Читать книгу Doreen, The Story of a Singer - Ada Ellen Bayly - Страница 11

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"Young hearts are free: the selfish world it is

That turns them miserly and cold as stone,

And makes them clutch their fingers on the bliss

Which but in giving truly is their own:—

She had no dreams of barter, asked not his,

But gave hers freely as she would have thrown

A rose to him, or as that rose gives forth

Its generous fragrance, thoughtless of its worth."—Lowell.

Warren the tenor seemed greatly pleased with the substitute the agent had found him, and Doreen acquitted herself well, as even the unmusical Freen could guess. Her eagerness to do everything in the best possible way was satisfactory. "It was not every one," he reflected, "who took so much pains for a city dinner."

"Come a little early to-morrow night," he said, "and we will run through the Grace and the national anthem in the artistes' room with the other parts. I will ask Madame St. Pierre to be kind enough to come a few minutes beforehand for your sake."

Doreen could talk of nothing else when she got home, and the children shared in her excitement; yet when the day actually came, the poor girl felt sad enough, for the craving for her mother's presence returned with overwhelming force, reaching its height when she unfolded the white silk dress, embroidered with shamrocks, which had been the last work that her mother had done before leaving New York. More than one hot tear fell as she put it on, and it was well that Dermot and Mollie came trotting up to beg to be her page and her maid; for nothing but their childish gaiety and their delight in the new dress could have cheered her. All too soon Hagar Muchmore came to carry them off to bed.

"It's much too early," protested Dermot, prepared to offer a stubborn resistance; "the clock only stroke six just now; I heared it."

"That's so," said Hagar, quietly; "but I guess you'll always have to be in bed early the nights your sister sings, for I must go and take care of her."

"Why?" asked Dermot. "I thought grown-up people took care of their own selves, and Doreen is awfully old."

This set them all laughing, and in her heart Doreen rather wondered how Mrs. Muchmore would comport herself in the artistes' room. Her presence, however, was decidedly comforting, when, having left the children safely in bed, taken a hurried farewell of Aunt Garth and Michael, over their game of draughts, and of Uncle Garth, buried in papyrus documents, she stepped forth into the cold night, and leaning back in the cab saw the gas-lit streets and the busy passengers flitting past as they rolled swiftly away to the city. Arrived at the Grocer's Hall, she was taken upstairs to the room set apart for the performers, and having taken Warren's injunction to come early in the most literal sense, she waited through what seemed an eternity before any one else appeared, growing more and more nervous every minute. At last Warren himself came in, accompanied by the pianist, who was introduced to her; then, after an interval, a very fat, heavy bass, with an enormous black beard, stalked in with his music under his arm. Finally, with a little bustle of arrival, which seemed to betoken her celebrity, there entered the great Madame St. Pierre, with her French maid in attendance. Warren treated her with the greatest deference, while Doreen, feeling horribly young and inexperienced, watched the great lady as she was divested of a magnificent plush cloak, bordered with the most costly fur, and contemplated with awe the regal gown of ruby velvet and the diamonds that flashed upon the ample white neck of the great contralto. Beside such assured grandeur, such queenly composure, she felt like a wretched little white ghost; she was conscious, too, of being decidedly hungry after her long waiting and her very frugal four-o'clock dinner. Her knees trembled beneath her when Warren said, "May I introduce Miss Doreen O'Ryan to you, Madame St. Pierre, a débutante from America, and a pupil of Rathenow's."

Madame St. Pierre gave her a stately, somewhat frigid greeting,—novices from America were not popular. She consented, however, to run through the Grace, and the national anthem; and at the close there was a distinct change in her manner. "Oh, you will get on very nicely; you need have no fear about that," she said good-naturedly. "By the bye, Mr. Warren, have you heard anything about Madame De Berg's projected tour in America? I hope it is not true that she intends to take with her that unlucky little violinist, a mere baby of seven, who ought to be in the nursery."

"No; her father will not permit her to appear as yet in public, and is taking her to Germany to study there till she is ten or eleven."

"That's the most sensible thing Harry Kingston ever did in his life," said Madame St. Pierre, approvingly. "It went to my heart to think of that unfortunate child being dragged through the United States in the company of Madame De Berg."

"She is Kingston's cousin," said the tenor.

"Yes, and has a most unlucky influence over him. It will be well for the child if her kinswoman's career is over before her own begins. I should like to have invited Una to play with my own children, but I assure you it was out of the question; the child is a perfect little heathen, and lies as glibly as a hardened woman of the world. It's easy to see who has had the training of her."

Doreen listened to the conversation with some interest, feeling not a little compassion for the infant violinist who was too depraved to meet Madame St. Pierre's children; and while she was still wondering what sort of person this Madame De Berg could be, the summons came for the performers to go down to the banqueting-hall.

