OE CALIF. LIBRABY, LOS ANGELES
 
 A STORY 
 
 OF A
 
 THE MINOR CHORD: 
 
 A STORY OF A PRIM A DONNA. 
 
 BY 
 
 J. MITCHELL CHAPPLE 
 
 F. TENNYSON NEEIyY, 
 
 CHICAGO. Publisher : NEW YORK. 
 
 1895.
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1895 
 
 BY 
 P. TENNYSON NEELY. 
 
 All rights reserved.
 
 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IN the zenith of my career as a prima donna known 
 to multitudes, I am alone. The. glare of the footlights, 
 the plaudits of audiences in both hemispheres, the 
 praise of critics, the tokens of esteem and adoration of 
 admirers in spite of it all, I am lonely ; my life is a 
 minor chord. 
 
 How empty it all is ! 
 
 Not long ago, a poor American girl ! Now it seems 
 as if there was nothing left to wish for, yet there is 
 everything. No friend in whom I can confide and tell 
 my heart's heart. My feelings hare overcome me to- 
 night, and I undertake a long-dreamt-of task. 
 
 My real life is too much threaded with commonplace 
 to appear romantic. I started out with a deception, 
 and now the real truth must never be known while 
 my stage career lasts. No friend to sympathize with 
 me ! Although known everywhere, I am unknown, 
 miserably unknown to those I have loved loved and 
 lost. 
 
 Authors have been busy for ages past dissecting and 
 analyzing a woman's heart, in poetry, prose, and art ; 
 
 2128799
 
 2 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 but authors mingle with their fellow-beings socially, 
 and there is a great something always reserved, even 
 from them, which is the only key to the soul. We 
 keep back from husbands, fathers, sweethearts, that 
 inexpressible something linked with the ' I am, ' and 
 carry it with us to the grave. My life has steeled me 
 against some of the sublimest emotions, but they 
 smolder still, and almost flash into a fire heat when I 
 catch a reflection of my past life. I must express it ! 
 
 Pen and paper are my confidants, and perhaps when 
 I am dead, when my poor voice shall have joined in 
 the songs of the immortal chorus, the critics will not 
 be so harsh in their judgment of poor Minza. Hush ! 
 How strange that name sounds ! 
 
 I make no apology for egotism. I know my powers, 
 but I may not know all my weaknesses, and this is 
 simply a communication between myself and my 
 Maker. How trivial and infinitesimal all these petty 
 struggles appear when one feels the Divine touch ! 
 
 My manager would suggest that I should join the 
 Salvation Army, if he knew that in the quiet of this 
 night I have begun to pour out such soul secrets. 
 His theory of life is that everything should startle 
 and attract, and a poor, homely, honest Christian 
 faith is hardly the thing for an opera prima donna. 
 
 But I must not linger.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I AM an American, and I'm proud of it, although I 
 cannot claim a classic birthplace, rich in historical 
 associations. In fact, I believe the stage biographer 
 has sadly, but innocently perhaps, deceived the public. 
 All this deception, and why ? Not because of any- 
 thing to blush for no ! 
 
 On the banks of a sluggish creek, in the miasma of 
 a fever and ague bottom in Iowa, I'm told I was born. 
 The house has since been torn down, but how dear to 
 me is every bit of that prosaic little village! The 
 familiar old grist mill, with its lazy water-wheel, 
 where farmers brought their wheat to grind, and the 
 dam which backed up the water of the creek making 
 it a large shallow lake : this was to me in childhood 
 as great as an ocean. The low rolling hills opposite 
 appeared as mountains to childish fancy, but in later 
 years the landscape seems to have shrunken ; the 
 grove of oaks, maples, elms, about the house which we 
 used to love so well we gave pet names from our 
 history lessons to each tree all were loved as human 
 beings, and only 'old Napoleon' the walnut tree 
 remains now to tell the story of childhood. 
 
 My early years were uneventful. Dear, kind 
 
 (3)
 
 4 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 father was a good man. He was English, and emi- 
 grated to America to make his fortune, and had 
 married an American girl, proud, spirited, and beauti- 
 ful, accomplished in music, art, and householdry. 
 They settled in this little Iowa village to 'grow up' with 
 the town. Father dreamed of large estates as in the 
 'old country,' for there is nothing an Englishman so 
 dearly loves as a little plot of ground he can call his 
 own, unless, perhaps, it is a racehorse. Father was 
 industrious and thrifty. I was the first-born, and 
 must have been a very troublesome baby, and mother 
 used to say, 'There's one virtue Minza possesses 
 she's never idle.' 
 
 She left me alone one day while she went across 
 the way to help a neighbor with a sick child, and the 
 dough-pan, which was standing by the stove, full of 
 bread dough, mixed and ready for kneading and bak- 
 ing, was too tempting for my artistic genius ; and on 
 her return she found the chairs, bureau, little old 
 piano, and 'whatnot' judiciously plastered with the 
 dough. I shall never forget the expression on her 
 face. I remember this incident, because it is my first 
 memory of a man who was largely responsible in form- 
 ing my career. 
 
 Old Dr. Waddington it was who just then came in 
 and saw my handiwork. He was a very large, stout 
 man, weighing nearly three hundred pounds, and the 
 original founder of the village. In fact, he had chris- 
 tened it 'Smithville' in honor of his former home in 
 the Eastern States American towns, as a rule, do not 
 possess particularly expressive and characteristic names 
 for they grow and multiply so rapidly that it is rather
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 5 
 
 difficult, as in the case of parents with a large family, 
 to find names enough to go round. 
 
 He looked at me a minute, and said to mother: 
 
 ' I think she had better be brought down to-morrow, 
 as I have sent for Dr. Griffin to come up.' 
 
 I remember the shudder mother gave, and how she 
 quickly lifted me up and kissed me. 
 
 ' Will it what do you think Doctor, is there any 
 danger ?' 
 
 ' My dear Mrs. Maxwell, I cannot tell. The case 
 is very puzzling: but I have great faith in Dr. Griffin, 
 and we will warn you in time should dangerous symp- 
 toms show themselves.' 
 
 Those were his words as nearly as I can remember. 
 It was an anxious night, and father did not go to his 
 business next morning, and when we started out he 
 carried me in his arms, which I thought unusually kind 
 of him. When danger threatens, how dearly parents 
 love their children! He hugged me tightly, and 
 mother carried wee baby Joe, as we went to the pho- 
 tographer's; and when we entered the dressing-room 
 to prepare for the picture, mother burst into tears. 
 
 ' O Robert! how can we permit it?' 
 
 The scene was like that of a funeral. I remember 
 how the pretty little imitation stumps and trees for the 
 background amused me; the scenery was one of those 
 primitive daubs that are to be found in nearly all pic- 
 ture galleries in the States. 
 
 The photographer was a long time preparing his 
 plates, and shut himself up in his little dark room as 
 if at his devotions. I was placed in front of the group, 
 between father and mother. A forked iron rack was
 
 6 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 placed at the back of my head to hold me still. The 
 little bald-headed photographer seemed to enjoy div- 
 ing in and out from under the black cloth. 
 
 Finally, the camera artillery was ready. With a 
 rattle-box to keep baby Joe quiet, and with his watch 
 in the other hand, and the scorching sun pouring 
 down upon the scenic eftect through the white cloth, 
 in that Iowa country photographer's studio my first 
 picture was taken. My hair was combed back smooth, 
 and held by an arched comb, and tied with a blue rib- 
 bon behind. Oh, how clearly it all comes back to me 
 now, as I sit and cry over that old faded tin-type ! 
 
 After the picture had been taken I was carried over 
 to the little old red office of Dr. Waddington. A tall 
 man in an apron and spectacles was with him. He 
 had a large number of knives, saws, and sharp instru- 
 ments spread out on the window-sill. There was a 
 long narrow table in the center of the room. With the 
 ghastly motion of an executioner, the strange man, 
 pointed to the table, and mother began to cry. Baby 
 Joe joined, and father's eyes were filled. He sat me 
 down gently. They all kissed me, including the fat 
 old doctor. I still felt mother's arms about me, and I 
 was not afraid. It seemed a good deal of fuss to make 
 over a little red-headed girl. A few minutes later I 
 was unconscious. The test of life and death was being 
 made. I was tongue-tied. The operation was to 
 remove a dangerous growth in my throat, the throat 
 and voice which have since won me fame.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE operation was successful. My tongue was loosed, 
 and at six years of age I learned to talk. What hap- 
 piness it brought! Dear father seemed more fond of 
 me than ever, and his whole life centered in ' little red- 
 headed Meg. ' 
 
 He was a country merchant, and kept a general 
 merchandise store, to which the farmers would come 
 every Saturday from miles round to obtain needed sup- 
 plies in exchange for their butter and eggs and other 
 produce. How well I remember that dear old place I 
 Its very odor was wholesome. Every factory or shop 
 has its peculiar atmosphere, characteristic only of that 
 particular branch of trade; but the old 'store', as we 
 called it, seemed to be a composite of everything, from 
 brown sugar and green cheese to molasses and strong- 
 smelling onions. 
 
 As it was the largest shop in the village, father and 
 mother were looked upon as the most prominent per- 
 sons. Our piano was about the only one in the ham- 
 let, and mother's playing and singing were noted far 
 and near; indeed, she would often entertain the neigh- 
 bors of an evening. Part of her religion was to make 
 others happy. 
 
 Another baby brother came about a year after that 
 
 (7)
 
 8 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 first family group was taken. I took charge of baby 
 Jimmy, as we named him, so that mother might give 
 all her attention to little Joe, who had always been 
 sickly. 
 
 It was in those days that mother first began to 
 instruct me in music. I loved it then. How well I 
 remember awaking every morning with mother play- 
 ing 'The Maiden's Prayer' or Schumann's 'Jolly 
 Fanner ' on the piano ! These two selections had a 
 history, and father never left home in the morning 
 without mother playing them. He was not a musician, 
 but loved music even more passionately than do some 
 who are accomplished in the art. 
 
 These were happy days; and as father used to sit 
 and smoke his pipe, with one baby on each knee and 
 his red-headed Meg cosily stowed away between, and 
 his arm about dear mother, he certainly looked the 
 happiest and most contented mortal on earth. It was 
 a happy family picture such as no artist has ever yet 
 successfully painted. But it is during these happy 
 lulls in life that the crash comes. 
 
 America is a country of crashes and climaxes. It is 
 a new country, and develops more rapidly than its 
 financial resources; consequently, its history is well 
 peppered with bubbles and panics. It was during one 
 of these panics that my father failed in business. Not 
 through any fault of his own; but he had endorsed a 
 bill for a friend, who could not pay it, and he was com- 
 pelled to do so. Coming at a time when he had a 
 large amount of accounts outstanding and securities 
 upon which he could not realize, father turned over to
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 9 
 
 the Shylock creditors all his property, worth many 
 times his liabilities, for them to prey upon and divide 
 the spoils. 
 
 Never can I forget that night in June when he 
 came home to tea, but could not eat. With a deep 
 yearning gaze he looked across the table at mother, 
 and burst into tears. 
 
 'Helen, I'm ruined!' he cried. 
 
 ' How is that, Robert ? ' said mother quietly, going 
 to him and throwing her arms about his neck. This 
 was her favorite way of asking questions. He told 
 her the story in detail as simply as a little child. 
 
 'Still, it may not be so bad after all, Robert. I 
 will go down to the store with you after tea, and we 
 will see.' 
 
 Mother knew nothing of business matters, but was 
 a woman for emergencies. There was no further 
 eating, and we went to the store. It was after closing 
 hours, and the curtains had been drawn upon which 
 my father's name blazed in large gilt letters, which 
 seemed now like a mockery. 
 
 Once inside, we went to the long sloping desk, and 
 there mother developed hidden powers. The little, 
 shrinking, timid woman seemed to comprehend the 
 situation after examining the books and accounts. 
 
 ' Well, Robert, it is cruel, it is wrong ; but they 
 must take the property. ' 
 
 ' O my poor wife and children ! ' burst out father in 
 tears. 
 
 ' Yes, but we can save our home ; that is exempt,' 
 replied mother. 
 
 ' But, Helen, is that honest when when '
 
 IO THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 ' Robert, your first duty is to yourself and family ; 
 you must not assume that all men are as honest as you 
 are. Robert, I say we will refuse to give up our 
 home. ' 
 
 There was a queenly firmness in this. The light 
 and fire in her eye was like that of an aroused tigress 
 defending her young. 
 
 We saved the home, but the lawyers soon made 
 sad havoc of the property. The ' assignee sale ' only 
 realized, or rather was reported to have realized, a 
 small fraction of its real value, and left father still 'one 
 thousand dollars' in debt. 
 
 ' One thousand dollars ! ' I dreamed of them that 
 night. What an enormous sum it seemed ! My poor 
 father ! His face grew thin and he began to stoop, 
 and I would have given my life to have secured that 
 one thousand dollars. Could I sew? Could I grow 
 big and go out teaching? But how long it would take 
 to save one thousand dollars to lift the pall that hung 
 over our household ! I wished I were a big girl, and 
 could marry a rich man. 
 
 But something must be done. Father, a few days 
 ago the prosperous village merchant, had now but few 
 friends who could help him. 
 
 He tried to find work as a builder the trade he 
 had learnt in England ; but no one would build houses 
 in panic times, and finally, with a saw-buck on his 
 shoulder, this noble father, this true Knight of Man- 
 hood, sawed a neighbor's wood-pile to buy his family 
 flour. 
 
 That cord of wood nearly cost father his life. It 
 was a cold, rainy day, and he worked in his shirt-
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. II 
 
 sleeves, and, not being accustomed to manual labor, 
 he caught a heavy cold. I had been with him to help 
 pile up the wood as he sawed it. We had retreated 
 behind a hay-stack from public view, so there was just 
 a bit of pride left. How I hated everyone then ! I 
 really believe I was an Anarchist in spirit. 
 
 That night we sat alone without a light. 
 
 ' Helen, what can we do, what can we do? appealed 
 father, with that soft, beseeching look which expressed 
 so much. His cough was growing harder. 
 
 'Something will come to us, Robert,' replied 
 mother. ' Never mind ; we shall live somehow. Be 
 patient, Robert, be patient.' 
 
 As is often the case, calamity had reversed the 
 position of the two. Mother was now commander of 
 the struggling home-craft. 
 
 She went to the piano, and played softly impromptu 
 chords as she used to play them on the little wheezy 
 church organ, then 'The Maiden's Prayer.' After- 
 wards she started to sing the old melody, 'Nellie 
 Gray.' How sweet and soothing it was ! No voice 
 have I ever heard like mother's. In the middle of the 
 third verse she stopped short. 
 
 'I delare I've forgotten the words, Robert.' 
 
 She lighted a lamp to search among the pile of 
 music on the top of the piano, and while so doing she 
 found a worn piece of sheet music. It was Mendels- 
 sohn's 'Wedding March,' and she started. 
 
 'Robert, we're all right!' 
 
 The sight of that piece of music had brought to 
 mind her wedding, and a wedding present. 
 
 'Robert, I have property.'
 
 12 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 ' What can it be ? You never told me.' 
 
 'I never told you, my dear; but dear father gave 
 me a deed belonging to some wild land in the western 
 part of the State as a wedding present. I have the 
 deed.' 
 
 'But you have never paid the taxes.' 
 
 ' I know not for several years ; and the land may 
 not be worth much ; but we shall see.' 
 
 She sat down at once, and wrote to a lawyer in the 
 town nearest to the land. We all studied the map in 
 my little School Geography, but it gave us little idea 
 of its value or location. 
 
 We waited anxiously for a reply ; and after several 
 days it arrived. The lawyer gave a most discouraging 
 report of the land, saying that it was fifty miles from 
 a railroad, and that it had been sold for taxes, and 
 would require a large amount of money to redeem it 
 and secure a clear title; also, that the panic had 
 affected that section very much, but that possibly he 
 might clear three hundred dollars if a power of attor- 
 ney were sent him to sell it at once. 
 
 A family consultation was held over our frugal 
 meal of bread and cheese that night. Winter was 
 coming on. Something must be done, and quickly. 
 
 Three hundred dollars ! That was a large sum of 
 money. 
 
 ' We should accept it, Robert, ' said mother at last, 
 after long reflection. 
 
 That settled it. 
 
 ' My plan is to re-invest that money in a music and 
 book shop here in the village, and I will teach music
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 13 
 
 In order to sell the instruments. That is what we 
 must do, Robert. ' 
 
 ' My dear Helen, with your babies and you so deli- 
 cate in health, and ' 
 
 ' Never mind, dear, we shall manage somehow; 
 you and Meg can attend the store and the household 
 work, and I will teach. ' 
 
 My mother's wedding present was sold. The land 
 proved, ten years after, to be. coal land worth nearly a 
 million dollars when the railroad reached it, and it 
 made the fortunes of several men. But that three 
 hundred dollars invested in a stock of violins, guitars, 
 strings, trimmings, sheet music, and books, was 
 another link which determined my career.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 were soon established in business. Our music 
 and book shop was on one side of the room occupied 
 by the village post-office. Mother organized a music 
 class, and, although the income was small, through 
 the commissions on the sale of an occasional piano or a 
 violin to a country-dance fiddler we managed to live 
 comfortably. 
 
 But we were poor, and that thousand dollars still 
 remained unpaid, and father's creditors even tried to 
 seize the little business which gave us a livelihood. 
 However, mother was too shrewd for them. She had 
 established the firm name of 'Maxwell & Co., ' with 
 herself as principal and father as ' Co. ' This baffled 
 the creditors; but it worried poor father as being dis- 
 honest, and he began to fail. The dumb ague fastened 
 its grip upon him, and every other day he had a 
 'shake' or chill. While mother was out teaching he 
 was at home doing the housework, washing, ironing, 
 cooking, and tending Joe ; while Jimmy was with me 
 at the little store, sucking his bottle and sleeping in 
 the perambulator behind the counter. It was the 
 confinement to the house that told on father. Men 
 were not made for housekeepers. 
 
 When music and selling musical instruments 
 d4)
 
 A STORY OP A PRIM A DONNA. 15 
 
 became our means of livelihood I began to hate it. Why 
 should my mother have to earn her living that way ? 
 Other girls did not need to play fiddles and amuse 
 country bumpkins in order to make a few pence. I 
 grew to hate music, so much so that mother. found it 
 difficult to teach me the rudiments. Oh, the long 
 dreary five-finger exercises and scales ! I was so proud 
 when she permitted me to play the little ' Bee March. ' 
 That seemed more like music. She looked after me 
 carefully, and would not allow me to sing in the school, 
 which I thought a hardship ; but with a mother's 
 intuition she realized how important it was to train a 
 voice when yonng, and to-day I do not believe my 
 natural voice was anything extraordinary, but that 
 mother's care had much to do with giving me the 
 strength to endure the severe discipline of after years. 
 For some years mother had given her services as 
 organist in the Methodist Church, towards the con- 
 struction of which father had contributed one thousand 
 dollars.. I confess, as I sat in the choir, just behind the 
 dear old minister, Sunday after Sunday, I often thought 
 I would like to tear out that thousand dollars from those 
 dingy walls. But to me that dear old church has ten- 
 der recollections : a tall, slender spire, adorned by a 
 lightning rod ; green blinds about the square cupola, 
 out from which the rich tone of the bell resounded ; 
 the old gray haired sexton, who used to let me hold the 
 rope while it raised me toward the roof; the small 
 class-room just off the main entrance ; on the other 
 side, the stairs to the gallery, where we children used 
 to play when the ' mite socials ' were held the cheer- 
 ful savor of coffee and sandwiches comes back to me
 
 16 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 now. The interior was painted a light but dismal 
 brown. The windows were imitations of old Norman 
 arches with eyebrow arches of a deeper brown just 
 above. The pews were plain, and the old and deaf 
 people of the congregation used to occupy those in 
 front, while the tittering and sniggering youngsters 
 cluster in the rear. It was on a hot Communion Sun- 
 day in June that the first link in my musical career 
 was forged. All strangers were exhorted to join in 
 this service. Father and mother were kneeling, and I 
 was left at the organ to sing a verse each time, as the 
 people came forward and knelt about the pulpit plat- 
 form. 
 
 Alone I sang 
 
 'Just as I am, without one plea, 
 But that Thy blood was shed for me, 
 And that Thou bidd'st me come to Thee, 
 O Lamb of God, I come.' 
 
 When I saw father and mother kneeling together 
 at that table, and remembered that they had never 
 attended a class or prayer meeting, or had family pray- 
 ers at home, it thrilled me. 
 
 To this day I have never taken Communion publicly, 
 but on that Sunday, I think I closed my eyes and sang 
 straight to God in soul communion. 
 
 The last ' I come ' was fading away, and I was 
 almost unconscious of the presence of others. I opened 
 my eyes suddenly, and saw two blue eyes, raised above 
 the altar rail, which met mine. I started and gasped 
 aloud. The minister turned about quickly and looked 
 over his spectacles; the service stopped. Mother and 
 father started towards me, thinking I was ill. I blushed
 
 A STORY OF A PRIM A DONNA. 17 
 
 a deep red, made deeper by the sunshine pouring 
 through the stained-glass windows. I had made a 
 scene in church. The owner of those blue eyes was a 
 stranger. He was evidently a commercial traveler, 
 and was staying at Francis's Hotel. I was only a 
 homely little red-headed girl, and it was rather unusual 
 for me to attract an admiring glance. 
 
 I confess I fell in love ; but those blue eyes fascin- 
 ated me. Of course it was silly in a girl of nine years, 
 but there was a touch of affinity in that glance that I 
 cannot explain. I did not become acquainted with 
 him that day, but I found out secretly that he came 
 from the big city of Boston, far, far away from Iowa. 
 The church music of the period was rather peculiar. 
 Mother loved a solemn, rich harmony that expresses 
 reverence and adoration, such as is used in the Eng- 
 lish Church service; but in every church, in every 
 society, religious or civic, no matter whether great or 
 small, there is sure to be a quarrel among factions at 
 one time or another. 
 
 Mother's taste was questioned by some of the ladies 
 whom she had been teaching. The flashy gospel 
 hymns, with their bumpty-bump, three-chord jiggy 
 airs, had turned their heads. 
 
 'They be so truly passionate, ' wailed old spinster 
 Brown ; 'and express real great music, ' she continued, 
 wringing her hands. 
 
 Mother had given her a scolding at her last lesson 
 for not learning the five-finger exercises properly, as 
 she would persist in playing with her thumbs, one 
 note at a time. 
 
 It was a storm in a teacup, to be sure. Mother
 
 18 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 was firm, and would tolerate no nonsense. The kind 
 old minister sided with mother, but the majority of 
 the congregation followed Squire Bumps, the leading 
 trustee, who had become wealthy by foreclosing 
 mortgages on poor people, and prayed and roared like 
 a mad bull in class meeting for forgiveness of his 
 sins. 
 
 To me he was a hypocrite, and he certainly wanted 
 his daughter Grace to sing in'my place. 
 
 The final result was that mother was asked to 
 resign her thankless task, and we walked out of the 
 church the following Sunday with suppressed sobs 
 out of the church my father had almost built ; a 
 church that held in its walls enough to relieve him 
 from debt ; a church for which he had given time and 
 energy in prosperity but from which he was driven 
 out in adversity. 
 
 Do you wonder at the opposition offered to Church 
 work? Too often it is used in the interests of social 
 and financial cliques, and true worship is forgotten. 
 
 'Well, the Kingdom of God is big enough for 
 us all,' said mother, as we sat down to dinner that 
 day. 
 
 In spite of this galling incident, I thank Heaven I 
 never lost a pure and simple faith in God. It is true I 
 cannot fathom theological dogma, but hovering about 
 me always is the Great and Good God to whom I 
 pray. My theological belief may be accounted heret- 
 ical by some, but it is simple faith, and a personal 
 belief that concerns only my Maker and myself. 
 
 For a time after the crushing affair at the church,
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 19 
 
 we thought of leaving the town altogether, but 
 plucky mother insisted : 
 
 'No, we will yet see the turn of the tide.' 
 
 It did not take long, either. 
 
 The shop business was poor, though mother's 
 energy had made her successful as a teacher; but 
 success always brings its penalty in the way of 
 jealousy and envy. It was thought she was using her 
 position as organist in church to secure more scholars; 
 but they drew closer to her with unswerving loyalty, 
 and the class kept on increasing until she began to 
 stagger under the strain. 
 
 Father insisted that he would starve rather than 
 let her keep on without a rest, and a serious consulta- 
 tion was held, at which he suggested a concert to close 
 the term something that would be a substitute for 
 the Sunday-school concerts which had been given at 
 the church, under mother's direction, once every 
 month. 
 
 The new organist at the church had tried the con- 
 certs and failed. Then mother commenced planning 
 for the recital. It was very elaborate and bold in 
 conception, considering the material she had to deal 
 with. Bless her heart ! she was so magnetic. It was 
 from this first recital that I drifted into a stage career. 
 
 The Town Hall was generously lent to her ; an 
 impromptu stage was built, and bed linen was brought 
 into requisition for curtains. All day long father was 
 at work filling an array of bottles with a red fluid, to 
 furnish the red lights by placing lamps behind them. 
 
 How I hated that first concert 1 My mother and 
 father in the show business ! It stung my pride. The
 
 20 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 rehearsals went on actively, and mother concentrated 
 every energy upon the preparations. She understood 
 human nature, and so assigned the various parts as to 
 help on the work. Hours and hours she spent drill- 
 ing me in Leonora's arias from Verdi's ' Trovatore.' I 
 was locked in a room to practice the violin, as I was 
 to shine as a veritable prodigy in music. Oh, how 
 heartsick I was as the date approached ! Could it not 
 be postponed? Could I hide? There was only one 
 thing that held me close to duty. My red-headed 
 nature asserted itself. If my mother was in the 'show 
 business, ' and if my father did attend to the babies and 
 wash dishes and was called 'Poor Hen-pecked Bob,' 
 the Sunday-school concert should be outdone. 
 
 All great works are achieved through rivalry. We 
 must make some effort in order to learn our own 
 strength. 
 
 And so I made my real debut.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 NEVER can I forget that first recital. It was a few 
 days past my tenth birthday. The hour for beginning 
 was eight o'clock, but, as is usual with home enter- 
 tainments, it was well past nine o'clock when the cur- 
 tain sheets were drawn aside. 
 
 Father stood at the door taking the money for 
 admission. Beside him, on a buffalo robe, were the 
 two babies, Joe and Jim, in their new white dresses. 
 I had shrunk out of sight from some of the schoolboy 
 chums, who, I was afraid, would jeer me. Father 
 wore a paper dicky over a rough flannel shirt, and 
 looked quite a gentleman with one of mother's blue 
 ribbons for a necktie. He had dressed me before tak- 
 ing his station at the door, carefully curling my red 
 hair and trying to powder away some of the freckles. 
 
 ' On you, my precious little sweetheart, it all 
 depends, ' he said, kissing me, with moist eyes. 
 
 There was not a very large attendance, but Squire 
 Bumps' family, and the Blixons, and all the enemy in 
 the church quarrel, turned out in full force. I fancied 
 I saw knives and blades under their skirts. Grace 
 Bumps, who had taken my place in the church choir, 
 swept by me with a supercilious air which stung me ; 
 
 (21)
 
 22 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 and then, how glad I was the concert was to be given 1 
 My natural ire was roused. 
 
 Cool and collected behind those improvised cur- 
 tains, which revealed to the audience pantomimic 
 shadows of those who took part, was mother. Clad in 
 a simple muslin dress, lowered just a trifle at the neck, 
 with flowers at her throat and in her hair, it seemed 
 to me that I had never before seen my mother so beau- 
 tiful. Her dark blue eyes were flashing with excite- 
 ment. Two tall, gawky country boys stood at each 
 side of the centre curtains to pull them aside. 
 
 What a breathless moment of suspense it was just 
 before mother gave the signal ! The young lads, who 
 were admitted free as ushers, were stationed in different 
 parts of the room. They turned down the lamps at 
 the signal. The lights behind the red bottles were 
 turned on by father in the rear of the room, and then, 
 in the hush of darkness, the soft strains of ' Swanee 
 River ' were sung without instrumental accompani- 
 ment by the chorus behind the scenes. 
 
 The effect was thrilling. Mother's clear, beautiful 
 voice led the chorus of boys and girls. It was some- 
 thing unexpected, and that always pleases. 
 
 The last strains of the plaintive plantation melody 
 had scarcely died away when, prompt on the tap of the 
 bell, two of the most advanced pupils dashed into the 
 piano duet ' Poet and Peasant, ' with mother standing 
 over them to turn the music and count the time one, 
 two, three, four in a soft undertone. Of course that 
 music is now out of date. Musical taste varies with 
 each generation; but it seems to me that no orchestra- 
 tion ever gave such a finished conception as that sim-
 
 A STORY OP A PRIMA DONNA. 23 
 
 pie piano duet every retard and crescendo given with 
 precision. How I pity the millions of young girls 
 nowadays who spend years and years of hard study on 
 the pianoforte and every girl must play the piano ! 
 When an amateur piano selection is announced on a 
 concert programme there is a suppressed yawn floating 
 over the audience. Piano-playing is so common, and in 
 these days it is more of finger gymnastics than a feel- 
 ing and soulful interpretation of music. A collocation 
 of sounds is not real music there must be a soul-fire 
 at the back of it. 
 
 My heart fluttered when the accelerando of the last 
 measures in that duet was reached, and the crash chords 
 and explosive octaves were struck, which is the con- 
 ventional method of concluding a piano selection. I 
 was next on the programme, and gently picked for the 
 last time the A and E strings to see if my violin was 
 in tune. The sea of faces and light before me was 
 confusing. Not a feature did I recognize. 
 
 ' Keep cool and go slowly, ' whispered mother, as 
 she played the introduction to Mendelssohn's ' Conso- 
 lation. ' 
 
 I drew the bow for the first phrase with my fingers 
 giving every note a terrible shake and tremolo. After 
 the first full down-bow, I felt the passion of the music 
 forgot those in front and half closed my eyes. It 
 is a simple piece; my fourth finger was usually awk- 
 ward, but now it seemed as free and unconscious as 
 breath itself, so that I put all my soul into the bow- 
 ing. The last phrase, which expresses the whole 
 piece, and is Mendelssohn's favorite musical expres- 
 sion, died away under a light bow slowly drawn, until
 
 24 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 the tone almost faded into the breathless silence of the 
 room. 
 
 I sat down without a ripple of applause, and I felt 
 crushed as I walked behind the sheet curtain. Mother 
 rushed in and kissed me passionately. 
 
 ' O my darling little Meg I so beautiful so touch- 
 ing ! ' She kissed me over and over again, and the 
 programme stopped for a moment. What a light heart 
 those kisses gave me ! It pleased mother, it was she 
 for whom I played. Our greatest achievements are 
 not to please the world, but that little circle we love. 
 In after years I very often find myself straining every 
 nerve to please one person in the audience, and when I 
 feel the response after my first tones I am satisfied 
 no matter what the applause may be, or what critics 
 may say. 
 
 The next number was ' The Storm, ' which, with 
 its vivid mimicry and Alpine song, mother played on 
 the piano, and it created a wild outburst of applause. 
 It was brilliant, and just the thing to suit a country 
 audience. 
 
 ' By jinks, I thought the rain war a-comin' on the 
 roof ! ' whispered one large, lank farm-hand, as he 
 squirted tobacco juice in the corner. Mother had cap- 
 tured the audience. My next piece was a vocal solo, 
 the aria ' Ah ! I have sighed to rest me ! ' from 
 ' Trovatore. ' Mother had an impromptu orchestra 
 arranged, which she had been rehearsing for weeks. 
 The red-headed cornetist and country-dance fiddler, 
 Jack Robins, were playing their parts more by ear 
 than note. The orchestra score differed somewhat 
 from the vocal part. The first note I shaded
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 25 
 
 with a full robust chest tone, soft and sustained, 
 which I have always loved since, and which is 
 considered one of my greatest powers as a singer. 
 The bass viol missed several changes, but hastily 
 corrected himself. It started out well. I felt that 
 responsive approval from the sea of faces in front, but 
 in the second part, when I was growing most passion- 
 ate a sort of childish mimic passion taught me by 
 mother the poor red cornetist came in on the wrong 
 measure, and the confusion quite upset the entire 
 orchestra. The fiddler squeaked, the bass lost his 
 place, and it ended in a crash a break-down ! I 
 caught mother's flashing eye. There was a titter 
 about the room. Quickly mother motioned the 
 orchestra to cease, and striking in on the introduc- 
 tion with that firm passionate touch which inspires, 
 she said in an undertone : 
 'Begin over again.' 
 
 I did so only mother and I. The failure nerved 
 me with stronger power. The song was finished and 
 the applause was deafening, the audience appreciating 
 mother's pluck more than they did the song, and we 
 were encored several times. 
 
 Squire Bumps and his wife arose and left just then, 
 as if to mortify father at the door. 
 
 The concert concluded in a blaze of triumph with 
 the Hallelujah Chorus ' from Handel's ' Messiah.' 
 
 After the programme the mothers came forward for 
 their little girls who had taken part in it, and mother 
 was overwhelmed with congratulations. There is a 
 sort of air about after the performance that throws a 
 glare over the performer which interests the audience.
 
 26 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 Mother had vanquished her rival ; and the Sunday- 
 school concerts were laid low. 
 
 It was the old Squire who remarked a few days 
 afterwards : 
 
 'Wai, I told you that woman was a-leadin' our 
 church into theatrical temptations. See that concert 
 a disgrace, sir! Full of jig songs and evil ways. No, 
 sir, keep our sanctuary pure.' 
 
 After the concert, we picked up little Joe and baby 
 Jim, who were asleep, and carried them home. 
 
 ' Robert, I am proud of Meg,' mother said. 
 
 ' My own little sunbeam ! ' said father, taking me 
 on his shoulder. 
 
 The evening's events were talked over at the fire- 
 side until past midnight. Even after we retired I 
 heard mother and father still talking it over. Little 
 Jim hugged closer to nie. It all seemed like a dream, 
 and the echoes of the music rang in my ears. 
 
 'Fred Burroughes was there to-night,' said father 
 softly. 
 
 I had not seen him.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 AFTER the first concert the reputation of mother as a 
 music teacher was established. 
 
 Father's health did not improve, and old Dr. Wad- 
 dington shook his head and said he must leave the 
 ague district. This required money, and the thousand 
 dollars of debt seemed as large as ever. Mother 
 struggled on with her lessons. 
 
 'One two three four. ' I can see her yet in the 
 old parlor at the side of a scholar, going through 
 hours and hours of drudgery in teaching for a liveli- 
 hood. 
 
 On a cool October day at noon I was near the old 
 brick school-house, standing under the tall cotton- 
 wood trees. The children were playing among the 
 rustling sea of fallen leaves. The trees were shed- 
 ding their flakes of snowy fur ; the air was laden with 
 shouts of childish merriment, with now and then an 
 unearthly Indian yell : children without noise arc not 
 children. It was one of those perfect autumn days to 
 which a memory of past events will so easily fix 
 itself. 
 
 From across the road came a form I knew well, 
 although I had never spoken a word to him. 
 
 (27)
 
 28 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 'This is Minza Maxwell, I know, ' he said softly, 
 and his clear blue eyes made me blush furiously. The 
 girls all looked at us in shy wonderment. 
 
 'Yes, sir, that's me," I replied, walking apart from 
 the other girls. 
 
 'Well, Minza, I want you to become a great 
 singer.' 
 
