"Mrs. Palma, if you are at leisure, I should like to see you for a
moment."
"Certainly, Miss Orme; come in."
Mrs. Palma looked up for an instant only from the blue sash which she
was embroidering with silver.
"Is your discourse confidential? If so, I shall certainly retire, and
leave you and mamma to tender communings, and an interchange of
souls," said Olga, who reclined on a lounge in her mother's room, and
slowly turned the leaves of a volume of Balzac.
"Not at all confidential. Mrs. Palma, I have reason to fear that my
practising has long annoyed you."
"Upon what do you base your supposition? During the year I have not
found fault with you, have I?"
"Hattie told me that you often complained that you could no longer
enjoy your morning nap, because the sound of the piano disturbed you;
and I wish to change the hour. The reason why I selected that time
was because I always rose early and practised before breakfast until
I came here; and because later in the day company in the parlours or
reception-room keep me out. I am anxious to do whatever is most
agreeable to you."
"It is very true that when I am out frequently until two and three
o'clock, with Olga, it is not particularly refreshing to be aroused
at seven by scales and exercises. People who live as continually in
society as we do must have a little rest.
"I have been trying to arrange, so as to avoid annoying you, but do
not well see how to correct the trouble. From nine until one Mr. Van
Kleik comes to attend to my Latin, German, French, and mathematics,
and from four until five Professor Hurtzsel gives me my lessons. In
the interval persons are frequently calling, and of course interrupt
me. If you will only tell me what you wish, I will gladly consult
your convenience.
"Indeed, Miss Orme, I do not know when the tiresome practising will
be convenient, though of course it is a necessary evil and must be
borne. The fact is, that magnificent grand piano downstairs ought
never to be thrummed upon for daily practising. I told Erle soon
after you came that it was a shame to have it so abused, but men have
no understanding of the fitness of things."
"Pray, mamma, do not forget your Bible injunction: 'Render unto Cæsar
the things that are Cæsar's,' and to music, the matters that belong
to its own divine art. Until Regina came among us that melodious
siren in the front parlour had a chronic lock-jaw from want of use.
Some of the white keys stuck fast when they were touched, and the
black ones were so stiff they almost required a hammer to make them
sound. Do let her limber them at her own 'sweet will.' Who wants a
piano locked up, like that hideous old china and heavy glass that
your grandfather's fifth cousin brought over from Amsterdam?"
"At what time of day did you practise when you were a young girl?"
asked Regina, appealing to the figure now coiled up on the lounge.
"At none, thank fortune! Regard me as a genuine _rara avis_, a
fashionable young lady with no more aptitude for the 'concord of
sweet sounds,' than for the abstractions of Hegel, or Differential
Calculus. It is traditional, that while in my nurse's arms, I
performed miracles of melody such as Auld Lang Syne, with one little
finger; but such undue precocity, madly stimulated by ambitious mamma
and nurse Nell, resulted fatally in the total destruction of my
marvellous talent, which died of cerebro-musical excitement when
confronted with the gamut. Except as the language in which Strauss
appeals to my waltzing genius, I have no more use for it than for
ancient Aztec. Thank Heaven! this is a progressive age, and girls are
no longer tormented as formerly by piano fiends, who once persisted
in pounding and squeezing music into their poor struggling nauseated
souls, as relentlessly as girls' feet are still squeezed in China. My
talent is not for the musical tones of Pythagoras."
"I should be truly glad to learn in what direction it tends." said
her mother, rather severely.
Up rose the head with its tawny crown, and there was evident emphasis
in the ringing voice and in the fiery glance that darted from her
laughing hazel eyes.
"Cruel mamma! Because Euterpe did not preside when I was lucklessly
ushered into this dancing gilt bubble that we call the world, were
all good gifts denied me? The fairies ordained that I should paint,
should soar like Apelles, Angelo, and Da Vinci into the empyrean of
pure classic art, but no sooner did I dabble in pigment, and plume my
slender artistic pin-feathers, than the granite hands of Palma pride
seized the ambitious ephemeron, cut off the sprouting wings, and bade
me paint only my lips and cheeks, if dabble in paint I must. I am
confident the soul of Zeuxis sleeps in mine, but before the _ukase_
of the Palmas a stouter than Zeuxis would quail, lie low,--be silent.
