AN UNEXPECTED PERFORMER.
Twice Anna Burns had changed her costume, first to satisfy Mrs. Savage,
that it would be all that she desired for the Ivanhoe tableaux; and
again, that no detail of poverty should be wanting to that picture
which, alas! has been so often duplicated in real life, “The Soldier’s
Destitute Family.” As she was putting on a Jewish garment a second time,
in the little drawing-room, a rather heavy hand was laid on her
shoulder, and a voice that made her start, from the deep tragedy of its
tones, sounded in her ear.
“Are you the young person?”
“I—I—— What young person?” faltered Anna, turning crimson under the
touch of that hand.
“Mrs. Savage has a dependent or protegé, here, who is to stand in the
Ivanhoe picture. Are you that person?”
Anna turned suddenly, and looked her tormentor in the face. She was a
tall, angular person, with a complexion that seemed washed out and
re-dyed, pale blue eyes, full of impatient ferocity, and a mouth that
was perpetually in motion.
“Are you that person?” she repeated, giving the shoulder she pressed a
slight shake.
“I came here at the request of Mrs. Savage, if that is what you to wish
to know,” answered Anna Burns, stepping back with a gesture of offended
pride.
“And you are her Rebecca?” answered Miss Eliza Halstead, shaking out her
laced handkerchief, and inhaling the perfume which it gave forth with a
proud elevation of the head. “So she is determined to monopolize every
thing. Has Miss Georgiana Halstead arrived yet?”
“I do not know the lady.”
“Not know her, and she is to be your foil—your rival. When you go off
the stage she will come on, robed in azure velvet, crowned with
pearls—my pearls; while I——but never mind, there is blood in my veins
which can protect itself. Oh! here she comes. Say nothing; be secret as
the grave! You will see! You will see!” Miss Halstead put one long
finger to her lips, and glided backward out of the room just as
Georgiana Halstead came in by a side entrance.
For a moment these two young girls stood looking at each other; one with
a rosy blush on her cheeks and a smile on her lips; the other shy, pale,
and shrinking. She felt like an intruder there.
Georgiana was the first to speak.
“I suppose, from that dress, that you are Miss Burns,” she said, with
graceful cordiality. “There is no one here to introduce us; but I am
Miss Halstead, as the dear, delicate, stupid Rowena, who is to get
Ivanhoe away from you.”
A flush of scarlet came over Georgiana’s face, as she became conscious
of her own light speech, and felt the strange look which Anna turned,
unconsciously, upon her; but she turned this embarrassment off with a
sweet laugh; and throwing aside her velvet sacque, stood out in the dim
room a picture in herself.
“How beautifully you are dressed,” she said, scanning Anna’s costume
with an admiring glance. “That crimson velvet tunic, with its warmth and
depth of color, has singular richness. And the diamond necklace, how the
light quivers over it. Upon my word, Madam Savage has exhibited a taste
for once. The whole effect is wonderful.”
“It is her taste; I had nothing to do with it,” said Anna, glancing at
her own loveliness in the glass. “The diamond necklace, if it is
diamonds, belongs to her. Indeed, I scarcely know myself in this dress
or place.”
“But I hope to know you, and intimately, some day,” answered Georgiana,
with prompt admiration. “But here comes the madam, with a train of
committee-ladies, ready to give us inspection. Don’t let them change a
fold of that turban, or a single thing about you. Remember, those who
have the least taste will be the first to interfere.”
“Here they are all ready, and looking so lovely,” cried Mrs. Savage,
sweeping into the room, followed close by half a dozen associates, whose
silken dresses rustled sumptuously as they moved. “Isn’t she perfect,
dear child? But when is she otherwise?”
Here Mrs. Savage stooped and kissed Georgiana’s white neck with a glow
of natural fondness, which the girl felt in her heart of hearts, and
became radiant at once.
“And Miss Burns, too. How completely she has followed out my idea. Isn’t
she the most fascinating little Jewess that ever lived? Ah! are they
ready? Come, Georgie, child, you are wanted. Ladies, hurry back to your
seats. I would not have you lose this tableau for any thing.”