 It was rather abrupt. 
 
 ' What am I to do ? ' I asked coyly, hardly daring 
 to look up into his face. 
 
 ' Your father is going to Boston with me on busi- 
 ness, and will be gone three months. You must go 
 with him and study music.' 
 
 It seems that it had all been arranged at home, and 
 was no news to them when I arrived. Father was 
 being sent away by his brother Masons for his health, 
 and I was to look after him, and Mr. Burroughes had 
 arranged for the music lessons in Boston. 
 
 Have you ever been at the first home-breaking of a 
 little family? Now that we were going, it brought 
 back the memories recalled by that little photograph 
 group of which I have already spoken. Like Cinder- 
 ella, I had dreamed of a handsome rich lover to pay 
 that thousand dollars debt. My first love was Fred 
 Burroughes. Although I was a little girl and he 
 quite a young man, gratitude filled my heart with the 
 deepest admiration for the blue-eyed commercial trav- 
 eler whom I had first seen over the altar-rail at Com- 
 munion service in the little brown church. 
 
 I had a loving girl companion. Angela Gooding 
 lived across the road, and a pretty little thing she was. 
 True, we had our little quarrels when out berrying or
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 29 
 
 <* 
 
 picking up hickory nuts, or playing in the sandpile 
 under the old maples, or swinging in the cherry trees 
 near the old red barn. But yet we loved each other. 
 Our secrets were as one. We make our truest friends 
 in childhood, because a child makes friends from dis- 
 interested motives. 
 
 The night before I was to leave, Angela and I 
 wandered down to the old deserted limekiln, where we 
 had spent so many happy days together, and built 
 fairy castles in the air. I said good-bye and kissed 
 even the large flat old stones where we used to sit and 
 watch the stars. It was here, with the shadows of 
 the afternoon sun playing through the leaves of the 
 old walnut tree, that Angela and I had read Sir 
 Walter Scott's novels and thought of the tumbled 
 stones of the kiln as ancient ruins. 
 
 We cried because we thought that perhaps we 
 should never be together again. We plighted our 
 eternal friendship with rings made of withered blades 
 of grass. The hidden hemp fish-poles were brought 
 out and put away again, and over the wire fence 
 Farmer Brown's muley cow 'Spotty' looked pensively 
 as if for a good-bye kiss. 
 
 In the house I threw off my jacket and cried as 
 mother asked me to try on a new coat with shining 
 buttons. In our poverty, mother had made my jackets 
 out of father's faded and worn-out coats, and dyed 
 them in logwood. The black persisted in wearing off 
 on my neck, and the boys used to plague me with cries 
 of 'Charcoal Meg.' Howl hated that name 1 But 
 Angela never plagued me. I longed for the time to 
 throw that jacket away, for even a homely girl loves
 
 30 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 to appear pretty. But now, when I could abandon it, 
 how dear it seemed ! 
 
 'Mamma, let me stay, and you go with papa,' I 
 remember pleading. 
 
 'No, a little girl of mine could hardly do that,' 
 softly said mamma. 'You go with papa and study 
 hard, and then you will be someone some day and not 
 have to endure poverty. Be somebody, Minza ! ' 
 
 She kissed me again. She was not an effusive 
 mother; her kisses were few, but always appropriate. 
 She did not humor me by waiting on my every wish 
 or tucking me in bed, with the other usual incidents 
 of expressing a mother's love, but taught me self- 
 reliance and breathed in me an ambition that I could 
 not quench. 
 
 It was a sad night. Nearly all night I lay crying. 
 The rain fell in torrents ; I was afraid of the deluge 
 which we had read about in our last Sunday-school 
 lesson, and rushed into mother's room in a fright. I 
 soon fell asleep when father's arms were about me. I 
 dreamed that I should never see little Joe and baby 
 Jim again. How cruel, I thought, to drive me away 
 now! 
 
 The next day was a busy one with packing. The 
 train left at midnight. We tried to spend a cheerful 
 evening, and Angela was allowed to stay up with me. 
 The hour of twelve seemed to come too quickly. The 
 'bus rattled to the door with its dingy light in front. 
 Once more I broke out, 'I will, not go. Mamma 
 mamma, I cannot leave you and the babies. ' 
 
 'Come, Minza dear, mamma will be all right. 
 That's a good girl, take care of papa and be some-
 
 A STORY OP A PRIM A DONNA. 3! 
 
 body, Minza, be somebody ! ' She kissed me good-bye 
 as only a mother can. Father hugged me close to him, 
 We were off to Boston. It seemed like an exile to 
 Siberia.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THAT journey was before the days of through train 
 service such as we have in America now. It was 
 change cars often, and change roads oftener, and long 
 waits for connections. At one junction I read all the 
 placards several times sideways and upside down. 
 
 When we reached Chicago all was bustle. The 
 trip already seemed to put new life into father. It 
 was his day for an ague chill and he missed it. 
 
 The State Street cable cars, gliding along without 
 any horses or engines, were the first things to attract 
 my attention. The beautiful waves of Lake Michigan 
 were dancing in the morning sunlight. The dome of 
 the old Exposition building, since then removed, was 
 awe-inspiring. The trains shooting along the lake 
 front, with their wide funnel smoke stacks, seemed 
 like busy messengers from another world. There was 
 a wild rushing air of business only known in Chicago. 
 
 On to Boston we journeyed. We could not afford 
 sleeping cars, and father arranged a bed for me on the 
 seats, but did not sleep himself. The nearer we 
 approached Boston, the straighter the people sat in 
 their seats; for the pretty little crooked streets of 
 Boston have, to all Americans, a classic fascination. 
 They are about the only evidences we have left of
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 33 
 
 European settlement in America. The grand old 
 Boston commons, with the towering elms, brought 
 before me visions of the Revolutionary war, which I 
 had been reading over in my school history. 
 
 We traveled across the ferry to Cambridge, passed 
 the old Washington elm and I/mgfellow's beautiful 
 home, buried in the trees, and stopped at a low, nar- 
 row grey house with green blinds and an enormous 
 brass knocker, which was to me quite an object of 
 curiosity. 
 
 A tall, kindly-looking lady with a long face, which 
 struck my childish fancy as looking like our old horse 
 at home, came to the door. 
 
 'Miss Paxton, I believe?' said my father. 
 
 ' Yes, sir ; and this is Mr. Maxwell, I believe; and 
 is this Minza ? Come here, my dear. ' 
 
 She was evidently a spinster, and tried to look very 
 kind and pleasant, but she was not a mother. Only a 
 mother can win a child at once. She untied the 
 strings of my hood. 
 
 1 Yes, this is Helen's only daughter, and she ' 
 
 ' Oh, you know mamma ! ' I broke in. Kven an asso- 
 ciation of acquaintance inspires confidence, and I 
 came closer to her. 
 
 'Yes, my dear, I knew your mamma when she was 
 a little girl like you.' 
 
 ' Yes, it was hard for Helen, but she has great 
 hopes of Minza,' continued father. 
 
 'I dare sa}^.' 
 
 ' Now I must be going. Minza, be a good girl and 
 mind Miss Paxton. Good-bye, dear.' 
 
 He kissed me tenderly, and I broke out in rebellion.
 
 34 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 'I will not stay ! Mamma said I was to go with papa.' 
 
 'But I shall come back, dear.' 
 
 I again had a good cry ; it seemed as if all the 
 world were against me. An exile from home alone 
 with strangers ! 
 
 A few days after, I began my lessons. The Pro- 
 fessor was a big, kind-looking man, with hazel 
 whiskers, and I used to think what a nice place it 
 would be for the sparrows to nest in. I soon learned 
 to like Professor Windermere, although he never con- 
 sidered me a promising pupil. He was a prudent 
 teacher, and my vocal exercises were given with 
 experienced care. Oh, how long those scales seemed, 
 going uphill and down, breathing like a machine ! 
 How I would stop and cry, thinking of mother and the 
 babies at home ! How I envied the little girls in the 
 streets selling papers and matches ! They were free, 
 with no scales to practice. No songs could I sing, 
 although my heart was hungry for melody. Miss 
 Paxton's keen but kind eye seemed upon me night 
 and day. As the days wore on I became more 
 reconciled, but my thoughts were always away in that 
 little Iowa town. We feel more at home as we become 
 acquainted with the landscape, and when the street- 
 car conductor with spectacles called me by my Chris- 
 tian name, I felt that I knew nearly everyone in 
 Boston. 
 
 One morning, about a year after, I came down to 
 breakfast, after having had a loitering play with 
 Pussy, my confidant, and found Miss Paxton crying. 
 A canary in the bay window was singing gaily in the 
 morning sunlight, as if to dispel her grief.
 
 A STORY Otf A PRIMA DONNA. 35 
 
 On the table was that yellow envelope with black 
 letters which augurs ill. It was a telegram. 
 
 ' My dear, you will have to go home to-day. ' 
 
 'What's the matter? Is mamma ' 
 
 ' No, no, my child, but your mother wants you at 
 home. ' 
 
 ' My papa ' 
 
 ' He has gone home, and is much better.' 
 
 This did not dispel my forebodings. At noon Fred 
 Burroughes arrived, and I returned with him. My 
 mind was so absorbed with fears of something wrong 
 that I quite forgot my companion ; indeed, I remember 
 very little of the return journey I don't even remem- 
 ber bidding dear Miss Paxton good-bye. The train 
 never seemed to go fast enough. 
 
 At length we neared Smith ville. When the train 
 whistled, how my heart leaped ! The rattle across the 
 old railway bridge brought me one bit nearer. My nose 
 was pressed against the car window, as the lights in 
 the village twinkled a welcome. Our home was at 
 the end of the street, and I saw the light in the win- 
 dow glimmering like a lighthouse in a harbor. I 
 imagined a death-bed scene ; my eyes were filled with 
 tears. Out of the ' bus ' I jumped, and rushed in. 
 
 ' Mother, mother ! ' I cried. She was not there. 
 Could it be? My father grasped and kissed me. 
 
 ' Mother, mother ! ' I again cried wildly. 
 
 ' Here, Minza, ' cried a weak familiar voice in 
 another room. 
 
 I hurried into the darkened room and smothered 
 that pale, wan face with kisses. 
 
 'Another brother, Minza,' said father ; and then in
 
 36 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 the dim light I saw the little red face with eyes closed 
 on the other side of the bed. I was angry. 
 
 ' Mother, mother, ' I cried, ' I didn't want any more 
 brothers. ' 
 
 'Hush; my child,' she whispered. 
 
 Father had tea ready, but I could not eat until I 
 had awakened little Joe and Jim, who were sleeping 
 together in a cot. 
 
 'Go's 'ittle sisser, Meddie. Go's nice sisser. Sisser's 
 dot oder buzza.' The little fellow's eyes sparkled ; 
 and how precious his little form seemed in that long 
 nightdress ! Baby Jim was quite a boy, and hardly 
 knew me. There was no getting little Joe to bed for a 
 time. 'Sissie's come, sissie's come !' he cried, as he 
 danced about the room. How happy I was ! 
 
 Home again.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE next morning I spent in going all about the dear 
 old house to see that everything was there. Little 
 Joe and Jim were alwaj^s with me, and I was happy. 
 Mother asked me to sing, and when I had done she 
 called me in to kiss me. 
 
 ' I am so happy, Minza, and wanted to see my little 
 girl so badly. ' 
 
 'I'll never go back, mother, never !' 
 
 It seems that there had been some fears of her 
 dying a few days before, and they had telegraphed to 
 me ; but that morning good, fat old Dr. Waddington 
 came. He gave me a good hug and kiss, and his 
 cheery voice soon assured me that all was well with 
 mother. 
 
 'You see, I've brought you another brother, Minza, 
 and he's a singer too. ' 
 
 The next few days were one flood of happiness. 
 With Angela I visited the dear old limekiln, and there, 
 alone, she tried to tell me in one hour all that had 
 happened in a year. How kind everyone seemed ! all 
 glad to see me, so they said. Even Squire Bumps 
 stopped and shook hands with me. 
 
 When I returned to the house I found Mr. 
 
 (37)
 
 38 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 Burroughes. I had quite forgotten him in my hap- 
 piness at arriving home. 
 
 'Now, just a song, Minza. I have been waiting, 
 and must be off by the 7:40 train.' 
 
 I sang for him with all my heart. He came up and 
 kissed me ; his blue eyes seemed to look deep into my 
 heart. It is not often that a girl of twelve falls in love 
 with a man of twenty-nine. He was my beau ideal, and 
 I did not know until years after that it was his money 
 which paid for my first musical instruction in Boston. 
 
 It was not long before the old cloud arose again. 
 One thousand dollars in debt ! The book and music 
 shop had not been very profitable during our absence. 
 Mother's illness had stopped the revenue from teach- 
 ing, and yet father was cheerful and sanguine. 
 
 ' We must be thankful for mother, ' he said ; and I 
 know he thanked God. 
 
 It was the following week that the thunder-clap 
 fell. Father's illness had rather thrown him out of 
 the way of doing business, and to bridge over present 
 and pressing difficulties he had made a loan of three 
 hundred dollars and mortgaged our home, expecting 
 that the sale of our two horses would cover it. But 
 this morning father's uncle, William Gordon (an 
 Englishman), arrived. He was a red-faced man with 
 bonnet-string whiskers. His face and nose were 
 frescoed with that purple tracery which bespeaks a 
 general allowance of good liquor. He had thin lips, 
 and somehow I felt that his visit foreboded no good. 
 
 ' Yes, I had forgotten that hundred and fifty dol- 
 lars entirely, Uncle William.'
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 39 
 
 ' Ah, but Hi 'ndn't, me boy. So I came to see 
 about it directly.' 
 
 ' But I don't know how I can pay it now.' 
 
 * Ah ! but ye 'avn't tried to pay it, and Hi 'old a 
 mortgage on those horses and must 'ave 'em.' 
 
 He was to take old Tom and Fan. 
 
 ' But uncle, I must pay the mortgage on my house 
 first,' continued father. 
 
 ' That be blowed ! Your botheration poor manage- 
 ment will 'ave us hall in the work'ouse. I must 'ave 
 the horses directly. You're goin' to slip 'em from me, 
 but Hi 'old a mortgage.' 
 
 This was enough to explain his visit. He wanted 
 his last pound of horse-flesh. 
 
 In the morning we saw him take old Tom and Fan 
 out of the barn, and lead them away down the lane. 
 We all cried and hugged the dear old horses, who had 
 been almost a part of the family. 
 
 ' I'm lost, I'm lost ! How can I pay the mortgage 
 now ? ' moaned father. 
 
 'It will come out all right, Robert ; don't worry, ' 
 said mother, who was sitting up then. 
 
 But father had forgotten that the mortgage was so 
 soon due ; and that very afternoon papers were served 
 on him, and a notice published in the village news- 
 paper announced that our home was to be sold at a 
 sheriffs sale in seven weeks. Oh, the disgrace of see- 
 ing that notice in the paper ! Why couldn't it be done 
 privately ? Now everyone knew of it. 
 
 Instead of mending, matters became worse. Father 
 tried to sell the music business, but there were no buy- 
 ers ; mother offered her piano, but no one had money
 
 4O THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 just then ; and our home was to be sacrificed under the 
 sheriff's hammer. The sale- was to be held on Mon- 
 day, and on the Sunday I went on my way to church, 
 as the first bell was ringing, with gloomy feelings. 
 Just as I was entering, I met Tim Rathbone. He 
 walked along with me. Tim had no sisters, and he 
 called me his sister. 
 
 'You're not stuck-up ef ye have been to Boston, 
 are you, Minza ? ' 
 
 'No, Tim, ' said I ; 'I'm so miserable.' 
 
 1 What's up ? ' 
 
 ' Our home is to be sold to-morrow, and I don't 
 ' And I burst out crying. 
 
 ' Go to the bank and borrow money like my dad, ' 
 said Tim defiantly, with his hands in his pockets. 
 
 ' Yes, but they won't give it to me.' 
 
 ' I'll go with you,' he asserted. 
 
 Tim's words comforted although they did not 
 assure me. The sermon that day was on the text, 
 ' Take no thought for the morrow. ' The anthem 
 responded with the words ' Without money without 
 without with out mon ey and without without 
 price, ' rolled over and over on the singers' tongues. 
 
 What a mockery ! Father was unmanned, mother 
 was still feeble and ill. 
 
 The next morning Tim and I stood at the bank 
 door at nine o'clock when it was opened. Mr. Lane- 
 son, the cashier, came up just then and asked kindly: 
 
 'Well, what's wanted, my little ones?' 
 
 ' She wants three hundred dollars to pay that 
 mortgedge what's being sold to-day at her house,' 
 spoke up Tim, with a business-like air.
 
 A STORY OP A PRIMA DONNA. 4! 
 
 ' What security have you ? ' 
 
 ' Myself, ' I spoke up. ' Anything my right ami; 
 my life, anything,' I continued passionately. 
 
 'Yes, but that's not collateral and won't pay inter- 
 est. You do not understand these things, my little 
 girl.' 
 
 ' But I must have the money, sir ! If you want to 
 save life if you have a soul I will sell anything 
 my life my voice only ' 
 
 'Well now, let's see about this/ said Mr. Lane- 
 son, turning to one of the pimply-faced clerks, who had 
 a kind eye, and seemed to know all the circumstances. 
 Mr. Laneson took two bunches of bank-notes from the 
 counter, put a slip on the big hook, and followed me. 
 
 The sale was at ten o'clock that morning. The 
 Sheriff was there with a motley crowd of villagers, few 
 of whom were bidders they came like chronic mourn- 
 ers at a funeral. The Sheriff was about to raise his 
 hammer and begin the sale, when Mr. L,aneson 
 whispered in his ear. 
 
 The sale stopped. The big, kind-looking Sheriff 
 replied, ' Cut off my fees too. She's a plucky gal, she 
 is.' 
 
 The home was saved, but I had sold my voice.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE old home was saved ; there is always a critical 
 point in times of misfortune which, if once passed, 
 brings plenty of help. 
 
 However, we were still one thousand dollars in 
 debt, and now I had sold my voice for three hundred 
 dollars to the kind-hearted banker. 
 
 'This money must be paid back at once to Mr. 
 Laneson,' said mother, caressing the little brother, 
 who was not yet dignified with a name. 
 
 ' We will sell the business, ' said father from the 
 back room, wiping the dishes. 
 
 'No, we must not part with some means of income,' 
 replied our little commander, mother. ' Minza, you 
 must give concerts, ' she continued quickly. 
 
 'How can I, mother?' I asked. 
 
 'You must; I will help you. One at La Ford, at 
 Washville, at Smithville, at Brownstown, and other 
 places if necessary.' 
 
 In a few days mother began the preparations in 
 earnest. My violin six hours a day ; piano two ; and 
 voice one. A few days after, dear Fred Burroughes 
 arrived and said that he had secured a holiday vaca- 
 tion to help us.
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 43 
 
 'I will be your business manager, Minza.' 
 
 And poor Fred was my first manager. 
 
 Old Dr. Waddington owned the village paper, and 
 the concert was advertised weeks beforehand in large 
 portentous black letters. The story of saving the 
 home from the Sheriffs sale was judiciously gossiped 
 about, and, although I did not realize what was going 
 on, the concert was looked forward to with uncom- 
 mon interest. My having been to Boston added an 
 interest to the event in the minds of the country peo- 
 ple, but still its success looked dubious. It was found 
 that the Town Hall could not be secured for that eve- 
 ning, and the church trustees, at the request of dear 
 old Rev. Mr. Frazer, decided to allow the use of the 
 church on condition that 'there shall be no loud or 
 sacrilegious applause.' 
 
 So my first starring tour began in a church. Is it 
 any wonder that I love its simple faith ? 
 
 At the last dress rehearsal I was in a fever of 
 excitement. Mother had planned the programme so 
 as to bring all my musical powers into play. The 
 church was lighted for the evening. Angela and the 
 other girls had been busy with the interior decorations 
 all the afternoon. The chandeliers and side lamps 
 wert festooned with evergreens as at Christmas time. 
 The people began to come in early. There was the 
 usual flutter among the children in the front seats, 
 trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on behind 
 the curtain. 
 
 The first number was 'Pull for the Shore' from 
 Gospel Hymns. I sang the verses and the chorus 
 joined, and when the curtains were pulled aside a real
 
 44 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 boat was wheeled across the stage on bedstead castors, 
 with ropes. This was a modern realism that pleased. 
 It was dramatic and a surprise. 
 
 I cannot give the programme completely, but I 
 remember reciting Jean Ingelow's 'Polish Boy' with 
 all the shrieking fervor of the brand-new elocution 
 student. Two operatic numbers from 'Mignon' and 
 'Maritana' were given on the violin. How dear the 
 old violin seemed as I caressed it ! I felt my soul 
 thrill as my fingers touched the strings and wandered 
 through the perilous ascents of the fourth and fifth 
 positions. The cadenza was given pianissimo in 
 almost breathless silence. The harmonics and octave 
 passages and fifth variation seemed so simple that 
 night ! 
 
 It was encore after encore for every violin selec- 
 tion, in spite of the church trustees' warning. If I 
 remember rightly, my singing was not so well 
 applauded, but the Moon Dance from 'Dinorah' seemed 
 to please. Here were my first trials in make-up and 
 dressing-room drudgery. 
 
 We drove about to the succeeding concerts in lumber 
 wagons. Our company, including mothers and aunts 
 who went with us to look after the children, num- 
 bered thirty-two. The last concert was given at 
 Mount Orling. Fred told me there were fifty-two of 
 the three hundred dollars yet to raise, and he hoped 
 this last night would do it. Shortly before eight 
 o'clock that evening it began to rain in perfect tor- 
 rents; the outlook was very blue. There were only 
 sixteen people in the house at the time for beginning 
 the concert
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 45 
 
 ' Will you go on with the programme, Mrs. Max- 
 well ?' anxiously whispered Fred. 
 
 ' Certainly, ' she replied. 
 
 Of course the singers were careless, and many mis- 
 takes occurred. It nearly unnerved mother ; it seemed 
 such an inglorious end for so auspicious a beginning. 
 For the last number I sang a solo and the chorus 
 joined. Some of the singers forgot the retard, and the 
 piece ended pell-mell a breakdown ! The girls and 
 boys in the chorus sniggered, the solitary sixteen in 
 the great room of empty chairs tittered. Quick as a 
 flash mother struck the chords for ' Home, Sweet 
 Home,' and nodded to me. Visions of the Sheriff's 
 sale came before me, and I sang. Tears were in my 
 eyes mother's were moist. 
 
 'Home, home, sweet, sweet home !' 
 is the passage of the song that thrills. 
 
 The curtain was drawn. 
 
 Just then Fred came forward rather dejectedly. 
 Old Farmer Goulden, who owned a large number of 
 farms in the neighborhood, followed him. 
 
 ' That gal ought to be a big singer, mum, ' he said 
 to mother. 
 
 ' Yes, sir, ' she replied softly. 
 
 ' Burn ' poor house to-night. Say, little un, sing 
 that air song ag'in.' 
 
 It was sung to please him. Tears stood in his 
 eyes. 
 
 ' May I kiss the gal, mum ? I just lost my little 
 gal Aggie shesleeps in the cimetary out there, mum 
 she' sin that home over there, the L,ord be praised, mum. 
 Say, that little gal can sing ; and that's the song my
 
 46 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 Aggie used to sing. Say, mum, that was worth fifty 
 dollars to me, by gosh it was, and ye've had tuff luck 
 to-night. Buy that gal suthin' with this. Good 
 even' . ' 
 
 He was gone, and had left a crisp bank-note in 
 mother's hands. 
 
 There was a consultation as to whether it should 
 be kept. I said 'yes' and Fred obeyed me, although 
 mother protested. 
 
 It was a dreary ride home, six miles through muddy 
 roads after the rain ; but the battle was won, and to- 
 morrow the debt to Mr. Laneson should be nearly all 
 paid from the concert funds, and my voice was my 
 own again. 
 
 This was my first concert tour. Time always soft- 
 ens the rough edges of hard experiences, and now I 
 look back on those days as among the happiest of my 
 life I had detected no minor chord in them.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 A.FTER the concert experience, father surprised us by 
 solemnly announcing that he was going into politics. 
 
 ' Mother, they want me to run for town recorder. 
 All the business men and leading ratepayers of the 
 village have promised to support me, and 
 
 ' Robert, you know I hate politics, and I am afraid 
 that you're too trusting.' 
 
 ' Oh, no, Helen ; they would not be so anxious if 
 that were true, and, besides, the salary is two hun- 
 dred dollars a year, and that would help feed these 
 little mouths.' 
 
 ' Well, I don't think much of it ; they're a deceiv- 
 ing lot these politicians.' 
 
 'Well, nothing risk, nothing gain, mother. Faint 
 heart ne'er won fair lady.' 
 
 Father had a few standard quotations that he could 
 always offer on any occasion. 
 
 Never can I forget that election day a week later. 
 The young rowdies of the town were led by a young 
 attorney who had just returned from college. He was 
 father's opponent, and was one who had induced 
 father to become a candidate ; but everything is fair in 
 politics. There was not much of a contest on the 
 
 (47)
 
 48 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 balance of father's ticket, which was printed as follows 
 I still have it. 
 
 FOR MAYOR 
 
 WILLIAM BOWDISH 
 
 FOR ASSESSOR 
 JAMES GALLAXY 
 
 FOR TRUSTEE 
 
 WILLIAM HOOKING 
 
 FOR RECORDER 
 
 ROBERT MAXWELL 
 
 Father was on the popular and winning ticket. I 
 went with him to the election quarters in the after- 
 noon. The room was blue with smoke from the town 
 idlers. The ballot box was presided over by two old 
 citizens, and clerks wrote down the names as the tick- 
 ets were folded and handed to the inspectors and put 
 through the small hole in the ballot-box with solemn 
 ceremony. 
 
 'Well, Robert, you'll have a walk-away,' joked old 
 Squire Bumps. Something told me that he was lying ; 
 but father, trusting father, though it was so. 
 
 A moment later father's opponent, the young attor- 
 ney, Cicero Corbutt, entered the room with a large 
 crowd of half-drunken rowdies. On their coat lapels 
 they wore printed labels, 'Sooner men.' 
 
 'Rah for Cicero! We're "Sooner," we are, and 
 we'll knock out the durned ole mossbacks.' 
 
 They filed in and voted. Many of them were men
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 4$ 
 
 temporarily employed in building a railroad some dis- 
 tance from the village. Cicero glared at us through 
 his spectacles as if to say, ' I am a politician.' 
 
 'We'll fix 'em, boys we must hustle some more 
 votes, ' he cried. 
 
 'Rah for the " Sooners ! " ' was the echoing 
 response. 
 
 ' Come an' have something, boys, ' declaimed the 
 oratorical Cicero, and he led his Coxey army out of 
 the door. 
 
 How breathlessly we waited the result of the count 
 that night ! I had my fears, but hoped and hoped 
 somehow that father had a majority of the votes. He 
 laughed at my fears. 
 
 ' Why, do you suppose that Smithville, the respect- 
 able ratepayers of Smithville, will allow those rowdies 
 to rule us ? I must go down and be ready for con- 
 gratulations.' 
 
 Not long after he had gone we heard the wild yells 
 from the Town Hall, ' Rah for Sooners Sooners gits 
 there whoop-la-tiger-ree ! ' 
 
 Father's ticket had won the day, but Cicero had 
 had split tickets printed with all the names of the 
 opposition ticket on them except father's, and his own 
 name inserted instead. Many of the tickets had un- 
 doubtedly been put in by voters under the impression 
 that they were voting the straight ticket with father's 
 name upon it, but they had voted the fatal ' split. ' 
 But this was American politics ; it was called shrewd 
 and sharp tactics. 
 
 ' Three cheers for Cicero ! ' rang out on the night 
 air.
 
 50 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 The day was lost poor father ! He soon came 
 back : his face told us the result. ' Beaten by two 
 votes,' was all he said. 
 
 ' Enough of politics, Robert ! ' said mother softly. 
 
 I felt very bitter towards Cicero Corbutt, but our 
 ways soon drifted apart, and I never had an oppor- 
 tunity for my well-planned revenge. Every politician 
 has his day, and the leader of the 'Sooners' was 
 shelved, like a falling meteor, in the prime of life ; 
 they say he is now a Populist, struggling to rise again. 
 
 Pcor father ! He retired from the dazzling arena 
 of American politics, and never forgot the lesson.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 IN spite of the political defeat, we managed to live. 
 We can always bear reversals better when realized 
 than when anticipated. I continued going to school 
 and assisting father at the music store, and mother 
 was able to resume her teaching. 
 
 The last days at the old brick school-house, with 
 its cracked bell, were, I think, the happiest of my life. 
 I had then my first real boy lover. 
 
 Our teacher was Ellen Riser, one full of inspira- 
 tion; she was a typical strong-minded, self-reliant 
 American woman. What a strife there was among 
 the girls to stay with her at night ! She never seemed 
 above us, out of our reach, but always one of us. Her 
 methods of teaching were rather unconventional. We 
 were taught to probe for reason and logic rather than 
 memorize rules. Her master mind seemed to bring 
 all the complex curriculum of reasoning within our 
 childish comprehension. She interested us, she in- 
 spired us. There was always a rivalry that stimulated 
 effort and ambition for the future. 
 
 We boys and girls would all talk together during 
 recess and after school. The boys would manage to 
 sit beside us at classes, and an occasional sly note 
 
 (so
 
 52 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 during school hours would arrange, 'company home' 
 after the Lyceum, which was a literary and musical 
 programme given every Friday night in the High 
 School room. Miss Riser acted as judge in the 
 debates. At these entertainments the boys were 
 allowed to see the girls home. Never can I forget the 
 time when I received my first ncte, which read : ' May 
 I see you safely home from L,yceum Friday night? 
 TIMOTHY RATHBONE.' 
 
 As I was red-headed, and not particularly pretty, 
 this was thrilling. I had always been a sister to the 
 boys before, helping on the other couples ; but now I 
 had a lover of my own. I replied, in a crude, scraw- 
 ling hand: 'Your company is accepted. MINZA.' 
 
 Next morning, as was customary when a boy and 
 girl began to talk interestingly alone together, there 
 appeared on the blackboard, in great flaming letters, 
 these words : 
 
 C TIM 
 
 -< and 
 
 ( MINZA 
 
 We were linked, and discussed matrimony freely. 
 
 We are all perhaps silly, as boys and girls ; but 
 that is the time when we have the purest affection. 
 
 It was quite the rage to give surprise parties, when 
 we would gather at a friend's house, taking along 
 refreshments, and surprise someone. The games were 
 not precisely intellectual ; they included ' post office, ' 
 'spat 'em out,' 'hissing and clapping,' with forfeits 
 and fines, and the merriment in paying the penalty. 
 
 The first night Tim took me home he barely 
 touched my arm, and we fairly ran, we were so excited.
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 53 
 
 But we got over that. 
 
 Tim was a good boy. They called him ' Wildy, ' 
 an abbreviation for Wild Irishman ; but his heart was 
 good ; he loved his mother, and that won me. 
 
 One night we passed the old limekiln, on our way 
 home from the Lyceum. It was a gentle night in 
 June. There was the soft, scented odor of new-turned 
 ground, and the smoldering of burning rubbish in 
 the gardens. The summer stars made it seem so 
 happy. We had not spoken. 
 
 'Minza, we graduate in June, and I'm goin' away.' 
 
 'Is that so?' said I innocently, although I knew it 
 well. 
 
 'Yes, and we're goin' to part, and I ' 
 
 'Oh, isn't that a pretty star, Tim?' 
 
 'Now, Minza, don't be foolish ; we're going to be 
 married some day.' 
 
 'Is that so?' 
 
 'Yes, and you know it; and I'm going to be a 
 lawyer, and I want you to ' 
 
 ' Look out for that cow, Tim ! ' 
 
 ' Now, Minza, you must not flirt and go with the 
 other fellows when I am gone, will you ? ' 
 
 'Why, Tim, we can't be married right away, 
 and ' 
 
 'Minza, you're the best girl on earth, next to 
 mother ! ' 
 
 How I loved him for that ! 
 
 'I am going to kiss you.' 
 
 And he did. 
 
 'When I'm a lawyer, we will travel over Europe, 
 like Mrs. Buggins.'
 
 54 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 'Don't you think these are the same stars that are 
 over in Europe now?' 
 
 ' Minza's my star always,' he said, as passionately 
 as a boy can. 
 
 And he kissed me again and held me in his arms, 
 just like stage people. We were betrothed. 
 
 I think pictures and stage scenes educate young 
 lovers. Tim's dark earnest eyes were very sincere, 
 and his curly hair just outside his little cap made him 
 look quite poetical. 
 
 Graduation Day arrived. Tim was making his 
 last speech, and his voice, just changing, gave a vari- 
 ation from squeaking falsetto to heavy bass; but he 
 was so earnest ! The exercises were held in the Town 
 Hall, which was decorated with the roses and flowers 
 of June. 
 
 Over the stage was a motto worked in evergreens: 
 
 'No Steps Backward.' 
 
 All was excitement over our dresses. Here was 
 where my first wrestle with stage dresses began. 
 There were sixteen in the class. We had our pictures 
 taken the afternoon before Graduation Day, and what 
 a flood of recollections it brings back! 
 
 Where are those sixteen now? Some up, some 
 down, as the world goes ; some dead. But what 
 ambitious hopes throbbed that night ! We felt as if 
 we were quite ready for real life. Miss Riser rehearsed 
 us in our essays and orations. My theme was 'The 
 Tale of an Old Shoe;' the others fluently discussed
 
 A STORY OP A PRIMA DONNA. 55 
 
 'Success,' 'Happiness,' 'Wisdom,' and other great 
 problems. 
 
 The evening arrived. Mother was there to look 
 after the music, and even little Joe and the babies 
 were brought to see ' Sissy graduate.' All the parents 
 beamed upon the graduates fondly. Old Beemer, the 
 deaf blacksmith, was in the front seat; and his eyes 
 never left sweet, blushing little Dora, his only daugh- 
 ter. We sat in a semicircle ; all the girls were clad in 
 white and wore white slippers. Tim looked very 
 important in his first white vest. Miss Riser sat at 
 one side, attired in neat black with white ruching 
 and lace about her neck. 
 
 Some of the boys forgot their orations, and the 
 same breathless thrill held me until I had read my 
 essay that I still feel just before appearing on the 
 stage. The smaller girls brought the floral trophies 
 and laid them at our feet. Sitting there in the cool 
 glare of the audience, I caught a glimpse of father and 
 the babies. 
 
 ' "Tale of an Old Shoe." Miss Maxwell !' I arose 
 and bowed to Miss Riser. 
 
 ' Dat's my sissy ! dat's my sissy !' broke out little 
 Jimmy. 
 
 The audience tittered. Father and mother were 
 crestfallen. I started to read. The first pages were 
 missing ! I looked and felt blank. Miss Riser 
 glanced over and blushed. An awkward pause. I 
 looked straight ahead despairingly, and from memory 
 repeated, as best I could, the missing pages. As soon 
 as I could depend upon my manuscript again the 
 terrible lump in my throat left me, but it did not save
 
 56 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 the family another disgraceful blunder. After the 
 applause a little voice again piped out 
 
 'Dat's niy sissy ! dat's my sissy!' and father had 
 to walk out with the babies in the ripple of laughter 
 that followed. 
 
 After the exercises the audience surged forward to 
 congratulate the young intellectual gladiators. I feU 
 the sting of disgrace until Miss Riser, who had parted 
 with the others, took me aside and gave me a warm 
 kiss. 
 