Hence I am a young miss who has no talent, except for appreciating
Balzac, caramels, Diavolini, _vanille soufflé_, lobster-croquettes,
and Strauss' waltzes; though envious people do say that I have a
decided genius for 'malapropos historic quotations,' which you know
are regarded as unpardonable offences by those who cannot comprehend
them. Come here, St. John, and let me rub your fur the wrong way. The
world will do it roughly if you survive tender kittenhood, and it is
merciful to initiate you early, and by degrees."
She took up a young black cat that was curled comfortably on the
skirt of her dress, and stroking him softly, resumed her book.
Mrs. Palma compressed her lips, knitted her heavy brows, and turned
the silk sash to the light to observe the effect of the silver
snowdrops she was embroidering.
During her residence under the same roof, Regina had become
accustomed to these verbal tournaments between mother and daughter,
and having been kept in ignorance of the ground of Olga's grievance,
she could not understand allusions that were frequently made in her
presence, and which never failed to irritate Mrs. Palma.
Desirous of diverting the conversation from a topic that threatened
renewed tilts, she said timidly:
"You do not in the least assist me, with reference to my music. Would
you object to having a hired piano in the house? I could have it
placed in my room, and then my practising in the middle of the day,
or in the evening would never be interfered with, and you could have
your morning nap."
"Indeed, Miss Orme, a very good suggestion; a capital idea. I will
speak to Erle about it to-night."
Regina absolutely coloured at the shadowy compliment.
"Will it be necessary to trouble Mr. Palma with the matter? He is
always so busy, and besides you know much better than a gentleman
what----"
"I know nothing better than Erle Palma, where it concerns his
_ménage_, or the expenses incident to its control."
"But out of my allowance I will pay the rent, and he need know
nothing of the matter."
"Of course that quite alters the case; and if you propose to pay the
rent, there is no reason why he should be consulted."
"Then will you please select a piano, and order it to be sent up
to-day or to-morrow? An upright could be most conveniently carried
upstairs."
"Certainly, if you wish it. We shall be on Broadway this afternoon,
and I will attend to the matter."
"Thank you, Mrs. Palma."
"Regina Orme! what an embryo diplomatist, what an incipient
Talleyrand, Kaunitz, Bismarck you are! Mamma is as invulnerable to
all human weaknesses as one of the suits of armour hanging in the
Tower of London; and during my extended and rather intimate
acquaintance with her, I have never discovered but one foible
incident to the flesh, love of her morning nap! You have adroitly
struck Achilles in the heel. Sound the timbrel and sing like Miriam
over your victory; for it were better to propitiate one of the house
of Palma, than to strangle Pharaoh. You should apply for a position
in some foreign legation, where your talents can be fitly trained for
the tangles of diplomacy. Now if you were only a man, how admirably
you would suit the Hon. Erle Palma as Deputy----"
"He prefers to appoint his deputies without suggestion from others,
and regrets he can find no vacant niche for you," answered Mr. Palma,
from the threshold of the door where he had been standing for several
moments, unperceived by all but the hazel eyes of the graceful figure
on the lounge.
"Ah! you steal upon one as noiselessly, yet as destructive as the
rats that crept upon the bowstrings at Pelusium! And the music of
your eavesdropping voice;--
'Oh it came o'er my ear like the sweet south
That breathes upon a bank of violets.'"
She rose, made him a profound salaam, and with the black kitten in
her arms, quitted the room.
"Will you come, in, Erle? Do you wish to see me?"
Mrs. Palma always looked ill at ease when Olga and her stepbrother
exchanged words, and Regina had long observed that the entrance of
the latter was generally the signal of departure for the former.
"I came in search of Regina, but chancing to hear the piano question
discussed, permit me to say that I prefer to take the matter in my
own hands. I will provide whatever may be deemed requisite, so that
this young lady's Rothschild's allowance may continue to flow
uninterruptedly into the coffers of confectioners and flower-dealers.
Mrs. Palma, if you can spare the carriage, I should like the use of
it for an hour or two."
"Oh, certainly! I had thought of driving to Stewart's, but to-morrow
will suit me quite as well."
"By no means. You will have ample time after my return. Regina, I
wish to see you."
She followed him into the hall.
