hastened thither. She was sitting on a tiger-skin thrown down on the
white sand; purple velvet flowed around her, and above, from
embroideries like cream, rose her flower-face set on a throat so white,
where gleamed a star of brilliancy; her hair was like gold--yellow
gold--and it hung in curls over her shoulders, a mass of radiance; her
eyes were blue as the deepest sky-color; and oh! so white her skin, I
could scarcely believe her mortal. She was playing on a guitar, with her
little hands so white, so soft, and singing--aunt, it was like what I
have dreamed."
The boy stopped and covered his face with his hands. Miss Elisabetha had
paused, pen in hand. What was this new talk of tiger-skins and golden
hair? No one could sing in Beata save herself alone; the boy was
dreaming!
"Theodore," she said, "fancy is permitted to us under certain
restrictions, but no well-regulated mind will make to itself realities
of fancies. I am sorry to be obliged to say it, but the romances must be
immediately removed from the shelf."
These romances, three in number, selected and sanctioned by the
governess of the Misses Daarg forty years before, still stood in Miss
Elisabetha's mind as exemplars of the wildest flights of fancy.
"But this is not fancy, dear aunt," said Doro eagerly, his brown eyes
velvet with moisture, and his brown cheeks flushed. "I saw it all this
afternoon over on the beach; I could show you the very spot where the
tiger-skin lay, and the print of her foot, which had a little shoe so
odd--like this," and rapidly he drew the outline of a walking-boot in
the extreme of the Paris fashion.
Miss Elisabetha put on her glasses.
"Heels," she said slowly; "I have heard of them."
"There is nothing in all the world like her," pursued the excited boy,
"for her hair is of pure gold, not like the people here; and her eyes
are so sweet, and her forehead so white! I never knew such people
lived--why have you not told me all these years?"
"She is a blonde," replied Miss Elisabetha primly. "I, too, am a blonde,
Theodore."
"But not like this, aunt. My lovely lady is like a rose."
"A subdued monotone of coloring has ever been a characteristic of our
family, Theodore. But I do not quite understand your story. Who is this
person, and was she alone on the beach?"
"There were others, but I did not notice them; I only looked at her."
"And she sang?"
"O aunt, so heavenly sweet--so strange, so new her song, that I was
carried away up into the blue sky as if on strong wings--I seemed to
float in melody. But I can not talk of it; it takes my breath away, even
in thought!"
Miss Elisabetha sat perplexed.
"Was it one of our _romanzas_, Theodore, or a ballad?" she said, running
over the list in her mind.
"It was something I never heard before," replied Doro, in a low voice;
"it was not like anything else--not even the mocking-bird, for, though
it went on and on, the same strain floated back into it again and again;
and the mocking-bird, you know, has a light and fickle soul. Aunt, I can
not tell you what it was like, but it seemed to tell me a new story of a
new world."
"How many beats had it to the measure?" asked Miss Elisabetha, after a
pause.
"I do not know," replied the boy dreamily.
"You do not know! All music is written in some set time, Theodore. At
least, you can tell me about the words. Were they French?"
"No."
"Nor English?"
"No."
"What then?"
"I know not; angel-words, perhaps.
"Did she speak to you?"
"Yes," replied Doro, clasping his hands fervently. "She asked me if I
liked the song, and I said, 'Lady, it is of the angels.' Then she
smiled, and asked my name, and I told her,'Doro'--"
"You should have said, 'Theodore,'" interrupted Miss Elisabetha; "do I
not always call you so?"
"And she said it was a lovely name; and could I sing? I took her guitar,
and sang to her--"
"And she praised your method, I doubt not?"
"She said, 'Oh, what a lovely voice!' and she touched my hair with her
little hands, and I--I thought I should die, aunt, but I only fell at
her feet."
"And where--where is this person now?" said the perplexed maiden,
catching at something definite.
"She has gone--gone! I stood and watched the little flag on the mast
until I could see it no more. She has gone! Pity me, aunt, dear aunt.
What shall I do? How shall I live?"
The boy broke into sobs, and would say no more. Miss Elisabetha was
strangely stirred; here was a case beyond her rules; what should she do?
Having no precedent to guide her, she fell back into her old beliefs
gained from studies of the Daarg family, as developed in boys. Doro was
excused from lessons, and the hours were made pleasant to him. She spent
many a morning reading aloud to him; and old Viny stood amazed at the
variety and extravagance of the dishes ordered for him.
"What! chickens ebery day, Miss 'Lisabeet? 'Pears like Mass' Doro hab
eberyting now!"
