The thorns I have reaped are of the tree
I planted; they have torn me and I bled;
I should have known what fruit would spring from such
a seed. BYRON.
It is a brilliant, star-lighted night in December.
In an even more brilliantly illuminated mansion on Fifth Avenue, New York City, a distinguished company is assembled. Elderly and middle-aged gentlemen, dignified and imposing, with the suggestion of opulence pervading every look and movement; young men, alert and full of vigor, all clad in conventional dress suits and immaculate linen; stately and beautiful matrons, elegantly robed in velvet and costly laces; younger women resplendent in all the tints of the rainbow, and flashing with diamonds and other many-hued gems; pretty débutantes, in diaphanous and saintly white, gleaming like spotless lilies in beds of variegated poppies; flowers and perfume everywhere; entrancing melody from an invisible orchestra, mingling with many musical voices, joyous laughter, and the rustle and swish of silk and satin—all contributed to produce a wonderful scene and an exhilarating atmosphere, which assumed life to be one long, gorgeous gala day, with never a cloud to dim its brightness or cast its shadow upon these gay votaries of fashion and pleasure.
Suddenly the music of the orchestra ceased, and presently a few dominant chords were struck upon a fine-toned concert-grand piano, as if to demand attention and silence.
The next moment a woman of beautiful and gracious presence stepped upon a low platform beside the instrument, whereupon the buzzing of many voices was hushed, and an air of eager expectation pervaded the company.
The dominant chords were followed by a rippling prelude, which soon dropped into the more precise rhythm of an accompaniment; then a glorious voice, full, rich, and thrillingly sympathetic, broke upon the stillness, rising, falling, and trilling easily and naturally as a bird, that, conscious only of the supreme impulse within his throbbing breast and vibrating in his wonderful little throat, pours forth his joy-laden soul in enraptured and exquisite song.
Every eye within range of her was fastened upon the singer, a queenly matron, charmingly gowned in some soft material of pale-pink lavender. Her abundant brown hair was becomingly arranged and surmounted by a glittering aigrette of jewels, her only visible ornament. She was good to look upon as well as to listen to, and bore herself with the ease and poise of one long accustomed to entertain fashionable audiences like the present, yet without a suggestion of self-consciousness to mar her excellent work.
She rendered a group of three classical songs with artistic effect that won for her a round of hearty applause as she ceased. She gracefully acknowledged the tribute paid her, then turned and smilingly nodded to some one who had evidently been sitting near her. Immediately a lovely girl, robed in white, arose, and took her stand at the left of the artiste.
A flutter of excitement throughout the room indicated the anticipation of some unusual treat as harp, violin, and cello, accompanied by the piano, rendered an inspiring introduction, which was followed by a familiar duet from one of the standard operas, and executed with an exquisite interpretation and spirit that held every listener spellbound to the end, and evoked a storm of enthusiastic approval upon its conclusion.
"Jove! can't they sing! Who are they, Jerome? Sisters, I should judge, by their strong resemblance to each other, and the younger is simply adorable!"