pretty cup-bearer, and will make you of great use to me. I will teach
you a thousand things you would be glad not to know! You shall have a
crimson tuft, ha! ha! ha! I will teach you to be impertinent to me! My
hooked nose! to be sure. Ah! I am old! old! and nothing can make me
young and fair. If I could only take for myself your young beauty! But,
no! one day I must die, and that will be the end.”
The woman’s face grew convulsed--for she was haunted by the grim
specter, Death, as with a dread terror. Her life had been so filled
with darkness, that she could not look forward to the calm hereafter.
All the brightness and beauty of heaven, the golden, was like the
fleeting dreams of childhood, that the rolling years, bearing her to
the portals of dim old age, had swept away.
She had studied magic, and tried to find the elixir of life, but in
vain. She had discovered many wonderful things, but not the fountain of
perpetual youth, nor the precious elixir of life.
For a few moments she stood gazing at the fresh face and rich curls of
the child, as he lay sleeping in his pure innocence. Once the word
“mother” passed his rosy lips, and the woman waved a perfumed fan over
him, till even the mother was no longer the companion of his dreamless
sleep.
“Now, it will do to begin,” said the old woman, and she took from a
secret drawer in the closet several bottles containing liquids, and
placed them on a little table. Taking a pair of sharp scissors, she sat
down by the child, and cut off all his beautiful brown curls, leaving
only a little tuft. This she made quite stiff in some way, and colored
it bright red, tying it upon the top of his head, so that it stood up
and looked very strangely.
“There is the crimson tuft, my little cup-bearer,” she said, laughing
heartily at her wicked work.
Then she tinged his eyebrows red, and his skin a dark mahogany color,
until, instead of the beautiful little Paul that everybody had loved
and admired, he appeared the ugliest little wretch one could well
imagine.
She took off his neat, plain clothes, dressing him in yellow leather
breeches and a fantastic red jacket. Upon his feet she put shoes with
long pointed toes, that turned up and were tied with red ribbons. When
she had finished, she looked at him with great satisfaction.
“Even the old dame herself would not know her cub now. What an ugly
little goat he has become, to be sure!” And the old woman, after her
usual way, muttered to herself.
At last she sat down, and, eating and drinking, for, by this time, she
was quite hungry, every few moments she would stop and rub her long
bony hands together, and laugh, as she looked at the transformed child.
Paul slept all the afternoon, and awoke in the dusky shadow of the
twilight, confused and bewildered, to find himself in a strange room
with the horrible woman, sitting before a blazing fire, gazing steadily
into its fantastic pictures.
At first he could not tell where he was, but in a moment he remembered
all, and jumped up in the greatest excitement, saying, “How could I
have slept, when the dear mother was expecting me? She will be so
anxious. Oh, let me go to her! Please, good lady, let me go!”
“What do you mean,” answered the old woman. “You have no mother! you
are my little servant, Crimson Tuft. I gave you that name, myself, on
account of your red hair, which stands up like a crest on the top of
your ugly head.”
Then the child began to cry, saying, “My hair is not red, and my name
is Paul, and it was my dear mother who sold you vegetables at the
market this morning. Let me go home, oh! please let me go home to the
dear mother.”
The child’s voice was broken with sobs, but the hard-hearted woman only
laughed, “Ha! ha! it is a curious dream you have had, or are you going
crazy? your hair not red! indeed! why, look in the glass yourself.”
She led him to a mirror, and there the unhappy child saw reflected the
ugly wretch called Crimson Tuft, but never again the handsome little
Paul.
The child was more frightened and bewildered than ever. He was sure he
had left the mother that morning, in company with this horrible old
woman. Every thing in the rude little home rose in his mind, yet he
could not realize his own identity. Paul surely he could not see in the
reflecting mirror, only the ugly little Crimson Tuft.
He raised his hands and took hold of the stiff shock of red hair that
stood up· right upon his head. Oh, no! it was not Paul’s soft silken
curls.
Yet there _was a look_ about the eyes that reminded him of Paul,
but even they were very different: they were the red, swollen,
terror-strained eyes of Crimson Tuft.
“Are you satisfied now,” said the old woman. “It was only a dream, a
queer dream that you have had, Crimson Tuft, and how funny that you
should think you were an old vegetable-woman’s child. You, my servant,
who have never been out of this place in your life.”