"Theodore is ill, Lavinia," replied the mistress; and she really thought
so.
Music, however, there was none; the old charmed afternoons and evenings
were silent.
"I can not bear it," the boy had said, with trembling lips.
But one evening he did not return: the dinner waited for him in vain;
the orange after-glow faded away over the pine-barrens; and in the pale
green of the evening sky arose the star of the twilight; still he came
not.
Miss Elisabetha could eat nothing.
"Keep up the fire, Lavinia," she said, rising from the table at last.
"Keep up de fire, Miss 'Lisabeet! Till when?"
"Till Theodore comes!" replied the mistress shortly.
"De worl' mus' be coming to de end," soliloquized the old black woman,
carrying out the dishes; "sticks of wood no account!"
Late in the evening a light footstep sounded over the white path, and
the strained, watching eyes under the stone arches saw at last the face
of the missing one.
"O aunt, I have seen her--I have seen her! I thought her gone for ever.
O aunt--dear, dear aunt, she has sung for me again!" said the boy,
flinging himself down on the stones, and laying his flushed face on her
knee. "This time it was over by the old lighthouse, aunt. I was sailing
up and down in the very worst breakers I could find, half hoping they
would swamp the boat, for I thought perhaps I could forget her down
there under the water--when I saw figures moving over on the
island-beach. Something in the outlines of one made me tremble; and I
sailed over like the wind, the little boat tilted on its side within a
hair's-breadth of the water, cutting it like a knife as it flew. It was
she, aunt, and she smiled! 'What, my young Southern nightingale,' she
said, 'is it you?' And she gave me her hand--her soft little hand."
The thin fingers, hardened by much braiding of palmetto, withdrew
themselves instinctively from the boy's dark curls. He did not notice
it, but rushed on with his story unheeding:
"She let me walk with her, aunt, and hold her parasol, decked with lace,
and she took off her hat and hung it on my arm, and it had a long,
curling plume. She gave me sweet things--oh, so delicious! See, I kept
some," said Doro, bringing out a little package of bonbons. "Some are of
sugar, you see, and some have nuts in them; those are chocolate. Are
they not beautiful?"
"Candies, I think," said Miss Elisabetha, touching them doubtfully with
the end of her quill.
"And she sang for me, aunt, the same angel's music; and then, when I was
afar in heaven, she brought me back with a song about three fishermen
who sailed out into the west; and I wept to hear her, for her voice then
was like the sea when it feels cruel. She saw the tears, and, bidding me
sit by her side, she struck a few chords on her guitar and sang to me of
a miller's daughter who grew so dear, so dear. Do you know it, aunt?"
"A miller's daughter? No; I have no acquaintance with any such person,"
said Miss Elisabetha, considering.
"Wait, I will sing it to you," said Doro, running to bring his guitar;
"she taught it to me herself!"
And then the tenor voice rose in the night air, bearing on the lovely
melody the impassioned words of the poet. Doro sang them with all his
soul, and the ancient maiden felt her heart disquieted within her--why,
she knew not. It seemed as though her boy was drifting away whither she
could not follow.
"Is it not beautiful, aunt? I sang it after her line by line until I
knew it all, and then I sang her all my songs; and she said I must come
and see her the day after to-morrow, and she would give me her picture
and something else. What do you suppose it is, aunt? She would not tell
me, but she smiled and gave me her hand for good-by. And now I can live,
for I am to see her at Martera's house, beyond the convent, the day
after to-morrow, the day after to-morrow--oh, happy day, the day after
to-morrow!"
"Come and eat your dinner, Theodore," said Miss Elisabetha, rising. Face
to face with a new world, whose possibilities she but dimly understood,
and whose language was to her an unknown tongue, she grasped blindly at
the old anchors riveted in years of habit; the boy had always been
something of an epicure in his fastidious way, and one of his favorite
dishes was on the table.
"You may go, Lavinia," she said, as the old slave lingered to see if her
darling enjoyed the dainties; she could not bear that even Viny's
faithful eyes should notice the change, if change there was.
The boy ate nothing.
"I am not hungry, aunt," he said, "I had so many delicious things over
on the beach. I do not know what they were, but they were not like our
things at all." And, with a slight gesture of repugnance, he pushed
aside his plate.
