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ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ISBN: 978-1-26-046431-3
MHID: 1-26-046431-8
The material in this eBook also appears in the print version of this
title: ISBN: 978-1-26-046430-6, MHID: 1-26-046430-X.
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Glossary
Index
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Introduction
As Rose ceased singing and the last clear notes of her voice floated
into the distances of the great empty concert-hall, the thrill of its
sweetness, its purity, its young confident power, seemed to fill the
very atmosphere of the place with exquisite music; it could not quite
pass away into silence, it remained at last, if not in the ears, in the
souls of the listeners, a little group to the right of the stage who had
gathered there to hear the wonderful pupil, his youthful prima donna,
the great gift which, he believed, the new world had for the old.
In the midst of her song she had forgotten herself, her audience, her
first failure, even the world itself, while her young ardent soul poured
out its joy and its grief in those splendid notes. Love, that great
interpreter of the heart, had unlocked hers to sorrow, she sang with
the heart of the sorrowful; she was, first of all, as Allestree felt, an
impersonation of youth, and she sang with the soul of youth which
hopes forever; she loved, purely, unselfishly, gently, and she sang
with the love of the world on her lips, and singing thus was
supremely lovely; what matter if the old white dress was a little out of
fashion? She was a figure as symbolic of youth with its splendid
hopes, its faith, its untried strength, as she was the very
personification of beautiful womanhood.
No one spoke, no one applauded, but not an eye was dry.
But to Rose, whose ears were not filled with her own music, the
silence which followed it came with a shock of terrible revulsion. She
waited a moment in keen suspense, but no one spoke, no one
moved; the wave of silence that followed the wave of sound engulfed
her hopes, she remembered that first disappointment. Bitter dismay
swept over her, she turned away to hide her emotion, but the
maestro crossed the stage at that instant and held out his hand; he
could not praise her but there was actually a tear in his eye.
Rose looked up, and reading his face burst into tears of joy, her
hopes suddenly fulfilled.
Then the party of judges broke out with a round of applause and one
little Frenchman, with a polished pink bald head and mustaches,
shouted: “Brava!”
In the end they crowded around her and overwhelmed her with
compliments; they were eager to invite her to a supper and drink her
health in champagne, but the staid Virginia cousin, in the old-
fashioned black bonnet and the old black alpaca gown, which
outraged Paris without hiding the good heart beneath it, frowned on
this hilarity; her deep-seated suspicion of the Parisian in general had
not been dissipated by this burst of applause. She insisted that
Rose, who was trembling with excitement and the strain of the long
hours of training, should go straight back to their little apartment to
rest. A decision too full of wisdom for even Rose, eager though she
was for the sweet meed of praise, to resist it.
They drove back in a fiacre, a wild extravagance which they
ventured in view of the great success and the immediate prospects
of a fortune; the cousin felt that they were immediate.
“You all were always talented,” she said to Rose, as they drove down
the rue de Rivoli; “your mother could do anything; we always said so.
Cousin Sally Carter, too, is going to be an artist, and no one ever
made preserves like Cousin Anna’s! I reckon it’s in the family, Rose.”
“Oh, Cousin Emily!” Rose sighed, and hid her face on the alpaca
shoulder, “oh, if I can only, only sing so well that there shall be no
more terrible trouble for father!”
“Now, don’t you worry about the judge, child,” Cousin Emily replied
soothingly; “it will all come out right and, anyway, the best families
haven’t money now-a-days!” she added with ineffable disdain, “it’s
very vulgar.”
“I think I’d risk having it, though!” Rose said, with a sigh.
She was really in a dream. The softness of spring was in the
atmosphere as they drove through the gay streets, and all the trees
in the garden of the Tuileries were delicately fringed with green; the
voices of children, the sounds of laughter, now and then a snatch of
song, reminded them that it was a holiday. Rose thought of home;
the Persian lilac must be budding, the tulip trees, of course, were in
flower; a pang of homesickness seized her, a longing to see the old
house again—ah, there was the sorrow of it, could they keep the old
house much longer? With these thoughts came others, deeply
perturbed, which she tried to thrust away. She knew of Margaret’s
sudden death, but she had heard but little of it, of Fox nothing. Her
father’s letters excluded the whole matter; Mrs. Allestree’s were
chary in mention of it, and from Robert there was no word on the
subject. Gerty English, strangely enough, had not written since
Margaret’s death, and Rose could only piece together the dim
outlines of a tragedy which touched her to the soul. There had been
moments when she had been bitter against poor Margaret, had held
her responsible, now she thought of her with pity.
As these things floated before her, in a confused dream of sorrow
and regret, she was scarcely conscious of Cousin Emily’s chatter, or
of the streets through which they passed, but presently they were set
down at their own door and she paid the cabman; Cousin Emily’s
French was excellent but it belonged exclusively to the classroom
and the phrase-book, and no one in Paris understood it, a fact which
bewildered her more than any of her other experiences.
They found the pension disturbed by a fire in an adjoining house,
and Aunt Hannah was sitting on top of Rose’s trunk with her bonnet
on, waiting to be assured that the flames could not reach her.
“It’s all out, Aunt Hannah,” Rose assured her, laughing; “the
concierge says it was out half an hour ago.”
“He don’ know nuthin’ about it, Miss Rose; he ain’t sure dat he’s a
liar, an’ I knows he is, bekase I’se caught him at it,” the old woman
replied firmly; “de place might be afire sure nuff. It was one ob dem
’lection wires dat set de odder house off, an’ dis place is full ob dem;
I don’ tole him ter cut ’em loose, an’ he keep on jabberin’ like a
monkey; I ain’t got no manner ob use fo’ dese French people no-
ways!”
“Nor has Cousin Emily!” laughed Rose, taking off her hat and tossing
it to Aunt Hannah, while she passed her hand over her bright hair
with a light, deft touch which seemed to bring every ripple into a
lovelier disorder; “the poor concierge is a good soul, and he does
make us comfortable here.”
“Mebbe he is, an’ mebbe he ain’t!” said Aunt Hannah grudgingly;
“dese men folks allus waits on a pretty girl, honey, but I ’lows he’d
cheat yo’ jest de same; I’se got my eye on him sure!”
“I wish you’d take off your bonnet and get my trunk open,” retorted
Rose good naturedly; “then we’ll see if we can put the concierge in it
—if he misbehaves!”
“My sakes, honey, I done clean forgot ter gib yo’ dis letter; it’s a
telegram, I reckon; it come jest befo’ de fire broke out, an’ I’se been
settin’ on it ter keep it safe.”
It was a cablegram, and Rose stretched out an eager hand for it,
with a thrill of anticipation; it seemed as if her father must be
reaching out to her across the seas, that he already knew and
rejoiced with her for, surely, all his prejudices would dissolve at the
assurance of her success.
She opened it with trembling fingers, a smile on her lips. It fluttered
and fell to the floor; it was a cablegram to summon her home, the
judge was very ill.