Still the child only cried the more, and entreated, “Let me go home to
the mother, let me go home.”
Though he was faint from the effects of the narcotic, and from fasting
for a long time, he refused food, and continued to sob, begging
the old woman to let him go home, but she only answered, “you are
dreaming still, or crazy.” Then she told him how sometimes people were
bewitched, and did not know themselves.
“Still, I am Paul, let me go.” At last the woman, losing all patience,
called the dwarf to beat him, if he did not stop crying and begin
to eat. So terror and hunger at last conquered, and the little boy,
choking down his sobs, sat upon a stool in silence, to eat his supper,
very desolate and leaden hearted.
From that day a new era commenced in the history of the child. An era
of servitude, sorrow, and tears, that washed away so far into the past
the memory of his free and joyous childhood, that he began to believe
what the woman so often told him, that his mind had gone astray, that
he had been bewitched.
Sometimes he would stand looking long into the great mirror, at the
stiff, red hairs and brown skin of poor Crimson Tuft, thinking what
a beautiful myth it was, about the happy little Paul, and the dear
mother. How it had stolen into his heart like a real life, and still
the señora, as all about the house called her, said it was only a
bewildering dream.
Into his eyes he would often look, saying, “Those are Paul’s eyes, but
the red brows give a different expression to their sadness,” he would
add, “No! no! they are not Paul’s eyes.”
Always the red hair, brown skin and sorrowful heart, “I must be only
poor Crimson Tuft.”
Very often his hungry heart would cry out, “Oh, mother! mother!”
Too often the shrill voice of the old woman would be the discordant
answer, sending him to some new task.
As months, then years, rolled by, the child became more accustomed to
his sorrowful lot, and in many ways it grew pleasanter. He learned to
talk Spanish fluently, and became very fond of the queer looking dwarf,
who had frightened him so much at first. He often talked to him about
his mysterious change, but of these things the dwarf would never speak,
so at last Crimson Tuft ceased to mention them.
His kind-hearted friend taught him many things in leisure hours--to
read, write, and solve difficult problems--so that at twelve, he was
as much advanced in his studies as most boys of his age.
With the señora he had become quite a favorite, although at first,
for a long time, he had only menial service to perform, there came
a change. One day she heard him reading aloud to the dwarf, and was
so much delighted with his distinct enunciation, and fine rendition
of what happened to be a favorite author, that she called him to her
private library, and talked a long time in a way she had never before
addressed him.
“He is a boy of quick mind,” thought she, “and may be more than an
ordinary servant to me. He is just what I shall need in my troublesome
Mexican affairs. I must train him to his work.”
From that day he used to sit hours in the library reading to her, and
often she gave him long papers to copy, which he was soon able to do,
to her entire satisfaction.
Very often she would talk to him as though he were a man, in fact the
training he was receiving brought only the man’s thoughts. He had left
his happy boyhood at the little stall in the market-place.
One day he found an old guitar in the attic of an out-house, which was
filled with broken furniture, and many things disused and forgotten.
From that hour he enjoyed a real pleasure. In a short time he picked
out the chords and wove them into delicious harmonies, and then there
came into his mind a rich old melody of the fatherland. It was like
the memory of a happy dream, and the tears filled his eyes. Again he
was happy, for every thing save the spell of the divine melody was
forgotten.
Two more years glided by, and the young boy was advancing toward
manhood. He was tall, and finely developed; and deep within his dreamy
eyes slept the wonderful magnetic charm. Still the brown skin and stiff
hair remained, and he was only poor ugly Crimson Tuft.
In all this time he had never been outside the massive gate which was
always strongly locked and barred; and though he had often entreated
the dwarf, the only reply was a grave shake of the head, and a sad,
compassionate look, from the odd squinting eyes of his companion, and
if he persisted the dwarf would go away and leave him alone.
He had never ventured to speak to the Señora but once, on the subject,
in years, and then her fury was so unbounded, that he feared she would
tear him in pieces with her long bony fingers, which, when she was
enraged, possessed the power of a vice. For a week after, she fed him
on bread and water, and kept him confined in a dark room with too
heavy tasks to allow him to question the mysterious past, or speculate
on the uncertain future.
“Always a foolish dreamer,” she said. “I will teach you something, you,
the brown-skinned Crimson Tuft.”
