She was filled with delight though she trembled with fear, for she was quite sure there was no one in the house who knew any thing of music but herself, yet the chords were swept as by a master’s hand.
She lay motionless until the last note died away, and it was long before she fell asleep, for the spell of the rich melodies still floated through the air around her. In the morning she spoke of it, but no one could explain the mystery. Again and again, in the silent hours came the rich melody, not old familiar airs, but the exquisite improvisations of genius.
One night, when the golden moon was casting its soft amber light over land and sea, and the enchanted harp sending forth its entrancing strains, Leota rose softly from her couch, and summoning all her courage, determined herself to solve the mystery. She glided quietly along the passage-way to the large glass door of the parlor, and there she saw Crimson Tuft bending fondly over the harp, and calling out the bewildering melody that she had thought could be born only of mystical enchantment. The imagination of the young girl was so vivid that she was easily prepared for things supernatural, but to see poor brown Crimson Tuft, the great magician, he, the slave, of whom she thought only to laugh at—this was stranger than all.
The soft moonlight fell full upon his face, and his large luminous eyes were dewy with the spirit of the rich melody. With the rare beauty that was all their own, they almost redeemed the brown skin and flaming hair from positive ugliness. Leota stood entranced till the last note died out of the thrilled chords of the trembling harp, then, as she turned to go, the rustling of her robe caused Crimson Tuft to raise his eyes, and they fell full upon her face, to him at least the most beautiful face in the world. He was covered with deep confusion. Over his redeeming eyes fell the heavy red lashes, and the ugly brows contracted.
She, his rare divinity, had seen him play, and heard how the notes flowed from his own heart, through the sympathizing harp-strings that thrilled with his devotion to her, which would last all his life long.
Leota was greatly bewildered, and as she stole away to her own room, strange thoughts chased themselves through her mind. Not one word had been spoken, but every thing had changed. Crimson Tuft was no longer only the ugly servant of her grandmother, but he was Crimson Tuft of the mystery.
There was something interesting in that; besides, shut up in those high walls, with only the old grandmother for company, and little amusement, one must think a great deal. So Leota had her thoughts. Crimson Tuft had wonderful eyes. She had found that out, and it was a great deal there in that dull place.
She wished to be in Mexico again, where the most beautiful flowers bloom, and the delicious fruit grows ripe on the broad-leafed trees. Yet she did not like to think she would never see the beautiful eyes again. “But one must not think too much of a servant,” she would say to herself. “She was of good blood, and that would not do, yet one must treat inferiors kindly.” Really it was difficult to tell what one must do. So, all in a maze, she fell asleep, and dreamed of the most radiant eyes, which were Crimson Tuft’s, and the handsomest face, which surely was not Crimson Tuft’s.
The morning dawned clear and bright, as Crimson Tuft arose and began the duties of the day. Though he was advanced to the post of private secretary, the old señora had left him some tasks in the early part of the day that would prevent him from forgetting his position as a servant.
First he swept and dusted the parlor and halls. This had always been his work, and no one else could please the señora so well. As he dusted the señorita’s harp a flash of indignation filled his heart. He was only a servant, the ugly Crimson Tuft, and she the most beautiful maiden, the divinity of his soul. There was a great difference, yet he felt himself a man, and he would conquer fate in the end, even with his ugly Crimson Tuft. This was what he thought.