A little storm of exclamations followed this speech. Then the silks
began to rustle violently again, while the committee made a rush, and,
with a confusion of whispers, diffused itself in the audience, which was
soon enveloped in darkness. A bell tinkled; the dark curtain swept back,
and through a screen of rose-colored gauze Ivanhoe and Rowena were seen
surrounded with rich draperies, heavy carvings, and all the appointments
of a feudal picture. Rowena was looking down overpowered by the
love-light in Ivanhoe’s glance; a soft, rosy bloom lay on her cheek; a
smile hovered about her lips; no flower ever drooped more modestly in
the sunshine that brightened it. The young creature did not move, but
you could see the slow heave and fall of her bosom. There was no acting
there; the presence of love, pure and vital, made itself felt, though it
might not have been thoroughly understood. Ivanhoe gazed down upon her
with admiration, and it may be that more tender feelings called forth
the bright smile on his face. But young Savage was thinking of the
character he was to maintain—she was thinking only of him. A single
minute this noble picture defined itself before the crowd; then the
curtain fell, and all was dark again.
The tableau was one which had been designed to repeat itself by a change
of position in the characters. While the applause was loudest, and young
Savage stood behind the curtain holding Georgie’s hand; while he
described the position she was to assume, a rather impatient voice from
behind the scenes called for Miss Halstead. The young lady, who was
blushing and shrinking under the careless touch of his hand, ran out,
and found one of the servant-girls in attendance, who said that she must
come at once and speak with Mrs. Savage before the curtain rose again.
Georgie followed the girl in haste, and the moment she disappeared a
figure came out from one of the dark corners and entered upon the stage,
which was but dimly lighted from behind the scenes. Savage saw the
glitter of her dress, and without looking closer spoke in eager haste.
“Just in time. They are getting impatient. There, stand there, with your
head averted, as we arranged it: now your hand.”
Savage dropped on one knee as he spoke, took the hand which dropped
lovingly into his, and lifted his fine eyes to the but half averted
face. A start, which brought him half up from his knees; a quick ringing
of the bell, and every face in the audience was turned in amazement on
Miss Eliza Halstead, whose tall, gaunt form was arrayed in blue satin,
surmounted by a tunic of maize-colored velvet; a band of pointed gold
girding her head like a coronet, and from under it flowed out a mass of
dull brown curls, wonderful to behold. Her head was turned aside; one
hand was half uplifted, as if to conceal the blushes that lay immovable
on her cheeks; and a simper, which had a dash of malicious triumph in
it, gave disagreeable life to her face.
Young Savage had sunk back to his lover-like position as the bell rang,
and went through his part with a hot flush on his cheek, and a quick
sense of the ridiculous position he filled quivering around his handsome
mouth. But though master of himself, he heard the bell ring with a sense
of infinite relief, and instantly sprang up, uttering what I am afraid
would have been a very naughty exclamation had it been allowed to go
beyond his breath.
“Ah! I thought you would be surprised,” cried Miss Eliza, beaming upon
him in the twilight of the stage. “Believe me, dear Mr. Savage, I never
suspected that you had any share in the conspiracy to keep me in the
shade. But I have defeated them for once; and I saw by that flush on
your cheek how completely you triumphed with me.”
Savage struggled to keep from laughing, and submitted to the pressure
which Eliza gave his hand between her two palms with becoming
philosophy.
“I suppose they will expect us to give place to the next tableau,” he
said, quietly releasing his hand. “This way, if you are going to the
dressing-room.”
Miss Eliza took his arm, and marched triumphantly off the platform. At
the first step she met Georgiana coming back breathless.
“It is over,” said Miss Eliza, solemnly; “the evil machinations of my
enemies has, for once, been defeated; tell Mrs. Savage and her crew
this, with my compliments. The audience out yonder can tell you that,
for once, they have seen a genuine tableau, truthful, artistic, rich in
passionate silence. Mr. Savage here can tell you how it was received
with touching and intense stillness; then a ripple of admiration; then a
buz of admiring curiosity. We came away to avoid the outburst of
enthusiasm, which was no doubt overwhelming.”
“What is this about? What does it all mean?” said Georgiana, bewildered.
“Am I too late? After all, it seems that no one really sent for me.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Miss Eliza, with a toss of the head. “Have you just
found that out?”
“The tableau is over,” said young Savage, laughing in spite of himself.
“Miss Halstead has honored me by taking your place.”
Georgiana was dumb with angry astonishment; a flood of scarlet rushed
over her face and neck. She even clenched her little hand, and, for
once, made a fist of it that would have done great credit to a
belligerent child ten years old. Then she burst into a laugh, musical as
a gush of bird songs in April.
“You didn’t do that, Miss Eliza. Oh! it is too, too delicious. Savage on
his knees, you ——”
Again she burst forth into a musical riot of laughter, while Eliza stood
before her frowning terribly. I am afraid Savage joined her; but the two
voices harmonized so well that Miss Eliza never was quite certain.