Yet it was all no use: the boy had his thoughts, that could not be
chained. He was determined to escape.
“I will not excite suspicion; I will strive to please; and a time will
come, yes, the time will come, when I shall know all.”
Thus in striving to lull the suspicions of the Argus-eyed woman to
sleep, he grew into great favor, and became indispensable to her.
“He can do so many things that no one else can do,” she would say to
herself, “but those great luminous eyes torment me. If they too could
be changed. But that is beyond my power. Would I could make them dull
leaden and red as his flaming crimson tuft. He is useful, very useful,
but there are times, with all his quiet seeming, when I think he
suspects me. Dare I trust him? that is the question.”
Here the old woman would fall into long fits of musing, and gaze into
the glowing embers, till they faded into dead ashes.
One morning the old woman called Crimson Tuft to her, saying: “I am
going away, to be gone for some days, and I want you to copy these
papers for me. They are the deeds and other valuable papers of my
property in Mexico, which you will see is very great. Let the copies be
made with great distinctness, for these duplicates may be required. You
see I am cautious, and trust you very much, very much.”
A look of suspicion crossed her sharp wizen face; but in the ugly brown
countenance she could detect nothing but truth and sincerity.
“I can do no better,” she thought, but aloud she added, “the dwarf
knows all and will see to the safety of these and every thing. If one
of them is lost it would bring no end of trouble, and you would have
your share.” With an ominous shake of the head, the old señora rose and
left Crimson Tuft bending over the yellowed parchment, that was of the
most inestimable value to her.
About noon she left the house, with the dwarf following her to the
gate, which, when she had passed he barred more securely than ever.
For some days Crimson Tuft worked diligently over the papers. There
were deeds of haciendas and mines, mortgages, and grants of land, and
many long, intricate pages of law papers. Really to copy all these was
a task, and Crimson Tuft was filled with amazement at the greatness of
the old señora’s possessions.
At last they were all finished, and locked up by the dwarf in the
iron-bound oaken chest, and that again was locked in the great closet,
and the dwarf carried the key. So it was very secure.
Still the old señora did not return! “Now the time has come,” thought
Crimson Tuft, “I must escape.” But that was easier planned than done.
Everywhere the dwarf followed him, and when Crimson Tuft grew angry he
laid his heavy hand upon his arm, saying, “from the first I have loved
you, boy,--believe me it will all be well--only wait a little longer.”
Then Crimson Tuft took his hard, honest hand, saying, “you alone have
loved me, and for your sake I will wait, but not long, I _can not_--do
not ask it.”
One evening, about a week after this, the bell rang, and the señora
entered, followed by a most beautiful little maiden about twelve years
of age.
She was dressed in mourning, with a black shawl about her head; her
long glossy hair hung carelessly over her graceful shoulders; her
complexion was a clear olive, and her skin soft and smooth as satin;
while her large, dark eyes had a depth as of the mystic sea, and a pure
clear look as of heaven.
They were more beautiful than any thing Crimson Tuft had ever seen,
and some how they startled him. It was not like the old vision, yet it
touched him more deeply--this was of the present--that of the past.
“This is my only granddaughter,” said the old woman to the dwarf and
Crimson Tuft. Both bowed very low to the pretty señorita. They were
such a queer-looking pair, that she clapped her dainty little hands
together laughing in a pure ringing tone, clear as the notes of a
silver bell.
Poor Crimson Tuft was very much confused, for to him the young Donna
Leota was the first dream of beauty that had kindled the dawning fire
of manhood in his heart, and he was ready to bow down and kiss her
foot-prints in the sand.
Strange to say, the little Leota swayed the grandmother as absolutely
as she had ruled the dwarf and Crimson Tuft, but in one respect the old
woman was resolute, the heavy gate was locked as securely upon Leota as
upon the other inmates of the mansion, and no persuasion could induce
her to change in this regard.
Leota was passionately fond of music, and played the harp very sweetly.
Once in the still hours of night, she was awakened by the notes of her
own harp vibrating in the most exquisite harmony.
She was filled with delight though she trembled with fear, for she was
quite sure there was no one in the house who knew any thing of music
but herself, yet the chords were swept as by a master’s hand.