"In the box of clothing that arrived several days ago, there is a
white cashmere suit with blue silk trimmings?"
"Yes, sir."
"Be so good as to put it on. Then wrap up well, and when ready come
to the library. Do not keep me waiting. Bring your hair-brush and
comb."
Her mother had sent from Europe a tasteful wardrobe, which, when
unpacked, Mrs. Palma pronounced perfect; while Olga asserted that one
particular sash surpassed anything of the kind she had ever seen, and
was prevailed upon to accept and wear it.
With many conjectures concerning the import of Mr. Palma's
supervision of her toilette, Regina obeyed his instructions, and
fearful of trespassing on his patience, hurried down to the library.
With one arm behind him, and the hand of the other holding a
half-smoked cigar, he was walking meditatively up and down the
polished floor, that reflected his tall shadow.
"Where do you suppose you are going?"
"I have no idea."
"Why do you not inquire?"
"Because you will not tell me till you choose; and I know that
questions always annoy you."
"Come in. You linger at the door as if this were the den of a lion at
a menagerie, instead of a room to which you have been cordially
invited several times. I am not voracious, have had my luncheon. You
are quite ready?"
"Quite ready----"
She was slowly walking down the long room, and suddenly caught sight
of something that seemed to take away her breath.
The clock on the mantle had been removed to the desk, and in its
place was a large portrait neither square nor yet exactly kit-cat,
but in proportion more nearly resembled the latter. In imitation of
Da Vinci's celebrated picture in the Louvre, the background
represented a stretch of arid rocky landscape, unrelieved by foliage,
and against it rose in pose and general outline the counterpart of
"_La Joconde_."
The dress and drapery were of black velvet, utterly bare of ornament,
and out of the canvas looked a face of marvellous, yet mysteriously
mournful beauty. The countenance of a comparatively young woman,
whose radiant brown eyes had dwelt in some penetrale of woe, until
their light was softened, saddened; whose regular features were
statuesque in their solemn repose, and whose gold-tinted hair simply
parted on her white round brow, fell in glinting waves down upon her
polished shoulders. The mystical pale face of one who seemed alike
incapable of hope or of regret, who gazed upon past, present, future,
as proud, as passionless and calm as Destiny; and whose perfect hands
were folded in stern fateful rest.
As Regina looked up at it she stopped, then run to the hearth, and
stood with her eyes riveted to the canvas, her lips parted and
quivering.
Watching her, Mr. Palma came to her side, and asked:
"Whom can it be?"
Evidently she did not hear him. Her whole heart and soul appeared
centred in the picture; but as she gazed, her own eloquent face grew
whiter, she drew her breath quickly, and tears rolled over her
cheeks, as she lifted her arms toward the painting.
"Mother I my beautiful sad-eyed mother!"
Sobs shook her frame, and she pressed toward the mantelpiece till the
skirt of her dress swept dangerously close to the fire. Mr. Palma
drew her back, and said quietly:
"For an uncultivated young rustic, I must say your appreciation of
fine painting is rather surprising. Few city girls would have paid
such a tearful tribute of heartfelt admiration to my pretty 'Mona
Lisa.'"
Without removing her fascinated eyes she asked:
"When did it come?"
"I have had it several days. I presume that you know it is a copy of
Da Vinci's celebrated picture, upon which he worked four years, and
which now hangs in the gallery of the Louvre at Paris?"
She merely shook her head.
"In France it is called '_La Joconde_; but I prefer the softer 'Mona
Lisa' for my treasure."
"Is it not mine? She must have sent it to me?"
"She? Are you dreaming? Mona Lisa has been dead three hundred years!"
"Mr. Palma, it is my mother. No other face ever looked like that, no
other eyes except those in the _Mater Dolorosa_ resemble these
beautiful sad brown eyes, that rained their tears upon my head. Do
you think a child ever mistook another for her own mother? Can the
face I first learned to know and to love, the lovely--oh! how
lovely--face that bent over my cradle ever--ever be forgotten? If I
never saw her again in this world, could I fail to recognise her in
heaven? My own mother!"
"Obstinate, infatuated little ignoramus! Read--and be convinced."
He opened and held before her a volume of engravings of the pictures
and statues in the Louvre, and turning to the Leonardo Da Vinci's,
moved his fingers slowly beneath the title.