 ' Dear Minza, you are going to be famous some 
 day. I am proud of you. In the years to come, do 
 not forget how your homely school teacher loved you. ' 
 
 We had a quiet cry together. That is the way a 
 woman can best ease her mind. 
 
 During August, father sold the music and book 
 business. The money was to be used to send me to 
 college. 
 
 Tim had gone away soon after graduation, and I 
 received my first love letters from him not entirely 
 eloquent and poetical, but treasured for the happy 
 memories they bring back. 
 
 Off to college ! What girl does not remember that 
 epoch of her life? As the train whizzed away, my 
 mind wandered back to those sleeping baby faces, and 
 mother holding the lamp and shading her eyes for a 
 last look at me through the darkness. 
 
 Well, life is made up of partings and greetings.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 IOWA has many good colleges, but of course I think 
 old Cornwell is the best of all, in spite of the sad 
 memories connected with my own brief collegiate 
 career. How lonesome and strange it seemed on my 
 first arrival ! I recognized the buildings on the hills 
 from the pictures I had seen. The landscape was fes- 
 tooned with handsome autumn foliage. The old 
 chapel tower and the chimes of the clock were inci- 
 dents mingled with my first recollections. 
 
 We drove along the shaded road up the long hill 
 to the 'Sem.' or Nunnery, 'ac it was called, where the 
 girls boarded. I did not know a single person in the 
 village ; and there is always a first shrinking from 
 strangers, even on a tram or in railway cars, that is 
 decidedly uncomfortable to the strangers. 
 
 As we passed by the long row of pleasant cottages 
 I fancied each occupant of the village was necessarily 
 a student with scarcely a thought of worldly things. 
 
 Who knew but in one of these homes there dwelt 
 the typical young student with a long moustache that 
 had taken up my youthful fancies? and then I 
 thought of Tim ! Here, I thought, a professor must 
 dwell, for there was a hammock in the porch, and no 
 student would have time to swing in a hammock. 
 
 (57)
 
 58 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 I found out my mistake afterwards. 
 
 Miss Cooker, the preceptress, met me on the broad 
 steps that led up to the study rooms over the dining- 
 room below. The girls peeped from behind the doors 
 of the rooms, giving shy glances at me as I passed 
 through the hall with my homely green bag. How I 
 longed for Angela or someone that I knew ! 
 
 Miss Cooker was a severely intellectual woman, 
 whose heart seemed withered. Her face was wrinkled 
 with study, and her false teeth made her mouth look 
 full, firm, and decided ; but she was a woman of high 
 ideals, and tried to be kind. 
 
 After Professor Garlem, the president, had classified 
 me on my examination marks from the High School. 
 I began to feel more at home. As I was the last 
 pupil to arrive, I was given a little room on the third 
 floor by myself. The furniture was simple a study 
 table, washstand, small mirror, a little iron bedstead 
 and rug. Yet it was seclusion a retreat, and I soon 
 learned to love it as home. At seven o'clock in the 
 morning we were to be ready for breakfast in the base- 
 ment. Our oatmeal was always steaming hot. At 
 7:45 came our horrid Latin Lesson ' Amo, amas, 
 amat. ' The conjunctions were a nightmare. At 8:30 
 the dear old chapel bell rang out like a break in the 
 day. We each had our particular seat at the tables as 
 in the chapel. 
 
 The devotional exercises were conducted in turn 
 by different members of the faculty. Professor Boy- 
 sen's long prayers were supposed to match his long 
 patriarchal whiskers. He reminded me of pictures of 
 Moses. Little Professor Goblin's study of Greek
 
 A STORY OP A PRIMA DONNA. 59 
 
 gave him choice language, but his Boston pronuncia- 
 tion made it just as difficult to understand as the 
 Greek itself. Miss Cooker's appeals were cold and 
 classic, like her teeth. Professor Collinsgate's prayer 
 was a meek and timid supplication from a meek and 
 timid little man. Professor Brighton was always 
 short, sharp, and crusty, and his low shoes often 
 revealed different colored hosiery. Professor Wilhelm 
 gave his prayers a tinge of the civil-engineering 
 squint through a theodolite as he turned his eyes to 
 the ceiling. 
 
 These impromptu prayers were so often repeated 
 that each one seemed to have committed his pet 
 phrases to memory, and the same words rolled out 
 time after time. Lieutenant Jenkins from West 
 Point, who had charge cf the college battalions, did 
 not lead in religious services. He simply bowed his 
 bald head very reverently, and looked good. Miss 
 Bernard, one of the teachers in the Musical Conserva- 
 tory, presided at the grand piano, and gave her pretty 
 head a nod to begin the singing. Those songs were 
 the inspiring portion of the service. How those five 
 hundred voices used to ring out the old ' Portuguese 
 Hymn:' 
 
 'How firm a foundation, 
 Ye saints of the Lord !' 
 
 Strangers, to Alma Mater and distinguished visitors 
 were allowed a few minutes to talk after prayers, and 
 how wickedly we used to pray that they would break 
 into the next class hour, which was usually a course 
 of mathematics. 
 
 Under Miss Bernard I continued my vocal studies
 
 60 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 and gradually became acquainted with the other 
 students. I thought it a crowning honor when the 
 Philomathean Society invited me to join their circle. 
 A few days later the Galateans, the rival society, also 
 invited me ; but I chose the first. Programmes of a 
 literary and musical character were given every Friday 
 evening. I was often asked to give vocal selections. 
 After the exercises a social session was held, and 
 'Rule No 12' was suspended for the occasion, and the 
 boys allowed to see the girls home. The first few 
 times I walked across the campus alone to the 'Sem.,' 
 with the other homely girls. But all homely girls have 
 some feature which attracts admiration more than 
 mere beauty itself. A well-formed and delicate 
 hand, a dimple well displayed, shining teeth, pretty 
 hair, or a bright twinkle to the eye, or a clever tongue 
 every girl is blessed with some attraction, and 
 womankind spends a large fraction of her waking 
 hours in appearing beautiful. Is it appreciated? I 
 envied the girls with lovers, and one night Bob Bur- 
 nette, the janitor of the 'Sem.,' asked to 'see me 
 home.' He was a bright fellow, and always left me a 
 generous amount of wood, with which to build my 
 fires. He had worn his coat through by carrying the 
 firewood on his shoulders, and I mended it for him. 
 We became good friends, and he called me his sister. 
 
 'Yes, surely Tim will not care,' thought I, as I 
 looked into the boyish face of the photograph on my 
 table. 
 
 Robert was my father's name, and I was rather 
 pleased to have his namesake's company. He squeezed 
 my arm tight as we walked down the shaded lane with
 
 A STORY OF A PRIM A DONNA. 6 1 
 
 trees on either side, and the moonbeams shining 
 through the lattice-work of branches. There is always 
 love breathed in such an atmosphere. A glance into 
 each other's eyes with the moon just right, and soft 
 silent shadows, has often sealed love's message. 
 
 Robert was a self-reliant fellow, making his way 
 through college and studying for the ministry. While 
 he was not exactly ostracized by the 'Sem.' girls, they 
 seemed to think very little of going with 'our janitor.' 
 The rich men's sons were in better demand. 
 
 Now, I had no idea of falling in love with Bob. In 
 fact, I don't think I knew what love was ; but I must 
 confess I liked him, and he was my ' solid fellow.' 
 
 One Saturday, after a lonely walk, I found a note 
 under my door, with a liberal allowance of firewood 
 outside : 
 
 ' Minza, I must see you to-night BOB.' 
 
 I could not imagine what it meant, as we always 
 met each other several times a day. 
 
 It had been raining, and was a cold, damp night. I 
 wanted to post a letter home. Bob was passing with 
 an umbrella. 
 
 ' Bob, may I borrow your umbrella ?' 
 
 'You may, if you borrow me.' 
 
 'All right,' I said, and off we went in the rain. The 
 umbrella was small, and we were rather close together. 
 Bob was evidently nervous about something, and talked 
 but little. Just as we were about to turn into the 
 campus, under the light of a street lamp, Bob turned 
 to me and said:
 
 62 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 ' Minza, I love you, and ' That was as far as 
 
 he got. I did not expect it, and turned pale. 
 
 ' Minza, will you love me? ' he continued, slipping 
 his arm about my waist. 
 
 I pushed it away, and turned paler. Had I been a 
 flirt ? Poor Tim's face was before me as Duty. Bob's 
 dark eyes flashed I,ove. I gave no answer. He pressed 
 my hand. 
 
 ' My life is yours, Minza. ' 
 
 We went to the society rooms, where I was to sing. 
 It was not a love song, or one fitted to express senti- 
 ment, but Bob followed me closely with his eyes, and 
 my voice quivered. 
 
 ' She must be ill to-night, ' I heard them say, as I 
 passed out. 
 
 ' Take me home, Bob, ' I pleaded. His eyes seemed 
 to pierce me deeper than ever. I gave him no answer, 
 but he kissed me. 
 
 Was I a coquette ? 
 
 ' Minza, don't trifle. Marry for love don't flirt 
 and remember how Bob loves you ;' and he gave me 
 that self-reliant and defiant look which I so much 
 admired. School girls sometimes take these matters 
 very seriously. Here was I with two lovers, and not 
 yet sixteen ! 
 
 On the college bulletin boards in a glass case, near 
 the main entrance, was the programme of the ' Joint 
 Public ' to be given by the Philomathean and Delphi* 
 Societies. My name was there ; I liked to see it there. 
 These Publics are the great events of the term. 
 
 A religious revival was in progress, where many 
 students were ' converted ' or born again. The singing
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 63 
 
 is always very effective, and the influence of the young 
 ladies undoubtedly causes many of the young men to 
 'take a stand.' It is a noble and earnest revival of 
 religious feeling. 
 
 I did not believe in a public profession of faith, 
 and was looked upon as a very wicked girl. Bob was a 
 leader at prayer-meetings, and his voice was so eloquent 
 in his pleadings and exhortations ! I did my praying 
 in such meetings alone with my God, and when those 
 were asked to stand who 'felt a new and -sanctified 
 heart 'I sat still. They prayed for me as a sinner. 
 
 This worried Bob, and he asked me for an explana- 
 tion. I gave him my religious views in detail. 
 
 At the coming Public I was to sing, and Bob was 
 to deliver an oration as the representative of the Del- 
 phi Society. The large auditorium was thronged. My 
 song was a beautiful piece of plaintive music filled with 
 minor chords. ' There is no hope beyond.' I did not 
 think especially of the sentiment conveyed by the 
 words, as the music itself was really beautiful. My 
 solo preceded Bob's oration. When I had finished I 
 saw that it had brought a frown to the faces of the pro- 
 fessors in the front seats ; ' but Bob's pure high-minded 
 religious ideas will please them,' thought I. His clear 
 voice rang out: 
 
 ' I am not a believer in lip-service religion and in 
 emotional revivals, and will not serve as a minister to 
 God, because I have not felt a call from on high. I 
 believe in my God and Savior, but a too common 
 profession of religion hacking it about and putting it 
 on and off like a cloak destroys its sacredness.' 
 
 Horrors ! His words fell like a bombshell. They
 
 64 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 were my sentiments expressed, and how I wished I 
 had never uttered them to Bob ! 
 
 He defiantly threw his fists at the faculty and 
 poured forth his new convictions. 
 
 The cloud darkened, for his oration, with its inno- 
 cent title, ' Hell and Hypocrisy, ' which was supposed 
 to be a learned theological argument, had passed 
 through the professors' hands without reading. He 
 was just at that age when a college student will 
 approach 'any subject for his oration and swing the 
 world about his head. 
 
 His oration and my song were the talk and scandal 
 of the week. We expected to be tried and convicted 
 by the faculty and reprimanded in chapel. Linked 
 together in the disgrace, we naturally drifted together 
 in sympathy with each other. 
 
 The next week Professor Garlem called us into his 
 room, No. 14. 
 
 4 Miss Maxwell, for the safety of the young minds 
 in our care, and the religious institutions this college 
 represents, it has been decided that you and Mr. Bur- 
 nette are to retire for one term at least. There are 
 only two weeks more of the present term, and it need 
 not be known ' 
 
 ' It will be known ! ' flashed out Bob. 'Your big- 
 otry in trying to contract and narrow our minds to a 
 single religious belief is a disgrace. Freedom of 
 thought ' 
 
 'Never mind, now this has been decided upon,' 
 said Professor Garlem firmly. 
 
 ' Thank you, sir,' I responded sarcastically. 
 
 ' This girl is innocent, sir ; I am the culprit, and
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 65 
 
 you are cowards to visit upon her my disgrace,' said 
 Bob warmly. 
 
 4 Be cool, Mr. Burnette, ' replied the Professor ; 
 4 it's all for the best. We bear no malice.' 
 
 ' No, nor love of the human heart either,' retorted 
 Bob. 
 
 Well, of course I cried that night. Bob tried to 
 comfort me as he carried up his wood, and I stood on 
 the stairs talking to him until Miss Cooker ordered me 
 to my room. 
 
 One term at college, and expelled 1 It stung my 
 pride ! How could I tell my mother ? Bob now seemed 
 to have claims on me, and I could not help admiring 
 his pluck. 
 
 4 Minza, I am going to be a newspaper man going 
 to Dakota it's booming; when I am settled we' 11 be 
 married. ' 
 
 ' I am only sixteen ; besides, my mother ' 
 
 4 Well, we'll see,' he replied confidently. 
 
 An effort was made to keep the expulsion quiet, 
 but, like all State secrets, it oozed through the key- 
 holes or somewhere, and all the students knew of it. 
 
 As Bob and I stood on the rear platform of the 
 train when we left Cornwell and watched the old 
 chapel, the 4 Sem.,' and Nunnery fade from view, we. 
 were sad ; for, although we felt glad to leave in one 
 way, there was a feeling of banishment about it. 
 
 I never returned to college. Expelled ! How the 
 word made me shudder ! I felt like a convict. 
 
 I reached home with a heavy heart, and told 
 mother everything. She, of course, called them 
 ' stupids,' and said I was right ; but she did not like
 
 66 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 the idea of this Bob being mixed up with the matter. 
 ' Where does he live ? ' asked mother. 
 'At Shelby ville, ' I replied absently. 
 'That is where Tim has gone,' continued mother. 
 Here my love troubles began in earnest.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 there was a good deal of gossip current at 
 Smithville concerning my return from college, but it 
 proved fortunate in several ways. Father continued 
 in poor health, and mother, with her teaching and 
 three babies, left me quite enough to do. 
 
 It was in mid- winter that baby Tod was taken ill 
 with inflammation of the lungs. I was his nurse, and 
 either mother or I was always at his bedside. With a 
 suffering babe, you cannot locate the ailment or know 
 always what to do. It is a pitiable sight to see a 
 mother pouring out her heart and unable to help her 
 suffering child. 
 
 How well I remember that illness ! When I made 
 holes through the frost on the window pane, and 
 watched for the doctor through the long dismal after- 
 noon, what a comfort it was to see his portly form 
 coming round the corner ! The crisis was not passed 
 with Tod when Joe began to complain. His illness 
 did not seem to be serious, and father tucked him in 
 bed with the joking remark, ' We shall have quite a 
 hospital, after all.' Suddenly I noticed Joe coughing 
 severely, and he seemed to wilt away gradually like a 
 rose without water in a hot room. 
 
 (67)
 
 68 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 ' Send for the doctor, quick ! ' I cried to father. 
 
 Mother was soon there ; the little heart was just 
 beating. ' He's in a fit,' she cried. 
 
 The doctor arrived. ' Oh, he will pull through all 
 right,' he said, as he measured out some powders in a 
 paper and labelled them : ' One every hour.' 
 
 How long that night seemed as mother and I 
 watched over two baby cots ! Little Joe was now the 
 anxiety. At midnight the small form writhed in 
 another convulsion. ' Go, Minza, and sing grandma's 
 favorite hymn. It may quiet him,' mother said. 
 
 I sang old ' Nettleton : ' 
 
 ' Come, Thou Fount of every blessing, 
 Tune my heart to sing Thy praise.' 
 
 The singing awoke father and seemed to soothe the 
 little sufferer. He panted in 'quick, short breaths, 
 but his face suddenly became livid. 
 
 ' My God ! my God ! his feet are cold. Quick, 
 quick, the irons ! ' cried father. 
 
 'Robert, Robert, he's dying dying! ' moaned 
 mother across the cot. 
 
 Just then the little eyes began to roll. 
 
 ' Run, Minza, and bring Mrs. Gooding, ' said 
 mother. 
 
 The alarm was given, and the kind neighbors were 
 soon there. 
 
 Oh, that first death scene ! Father was kneeling at 
 the bedside, still chafing the little one's feet ; mother 
 felt his pulse, but his eyes were already glassy. 
 
 Little Joe was dead. 
 
 Have you ever felt that stifling first flow of grief ?
 
 A STORY OP A PRIMA DONNA. 69 
 
 I thought God was cruel, and had punished me for 
 my wickedness at Corn well. 
 
 Towards morning, worn out, I threw myself on my 
 bed and cried out : ' Shall I never see little Joe any 
 more ? Is he dead ? No, it can not be. ' 
 
 In a restless sleep, I dreamed we were playing 
 together at the old limekiln, with the waves washing 
 upon the white stones, little Joe and I. Christ 
 appeared in long white raiment and took us both to 
 heaven. 
 
 When I awoke how cruel it seemed ! I could 
 not realize the truth. 
 
 'Joe, little Joe !' I cried out wildly in my grief. 
 
 From Heaven I seemed to hear the only answer 
 
 ' My sissy's tummin' too.' 
 
 One never likes to acknowledge family perferences, 
 but little Joe was my favorite. Oh, I loved him so, 
 and now he was taken ! I tried to comfort mother, 
 but her grief was too deep to reach with words. I 
 shivered when they brought that little white coffin and 
 placed it on two chairs in the parlor. 
 
 The fumes of saltpetre filled the room, and brought 
 back that death scene for months after. 
 
 The funeral was held at the house. Dear old Mr. 
 Frazer's voice was so comforting ! His words soothed ; 
 there seemed to be a hope beyond that little Joe had 
 merely gone out to play, and would soon return. 
 
 The day of the funeral was dark and dismal ; it 
 had been raining very hard, and made the pure white 
 snow a slimy 5'ellow slush. The little coffin was 
 draped with evergreen boughs from the trees in the 
 front garden, under which little Joe used to play.
 
 70 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 Mother and I, hidden behind heavy crape veils, sat 
 near it. The littte face was just visible, and seemed 
 wrapped in peaceful slumber. 
 
 ' There beamed a smile, 
 So fixed, so holy, from that cherub brow, 
 Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not steal 
 The signet-ring of heaven.' 
 
 The house was thronged with friends and neigh- 
 bors, and scores stood outside in the drizzling rain. 
 What a breathless silence before the service, alone 
 with the dead ! 
 
 They sang little Joe's favorite song, ' Shall We 
 Gather at the River ? ' slowly, softly, sweetly, and the 
 only accompaniment was the patter of the rain on the 
 roof, like a fugue of falling tears. A short prayer, a 
 Scripture lesson, and a few words spoken direct to our 
 hearts of the hope of again meeting little Joe, made up 
 the simple service. 
 
 Oh, that last kiss of our dead ! What household 
 has not suffered it ? It is this moment that breaks the 
 mother's heart, when she thinks of her child in the 
 cold and lonely grave. As long as the corpse is in the 
 house she is not so heart-broken, but it is when the 
 lid is last sealed that the mother's heart-fountains 
 burst forth. 
 
 Standing about the little grave, we heard the clods 
 of earth fall upon the coffin. Would it awaken little 
 Joe ? How I wanted to stop the old sexton ! 
 
 'Oh, I can never leave him here !' I cried, and 
 burst from the carriage, as we were turning away. 
 
 'Come, Minza, be calm/ said father. 'Mother 
 needs your comfort. Remember others, Minza, ' and
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 71 
 
 he carried me back to the closed carriage. ' Well, 
 Robert, we have her left,' said mother, pressing me 
 tight. 
 
 For years after I could not visit little Joe's grave. 
 Mother and father used to go every Sunday with 
 flowers, but I never could endure to bring back the 
 memories of that death-scene. I could gaze on the 
 enlarged picture in the parlor, and the sweet baby 
 eyes that looked down upon me mother's own eyes 
 but I always thought of that midnight when I could 
 almost see his little soul floating away to heaven and 
 joining the angel choirs. 
 
 Time may wear away the pangs, the paroxysms of 
 grief, but to-day my heart is touched and purified by 
 the tender memories of little Joe. 
 
 In later years I was able to bring myself to see that 
 little grave, for when I die I want to lie beside the 
 little form I loved so well. 
 
 Life's first real grief ! the Minor Chord was struck !
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THAT spring the music-shop was sold, and the money 
 from mother's music lessons was our entire income. 
 Father remained poorly, and now grief and worry 
 began to undermine mother's health. One day Dr. 
 Waddington called and looked over his spectacles, 
 inquiring of father : 
 
 ' Robert, were you in the Army ?' 
 
 ' Yes, 42nd Volunteers.' 
 
 ' Were you ever wounded ?' 
 
 ' Yes, several times at Vicksburg and Shiloh.' 
 
 ' I thought so. Do you know, I think you are 
 suffering from those wounds to-day ?' 
 
 ' Tut, tut, man, I got over it, and am as well and 
 strong as ever. ' 
 
 'Yes, you are,' said the Doctor sarcastically. ' But 
 you come down to the office, and let me make an 
 examination.' 
 
 That afternoon father went down, and the doctor 
 evidently found traces of a rebel bullet. 
 
 Dr. Waddington waddled down to our house late 
 in the evening, very much excited. He took off his 
 worn silk hat, and wiped his bald head reflectively. 
 
 (72)
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 73 
 
 ' Mrs. Maxwell, can 3-011 put some sense into that 
 man's head ?' 
 
 'How's that, Doctor ?' 
 
 ' Robert deserves a pension for his army service, 
 and not only that, but back pay as well.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but, Doctor, you cannot get a pension with- 
 out political influence, and you know Robert is not 
 much of a politic! an,' she replied quizzically. 
 
 ' Well, that may be, ' continued the Doctor ; ' but 
 it's worth trying for.' 
 
 ' All right, he'll do it.' When mother said so, 
 that settled it. 
 
 The application was made. 
 
 The formal papers were sent to the young Con- 
 gressman representing our district. He replied 
 promptly, stating that he remembered meeting father, 
 and should ' give the matter immediate and personal 
 attention. ' 
 
 'That's the way he writes to all of them,' said 
 mother ironically. 
 
 We thought nothing more about it, and had little 
 hope ; but one morning, when I was helping father 
 with the housework, and mother was busy giving a 
 lesson, a telegram was handed me. 
 
 ' This must be a mistake, I don't receive telegrams,' 
 I said to the boy. 
 
 ' No, it isn't ; I knows my business,' he answered 
 saucily. 
 
 There it was, addressed : ' MINZA MAXWELL.' 
 
 I tore it open hastily. It was dated 'Washington, 
 D. C.,' and marked D. H., meaning 'Dead Head :'
 
 74 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 'Your father's pension and back pay granted. 
 Letter follows. Congratulations. 
 
 'THOMAS BAYUNG, M. C., 
 
 ' Per TIM, Secy.' 
 
 'Tim! Could it be Tim Rathbone? ' I said 
 excitedly. 
 
 'We have a friend at court,' said mother smilingly. 
 
 We could hardly wait for that letter. Father insisted 
 that there must be an error somewhere, and even 
 mother did not seem to have much confidence in the 
 news. 
 
 During the week a large fat envelope came with- 
 out any stamps on. Inside were numerous blank 
 forms to fill, and the information stated: ' Robert 
 Maxwell, Co. M., 42nd Iowa Volunteers, granted a 
 pension of six dollars per month and back pay 
 amounting to $1,276.60.' 
 
 I screamed with joy. We were no longer one 
 thousand dollars in debt I That evening we were 
 busy planning what to do with the money. 
 
 ' It seems so heavenly, ' I cried, and went to the 
 piano and played the gayest waltz I knew. Then I 
 hugged my violin and galloped off a mazurka. As 
 the revelry of music increased, my eyes suddenly fell 
 on that little baby face looking down from the corner. 
 
 ' O little Joe ! what is all this to us now that we 
 have lost you !' 
 
 The family council lasted long into the night. 
 Mother wanted to use the money to complete my musi- 
 cal studies, and father agreed. At first I wanted to 
 re-invest it in a business, but when I caught mother's 
 poor wan face a suggestion occurred to me.
 
 A STORY OP A PRIMA DONNA. 75 
 
 ' Mother, you and father must start next week for 
 England visit dear old grandpa. It will do you 
 good, and break ' 
 
 'No, no, dear, we cannot think of it. You must 
 complete your studies, ' insisted mother. 
 
 ' Then, Maggie, we must pay our debts one thou- 
 sand dollars,' interposed father. 
 
 ' Now, Robert, you must keep still. This money 
 shall not pay a penny of it, '. said mother firmly. 
 
 ' But is it honest ? what will people say ?' pro- 
 tested father. 
 
 ' Never mind, let me manage that ;' and mother 
 managed it. 
 
 It was finally settled that mother was to take little 
 Tod with her, and Jimmy was to remain with me, and 
 they were to start the following week to visit the 
 scenes of father's childhood in dear old England. 
 
 Of course the village of Smithville talked and 
 gossiped ' Maxwell ought to pay his debts.' 
 
 We had become nerved to facing contrary winds of 
 public opinion. 
 
 Here again was the breaking of home ties, and, 
 although I was enthusiastic about their going, it was 
 a hard struggle. 
 
 The same old midnight train was to take them 
 away. We tried to be cheerful that evening, but our 
 faces reflected serious forebodings. At the last all 
 was bustle and hurry. Again came the parting kiss. 
 "Little Tod chattered with delight and was for ever in 
 the way, and Jimmy cried, but the 'bus was waiting. 
 
 It was May, and the lilacs and snowballs were in 
 bloom, their fragrance filling the air.
 
 76 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 The next day the old home seemed desolate. 
 Jimmy kept me busy, and was soon off to school. It 
 is always those left at home who most keenly feel the 
 pangs of parting. 
 
 How anxiously I watched the newspapers for the 
 arrival of the steamer 1 It was overdue, and I pic- 
 tured a shipwreck in mid-ocean. Angela was staying 
 with me, and two merry little housemaids were we 
 until the thought of the steamer being overdue 
 sobered us. 
 
 One day Angela came running from the village 
 postomce. ' It's there, it's there ! ' she cried far 
 down the street, and a heavy load was lifted from our 
 hearts. I kissed Jim's jam-covered face over and 
 over again. The steamer had reached Southampton. 
 
 They were to be gone three months, and it seemed 
 like an age. In the meantime, Bob's letters arrived 
 frequently. He was a hard-headed, practical, busi- 
 ness-like fellow, and always wrote sensibly. A few 
 weeks later, a short note from Tim announced that he 
 would call the following week. 
 
 Here was a dilemma ! 
 
 I told Angela all about it, and insisted that she 
 must take one of my lovers off my hands. 
 
 4 Which one ?' she asked. 
 
 'It doesn't matter,' I replied desperately. Tim 
 had fresh claims on me now, if we did quarrel in our 
 letters, and had, indeed, ceased correspondence until 
 the pension telegram was received. 
 
 Then, too, Tim was my first sweetheart, although 
 Robert seemed to be taking matters for granted. 
 
 The next week I was reading one of Bob's long
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 77 
 
 letters when there was a knock at the door. 
 
 It was Tim. 
 
 I felt fluttered for a moment, and before I could 
 answer he kissed me. When I found my tongue, I 
 tried to thank him for his kindly interest on behalf of 
 father's pension. 
 
 ' Don't mention it, Meg ; let's take a walk down to 
 the old limekiln. Yes, bring Jimmy along, if ' 
 
 Every spot about the old limekiln seemed to retain 
 its happy memories. 
 
 'Minza, you are growing beautiful. Do you still 
 sing?' said Tim, when Jimmy was at a safe distance. 
 
 'A little. To put the babies to sleep. Don't I, 
 Jimkins ? ' I said, appealing to the young rascal ; but 
 he was out of hearing. 
 
 ' I'll be Jimmy, Meg please !' 
 
 ' Oh, you're too big now. Besides, Tim, you've 
 you've got a moustache.' 
 
 ' Yes, you remember, Meg, that was my greatest 
 ambition as a boy. When I had a moustache like 
 Judge Buggins, then hullo who's coming?' 
 
 Down the path from the house came Fred 
 Burroughes. 
 
 'That's Mr. Burroughes, my friend.' 
 ' Ah, it's Mr. Burroughes, your friend, is it ?' said 
 Tim sourly. 
 
 I advanced to meet Fred, and when he bent to kiss 
 me I shrank back and looked at Tim. 
 
 'Why, Minza, what's the matter, little one?' said 
 Fred. 
 
 I could not answer. Those deep blue eyes seemed 
 to express his pain and read my thoughts.
 
 78 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 'Well, I'll not bother,' said Fred, as he started to 
 
 go. 
 
 'Tim, this is Mr. Burroughes Mr. Burroughes, 
 Mr. Rathbone, ' said I, introducing them. 
 
 They bowed stiffly, and if I had not been so sorry 
 for Fred, I should have burst out laughing at their 
 awkwardness. 
 
 Fred left us. I called after him, but he was out of 
 hearing. 
 
 Tim and I were children again. 
 
 Fred came to the house later, and with the help of 
 Angela we spent a pleasant afternoon with our music. 
 
 Like all young lovers, Tim and I indulged in an 
 occasional quarrel. All persons do who are constantly 
 together. It is human to wear off the rough edges of 
 temper on one another now and then. As my house- 
 work took a great deal of my time, Angela and Tim 
 were thrown together more than I really liked, 
 although I had asked her, as my younger sister, to 
 entertain him. 
 
 A few weeks more, and father and mother and 
 little Tod would return. 
 
 The day before July 4, when the village was pre- 
 paring for one of the real old-fashioned celebrations 
 of our national birthday, I wandered with Jimmy 
 through the grove to the limekiln. During the after- 
 noon the authorities had arranged temporary seats in 
 the grove for the exercises on the morrow, and built a 
 portentous-looking platform for the speakers. 
 
 The lemonade booths covered with boughs and the 
 different amusement arena and shooting galleries were 
 striking camp. The speakers' platform looked very
 
 A STORY OF A PRIM A DONNA. 79 
 
 imposing. Tim was to read the Declaration of Inde- 
 pendence and I was to sing ' Hail Columbia I ' I 
 thought how handsome Tim with his curly hair would 
 look, and I pictured him in the future as a great states- 
 man. The village brass band were holding their last 
 rehearsal in the Town Hall, and the bass solo and 
 'afterparts' were nearly raising the roof. The sky 
 was clear, and the setting sun behind the purple grove 
 was sending up spears of sunshine from the foliage 
 that lined the horizon. It was to be a typical Spread- 
 eagle American 4th of July and the British lion's tail 
 was to be properly twisted. 
 
 I was happy just then, and expected Tim shortly. 
 He came, and somehow I felt like teasing and I 
 teased him all the evening. He tried to be serious 
 and see me alone. I showed him Bob's photograph 
 and talked of how good Mr. Burroughes had been. 
 He took Angela home and left me in a very bad 
 humor.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE festivities of the following day began with the 
 booming of cannon and the snapping of fire crackers. 
 The parade was imposing, and Angela really looked 
 beautiful as ' Columbia' in the float with forty-six little 
 girls about her representing each of the States. The 
 exercises passed off smoothly. Tim read splendidly 
 and was applauded to the echo, but we had scarcely 
 spoken to each other all day. 
 
 That evening a company of young friends sat with 
 me on the veranda watching the fireworks ; I wondered 
 why Tim did not come. At last the finishing 'good- 
 night ' was fired. Two figures came down the path 
 Angela and Tim. 
 
 'Where have you naughty folk been?' I asked 
 jokingly. 
 
 'We've been married,' spoke up Tim defiantly. 
 
 It was a blow which staggered me. I thought 
 they were Coking, and kissed Angela ; but another 
 glance at Tim's face told me it was true. 
 
 The last dying embers of the fireworks said ' good- 
 night.' 
 
 I turned to go into the house. It was a 'good- 
 night' to youth's young love dream. 
 
 (So)
 
 A STORY OP A PRIMA DONNA. 8l 
 
 1 Good-night, ' I gasped 
 
 'Why, Meg, won't you congratulate me?' pleaded 
 Angela innocently. She had taken my lover. 
 
 Tim still looked defiant as they left in the darkness. 
 
 My heart was broken. 'Alone, alone,' seemed the 
 solemn minor echo of the night breezes, as I entered 
 the silent darkness of the home. 
 
 ' Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine ? 
 Naught see I fixed or sure in thee ! 
 I do not know thee nor what deeds are thine : 
 Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine ? 
 Naught see I permanent or sure in thee ! ' 
 
 When I awoke the next morning I again thought 
 it surely must be a joke that they had played upon me, 
 but it proved to be a reality. 
 
 A large number of American marriages originate 
 from motives of spite or lonesomeness rather than from 
 love. We seldom marry our real sweethearts. I^ove ! 
 What is love ? Certainly, it has never yet been anal- 
 yzed in words. But when Tim was beyond my reach 
 I thought I loved him, and especially when I fancied 
 he had married Angela out of pique. 
 
 That night I was ready to offer myself as a foreign 
 missionary to go among the heathen, or to join the 
 Salvation Army. 
 
 A day or so before I expected father and mother to 
 return, Bob arrived. 
 
 The same old, reliant, conceited and energetic Bob. 
 
 He kissed me, and said coolly that he had been 
 arranging to start a newspaper in Dakota. 
 
 ' Will you be my assistant editor?' he said calmly, 
 whiffing a cigar.
 
 82 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 'That's scarcely romantic,' I insisted. 
 
 'No, but it's business. Minza, there's no foolish- 
 ness about me. I am dead in earnest. You're my 
 only hope in life ; will you be my wife ? That rhymes. 
 
 It's not a great distinction, but then ' and his voice 
 
 died away, as if in thought. 
 
 There was nothing impulsive about it, and the 
 memory of Tim's defiant look flashed on me. 
 
 'Yes,' I said; and he kissed me without further 
 argument. 
 
 Of course it was not such a courtship as I had 
 dreamed of; but I thought, as girls have, to be married 
 some time, I might as well make a beginning. 
 
 I knew Bob loved his mother, was kind, pure, and 
 noble in heart ; and I gave him my hand. 
 
 'You make me so happy, Minza !' 
 
 Just then Jimmy came in crying, with a splinter in 
 his toe, and it stopped further love-making. 
 
 Father and mother arrived earlier than I had 
 expected, right in the middle of my preparations to 
 welcome them. What a happy meeting ! I hugged 
 mother and little Tod till they fairly gasped, and 
 father looked so ruddy and strong ! Mother, bless her 
 heart! was young again. There was the old love sparkle 
 in her eyes, the dimple had come once more into her 
 cheek, and we were very happy that night ! L,ittle 
 Tod had grown as tall as Jimmy, and was as saucy as 
 a parrot. 
 
 Mother sang many of her old songs. 
 
 'There, Meggie, is Helen Martin when a lonely 
 young Englishman fell in love with her,' father 
 remarked, looking at her fondly.
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 83 
 
 'Oh, the hollowed glow of a happy heart ! 
 Nor wealth nor fame can banish its lustre.' 
 