"You had better go to bed," said Miss Elisabetha, rising. In her
perplexity this was the first thing which suggested itself to her; a
good night's rest had been known to work wonders; she would say no more
till morning. The boy went readily; but he must have taken his guitar
with him, for long after Miss Elisabetha had retired to her couch she
heard him softly singing again and again the romance of the miller's
daughter. Several times she half rose as if to go and stop him; then a
confused thought came to her that perhaps his unrest might work itself
off in that way, and she sank back, listening meanwhile to the fanciful
melody with feelings akin to horror. It seemed to have no regular time,
and the harmony was new and strange to her old-fashioned ears. "Truly,
it must be the work of a composer gone mad," said the poor old maid,
after trying in vain for the fifth time to follow the wild air. There
was not one trill or turn in all its length, and the accompaniment,
instead of being the decorous one octave in the bass, followed by two or
three chords according to the time, seemed to be but a general sweeping
over the strings, with long pauses, and unexpected minor harmony
introduced, turning the air suddenly upside down, and then back again
before one had time to comprehend what was going on. "Heaven help me!"
said Miss Elisabetha, as the melody began again for the sixth time, "but
I fear I am sinful enough to hate that miller's daughter." And it was
very remarkable, to say the least, that a person in her position "was
possessed of a jewel to tremble in her ear," she added censoriously,
"not even to speak of a necklace." But the comfort was cold, and, before
she knew it, slow, troubled tears had dampened her pillow.
Early the next morning she was astir by candle-light, and, going into
the detached kitchen, began preparing breakfast with her own hands,
adding to the delicacies already ordered certain honey-cakes, an
heirloom in the Daarg family. Viny could scarcely believe her eyes when,
on coming down to her domain at the usual hour, she found the great
fireplace glowing, and the air filled with the fragrance of spices;
Christmas alone had heretofore seen these honey-cakes, and to-day was
only a common day!
"I do not care for anything, aunt," said Doro, coming listlessly to the
table when all was ready. He drank some coffee, broke a piece of bread,
and then went back to his guitar; the honey-cakes he did not even
notice.
One more effort remained. Going softly into the parlor during the
morning, Miss Elisabetha opened the piano, and, playing over the prelude
to "The Proud Ladye," began to sing in her very best style, giving the
flourishes with elaborate art, scarcely a note without a little step
down from the one next higher; these airy descents, like flights of
fairy stairs, were considered very high art in the days of Monsieur
Vocard. She was in the middle of "a-weeping and a-weeping," when Doro
rushed into the room. "O aunt," he cried, "please, please do not sing!
Indeed, I can not bear it. We have been all wrong about our music; I can
not explain it, but I feel it--I know it. If you could only hear her!
Come with me to-morrow and hear her, dear aunt, and then you will
understand what I mean."
Left to herself again, Miss Elisabetha felt a great resolve come to her.
She herself would go and see this stranger, and grind her to powder! She
murmured these words over several times, and derived much comfort from
them.
With firm hands she unlocked the cedar chest which had come with her
from the city seventeen years before; but the ladies of the Daarg family
had not been wont to change their attire every passing fashion, and the
robe she now drew forth was made in the style of full twenty-five years
previous--a stiff drab brocade flowered in white, two narrow flounces
around the bottom of the scant skirt, cut half low in the neck with a
little bertha, the material wanting in the lower part standing out
resplendent in the broad leg-of-mutton sleeves, stiffened with buckram.
Never had the full daylight of Beata seen this precious robe, and Miss
Elisabetha herself considered it for a moment with some misgivings as to
its being too fine for such an occasion. But had not Doro spoken of
"velvet" and "embroideries"? So, with solemnity, she arrayed herself,
adding a certain Canton-crape scarf of a delicate salmon color, and a
Leghorn bonnet with crown and cape, which loomed out beyond her face so
that the three curls slanted forward over the full ruche to get outside,
somewhat like blinders. Thus clad, with her slippers, her bag on her
arm, and lace mits on her hands, Miss Elisabetha surveyed herself in the
glass. In the bag were her handkerchief, an ancient smelling-bottle, and
a card, yellow indeed, but still a veritable engraved card, with these
words upon it:
"MISS ELISABETHA DAARG,
DAARG'S BAY."
The survey was satisfactory. "Certainly I look the gentlewoman," she
thought, with calm pride, "and this person, whoever she is, can not fail
to at once recognize me as such. It has never been our custom to visit
indiscriminately; but in this case I do it for the boy's sake." So she
sallied forth, going out by a side-door to escape observation, and
walked toward the town, revolving in her mind the words she should use
when face to face with the person. "I shall request her--with courtesy,
of course--still I shall feel obliged to request her to leave the
neighborhood," she thought. "I shall express to her--with kindness, but
also with dignity--my opinion of the meretricious music she has taught
my boy, and I shall say to her frankly that I really can not permit her
to see him again. Coming from me, these words will, of course, have
weight, and--"
"Oh, see Miss 'Lisabeet!" sang out a child's voice. "Nita, do but come
and see how fine she is!"
