorry to have
disturbed you, especially as you had not been feeling well.”
“Oh, I was awake, at any rate. But what was the occasion of your early
expedition?” she asked, without showing any especial surprise.
“I had to post some papers to Ames,” he said; “and though I had told
Thomas I would ring for him to take them, the morning was so bright
and clear that I fancied I should like the walk. And really it was most
refreshing.”
“I can fancy you needed refreshment,” Mrs. Gaston said, “if, as I don’t
doubt, you had been at work all night.”
Mr. Gaston made no response. He was helping himself from a dish offered
by a servant at the moment, and seemed disposed to let the matter drop;
but Margaret, urged by an irresistible impulse, arrested his eye and
said quickly:
“Had you?”
“Had I what, Miss Trevennon?”
“Had you been at work all night?”
“Pretty much, I believe; but why do you look so tragic? I am not in
delicate health, that the lack of a little sleep should entail serious
consequences.”
“‘Pleasure the way you like it’!” said Mrs. Gaston. “Louis really
likes that sort of thing; he deserves no credit for it. I used to
apprehend that I should find myself brother-in-law-less very shortly
in consequence of those habits, but he thrives on them; he’s the
healthiest person I know. Don’t waste your sympathy on him, Margaret;
keep it all for me. It isn’t those who endure hardships, but those who
can’t endure them that should be pitied.”