Suddenly George Elmore, his eyes blazing, stood before her, lookingdown upon her haughtily.
Without losing his self-command in the least he said with cuttingscorn, "Oh, I am interrupting a tete-a-tete! We have a lover, havewe? Just as well I have found it out in time! Ha, ha! I wish you muchhappiness--especially as in my own case my family would have to declinethe honor of an alliance with a bankrupt's daughter!" Then he bowedcoldly and went out.
Lucy, realizing the situation, uttered a cry and attempted to rise,but once again overcome with weakness, fell back with the same marblepaleness upon her brow.
VII.
Mr. Denison's funeral had already taken place some weeks. Nearly everyday Lucy had been seen dressed in deep mourning, crossing to NewJersey. In her firm serious face decision showed itself as, hour afterhour she bent over big ledgers, separating debts from assets, while thebook-keeper stood by her side to offer her any assistance in his power.
After a long and searching examination, it became evident that the firmneed not absolutely declare itself insolvent, since the great bankinghouse in Wall Street whose reported failure had brought the catastropheto the Denison household, had recovered itself, thanks to a favorableturn in the stock-market, and promised to reimburse all its creditors.
The Martin family, after all the severe trials it had undergone in NewYork, had moved back to New Jersey. Through the proved usefulness ofold Martin, who now labored with redoubled eagerness to produce new andunheard of combinations of color, the prestige of the factory, whichhad sunk low in the silk market, now began to rise again to its formerheight.
Lucy and her mother, selling their fine house on Fifth Avenue, had alsomoved to New Jersey, in the vicinity of the works, since Lucy insistedupon superintending everything herself. She trembled with impatienceand joy when Eugene's fair curly head was seen approaching the house.
On the expiration of her year of mourning she gave her hand to the manto whom her heart has long been given.
The happy couple spent their honeymoon in Italy. The high ideals whichhad once inflamed the young painter's heart, and later had threatenedto die out in comfortless annihilation, were destined at last to takeshape, and to stand before his enchanted eyes in all their beautifulreality. At last he was able, hand in hand with his beloved, to admirethe art treasures of Rome, the Vatican, with its immortal paintings byRaphael, Michael Angelo and Paul Veronese. All that they had long knownthrough copies and engravings were now before them in the original, andfilled them with delight.
Eugene availed himself of the permission given to artists three daysin the week to make copies in the Vatican galleries. Standing at theireasels, Eugene and Lucy painted side by side, as they had once done atthe Art School, with unbounded happiness beaming in their eyes. Amongthe masterpieces which represented the highest ideals of art, Lucyrealized more and more with a palpitating heart, the omnipotence oftrue love.
THE STREET SINGER
A VIENNESE STORY
I.
Winter, hard and merciless as a tax collector, stalked threateninglybefore the dilapidated doors of Vienna's poor.
Back of the white Tanneries, not far from the magnificently built FranzJosef's bridge, where misery and dire poverty had made their drearyhome for many decades, winter seemed harder and colder than elsewhere;for with the poor wretched creatures who dwell near these Tanneries,there is--as everybody knows--but little sympathy.
A sweet-looking girl, hardly fourteen years of age, came shivering withbent head, out of one of the poorest and dirtiest homesteads of thepoverty-stricken district.
Her thin, threadbare gingham dress, torn in many places, exposed hereand there the trembling little form beneath. Over it she wore an old,shabby-looking plaid shawl--apparently her mother's--which blownback now and again by the unceremonious wind, exposed to view an oldviolin. She held it as tight as if it were the only earthly treasureshe possessed. A ribbon, that had once been blue, held up her knottedhair, and gave her the appearance of a gipsy. And as for her shoes, itwould seem that only the upper part had preserved a right to the name;for her stiff-frozen little toes were almost on the ground.
She walked on and on, greatly oppressed, giving no heed to the cruelwind that played havoc with her fluttering curls. Her large black eyes,which held a singular fascination in their sparkling depths, were nowfilled with burning tears.