A brilliant scene was disclosed as they emerged from the staircase into the gallery at one end of the building; down below were the gorgeously decorated tables, with their lavish display of flowers and rich plate, their tempting fruit and dainty sweetmeats darkly outlined by the prosperous-looking diners in their sombre evening dress. At the other side of the gallery sat a few magnificently attired ladies, the wives of the city magnates and of the most distinguished guests of the evening. And now the dreaded moment had actually arrived, and above the subdued roar of conversation rose the stentorian voice of the toast-master who stood behind the chairman.

"Gentlemen, pray silence for Grace!"

It was a voice that made one feel as if the Day of Judgment had come.

Doreen tried to forget the great hall and the glaring lights; she thought of the dim nursery at home, and of the children asleep. She tried to pretend that she was singing in the drawing-room to Max Hereford once more, and her voice rang out clearly as she sang:—

"For these and all Thy mercies given,

We bless and praise Thy name, O Lord;

May we receive them with thanksgiving,

Ever trusting in Thy word.

To Thee alone be honour, glory,

Now, and from henceforth for evermore. Amen. Amen."

The ordeal was over; and while the toast-master shouted out, "Gentlemen, be pleased to fill your glasses! bumpers, if you please," Doreen was able to sit down, and was glad enough to do so; for the floor of the gallery seemed rocking beneath her. The thought of her solo made her shudder, and it was not till the whole assembly rose loyally shouting, "The Queen! The Queen!" that she forgot her fears. But when, as the four performers stood up, a hush instantly fell upon the great gathering, a sense of power and of keen delight in the power came to her. The pianist led off, and the first verse of the national anthem was sung as a quartette. Then Doreen's fresh young voice rang through the building, and she first realized what it meant to rouse and stir an audience. In her rendering of the verse

"Thy choicest gifts in store,"

there was such ardour, such contagious enthusiasm, that not only the professional singers, but the whole assembly joined in the chorus,—joined not formally or frigidly, but with purpose and intention.

"I call that pretty good for a Fenian's daughter," observed the fat bass to Warren, as the singers left the banqueting-hall for a time.

His voice had been insufficiently lowered, and Doreen, who was a little in advance, turned to confront him.

"I am a Home-Ruler," she said, her colour rising a little, "not a Separatist. There is no one I reverence and admire more than the Queen. But when I pray that she may 'defend our laws,' I assuredly don't mean the countless coercion acts under which my country has groaned, but the just laws our Parliament of the future will pass. Even rebels know how to honour goodness. Meagher once thrashed a man who spoke disrespectfully of Her Majesty."

The fat bass stared; he did not in the least understand her; but Warren, the tenor, liked her spirit, and with a kindly word or two turned the talk to some other subject.

After this came an interval when she was glad to sit quietly by Hagar Muchmore in the artistes' room. A strangely dreamy feeling crept over her; she forgot her present surroundings, and fell to thinking of Max Hereford. Why had his eyes rested so tenderly on her as he said that he grudged her to the city aldermen? Why had he professed to be jealous of Brian Osmond, the doctor? Why had he, at parting, taken her hand right into his, and held it for a minute, as if he would fain protect her? Not one of her New York admirers had been capable of reaching her heart. They had been charmed by her singing and by her amusing talk; but Max Hereford, by a mere look, a mere touch, had, in a single afternoon, outstripped them all. She turned over the leaves of her next song by way of checking her thoughts, but to little purpose; for was not the song "Tell me my Heart"? And what was it that her heart was telling her? It was silent, quite silent, about that great career which every one prophesied for her; it was not the very least elated by the consciousness of her power, or the knowledge that she had succeeded well. It held only one image,—that frank, open, English face, with its warm colouring, its genial expression, its light brown hair, and well-opened hazel eyes. If any one had given her the choice at that moment of all that she most desired, she would unhesitatingly have said,—the presence of Max Hereford.

"Time for your song, Miss Doreen," said Hagar; "and you'd best be careful of your dress on the stairs; for those waiters, they've dropped gravy and custard, and I don't know what all, upon them."

Doreen laughed; as she gathered up her train, she wondered what had come over her, that all at once she should feel so strong to face the world. Only a little while ago she had stood like a forlorn little ghost beside the great contralto, and had glanced with timid awe at those marvellous silk dresses of the city ladies, which looked as if they would stand alone, from the inherent virtue of their extra super-fine quality. There was surely, too, a new power in her rendering of Bishop's song. Never before had she attained such pathos as in the first verse, or such joyous, irrepressible happiness as in the second part of the song. The audience heartily approved of her, and she went home with Hagar Muchmore, holding the three sovereigns and the three shillings in her hand, with a glad consciousness that they were but the earnest of much more to follow. It was not until the quiet of the house in Bernard Street once more surrounded her, that she realized how lonely she was. Uncle and Aunt Garth were the kindest people in the world, but they had singularly little power of expression, and went on the principle of "Deeds, not words." Now Doreen was one of those who disputed the truth of this saying, stoutly maintaining that deeds without words were as dull as bread without butter. She sorely missed the genial flow of talk which her father had accustomed her to; she longed with an intolerable longing for her mother's sweet face and ready sympathy. Half the pleasure of success would have been in the joy it would have given to her parents; and somehow it was impossible to give a graphic description of the evening at the supper-table, where Uncle Garth sat with his newspaper before him, or to respond very much to Aunt Garth's low-toned questions. The profound gravity of the atmosphere seemed to strangle all natural mirth; moreover, there was something trying in the very small appetites of the host and hostess, to this hungry girl of eighteen, who, after her very early dinner and the hard evening's work, could have eaten a far more substantial meal than the one prepared. It was inevitable that in the silence her thoughts should wander back again to Max Hereford,—Max, who had somehow helped her that night to sing as she had never sung before, and whose life, for weal or for woe, was irrevocably bound up with her own.