Her eyes fell upon "_La Joconde_," then wandered back to the portrait
over the fireplace; and through her tears broke a radiant smile.
"Yes, sir, I perfectly understand. Your engraving is of Da Vinci's
painting, and of course I suppose it is very fine, though the face is
not pretty; but up yonder! that is mother! My mother who kissed and
cried over me, and hugged me so close to her heart. Oh! Your Da Vinci
never even dreamed of, much less painted, anything half so heavenly
as my darling mother's face!"
Closing the book, Mr. Palma threw it on the table, and as he glanced
from the lovely countenance of the girl to that of the woman on the
wall, something like a sigh heaved his broad chest.
Did the wan meek shadow of his own patient much-suffering young
mother lift her melancholy image in the long silent adytum of his
proud heart, over whose chill chambers ambition and selfishness had
passed with ossifying touch?
Years ago, at the initial steps of his professional career, he had
set before him one glittering goal, the Chief-Justiceship. In
preparing for the long race that stretched ahead of him, seeing only
the Judicial crown that sparkled afar off, he had laid aside his
tender sensibilities, his warmest impulses of affection and
generosity as so many subtle fetters, so much unprofitable luggage,
so much useless weight to retard and burden him.
While his physical and mental development had brilliantly attested
the efficacy of the stern regiment he systematically imposed,--his
emotional nature long discarded, had grown so feeble and inane from
desuetude, that its very existence had become problematical. But
to-day, deeply impressed by the intensity of love which Regina could
not restrain at the sight of the portrait, strange softening memories
began to stir in their frozen sleep, and to hint of earlier, warmer,
boyish times, even as magnolia, mahogany, and cocoa trunks stranded
along icy European shores, babble of the far sweet sunny south, and
the torrid seas whose restless blue pulses drove them to hyperborean
realms.
"Is it indeed so striking and unmistakable a likeness? After all, the
instincts of nature are stronger than the canons of art. Your mother
is an exceedingly beautiful woman; but, little girl, let me tell you,
that you are not in the least like her."
"I know that sad fact, and it often grieves me."
"You must certainly resemble your father, for I never saw mother and
child so entirely dissimilar."
He saw the glow of embarrassment, of acute pain tinging her throat
and cheeks, and wondered how much of the past had been committed to
her keeping; how far she shared her mother's confidence. During the
year that she had been an inmate of his house she had never referred
to the mystery of her parentage, and despite his occasional efforts
to become better acquainted had shrunk from his presence, and
remained the same shy reserved stranger she appeared the week of her
arrival.
"Is not the portrait for me? Mother wrote that she intended sending
me something which she hoped I would value more than all the pretty
clothes, and it must be this, her own beautiful precious face."
"Yes, it is yours; but I presume you will be satisfied to allow it to
hang where it is. The light is singularly good."
"No, sir, I want it."
"Well you have it, where you can see it at any time."
"But I wish to keep it, all to myself, in my room, where it will be
the last thing I see at night, the first in the morning--my sunrise."
"How unpardonably selfish you are. Would you deprive me of the
pleasure of admiring a fine work of art, merely to shut it in,
converting yourself into a pagan, and the portrait into an idol?"
"But, Mr. Palma, you never loved any one or anything so very dearly,
that it seemed holy in your eyes; much too sacred for others to look
at."
"Certainly not. I am pleased to say that is a mild stage of lunacy,
with which I have as yet never been threatened. Idolatry is a phase
of human weakness I have been unable to tolerate."
He saw a faint smile lurking about the perfect curves of her rosy
mouth, but her eyes remained fixed on the picture.
"I should be glad to know what you find so amusing in my remark."
She shook her head, but the obstinate dimples reappeared.
"What are you smiling at?"
"At the assertion that you cannot tolerate idolatry."
"Well? Of all the men in New York, probably I am the most thoroughly
an iconoclast."
"Yes, sir, of other people's gods; nevertheless, I think you worship
ardently."
"Indeed! Have you recently joined the 'Microscopical Society'? I
solicit the benefit of your discoveries, and shall be duly grateful
if you will graciously point out the unknown fane wherein I secretly
worship. Is it Beauty? Genius? Riches?"