Nita came, saw, and followed, as did other children--girls carrying
plump babies, olive-skinned boys keeping close together, little blacks
of all ages, with go-carts made of turtle-shells. It was not so much the
splendor--though that was great, too--as it was the fact that Miss
Elisabetha wore it. Had they not all known her two cotton gowns as far
back as they could remember? Reaching the Martera house at last, her
accustomed glide somewhat quickened by the presence of her escort (for,
although she had often scolded them over her own gate, it was different
now when they assumed the proportions of a body-guard), she gave her
card to little Inez, a daughter of the household, and one of her pupils.
"Bear this card to the person you have staying with you, my child, and
ask her if she will receive me."
"But there is more than one person, señora," replied Inez, lost in
wonder over the brocade.
"The one who sings, then."
"They all sing, Miss 'Lisabeet."
"Well, then, I mean the person who--who wears purple velvet and--and
embroideries," said the visitor, bringing out these items reluctantly.
"Ah! you mean the beautiful lady," cried Inez. "I run, I run, señora";
and in a few minutes Miss Elisabetha was ushered up the stairs, and
found herself face to face with "the person."
"To whom have I the honor of speaking?" said a languid voice from the
sofa.
"Madame, my card--"
"Oh, was that a card? Pray excuse me.--Lucille, my glasses." Then, as a
French maid brought the little, gold-rimmed toy, the person scanned the
name. "Ma'm'selle Dag?" she said inquiringly.
"Daarg, madame," replied Miss Elisabetha. "If you have resided in New
York at all, you are probably familiar with the name"; and majestically
she smoothed down the folds of the salmon-colored scarf.
"I have resided in New York, and I am not familiar with the name," said
the person, throwing her head back indolently among the cushions.
She wore a long, full robe of sea-green silk, opening over a mist of
lace-trimmed skirts, beneath whose filmy borders peeped little feet
incased in green-silk slippers, with heels of grotesque height; a cord
and tassels confined the robe to her round waist; the hanging sleeves,
open to the shoulders, revealed superb white arms; and the mass of
golden hair was gathered loosely up behind, with a mere _soupçon_ of a
cap perched on top, a knot of green ribbon contrasting with the low-down
golden ripples over the forehead. Miss Elisabetha surveyed the attitude
and the attire with disfavor; in her young days no lady in health wore a
wrapper, or lolled on sofas. But the person, who was the pet prima donna
of the day, English, with a world-wide experience and glory, knew
nothing of such traditions.
"I have called, madame," began the visitor, ignoring the slight with
calm dignity (after all, how should "a person" know anything of the name
of Daarg?), "on account of my--my ward, Theodore Oesterand."
"Never heard of him," replied the diva. It was her hour for _siesta_,
and any infringement of her rules told upon the carefully tended,
luxuriant beauty.
"I beg your pardon," said Miss Elisabetha, with increased accentuation
of her vowels. "Theodore has had the honor of seeing you twice, and he
has also sung for you."
"What! you mean my little bird of the tropics, my Southern nightingale!"
exclaimed the singer, raising herself from the cushions.--"Lucille, why
have you not placed a chair for this lady?--I assure you, I take the
greatest interest in the boy, Miss Dag."
"Daarg," replied Miss Elisabetha; and then, with dignity, she took the
chair, and, seating herself, crossed one slipper over the other, in the
attitude number one of her youth. Number one had signified "repose," but
little repose felt she now; there was something in the attire of this
person, something in her yellow hair and white arms, something in the
very air of the room, heavy with perfumes, that seemed to hurt and
confuse her.
"I have never heard a tenor of more promise, never in my life; and
consider how much that implies, ma'm'selle! You probably know who I am?"
"I have not that pleasure."
"_Bien_, I will tell you. I am Kernadi."
Miss Elisabetha bowed, and inhaled salts from her smelling-bottle, her
little finger elegantly separated from the others.
"You do not mean to say that you have never heard of Kernadi--Cécile
Kernadi?" said the diva, sitting fairly erect now in her astonishment.
"Never," replied the maiden, not without a proud satisfaction in the
plain truth of her statement.
"Where have you lived, ma'm'selle?"
