Despite her air of a young princess, her proudly-held head, her almost Spanish dignity, where only her brown eyes looked full of alertness and laughter, she was in character and knowledge of life foolishly young—in reality, a little girl masquerading in the guise of a triumphantly maturing womanhood. Her life had been one of quietude and seclusion. Her parents had been agreed in their desire for this; the father in the fear of a reëncounter with some phantom from the past. Lucy’s ostensible reason was her own delicate health; but her dread was that Shackleton might see his child and claim her. It seemed impossible to the adoring mother that any father could see this splendid daughter and not rise up and call her his before all men.
The afternoon was cold and Mariposa wore a jacket as she sang. The cottage in Pine Street was all that a cottage ought not to be,—on the wrong side of the street, “too far out,” cold, badly built, and with only one window to catch the western sun. It had one advantage which went a long way with the widow and her daughter—the rent was twenty dollars a month. Mariposa had paid ten dollars of this with her earnings, and kept the other six for pocket-money. But the happy day was dawning, so she thought, when she could pay the whole twenty. She cogitated on this and the affluence it would indicate, as her real father might have cogitated when he and the inner ring of his associates began to realize that the Reydel Monte was not a pocket, but a solid mound of mineral.
On this gray afternoon the cold little parlor, with its bulge of bay window looking out on the dreariness of the street, seemed impregnated with an air of dejection. In common with many poor dwellings in that city of extravagant reverses, it was full of the costly relics of better days. San Francisco has more of such parlors than any city in the country. The pieces of buhl and marquetry hiding their shame in twenty-dollar cottages and eighteen-dollar flats furnish pathetic commentary on many a story of fallen fortunes. The furniture looks abashed and humbled. Sometimes its rich designs have found a grateful seclusion under the dust of a quarter century, which finally will be removed by the restoring processes of the second-hand dealer, who will eventually become its owner.
There was a beautiful marquetry sideboard in the gray front parlor and a fine scarlet lacquer Chinese cabinet facing it. Moreau had had the tall, gilt-framed mirror and console brought round The Horn from New York when he had been in the flush of good times in Sacramento. The piano Mariposa was playing dated from a second period of prosperity, and had cost what would have now kept them for a year. It had been considered cheap at the time, and had been bought when the little Mariposa began to show musical tastes. She had played her first “pieces” on it, and in that halcyon period when she had had the singing lessons, had heard the big voice in her chest slowly shaking itself loose to the accompaniment of its encouraging notes.
Now she was singing in single tones, from note to note, higher and higher, then lower and lower. Her voice was a mezzo, with a “break” in the middle, below which it had a haunting, bell-like depth. As it went down it gained a peculiar emotional quality which seemed to thrill with passion and tears. As it began to ascend it was noticeable that her upper tones, though full, were harsh. There was astounding volume in them. It was evidently a big voice, a thing of noble promise, but now crude and unmanageable.
She emitted a loud vibrant note that rolled restlessly between the four walls, as if in an effort to find more space wherein to expand, and her hands fell upon the keys. In the room opening off the parlor there was an uncertain play of light from an unseen fire, and a muffled shape lying on the sofa. To this she now addressed a query in a voice in which dejection was veiled by uneasy inquiry:
“Well, does it seem to improve? Or is it still like a cow when she’s lost her calf?”
“It’s wonderfully improved,” came the answer from the room beyond; “I don’t think any one sings like you. Anyway, no one has such a powerful voice.”
“No one howls so, you mean! Oh, mother, do you suppose I ever shall be able to take any more lessons?”
“Oh, yes, of course. We are in a large city now. Even if you don’t make enough money yourself, there are often people who become interested in fine voices and educate them. Perhaps you’ll meet one of them some day. And anyway—” with cheerfulness caught on the upward breath of a sigh—“you’ll make money enough soon yourself.”