 Such a busy time mother and I had talking ! She 
 told me of Paris, of the Crystal Palace, of Covent 
 Garden ; and inspired me still further with that great 
 ambition which I could never resist to be a great 
 prima donna. 
 
 Her trunk was full of little presents for us all, and 
 a generous supply of guide-books, photos, and sou- 
 venirs. The twelve hundred and seventy-six dollars 
 and sixty cents was gone, and we were still one thous- 
 and dollars in debt ; but let the creditors whistle now: 
 we were happy. 
 
 ' They shall be paid, but they must cultivate 
 patience, ' said mother, smiling. 
 
 She was soon actively at work organizing new 
 music classes, and having been ' abroad, ' she enjoyed 
 an unrivaled prestige. 
 
 ' Now, my Minza must study to go abroad too, ' 
 said mother enthusiastically one day. 
 
 'No, mother, I never can leave you.' 
 
 ' But, my child, your voice, when cultivated, will 
 bring you fortune and fame.' 
 
 'I want neither, now we are happy; besides 
 besides I'm I'm going to be married !' 
 
 'Minza!' gasped mother. 'All our hopes are 
 clashed. O Minza ! how could you do it, and not let 
 me know ? Cannot it be ' 
 
 ' Mamma, it is settled,' I replied. 
 
 Father came in just then, having overheard us. He 
 was thunderstruck.
 
 84 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 ' My little girl, only seventeen, and talking of 
 being married !' 
 
 I was glad they knew it now. 
 
 ' And to Tim ?' continued mother inquiringly. 
 
 That question cut me and I felt myself growing 
 pale. 
 
 ' No he has married Angela.' 
 
 * My dear girl, and you ' 
 
 With a mother's quick eye she read it all. 
 
 'No, mother; it's to Bob Burnette, the dearest, 
 best fellow on earth. You'll love him, and he'll soon 
 pay that one thousand dollars, ' I continued, trying to 
 be enthusiastic. 
 
 ' My daughter,' continued mother sternly, ' have 
 you sold yourself again for us ?' 
 
 'Oh, no, you'll like Bob, mother; in fact, you must 
 like him.' 
 
 But she never did. She looked upon him as a 
 robber. 
 
 Bob called soon after, and father tried to be cheer- 
 ful and entertaining as a prospective father-in-law ; 
 mother was cold and reserved, but she never remon- 
 strated again with me. 
 
 Poor Bob ! I saw he felt it, and I pitied him the 
 more, and admired his manly ways ; for Bob was a 
 splendid type of pure manhood, and that is saying a 
 great deal in these days, when so many young men, 
 'after sowing their wild oats,' finish by marrying 
 innocent girls. 
 
 We were busy with the preparations for the mar- 
 riage. Bob had established his newspaper in Dakota,
 
 A STORY OP A PRIMA DONNA. 85 
 
 and we were to be married in October and go there to 
 live. 
 
 It was a hard trial to mother, as it is to all mothers 
 to give up their daughters just when they find so 
 much comfort in their companionship. I could 
 scarcely realize it to be true. A girl about to be mar- 
 ried has the great problem of her life and destiny 
 before her. 
 
 We were to be married in the dear old church, and 
 the night before I wandered down to the old limekiln. 
 The leaves were falling, the autumn foliage enveloped 
 the old trees I loved so well. It was now a real fare- 
 well. I came to them as a girl to-morrow I stepped 
 into wifehood. 
 
 Bob met me at the gate when I returned. 
 
 ' What, pet ! so sad before your wedding-day ?' 
 
 ' Yes, you do not know what a girl gives up when 
 she is married, and ' 
 
 ' Minza, ' he said, his honest eyes looking deep into 
 mine, ' I will not take a captive. I love you my life 
 is yours married or not married. We were born for 
 each other.' 
 
 Oh, why didn't he rage, and fume, and fight, as 
 they do on the stage or in story-books, when they are 
 in love? It was his perfect perfection that I did not 
 admire but his honest, warm heart was so true ! 
 
 The dear old minister, the Rev. Mr. Frazer, came 
 from a distant charge to marry us. The ceremony was 
 short, and our clasped hands trembled as a response 
 when the final words were pronounced. 
 
 The 'Wedding March' was played as we walked 
 out of the church, but it seemed like a funeral dirge.
 
 86 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 Alone together, Bob grasped me. 
 
 ' My own Minza I My wife now ! ' 
 
 The realization burst upon me a wife ! 
 
 At the wedding supper everyone seemed sad. 
 Mother's eyes were red, and she could scarcely speak. 
 
 Mother and daughter were drifting drifting apart ! 
 
 The little old station platform was thronged with 
 friends to see us off; the train was an hour late, which 
 made it rather awkward for me. ' Will it never come ? ' 
 I thought, as a curious crowd pushed forward to ' see 
 the bride.' 
 
 Neither Tim nor Angela was there, though they had 
 stood in the back part of the church during the cere- 
 mony. 
 
 Sister of childhood and love's own sweetheart ! and 
 no farewell from either 1 
 
 A shower of rice and old shoes made the occupants 
 of the car look at us as museum curiosities. 
 
 ' Now, we won't act like a bridal couple, will we, 
 Bob ? ' I whispered. 
 
 'No,' he said heroically, trying to look as uncon- 
 cerned as an old married man. But it did not last 
 long. I soon fell asleep in his arms, dreaming of those 
 dear ones at home. 
 
 In a short time I learned to say ' My husband, ' but 
 * Bob ' always sounded better.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 IN ordinary romantic careers the marriage is the cli- 
 max, and 'they lived happily ever after.' In my life, 
 marriage was where real life began. 
 
 We arrived at Fargo, Dakota, during a light snow- 
 fall, with the wind whistling a dismal song about the 
 car. The landscape was dreary, and made me feel 
 homesick, but Bob's cheeriness was irresistible. 
 
 Yes, I was a wife. 
 
 We traveled up the broad Red River Valley, dotted 
 with shanties on each quarter section of land, and 
 stacks of grain which looked like Esquimaux snow- 
 houses. We stopped at many straggling and deserted 
 little stations, with elevators and grain warehouses 
 clustered about hungry-looking lumber and coal yards. 
 We arrived at Boomtown at last. There were three or 
 four handsome brick buildings and a large hotel in the 
 village, Bob's office sign, 'The Weekly Times,' 
 blazed out in bright gold letters from a neat-looking 
 little wooden shanty. We drove there first. It was 
 not an inspiring sight. A yellow-haired Swedish 
 boy with an ink-smeared face sat perched on a stool, 
 ' throwing in ' type. The old Washington hand-press, 
 with its fierce-looking lever, was in one corner, with the 
 gravestone ink-slab at the side. All the walls were 
 
 (87)
 
 88 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 frescoed with inky finger-daubs, and decorated with 
 faded circus and show lithographs and 'dates.' 
 
 There was a frightful odor of benzine about the 
 room, and the old job presses looked as if they were 
 hungry for a form to squeeze. 
 
 The residents of Boomtown were an unusually 
 intelligent and bright class of people, and gave us a 
 very cordial welcome. The burden of conversation, 
 day and night, was ' Boomtown' s great future when 
 thq new railroad arrived.' 
 
 Bob showed me the flaming maps indicating Boom- 
 town as quite the centre of the universe, and we had a 
 glorious future painted for us in our fancy. 
 
 The wild blizzards, raging that winter for days at a 
 time, made our life rather dreary and lonesome ; but I 
 soon became quite an accomplished editor's wife, 
 addressing the wrappers and papers on publication 
 days, mixing the paste, and picking up the local cur- 
 rent gossip, as follows : 
 
 'Mrs. Mayor Snoddus drove out yesterday with 
 Mrs. Biff.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Jones went to Babtown in the afternoon, and 
 was accompanied by Hon. Fillipers Jones. ' 
 
 ' Miss Sally Snippuns has a bad whitlow on her 
 left hand.' 
 
 ' Mr. Joe Waterlog has been under the weather a 
 few days this week.' 
 
 Do you laugh at this as silly ? It is much the 
 same news as London newspapers give concerning 
 royalty. In America, merit is worshipped as an aris- 
 tocracy ; the people are the royalty, and each little 
 country paper has its court of patrons to look after.
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 89 
 
 The best crop raised in Dakota is not wheat, but 
 politics. The long winter evenings, spent by the men 
 hugging red-hot stoves are certain to breed mischief. 
 The lone settler on the dreary plains ! God help his 
 poor wife ! No wonder the insane asylums are filled 
 with ' only a farmer's wife.' The tedious monotony 
 or their existence must be crazing, and this isolation 
 accounts for much of the discontent among American 
 farmers. In Europe they cluster in villages, and, 
 man being naturally a social being, the convivial 
 greeting alleviates the monotony of his existence, and 
 makes him more contented than his American cousin. 
 
 In the early days of its first settlement, Boomtown 
 had been located at the county seat of Halkins County. 
 Since then a second large railroad corporation had 
 extended a branch of their line into the southern part 
 of the county, and located there a terminal town site, 
 which was owned by officials of the railroad. These 
 branch corporations and wrecking schemes, with their 
 inflated water stock bubbles, account for many of the 
 large fortunes gathered so quickly by American rail- 
 road magnates. 
 
 The new town of Courtville was named after one 
 of the magnates, and it aspired to take the county seat 
 away from Boomtown. A flaw was discovered in the 
 first proceedings in establishing the county seat, and a 
 fight was made in the legislature at Bismarck to get a 
 special law passed to re-submit the matter to a vote of 
 the people. The plot was, that in extending its line 
 the railroad corporation could import enough sovereign 
 American voters that is, ignorant Italians and others,
 
 90 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 temporary railroad laborers to carry the election and 
 secure the county seat. 
 
 Boomtown was aroused ; and as Bob was looked 
 upon as a leader in public matters, we were to go tc 
 Bismarck to try and check the infamous legislation. 
 After we arrived, Bob made a careful poll of the mem- 
 bers of the legislature, in order to learn who were for 
 and who were against the scheme. He found the 
 railroad represented by a powerful and wealthy lobby 
 party, and struggled along ; while I tried to assist by 
 influencing the legislators at the Governor's receptions. 
 But ladies are not the power in American affairs of 
 state that they were in the days of the Bourbons in 
 France. 
 
 Champagne suppers were given by the lobby party, 
 and each side competed for every doubtful vote. The 
 critical time was drawing near. Bob polled his votes 
 every day, and at this time there were two majority on 
 our side against the bill. On the day for the final 
 voting, I went to the State House, through a blinding 
 blizzard, and sat in the galleries, almost the only lady 
 present. 
 
 ' If we can keep our men in line, we are all right, ' 
 said Bob excitedly. 
 
 The ' ayes ' and ' nays ' were called. There was 
 breathless silence. I was about to leave satisfied 
 that Boomtown was victorious when I saw two of our 
 men slip quietly out at a side door. I rushed down 
 into the corridor, and in the dark corners saw the 
 portly lobbyist, Colonel Malsey, who represented the 
 railroad, hand both of the men a roll suspiciously like 
 bank-notes. They quietly slipped back to their seats,
 
 A STORY OF A PRIM A DONNA. 91 
 
 but the lobbyist never appeared in the hall. The 
 names of these two were reached near the end of the 
 roll-call. 
 
 'Yea,' responded one. 
 
 ' Yea, ' echoed the other. 
 
 Boomtown was defeated by its own neighbors 
 representatives from an adjoining county. 
 
 The Boomtown men cried, ' Bribery ! ' An investi- 
 gation was ordered, and Colonel Malsey was impli- 
 cated ; but he proved an alibi by seven reputable 
 witnesses that he had not been near the State House 
 on the day the vote was taken. 
 
 I knew he lied; but what was a woman's word 
 against seven ' reputable ' witnesses ? I never told 
 Bob about seeing Colonel Malsey, and was very happy 
 when we left Bismarck that night. 
 
 The election occurred the following autumn. Bob 
 travelled miles and miles over the prairie country 
 behind broncho ponies, visiting each farmer and voter 
 personally, and, sometimes, I am afraid, like the 
 opposing side, gave them a taste from his bottle of 
 'cold tea.' I remained in the office meantime editing 
 the paper, and facing irate readers whom Bob had 
 ' blistered ' in the previous issue. It was an exciting 
 time. The outlook was bright for Boomtown winning, 
 as it was more centrally situated in the county than 
 Courtville. 
 
 Election day arrived, and never can I forget how 
 pale and wan Bob looked as the fatal day approached. 
 He owned an interest in Boomtown town site, and it 
 was a battle for his home and all that he possessed. 
 He mortgaged the printing office to raise money tor
 
 92 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 the campaign. The organization was thought to be 
 perfect, as Boomtown men were stationed at every 
 polling precinct on the day of election to watch the 
 enemy and our interests. 
 
 The returns came in ?lowly that night, but we felt 
 that victory was certain to be ours. It was at Court- 
 ville itself, with its alien railroad voters, that the foe 
 was most .eared ; but they had been checked by the 
 Boomtown challengers. Everyone was gleeful, and 
 Bob was cheered as he delivered an address from the 
 front of his office on a farmer's wagon. Bonfires were 
 lighted in the^streets, and it was altogether a night of 
 rejoicing, as the result had been received from every 
 precinct except the Waney district in the extreme 
 north part of the county, which was, of course, sup- 
 posed to have given an almost solid vote for Boom- 
 town. 
 
 In the midst of the rejoicing a courier arrived from 
 the Waney district. 
 
 'One hundred and four against us sold by the 
 sneaks ! ' 
 
 This, if true, turned the scale. The news soon 
 flashed over the village. The alien railroad voters had 
 been quietly sent armed in squads to that precinct a 
 flank movement and the Boomtown challengers had 
 been bribed. 
 
 ' Contest it ! ' ' Hang the traitors ! ' were the cries 
 on the street. 
 
 Well, it was contested. Injunctions and manda- 
 mus were issued. There was talk of armed resistance 
 with guns against removal, but it ended in Courtville 
 securing the county seat ; and the handsome seventeen-
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 93 
 
 thousand dollar court-house remains to-day a rendez- 
 vous for Boomtown bats and swallows. The town is 
 now almost deserted, with its handsome brick build- 
 ings and large hotel, a fit theme for a new Goldsmith's 
 'Deserted Village.' 
 
 It was a paralyzing blow to poor Bob. 
 
 'There is one consolation, Minza.' 
 
 ' And what's that dear?' 
 
 ' I sent your father the one thousand dollars first. 
 He's out of debt.' 
 
 'O Bob! dear fellow, you've ruined yourself for 
 them ! ' 
 
 ' No, no, a young man is never ruined by reverses 
 while he has health,' 
 
 He allowed the dear old office that I had grown to 
 love to go to sale under the hammer on a foreclosed 
 mortgage, and we sought new fields to conquer. 
 
 The wind howled dismally the night we left. It 
 was in December, and our friends at Boomtown for 
 misfortune reveals your true friends bid us God- 
 speed. We started for a new ' city ' on Lake Superior 
 that was booming. 
 
 Now Bob found in me a helpmate if ever there 
 was one ; but where husband and wife mingle in the 
 same business or trade there is bound to be a clash at 
 times. I must confess it, I promised to 'obey' him ; 
 but there were times when I thought he could obey 
 me with better grace. After a little quiet cry the 
 domestic sky would clear. 
 
 'It's just such snivelling as this that drives men to 
 the bad and makes them seek other companionship, 
 and drink,' said Bob.
 
 94 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 This was his standard argument. 
 
 After all, I look back on my first year of married 
 life in Dakota as happy, although it was fraught with. 
 rugged experience.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 As we link together the memories of our life, the im- 
 pressive events seem to fit into connected grooves. 
 Incident follows incident, without reference to the 
 lapse of time. 
 
 It was with some misgiving that Robert and I took 
 up our abode at another ' growing town.' The 'boom 
 era ' in America is .spasmodic, and travels in waves. 
 It is a result of the speculative fever that has always 
 been characteristic of American business methods. 
 The evolution of a Western American town is an inter- 
 esting study. First, the town plot and the corner lot 
 speculation, before the least indication of a building 
 is visible ; then some great factory, railroad shops, or 
 industrial interests centre there, about which a large 
 city is to 'grow.' The building operations start on a 
 given day, rough board shanties springing up like 
 magic over-night. Th^n comes the struggle to deter- 
 mine the 'business portion ' of the new town. Rival 
 districts put up large buildings to ' draw it. ' Next 
 follow the churches, and even these sacred structures 
 are placed with an idea of ' selling lots , ' by the real- 
 estate dealer. Municipal organization, streets, side- 
 walks, sewers, water supply, and paving are the suc- 
 ceeding problems in the evolution. Later, the wooden 
 
 (95)
 
 96 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 shanties give way to brick ' blocks, ' and a spirit of 
 ' bigger and bigger ' rivalry begins, until the town 
 becomes a ' city, ' and boasts of parks and a ' fine 
 opera-house,' palatial school-houses and court-houses, 
 a Board of Trade, and a 'boodle' alderman. 
 
 Town politics naturally fall into the hands of the 
 rougher element, who, through ' public contracts ' and 
 winked-at privileges, strengthen themselves into a 
 favored circle, and a Tammany Hall is originated in 
 every growing American town, which holds the bal- 
 ance of power between the principal political parties. 
 
 This I observed as an editor's wife. 
 
 At Dunbar, our new home, Bob secured a situation 
 as city editor on a daily newspaper. In a sharp and 
 bitter local political struggle politicians belonging to 
 the same party fell out, and one faction desired to 
 start a newspaper as their 'organ,' with Bob as 
 editor. They made up a liberal subscription as a 
 bonus, and in a short time the new paper was launched. 
 
 'Well, Minza, I have a daily newspaper now,' said 
 Bob one day. 
 
 This was the first intimation I had received of 
 BoVs ambitions in that direction. 
 
 ' Aren't you afraid it won't pay, Bob ?' 
 
 'Pay! I have everything to gain, and can't lose 
 much,' he replied. 
 
 I assisted every day at the office, Bob filling the 
 position of editor, business manager, compositor, fore- 
 man, reporter, and proof reader on the struggling new 
 paper. It was a tremendous strain on him ; he was 
 hardly civil to me, so absorbed was he in his business. 
 I became more an employee than a wife. The change
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 97 
 
 in him had come on gradually since our reverses in 
 Dakota. 
 
 Dunbar, besides being a growing and prosperous 
 manufacturing center, was also a famous resort for 
 tourists. The trout fishing and hunting in 'forests 
 primeval ' were great attractions. Among the tourists 
 who visited the large hotel, ' Minnehaha,' every sum- 
 mer was a Henry Orglive, a prominent theatrical man- 
 ager. Bob had received a large order from him for 
 printing, and had urged him to visit our home. 
 
 1 Minza, do be more sociable to my friends. It's 
 business, you know. Brush up your music and sing 
 him a song.' 
 
 Mr. Orglive took tea with us the following week. 
 He was a tall handsome man with a heavy moustache. 
 After tea I played and sang. He accompanied me in 
 my violin selections, and we were naturally drawn 
 together by the affinity expressed in music. I was 
 hungry for companionship in the art in which I had 
 been nursed from earliest childhood. 
 
 Bob sat in a corner and slept, because his musical 
 taste had not improved since our marriage, although I 
 had done my best to educate him. 
 
 We continued to play until late, and in parting Mr. 
 Orglive gave me a look that every woman understands, 
 and a smile that expressed more. 
 
 ' I have enjoyed the evening very much, Mr. Bur- 
 nette, and shall want to come again. Mrs. Burnette 
 is a charming musician,' said Mr. Orglive to Bob as 
 he was leaving. 
 
 ' Glad to hear it glad to hear it, ' said Bob rather 
 sleepily, as he showed him to the door.
 
 98 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 When Bob returned to the room he glowered upon 
 me with the ferocity of a wild beast. 
 
 ' You thought I was asleep, but I wasn't.' 
 
 'What is it, Robert ? ' I asked innocently. 
 
 'Oh, you know; you needn't look so simple,' he 
 retorted. 
 
 This roused my temper. I slammed the piano cover 
 down with a bang and turned out the gas. 
 
 That made him worse ; and here was 
 
 1 The little rift within the lute, 
 That by and by will make the music mute, 
 And ever widening slowly silence all.' 
 
 The incidents of this night and Bob's anger created 
 in me an admiration for Mr. Orglive which otherwise 
 might never have existed. 
 
 But Bob would not permit him to come to our house 
 again, and guarded me like a keeper. 
 
 A new resort hotel was opened a fortnight later 
 with a grand ball, and Bob coolly ordered me to go. 
 
 'It's a matter of business, so be careful how you 
 act.' 
 
 Poor fellow, I thought his mind must be giving way 
 under the strain of business anxieties. I had a good 
 cry while dressing. 
 
 ' That's right ! snivel away ! ' he taunted. 
 
 My silence irritated him. We drove to the ball, 
 and as I came out ot the dressing-room I met Mr. 
 Orglive. 
 
 ' So charmed to see you Mrs. Burnette. I've rather 
 taken charge of affairs to-night, seeing that I am a 
 stockholder in this new hotel, and you're to sing for 
 us.'
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 99 
 
 ' But I've no music,' I replied. 
 
 ' I have,' he said quickly. 'I bought those pieces 
 you sang for me the other evening. I never can for- 
 get ' 
 
 Just then Bob came up, and his face was fairly 
 livid. 
 
 I tried to excuse myself. 
 
 ' Don't you sing to-night, or you will regret it,' 
 whispered Bob hoarsely. 
 
 This aroused all the tiger in me. 
 
 ' I will, ' I replied defiantly. 
 
 I was afraid our actions had been observed and 
 would make a scene, so I hurried away from him. 
 
 My songs were announced after the first lancers, 
 and I did not dance, so as to save my breath. Mr. 
 Orglive presided at the piano, and his introductory 
 chords indicated a masterly player. The whole past 
 seemed to come back, and passionately and defiantly I 
 sang the songs he handed me. I had not sung before 
 a Dunbar audience previously to this, and it created 
 something of a sensation. 
 
 ' Is that Mrs. Burnette ? ' ' Really now, what a 
 beautiful singer ! ' were the whispered remarks I over- 
 heard as I took my seat. 
 
 Congratulations were pouring in when Mr. Orglive 
 gave me his arm, and escorted me from the Concert 
 Hall. 
 
 In the corner of the cloak room I saw Bob, crouch- 
 ing like a tiger, with his face telling the horrid story 
 of jealousy. Of course everyone must have noticed 
 him, and I felt quite disgraced. 
 
 'Will you take me home?' I whispered.
 
 100 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 'No,' he hissed back. 
 
 Mr. Orglive at the door must have overheard us. 
 
 ' May I have this waltz ? ' said Mr. Orglive, advanc- 
 ing as the music was resumed. 
 
 I hesitated. I had not danced since our marriage, 
 and with a desperate shrug I answered ' Yes. ' 
 
 That waltz I never can forget. How kind how 
 gentle he was to me ! How it contrasted with the 
 boorishness of Bob ! His arm about me assumed a 
 protection as we glided in the fascination of a dream. 
 I went back to Bob, who still clung to the corner. 
 
 ' Take me home, Robert,' I said. 
 
 He got up lazily, as if bored, and went to the cloak- 
 room, and as I was in the corridor waiting for him, 
 Mr. Orglive came out of the dancing-room, wiping the 
 perspiration from his brow, after a vigorous polka with 
 Mrs. Goundy, who was very stout. 
 
 'I must see you again,' he said in a low tone of 
 voice. 
 
 Bob heard it as he came out of the cloak-room, and 
 the two men glared at each other a minute, and parted 
 stiffly. 
 
 How miserable I was after the ball ! Scarcely a 
 word was spoken between us. I took off my ball dress 
 and sat by the open grate praying praying to God. 
 A miserable, unhappy girl-wife ! 
 
 Matters did not mend, and it seemed as if the rift 
 was widening, and we were drifting farther and farther 
 apart. Bob would stay out late at night, and I feared 
 further trouble ; he was so completely unlike his old 
 self.
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. IOI 
 
 One evening he came home to dinner in a rather 
 more cheerful frame of mind than usual. I was sur- 
 prised. But it was a leering, sarcastic laugh he gave 
 as he said : 
 
 ' Now you'll love me again as a wife should; ' and 
 he threw down a large yellow envelope. 'Read it,' he 
 continued. 
 
 I did so mechanically. It was a letter from a New 
 York firm of lawyers. One sentence was enough. 
 
 ' Your claim to the two hundred thousand dollars 
 from the Ferguson estate in Scotland is established.' 
 
 I read no more. 
 
 'You're to be congratulated,' I said rather lan- 
 guidly. 
 
 ' So that's the way my years of trouble and work 
 are received ? Damn a woman, anyhow ! I'll go back 
 to balloons.' 
 
 This was a straw that broke my temper again. 
 
 ' Keep your money ! I don't want it; I'm going 
 home.' 
 
 This seemed to sober him. 
 
 ' Minza, don't go mad,' he cried, coaxingly, coming 
 towards me. 
 
 ' I have decided, ' I said firmly. 
 
 ' But think of the scandal ! ' he implored. 
 
 ' Better that than live in torture. ' 
 
 It looked for a time as if there might be a recon- 
 ciliation, but the flood-tide was past. 
 
 ' Well, Minza, I am an aeronaut, and I'll soar soar 
 then you'll want to see me' he growled as he left the 
 room. 
 
 This last remark flashed the truth on me. Had
 
 IO2 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 Bob gone mad? It was a terrible thought, and I did 
 not dare to breathe a word of my suspicions, as the 
 gossips would say I wanted to deprive him of his 
 fortune, and ordinarily he seemed rational enough ; 
 but now all this talk of balloons had its significance. 
 
 It was announced in the paper the next day that I 
 was to visit my home in Iowa. Bob sold the newspaper 
 soon after, and was pressed on all sides with advice as 
 to how to invest his money. How many moth-like 
 friends the glare of wealth will bring ! They found 
 his weakness balloons ! 
 
 He did not seem to realize my determination that 
 it should be a final separation. I had no power or 
 influence with him. He sent money to the Smithville 
 Bank to my credit, and gave me a purse when we 
 parted. It was like kissing a dead person when I bid 
 him ' Good-bye. ' I tried to confide my fears as to 
 Bob's mind to friends ; but they were all suspicious, 
 and thought I wanted Bob's money. 
 
 I felt little regret at leaving Dunbar. The beauti- 
 ful bay, which was an arm of I^ake Superior, was 
 placid and serene, the large pine, spruce, and hemlock 
 trees making a rich purple horizon fringe on the 
 opposite shore. The little group of islands glistened 
 like emeralds from the cliff as the city faded from 
 view. Even the scattered stumps and red mucky 
 clay seemed to add artistic beauty to the scene. The 
 dismal landscape of burnt pine-stumps and log clear- 
 ings indicated the fury of forest fires where many a 
 poor settler had lost his life. 
 
 Again the same old evil star followed me. The
 
 A STORY OP A PRIMA DONNA. 103 
 
 factory whistles just then sounded in a chorus that 
 echoed among the hills. 
 
 It was a Minor Chord. 
 
 Of course people would talk, but let them talk! 
 My whole life had been public talk. One restless 
 night on the Pullman sleeping-car, I dreamed of Bob 
 and his balloons, and when I awoke I was at Smith- 
 ville. 
 
 Dear old home ! Every time I returned, it awakened- 
 new sensations.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 WHILE I did not feel that our separation was per- 
 manent, I knew that all our happiness as man and 
 wife was at an end. I felt it my duty to cling to him, 
 and had it not been for the cursed fortune it would 
 have been easier. 
 
 What a home getting it was 1 I felt something of 
 a prodigal. The letters from home had been rather 
 irregular and had been growing more formal ; but 
 when I saw the dear old house with green blinds 
 nestling in the middle of the road I felt that one thing 
 had been accomplished we were not one thousand 
 dollars in debt and this brought back a tender mem- 
 ory of Bob's generosity. Was I really an ungrateful 
 creature ? 
 
 I expected to find poverty and sadness in the old 
 home, but there was peace, plenty^, and happiness. It 
 seemed as if I was quite unnecessary. 
 
 'Minza, Minza, my child!' cried mother as she 
 rushed out. 
 
 Father came in from the garden. Jimmy gave me 
 a real young brother's hug, and Tod waved his Fourth 
 of July flag in exultation. 
 
 Yes, they were glad to see me, and how my hungry',
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 105 
 
 love-famished heart leaped for joy ! There is always a 
 feeling of refuge in home where enemies and jealous- 
 ies of life cannot intrude. 
 
 At mother's knee I sat as I did when a child and 
 told her all between my sobs. 
 
 'My dear, dear Minza! why didn't you write to 
 me?' 
 
 'I couldn't, mother ; my secret sorrows seemed as 
 sacred to me as my prayers. ' 
 
 'Well, dear, you are home now; let's forget it. 
 You know I trembled for my daughter even when we 
 heard of your prosperity. You decided too hastily, 
 and I always thought if we had not gone to Europe I 
 should have saved you the hasty and fatal step. ' 
 
 'But, mother, Bob was good as long as ' I 
 
 broke down again. 
 
 ' Yes, perhaps the poor fellow overtaxed his brain, 
 and it may come out all right yet. I,et us have some 
 tea and music.' 
 
 Her cheerfulness was infectious, and we were soon 
 singing the old duets. 
 
 As I received letters regularly with money from 
 Bob, there was little talk in the village ; but when my 
 stay lengthened out into months and months, and he 
 never came to visit me, there was a ripple of curiosity 
 over the neighborhood. 
 
 In the autumn I received the following note from 
 Bob, dated at Shelby ville: 
 
 ' Dear Minza: Mother died Friday, and was buried 
 this morning; there is nothing for me to live for now. 
 I am going to Europe next week to climb the Alps in
 
 106 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 my new balloon, which I have named after you. We 
 have organized a scientific expedition. I may meet 
 you in heaven. Good-bye. 
 
 'BOB.' 
 
 Yes, there was no doubt of it now. He was crazy. 
 I decided to go to Shelbyville that night. I thought 
 my duty as a wife demanded it, and determined to go 
 with him. 
 
 As I was about to step on to the train a telegram 
 was handed me from New York: 
 
 ' I sail to-morrow; you cannot go. Your heart is 
 too heavy for the balloon. 
 
 'Bos.' 
 
 With all the cunning of a madman he seemed to 
 have divined my purpose. I tried to stop him with a 
 telegram to the authorities in New York ; but even 
 they, after an examination, permitted him to sail, and 
 evidently thought me a scheming wife, anxious only 
 for his money. The letter I received later stated: 
 
 'Dear Madam: I take pleasure in stating that 
 Robert Burnette is of sound mind, and no more insane 
 than any of our eminent scientists and investigators, 
 and that the trip will not only add valuable truths to 
 scientific lore, but improve his health as well. 
 
 'J. M. BARTLETT, M. D.' 
 
 I watched eagerly for the safe arrival of the steamer. 
 Later I received long, interesting, and endearing 
 letters from Bob ; but the balloon always came first, 
 and he was generous in his allowance of money.
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. IO7 
 
 ' But, I shall not send you too much money at one 
 time, as you might run away in another man's 
 balloon.' 
 
 This was an excerpt from one of his letters. 
 
 Some months had elapsed when I received a letter 
 from him announcing the great aerial voyage he was 
 to undertake that day in his new air-ship. His fortune 
 must have dwindled under the enormous expense of 
 his aerial expeditions, but he was always hopeful. 
 
 'When I visit Mars and return, we'll go there to 
 live, Minza.' 
 
 ' The new ship is a beauty.' 
 
 So cunningly were these passages interwoven in 
 the correspondence that the authorities deemed the 
 irrational portions simply 'jokes ' when I made a legal 
 effort to restrain him in his wild purposes. 
 
 He was to make his great ascent on my birthday. 
 How eagerly I watched the cablegrams in the papers ! 
 The event attracted world-wide attention as a noble 
 self-sacrifice for science. The balloon ascended with 
 my husband. 
 
 ' The great air-ship ' 'Minza' ' faded away into the 
 merest speck, and seemed to sink into the blue sea of 
 the skies,' read the graphic account. This was the 
 last I heard of poor Bob. Whether I was now a widow 
 or a wife, I knew not. 
 
 Of course, I naturally supposed that his will was 
 made, and that there would be no trouble about the 
 property if there was any left; but I was mistaken. 
 Bob had disappeared in a foreign country, and, as the 
 authorities had no positive evidence of his death, they
 
 108 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 refused to probate a wife's claim to his money. Even 
 the life insurance companies refused to pay the 
 indemnity. 
 
 A husband in the air!
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ONCE again the problem of earning a living confronted 
 me. I could not allow mother or father to support 
 me. Mother fired me with ambition. 
 
 'Take what you have, and study for the stage, 
 Minza. You are growing beautiful, my dear, and 
 your early training will not come amiss,' said mother. 
 
 Another of those old-time family consultations, and 
 as usual, mother's advice prevailed. 
 
 In another week I was to leave for Boston and 
 resume my musical studies. My life's mission then 
 began in earnest, although every day I expected some 
 tidings from Bob. 
 
 The day before I was to start I felt dizzy and my 
 system gave way. Dr. Waddington was called. 
 Mother soon had me in bed. The old doctor felt my 
 cheek, took my temperature and counted my pulse. 
 
 'Hum, hum typhoid fever,' he said, in as matter- 
 of-fact a way as if it had been the mumps. 
 
 That night I was raving and delirious. Mother 
 told me it was all about Bob and the balloons. 
 
 ' Poor little Minza a wife or widow? ' was the last 
 thing I remember mother saying. They thought I 
 was going to die, but I didn't. 
 
 Naturallly my illness interfered with all plans for 
 (109)
 
 110 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 the future, but as soon as I was able to sit up I began 
 to map out my campaign. Getting well was a tedious 
 business, but somehow time wheels around the days 
 and months just as regularly one season as another. 
 The fear of losing my voice proved groundless in fact, 
 is seemed to strengthen and improve ; but my red hair 
 all came out, and left me quite bald. 
 
 Horrors ! Was I to be a bald-headed woman ? 
 
 It began to grow gently again, and I left for Boston 
 with a soft amber down covering my head, over which 
 I wore a generous and flowing blonde wig. 
 
 As I was entering the train I saw a familiar form 
 stooping under the weight of heavy valises. It was 
 Fred Burroughes. He did not recognize me, and I 
 spoke to him and he looked up in surprise. 
 
 ' What, Minza ! and where are you going ? ' 
 
 We got on to the train together, and I told him my 
 story. 
 
 Of course this incident gave Smithville gossips 
 something more to talk about, and mother was 
 enlightened with the information that I had eloped 
 with Fred Burroughes. 
 
 Poor fellow ! He was my first benefactor. 
 
 His mother had died recently, and he, too, had 
 been ill for nearly a year past, as his pale face indi- 
 cated. 
 
 We were in the middle of an interesting conversa- 
 tion when he arose abruptly. 
 
 'I must get off here, Minza,' he said with a sad 
 look in his eyes. Oh, if I could only help you ' 
 
 ' Hush ! Fred Burroughes, it is I who should help 
 you now. Write to me, will you ? ' I said cheerily.
 
 A STORY OF A PRIM A DONNA. Ill 
 
 ' Minza, I'm married. This is my home, and ' 
 
 ' All aboard ! ' shouted the burly conductor, and the 
 rest of Fred's words were lost in the roar of the train. 
 
 It seems as if old friends drift apart when absent 
 from each other. New associations uproot old acquaint- 
 ance. Poor Fred ! was his married life as unhappy as 
 mine had been ? 
 