She was barely on the threshold of girlhood, but life in itsunfathomable savagery, had already thrown its challenging gauntlet inher frightened, childish face. She felt instinctively that poor littleoutcast as she was, she must not shrink from battle, but struggle on asbest she could either with cruel wind and weather or with bitter coldand want.
She had struggled bravely, never minding how fruitless her littleefforts seemed. But the one thing to which she had never accustomedherself, and which made a storm of tears rain down her pale face, wasthe frightful apparition of the hollow-eyed skeleton, hunger--thathunger which now held sway over her sick mother's house.
A heavy, shuddering sigh broke from her lips. The utter need andhelplessness of her mother and four smaller sisters, for days deprivedof all necessaries of life, even of bread to satisfy their hunger, haddriven her from the house, their cries and lamentations still ringingin her ears.
"Poor and friendless, with no one to care for us, and poor, dear motherlying ill," she moaned in a suffocating voice, wiping tears of agonyfrom her white face. "It wrings my heart to see her and the little onesso hungry," she said to herself, sobbing aloud.
Near the Franz Josef's bridge she saw a little tavern. She timidlyopened the door and entered, quickly producing the old violin. Theinstrument was the only bequest of her dear father, who had been amusician, and who had instructed her in this art, detecting at an earlyage her ardent love of study and thirst for a musical education.
Standing near the open door, she first played an obligato which sheexecuted in masterly fashion, and then commenced to sing an old Germansong, so touchingly--knowing what was at stake--that the people inthe tavern, and many passers-by who stopped in amazement at the door,gazed with wondering eyes at the ragged little dark-eyed girl hardlygrown out of her baby shoes; and many of them, moved by deep pity,though poor themselves, tossed one, and some of them two coins into herapron. More they could not afford to give, lest their liberality mighteventually expose them to the same plight.
Christine beamed with happiness. When her song was finished, shequickly took out of her apron her gathered treasure, counting it withshining eyes. Twenty kreutzers--she counted them again and again. Herstiff little fingers could not hold all at once, but her eyes, wet withhappy emotion, were fastened on each of them, and her heart leapedwithin her at the sight. So many she had never before earned.
She folded her hands as if in fervent prayer, and lifted her darkeyes to Heaven in gratitude, thinking of the joy she would bring toher mother and half-starved sisters when she returned home with anapron-full of fresh baked rolls.
"Say,--Miss--won't ye let me carry yer--fiddle?"
The whisper sank into her ear. She turned hastily around, and saw apoorly-dressed shoemaker's apprentice standing near, gazing at her withhis large blue eyes. In his hands he held an old pair of shoes.
He stood, quite silent, with enthusiasm for Christine's exquisitesinging beaming from every feature. Presently, with a timid grin, heheld out the pair of shoes.
"Here, Miss. I ain't got no money, but I'd like badly ter give youthem shoes--er--ter show you that I like good singing. Yes, I do, an'ye sing mighty well," he said, looking admiringly at her and gettingas red in the face as an over-ripe apple. "I'll surely get a good cuffor two from master for giving them away, but a shoemaker's boy is usedto that, and doesn't care a rap if once in a while he takes a goodpiff, paff, pouff!" With this exclamation of Meyerbeerian bravado,he demonstrated the operatic knowledge of an up-to-date Vienneseapprentice.
"HERE, MISS, I AIN'T GOT NO MONEY, BUT I'D LIKE TER GIVYER THEM SHOES."]
Christine loo
ked at him with shining eyes. She understood only onething--that he wanted to give her a pair of shoes, which, in herestimation seemed almost new. She beamed at him so gratefully with herlarge, dark eyes, that the embarrassed apprentice, who was about twoyears older than she, felt a hot wave running down his spine. Never hada lovelier face or sweeter eyes smiled so kindly at the bewildered boy.
"They're yourn, an'--ye'd better try 'em on--an' see if they'll fit,"he stammered bashfully. This strange, heavenly shyness was a newsensation for the rough apprentice lad. Until this moment he had neverknown that there existed such an organ as a palpitating heart withinhis body.
And before Christine knew how, the new shoes were on her feet. Shoeswithout holes! Goodness! how could it have happened? And without holes!