"It is not done in secret. All the world knows that Mr. Palma
imitates the example of Marcus Marcellus, and dedicates his life to
two divinities."
Standing on either side of the gate, and each pressing a hand upon
the slab of the mantle, the lawyer looked curiously down at the
bright young face.
"You are quite fresh in foraging from historic fields,--and since I
quitted the classic shade of Alma Mater I have had little leisure for
Roman lore; but college memories suggest that it was to Honour and
Valour that Marcellus erected the splendid double temple at the
Capene Gate. I bow to your parallel, and gratefully appreciate your
ingeniously delicate compliment."
He laughed sarcastically as he interpreted the protest very legible
in her clear honest eyes, and waited a moment for her to disclaim the
flattery. But she was silently smiling up at her mother's face.
"Does my very observant ward approve of my homage to the Roman
deities?"
"Are your favourite divinities those before whom Marcellus bent his
knee?"
Very steadily her large eyes, blue as the border of a clematis, were
turned to meet his, and involuntarily he took his under lip between
his glittering teeth.
"My testimony would not be admissible before the bar, at which I have
been arraigned. Since you have explored the Holy of Holies, be so
kind as to describe what you find."
"You might consider me presumptuous, possibly impertinent."
"At least I may safely promise not to express any such opinion. What
is there, think you, that Erle Palma worships?"
"A statue of Ambition that stands in the vestibule of the temple of
Fame."
"Olga told you that."
"Oh no, sir! Have not I lived here a year?"
His eyes sparkled, and a proud smile curled his lips.
"Do I offer sacrifices?"
"I think you would, if they were required."
"Suppose my stone god demanded my heart?"
"Ah, sir! you know you gave it to him long ago."
He laughed quite genially, and his whole face softened, warmed.
"At least let us hope my ambition is not sordid; is unstained with
the dross of avarice. It is a stern god, and I shall not deny that
'Ephraim is joined to his idols! Let him alone.'"
A short silence followed, during which his thoughts wandered far from
the precincts of that quiet room.
"Mr. Palma, will you please give me my picture?"
"It is yours of course, but conditionally. It must remain where it
now hangs: first, because I wish it; secondly, because your mother
prefers (for good reasons) that it should not be known just yet as
her portrait; and if it should be removed to your bed-chamber, the
members of the household would probably gossip. Remaining here, it
will be called an imitation of 'Mona Lisa del Giocondo,' and none
will ever suspect the truth. Pray don't straiten your lips in that
grievously defiant fashion, as Perpetua doubtless did when she heard
the bellowing of beasts or the clash of steel in the amphitheatre.
Make this room your favourite retreat. Now that it contains your
painted Penates, convert it into an _atrium_. Come when you may, you
will never disturb me. In a long letter received this week, your
mother directs that your portrait shall be painted in a certain
position, and wishes you to wear the suit you have on. The carriage
is ready, and I will take you at once to the artist. Put on your
hat."
During the drive he was abstracted, now and then consulting a paper
of memoranda, carried in the inside breast-pocket of his coat.
Once introduced into the elegant studio of Mr. Harcourt in Tenth
Street, Regina found much to interest and charm her, while her
guardian arranged the preliminaries, and settled the details of the
picture. Then he removed the hat and cloak, and placed her in the
comfortable seat already prepared.
The artist went into an adjoining room, and a moment after Hero
bounded in, expressing by a succession of barks his almost frantic
delight at the reunion with his mistress. Since her removal to New
York, she saw him so rarely, that the pleasure was mingled with pain,
and now with her arms around his neck, and her face hidden in his
thick white hair, she cried softly, unable to keep back the tears.
"Come, Regina, sit up. Make Hero lie on that pile of cushions, which
will enable you to rest one hand easily on his head. Crying! Mr.
Harcourt paints no such weeping demoiselles. Dry your eyes, and take
down your hair. Your mother wishes it flowing, as when she saw you
last."
While she unbraided the thick coil, and shook out the shining folds,
trying to adjust them smoothly, the lawyer stood patiently beside
her; and once his soft white hand rested on her forehead, as he
stroked back a rippling tress that encroached upon her temple.
The dress of pearly cashmere was cut in the style usually denominated
"infant waist," and fully exposed the dazzling whiteness and dimpling
roundness of the neck and shoulders; while the short puffed sleeves
showed admirably the fine modelling of the arms.