"Here, Mistress Kernadi."
The singer gazed at the figure before her in its ancient dress, and
gradually a smile broke over her beautiful face.
"Ma'm'selle," she said, dismissing herself and her fame with a wave of
her white hand, "you have a treasure in Doro, a voice rare in a
century; and, in the name of the world, I ask you for him."
Miss Elisabetha sat speechless; she was never quick with words, and now
she was struck dumb.
"I will take him with me when I go in a few days," pursued Kernadi; "and
I promise you he shall have the very best instructors. His method now is
bad--insufferably bad. The poor boy has had, of course, no
opportunities; but he is still young, and can unlearn as well as learn.
Give him to me. I will relieve you of all expenses, so sure do I feel
that he will do me credit in the end. I will even pass my word that he
shall appear with me upon either the London or the Vienna stage before
two years are out."
Miss Elisabetha had found her words at last.
"Madame," she said, "do you wish to make an opera-singer of the son of
Petrus Oesterand?"
"I wish to make an opera-singer of this pretty Doro; and, if this good
Petrus is his father, he will, no doubt, give his consent."
"Woman, he is dead."
"So much the better; he will not interfere with our plans, then,"
replied the diva, gayly.
Miss Elisabetha rose; her tall form shook perceptibly.
"I have the honor to bid you good day," she said, courtesying formally.
The woman on the sofa sprang to her feet.
"You are offended?" she asked; "and why?"
"That you, a person of no name, of no antecedents, a public singer,
should presume to ask for my boy, an Oesterand--should dare to speak of
degrading him to your level!"
Kernadi listened to these words in profound astonishment. Princes had
bowed at her feet, blood-royal had watched for her smile. Who was this
ancient creature, with her scarf and bag? Perhaps, poor thing! she did
not comprehend! The diva was not bad-hearted, and so, gently enough, she
went over her offer a second time, dwelling upon and explaining its
advantages. "That he will succeed, I do not doubt," she said; "but in
any case he shall not want."
Miss Elisabetha was still standing.
"Want?" she repeated; "Theodore want? I should think not."
"He shall have the best instructors," pursued Kernadi, all unheeding. To
do her justice, she meant all she said. It is ever a fancy of singers to
discover singers--provided they sing other _rôles_.
"Madame, I have the honor of instructing him myself."
"Ah, indeed. Very kind of you, I am sure; but--but no doubt you will be
glad to give up the task. And he shall see all the great cities of
Europe, and hear their music. I am down here merely for a short
change--having taken cold in your miserable New York climate; but I have
my usual engagements in London, St. Petersburg, Vienna, and Paris, you
know."
"No, madame, I do not know," was the stiff reply.
Kernadi opened her fine eyes still wider. It was true, then, and not a
pretense. People really lived--white people, too--who knew nothing of
her and her movements! She thought, in her vague way, that she really
must give something to the missionaries; and then she went back to Doro.
"It will be a great advantage to him to see artist-life abroad--" she
began.
"I intend him to see it," replied Miss Elisabetha.
"But he should have the right companions--advisers--"
"_I_ shall be with him, madame."
The diva surveyed the figure before her, and amusement shone in her
eyes.
"But you will find it fatiguing," she said--"so much journeying, so much
change! Nay, ma'm'selle, remain at home in your peaceful quiet, and
trust the boy to me." She had sunk back upon her cushions, and, catching
a glimpse of her face in the mirror, she added, smiling: "One thing
more. You need not fear lest I should trifle with his young heart. I
assure you I will not; I shall be to him like a sister."
"You could scarcely be anything else, unless it was an aunt," replied
the ancient maiden; "I should judge you fifteen years his senior,
madame."
Which was so nearly accurate that the beauty started, and for the first
time turned really angry.
"Will you give me the boy?" she said, shortly. "If he were here I might
show you how easily--But, _ciel!_ you could never understand such
things; let it pass. Will you give me the boy--yes or no?"
"No."
There was a silence. The diva lolled back on her cushions, and yawned.
"You must be a very selfish woman--I think the most selfish I have ever
known," she said coolly, tapping the floor with her little slippered
feet, as if keeping time to a waltz.
"I--selfish?"
"Yes, you--selfish. And, by the by, what right have you to keep the boy
at all? Certainly, he resembles you in nothing. What relation does he
hold to you?"
"He is--he is my ward," answered Miss Elisabetha, nervously rearranging
her scarf. "I bid you, madame, good day."
"Ward!" pursued Kernadi; "that means nothing. Was his mother your
sister?"