 In Boston again ! It all seemed familiar to me now. 
 With my old teacher, Professor Windermere, I plunged 
 into my musical studies. He remembered every weak- 
 ness and peculiarity of my early singing and gave 
 them special attention. When I announced my deter- 
 mination to study opera, he shook his head dolefully. 
 
 ' Your voice is too weak not full enough for these 
 great opera houses; and then you'll have to learn to 
 act. No, Minza, I don't want you to chase a false 
 hope. Study to be a teacher, and rest content.' 
 
 ' My mother said I was to be an opera prima donna, 
 and I ara going to aim for that,' I replied decidedly. 
 
 ' All right, my dear ; but remember the warning I 
 gave you.' 
 
 My means were limited, and to secure additional 
 instruction in stage work I accepted a position in the 
 mantle department of a large draper's, serving as a 
 model to try on the garments for lady customers. It 
 brought me a steady income, and I continued there for 
 some time ; but at the end of the year I found my 
 funds almost entirely exhausted, except for the little 
 savings sent me by mother and the small salary from 
 the shop. 
 
 I made application to sing the solo parts in 'The 
 Creation ' at the coming May Festival. It was auda-
 
 112 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 cious in me, but ttte conductor, having had the usual 
 row with prima donnas, accepted me as a revenge on 
 the unconquerable primas. 
 
 The unknown soloist ! The public were on the qui 
 vive. I rehearsed hours and hours with the conductor, 
 and he finally expressed himself rather reluctantly as 
 ' pleased ' with his newly discovered soprano. 
 
 The day of the festival arrived. The choruses of 
 Haydn never seemed so heaven-inspired before. My 
 voice acted rather poorly at first, but when I came to 
 the cooing-dove passage I tried to ' coo, ' and throw 
 my soul into that dove, which I could almost feel 
 hovering near me. 
 
 The effect was electrical. The people broke out in 
 one solid cheer. The simple and truthful shading of 
 the passage had touched the responsive chord in that 
 great audience. 
 
 The entire oratorio was given with splendid 
 expression, and the conductor was showered with con- 
 gratulations. He pushed his way through the sing- 
 ers to where I was surrounded by admiring acquaint- 
 ances. His shining bald head seemed to reflect the 
 beaming smile on his face. 
 
 'Your fame is made, madame. Don't hesitate to 
 begin on your repertoire at once. You have my ever- 
 lasting gratitude : you have saved me a humiliation.' 
 
 The newspapers were very elaborate in their praise. 
 The reporters called on me iti profusion, and were 
 quite surprised to realize that I thoroughly understood 
 the workings of the editorial machines in grinding out 
 'matter.' They were my best friends, and I took 
 pains to help them to 'good stories.' The old news-
 
 A STORY OF A PRIM A DONNA. 
 
 paper experience came back to me, and the pleasant 
 hours I spent in receiving those handsome, keen, 
 bright-eyed reporters I shall never forget. 
 
 Those who succeed in a public career seldom real- 
 ize how much they owe to these irrepressible news- 
 paper men. 
 
 In a few weeks I was known far and wide through- 
 out America and properly christened with a stage 
 name. Even the querulous criticism of the older critics, 
 who never liked to agree with the younger ones, had 
 its beneficial effect in making ' Madame Helvina ' 
 known to the musical world. 
 
 After this I began to develop a capacity for busi- 
 ness. The oratorio engagement brought me numerous 
 offers for concerts, although the income did not 
 amount to much. 
 
 It was a newspaper man who solved the question 
 of my future career Mr. Howard Wittaker. 
 
 'You ought to go abroad at once, Madame 
 Helvina.' 
 
 ' Yes ? ' I replied questioningly. 
 
 ' Well, I've an idea. Old James Bluffingame was 
 captivated by your singing. I will negotiate a loan.' 
 
 ' You're very kind, but be very careful ' 
 
 ' But will you tell me the real story of your life ? ' 
 he entreated. 
 
 ' No, that's a secret ; the past is dead to me. 
 Please don't ask me.' 
 
 ' Anything that you desire, madame I am at your 
 service,' he said, as he gallantly bowed himself out at 
 the door. 
 
 An "American newspaper man has a faculty of
 
 114 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 accomplishing results. I received a note a few days 
 
 later : 
 
 i 
 ' Enclosed find cheque, two thousand dollars, sent 
 
 by order Mr. James Bluffingame, who desires in return 
 your personal note and photograph. Make the note 
 due at the time most convenient to yourself. 
 
 'J. SMITH & SONS, Bankers.' 
 
 This was Howard's work. 
 
 I was unable to spare the money to visit my 
 mother and the little Iowa home before I went abroad ; 
 and besides, mother wrote insisting : ' Start at once. 
 You are growing old.' What! I growing old and 
 only twenty ' Yes, there were a few gray hairs. 
 Anything but red hair ! thought I. 
 
 The day of sailing soon arrived. The pier was 
 crowded with people to see off friends and relatives. 
 Flowers and bouquets were showered upon the parting 
 passengers in profusion. The first bell sounded, and 
 the 'Good-byes' began to flow with the tears. 
 Mothers parting from sons, sweethearts from lovers, 
 brothers from sisters, husbands from wives ! Ah, how 
 these partings made me shudder ! There were none 
 thereto bid me 'Good-bye.' I stood alone looking 
 over the rail as the cheers began and the hats and 
 handkerchiefs waved from the pier. There were many 
 red eyes among the passengers. The sobbing began 
 with a crescendo and concluded with a staccato. The 
 brass band struck up a lively air, as if to drown the 
 grief, as the great boat backed out from the pier and 
 steamed majestically through the forest of masts down 
 New York Harbor.
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 1 15 
 
 The last sound I heard from my native shore was 
 the dismal echo of the bell-buoy as it swayed to and 
 fro on the billows of the deep. 
 
 It struck a Minor Chord.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 SINCE the earliest Scriptural times, and the days of 
 Jonah, various attempts have been made to describe a 
 sea voyage. It is something that is so thoroughly felt 
 that mere word-painting seems inadequate. 
 
 The genial old pilot an ideal sea-dog was 
 lowered when we left Sandy Hook ; he was laden with 
 last messages to friends behind. When I handed him 
 a letter for mother, I felt as if I were bound for 
 Eternity. Once out of sight of land, the ocean 
 appeared very calm, but the big steamer began rocking 
 like a cradle. The 'feeling' came on insidiously, and 
 I soon retired below, trying to smile as I left the 
 friends on deck. 
 
 I had often sung about the deep blue sea, but had 
 never realized what it was before. The blue is almost 
 an indigo, and seems to color the white-crested foam 
 in the vessel's wake like the blueing in mother's 
 wash-tub. 
 
 The first day at sea is not always the most sociable 
 of the voyage. There is a land reserve that needs to 
 be driven away by the sea air. The bugle trumpet- 
 call for meals is heard often but at first few respond. 
 In a few days the motion of the steamer begins to feel 
 
 (116)
 
 A STORY OF A PRIM A DONNA. 117 
 
 like the old swing at home, and you quite enjoy it. 
 Concerts are given in the saloon as the patients are 
 relieved from the hospital below. We learn in these 
 few idle days in crossing the Atlantic more personal 
 and biographical, information from a fellow-passenger 
 than he would be likely to relate otherwise in a life- 
 time. The company on board were very agreeable, 
 and we began to feel like one large family, and con- 
 versed pleasantly on musical and literary matters. It 
 was altogether very entertaining ; but there is always 
 someone whom you find most congenial. While there 
 were many attractive and pleasant gentlemen on board, 
 my fancy was quite taken with a lonesome, shy, fair- 
 haired young man of twenty. No one seemed to take 
 much notice of him, and his loneliness created a bond 
 of sympathy between us, so that we were soon good 
 friends. 
 
 'Aren't you a singer?' he asked, looking at me 
 earnestly. 
 
 ' I hope to be some day,' I replied. 
 
 ' Yes, and I think you must be Madame Helvina. 
 My mother heard you in " The Creation " in Boston, 
 and she says you are going to be a great singer and 
 my mother is a musician.' 
 
 Bless his heart ! He struck my weak point 
 mother-love and I could have hugged him for those 
 words. 
 
 'Who is your mother?' I asked, growing interested. 
 
 'A Polish woman. I am American born, and am 
 going back to join my parents, who have returned to 
 Poland. It's a poor place for musicians; but mother
 
 Il8 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 had the old home left her recently, and they have 
 decided to go there to live.' 
 
 ' Do you take after your mother and sing also ? ' 
 
 'No, I am simply a violinist.' 
 
 We passed many happy hours together. He 
 played for my singing, and also sang in a beautiful, 
 rich, robust tenor voice. 
 
 ' Why don't you take up voice culture ?' I asked, 
 turning to him quickly. 
 
 ' Because father hates singing. He was an operatic 
 tenor once, and I suppose there is good reason for not 
 wanting me to become a singer, although I love to 
 sing.' 
 
 'Well, Gene,' said I, for that was his name, ' you 
 must sing. Study the great art, for me !' 
 
 He took the matter rather seriously, and gave me 
 a reflective look which indicated an underlying deter- 
 mination. 
 
 The men in the smoking-room continued their 
 games until late at night, and during the day would 
 make a wager on every possible incident which involved 
 doubt on the number of miles the ship would go, on 
 how many vessels we would sight during the day, on 
 fog or no fog ; and it was carried to my ears by inter- 
 ested parties, that a wager was pending between two 
 men, one of whom was known as ' Fuzzy- face, ' as to 
 whether or not I would kiss the fair-haired young man 
 on parting. 
 
 Was I so much of a flirt ? It provoked me, and I 
 determined to frustrate their wager, so that neither 
 side should win. 
 
 What a thrill passed over me as I first gazed on
 
 A STORY OP A PRIM A DONNA. 1 19 
 
 England, the home of my forefathers ! Even the 
 bleak, bare cliffs of Portland Bill seemed fascinating 
 as we sailed up the Channel, past the Isle of Wight. 
 What a great part in the world's history that little 
 island has played 1 
 
 At the landing, after the blue-capped Customs 
 officer had finished the examination of his portman- 
 teau, Gene Paroski turned about hurriedly to catch his 
 train, which was waiting. 
 
 ' Madame Helvina, I am going, and and ' 
 
 He stood bashfully, cap in hand. I forgot my 
 determination. 
 
 The fuzzy-faced passenger caught sight of us, and 
 was unhappy. He had lost his wager. 
 
 ' Don't forget that voice, and we'll sing together 
 again some time, perhaps. Good-bye, ' I said, as he 
 hurried off. 
 
 He waved his hand to me and was gone. 
 
 It was my first meeting with one who I felt would 
 become a famous tenor. 
 
 Was it my last ?
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 LONDON ! An American is at first disgusted, and 
 later falls in love, with the great city. There is only 
 one London on earth. The crush of vehicles, the 
 lamp-post islands in the centre of the streets, Old 
 Father Thames with the tide in and out, Trafalgar 
 Square, Piccadilly Circus it all rushes back in one 
 gleam of memory. How I longed to visit the sights 
 of London ! but work, work, held me captive. 
 
 My grandfather lived a short distance from Lon- 
 don, in one of the prettiest little villages in England, on 
 the banks of the classic Thames. Dear old grandfather 1 
 He had seen seventy summers, and he was a typical 
 jolly Englishman. His proverbial good-nature and 
 contented mind were the secret of his long years. 
 
 ' Welcome, Minza, welcome to Ashley ! How like 
 Robert you are !' he said, as he gave me a searching 
 look on arrival. 
 
 We had never met, but there is something in blood 
 relationship that is felt at first greeting. 
 
 I am afraid I was not so diligent in my studies at 
 first as I should have been. I wandered down past 
 the old bridge where father and his brothers had spent 
 many happy days in youth. Lord Tonquay's old 
 
 (130)
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 121 
 
 place, with its high wall, Stompy Pond, Birwood 
 Park, the old inns, all had their history. I revelled 
 in ancestral scenes. The old churchyard, with moss- 
 covered gravestones and epitaphs, among which I 
 found the resting-place of my great-great-grandmother 
 all this was entrancing to an American. The sight 
 of my name in such a place thrilled me. I found 
 among the old records in the vestry, in faded ink, the 
 date of father's christening. 
 
 Every evening grandfather sat in the ivy-covered 
 porch in the long summer twilight. One evening, 
 when I had just finished singing for him, I came 
 out and kissed that dear old face. 
 
 'Grandpa, who were our ancestors?' I asked, 
 sitting down at his knee. 
 
 This question naturally expresses the curiosity of 
 all American girls. Of course, they do not care for 
 ancient and noble lineage ; but they would ' ' like to 
 know ' j ust for curiosity. 
 
 'They do say,' said grandpa reflectively, with a 
 twinkle in his eye, ' that many of our very ancient 
 ancestors are buried in Cornwall, and that they were 
 a branch of Lord Grundy's family.' 
 
 ' Ah, but who were we before that, as far back as 
 the time of William the Conqueror ?' I continued 
 inquisitively. 
 
 ' My dear Minza,' said grandfather, as if beginning 
 a long narrative, ' my memory does not run back 
 quite so far as that. However, the dove and the linnet 
 is our coat of arms. ' 
 
 'But who were our ancestors ? 
 
 ' You inquisitive little minx ! And do you want to
 
 122 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 know the real truth ? As an American, the question 
 of ancestry ought not to interest you to any great 
 extent. ' 
 
 'Well, I should like to know, grandpa out of 
 curiosity, you know.' 
 
 'Oh, indeed! Well, Minza, the first Maxwell that 
 we have any trace of in the genealogical investigations 
 was a Cornish pirate !' 
 
 ' A pirate !' I gasped. 
 
 'Just so ha, ha, ha !' and he laughed heartily at 
 my discomfiture. 
 
 This revelation paralyzed my curiosity, and I asked 
 no further questions and ceased the pursuit of the 
 pedigree. 
 
 The next day a regatta was given at Ashley-on 
 the-Thames. The morning was wet, but in England 
 everything starts punctually, and the first race was 
 called at 9:30, during a heavy shower, by firing a 
 pistol. It was a single-scull race. The contestants 
 were brawny fellows, and their bare knees seemed 
 higher than their heads as they pulled the long nar- 
 now scull, almost bounding through the water. It 
 was a close and exciting race, and a shot fired when 
 the first boat crossed the line announced the finish. 
 Later in the day the river filled up with steam launches 
 from London and rowing-boats from neighboring 
 towns. There were also many punts, which resemble 
 the Venetian gondola, and are pushed along by means 
 of a long pole. It was altogether a gala day, and the 
 broad English spoken almost made me feel as if I were 
 in a foreign land: I could scarce 1 y understand a word. 
 
 When the race between t!ae Ashley Eights and
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 123 
 
 the Rushtons was called, there was great excitement. 
 It was the event of the day. All craned their necks 
 to see the contest between the rival towns. The 
 Ashley crew wore blue and the Rushtons red. I 
 was out in the middle of the river in a boat, with 
 grandpa's young gardener lad to look after me. My 
 fancy chose the blues as favorite. I stepped on the 
 seat of the boat to obtain a better view of them as they 
 passed by on their way to the starting-post. I turned 
 too far a splash and I was in the water. 
 
 Oh, the thoughts that flashed through my mind in 
 those few seconds ! The leader of the Ashley blues 
 jumped from his seat, nearly upsetting his comrades 
 in the scull, and soon had me safely on shore. How 
 awkward and disgraced I felt as I stood looking at 
 him", with my skirts dripping with water ! 
 
 ' Are you all right?' he asked of me, as the crowd 
 pushed forward. 
 
 'Yes, thanks,' I said, trying to make the best of 
 my appearance. 
 
 'L,et me help you home,' he said, as I started for 
 the house, which fortunately was near by. 
 
 'Don't let me hinder the race,' I protested. 
 
 'Bother the race!' he said, walking by my side. 
 ' They must wait.' 
 
 'How can I ever thank you?' I said, as he turned 
 away from the gate. 
 
 'Oh, never mind! See that you don't catch cold 
 from your bath. I'll call to-morrow, if I may, to see 
 how you are. 
 
 He raised his cap, and was gone.
 
 124 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 'Well, well, ray girl, what's this?' said grandpa, 
 coming to meet me and thumping his cane. 
 
 'Fell overboard, grandpa.' 
 
 'What! and where is James? Are you wet?' he 
 said, touching my dripping gown. ' Well, I never ! 
 go and change your things, and come and have a cup 
 o' tea.' 
 
 Some of the young ladies in the neighborhood were 
 so cruel as to remark: 'Ah ! that's the way of these 
 impudent American girls; that's how they catch our 
 handsome young men. They fall overboard and are 
 fished out. They are always fishing.' 
 
 The Ashley blues won. Mr. Waldie, for that was 
 my rescuer's name, came to tell me so that evening ; 
 and he smoked his pipe with grandpa on the porch, 
 and listened while I sang. 
 
 On parting, he looked at me very sentimentally, 
 and held my hand quite too long, I thought. 
 
 'Good-night, Mr. Waldie,' I said lightly. 'I wish 
 my husband were here to thank my rescuer.' 
 
 He let go my hand rather suddenly, and left me 
 with a hurried 'Good-night.'
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 EVERY morning, as the dear old landscape of Ashley 
 and the Thames opened to my eyes, it seemed like a 
 continued dream. The coaches from London were 
 laden with merry throngs of tourists, and I began to 
 envy them. The purpose of my life was beginning to 
 be a burden to me ; there are times when we reflect, 
 'Is it worth all the struggle?' But I had determined 
 to consecrate my life to the musical art, and like the 
 prize-fighter, the gymnast, the author, the barrister, 
 or even any trade or profession, there must be a ' going 
 into training' a sacrifice, an absence from the usual 
 luxuries, a drudgery of apprenticeship. Nothing 
 comes without effort. 
 
 In another week I was to be on my way to Milan 
 to complete my studies in repertoire. The young 
 'Ashley Blue,' Mr. Waldie, would persist in calling 
 frequently, and I could not be rude to such a hand- 
 some young fellow. Of course, I may have made 
 dimples at him; but then, you know, he saved my 
 life. My woman's intuition told me that he kept his 
 eyes too much on me when we were alone together. 
 
 ' I am going on the Continent too. May I see you 
 there ?' he softly whispered, as we were about to part 
 under the dear old oak trees in the park. 
 
 ("5)
 
 126 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 Men have a way of putting a woman on the defen- 
 sive. His eyes were eloquent. Why are men always 
 falling in love ? 
 
 1 No. I must work, with all my concentrated 
 energy. No more pleasure now. Some day we may 
 meet again, ' I said firmly. 
 
 ' Some day ! ' he echoed sadly. 
 
 How many hundreds of people we meet and then 
 part from to meet ' someday I ' But life's current sel- 
 dom drifts them together again. 
 
 On my journey to Milan I met many family parties 
 traveling about with nothing in view but pleasure. 
 Pleasure pleasure their mission in life ! Their 
 happy faces always made me feel a keen home-sick- 
 ness, and to long for that sweet-faced little mother in 
 Iowa. 
 
 The busy portions of our life are always the most 
 difficult to describe. My studies that winter were 
 simply a concrete mass of hard work. I was up early, 
 and spent the day trying to master the Italian lan- 
 guage, until even the drudgery of scales and exercises 
 came as a positive relief. 
 
 How hungry I was for one word of English with 
 the real American accent ! 
 
 Oh, those dear old Italian teachers ! They inspired 
 me with the real love of music. An Italian has a pas- 
 sion for music that no other nationality possesses. The 
 trills bothered me, until I longed for the magic wand 
 to convert me into a bird. 
 
 The dreamy, soft sunlight of afternoon and the pale, 
 liquid moonlight in Italy it is all music. Young lovers 
 passed my window cooing in that soft musical Italian.
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 127 
 
 From them I caught the inspiration for my operatic 
 debut. I studied every glance, every motion, for hours, 
 for art's sake. 
 
 I received a number of letters regularly from home, 
 but they seemed to be written almost in a foreign lan- 
 guage. I had so steeped my brain in the study of 
 Italian that I could scarcely read my native tongue. 
 
 In one of mother's letters during the following 
 spring she wrote: ' I think it is quite time that you 
 made your debut, Minza ; you are going on in years. ' 
 
 Growing old ! Oh, how a lonely woman dreads it ! 
 With her, there is no responsive mother-love, no little 
 arms about her neck to compensate for those grey hairs 
 and wrinkles Oh mothers, mothers ! you may be worn 
 out with the cries and boisterous romp of those little 
 ones, but in them you have the only true happiness 
 known to a woman. A pure mother-love is the nearest 
 approach to heavenly affection. 
 
 Mother's letter decided it ; and the next day I told 
 my tutor of my determination. 
 
 'Professor, I want to make my debut this season.' 
 
 He looked at me rather startled. 
 
 ' No, you are not ready. You must dazzle the 
 world. Your trills need more finish. Your voice is not 
 strong enough to stand the strain and blend with those 
 shrieking, bellowing Germans.' 
 
 He disliked the Germans very much. 
 
 There was another reason why I was anxious to 
 make that debut. I had a rival. She was a sweet girl, 
 had plenty of money and friends, and her voice was 
 really captivating ; but I will confess I could not love 
 my rival. She was announced to appear later in the
 
 128 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 season, and I was anxious to come out first and settle 
 my fate before I had to suffer a contrast. My weak 
 point was in acting I was awkward, and could only 
 take slow and dignified roles. 
 
 The tenor with whom I rehearsed had a very bad 
 breath and his face was pitted with small-pox, although 
 he made a handsome lover on the stage. His Alfredo 
 in ' La Traviata ' was a finished conception, and our 
 voices blended well, though I found it difficult to put 
 any spirit and enthusiasm into our love scene during 
 the rehearsals. 
 
 ' You must have Signor Tonza, ' said my teacher ; 
 ' your voices blend like a chime of bells so beautiful, 
 exquisite ! ' 
 
 The last dress rehearsal had ended. My teacher, 
 Signor Gellani, was to direct the opera. How his 
 baton inspired me ! I found every retard, and soon 
 cultivated the art of watching the wave of that wand 
 without looking at him. The rehearsal was anything 
 but encouraging ; my high notes would shriek shrilly, 
 and a huskiness was apparent in the lower tones that 
 would ruin any debutante. The impresario wanted to 
 postpone the opera. I said, 'No, my fate must be 
 decided to-night.' 
 
 What a tremor I felt in the dressing-room that 
 night ! The maid brought my slippers first, and after 
 carefully adjusting the blonde wig announced me as 
 ' made-up.' I would wear no flowers. 
 
 'Just a simple rose, signorital' pleaded the maid. 
 
 'No, I must win my laurels first,' I whispered. 
 
 Hark ! The orchestra began softly the adagio 
 Preludio. As the tempo increased, my heart beat faster
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 129 
 
 and faster. The dashing chromatic runs of the Intro- 
 duzione had just commenced when the call-boy 
 appeared. The curtain bell tapped as we reached the 
 wings, and I hastily threw away the lemon I had been 
 enjoying, and took my position as the curtain was 
 raised and the male coro began. 
 
 A short prayer before my first tone ! The wand 
 fell before my eyes. The crisis of a life had come. 
 Was I to succeed ? I responded to the signal of the 
 baton dancing like a black demon before my eyes 
 and sang the opening and touching phrase of Violetta's 
 welcome. 
 
 Many times had I sung those notes, but never 
 before had I realized that, although a joyous response 
 of welcome it was a Minor Chord. Would that 
 Minor follow me through life and influence my whole 
 career ? 
 
 I cannot remember many incidents of that night. 
 The dear old director was so furiously excited that he 
 nearly lost his place. It was that first phrase which 
 must decide my fate. A Minor strain ! 
 
 I gathered all my strength for the duettino with 
 Alfredo. It must be music. The singing of birds seemed 
 to break upon me, and I half closed my eyes to the 
 blinding sea of light in front, for the supreme moment 
 had come, and the high note was approaching. I took 
 a careful breath and sustained the note easily with a 
 crescendo and diminuendo. My mind flashed on every 
 note in the score. The orchestra was sympathetic, 
 so that I soon forgot the notes themselves the glides, 
 the rests, the holds ; my soul seemed fired with the
 
 130 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 spirit of the dashing, defiant Violetta. In fact, my 
 chief concern was the precise location of my hands and 
 feet rather than the score of the music. It is the last 
 phrase that usually impresses the audience for good or 
 ill. I threw into the song a tone that expresses 
 despairing passion, but which can never be written in 
 notes a wail of despairing love. With it came a 
 vision of mother and home, and tears burst through 
 my heavily pencilled eyelashes. I held the last two 
 notes fervently, loth to leave them. I was afraid they 
 were falling short of the mark. What mockery there 
 seemed in those last two measures of the opera, ' How 
 joyful ! ' 
 
 It, too, was a Minor refrain. 
 
 Even the accelerated dash of the orchestral finale 
 as the curtain fell was a crash a Minor Chord. 
 
 There was a wild outburst of applause when the 
 curtain had fallen upon the finale. Handkerchiefs 
 waved, and the little colony of Americans who were 
 present were fairly frantic; and as I stepped before the 
 curtain I was crowned with a handsome wreath of 
 flowers. I was so dazed by the rush of events that I 
 forgot to bow my acknowledgments until I was 
 reminded by Tonza, who had led me on. 
 
 A few moments later there was a knock at my door. 
 
 ' Come in,' I said wearily. 
 
 ' Signorita vas e-exquizite !' said Gellani excitedly. 
 ' Ze signorita's a great prima !' he continued, dancing 
 around. 
 
 The next day the musical critics scored poor Tonza 
 and me severely, with an occasional modification.
 
 A STORY OF A PRIM A DONNA. 13! 
 
 But I had made my operatic debut, and my career now 
 began in earnest. 
 
 I sat down and wrote to mother, enclosing transla- 
 tions of the most favorable portions of the criticisms. 
 I also wrote to dear Howard Wittaker, my newspaper 
 friend at Boston, and also to my enthusiastic benefac- 
 tor, Mr. Bluffingame. But before that letter reached 
 Howard, he had had syndicate letters and correspond- 
 ence wired all over the United States: ' Great Con- 
 quest in Italy of the Young and Beautiful American 
 Pritna Donna, Madame Helvina !' 
 
 Here is where the deception of my stage biography 
 began. He knew little of my real history, and, like 
 the usual American newspaper man, arranged a 
 romantic career for me. Howard was warm-hearted 
 and impulsive, and I never had the heart to contradict 
 his fairy stories. 
 
 ' I have taken the flood-tide to work up a great 
 reception for you when you return,' he wrote, 'and 
 you will be received in a chariot of honors. ' 
 
 He kept aglow a curiosity concerning my person- 
 ality, which always increases public interest, and gave 
 my career enough mystery to whet the public appetite. 
 Even mother did not recognize her own daughter in 
 the newspaper articles, and to-day very few of the old 
 Smithville friends know that ' Madame Helvina' is 
 Minza Maxwell. 
 
 I thought much of home during these days, and one 
 night I dreamt that I was back with Tim at the old 
 limekiln. It was moonlight, and I was on the island 
 in the center of the millpond. Tim was standing on 
 the shore, crying: 'Come, Minza, come !' But thero
 
 132 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 Was a gulf between us. Mirrored in the placid waters 
 was the face of Angela. Angela ! O Angela ! sister of 
 my childhood ! 
 
 I awoke, and found my face wet with tears. Even 
 my budding fame could not bring back the lost love of 
 youth.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 always cling to whatever we first succeed in. The 
 author who makes a hit with a certain idea seems to 
 have that idea for ever after hovering about him, and 
 the same cast of character remains with him through- 
 out life. 
 
 We may theorize upon the essentials and ingredients 
 of success, immortalize hard work, genius, and careful 
 study ; but thousands sink into obloquy, into unknown 
 graves, whose efforts are perhaps more admirable and 
 perfect, from a theoretical standpoint, than those who 
 flash the flint and fire of fame. 
 
 My success was in many ways a chance ; it struck 
 a popular vein, and my ability was equal to the emer- 
 gency that presented itself. 
 
 The vigorous attacks of the critics said that I was 
 awkward in my acting, and had evidently never 
 known the joys of a real lover and the art of love- 
 making. To strengthen this weakness I decided to 
 go to Paris and study with Delsarte, and take boxing 
 lessons if necessary, in order to be able gracefully to 
 embrace a lover. 
 
 Dear, gay Paris! 
 
 The course of lessons which I took in posing and 
 in plastiques was arduous. It seemed as if I had my 
 
 das)
 
 134 TH E MINOR CHORD. 
 
 every natural motion to reform. My fingers must not 
 spread out ; my arms must wave in curves no sharp 
 corners in Art, no rectangular motions all in graceful 
 arcs, as the sky above. I must confess I grew to 
 enjoy it, and the staid old butler, who accompanied 
 me on my walks lost his hat several times when I took 
 a sudden and erratic fancy to box. 
 
 This was Delsarte, you know. 
 
 What a flood of historical recollections came upon 
 me as I walked through the streets of Paris! The 
 pavements were covered with tables and chairs, and 
 everyone seemed to be drinking yellow absinthe and 
 reflecting. The Parisians ought to be sober-minded 
 people, considering the amount of meditating they do. 
 The Theatre National, with its imperious bronze 
 figures, fascinated me. Should I ever sing in that 
 temple of opera? At Pere-la-Chaise I came upon the 
 tomb of Hloise and Abelard. Under a canopy of 
 stones from the monastery of Abelard were the two 
 recumbent figures monk and nun. They were 
 buried side by side, the emblem of disappointed love. 
 The story is old ; and as I stood looking over the iron 
 fence at the beautiful flowers, young French girls with 
 pensive eyes passed by and flung withered bouquets 
 upon the dingy old tomb. 
 
 I thought of Tim. 
 
 It was nearly dark when I left behind me the 
 shadows of the cemetery. As I passed through the 
 gates, the chimes echoed once more a Minor Chord. 
 
 But, as soon as I was safe in my snug and cosy 
 room with my music, the dismal feelings were dis- 
 pelled.
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 135 
 
 Late that evening there was a knock at my door. 
 It was a woman clad but poorly, and about to become 
 a mother. 
 
 'Madame Helvina,' she said, in pure American 
 accent, 'it is you or the Seine.' This with a tragic 
 gesture, pointing to the river. 
 
 'What is the matter?' I said, coming closer to her. 
 
 'Two years ago I came to Paris from America, a 
 happy, ambitious girl,' she said. 'I wanted to be an 
 actress. I studied, and made my appearance ; but, oh, 
 the temptations, madame ! It's the old story, and 
 here I am, ready to die.' 
 
 She broke down, crying, and I pitied her. I knew 
 something of the temptations of an actress. Wor- 
 shipped, flattered and adored, she has temptations that 
 those who so heartlessly condemn her never dream of. 
 
 We sat talking far into the night, and she told me 
 her story in detail. She said her name was Lila Ling- 
 ham, and when she referred to the young lover whom 
 she had left behind in America, and pulled from her 
 breast a picture of her mother, I was soon crying with 
 her. 
 
 My means were scant, but she should not be turned 
 out into the street. 
 
 Her babe was born a few days afterwards. Lila 
 improved slowly, but her face grew hard and solemn 
 when she nursed the child. Three or four weeks 
 later, on my return from a lesson, I found Lila gone, 
 and the baby crying pitifully in its cradle. I waited 
 anxiously for some weeks for news of her ; but nothing 
 could be learned as to where she had gone. I had 
 communicated the matter to the police, and one day
 
 136 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 received a message from the gendarmerie to visit the 
 Morgue at once. 
 
 What a chapter of human misery is pictured behind 
 those glass partitions ! The row of ghastly faces look 
 out upon you with all the conceivable horrors of death. 
 On the last table in the corner, No. 618, was the face 
 I sought. There lay I,ila beautiful in death ; the 
 cruel waters of the Seine seemed to have washed away 
 the deep lines of sorrow on her face. 
 
 It was the old story over again; and now my 
 thoughts were for the child. I prepared to be a real 
 mother to him, and gave him the name of Tim ; but 
 two weeks after I followed the tiny coffin to the ceme- 
 tery. The little life had faded like a tender flower, 
 and with it my hopes. 
 
 The death of the little nameless infant had occa- 
 sioned me a great deal of anxiety. I should never 
 have been able to go through it all had it not been for 
 a Mrs. Campbell, an elderly Scotch la<.'.y, who was 
 then residing in Paris, occupying the rooms adjoining 
 mine. She always wore a neat white widow's cap, 
 and her kind heart sparkled in her smiles, and even 
 seemed to glisten through the gold-rimmed spectacles. 
 
 It was in Paris that I witnessed a balloon ascent 
 with Mrs. Campbell. It brought back the old sad 
 memories of Bob. I confess that I had almost forgot- 
 ten the husband to whom I was still wedded a hus- 
 band in the air 1 Not a word had I heard from him 
 since that last voyage of his. A young girl was to 
 make the ascent, and it was made a fete day in the 
 Bois de Boulogne. The great swaying balloon started 
 on its aerial voyage slowly and majestically. It gave
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 137 
 
 me a shudder as it lurched now this way and now that, 
 on, up, up into the clouds ! 
 
 ' Why do they allow such nonsense ? ' said Mrs. 
 Campbell excitedly. ' I call anyone crazy that would 
 venture on such an expedition. It ought not to be 
 allowed.' 
 
 'Yes, but anything is allowed that makes money, 
 auntie,' I replied, for I had begun to call her by that 
 endearing name. 
 
 'Well, it's tempting Providence, and a man who 
 would make a balloon has sold himself to the devil ! ' 
 
 Dear auntie ! She did not know how every word 
 cut me. She was so kind to a lonesome girl ! Was I 
 widow or wife? Had I done my full duty in trying to 
 find poor Bob? We often meet people who become a 
 conscience to us, and Mrs. Campbell was mine. 
 Should I tell her my story? That night I fell asleep 
 at her side for she now shared my rooms dreaming 
 of Bob and his balloons.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 WHEN success is once under full headway, it is accu- 
 mulative. The world worships success. While in 
 Paris I received the offer of an engagement at Covent 
 Garden in London. I had long looked forward to it, 
 and now my dear grandfather should go to the opera, 
 although he held to the old ideas that an actress was 
 in the lower levels of society. He had served many 
 years as butler in a very aristocratic family, and had 
 assimilated all the notions of the gentry. His faithful 
 life of service had developed an ideal character, and I 
 consoled myself for the lack of a pedigree by thinking 
 that the best people must come from servants, as they 
 transmit" virtues, while their masters inherit and 
 re-inherit the vices of luxury ; so that every few 
 generations the servant becomes master, and the 
 master servant. I was bound to cling to the belief 
 that somehow I had good blood in my veins. 
 
 On the first night of my engagement at Covent 
 Garden there were members of the Royal Family pre- 
 sent, and, while I affected not to consider it a special 
 event, I must confess it put me into quite a flutter. 
 The opera to be given was ' lyohengrin.' Elsa was my 
 favorite role, and how happy I was to see dear grand- 
 father's bright, beaming face in one of those red plush-
 
 A STORY OF A PRIM A DONNA. 139 
 
 lined boxes ! His big blue eyes were wide awake like 
 a child's with wonderment, and he reminded me of 
 father. In the box with him was Mrs. Campbell. 
 His courtly gallantry was quite true to the ideals of 
 the old school, and Mrs. Campbell's face beamed 
 brighter than ever. 
 
 The violins began with the plaintive high notes of 
 the opening measures, the chords began to gather for a 
 crash and climax as only Wagner's master-hand could 
 make them. 
 