"I hope I am not dreaming," she murmured to herself, her face aglow.
"Will ye let me go with ye?" asked the simple-hearted boy, his eyesdowncast.
"No--not now; but--on Sunday you can come."
"To yer house? My name is Peter," he replied, greatly bewildered, as hecould not think--to save his soul--of anything more important than hisname.
"Yes, to my house; and then you can go with me and carry the violin,"Christine answered with a sweet smile. But suddenly, ashamed of herboldness, she stopped and counted her kreutzers again.
Peter, however, looked at her with such admiration in his big blueeyes, that something like an electric spark shot through her. Such ahappy sensation she had never felt; for no one had ever spoken suchkind, encouraging words to her. A tinge of red leaped into her palecheeks; there was a trembling pant in her voice, when, with avertedface, she told him the street and number. Tucking her violin under herarm, she ran quickly up the street.
At the nearest bakery she stopped in order to buy the coveted rolls.But Peter, still under the charm of her large, expressive eyes, stoodas if rooted to the ground, gazing after her and listening to thereceding tap-tap of the little shoes on her feet, which he now realizedbelonged to some one else. He began to dread the expected punishment,which he knew would be meted out, not so much in curtain lectures asin striking actions, and for some time he stood stock still, rackinghis brain for an excuse to make their singular disappearance plausible.But his natural light-heartedness soon got the better of him. Shrugginghis shoulders, and singing "Piff, paff, pouff, brennet sie," he rushedaway, ready to meet his inexorable fate.
II.
"Goodness! you haven't eaten anything all day long, and I bet you'refeeble," cried Mrs. Langohr, the next-door neighbor of Christine'smother, throwing the door of her miserable two-room apartment wideopen, so that all the neighbors should hear, and praise her charitableinclinations. "O, my God, have mercy on them poor little worms! I mustgo and make a little farina soup for 'em. See, that's what I am gettingout of the Bible! Be good to yer neighbor," she said in a loud tone,apparently for the benefit of the poorly-clad and shy-looking women atthe windows.
"O, holy Father in Heaven! Just look here," she screamed, amazed whenChristine suddenly appeared with twenty hot rolls in her apron, showingthem triumphantly to the neighbors. And rushing into the apartment,she, with a gladdened heart, distributed them among the starvingchildren.
The feeble mother with eyes full of tears, glancing thankfully towardHeaven, listened to Christine's wonderful story about the shoes and thetwenty kreutzers. It seemed incredible. So much happiness in one day!And Christine's beautiful smile seemed to fill the squalid room withradiance when she thought of Sunday and the expected arrival of theshoemaker's bashful boy.
Her happiness increased day by day; for every Sunday Peter punctuallyarrived, always bringing some unusual delicacies with him, andaccepting gladly Christine's consent to carry the violin. In fact, hecarried it with such dignity and pride, that, standing behind her, itoften happened that he bowed his acknowledgment to the audience atthe end of each morceau, quite as if he were her partner and one ofthe performing artists. Then he would take his old cap and gather thecontributions, always returning them faithfully to Christine. Everypiece of wood that he could deftly worm out of his mistress' household,he carried to Mrs. Miller, Christine's mother, to warm the chilledlittle limbs of her starving children.
His mistress, the shoemaker's wife, often wondered that the cookedpotatoes disappeared from the dinner table as suddenly as if theearth had swallowed them up. She certainly could not imagine thatthey invariably disappeared into Peter's side-pockets although hisoccasional grimaces and the red spots on his sensitive skin bore opentestimony.
"Now, now, goodness! what's the matter with you, rascal?" the surprisedmistress would cry, viewing amazedly his distorted face. And one day,in spite of his Spartan heroism, Peter could not stand it any longer.
"I am sick--stomach-ache--" he stammered, vainly trying to composehimself, and even forcing a sickly smile to his pale lips.
"You grown-up earthworm, you! The idea of having stomach-ache everyday at this time!" she responded angrily, adding a few choice wordsout of her voluminous vocabulary. But being not bad at heart, sympathysoon gained the upper hand, and she said in a milder tone, giving him asmall coin with a gesture indicative of large liberality--"Here, youstupid nuisance, you! Go and get a penny's worth of English bitters."