It seemed the most natural thing in the world that he and his mother should call the next day; the house grew brighter at once, to her fancy, and with an almost motherly pride she enjoyed showing the children to Mrs. Hereford, whose heart was touched by the little pale faces which showed evident signs of recent illness.

"They want country air, my dear," she said. "You had better send them down to Monkton Verney; we would take every care of them; have you a nurse you could trust to take them there?" "Yes; Mrs. Muchmore is the most trustworthy being in the world," said Doreen. "But there are so many of them, it would be giving so much trouble in your house."

"The place is just standing empty," said Mrs. Hereford, "and a month in the country would do them all the greatest good. As to trouble, you need not be afraid in the least; the servants will be thankful to have them, for they find the months of our absence dull enough. Come, let us arrange to send them down next week. It is such an easy journey; and then in Easter week, when we intend to spend a few days there ourselves, you will, I hope, come with us: the country will be looking very pretty by that time. To my mind, there are great advantages in a late Easter, and you will be able to see how your little folks are getting on."

Doreen's heart bounded with pleasure at the suggestion; she could only gladly consent to a plan so entirely in accordance with her own feelings, and as Mrs. Hereford turned to talk to Mrs. Garth, she looked up half shyly at Max.

"Do you remember," she said, "how long ago in Ireland you told me all about your home, and about the old priory, and the fir hills, and the heather?"

"Ah, we shall just be too early for the heather," said Max. "You must come again later on for that. There are dozens of places I want to take you to. We must climb Rooksbury together, and you shall wish for a prosperous career at the wishing-tree, and we will row on Trencham Lake, and fancy that we are once more at Castle Karey, and—happy thought—we will have the grand opening of the new Firdale Coffee Tavern while you are there."

"After last night, I feel more than half inclined to turn teetotaler," said Doreen. "What an atmosphere it was to sing in! And then, when I got back to the artistes' room, with my throat all on fire with the smoke, and the concentrated essence of the dinner which floated up to us in the gallery, there was all the difficulty in the world to get just a glass of water; there was any amount of champagne, but a glass of water seemed unattainable, until Hagar Muchmore, who is not easily beaten, went down herself to forage for it."

"Who will go about with you, if this Mrs. Muchmore is down at Monkton Verney with the children?"

"Well, if I am lucky enough to get any engagements, I shall have to go alone," said Doreen. "But they say it is better when you can to have some one with you. I shall not be able to take Hagar about the country with me when I begin to get provincial engagements though, for you see the expenses would mount up dreadfully. Those who are alone in the world must learn to fend for themselves."

A look of trouble swept over Max Hereford's bright face; he seemed about to speak, but at that moment little Mollie trotted up to her sister with a note which had just arrived.

"Freen, the agent!" said Doreen, glancing at the handwriting. "Perhaps he has heard of more work for me. Excuse me one moment."

She read the letter, and looked up with sparkling eyes.

"It is an offer to sing in the 'Messiah' the day after to-morrow, at the Albert Hall. Just think! that charming Miss Latouche is still indisposed."

They all laughed at her candid speech.

"Well, well," she added, "I am, of course, sorry for her, and I hope it's a comfortable sort of illness. But only to think that my greatest wish should have come so soon! I wonder how I shall manage 'Rejoice Greatly' in that huge place; it almost frightens me to think of it."

"We must come and hear you," said Mrs. Hereford. "By the bye, had you not better drive there with us? What time should you wish to be there?"

"Oh, not more than five minutes before the beginning," said Doreen. "Never again will I be unpunctual at the wrong end, and have a whole hour to wait as I had last night; it takes all the courage out of one and sets one's nerves on edge. It is so very kind of you to offer to take me."

"It will be a great pleasure," said Mrs. Hereford, kissing the sweet, sunshiny face, which seemed to her still to retain much of its childlike character. "I have often wondered whether I should ever again hear the voice that Max discovered in Ireland; and to hear you in the 'Messiah' will be a special treat."

"I shall not feel so alone if you are in the audience," said Doreen; "I shall sing to you, and forget the rest of the people."