 I prayed to God as the soft, sad notes which pre- 
 ceded my entrance were given by the orchestra. 
 
 Attired in pure marguerite white, I stepped down 
 to the front of the stage with measured steps. Every 
 note I studied before reaching it. ' Music, my heart ! 
 music ! ' was my cry. 
 
 I watched for the response. It was to grandpa 
 that I was singing. I caught his eyes sparkling with 
 tears, and it gave me a thrill of delight. Every 
 pantomimic action of the opera now seemed easy. The 
 tenor was rather stiff at first, but I soon had him 
 devoted to me. Our bridal chamber duet was the best 
 we had ever rendered. The spirit of the composer 
 came upon us. The curly wig and jaunty cap of 
 L,ohengrin was my ideal of Tim, and I threw myself 
 into a trance of childhood once more. The quiet 
 dazed look the innocent Elsa expression which I had 
 rehearsed for hours before a glass it was all so 
 natural to me now. No matter how many times I may 
 sing a role, there is alw r ays some particular part that I 
 dread, and once it is passed I feel a sense of relief.
 
 140 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 The duet was my dread that night ; but it proved to 
 be the greatest success of the evening. 
 
 Grandpa was satisfied, and I was happy, although 
 the critics were rather harsh next day. 
 
 ' Minza, little Minza ! Rob' s girl ! and such a 
 singer ! ' I never dreamed of living for so much happi- 
 ness,' said grandpa, as he kissed me after the opera, as 
 father alway did. ' So like your dear grandma ! How 
 I wish she were here ! Poor mother ! ' and he 
 brushed way a tear. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Grandma was dead, and buried in the pretty little 
 churchyard at Ashley. Aunt Manda was the only 
 daughter living, and she had been in service all her 
 life with an earl. She had almost been a mother to 
 the family, including the viscount and four daughters. 
 They all seemed to love her, and were much attached 
 to her. 
 
 'My young ladies' dogs,' said Aunt Manda, one 
 day when I met her in Hyde Park by appointment. 
 There were ten of them all sorts and colors out for 
 an airing. ' I have just been to the doctor for little 
 Pete.' 
 
 ' Doctors for dogs, auntie ! 
 
 1 Oh, yes ; they have all the luxuries of life.' 
 
 These four young ladies and their dogs, how I 
 pitied them ! Clever, beautiful, and yet vacant young 
 lives, simply existing, waiting for the matrimonial 
 market to be more active, and concentrating their 
 inert affection on dogs. 
 
 I went to visit Aunt Manda one day at the earl's
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 141 
 
 London house. I entered by the servants' door at the 
 rear. We took tea with the housekeeper and upper 
 servants, the butler, the valet, and powdered footman, 
 and gossiped ; they knew more about the doings and 
 ' goings on ' of English aristocracy than the lords and 
 ladies themselves. Every carriage and coachman was 
 known to them. Family secrets were peddled out by 
 the yard. We had scarcely finished tea when there 
 was a commotion outside in the hall. 
 
 ' Maxwell, Maxwell, why do you leave poor Pete 
 alone? ' It was my lady calling poor auntie because 
 she had left the dog, which did not look worth a 
 decent burial, and in the hum of conversation at the 
 table she had not heard the bell ring. 
 
 ' The doctor's here, and you must mind his instruc- 
 tions,' continued my lady. 
 
 The doctor felt doggy Pete's pulse and winked at 
 the butler. 
 
 In the beautiful boudoir upstairs no fewer than ten 
 little dogs revelled in luxurious ease with the four 
 young ladies taking tea. They kissed the dogs, and 
 drank some tea ; then drank their tea, and kissed the 
 dogs. It was an ideal scene of an English lady's 
 passion for dogs. True, they are faithful friends who 
 never tell secrets and are always grateful. Another 
 kiss and hug for doggy. Under those very windows 
 were a score of little children London street waifs 
 crying and starving for bread. Even a hungry dog 
 will be given a crust when it is denied to human 
 beings. 
 
 ' Maxwell, you must not loiter here. Come along ; 
 bustle about, attend to the dogs, and feed them prop-
 
 142 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 erly.' It was one of the daughters, who spoke in a 
 rather languid and irritable tone. My fist doubled 
 instinctively. My auntie a slave a keeper of dogs 
 for these vacant, idle, and shiftless beings who hap- 
 pened to be born under an earl's roof ! 
 
 I caught a glimpse of the viscount as he passed by 
 the door. He was a handsome young fellow, but his 
 sister's words burned into my heart. He was a member 
 of Parliament I/)rd Hamper, eldest son of the Earl 
 of Elferton. 
 
 I took a cab home, and arranged that auntie should 
 take tea with me on the following Wednesday. 
 
 That night, after the opera, a card was presented. 
 'I/ord Hamper.' We met. My eyes drooped per- 
 haps I put an extra dimple in my cheeks I tried to 
 be winsome. He was very clever, and sympathized 
 with some of my pet philanthropic ideas. He called 
 the next night, and the next. It was becoming truly 
 interesting, and the chorus girls all gossiped as to how 
 cleverly Madame Helvina had caught the son of an 
 English earl. Lord Hamper was a musician, and I 
 confess it was rather nice to receive his handsome 
 presents and adoration. 
 
 ' May I see you to-morrow ?' he said on Tuesday 
 night. ' I have something important to say to you.' 
 
 I dropped my eyes quickly and blushed. 
 
 ' Perhaps, ' I murmured. 
 
 ' But I must. I have come to ' 
 
 ' Isn't that a beautiful likeness of Tonza ?' I broke 
 in, anxious to change the subject, and pointing to a 
 photograph. 
 
 'May I come to-morrow ?' he persisted.
 
 A STORY OP A PRIM A DONNA. 143 
 
 'Tea at four,' I said, rising. 
 
 1 You make me so happy !' he said, as he bowed 
 himself out. 
 
 The next day he appeared promptly at four o'clock. 
 
 I always liked to make the tea myself, and he 
 watched me with interest even helping me ; the 
 scene was altogether charmingly domestic. 
 
 I was about to pass him a cup of tea. 
 
 ' Before I drink a drop I must know my fate. I I 
 adore you, Madame Helvina ! Will you will you 
 
 ' In his ardor in kneeling he had knocked the 
 
 cup from my hand, and it contents poured down his 
 shirt-front, and almost made me laugh outright. But 
 he was in earnest. 
 
 'You must marry me,' he continued, getting up, 
 trying to wipe away the yellow stain, and picking up 
 the empty cup. 
 
 'Well, I'll see,' I replied cooly. 'Why, I expected 
 more company to tea,' I said, endeavoring to set 
 matters right. 
 
 ' Why didn't you tell me ? I shall go ; but let me 
 say I love you, and will make you happy as my wife. 
 Say the word, my queen ! My queen ' 
 
 He was on his knees again, in order to prolong 
 our tete-a-tete, and determined to have his say. 
 
 At that moment Aunt Manda bustled in, with her 
 delegation of ten dogs, from a walk in the Park. 
 
 She was startled : he was confounded. 
 
 ' My Aunt Manda, Lord Hamper,' I said, intro- 
 ducing her. 
 
 'Why, she is my sister's maid!' he exclaimed.
 
 144 THIJ M1N O R CHORD. 
 
 ' Is that so ?' I said innocently. ' She is my own 
 flesh and blood, my father's sister.' 
 
 ' The devil I ' he gasped, as he started to take his 
 leave, with scarcely a glance at Aunt Manda. 
 
 The rumor was circulated that I had refused the 
 hand of an earl's son. But I hadn't. 
 
 There is a tinge of class distinction left in England. 
 Aunt Manda was amazed, and tried to disown me, so 
 that Lord Hamper should not be so miserable ; but 
 she could not change my birthright. I was Minza 
 Maxwell, decended from a Cornish pirate and English 
 servants ; but, above all, an American, and proud of 
 it.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 AFTER I had enjoyed a few days' rest at Ashley, 
 Howard Wittaker, the Boston newspaper man, made 
 his appearance. He gave me quite a surprise, and 
 announced that he had come to act as my business 
 manager. 
 
 Now that the debut was really over, and the critics 
 had opened their heavy artillery upon me, the doors 
 of the large theatres in Europe swung open, and the 
 wrestle with managers began. 
 
 From lyondon I went to Berlin, the engagement 
 there being entirely devoid of any special incidents. 
 The handsome German army officers with their pince- 
 nez w r ere quite gallant, and attracted my admiration. 
 My Klsa was severely criticised I cried over the 
 bitter words but it aroused the old spirit. The Ger- 
 mans should yet praise me in my favorite Wagnerian 
 role. 
 
 Everything in Berlin was strange : the Thier 
 Garten, with its delightful and romantic drives ; and 
 the boats on the Spree which are pushed along 
 by means of long poles. Yes, there was worse 
 drudgery than a prima donna's career ! The 
 dingy old palace, the flashing statue of Victory, 
 
 (145)
 
 146 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 dear old linden Street all these were charming. 
 The Germans live in their beer-gardens, and truly 
 cultivate the social spirit. I stole a few hours to visit 
 the National Gallery, with its rooms radiating from 
 a centre like the spokes of a wheel. The pictures 
 thrilled me, and I quite fell in love with Art ; but my 
 life's mission was Music, and I had to tear myself 
 away for rehearsals. 
 
 A week later I was at Dresden. As incidental to 
 a prima donna's career, I thought a visit to the Green 
 Vaults, with their priceless jewels, was quite proper. 
 
 What is the worth of jewels, after all? We struggle 
 to own them, and yet the humblest tourist can enjoy 
 these matchless gems quite as much as the royalties 
 who once owned and used as every-day trifles those 
 great swords studded with diamonds and rubies ! The 
 radiance and reflection of sapphire, amethyst, emerald, 
 opal, the sheen of pearls, quite bewildered me with 
 their blaze. Like all women, I was fascinated with 
 beautiful jewels, and was a wee bit envious. 
 
 Another weakness I discovered while in Dresden 
 was china. I enjoyed selecting presents for those at 
 home, and I think, if Howard had not given me a very 
 strong hint, I should have been another thousand 
 dollars in debt if I had remained longer within reach 
 of temptation. 
 
 The second night of our engagement there, Tonza 
 fell ill, and an understudy was brought from Berlin to 
 take his part. We were called hastily for an extra 
 rehearsal that afternoon. In the dim light of the 
 Opera House, with my mind quite under the spell of 
 the china shops, I did not notice who was to sing
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 147 
 
 Lohengrin. It was a new voice, and yet surely I 
 had heard it before. I came up from the dressing-room 
 hurriedly. 
 
 It was Gene Paroski ! 
 
 How my heart thrilled! In two years the fair- 
 haired boy had developed into full and robust manhood. 
 It brought back the memory of my first meeting with 
 him. 
 
 'Madame Helvina !' he whispered hurriedly, as the 
 orchestra began, and we were about to sing. 
 
 The rest was told in the songs. 
 
 He made music of every note not that tiresome, 
 quavering vibrato, that seems uncertain and wavers 
 about a semitone ; not that expletive angry gush that 
 tenors love to gurgle when in the last stages of despair- 
 ing love ; not that clever falsetto and head tone but a 
 voice robust, firm, clear, manly, and musical. 
 
 They say prima donnas and tenors must fall in 
 love to sing well. Musically, perhaps they do, for I 
 felt an affinity in singing with Gene Paroski that I 
 had never felt before. 
 
 That performance decided that I was to go to Bay- 
 reuth. At last my Klsa was appreciated, and I had 
 found what I wanted a sympathetic Lohengrin. 
 
 During the opera we had scarcely spoken a word 
 together, but the music and looks expressed it all. 
 His eyes glistened with fervor, but be were both 
 unconscious of those in front. We were Elsa and 
 Lohengrin. 
 
 After the curtain on the last act he kissed my 
 hand. 
 
 'To you, madame, I owe everything,' he said.
 
 148 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 4 Hush ! you are talking nonsense,' I replied. 
 
 ' We will live for music, madame, real music. And 
 you will yet be the unrivaled queen of opera,' he con- 
 tinued warmly. 
 
 'Don't flatter, Gene,' I said. 'There is a long 
 road with many turnings in a public career. But I'm 
 so proud of you !' 
 
 ' Are you? Well, you're responsible. I can never 
 forget those kind words of encouragement you gave 
 me on the steamer.' 
 
 He told me his story, giving me a picture of his 
 mother and himself, and we got on famously in our 
 friendship ; and, happily, he did not mar it by per- 
 sistent love-making every time we were alone. 
 
 The ways of managers are past understanding. 
 Although critics praised our joint efforts, the under- 
 study was kept in the ranks, and I continued with 
 Tonza. The managers would not agree to my sugges- 
 tion of an engagement for Gene in ' Lohengrin. ' 
 
 ' You will be getting married, and that will spoil it 
 all,' was the heartless conclusion. 
 
 They did not know that Madame Helvina already 
 had a husband in the air ! 
 
 The more stubborn they were, the more friendly 
 we became, and managed to sing together many times 
 alone. 
 
 We worshipped at Apollo's shrine.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 GOING home ! going home ! I believe I must have 
 jumped about like a little girl when Howard announced 
 it one day in Berlin. Howard was developing into an 
 ideal and practical manager. 
 
 I had just returned from an excursion to Sans 
 Souci gardens at Potsdam, where I had revelled among 
 the fountains and grounds made famous by Frederick 
 the Great. The terrace which the great monarch 
 used to pace for his morning walk was now overgrown 
 with flowers. The little low palace of one story, Vol- 
 taire's room, the Death Gate all this regal magnifi- 
 cence, and yet the owner died unhappy. The scenes 
 of the day impressed me, and I looked forward now 
 with pleasure to reading Carlyle's * Frederick the 
 Great;' but Howard's good news dissipated my inten- 
 tion. 
 
 1 But going home ! going home ! How sweet it 
 seemed to an American who had been exiled for so 
 long ! There is no lustre in fame that can dim the 
 radiance of home love. 
 
 When the great vessel steamed into New York 
 Harbor my eyes filled with tears. O America ! How 
 I loved my native land ! It makes us better patriots to 
 travel. During the years I had been absent I had wit- 
 
 (149)
 
 150 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 nessed no grander scene than the old Stars and Stripes 
 floating everywhere in the great city ; for it was 
 Memorial Day a day set apart to decorate the graves 
 of soldiers by the children, as they sing patriotic songs 
 and do honors to the heroes, living and dead. My 
 father was a soldier ; was his grave strewn with 
 flowers ? 
 
 I had not heard from home for some time, and my 
 old fears of death in the home circle were upon me. 
 
 During a few engagements in the Eastern States I 
 had the honor to thank and repay my noble benefac- 
 tor, James Bluffingauie. My generous patron was an 
 ideal Boston gentleman. As we went to his handsome 
 home in Back Bay my heart overflowed with grati- 
 tude. 
 
 ' And this is my noble benefactor ! ' I said, advanc- 
 ing to him, and introducing myself and Mrs. Camp- 
 bell. ' To you I owe my stage career ' 
 
 ' Do not talk to me of the stage, madame. I hate 
 it ! ' he said excitedly. 
 
 ' Why I ' I exclaimed in surprise. ' You were 
 always considered the great patron of the stage in 
 Boston.' 
 
 'Yes, but that was before before ' And he 
 
 broke into tears. 
 
 'Well, madame, perhaps I am unreasonable,' he 
 continued ; ' but the stage robbed me of my pretty lit- 
 tle girl, my only hope in old age. She wanted to 
 become an actress, and went to Europe, like you. I 
 
 gave her the money, as I did you, but but ' He 
 
 broke down again
 
 A STORY OP A PRIM A DONNA. 151 
 
 ' Was she in Paris? ' asked Mrs. Campbell, with a 
 kindly sympathy. 
 
 ' Yes, and there all trace was lost of her for a time. 
 She wrote that she was married, and then came that 
 last letter, her death-warrant. Poor I/ila ' 
 
 ' Was it in the Morgue ? ' I broke in quickly. 
 
 'Only No. 618,' he said sadly. 'Photographs were 
 sent us, and there was no doubt of the horrible truth. 
 We brought her home, and she now sleeps in Auburn, 
 beside her mother. The stage washer hell, her doom. 
 Do you wonder that I hate it? ' 
 
 Should we tell him all we knew ? The old church 
 bell just then sounded a Minor tone. It seemed like 
 a knell for poorl,ila. We did not tell him the sad 
 story it would have been too cruel. 
 
 When we returned, I urged Howard to hurry on to 
 Chicago, and told him I should have to have a fort- 
 night's holiday alone after that. 
 
 ' Where are you going ? ' he asked, puzzled. 
 
 ' Never mind. I don't want to see you for two 
 weeks.' 
 
 Was I ashamed of my home and my mother? No, 
 God forbid ! But the deception had commenced, and 
 even he must not know that I was a plain Iowa girl. 
 
 'All right,' he said good-naturedly. 'If you can 
 trust me with all your money, I can trust you. ' 
 
 ' How much can I have ?' 
 
 'You've some heavy orders for costumes.' 
 
 ' I must have one thousand dollars. ' 
 
 'Oh, that's easy,' he said, giving his elk charm a 
 whirl ; ' but the engagement here must be filled first.' 
 
 There was over a fortnight yet before I could leave
 
 152 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 the World's Fair grounds, and I telegraphed for mother 
 to come to me from that little Iowa town my home. 
 
 The next day we met in Chicago mother and I. 
 Oh, how happy I was when we walked together 
 through the grounds mother and I ! 
 
 The oratorio first rendered was 'The Creation,' 
 mother's favorite, and how that little face in the centre 
 riveted me ! The ' cooing dove ' passage caught my 
 whole spirit I sang to mother. 
 
 Planzo Gendar was the baritone, and Signer Tonza 
 the tenor, and it seemed so easy to sing the difficult 
 trio ! The choruses were inspiring. 
 
 I was proud, as an American, to wander down the 
 Court of Honor, past the Fountain, and across the bridge 
 at the peristyle, and feel that the wonders of the 
 ancients had been outdone. There was a gorgeous har- 
 mony, and yet a soft, subtle symmetry in that white 
 city, that never can be surpassed. It seemed like a 
 dream. The Circular Music Hall was difficult to sing 
 in ; but to stir again the enthusiasm of an American 
 audience outweighed all other considerations to me. 
 
 As was the rage, during the early part of the Fair, 
 mother and I went on a tour through Midway Plai- 
 sance. The Ferris wheel had just begun lazily to turn, 
 and the Captive Balloon what a shudder it gave me ! 
 brought back memories of poor Bob. The streets of 
 Cairo, the Java village, old Vienna, the Dahomeys 
 it was all a collection of wonders never before gathered 
 in one place. We wheeled each other about in chairs, 
 mother and I, for no carriages were allowed in those 
 great grounds. The Exposition seemed like a con- 
 tinued national circus day. There were surging seas
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 153 
 
 of happy faces, and yet I was looking for one face ! 
 
 When mother was tired out in the evening, I used 
 to wander along the beach of Lake Michigan, as it sang 
 the memories of childhood. I wandered into the Iowa 
 building, with its gay decorations of corn and wheat, 
 and the verandas filled with the happy country 
 people. 
 
 I was looking for a face among them. Would it be 
 there ? 
 
 I dared not express my feelings even to mother. It 
 was a heart secret, and the pictures of childhood's 
 scenes seemed incomplete without that face. 
 
 I almost feared that the handsome Columbian 
 Guards were beginning to know me, as I took those 
 lonely walks along the beach every night towards the 
 little grey stone Iowa Building. 
 
 I believe I was almost foolish and crazy about it. 
 In the little groups about the Iowa building I occa- 
 sionally caught a glimpse of a familiar face, but I 
 shrank away for fear of recognition. . It was not the 
 face I was looking for. I quite expected to meet him. 
 Yes ! even among the glories of Jackson Park, the regal 
 magnificence of American achievement, with a promis- 
 ing career before me, and even mother with me there 
 was one thing lacking one face missing. 
 
 Is it so with all of us ? We can answer only to our 
 heart's heart. 
 
 I was glad when the last day of my engagement 
 arrived. Mother now timorously ventured to come 
 with me to the dressing-room. 
 
 'Why, Minza, you don't always have to whitewash 
 that way. do you ? '
 
 154 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 It was the hare's paw and make-up box that 
 startled her. 
 
 ' Yes, mother. My real self is dead ; I am a public 
 statue now. Do not ever let the secret be known that 
 Madame Helvina is your daughter. Let me always 
 remain Minza only Minza to you.' 
 
 The orchestra began, and I walked out to take my 
 seat. In oratorios we can always study the faces 
 before us more than in opera. That day I felt the 
 opera-glasses levelled at me with heartless scrutiny. 
 When I began my first solo my eyes caught a face in 
 the gallery. 
 
 The sight so startled me that I nearly broke down ; 
 my voice quivered ; the orchestral tones seemed a din 
 of confusion ; my voice sounded distant and far away. 
 I did not dare look again for those eyes. Could I be 
 mistaken ? No, they were there still, and I felt I 
 could keep up no longer. A moment, and I sang to 
 him with my heart aching, and felt those eyes upon 
 me it was Fred Burroughes. Did he recognize 
 Minza? 
 
 But it was not the face I looked for. 
 
 Mother was startled when I came out. 
 
 ' Why, Minza, child, what's the matter ? Are you 
 ill?' 
 
 'No, mother; I saw Fred Burroughes in the 
 audience, and it quite upset me.' 
 
 ' Did he recognize you ? ' 
 
 1 1 don't know,' I replied sadly. 
 
 ' I hope not, Minza. Fred's gone to the bad. He 
 ran away from his wife and married an actress now 
 they are "vaudeville" people, and he has served a
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 155 
 
 year in prison for bigamy. They are not considered 
 respectable in Smithville. ' 
 
 'But, mother, remember what he did for us !' 
 
 ' Yes, my child, but we cannot help him now. It 
 would ruin you were it known that ' 
 
 ' Mother, I will see him and thank him to-morrow,' 
 I said firmly. 
 
 But it was too late. The flashing headlines in the 
 newspapers the next morning told of the tragic suicide 
 of Fred Burroughes, the variety actor. Poor Fred ! I 
 never expressed the appreciation I felt. But perhaps 
 that is the way of the world. The pendulum swung 
 me up, he went down ; and if no one else mourned his 
 death, Minza, the friend of childhood, wept tears of 
 sorrow. 
 
 An ' unknown friend ' secured for him a resting- 
 place in Oakland, and a few months later saw the little 
 violets from the old home in Iowa blooming over his 
 grave.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 FRED'S death delayed our trip to Iowa a few days. 
 Every passing tree, I fancied, nodded a greeting as we 
 sped away over the rolling prairies. How dear the 
 large green fields of the old Hawkeye State seemed ! 
 How rich and fertile and smiling the landscape appeared 
 that bright June morning ! 
 
 ' Won't it be a surprise for them ?' thought I, as we 
 stepped from the train at dusk at Smith ville, and 
 started to walk home. 
 
 I rushed along the village street ahead of mother, 
 for fear some of the old neighbors might recognize me. 
 
 Where was the dear old house ? I did not see it 
 nestling among the trees. A larger, new-fashioned 
 house stood in its stead. Why had they not written 
 to me, and why had they torn down that little cottage 
 I loved so well ? 
 
 A tall young man was busy with a lawn-mower in 
 the front garden. 
 
 ' Does Mr. Robert Maxwell live here ?' I inquired. 
 
 'Well, rather. And this is my sister Minza, I'll 
 bet. I'm Jim.' 
 
 The way I hugged that young rascal was a caution. 
 
 ' Where's father and Tod ? ' I said all in one 
 
 breath. 
 
 (156)
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 157 
 
 ' Father's over at Rathbone's. She's very ill.' 
 ' Who ? Tim ? Children Angela 1' I exclaimed. 
 'Yes, she's had trouble enough to die,' said Jim. 
 ' But come in. My ! but, Minza, you wear fine dresses 
 now, ' he continued, with admiring brotherly glances. 
 It seemed impossible to realize that this was the 
 little baby I had nursed. I could not take my arms 
 from his neck. 
 
 ' I must see father!' I exclaimed, jumping up 
 hurriedly, as Jim, lazily, as a boy that age always 
 acts, grunted out: 
 
 'I'll go and get him. You sit still, or don't you 
 
 want to ' He stopped and looked at me. 
 
 'Yes, I'll go,' and without taking off my cloak I 
 started across the road under the towering row of 
 maples, and passed the sand-pile where Angela and I 
 used to play together. 
 
 Father saw me and rushed out. 
 
 ' Minza, my daughter ! ' and the little grey-haired 
 man embraced me tenderly. 'She's very low,' he 
 whispered as we went in. 
 
 The room was dark ; the light of a flickering lamp 
 only was on her paleface ;her cheeks were sunken, her 
 lips parched. It was Angela ! What must she have 
 suffered? I took the thin hand and kissed it affection- 
 ately. 
 
 'Who's this? Mrs. Brady?' she whispered in a 
 faint voice. 'No, no, its it's Minza.' 
 
 With a cry, she feebly placed her arms about my 
 neck. 
 
 Angela, Angela, sister of my childhood! About
 
 158 THK MINOR CHORD. 
 
 the room was three little children, all Tim's, the alter- 
 nate image of father and mother. 
 
 'You've come come ! O Minza ! forgive ' con- 
 tinued Angela. 
 
 'Hush,' I said, kissing the dry lips. ' Now rest 
 quietly.' 
 
 What a flood-tide of memories came back as I 
 watched at that bedside ! Would Tim come ? 
 
 As I bent over the suffering woman I could see but 
 little trace of that happy girlish face I had left behind 
 me. 
 
 I held her in my arms and she slept. It was not 
 long before I heard a noise at the door, and the chil- 
 dren began to scamper to the kitchen. 
 
 ' It's papa, it's papa ! ' they whispered in concert 
 like frightened birds. 
 
 I was to meet him at last the face I had so long 
 sought in vain 1 My heart stood still. 
 
 'Gi' o't my way, there! she's allus sick hie I'm 
 a lord mayor, I am. ' 
 
 Tim was drunk ! 
 
 This told the story of that pallid face and those 
 frightened children. I laid her down gently. 
 
 'Don't go go Min za he's only ah, uiy ' 
 
 I walked out into the other room. With a light in 
 my hand I faced the drunken man. 
 
 Was that the face ? ' Tim ! ' I said, as he staggered 
 towards me. 
 
 'Mush 'bliged, mum, eh! Neighbors always in 
 the way.' 
 
 'Tim ! ' I said a second time, ' it's Miuza.'
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 159 
 
 That seemed to sober him. What a wreck he was. 
 though his blood-shot eyes flashed the old fire ! 
 
 ' Minza, Minza ! ' And he sat down and cried. 
 
 I shook his limp hand as he sat with bowed and 
 shamed head. After kissing the sleeping face, as the 
 other neighbors came to take the watch at the sick 
 bed, I returned home. 
 
 This saddened my home-coming. 
 
 I found Tod at home, proud as a king in his new 
 scarlet band uniform. 
 
 ' Minza, Minza, my famous sister ! ' he cried as he 
 hung to me. 
 
 How swiftly those few days at home passed ! and 
 yet I was not sorry when they were over ! Everything 
 was so changed ! there were no familiar faces to greet 
 me. 
 
 The day before I was to leave I went to see 
 Angela. She was much better and sitting up, although 
 very weak. 
 
 'Yes, I shall get well now,' she said faintly, but 
 there was something strained in her expression. I had 
 not seen Tim since that first meeting. 
 
 That afternoon we were aroused by the cries of 
 children from across the street. 
 
 'Mother's dying, mother's dying! ' and when we 
 arrived we found those three little girls clinging to the 
 bedclothes and being kissed ' Good-bye ' by the dying 
 mother. 
 
 Tim stood weeping at the opposite side of the bed 
 
 ' I have killed her, Minza ! Oh, if I could die too !' 
 lie cried in despair.
 
 160 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 One last glance as her eyes looked into mine, and 
 she smiled in recognition. 
 
 That was the last on earth. Angela, sweet sister 
 Angela was dead. 
 
 I remained to attend the funeral. The songs we 
 used to sing together at Sunday School were to be sung 
 at Angela's funeral. 
 
 The next morning Tim and I stood face to face 
 over the coffin. 
 
 ' Minza, I am a wreck, and I wrecked her life too,' 
 he said, pointing to the dead face, now calm and 
 peaceful. ' Minza, in God's presence I must confess 
 it all.' 
 
 I could stand it no longer, and over that coffin we 
 wept together. 
 
 She was buried at the old limekiln. What a funeral 
 it was ! My voice broke in those simple songs of 
 childhood. My heart was too full. As we stood at 
 the graveside the rustle of the leaves of the old walnut 
 tree came as a whisper from the dead. ' Dust to dust ! ' 
 Underneath the very spot we used to sit as children, 
 Angela was buried the place where I had first plighted 
 my troth to Tim !
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE American tour was soon finished. It was one of 
 those lulls in life which leave a blank behind in 
 memory. It was simply a dull routine in and out of 
 those handsome hotels, of which only the United 
 States can boast. What luxury is spread before the 
 traveler ! What exquisite decorations in dark corners 
 and corridors, never seen or appreciated ! 
 
 Another year, and I was to make the great test of 
 my powers in Wagner's opera at Bayreuth. I con- 
 tinued my study of the German language, the verbs 
 and genders still puzzling me. There seemed nothing 
 musical in the guttural tones of the German tongue. Of 
 course I had many callers and made many new 
 acquaintances but I was too much absorbed in my work 
 to appreciate it all. There are times when our ener- 
 gies wax and wane, and in one of the consequent lulls 
 I met the Hon. David J. Hendershot, a young member 
 of Congress. He was a keen, typical American, 
 always entertaining and interesting. He told me at 
 various times the story of his life, and I found his 
 early struggles were something similar to my own. 
 
 ' We have to seize opportunity by the forelock and 
 play upon human nature as upon a harp, ' he mused one 
 
 (161)
 
 l62 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 day. ' Do you know, we have a reflection of European 
 aristocracy in America ?' 
 
 ' No,' I replied warmly. ' Our only aristocracy in 
 America is Merit. A man must win distinction in 
 letters, politics, music, art, journalism, or even make 
 money, before he is recognized as distinguished. 
 Merit is our only royalty.' 
 
 ' You did not include the distinguished notoriety 
 acquired by any fool of a crank. No,' he continued, 
 'you only know America generalize 1; I know it partic- 
 ularized. My first political success was due to the 
 fact that I was the member of numerous lodges and 
 civic societies.' 
 
 ' And have you ridden those horrid society goats ?' 
 I broke in. 
 
 ' Yes ; you know it is a rage with us. We have 
 hundreds of different secret societies whose mission 
 may be social or benevolent ; and the tinsel and dis- 
 play of the Sir Knights of the Beanpole in lodge rooms 
 and on public occasions indicate that humanity even 
 in America has a love for the flash of royal robes and 
 diadems. Nowadays there is not an American who 
 does not belong to from one to a dozen of these soci- 
 eties and lodges. We all wear buttons in our coat 
 lapels, and emblems of our degree. Even a hod- 
 carrier may be a Sir Knight or a High Royal Bumper 
 in some secret organization. It is a great age of 
 societies with us, and we all have some hobby which 
 holds our interest and in which we usually hold office.' 
 
 * Now, you are not telling lodge secrets ?' I asked. 
 
 'Oh, no, I am only taking a general view. Even 
 our labor organizations invest their leaders with jewels
 
 A STORY OP A PRIM A DONNA. 163 
 
 and arbitrary power, perhaps modified by the action 
 of a committee. I confess I am beginning to believe 
 it would be best to take to the monarchical form of 
 government and be done with it.' 
 
 'And you a member of Congress I For shame !' I 
 said. 
 
 ' Yes, but we must face facts and not theories. The 
 absorption in making money and the tremendous pros- 
 perity of the working classes for some years past has 
 bred discontent, which is fanned by the agitators. The 
 men all want to be masters ; the strife is not so much a 
 question of wages as it is an outburst against caste 
 mingled with envy and jealousy on both sides. In 
 politics we are taught to always plead for the working- 
 man in legislation. Well enough ! We must look to 
 their interests ; but have they not just as much human 
 greed as ' 
 
 ' Yes, but the poor man is made to feel the sting of 
 poverty by the wealthy, who flaunt their diamonds in 
 his face, thinking that everything is purchasable ' 
 
 ' It is,' he broke in. ' Why do you struggle ? For 
 money ! Why do the streets throng with people sell- 
 ing matches, fruit, shoe-strings ? Why does the mer- 
 chant fill his windows with rich displays of his wares ? 
 Why do the railroads spend millions for franchises and 
 special legislation trusts absorb all competition ? To 
 make money.' 
 
 'You are too severe. Don't you know there are 
 human motives aside from these ? I never thought of 
 salaries when I studied art. Music was my ambition.' 
 
 ' You looked forward to a condition brought about
 
 164 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 as a result of the money earned when you could 
 you could marry.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' I replied reflectively. 
 
 ' Yes, money was the medium to accomplish all 
 this. Gold has been the god of humanity since the 
 days of the children of Israel, when they worshipped 
 the golden calf. We worship it for what it affords.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but it brings little happiness, ' I said. 
 
 ' That's the philosophic way of putting it ; but we 
 all want it, just the same.' 
 
 ' You seem to forget that there is such a thing as 
 pure, self-sacrificing love in the gamut of human 
 affection.' 
 
 ' Oh no,' he continued, laughing. ' It breaks out 
 occassionally, but there is always a motive at the back 
 of it nearly always.' 
 
 ' You are soured, I am afraid, and I think you do 
 not realize that every human heart has its good 
 impulses. If distress occurs in one part of our country, 
 how quickly the people respond to relieve the suffer- 
 ings ! If all human misery were actually realized by 
 those able to relieve it, there would be little want. It 
 is because we are in ignorance and do not comprehend 
 
 'And that ignorance is studied,' he broke in. 
 ' People put cot' on in their ears. Philanthropy is a 
 profession. It becomes a rivalry of some sort or an- 
 other. Of course we must applaud it ; but to me there 
 is more philanthropy in a kind wore 1 , sincere sympathy, 
 than in a gorgeous display of patronizing gifts.' 
 
 1 How abcut your secret societies ?' I asked. 
 
 ' There we have philanthropy developed in the
 
 A STORY OP A PRIMA DONNA. 165 
 
 highest degree, ' he said warmly. ' We look to our 
 brotheis as brothers, and assist them under an oath- 
 bound secrecy.' 
 
 It was no use my trying to convert him, but his 
 eyes emphasized every word with a sincerity that was 
 captivating. 
 
 We had many talks together, and, although his 
 ideas sometimes vexed me, he was always interesting. 
 In fact, he ' happened ' in several different cities where 
 I had engagements. 
 
 During my last week in New York he wrote me a 
 letter stating that his re-election was now hanging in 
 the balance, and that he was in the midst of a heated 
 campaign. The following day he came in quite unex- 
 pectedly. 
 
 ' Madame Helvina, I am defeated I am a bank- 
 rupt politician!' he exclaimed. 
 
 ' Why, the election does not occur till next week,' 
 I replied. 
 
 ' Yes, but I leave this afternoon for the final hope- 
 less struggle. My opponent is a wealthy man. True, 
 he has no education, nor experience in legislative 
 matters, but he has money. I find his handiwork 
 everywhere ; even those working-men for whom I feel 
 so much, have deserted me. His funds have been 
 well distributed among them. He is a successful 
 business man, and his money floats his name every- 
 where. ' 
 
 'Perhaps you are prejudiced ?' I suggested. 
 
