Part 11 (2/2)
”It is wonderful what a change your taste and energy have made in that brief time. We can not blame our Eastern friends, who never have beheld a wide, desolate prairie transformed into such a charming home-land as this in a short year, if they do vilify the average Kansan, and tax him with boastfulness and other vices not akin to truth.”
At request of her guests, Maud was soon seated at the rich, mellow-toned piano, and the strains of ”The Bridge” floated out through the open windows, as her sweet contralto rose, freighted with the heart-throbs and regret which thrill through the melody of that pathetic song.
”Ah! Tennyson never had heard this sad, weird poem when he gave the t.i.tle 'Lord of Human Tears' to Victor Hugo, or our own Longfellow would have won it,” said Miss Estill with a sigh.
”Yes; Longfellow is the poet that seems nearest in all our moments of retrospection. I never stand at the crossing of the old Santa Fe and Abilene Trails, on that hill yonder, without his lines recurring,--
'Like an odor of brine from the ocean, Comes the thought of other years;'--
and I must tell you, Miss Estill, that whenever I meet you I feel that same remembrance, vague and evanescent, of a time when you and I were very happy, and were all--at least we were very great friends. But it is so shadowy and indistinct that I can not grasp its meaning. It is like the memory of some half-forgotten dream or the dim recollections of a former life,” replied young Warlow, in a low tone, as the pulsing waves of music, the ”Blue Danube,” throbbed through the vines and lace curtains of the bay-window where they sat.
”If you were less thrifty, Mr. Warlow, I would suspect you were too fond of poetry to be practical. But I should not throw sarcastic stones at your gla.s.s house, for it has been no longer than a month ago that mamma scolded me roundly for forgetting the yeast in my batch of light bread.
I had to lay all the blame at the 'open door' of the 'Moated Grange,'
which I had been reading. Poor Mariana might well have said, after looking on my leaden loaves:--
'I am aweary, aweary,-- I would that I were dead!'”
While Clifford was making some laughing reply to this bucket of poetical cold water, he and Miss Estill were summoned to the piano, where our young friends were floundering hopelessly through the intricacies of a glee, in which Grace's alto would persist in getting all tangled up with Hugh's baritone, and the cat-calls of Rob's b.a.s.t.a.r.d ba.s.s and Scott's frantic tenor only served to heighten the confusion, that finally collapsed in subdued shrieks of laughter. But when Miss Estill's dainty fingers rippled over the guitar, and their voices blended with varying degrees of melody as its tw.a.n.ging notes mingled with the mellow tones of the piano, then something like harmony prevailed again. Yet she and Clifford would still exchange amused glances whenever Rob gave vent to a more p.r.o.nounced caterwaul than usual, or Scott's gosling tenor squawked a wild note of alarm.
”Miss Estill, I am longing to hear you render a Spanish solo; for I never can help the picture of a Castilian maiden playing amid the courts of the Alhambra, rising whenever you take the guitar,” said young Warlow, in a low tone.
”My broken Spanish would soon dispel the illusion,” she replied, with a soft blush; ”but I will give you, instead, a poor translation of a Mexican song;” and in a voice rich with melody and feeling, she sang:--
”There blooms no rose upon the plain, But costs the night a thousand tears,”--
while the guitar rained a shower of soft-dripping music, veined with a thrill of sadness. As her bosom rose and fell with the sweet strains, the ruby heart which clasped the ruff at her slender throat flashed rays of crimson and rose in the stray sunbeams that glinted through the room.
Clifford remained rapt in a reverie as the dreamy music, with a low minor ripple, died away, and the listeners sat in silence a moment, paying a mute tribute to the graceful singer who now was idly toying with the guitar.
One white arm was half revealed by the wide-flowing sleeve, with its fall of creamy lace; a cl.u.s.ter of fuchsias drooped among the waves of her hair, and the wide ruff gave a graceful finish to the close-fitting riding-habit of black velvet which she wore.
Young Warlow was aroused by his mother saying:--
”Miss Estill, the colonel, my husband.”
He turned quickly, and saw his father standing in the doorway, staring as if he had seen a sheeted ghost. Yes; it was undeniable that the courtly and urbane colonel was positively staring with a white face at the beautiful guest, and as he came forward he said, in an agitated voice:--
”Ivarene? No--no--impossible! Pardon, Miss Estill; but your face reminds me so strongly of a dear, kind friend, 'who pa.s.sed over the dark river long years ago,' that I was quite unnerved;” and as he held her slender hand he looked hungrily into the blue eyes that were regarding him with a look of shy wonder. When Hugh was presented, the colonel glanced keenly from the blonde, hazel-eyed young man back to the creole face of the young lady, and he again murmured brokenly, and in an incredulous tone, ”Brother and sister? Strange--mystery!” and in the hearts of that group for many a day echoed and re-echoed his words: ”Mystery, mystery!”
A constraint seemed to fall immediately upon the inmates of the room, and Maud, perceiving the traces of social frost in the atmosphere, suggested that they should take a look at her flowers; and the guests rose and followed in a confused group out into the flower-garden, that was surrounded with a low stone wall.
The paths, which divided the small plat into four subdivisions, were interrupted at their intersection by a circular path, where a succession of terraces of the same figure rose to the height of half a dozen feet, the whole forming a circular mound, crowned by a tiny latticed arbor, which was reached by a flight of white stone steps, flanked by vases of the same alabaster-like material.
The terraces were sodded with the dainty, short buffalo-gra.s.s, and each offset was planted with a profusion of flowers, now beginning to unfold their blossoms. This unique ornament was the work of Clifford and Robbie, who had in their ”idle” moments thus transformed the unsightly pile of earth, which had resulted from excavating the cellar, into a ”hanging garden to please Maud,” and she felt justly proud of the compliments which the guests bestowed on the attractive feature of her trim garden, with its wealth of lilies, roses, and gladioluses.
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