Walking away to the easel, Mr. Palma looked back, and critically
contemplated the effect; and he acknowledged it was the fairest
picture his fastidious eyes had ever rested on.
He put one hand inside his vest, and stood regarding the girl, with
mingled feelings of pride in "Erle Palma's ward," and an increasing
interest in the reticent calm-eyed child, which had first dawned when
he watched her asleep in the railroad car. It was no easy matter to
stir his leaden sympathies, save in some selfish ramification, but
once warmed and set in motion they proved a current difficult to
stem.
In a low voice the artist said, as he selected some brushes from a
neighbouring stand:
"How old is she? Her features have a singularly infantile delicacy
and softness, but the eyes and lips seem to belong to a much older
person."
"Regina, have you not entered upon your sixteenth year?"
"Yes, sir."
"I believe, Mr. Palma, it is the loveliest living face I ever saw. It
is so peculiar, so intensely--what shall I say?--prophet-eyed."
"Yes, I believe that is the right word. When she looks steadily at me
she often reminds me of a Sibyl."
"But is this her usual, every-day expression?"
"Rather sadder than customary, I think."
He went back to the group, and, standing in front of his ward, looked
gravely down in her upturned face.
"Could you contrive to appear a little less solemn?"
She forced a smile, but he made an impatient gesture.
"Oh, don't! Anything would be better than that dire conflict between
the expression of your mouth, and that of your eyes. Have you any
hermetically sealed pleasant thoughts hidden behind that smooth brow,
that you could be prevailed upon to call up for a few moments, just
long enough to cast a glimmer of sunshine over your face? I think you
once indignantly denied ever indulging in the folly of possessing a
sweetheart, but perhaps you have really entertained more _affaires de
coeur_ than you choose to confide to such a grim, iron guardian as
yours? Possibly you may cherish cheerful memories of the kind-hearted
young missionary, whose chances of hastening to heaven, _per_ Sepoy
passport, _viâ_ Delhi route, seem at times to distress you? Does he
ever write you?"
"His mother has written to me twice since she reached India, and once
enclosed a note from him; but although she said he had written, and I
hoped for a letter, none has come."
He noted the quick flutter of her lip, and the shadow that crept into
her eyes.
"Then he went away with the expectation that you would correspond
with him?"
"Yes, sir."
"He is quite a bold, audacious young fellow, and you are a very
disrespectful, imprudent, disobedient young ward, to enter into such
an arrangement without my consent and permission. Suppose I forbid
all communication?"
"I think, sir, you would scarcely be so unreasonable and unjust; and
if you were, I should not obey you. I would appeal to my mother. Mr.
Hargrove, dear good Mr. Hargrove, was my guardian when Mr. Lindsay
went away, and he did not object to the promise I made concerning a
correspondence."
The starry sparkle which during the last twelve months he had learned
meant the signal of mutiny flashed up in her eyes.
"Take care! when iron gloves are recklessly thrown down, serious
mischief sometimes ensues. My laws are rarely Draconian, until reason
has been exhausted; but nature endowed me with a miserly share of
patience, and I do not think it entirely politic in you to challenge
me. Here is a document that has an intensely Hindustanee appearance,
and is, as you see, at my mercy. Where it has been since it left
Calcutta last June, I know not. That Padre Sahib penned it, I indulge
no doubt. Pray sit still. So the sunshine has come to your
countenance at last, and all the way from India! Verily, happiness is
the best cosmetic, and hope the brightest illuminator; even more
successful than Bengal lights."
He held up a letter post-marked Calcutta, and coldly watched the glow
that overspread her face, as her gaze eagerly followed the motion of
his hand.
"I have not touched the seal; but as your guardian, It is proper that
I should be made acquainted with the contents. When you have devoured
it, I presume you will yield to the promptings of respect due to my
position and wishes. When I assume guardianship of any person or
thing, I invariably exert all the authority, exact all the obedience,
and claim all the privileges and perquisites to which the
responsibility entitles me."
He placed the letter on the cushion, where Hero nestled, and turning
to the artist, added:
"I leave Miss Orme in your care, Mr. Harcourt, and shall send Mr.
Roscoe to remain during the sitting, and take her home. Paint her
just as she is now. Good-morning."