And in this amicable frame of mind they went to join the company.
Crichton was eminently a musical city. In the other arts, they were perhaps superficial and pretentious; but this of music was ardently and assiduously cultivated by every one. Wealthy ladies studied it with all the devotion of professional people, and there were not a few who might have made it a successful profession. Among these was Annette Ferrier, whose clear, high soprano had a brilliant effect in bravuras or compositions requiring strong passion in the rendering. All this talent and cultivation the Crichton ladies did not by any means allow to be wasted in private life. Clubs and associations kept up their emulation and skill, and charitable objects and public festivals afforded them the opportunity for that public display without which their zeal might have languished. The present rehearsal was for one of these concerts.
They were to sing in the new conservatory, which was admirable for that purpose. It was only just completed—an immense parallelogram joined to the southwestern corner of the house, with a high roof, and tall pillars making a sort of porch at the end. No plants had yet been arranged, but azaleas and rhododendrons in full bloom had been brought in and set in a thicket along the bases of the pillars, looking, in all their airy roseate flush of graduated tints, as if a sunset cloud had dropped there. Against this background the benches for the singers were ranged, and Annette’s grand piano brought out for Mr. Schöninger, their leader. Sofas and arm-chairs were placed near the long windows opening into the house for a small company of listeners.
“I wish Mother Chevreuse could have come,” Mrs. Ferrier said, surveying the preparations with complacent satisfaction.
Mother Chevreuse was employed much more to her own liking than she would have been in listening to the most excellent music in the world: she was waiting for her son to come home from his collecting, and take tea with her in her cosy little parlor. If the day should prove to have been successful to him, then he could rest a whole month; and, in expectation of his success, she had made a little gala of it, and adorned her room and table with flowers. The curtains next the church were looped back, to show a group of sunlighted tree-tops and an edge of a bright cloud, since the high walls hid the sunset from this room. The priest’s slippers and dressing-gown were ready for him, and an arm-chair set in his favorite place. He must rest after his hard day’s work. The evening paper lay folded within reach.
Mother Chevreuse looked smilingly about, and saw that all was ready. The green china tea-set and beautiful old-fashioned silver that had been preserved from her wedding presents made the little table look gay, and the flowers and a plate of golden honeycomb added a touch of poetry. Everything was as she would have wished it—the picture beautifully peaceful and homelike.
“What would he do without me?” she murmured involuntarily.
The thought called up a train of sad fancies, and, as she stood looking out toward the last sunny cloud of evening, long quivering rays seemed to stretch toward her from it. She clasped her hands and raised her eyes, to pray that she might long be spared to him; but the words were stopped on her lips. There was a momentary struggle, then “Thy will be done!” dropped faintly.
At this moment, she heard a familiar step on the sidewalk, the street door opened and banged to again, and in a moment more F. Chevreuse stood on the threshold, his face bright with exercise and pleasure.
“Well?” his mother said, seeing success in his air.