 'No,' he insisted. 'It is not the man, but the 
 money, that will defeat me. His ignorance is boasted 
 of as being one reason why he is in sympathy with the
 
 166 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 working-man. He has founded libraries and schools 
 and spent thousands in philanthropy to win this 
 election. He is linked with rich people, who have 
 legislative interests to be looked after.' 
 
 'Well, you can live without going to Congress,' I 
 said sympathizingly. 
 
 ' Yes ; but if I had been re-elected I was going to 
 ask you to to to marry me.' 
 
 The audacity of the proposal rather startled me. 
 
 ' I am afraid there may be a " motive ' ' at the back 
 of this,' I replied, using his favorite words. 
 
 'Don't taunt me,' he cried pleadingly. 'Phil- 
 osophy is one thing, love is another.' 
 
 ' You think I must marry political success, then ? ' 
 
 'Yes; all women like success and successful men.' 
 
 'You don't know a woman's heart,' I replied 
 seriously. 
 
 'No, that's what I'm trying to find out,' he 
 replied. 
 
 Just then Mrs. Campbell entered and our tete-a-tete 
 was over. He left soon after, with only ten minutes 
 in which to catch his train. 
 
 In less than an hour Howard came into the room. 
 
 ' Next week we sail for Europe, ' he said. 
 
 ' Yes, ' I replied meekly. 
 
 ' You've had many proposals to marry. Is Hen- 
 dershot on the list ? ' he asked ironically. 
 
 'Perhaps.' 
 
 'Now, Helvy,' he continued, using his favorite 
 title, 'there's no use in my holding back any longer. 
 Have I served you well ? '
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 167 
 
 'Howard, I can never repay you ; but you're not 
 going to leave me?' 
 
 ' No, Helvy ; I never want to leave you. That is 
 the trouble. I want you to let me love you ; I want 
 you to be my wife.' 
 
 I turned away and broke into tears. . Two pro- 
 posals in an hour ! 
 
 ' Howard, I can never marry. ' 
 
 ' Do you love ' 
 
 ' I cannot marry ; I am wedded wedded to my 
 art.' 
 
 ' Yes, but there is another reason,' he continued. 
 
 How could I tell him the truth ? My poor Bob 
 a husband in the air or where ? 
 
 'No,' I said pleadingly. 'Don't, Howard don't 
 make me more miserable than I am.' 
 
 'Then I ought to leave you, Helvy. I have 
 worked and loved you, trembling lest you might forget 
 your wedded art and marry another. Promise me, 
 Helvy, you will not marry unless for love.' 
 
 'I do promise, Howard. But you will not leave 
 me?' 
 
 ' Well, if we can't be married, my life is yours. 
 I'll be your father, or guardian, or ' he said. 
 
 ' Be my big brother,' I said earnestly. 
 
 And there was no gushing foolishness about 
 Howard. 
 
 The week after, we sailed for Europe to take a 
 short holiday in Switzerland before commencing our 
 work. 
 
 The parting scene on the pier did not impress me
 
 1 68 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 as cm my first voyage ; it had lost its novelty, and 
 there is never the same keen observation the second 
 time. 
 
 As we passed the swinging bell-buoy at Sandy 
 Hook it still echoed the Minor Chord.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 ONE; of the most fortunate things of my life was the 
 going to Switzerland when I did. It was merely 
 chance ; but on the heights of the Righi, at sunrise, as 
 I was awakened by the long-sustained notes of the 
 Alpine horn, it was revealed to me where Richard 
 Wagner had received his inspiration for the opening 
 scenes of ' Parsifal.' The first act of the opera brings 
 to mind that awe-inspiring vision of dawn on the Alps. 
 
 Clad in his leathern cap and fantastic red blouse, 
 the herdsman gave his thrilling refrain. 
 
 Again it sounded. Then he gave a screech in 
 falsetto, followed by the Alpine song, which echoed 
 down the valley. 
 
 The first glance through the window seemed like a 
 dream of heaven. The soft, delicate purple haze 
 bathed the landscape very tenderly; Nature's great 
 night veil was about to be lifted. The moon shone 
 clearly in the zenith, as if loth to leave the clear steel- 
 blue sky. The snow-capped peaks in the distance 
 were so mingled with clouds that it was difficult to 
 distinguish the celestial from the terrestrial ; but the 
 snow had a greyer tinge, and even its purity faded 
 beside the spotless white of the clouds. 
 
 We gathered on the topmost peak with half-opened 
 (169)
 
 IJO THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 eyes. Scarcely a word was spoken ; all were drinking 
 in the grandeur of the scene. Beneath, the great 
 mountains were sleeping under a coverlet of fleecy, 
 floating clouds. In the valleys, a sea of mist hid the 
 blue waters of L,owerz and Zug from view. On the 
 distant crags, overhanging a precipice, the little Swiss 
 chalets seemed to be sleeping like birds on the branch. 
 Old Sol's first glow appeared between two jagged peaks: 
 first a soft mellow pink ; then spears of crimson shot 
 out, as if sentinels to announce his coming. Slowly 
 and majestically the deep red sphere rose from behind 
 the twin peaks to awaken distant Pilatus from slumber. 
 Black, horizontal bars of cloud shot across his face, 
 giving him a fiery red-purple glow of anger as he 
 pushed through the dark obstruction in his path. One 
 could almost see the earth revolve while the heavens 
 stood still. The great orb changed color till its 
 dazzling disc glistened with intensely white purity. 
 Another bank of gloomy clouds above, and the great 
 monster seemed to shake himself as if to bore his way 
 through ; when they met, the fiery purple tinge of 
 anger again was seen like sparks from Jove's flint. The 
 clouds and mists scattered before his piercing rays, 
 and like a blazing chariot he continued his way through 
 the "heavens. 
 
 The shadows of the mountains clung to the dark 
 purple peaks on the other side. They were soon dis- 
 solved by the glow of soft virgin light that seemed to 
 playfully chase them down the valley and give each 
 peak its morning bath of golden sunshine. 
 
 How close we seemed to Divinity and to God!
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 1 71 
 
 Here was where Wagner caught his inspiration, and 
 here the Finite and Infinite seemed to touch. 
 
 Describe it ? No, we can only feel it. Art does 
 not exaggerate ; no colors on canvas can approach its 
 regal splendor. How that sunrise lives in my mem- 
 ory ! It was an inspiration I can never forget. 
 
 The next day, in Lucerne, at breakfast, I read the 
 following paragraph in a London paper: 
 
 4 STARTLING DISCOVERY. -What seems to be 
 the remains of a balloon and two men were found 
 recently on the south side of the Wetterhorn by Alpine 
 climbers. It is supposed to be the remains of a scien- 
 tific expedition made some six years ago in an effort 
 to climb the Alps with a balloon, which has never 
 been heard from since. ' 
 
 Could this be Bob? I started at once to find out 
 the real truth. What suspense it was, as I pictured 
 poor Bob's dead face ! His lonely fate haunted me. 
 
 I arrived at Grindelwald, and made known my 
 mission. At first I was regarded with suspicion. The 
 remains had been brought down to this romantic little 
 village, and were kept in the back room of a carpen- 
 ter's shop till the inquest should be held. How I 
 trembled as I entered ! Was I alone with my dead ? 
 Only two skeletons, and the ragged remains of a silk 
 balloon ! No rings or jewelry had been found. I tried 
 in vain to find the least clue, and yet I felt that one of 
 those skeletons was that of my husband. While I sat 
 there as a mourner over the crumbling remains, two 
 Germans came in. 
 
 ' That's the balloon,' said one, as they examined it 
 closely.
 
 172 THK MINOR CHORD. 
 
 Among the effects found was a watch which I had 
 not noticed, and the other German picked it up and 
 looked at it minutely. 
 
 'Yes, this is his watch,' he continued; 'there is 
 no doubt now. ' 
 
 I looked up in surprise. Did they know Bob? 
 
 'Who are they?' I asked breathlessly. 
 
 'Jean Valing and Jacob Stransen, madame. They 
 left us six years ago, and there is no doubt now as to 
 their identity.' 
 
 'Was not one of them an American?' I asked 
 anxiously. 
 
 'No, both Germans.' 
 
 ' But might not one of them have been an Ameri- 
 can?' I persisted. 
 
 ' No, they were both known to me from childhood. 
 I remember well when they started on this fatal 
 journey to make scientific observations on the Wetter- 
 horn.' 
 
 They seemed to be quite satisfied that they had 
 established the identity of their friends, and took 
 charge of the remains. It was not Bob. Had not 
 that balloon returned to earth ? 
 
 Had I only a phantom husband? 
 
 Oh, what a dream I had that night ! Bob appeared 
 to me with his aerial car clad in a pure white robe and 
 took me away, up up we went. The heights of 
 Righi and Pilatus faded away ; the earth seemed like 
 a rolling ship, fighting among cloudy waves in a sea of 
 space. We sailed on and on, and I begged him to 
 return to earth. He shook his head and pointed to 
 the great blinding sun, and said with that old boyish,
 
 A STORY OF A PRIM A DONNA. 173 
 
 reliant look : ' Hark ! Minza, our wedding chimes are 
 sounding.' 
 
 He took me in his arms and kissed me a husband's 
 kiss I awoke. 
 
 The chimes still echoed in my ears. From earth 
 came that Minor Chord mingling with the enraptured 
 symphonies of Heaven.
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE next month found us at Bayreuth, hard at work 
 with rehearsals. The sleepy old Bavarian village 
 has little claim to distinction except for its associa- 
 tions with the great composer. The little old grey 
 houses and narrow streets ; the old Opera House, with 
 its weather-worn statues, and the Town Hall and 
 Cathedral, the canal with its bridges all these things 
 group themselves together in our memory. What a 
 thrill it gave me when I first passed the house of Wag- 
 ner ! The white bust of King L,udwig II., his patron, 
 occupies the position of honor in front of the house. 
 The garden behind, with its gravel walks, seemed 
 charming. In these grounds Wagner walked, or sat 
 and wrote. The square brick house and the house at 
 one side are plain and unpretentious. At the back of 
 them is Wagner's grave. 
 
 I did not visit it that day. Kvery night even 
 before and after the opera the city resounded with 
 voices rehearsing Wagner's score. It is not like sing- 
 ing the simple song, melod)', and ballad, where the 
 first sixteen measures represent the theme varied with 
 a minor strain, so that you can follow it with impromtu 
 accompaniments. Wagner requires an accompanist 
 who must be quite as much of an artist as the singer.
 
 A STORY OP A PRIMA DONNA. 175 
 
 The spirit of Wagner pervades everything at Bay- 
 reuth. His portrait and bust are to be found in every 
 home. The children are taught his music as soon as 
 they lisp. His son is regarded with all the fervor 
 and adoration of a royal prince. 
 
 At one o'clock the carriages begin to go to the 
 Opera House. It is built on a hill a short distance 
 from the town a square plain building of brick and 
 stone, in which the stage occupies more room than the 
 auditorium. It was built primarily for the production 
 of opera rather than for hearing it. The orchestra and 
 director are hidden from the audience beneath a large 
 canopy in front of the stage, and can only be seen by 
 the singers. 
 
 At four o'clock the trombones announce, with that 
 German bugle-call which seems like an unfinished 
 musical phrase, the time for beginning. The audience 
 remain standing until the lights are lowered, and the 
 clatter of seats being let down sounds like a volley of 
 musketry followed by a breathless silence in the dark- 
 ness that is almost deathlike. A long pause, then the 
 slow, sustained notes are heard with an ever-increas- 
 ing crescendo. 
 
 The solemnity of the scene makes it seem like a 
 service of worship. The chords gather tenderly and 
 gently then a crash, and the wild rush of passion, 
 reminding one of the lonely forest scene, breathing and 
 touching nature's own mantle. The peal of thunder, 
 the roar of rushing waters, the gentle rustle of leaves, 
 the gleam of peaceful sunlight, are all woven into a 
 rich symphony. 
 
 My mind was taxed to keep close to those puzzling
 
 176 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 musical phrases, to know where to commence and finish 
 a tone, or to hold the key given by the orchestra as 
 they dashed on to the next movement. The cue to the 
 note always seemed contrary to what was expected ; to 
 plunge into space for a perilous accidental it required 
 every nerve ; but I loved it ; it was exhilarating, and 
 stimulated me to my best efforts. 
 
 My interpretation of Wagner's vocal score at last 
 obtained the approval of the German critics who had 
 been so severe in their previous criticisms. 
 
 My great musical ambition was now achieved, and 
 I had conquered in my favorite role. Yet in the 
 supreme moment, with encomiums of praise ringing in 
 my ears, my heart ached with loneliness the echo of 
 that Minor Chord was still present. Elsa's plaintive 
 feelings seemed my own. 
 
 Nearly every day I was visited by ambitious Ameri- 
 can girls asking me for advise as to -a musical career. 
 How I loved their bright fresh faces, and what pangs 
 of regret I felt that they should desire to give up their 
 young lives for fame, and sacrifice the contented 
 serenity of happy wifehood and motherhood ! 
 
 As if in contrast to these girls, a poor woman, once 
 a famous stage celebrity a popular danseuse in Paris 
 came to me for help. My heart bled for her ; she 
 reminded me of I/ila and poor Mr. Bluffingame, and 
 with Mrs. Campbell's help I did what I could for her. 
 
 The only relaxations fromthe serious atmosphere of 
 that engagement were the visits of a young American 
 newspaper man who came to interview me. He was 
 rather homesick at first, and told me of his mother, 
 and this touched my heart, and we became good friends
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 177 
 
 at once. He recalled incidents in my career the 
 ' cooing-dove ' passage in 'The Creation' the red 
 Elizabethan dress I wore at Chicago. He pleaded for 
 ' features ' to make his 'copy' bright and breezy; even 
 asking me outright if I hadn't a love episode or two 
 that I could spare, as he thought my stage biography 
 was rather tame and abbreviated. 
 
 He little thought how his questions pained me ; but 
 his open, honest face reminded me of a brother at 
 home, and I could not resent his curiosity. 
 
 ' And you were never married ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' I had rather say nothing. This printed slip con- 
 tains my biography,' I replied, trying to evade his 
 direct questions. 
 
 ' But I want some fresh stuff. Surely you' ve had 
 some love affairs why, I've had seven already and I' m 
 not married yet ! ' 
 
 The impudent little rascal ! But his naivete fasci- 
 nated me. As he left, he looked straight into my face 
 and said : 
 
 ' Madame Helvina, I adore you ; but I shall have 
 that love story yet.' 
 
 The festival passed like a dream, and Mrs. Camp- 
 bell had taken such excellent -care of me that I had not 
 missed an engagement, and had only been in poor 
 voice once or twice. 
 
 On the last day, as I gazed out of the dressing-room 
 window at the throng of people gathered in front of 
 the Opera House, and overlooking the beautiful valley, 
 chequered with fields of ripening grain, I was sad, and 
 could not help regretting that my work there was
 
 178 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 over. The Festival had been an inspiration to me that 
 will last through life. 
 
 At dusk, the evening before I left Bayreuth, I 
 visited for the first time the tomb of Richard Wagner. 
 Enclosed by tall iron railings, was a simple mound of 
 earth, surmounted by a plain slab of granite. On the 
 four sides the ivy clambered as if to protect the silent 
 sleeper. White lilies drooped their pure blossoms at 
 each corner. The sun had sunk behind the Opera 
 House, which seemed to be Richard Wagner's real 
 monument. The twilight gathered softly, and I felt 
 as if in a vast cathedral. 
 
 From this spot can be seen, through a thicket of 
 small trees, the summer house in which he used to 
 work. Their lengthening shadows seemed like silent 
 sentinels in the watches of the night. 
 
 As I stood in meditation, the sky had clouded; 
 suddenly, the lightning flashed, the rustle of leaves 
 quickened with the stirring breeze, a crash of thunder 
 pealed in terror as a climax, and died away with soft 
 diminuendo down the valley. Here the great com- 
 poser caught his inspiration, always in soulful com- 
 munion with Nature. He caught the very breath of 
 the whirlwind. 
 
 Great raindrops began to fall, and I reluctantly 
 turned to leave with the adagio finale of ' Parsifal ' 
 coming to me faintly : 
 
 ' Beloved Saviour, 
 Blessed Redemption.' 
 
 He was at rest, and his heart's yearning was satis- 
 fied. The storm and tempests of mortal life had passed
 
 A STORY OF A PRIM A DONNA. 179 
 
 for ever, and he had joined in the heavenly sym- 
 phonies, which have revealed the mysteries of earth. 
 
 ' Speak no more of his renown, 
 Lay your earthly fancies down, 
 God accept him, Christ receive him ! '
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 ' MY dear Helvy, your position is secure. Three offers 
 for engagements are here awaiting your acceptance,' 
 said Howard as he entered my room hurriedly one 
 morning. 
 
 ' Where are they from, Howard ? ' I inquired 
 eagerly. 
 
 ' One from Paris, and one from New York ' 
 
 'And the third?' 
 
 ' Mine, ' he said laughing. 
 
 The silly fellow ! he had proposed again, but I was 
 becoming used to it. 
 
 ' The third is out of the question, and I propose we 
 go to Brussels as arranged.' 
 
 It was at Brussels that I met my old friend, 
 Arundel Sunderland, the composer. We had formed 
 a platonic friendship a year or so before. He was a 
 charming man, a clever composer, and a bachelor well 
 seasoned into the forties. 
 
 'I am so glad to see you,' he said, as we shook 
 hands, ' and I hope I may see much of you during your 
 stay here.' 
 
 Howard had arranged various interesting excur- 
 sions for me, but he did not look very pleased when 
 Arundel joined us nearly every day. 
 
 (180)
 
 A STORY OP A PRIMA DONNA. l8l 
 
 ' By the way, Madame Helvina, ' said Arundel one 
 day, ' I have just finished the score of my first grand 
 opera, "Evangeline," and I have created the title- role 
 for you. Will you honor me by undertaking the task ? ' 
 
 This was indeed gratifying to me. He described 
 to me in detail the scene, the plot, and action, and 
 whistled some of the arias to give me an idea of the 
 theme, which made me eager to try it for myself. 
 
 Arundel was so absorbed in his work that he could 
 think and talk of nothing else. 
 
 First impressions are difficult to dissipate. When 
 I heard the opening measures of ' Evangeline ' my 
 opinion was formed. The harmony was certainly 
 massive, but could I tell him ? it was but an echo of 
 Wagner with a reflection of Gounod's 'Romeo and 
 Juliet.' The title-role was simply unsingable, and I 
 tried my best to pour soul into it ; but the opera was 
 too much of a polished imitation of the great masters 
 to give play for a finished and original conception. 
 It lacked inspiration and continuity, and seemed more 
 of a compilation of chords than a composition. 
 
 ' How do you like it ? he asked breathlessly, his 
 black eyes sparkling. 
 
 'I have hardly given it a fair trial yet,' I replied, 
 trying to evade the question. 
 
 ' But you will help me to bring it out ? ' 
 
 ' Thank you, I will try ; and indeed I feel grateful 
 to you for the honor you do me. ' 
 
 ' I had you in my mind, madame, as I wrote every 
 measure.' 
 
 I hardly knew how to tell him the truth. In 
 light opera he was clever, and a hard worker ; and his
 
 1 82 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 triumph would undoubtedly come some da.y in grand 
 opera, but it was hardly to be found in the score of 
 'Evangeline.' 
 
 I rehearsed and rehearsed, but it was of no use. It 
 seemed like an operatic mill-stone. I tried to express 
 this to him, but I could not make him understand. ^ 
 
 ' And you will take the title-rate ? ' he persisted 
 one day, after I had wearied myself with the unsing- 
 able score. 
 
 'I am afraid,' I said hesitatingly. 
 
 ' Don't desert me now,' he pleaded, almost passion- 
 ately. 
 
 ' Well, I will do my best for you, but ' 
 
 'Many thanks for that kind assurance, Madame 
 Helvina,' he replied. 'With you I know my opera 
 will be safe.' 
 
 In a few weeks we were in the midst of the final 
 rehearsals. L,ittle do the public realize the immense 
 amount of real hard work and drudgery required to 
 stage a new opera. 
 
 The first night arrived. 
 
 The overture began. My nervousness increased, 
 as even the opening song was unmanageable. The 
 love-making of the first actpassed off smoothly enough, 
 excepting for a few blunders of the ' prop ' man, and 
 that when one of the 'boats ' refused to float majesti- 
 cally the pit and gallery were amused. In the second 
 act, during a pathetic search for missing Gabriel, I 
 did try so hard to make music of the score, but just at 
 the most unfortunate time the tenor broke on his high 
 C and there was confusion. I rallied the chorus, on 
 the ensemble, but felt that the opera had failed.
 
 A STORY OF A PRIM A DONNA. 183 
 
 With a flush of excitement Arundel came to me 
 after the finale. 
 
 ' Madame Helvina, I can never thank you enough ; 
 you have carried the opera,' and he led me before the 
 curtain to receive the acknowledgments of the audi- 
 ence, who were indulging in the usual first-night 
 applause. 
 
 But I felt that the opera was a failure. 
 
 The critics next morning thoroughly confirmed my 
 fears ; they said I was unequal to the role, and that 
 my voice was rapidly failing. The opera had only a 
 short run, as the managers were panic-stricken. It 
 was rather an inglorious sequel to my Continental 
 success. 
 
 Howard was furious, and had no sympathy for 
 Arundel, who was rather crushed. 
 
 ' I will make them regret it yet,' hissed Arundel. 
 ' If it were not for you, I should not care, but you 
 sacrificed yourself for me. ' 
 
 ' Oh no, no, ' I protested. 'We must expect ups 
 and downs and be ready to make sacrifices.' 
 
 ' Would you make another sacrifice for me ? ' 
 
 ' What is that ? ' I inquired. 
 
 ' Will you be my wife ? You surely intend to 
 retire from the stage some day ? I^et us live together 
 for the divine art, and ' 
 
 ' It can never be,' I broke in excitedly. 
 
 This seemed to rather startle him. 
 
 'Why?' 
 
 ' I shall never marry.' 
 
 ' Let us always be friends, then, ' he said softly, 
 'and forget what I have said.'
 
 1 84 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 'Thank you,' I replied; 'I cannot afford to lose 
 my friends,' and I gave him my hand. 
 
 'You will remain my life's inspiration,' he said 
 earnestly.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 DURING the following weeks I was quite surprised by 
 a visit from the young American newspaper man 
 whom I had met a Bayreuth. 
 
 4 Madame Helvina, I've an awfully good love story, 
 and ' he exclaimed as a greeting. 
 
 ' Why, when did you arrive ? ' 
 
 'This morning, madame, and the article would be 
 just right if you'd only allow me a wee bit of romance 
 to work up. I can fix it. Please do.' His eyes 
 danced with real delight and enthusiasm. 
 
 ' No, my boy, my life is my own. You must not 
 deceive ' 
 
 ' Yes, but I've a corker better than stolen dia- 
 monds or getting married or a divorce it's a hus- 
 band in the air ! ' 
 
 I paled under his glance. Did he know the real 
 truth ? I must know. 
 
 ' What nonsense have you in your head now ? ' 
 trying to speak unconcernedly. ' Come and have tea 
 with me to-morrow, I cannot stay to talk now.' 
 
 After he had gone I wondered what had suggested 
 the idea to him. 
 
 During this engagement the first real trouble 
 between the rival prima donnas, of whom I was one, 
 
 (185)
 
 1 86 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 occurred. Quarrels behind the scenes may furnish 
 good newspaper gossip, but to me they are most 
 revolting, and I had hitherto successfully avoided 
 them. The most insignificant trifles often lead to the 
 most serious disputes. 
 
 'I will not sing with Helvina.' It was Marie 
 Almster talking to the manager in my hearing. Hop- 
 ing to avoid a quarrel, I paid no attention to her 
 remarks. ' She has snubbed me, and has talked too 
 much,' she continued. 
 
 'But you are not spiting her, but injuring me,' 
 protested the manager. 
 
 ' Well, you ought to know better than to sign with 
 that American upstart. She thinks herself too fine, 
 and comes of a low servant family.' 
 
 I could stand it no longer. 
 
 'The young lady will not have the opportunity oi 
 singing with me,' I interposed sarcastically. 
 
 'What! and you, too, Madame Helviua!' gasped 
 the manager. 
 
 'Yes, I will sing an extra solo, and you can cut the 
 duet in the concert programme. ' 
 
 'But it will be too much of a strain on your voice,' 
 he suggested. 
 
 ' Never mind ; the programme shall not suffer by 
 this uniortunate affair. ' 
 
 ' This is not the end, Madame Helvina, ' said the 
 little German lady, looking at me fiercely. 
 
 It was only an ordinary stage quarrel, but somehow 
 the threat of Marie Almster worried me. 
 
 The events of the day had put me in a most miser- 
 able frame of mind, and when I arrived home a cable-
 
 A STORY OF A PRIM A DONNA. 187 
 
 gram was handed me. Another offer for an American 
 engagement ! thought I, as I tore it open, but instead 
 of that, the cruel message met my eyes : 
 
 ' Tod died this morning buried Wednesday. 
 
 MAXWEH,. ' 
 
 As the broken arc ol the little home circle appeared 
 to me in my grief, empty and vain seemed my struggle 
 for fame. Tod, Tod ! how his face haunted me, as I 
 lingered in memory over the last time I had seen 
 him 1 
 
 I longed to be at home to comfort mother in her 
 deep sorrow. 
 
 ' No, ' came the cruel demands of business. ' Your 
 engagements must be fulfilled.' 
 
 Only a few hours alone to mourn a dead brother in 
 a distant land ! How every scene at that death-bed 
 was pictured, and how vividly it brought back mem- 
 ories of little Joe one more grave on the hill ! 
 
 My eyes, red from weeping, were covered with 
 powder that night as I threw myself into my task with 
 an aching heart. 
 
 The minor passages were in tune with my heart, 
 as in fancy I was back in that grief-stricken house- 
 hold. 
 
 My lips were sealed to all but Mrs. Campbell, who 
 had indeed proved herself a true ' mother' to a 
 wandering singer, and had decided to travel with 
 me. 
 
 'I must return to America at once, Howard,' I 
 said one day. 
 
 ' My dear Helvy, we are just on the point of sign-
 
 188 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 ing the greatest contract you have ever had. 
 Surely ' 
 
 'Howard, I must go,' I said firmly. 
 
 ' That's the way it goes !' he said in a disappointed 
 tone of voice. 'One can never reckon on women.' 
 
 I was determined. It was one of those times when 
 we feel that the whole world is as nothing compared 
 with our loved ones. 
 
 ' Very well, then, we'll sail next week,' he finally 
 assented. 
 
 The last evening I appeared in opera before sailing 
 Marie Almster sang with me. In a quarrel scene she 
 actually became in earnest and bit my arm savagely. 
 I screamed out in pain (and it was not a musical note 
 either), and rushed off the stage. The director was 
 thunderstruck, and it looked as if the opera would 
 fall in a crash during that duet. Gene Paroski, who 
 sang that night, was waiting his cue in the wing, and 
 saw what had happened and took in the situation 
 at a glance. He hurried on before his cue, and the 
 director, seeming to divine his motive, held up the 
 orchestra to finish a phrase, and gave the signal for 
 the opening bars of Gene's aria. While the orchestra 
 were finding their places he kept a single violin play- 
 ing an impromptu interlude. Madame Almster stood 
 as if dazed when Gene made his unexpected appear- 
 ance, but, as if it had been apart of the 'business,' he 
 unceremoniously dragged her from the stage. 
 
 She had evidently deliberately planned to mar the 
 performance and injure my musical reputation. 
 
 Once ic the dressing-room she was furious and 
 raved like a mad woman.
 
 A STORY OF A PRIM A DONNA. 189 
 
 ' I hate her ! I hate her !' I heard her shriek. 
 
 Fortunately her understudy, who resembled her 
 somewhat, and was available, completed the few 
 remaining numbers after a hasty make-up. 
 
 But I was not so fortunate, and with my arm sting- 
 ing with pain I was compelled to continue. I never 
 heard Gene Paroski sing better, and his tender sym- 
 pathizing looks were very consoling as I threw myself 
 into his arms in earnest, as if for protection. 
 
 The audience, little realizing the tempest raging 
 behind the scenes, gave us the most enthusiastic 
 reception of the season. 
 
 Gene Paroski and I had a longer talk than usual 
 that night. 
 
 ' When did you notice anything wrong to-night ?' 
 I asked. 
 
 'Not until she bit you,' he replied. 'Her face 
 looked like that of a maniac, and I was determined to 
 stop her and save the opera, if I had to fling her into 
 the pit.' 
 
 It was a nine days' sensation in operatic circles, but 
 blew over without an open scandal. 
 
 The preparations for returning to America proceeded 
 rapidly, and among the trophies which I carried back 
 was a street piano organ a hurdy-gurdy. I had 
 become quite fascinated with them in London and on 
 the Continent, where my morning slumber was brokeu 
 by the refrain of 'After the Ball,' 'Two Little Girls in 
 Blue,' and so forth the popular American music. I 
 must confess these airs had a piquant charm about 
 them for me after a concentrated study of Wagner's 
 music.
 
 IQO THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 ' Howard, I want a hurdy-gurdy to take back to 
 America,' I had said one day. 
 
 He was greatly astonished. 
 
 ' There is no explaining these women, ' he muttered. 
 But he bought the hurdy-gurdy. 
 
 As I stood upon the deck of the steamer which was 
 about to sail, Hal Cogswell, the irrepressible young 
 American I had met at Bayreuth, came running up the 
 gangway. 
 
 ' Deny it deny it a lie and a slander ! Sue them, 
 or I'll kill them!' he exclaimed excitedly in alow tone 
 to me. 
 
 'You are excited; what is it?' I asked. 
 
 ' Read this, ' he exclaimed, as he handed me a news- 
 paper and pointed to a marked paragraph. 
 
 It was one of those cheap publications, edited by a 
 masculine ' L,ady Sneerwell, ' whose specific object is 
 to probe into the privacy of home, and retail black- 
 mail and scandal. 
 
 I read : 
 
 'IT LOOKS STRANGE.' 
 
 ' Madame Helvina's sudden departure for America, 
 after signing contracts for numerous engagements, 
 occasions considerable speculation in theatrical circles. 
 Some intimate that her managers are fearful of their 
 bargain, and ask to be released, because her voice is 
 failing and her acting lacks the fire and vivacity of 
 youth ; others assert that there is a scandal with the 
 tenor, and that they are going to be married in 
 America as soon as he secures his divorce. Madame 
 Helvina has a large circle of admirers, who will regret 
 this cloud upon her artistic career.'
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 1QI 
 
 During the whole of my life this was the first time 
 a suspicion had been breathed against my character. 
 That was the one thing I held dearer than life. It 
 had been burned into my very soul by mother with- 
 out chastity, a woman is not a woman ; without pur- 
 ity, a woman is nothing. 
 
 ' Who could have been so cruel and malicious ? ' I 
 said, with tears in my eyes. 
 
 ' I suspect Almster, ' said Hal, ' and if you will 
 give me authority, I will make her weep tears of 
 blood for this cowardly trick,' he continued, warmly. 
 
 ' Hal, you are a good boy,' I said, giving him my 
 hand. 
 
 'And you're my queen, Madame Helvina. I'm 
 hanged if I don't feel like fighting a duel with the 
 cowardly editor. 
 
 ' Don't be rash, my boy ' 
 
 ' Rash ! no, but I'm going to stay here a month 
 longer and see this thing through.' 
 
 The bell sounded an interruption. 
 
 ' Good-bye, Hal, ' I said, looking into his earnest 
 boyish face. 
 
 'Good-bye. Remember you've got a friend in me 
 forever,' he said, as he hurried through the surging 
 crowd. The last I saw of him, he was waving the 
 Stars and Stripes from among the throng on the pier. 
 
 The old tremor of the Minor Chord crept upon me. 
 My enemies now sought my character ! Joy and gri ef 
 sorrow and happiness they mingle together in the 
 same breath !
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 'I MUST have another week's holiday alone,' I said to 
 Howard, the day we reached Chicago. 
 
 He seemed to suspect that there was a secret, but 
 'dear Mrs. Campbell satisfied his curiosity in some way, 
 and he grumbled an assent. 
 
 How consoling it was to feel my mother's thin and 
 trembling arms about my neck as we buried our faces 
 in each other's shoulders and wept for Tod, after my 
 arrival home. 
 
 No caress like that of a mother, even to a mature 
 woman ! 
 
 Together we visited the new mound of yellow earth 
 still wet with the tears of grief. I could scarcely 
 realize that Tod was lying beneath it, and it was also 
 the first time I had seen the grave of little Joe since 
 his burial. 
 
 ' I visited all the scenes of childhood, and Angela's 
 grave at the old limekiln. 
 
 ' Where is Tim ? Is he alive ? ' 
 
 Mother seemed to anticipate the inquiry. 
 
 'Yes, but he is a wreck an invalid and his 
 children are so devoted to him ! Will you see him ? 
 He sits every afternoon in his chair under the maples, 
 where you children used to play.' 
 
 Us?)
 
 A STORY OP A PRTMA DONNA. 193 
 
 We went across the street. A little, curly, golden- 
 haired daughter, the very image of Tim, wheeled him 
 out in his chair. His face was pale and wan, and yet 
 how spiritual ! The curls were gone, but grey hairs 
 showed against the little velvet cap he wore. The fire 
 of youth's ambition was quenched ; a peaceful, pallid 
 face, waiting for death ' 
 
 His countenance brightened with that familiar old 
 smile as we approached. 
 
 ' Oh, its Mrs. Maxwell, I know. How kind of you ! 
 But who's ' 
 
 ' It's Minza, Tim ! ' I cried, going towards him. 
 
 He did not seem to recognize me. He turned 
 towards me. 
 
 ' Don't you know me, Tim ? ' I continued. 
 
 ' Minza, bright little Minza ! ' he cried. ' God 
 bless you ! Come nearer and let me touch you.' 
 
 ' Here I am, Tirn/ I said, taking his hand. 'Why 
 don't you look at me? ' 
 
 ' Haven't they told you, Minza ?' 
 
 'Told me what?' 
 
 ' I am blind now, and can never see you again.' 
 
 What a shock his words gave me ! I kneeled, and 
 he placed his hands on my head. 
 
 ' Such pretty hair it used to be, Minza 1 ' 
 
 Blind ! O love of my childhood, how my heart 
 pitied him ! 
 
 His affliction obliterated the memory of our last 
 meeting, and I could only remember the Tim of my 
 youth. There was the old familiar wave of the hand, 
 the twitch of the brow, that even time and trouble had 
 not effaced.
 
 194 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 It was touching to see how dependent he was on 
 the two children who remained at home, while the 
 elder struggled to earn a living to support hei blind 
 father. 
 
 Mother left us talking happily together under the 
 maples, and when I returned to her she told me the 
 pathetic story of how Tim had lost his sight 
 
 After the death of Angela he was ill for some time, 
 and he made a desperate effort to conquer his appetite 
 for drink. He was successful, but scarcely had that 
 dark cloud disappeared when his sight was threatened. 
 In spite of all that the most eminent oculists could do, 
 he returned home just one year after Angela's death, 
 hopelessly blind. 
 
 He had paid a heavy penalty for those years of 
 dissipation. 
 
 Zella, the eldest daughter, was employed in a large 
 town near as a typewriter and clerk. They expected 
 her home the next day. Her father was very proud 
 of her, and even my brother Jim sang her praises to 
 me. 
 