Peter did not require a second command to leave the room. He took thehint and the penny and went straight to Christine's house. But onceoutside, and in respectable distance from his mistress' observing eyes,he quickly removed the red-hot potatoes from his pant's pockets.
Peter had always been accustomed to save the tips that he receivedfrom his master's patrons when he carried home their shoes--chieflyfor Sunday nights, that he might enjoy a seat in the last gallery atthe theatre. And my! hadn't he been proud and happy when sitting therein his best well-worn suit, and hearing those wonderful songs, "BelleHelene," in Offenbach's toneful operetta, and others which he could notget out of his head for months.
Sometimes, if he had any money left, he would indulge in such luxuriesas a half herring and a glass of Pilsner, being a great gourmand. Butsince he had come to know Christine, everything seemed to have changed.He no longer went to the theatre, but saved all his tips, and wentabout as if a secret were hidden in his breast.
"Oh, Mrs. Langohr," cried Christine's mother, one cold morning to hernext-door neighbor. "Don't laugh, for it is true. Peter has bought adress for Christine, a winter dress, just imagine!"
Mrs. Langohr held up her hands in amazement. But it was really true.Peter had bought Christine, with his savings, a warm dress, at asecond-hand store. Christine was beside herself with joy; she had neverknown in these days what it was to have a warm rag on her back, and hergratitude welled up and overflowed in her sparkling eyes.
As Christmas-time gradually approached, Mrs. Miller, feeling muchbetter in health, commenced to perform her household duties. ButChristine's earnings from her singing and violin diminished as theholidays drew near, and the simple little income seemed about to vanishaltogether. Even Peter's pour-boire money threatened to cease, causinghim restless nights and much down-heartedness. This discouragingcondition of things took all his former desire for playing pranks outof the formerly gay-spirited shoemaker's boy.
And when pious processions of tired pilgrims passed through the streetsof Vienna, singing and praying on their way to church, he no longerplayed any of his old mischievous tricks on them, but took off his hatdevoutly, and marched along, praying with folded hands and wet eyes.
"Blessed Virgin--be good to her--I pray to thee--but not formyself--no; only for Christine--she lives under the whiteTanneries--only for her I pray!"
III.
A chilling north wind whistled through the deserted streets of theAustrian metropolis, and the snow, towering mountain high, driven bythe gale, whirled blindingly around the muffled, shivering pedestrians,hastening hurriedly to their respective homes.
The Franzenering, where the Viennese aristocrats are accustomed to meetin the afternoon hours, to drink tea, consume little cakes and indulgein gay conv
ersations, today was totally empty. No one, it seemed, hadventured to brave the storm, in spite of the attractive display inthe show-windows of elegantly designed gowns and hats. And these sameshow windows were certainly remarkable, for all adornments dear to thefeminine heart, wonderful achievements of unusual millinery effects,dazzled the eyes of both young and old.
Christine, holding her violin with stiffened little fingers, stood paleand trembling before one of the most magnificent windows, speechlesswith wonder, gazing as if in a trance at this modern splendor offeminine attire, the like of which she had never conceived even in herwildest, most fantastic dreams.
Her heart contracted painfully. She thought of her mother and littlesisters, freezing, half-starved, hopelessly expectant of Christmas,and her glorious eyes blurred with tears, as she remembered that she,as the bread-winner of the family, was not able to buy them anythingfor Christmas, not even bread enough to satisfy their hunger. For thefirst time in her life, she could not think of God and Heaven withoutbitterness for it seemed that he had indeed forsaken her and her family.
"O God, I thought I was doing my best," she stammered with burningtears running down her blanched face. "What have we done, that we ofall others, should die of hunger?" The future stretched before herinner vision, a weary blank, lit by no ray of hope. Convulsively, sheclutched the old violin, and wandered away, farther and farther intothe raging storm, drifting wherever the wind blew, without aim andwithout purpose or hope.
The Gnomes of the Saline Mountains: A Fantastic Narrative Page 6