“Georgiana Halstead, I hate you!” she cried, with a sweep of the right
arm.
“I—I can’t help it,” pouted the young girl, pressing a hand hard against
her lips; “the whole thing is so comical. What will Mrs. Savage say?”
Georgiana might well ask, for Mrs. Savage had been in front, and sat
aghast during the whole performance, which only lasted a few minutes.
After which she went into something as near rage as well-bred women
permit themselves; and absolutely tore a handkerchief made of gossamer
and lace into more pieces than she would have liked to confess even to
herself. A half-suppressed giggle, which came from that portion of the
room where the committee was clustered, brought the proud lady to her
composure; and leaning toward her most inveterate rival, she whispered
confidently,
“It went off tolerably, after all, just as I expected.”
“Oh!” said the lady rival, smiling sweetly, “then you arranged it.”
“Georgiana Halstead was so kind. It quite annoyed her to have Miss
Halstead cut out so entirely. Such a lovely disposition. Then there is
great power in contrast, you know; and my young friend, who comes next,
is directly opposite to Miss Halstead. Contrast, contrast, my dear, is
every thing. You’ll see that I am right. How splendidly Savage bore
himself. But I knew that we could trust to him.”
During this long speech, the lady to whom Mrs. Savage addressed herself,
took an occasion to whisper to her next neighbor, who bent toward the
person who sat next her; this swelled into a buz, which ran through the
committee, and beyond it, checking all laughter as it went.
Then Mrs. Savage rose with dignity, and went back of the scenes,
rustling her silks like a green bay-tree, and biting her lips till they
glowed like ripe cherries. She met Miss Halstead sailing majestically
toward her carriage, still clinging to the arm of young Savage with
desperate pertinacity.
“Here comes your mother, sir, my bitterest enemy. As a defenceless
female, I claim your protection,” cried that lady, pausing suddenly, and
clasping both hands over his arm, as Mrs. Savage came up.
“My dear Miss Halstead, how beautifully you did it. I came at once to
thank you. Fortunate, wasn’t it, that my messenger overtook you?”
Mrs. Savage said this, smiling blandly, and with her gloved hand held
forth with a cordiality perfectly irresistible.
“Messenger, Mrs. Savage,” said Eliza Halstead, drawing herself up with
an Elizabethian air. “I do not understand!”
“Not understand, and yet acted the part so well. Oh, Miss Halstead!”
Eliza Halstead was eccentric and headstrong; but she was not quite a
fool. In fact, few people possessed so much low cunning. She had all the
craft and calculation of a lunatic, without being absolutely crazy. It
flashed across her mind instantly that she would do well to accept at
once the doubtful invitation hinted at, and thus escape the odium of a
rude intrusion.
“Ah, my dear Mrs. Savage, you are so good,” she cried, bowing her head,
but still keeping both hands clapsed over that reluctant arm. “Still I
was but just in time. I am _so_ glad you were pleased; Mr. Savage here
was delighted.”
“The whole thing was charming,” answered Mrs. Savage, setting her teeth
close and turning away. “The ladies are all delighted. Horace, pray make
haste and escort Miss Halstead to her carriage, if she _must_ go; the
ladies are dying to thank you for this surprise. How prettily Georgiana
entered into our little conspiracy. Good evening, Miss Halstead; be
careful and not take cold. Adieu!”
“What a charming woman your mother is—so queenly, so gracious,”
whispered Eliza, leaning toward her companion. “So magnificently
handsome, too. Never in my life did I see a son and mother resemble each
other so much. Thank you, Mr. Savage! thank you! If I remember rightly,
Rowena gave Ivanhoe her hand to kiss—ungloved, I fancy—there, this
once.”
Miss Halstead leaned out of the carriage, and held forth her hand,
beaming gently upon young Savage, who took the hand, pressed it, bowed
over it, and laid it gently back into Miss Halstead’s lap.
“I dare not presume! I have not the audacity!” he said. “Adieu! adieu!
Believe me, I shall never forget this evening!”
“Oh, heavens! nor I!” exclaimed Miss Eliza, kissing her own hand where
he had touched it, with infinite relish. “Of all the nights in my life
this is my fate!”
Young Savage was at a safe distance when Miss Eliza uttered this tender
truth; but, as she declared afterward, “Her soul went with him, and
joined its home forever more!”