She lay motionless until the last note died away, and it was long
before she fell asleep, for the spell of the rich melodies still
floated through the air around her. In the morning she spoke of it,
but no one could explain the mystery. Again and again, in the silent
hours came the rich melody, not old familiar airs, but the exquisite
improvisations of genius.
One night, when the golden moon was casting its soft amber light over
land and sea, and the enchanted harp sending forth its entrancing
strains, Leota rose softly from her couch, and summoning all her
courage, determined herself to solve the mystery. She glided quietly
along the passage-way to the large glass door of the parlor, and there
she saw Crimson Tuft bending fondly over the harp, and calling out the
bewildering melody that she had thought could be born only of mystical
enchantment. The imagination of the young girl was so vivid that she
was easily prepared for things supernatural, but to see poor brown
Crimson Tuft, the great magician, he, the slave, of whom she thought
only to laugh at--this was stranger than all.
The soft moonlight fell full upon his face, and his large luminous eyes
were dewy with the spirit of the rich melody. With the rare beauty that
was all their own, they almost redeemed the brown skin and flaming hair
from positive ugliness. Leota stood entranced till the last note died
out of the thrilled chords of the trembling harp, then, as she turned
to go, the rustling of her robe caused Crimson Tuft to raise his eyes,
and they fell full upon her face, to him at least the most beautiful
face in the world. He was covered with deep confusion. Over his
redeeming eyes fell the heavy red lashes, and the ugly brows contracted.
She, his rare divinity, had seen him play, and heard how the notes
flowed from his own heart, through the sympathizing harp-strings that
thrilled with his devotion to her, which would last all his life long.
Leota was greatly bewildered, and as she stole away to her own room,
strange thoughts chased themselves through her mind. Not one word had
been spoken, but every thing had changed. Crimson Tuft was no longer
only the ugly servant of her grandmother, but he was Crimson Tuft of
the mystery.
There was something interesting in that; besides, shut up in those high
walls, with only the old grandmother for company, and little amusement,
one must think a great deal. So Leota had her thoughts. Crimson Tuft
had wonderful eyes. She had found that out, and it was a great deal
there in that dull place.
She wished to be in Mexico again, where the most beautiful flowers
bloom, and the delicious fruit grows ripe on the broad-leafed trees.
Yet she did not like to think she would never see the beautiful eyes
again. “But one must not think too much of a servant,” she would say
to herself. “She was of good blood, and that would not do, yet one
must treat inferiors kindly.” Really it was difficult to tell what one
must do. So, all in a maze, she fell asleep, and dreamed of the most
radiant eyes, which _were_ Crimson Tuft’s, and the handsomest face,
which surely _was not_ Crimson Tuft’s.
The morning dawned clear and bright, as Crimson Tuft arose and began
the duties of the day. Though he was advanced to the post of private
secretary, the old señora had left him some tasks in the early part
of the day that would prevent him from forgetting his position as a
servant.
First he swept and dusted the parlor and halls. This had always been
his work, and no one else could please the señora so well. As he dusted
the señorita’s harp a flash of indignation filled his heart. He was
only a servant, the ugly Crimson Tuft, and she the most beautiful
maiden, the divinity of his soul. There was a great difference, yet he
felt himself a man, and he would conquer fate in the end, even with
his ugly Crimson Tuft. This was what he thought.
When Leota appeared she said nothing of her discovery, but when she
spoke to him it was in a different tone from formerly. The mystery of
the enchanted harp was over, but the greater mystery had begun.
The wonderful eyes acted as a talisman upon her heart, and though
she strove against it, she found herself forgetting Crimson Tuft’s
position, his ugly brown skin and red hair.
One glance of his beaming eyes would set her warm blood dancing through
her veins till her neck and brow were a soft rose-tint, and this was in
no way pleasant to the proud little maiden.
The next night Crimson Tuft did not touch the harp, and in the morning
the Donna Leota passed him at his work with a haughty toss of her
dainty head, but with a quiver in her voice she said, “Crimson Tuft,
play when you like, the music pleases me.”
After that Crimson Tuft would always play at twilight, and even the old
grandmother was touched by the magical spell of his genius.
Every year the old woman grew more infirm, till she could not even walk
from room to room without leaning upon her staff. At times her temper
was terrible, and nothing but the soft touch of Leota’s hand could calm
her. She loved with all her strong hard nature the young maiden who
daily was growing to womanhood crowned with surpassing beauty.