 'Zella is so like you,' said Tim to me one day. 
 1 She is a good girl and ambitious to be somebody. She' s 
 always sending me pretty things and money. She 
 receives a splendid salary.' 
 
 Zella came home the following day, but, oh can I 
 tell it? she came home with a secret. To mother and 
 me she told the sad story. A generous employer 
 indeed ! But he had demanded his price ! A mother- 
 less girl had been his prey ! Ruin and disgrace were 
 the penalty she had to pay. 
 
 The village was shocked and scandalized. Parents
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 195 
 
 forbade their children to play with the little Rathbone 
 girls. 
 
 We kept Tim in ignorance, and brave little mother 
 faced the storm of indignation and was a mother to the 
 motherless girl in disgrace. 
 
 The afternoon before I was to leave, as my extended 
 holiday was nearly over, I was reading to Tim under 
 the old maples, wondering how the sad news could be 
 broken to him. 
 
 Suddenly he stopped me. ' Minza, tell me,' he said, 
 ' what has been going on lately, and why is Zella not 
 with me more? She is not always at home, and now 
 she is here I scarcely hear anything of her.' 
 
 I held my breath, hardly knowing what to say. 
 
 Just then an infant's wail was heard from our house 
 across the street. His blind eyes seemed to pierce me. 
 
 ' Tell me, Minza, tell me don't take advantage of 
 Tim because he is blind ! is it your child ? ' 
 
 'No, Tim,' I replied huskily, 'it's only a little 
 stranger. ' 
 
 ' Poor little thing, poor little thing ! ' he murmured. 
 ' And how did it come to your house ? ' 
 
 ' Zella brought it it ' 
 
 'What ! ' he broke in, jumping to his feet and his 
 face flashing as if he grasped the whole truth. ' What !' 
 he repeated. 
 
 ' My Zella oh, I suspected that you were hiding 
 something from me ! My God ! don't tell me it's true. 
 My little Zella ! ' and he fell back into his chair still 
 calling for Zella. 
 
 A pale face stood at the door. It was Zella.
 
 196 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 ' Father, father ! ' she called, sobbing bitterly, 
 ' don't ! Zella has come home to stay for ever.' 
 
 ' Yes, but that scoundrel ! Will he escape all 
 punishment? I'll ' 
 
 'Tim, Tim,' I said, trying to soothe him, ' you are 
 blind.' 
 
 ' Yes, I was blind. If I had only known ! Better 
 to have starved than this ! Yes, I am helpless, I am 
 blind.' 
 
 ' Tim, I must command, ' I said ; ' you are not 
 strong enough to work yourself into such a passion.' 
 
 'Work myself! ' he moaned. ' My God ! will my 
 retribution never end ? Oh, Zell, Zell, my little girl, 
 my motherless daughter ! Your blind father is such a 
 burden and so helpless, but lie loves his little girls.' 
 
 Just then a radiant smile of love overspread that 
 face, the calm after the storm, and I left father and 
 daughter sobbing together. 
 
 The next day, when I went to bid Tim good-bye, I 
 found him in his usual place with the tiny infant in his 
 arms. I could hardly repress my feelings as I kissed 
 him. 
 
 'You will come back, won't you, Minza ? ' he 
 pleaded, and his sightless blue eyes glistened. ' You 
 will come back, I know you will.' 
 
 I kissed the unconscious baby and left him. 
 
 ' Mother, I cannot help it, my heart is breaking ! 
 Would it be right ? dare I love him ? ' I sobbed. How 
 good it seemed to confide in mother ! 
 
 ' But, my dear, there's Bob. You do not know. Be 
 brave, my girl, and be true to your vows.'
 
 A STORY OP A PRIMA DONNA. 
 
 'Yes, yes ! But surely he would have come efore 
 this, if he were alive ?' 
 
 ' But we cannot tell ; wait and see.' 
 
 The old heartache came back. In the zenith of 
 fame, the music of my life was still in a Minor Key.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 WHEN I returned to Chicago I had quite made up my 
 mind that my duty as a daughter was paramount to 
 my career as a prima donna. 
 
 ' It must by my farewell tour, ' I said firmly to 
 Howard. 
 
 ' But, Helvy, they will laugh and make sport of 
 you. The newspapers will take it up as a joke.' 
 
 ' I do not care,' I said defiantly. 'I owe a duty 
 to my ' I stopped suddenly. 
 
 ' To whom ?' he asked, growing interested. 
 
 ' My parents,' I replied. 
 
 ' Why, Helvy, you never told me about them. 
 Now, put aside that nonsense and make hay while the 
 sun shines. It is for your interest as well as ' 
 
 'No,' I broke in. 'I must retire. Blood is 
 thicker than salaries. Besides, the conductor's baton 
 has become to me a black demon. I walk, move, and 
 breathe under its magic spell on the stage and forget 
 my duty as a daughter.' 
 
 ' But the worst is now over. We could give con- 
 cert tours.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but, as in the opera, one false move, one 
 breath wrong, and the orchestra are chasing away 
 
 (198)
 
 A STORY OP A PRIMA DONNA. 199 
 
 with the thread of harmony snapped. The flash of 
 the wand has become so irksome to me that I fear I 
 shall lose my mind if I continue. ' 
 
 'Oh, no tut, tut,' he said sympathetically. 'You 
 need rest, then you will be all right. I had arranged 
 for four seasons ahead.' 
 
 The stage had suddenly grown repulsive to me. 
 The atmosphere of the dressing-room was oppressive, 
 with its dark make-up for Carmen ; the white bottles 
 and blonde braided wigs for Elsa and Marguerite ; they 
 all seemed like heavy armor to a worn and weary 
 knight. Besides, the recent events at home had 
 unsettled me. Mother and father were growing old, 
 and I felt that I owed a duty to them, and ought to 
 give up my selfish ambitions. I tried to get them to 
 accompany me. 
 
 ' No, Minza, we used to do it when you and mother 
 gave your concerts, but we are too old now,' said 
 father. 
 
 I thought that my determination was fixed when 
 we started on that farewell tour and I bade farewell to 
 the old familiar scenes in the opera houses we visited. 
 But we had not been out many weeks before that 
 determination was changed. My old rival, Almster, 
 was making a tour of America in light opera. She 
 was having good success, had had her diamonds stolen, 
 had been married several times, and the newspapers 
 bristled with spicy items about her. 
 
 Howard had evidently been studying womankind, 
 and kept me thoroughly posted. It was irritating, 
 and yet I wanted to read it. One day, as if in triumph, 
 he brought me a paper. ' Read that ! ' he shouted.
 
 200 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 It was an interview with Almster, giving her 
 opinion of Madame Helvina, and it was not a very 
 flattering one either. 
 
 She stated : 
 
 ' Poor Helvina is now on her farewell tour. She 
 is nearly sixty years of age, and a grandmother. She 
 bears her age remarkably well, but her voice is not 
 what it has been; even prima donnas must grow old.' 
 
 There was a sting in this that nettled me, and the 
 old spirit of spite and rivalry once more asserted itself. 
 
 1 Howard, have all the bills changed, and take off 
 that farewell tour line. I intend to remain on earth 
 a little longer.' 
 
 Howard was in high glee, and gave me a brotherly 
 managerial kiss. ' Bless you ! Helvy, you're a trump, 
 and a sensible woman after all ! ' 
 
 4 Well, I've decided,' I replied. 
 
 'We'll show that fussy little busybody yet !' he 
 said defiantly as he left. 
 
 Just then it flashed upon me that Howard was the 
 author of that interview. But I could not change my 
 mind again. 
 
 During my entire stage career I had always made 
 a practice of attending church on Sunday morning, if 
 possible, and had hitherto always received comfort 
 and help from the service ; I often worshipped, quite 
 unrecognized, with members of my audience of the 
 night previous. 
 
 In one city, the minister somehow discovered that 
 I would be among his congregation. The hymns were 
 old favorites of mine, and carried me back to that 
 little Methodist church in Iowa. I was a trifle
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 2OI 
 
 drowsy, and did not listen particularly to the text, but 
 I was soon quite aroused by the most blatant, ignorant, 
 and cruel raillery against opera singers and stage 
 people that I had ever heard. 
 
 ' They are enemies of Christ, and agents of the 
 devil,' he shouted, pounding the desk, and looking 
 about as if to catch the eye of his victim. My heart 
 was in my mouth, but I tried to look unconcerned. 
 ' They ensnare the young with insidious temptations, 
 and are stepping-stones to the worst species of infamy 
 and vice.' Once more he turned in my direction, but 
 did not seem to recognize me. Blessed blonde wig ! 
 No one knew me, although his remarks were person- 
 ally directed against Madame Helvina. 
 
 The prima donna was not converted, and his con- 
 gregation did not look altogether pleased, but they 
 dared not talk back. 
 
 This was his message of love ! I believe that those 
 who did not go to operas as a rule were present the 
 following nights to see for themselves how the devil 
 acted on state occasions. The newspapers took the 
 matter up, and scorched the poor minister until, I 
 confess, I felt sorry for him. 
 
 ' Ah, that sermon was a clever hit,' said Howard, 
 rubbing his hands. ' Standing room only for six 
 successive nights, thanks to the reverend spouter.' 
 
 ' Perhaps he has never been in an opera house, 
 Howard. ' 
 
 'Well, I'll send him a ticket. Helvy, you're a 
 brick. This season has been a corker the best we've 
 ever had.' 
 
 The chorus girls were indignant, and pouted their
 
 202 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 pretty painted lips in talking of the sermon. My life's 
 aim had always been to keep my character pure and 
 wholesome. There may be black spots in my profes- 
 sion, as there are in others, but evil will never be 
 remedied by raillery and abuse. 
 
 Soon after this I received a letter from a firm ot 
 lawyers in Chicago, stating that, if I made affidavits 
 affirming specific knowledge of the death of Robert 
 Burnette, they would secure the insurance money due 
 on his life. 
 
 The name of the firm was Connor and Cogswell, 
 and Hal had evidently been metamorphosed into a 
 lawyer. I remembered his remarks on previous occa- 
 sions, and wondered if he knew the real truth. Would 
 my real history be revealed to the world ? 
 
 I wrote, stating that I held no proofs of my 
 husband's death, and signed for the first time in many 
 years my real name, 'Minza Burnette.'
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 WHAT secrets and joys the telegraph operators could 
 reveal if they fully realized the meaning of the dots 
 and dashes as they flash from their fingers ! The 
 messages of lightning in these days form great links 
 in human destiny. 
 
 In the midst of our triumphal tour on the Pacific 
 coast, when there appeared to be a rift in the clouds of 
 my life, I received a telegram: 
 
 ' Father is very ill. Come quickly. Mother.' 
 
 All my dates were cancelled, and the suspense of 
 that journey home I can never forget. The surging 
 crowds in a railway train seldom think of the various 
 emotions mingled with its roar, and the heavy hearts 
 reflected in the sad eyes steeped in tears. Should I 
 reach home for a last look ? Perhaps it was not so 
 bad, after all. 
 
 All was still and quiet about the house as I entered 
 not a sound. 
 
 ' Father, father ! ' I cried. 
 
 My only answer was mother's sobs as she met me, 
 and her weeping eyes first told the story. 
 
 ' Minza, he is dead,' she said betweer her sobs. 
 
 Dead ! My heart rebelled against God. 
 (203)
 
 204 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 I went into the darkened room and kissed that cold 
 face. The faces of Tod and baby Joe looked down 
 upon me in that dear old parlor the room of the 
 dead. Brother Jim was there; and so strong and 
 manly ! The great bereavement had made the boy a 
 man at once. 
 
 At the funeral, when the soft notes of ' Just as I 
 Am, Without One Plea,' father's favorite hymn, burst 
 forth, I completely broke down. The weak, tremb- 
 ling, and aged voice of the minister, dear old Mr. 
 Frazer, tried to console our grief-stricken hearts. 
 
 The Grand Army of the Republic, the Masons in 
 their regalia and white gloves, gathered to do honor 
 to a dead comrade. The last said rites were over, and 
 never will the soft minor refrain of Pleyel's hymn, 
 sung by the Masons in a husky voice as they marched 
 round the grave, fade from my memory. The final 
 burial salute was fired by the old army comrades. 
 
 ' Farewell, father, farewell!' I cried, as the smoke 
 of the volley rolled away. 
 
 Who does not remember that vacant place at the 
 head of the table, that empty chair at the fireside, that 
 absent voice ? 
 
 ' Mother, we must go away to-morrow, ' I said, a 
 few days after the funeral. 
 
 ' My dear, I am too old ; don't tear me away from 
 my loved ones. While I live I want to be near my 
 boy sand Robert.' 
 
 ' But, mother, you have the living to look after. 
 Jim is going to finish at college, and you must go with 
 me. 
 
 ' O Minza ! let us give up the struggle for ambition
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 2OJ 
 
 that I taught you, and live with our dead. You do 
 not know how I loved your father. My heart is is 
 ' She quite broke down. 
 
 ' Yes ; but, mother, we must face life as it is. ' 
 
 ' My brave daughter, you seem determined. Do 
 as you think best.' 
 
 It was indeed affecting when we closed the old 
 home and turned the key in the door. The old maples 
 sighed ; the hammock swung sadly under the ever- 
 greens ; it was autumn again. 
 
 A last glance at the window across the way, and I 
 saw Zella standing by her father's side. Poor blind 
 Tim could not see us, but his hand waved a farewell ; 
 and we began life over again mother and I. 
 
 It was scarcely six months after we left the old 
 home when I noticed mother was failing, but I felt no 
 serious alarm, as she did not complain. 
 
 One night, when I had returned rather late from 
 the opera, she fell in a faint. A doctor was called, 
 but still I felt no particular anxiety, as I had nursed 
 her through these faints many times before. But, as 
 the unconsciousness continued, the doctor's face 
 became very grave. Suddenly the sleeper awoke, and 
 began singing in a weak, trembling voice, 
 ' There is a land that is fairer than day, 
 And by faith we can see it afar.' 
 
 ' Mother, mother,' I broke in, 'you must not exert 
 yourself so much.' 
 
 There was a strange light in her eyes, and again 
 she became drowsy and unconscious. 
 
 ' O, doctor, doctor ! do something do something J 
 to help her, ' I pleaded.
 
 2O6 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 Howard was called and the breath came faster and 
 faster. The livid lips turned purple, and responded 
 but feebl)' to my impulsive kiss. She looked so plead- 
 ingly into my face with those deep blue eyes as the 
 death-light glowed in them ! 
 
 'She is dying!' I cried.' 'Mother, mother, don't 
 leave Minza. Oh, doctor, she must not die, she must 
 not die ! ' 
 
 ' We can do nothing now, ' he replied gently. 
 
 ' Good-bye, Minza, ' she said almost in a whisper, 
 as I bent over her to catch the words. ' Good-bye, 
 my child ; remember remember ' 
 
 Again she sang in a feebler voice, 
 
 ' There is a land ' 
 
 The line was never finished ; a deep breath, and I was 
 motherless. A clock in the distance struck three, as a 
 knell for the dead. 
 
 I was stunned and bewildered, and Howard se emed 
 cruel in coming to me for directions. They kept me 
 away from my dead. No sleep could I bring to my 
 eyes ; even tears would not flow ; and hour by hour 
 the terrible realization grew upon me mother was 
 gone. 
 
 Preparations were made to take her remains home 
 the following day, and the night before, I stole into the 
 room of the dead; the wearied watcher having fallen 
 asleep in an adjoining corridor. 
 
 The flickering shadows of the lowered gas seemed 
 to give life to the sleeping face, but when I kissed her 
 ice-cold lips the truth came to me I was alone with 
 mother, but she was dead, and I had torn her from 
 her home!
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 207 
 
 All at once the tension in my brain gave way, and 
 I felt that I was mad. Let them bury two bodies in 
 that little Iowa cemetery, and let me sleep with 
 mother. I would end my existence. On the mantel- 
 piece I saw several bottles labelled ' Poison, ' which 
 had been left by the undertaker. Surely one would 
 serve my purpose ? I held up one of them to the first 
 streak of dawn as it pierced the closed shutters, when 
 the door opened softly and Howard came in. He 
 started when he saw me. 
 
 ' Helvy, Helvy, what are you doing here?' he 
 said. 
 
 I shrank back. 
 
 ' I, too, grew to love her as mother ; let me grieve 
 with you. But what's this?' he said quickly, taking 
 the bottle out of my hand. 
 
 ' O Howard! I cannot live now; let me die,' I 
 pleaded. 
 
 ' Die ! Live, Helvy, live ! What would she say ?' 
 he said, pointing to her peaceful form. 
 
 He had touched the right cord, and tears came to 
 my relief. 
 
 'She in an angel now, Helvy,' he continued, 
 ' and I never knew a mother's love was always alone.' 
 
 His words touched me, and we wept together. 
 
 Even now I dare not linger over memories of 
 mother's funeral. It seems to tear my very soul and 
 threaten my reason. 
 
 Jim had only been married a few weeks and was 
 there with his pretty wife, but they were wrapped up 
 in each other, which made me feel my bitter loneliness
 
 2O8 , THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 more keenly. Even in the great hour of grief, brother 
 and sister seemed to have drifted apart. 
 
 My future was a blank. I felt as though I could 
 not tear myself away from that new-made grave, and 
 the holy benediction of my mother's love which hung 
 over it. 
 
 Here some day I too will lie, to complete the 
 broken arc of the family circle.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 ON my return from one of these visits to the cemetery 
 I found Hal Cogswell waiting for me at the gate. 
 
 ' Madame Helvina, I am so sorry, so sorry for you!' 
 and tears stood in his eyes. ' Our mothers are the 
 best friends we have, after all.' 
 
 My only answer was a sob. 
 
 ' I have known the secret of your life, Madame 
 Helvina, since we met in Europe ; and your kindness 
 to me made me *esolve to help you, and I've found 
 him.' 
 
 ' Who?' I asked listlessly. 
 
 'Why, Bob Burnette,' he replied. 
 
 I shivered. 
 
 ' Don't you want to hear of your hus 
 
 'My husband !' I moaned. 
 
 When we were in the house he told me the story. 
 
 In a secluded mad-house in Germany, Hal believed 
 he had found poor Bob. 
 
 ' Yes, there is no doubt of it, Madame Helvina. I 
 came upon it quite accidentally while reading an official 
 report of the patients. This poor fellow was found 
 near a collapsed balloon, a raving maniac. Although 
 
 (200)
 
 210 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 he mumbles in German, there is no doubt in my mind 
 that he is your husband.' 
 
 ' Yes, but how do you know ?' I inquired, growing 
 interested. 
 
 ' Because the keepers told me he constantly repeats 
 one name, " Minza, Minza," and talks of balloons.' 
 
 My poor Bob ! 
 
 ' And is there any hope ?' 
 
 ' No, I am afraid not ; but if you will allow me I 
 will secure the necessary papers, and bring him home.' 
 
 ' My duty as a wife demands it, and I feel you are 
 a friend, Hal.' 
 
 I decided there and then that he should be furnished 
 with funds and should fetch my mad husband home to 
 me. 
 
 ' Will you go with me to see a blind friend ?' I said 
 after we had finished our talk. 
 
 ' With pleasure, ' he said enthusiastically. 
 
 We went across the street, and he took poor Tim's 
 hands and spoke very tenderly of his affliction. 
 
 ' Well, it's worth losing your eyes to have such a 
 friend as Madame ' 
 
 I hushed him. ' My name is Minza,' I whispered. 
 
 ' Yes, Minza, ' he echoed. 
 
 Just then Zella came out. I had heard of love at 
 first sight, and surely it was before me ! 
 
 'Zella, Zella, you here !' said Hal, going towards 
 her to shake hands. 
 
 * This is my home, Hal, and this is my father, ' she 
 responded, pointing to Tim. 
 
 Evidently they were acquainted ; it was not love 
 at first sight, after all.
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 211 
 
 They soon forgot Tim and me. After a time Zella 
 left Hal's side and beckoned me to come with her into 
 the house, leaving Hal with Tim. 
 
 ' He must know the truth. Will you tell him?' 
 she asked me. 
 
 ' Why, dear ? He hasn't asked you to marry him, 
 has he ?' 
 
 'No, but but he might,' she said, blushing. 
 ' And and he must know all. We met when I first 
 went to the city, before before ' she said, sobbing. 
 
 ' But your secret is buried in that tiny grave ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I know ; but he must and shall be told if I 
 have to tell him myself.' 
 
 That evening I told Hal the sad story, expecting 
 that it would end all between them, and watched his 
 face closely for a response. 
 
 ' Madame Helvina, that girl shall be my wife. I 
 wondered what was on her mind this afternoon. Ever 
 since we first met she has been my cherished sweet- 
 heart. I thank you, Madame Helvina, for telling me 
 the truth ; it has made me deeper in love than ever.' 
 
 Hal left on his mission, and I returned to Howard 
 to complete my broken engagements and continue my 
 operatic career. 
 
 After mother's death, Howard was specially kind 
 and thoughtful of me ! As a man, he never seemed 
 so great to me before. More fresh traits in his character 
 showed themselves in those few days of grief and 
 sorrow than in all the previous years of our acquaint- 
 ance. He was so patient with me in all my whims,
 
 212 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 and so tender in alluding to dear mother, and even 
 wore her sweet likeness on the inside cover of his 
 watch. 
 
 ' Now, Helvy, I will not bother you any more with 
 love pleadings ; I am simply your manager, and you 
 are the only woman I have ever had to obey or ever 
 will, and when my dear says the word we will be 
 married. ' 
 
 'But, Howard, you do not understand. It can 
 never be. I'm I'm married!' 
 
 'What ?' he exclaimed, his face paling. 'And 
 not let me know ? Oh, Helvy, Helvy, how could you?' 
 
 ' Howard, I was married before I knew you,' I 
 replied, and I told him the story of poor Bob. 
 
 ' Brave little woman !' he exclaimed when I had 
 finished. 'And that young rascal of a Hal has gone 
 to bring you back an insane husband 1 But, Helvy, 
 you know his insanity releases you.' 
 
 ' Legally, it may, but morally, it does not. Howard, 
 I am a wife.' 
 
 ' I respect your convictions ; but, Helvy, you are 
 wearing yourself out with needless troubles. You 
 have enough real grief without adding to it. Let me 
 let me ' 
 
 ' The standing offer, Howard,' I broke in, trying to 
 smile. 
 
 ' Now that I know the real truth, I think i can 
 be a better friend, although I may never be your hus- 
 band.' 
 
 'We'll seal the compact,' I said, taking both his 
 hands in mine, and we stood looking into eacli ether's 
 eyes, as we had never looked before.
 
 A STORY OF A PRIM A DONNA. 213 
 
 Some months afterwards I received the first letter 
 from Hal : 
 
 ' I swore I would not write to you until my mission 
 was accomplished, ' he wrote. ' You have no idea of 
 the Governmental red tape to be gone through to 
 extradite an insane man'. They want his pedigree 
 back several generations, and yours as well. I fixed 
 one up for you, with dates and ancestors that may 
 surprise you, but you will have to swear to it all now, 
 or I shall be in a pickle. We sail on the i6th inst. 
 I have visited your husband several times, and the 
 poor fellow keeps on moaning ' ' Minza, Minza, ' ' so 
 plaintively.' 
 
 I had made arrangements with a private asylum in 
 Iowa for my husband's safe keeping, and could 
 scarcely await the time for his arrival. 
 
 We were to take a holiday Howard and I a 
 holiday to meet my mad husband. 
 
 On the day the steamer arrived in New York, Hal 
 telegraphed to us when to meet them at the station in 
 the little Iowa town where the asylum was situated. 
 They did not arrive in the train we had expected 
 them by, and we returned to the hotel feeling some- 
 what anxious. 
 
 An hour later there was a knock at the door of my 
 room. It was Hal, who appeared unannounced, as 
 handsome and enthusiastic as ever. 
 
 ' We are here,' he whispered. 'Be brave, Madame 
 Helvina, be brave.' 
 
 The suspense was at an end, and I was to meet 
 my lost husband. 
 
 He was then in a room at that very hotel. Two
 
 214 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 stalwart Germans stood outside in the dark corridor 
 as I approached with Hal and opened the door of the 
 room. 
 
 There he was, crouching in the corner, eating his 
 dinner like a wild beast. This my husband ! His mad 
 eyes looked up a strange, unfamiliar look it was. 
 What a greeting for man and wife after twelve years' 
 parting ! He rose to his feet. How tall and tower- 
 ing he seemed as the light from the little window 
 shone full on his face ! 
 
 'My God ! ' I shrieked. 
 
 I could not be mistaken. It was not Bob.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 HOWARD and Hal rushed into the room at my shriek, 
 fearing that something had happened. 
 
 I did not know whether to be happy or sad, but 
 Hal was quite crushed. After so much expense and 
 work, the madman proved to be the wrong man; but 
 Howard looked relieved. The only explanation we 
 could offer was that this poor madman was Bob's com- 
 panion, and that it was the name of the ill-fated 
 balloon which he moaned so continuously. But where, 
 then, was Bob ? I was still to be left in uncertainty, 
 and the unfortunate man was taken back to Germany. 
 
 I tried to console Hal in his disappointment, but 
 he was morbid, and soon after left us rather suddenly, 
 leaving no address. 
 
 I was considerably surprised, therefore, to receive 
 the following note some weeks after: 
 
 ' Dear Madame Helvina: Will you and Mr. 
 Wittaker attend our wedding? Smithville, Dec. i6th 
 Zella and I. 
 
 'HAL.' 
 
 It was an abrupt wedding invitation, unique in its 
 way, and altogether a surprise. 
 
 (315)
 
 2l6 THE MINOR CHORt). 
 
 Howard and I made arrangements to go, taking 
 Mrs. Campbell with us. 
 
 When we arrived home I insisted on driving at 
 once to mother's grave. The four mounds looked 
 very peaceful under a mantle of pure white snow. 
 That cemetery was sacred ground to me. 
 
 Tears I Oh, how I wish there were some other 
 way to express grief ! I am tired of tears, but still 
 they are the great expression of sorrow which divides 
 humanity from the brute creation. 
 
 I gave a lingering look as we left that little city oi 
 the dead. 
 
 ' Helvy, you are wearing yourself away, brooding 
 so continually over death. You must think more oi 
 life, ' said Howard as we left. 
 
 ' How can I ? ' I echoed. ' My life is attuned to 
 the Minor Chord of Death and Grief. ' 
 
 'Oh, that's superstitious, my dear,' said Mrs. 
 Campbell. 'Howard is quite right, you must arouse 
 yourself to real life again. ' 
 
 There was something refreshing and stimulating in 
 meeting those two young lovers who were so soon to 
 be man and wife. Their happiness was infectious. 
 Zella was prettier than ever. The dead past had been 
 buried. 
 
 Tim was happy, and cheerfully announced : 'You 
 see, Minza, I give up my daughter, but I get back a 
 son. And oh, Minza, they are so happy, together ; it 
 quite reminds me of our ' 
 
 'Hush, now, you should not be telling secrets,' I 
 said hastily.
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 217 
 
 Howard had heard it, and naturally put two and 
 two together. 
 
 ' And so you two were lovers in days gone by ? ' 
 he inquired. 
 
 ' In a way,' I answered, trying to change the sub- 
 ject. ' By the way, have you seen to the minister's 
 carriage and the flowers, Howard ? ' 
 
 'I think so or Mrs. Campbell has.' 
 
 The two younger girls, Helen and Jessie, had come 
 home from the Music College they were attending for 
 the wedding, which was to take place that evening. 
 The service was short and simple. Hal and Zella 
 stood beneath a bower of flowers close to Tim. The 
 bride in her beauty reminded me of Angela sister of 
 my childhood and it brought tears to my eyes to 
 think that poor blind Tim could not see his sweet-faced 
 child. The bridegroom seemed to realize the solem- 
 nity of the occasion, and repeated his responses several 
 times, as if to emphasize the fact that he was being 
 married in earnest ; he nearly upset our gravity. 
 
 After the final words had been spoken, I was more 
 cheerful ; I began to feel that life was not so gloomy, 
 after all, and I played the Wedding March from 
 ' Lohengrin. ' What a happy feast was that wedding 
 supper ! 
 
 Tim was placed at the head of the table, with Zella 
 and Hal on one side, and myself and Howard on the 
 other. It touched us all to see how tenderly the bride 
 waited on and anticipated every want of her blind 
 father, and to think that possibly it was our last meal 
 together. 
 
 The young couple left for their new home in Chi-
 
 218 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 cago, where Hal persisted in calling himself a lawyer. 
 Mrs. Campbell had taken charge of all the arrange- 
 ments for the wedding in her kind, motherly way, and 
 as she was growing old, and the incessant traveling 
 was telling upon her, she decided to remain at my old 
 home at Smithville, and look after Tim and his 
 girls. 
 
 ' Dear auntie, ' I said fondly, kissing her, ' how can 
 I ever thank you ? ' 
 
 ' Dinna try it, my bairn, ' she answered, adding 
 with a twinkle : ' You will not need me always. ' 
 
 ' Yes, I shall, ' I insisted. 
 
 ' Well, well, we shall see, ' she replied, as she left 
 the room. But she had her own way. 
 
 'Now that was a pretty little wedding,' said 
 Howard as we went home together. ' Wasn't it 
 Helvy? And it put another idea into my head.' 
 
 'What is that ? ' I asked with a yawn. 
 
 'You would look so charming going through the 
 
 same ceremony, with ' 
 
 ' But, Howard, how can you ask me when ' I 
 
 broke in. 
 
 ' My dear, I must insist ; you are unreasonable. 
 There is no doubt whatever that Bob is either insane 
 or dead, and you are free to marry anybody you like 
 even me, for instance.' 
 
 4 Howard, I have a conscience' I said. 
 
 1 Yes, and I have a love which- ' 
 
 'Howard, you are forgetting our compact.' 
 
 ' Bother the compact ! I was a fool to make it ; you 
 keep me at arm's length, and only use me as a business
 
 A STORY OP A PRIMA DONNA. 2X9 
 
 machine. I shan't be able to stand it much longer. If 
 you only loved ' 
 
 ' Howard, I do love you, if I know what love is, 
 
 but duty ' I said, going toward him and placing 
 
 my hands on his shoulder. 
 
 The confession seemed to electrify him and it 
 relieved me. 
 
 ' You mean it ?' he exclaimed. 
 
 ' Yes, but we cannot marry ! My life echoes from 
 a Minor Chord ! I am a wife until I am proved to be 
 a widow.' 
 
 We said ' Good-night' rather soberly for lovers, but 
 we perfectly understood one another. 
 
 That night I dreamed I was singing in the heavenly 
 choir. The harps and the lyres thrummed out in 
 delicious harmony, and there was no need for a con- 
 ductor's baton. Each one sang of his own life. 
 Some were light and merry ; others were sad and 
 mournful, and sang in plaintive tones. The last 
 chord always sealed the fate of the singer the vigor- 
 ous major resounded a reward of peace, joy, and hap- 
 piness ; the weird minor echoed grief, pain, and 
 sorrow. 
 
 My turn had come. What would that chord strike?
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 MY dream had affected me very much, and it haunted 
 me all the next day. 
 
 Howard came down from the hotel to tell me that 
 he would have to return that evening, but that I could 
 remain a month longer if I so desired. 
 
 A month alone without Howard ! It was a dreary 
 contemplation. 
 
 Just then a letter was brought me. It was from 
 Arundel Sunderland, and read as follows : 
 
 ' My dear Madame Helvina : I have just composed 
 a new song, of which you are the heroine and your 
 life its inspiration. I have dedicated it to you, and 
 hoping you will pardon my seeming presumption, and 
 that we may soon see you again in London, 
 I remain, sincerely your friend, 
 
 ' ARUNDEL. 
 ' P. S. I send a copy of the song by this post.' 
 
 ' And has the song arrived ?' asked Howard, when 
 he had read the letter. 
 
 ' No but I'm dying to hear it, ' I said quite excitedly. 
 
 'Oh, so am I,' said Howard rather sarcastically. 
 ' It's sure to be good if its Arundel 's. I fancy I can 
 
 (320)
 
 A STORY OP A PRIM A DONNA. 221 
 
 see him here with his single eye-glass glaring at you 
 like a one-eyed owl.' 
 
 I could not help smiling a little at Howard's odd 
 comparison. 
 
 ' Well, I know it does not strike a Minor Chord, 
 anyway,' he went on. 
 
 ' How do you know, Howard ? ' I asked. 
 
 'I do not know positively, but I feel it ; besides, I 
 am told ' 
 
 'Well, here's the song,' I broke in, as a roll was 
 handed to me by Helen, who had just returned from 
 the post. 
 
 As I took it, my dream flashed into my mind, and 
 connected itself with the letter from Arundel. An idea 
 occurred to me. I would let this decide my destiny. 
 Turning to Howard, I said : 
 
 ' Howard, the last chord in this song shall tell me 
 how my life is to continue. If its last chord trembles 
 with the plaintive minor, my life must continue as it 
 is ; if it resounds with the hope and bouyancy of the 
 major, I will do as you ask me, and marry you.' 
 
 ' Glory be to the Chord ! ' he exclaimed enthusias- 
 tically, embracing me passionately. 
 
 ' But remember, ' I said, drawing myself away, ' I 
 am superstitious, and I am in earnest. If that last 
 chord is a minor, my life must continue as it is I will 
 never marry.' 
 
 'But it won't be, Helvy. It's a major blooming 
 with orange blossoms, you bet ! ' he said confidently. 
 
 How little Arundel Sunderland dreamed he was 
 deciding my destiny when he penned that last chord ! 
 
 I called to Helen and Jessie, who were at the piano
 
 222 THE MINOR CHORD. 
 
 in the adjoining room, and, tearing off the wrapper, 
 handed them the sheet of music. 
 
 ' Girls, will you play and sing this for me ? I do 
 not think you will find it difficult, ' I said, kissing them 
 both. 
 
 It was in the early afternoon twilight of a dull 
 December day that my future life was determined. 
 
 Howard and I sat without a light in the dear old 
 parlor, which had seen so much of my grief and sor- 
 row. The loved faces of my lost ones looked down on 
 us from the walls, and in the flickering reflection of 
 the fire, mother seemed to smile a blessing. 
 
 Howard took my hands as the first soft bass notes of 
 the prelude came from the next room under Helen's 
 delicate touch, which reminded me of mother's play- 
 ing. The opening phrase awoke sad memories of my 
 life. 
 
 Jessie's sweet voice began softly chanting in 
 response to the weird harmony. Those happy inno- 
 cent girls little thought that they held my future in the 
 balance. The crescendo increased as the tempo 
 quickened and the key changed. Howard and I rose 
 together as if under a magic spell. His face grew 
 strained and serious ; he, too, was affected, by the 
 suspense. 
 
 Minor strains mingled with the major in beautiful 
 symphony, as if in benediction ; the climax was 
 approaching measure by measure, with impressive 
 chords, on to the high note in which all the accumu- 
 lated passion of the song was gathered. They had 
 reached the closing retard, and the long-sustained 
 tones were soothing me, until I remembered my vow.
 
 A STORY OF A PRIMA DONNA. 223 
 
 My heart almost stood still, and my nerves thrilled 
 and tingled as the singer's last note died away. Helen 
 was about to strike the last chord 
 
 ' O Helen, Helen ! ' I screamed. 
 
 The chord was struck ! 
 
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 Beyond the City A. Conan Doyle. 
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 A liover's Fate and A Friend's Counsel Anthony Hope. 
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 Ships That Pass in the Night Beatrice Harraden. 
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