As Horace Savage returned, he met Anson Gould, a young man about whom
all uppertendom raved, as the most splendid creature that ever lived; so
rich, so distinguished, so talented, and so on.
“Hollo! Gould! what are you doing here, wandering about like a lost babe
in the woods? Searching for my mother, eh?”
“No,” answered Gould, laughing; “I am in search of what is called the
gentlemen’s dressing-room. Your mother has booked me for Bois Guilbert,
with a Rebecca that she promises shall be stunning—a Miss Burns. Tell me
who she is, Savage. I do not remember the name in our set.”
Savage felt a hot glow coming to his cheek. His light, off-handed way of
mentioning that young girl annoyed him exceedingly.
“Miss Burns is a friend of my mother’s—not in society yet, I believe,”
he answered, quietly. “But I keep you waiting; that is the way to your
dressing-room.”
“Gould moved on, and, for the first time, young Savage remarked how
wonderfully handsome he was. I think he congratulated himself somewhat
by remembering that the Templar was also a splendid specimen of a man,
and yet Rebecca could not be persuaded to love him. Still the young
gentleman’s spirits became somewhat depressed from that moment, and,
forgetting that he had promised to make himself generally useful in his
mother’s behalf, he crept away into a corner of the audience-chamber,
and there, half of the time in semi-darkness, watched the curtain rise
and fall, dismissing each picture presented with something like angry
impatience.
At last the bell sounded with a vim, and the audience were all on the
alert. The noise of more than usual stage preparations had whetted
curiosity; and it had been whispered about that something superb was
coming, in which Anson Gould would be a principal character—Anson Gould,
the greatest catch of the season. No wonder there was a buzz and rustle,
as if summer insects and summer winds were playing among forest-boughs
in that portion of the room where young ladies most prevailed.
As I have said, the bell sounded with a vim; the curtain swept back, and
there was a picture worth seeing. Just a little scenery had been
introduced into the background. An antique window, showing glimpses of a
battlement beyond, and, poised on this battlement, with one foot
strained back, ready for a spring, and her face turned back, with a
gesture of passionate menace, stood one of the most beautiful girls that
eyes ever dwelt upon. She was superb in her haughty poise; superb in
that proud outburst of despair which had sent her out on that dizzy
height, choosing destruction rather than dishonor. Her dark eyes, like
those of a stag at bay, were bent on the kneeling Templar, whose face
and form would have won the general attention from any one less
gloriously beautiful than that girl.
Young Savage started to his feet, and leaned forward, absorbed. His
heart stood still for the moment, and a strange feeling of pain came
upon him. By what right did that man gaze upon her with such passionate
admiration. It was real; the wild love-light in those eyes knew no
dissembling. Young Gould was his rival—yes, his rival! There was no use
in attempting to deceive himself, he was in love—really in love—for the
first time in his life—and with whom? He remembered that low garret—the
old woman—the child; and that young creature bending with such sad,
loving pity over them both. He remembered the pile of oyster-shells in
the chimney-corner, and all the poverty-stricken appointments of the
room with a strange thrill of passion. His love should lift her out of
those depths. Gould should never have an opportunity of kneeling to her
again—even in the seeming of a picture. But then his mother, his proud,
aristocratic father—what of them?
Mrs. Savage came up to her son where he stood, and laid one of her white
hands on his arm. “Was there ever a success like that?” she said,
looking back upon the tableau with enthusiasm. “It sweeps away that
absurd scene with the old maid. How did that happen, Horace? Don’t tell
me now, some of them may be listening. Oh! I see you admire this as I
do. It is the great triumph of the evening.”
“Mother,” said Horace Savage, rather abruptly, “why did you cast Gould
in that piece?”
“In order that you might stand with Georgiana, Horace. I thought you
understood,” answered Mrs. Savage, a little surprised.
“Yes, yes; I understand. It was very kind. See, they are clamoring for a
second sight. I don’t wonder. How confoundedly handsome the fellow is!”
The curtain was drawn aside at the demand of the audience, and once more
Rebecca was seen ready to seek death rather than listen to unholy vows,
which could only bring dishonor. The room was still as death; not a
whisper sounded; scarcely a breath was drawn. The picture was more
lifelike, more replete with silent passion than before; while the breath
stood still on every lip, and all eyes were turned on the beautiful
girl, a deadly white settled on her face; her lips parted with a cry
that prolonged itself into a wail of pain that thrilled through and
through the crowd, and the poor creature fell headlong into the
darkness, carrying the mock battlement with her.