She was getting very old. With an iron will she resisted the pitiless
hand of time, but she could not stay it. Her long hands became more
bony and angular, her eyes more red and bleared, and her voice more
cracked and shrill; yet she seemed to be looking forward to a long
life, and was more hard and grasping than ever. It was only Leota that
she loved more than gold.
One night Crimson Tuft had a curious dream. He thought, as he lay half
sleeping and half waking, dreaming delightful but impossible things,
that the old woman came in softly and poured something upon his head,
and that when he started, she held a sponge to his nose, until he sank
back powerless. He seemed to inhale something sweet and fragrant. It
was very pleasant and soothing: that was all he could remember. In
the morning, he felt heavy and drowsy, his head ached, but he roused
himself, rose and dressed as usual. When he looked in the glass he
saw that his hair was redder, and his skin a deeper brown than ever.
Memories and a strange suspicion flashed over his mind.
Far back in the years he remembered dimly a little boy, named Paul, a
fair child, whom he had been taught to believe a dream. There was a
mystery. Could she have changed Paul to Crimson Tuft in a night?
After this, Crimson Tuft became more thoughtful than ever. There was
a mystery to solve, and he would devote all his energies to it. He
was eighteen years old, a very intelligent young man, but entirely
unacquainted with the world. He had yet much to learn.
One day the old woman called him to her, and looked, in her curious
way, at him for a long time. “Crimson Tuft,” she said, “you are my
servant, but I have given you great advantages, so that you are as well
educated as many a rich man’s son. But that is not all; I wish to make
your fortune.”
Then the old woman fell into a deep study, and Crimson Tuft stood
waiting and wondering what would come next.
At length he grew tired. “Señora,” he said, “you wanted to speak with
me.”
She gave a sudden start as he spoke. “Oh! yes,” she replied, “but I had
forgotten you. You are my servant, and have been so always.”
“Always?” asked Crimson Tuft.
A dark frown passed over the old woman’s face, and Crimson Tuft
regretted his folly. He was very anxious to hear what she had to say to
him. There might be some hope of relief. But again she was silent; and,
worse than all, she seemed displeased.
The Donna Leota passed the open window, singing lightly a pretty
Spanish air, and the shadows began to clear away from the clouded brow.
“Excuse me, señora,” said Crimson Tuft, softly. “If in some way I can
serve you, I shall be only too happy.” He, too, had heard the soothing
song.
“Crimson Tuft,” she replied, “I am not now so strong as I was twenty
good years ago, and I want some one near me whom I can trust, for I
have affairs that must be attended to now--some one who will not cheat
me out of my gold. I have looked carefully about, and can see no one
but you--you, whom I have trained, educated, and cared for so many
years. The world is so ungrateful and wicked! Even you, who owe every
thing to me, might rob me--me, an old woman. It would be a wicked
thing--a great crime!”
The red, eager eyes of the old woman were fastened upon the face of
the young man, and with all her shrewdness she tried to read him. Her
pinched features grew sharper, and her voice shrill as the whistling
wind. She grasped her staff, and hobbled across the room several times,
in an excited manner.
“You are such a curious, ugly fellow. What have _you_ to hope for in
the world, save from me? But, if you are faithful, I will advance you.
But I can as easily punish as reward.”
The red blood flushed even the brown cheek of the boy, for he was
painfully conscious of his extreme ugliness, and he thought sadly of
the Donna Leota.
“Listen, boy,” continued the old woman. “There is a great world beyond
these walls. Can I trust you to go away over the waters with me?
Remember all I promise you, and be faithful.”
She looked steadfastly into the luminous eyes of Crimson Tuft, that
dilated with pleasurable exultation. She was evidently satisfied with
the truth and sincerity she saw beaming there, for she proceeded:--
“I must go again to Mexico, but not alone. The Donna Leota will
accompany me, for in the years to come I can not be separated from her.
And you must go, as I shall need you. I am very rich, and must trust
you with a great secret; but I have studied you well.”
“Señora,” said Crimson Tuft, eagerly, “I will be true to you; you shall
never regret.”
“Swear it!” she said, fiercely.
So the young boy knelt, and pressed the good book to his lips,
repeating after her a most solemn oath, to serve her faithfully, and
keep sacred the great secret, which was to be revealed to Leota only,
in case of the grandmother’s death.