Wealthy and exclusive society women everywhere vied in showering benefits and patronage upon the new prodigies who had suddenly become the pets of the musical world. The Temple was a blaze of light, and crowded from pit to dome. It was the first appearance of the troupe in New England, therefore it was a gala night, and Boston culture was out in force.
The two friends easily found their seats in the first balcony, and from that position idly scanned the vast audience to beguile the tedious waiting. Reuel’s thoughts were disturbed; he read over the program, but it carried no meaning to his preoccupied mind; he was uneasy; the face he had seen outlined in the twilight haunted him. A great nervous dread of he knew not what possessed him, and he actually suffered as he sat there answering at random the running fire of comments made by Livingston on the audience, and replying none too cordially to the greetings of fellow-students, drawn to the affair, like himself, by curiosity.
“Great crowd for such a night,” observed one. “The weather matches your face, Briggs; why didn’t you leave it outside? Why do you look so down?”
Reuel shrugged his shoulders.
“They say there are some pretty girls in the troupe; one or two as white as we,” continued the speaker unabashed by Reuel’s surliness.
“They range at home from alabaster to ebony,” replied Livingston. “The results of amalgamation are worthy the careful attention of all medical experts.”
“Don’t talk shop, Livingston,” said Briggs peevishly.
“You are really more disagreeable than usual,” replied Livingston, pleasantly. “Do try to be like the other fellows, for once, Reuel.”
Silence ensued for a time, and then the irrepressible one of the party remarked: “The soprano soloist is great; heard her in New York.” At this there was a general laugh among the men. Good natured Charlie Vance was generally “stuck” once a month with the “loveliest girl, by jove, you know.”
“That explains your presence here, Vance; what’s her name?”
“Dianthe Lusk.”
“Great name. I hope she comes up to it—the flower of Jove.”
“Flower of Jove, indeed! You’ll say so when you see her,” cried Charlie with his usual enthusiasm.
“What! again, my son? ‘Like Dian’s kiss, unmasked, unsought, Love gives itself,’ ” quoted Livingston, with a smile on his handsome face.
“Oh, stow it! Aubrey, even your cold blood will be stirred at sight of her exquisite face; of her voice I will not speak; I cannot do it justice.”
“If this is to be the result of emancipation, I for one vote that we ask Congress to annul the Proclamation,” said Reuel, drily.
Now conversation ceased; a famous local organist began a concert on the organ to occupy the moments of waiting. The music soothed Reuel’s restlessness. He noticed that the platform usually occupied by the speaker’s desk, now held a number of chairs and a piano. Certainly, the assiduous advertising had brought large patronage for the new venture, he thought as he idly calculated the financial result from the number in the audience.
Soon the hot air, the glare of lights, the mingling of choice perfumes emanating from the dainty forms of elegantly attired women, acted upon him as an intoxicant. He began to feel the pervading excitement—the flutter of expectation, and presently the haunting face left him.
The prelude drew to a close; the last chord fell from the fingers of the artist; a line of figures—men and women—dark in hue, and neatly dressed in quiet evening clothes, filed noiselessly from the anterooms and filled the chairs upon the platform. The silence in the house was painful. These were representatives of the people for whom God had sent the terrible scourge of blood upon the land to free from bondage. The old abolitionists in the vast audience felt the blood leave their faces beneath the stress of emotion.
The opening number was “The Lord’s Prayer.” Stealing, rising, swelling, gathering, as it thrilled the ear, all the delights of harmony in a grand minor cadence that told of deliverance from bondage and homage to God for his wonderful aid, sweeping the awed heart with an ecstasy that was almost pain; breathing, hovering, soaring, they held the vast multitude in speechless wonder.
Thunders of applause greeted the close of the hymn. Scarcely waiting for a silence, a female figure rose and came slowly to the edge of the platform and stood in the blaze of lights with hands modestly clasped before her. She was not in any way the preconceived idea of a Negro. Fair as the fairest woman in the hall, with wavy bands of chestnut hair, and great, melting eyes of brown, soft as those of childhood; a willowy figure of exquisite mould, clad in a sombre gown of black. There fell a voice upon the listening ear, in celestial showers of silver that passed all conceptions, all comparisons, all dreams; a voice beyond belief—a great soprano of unimaginable beauty, soaring heavenward in mighty intervals.
“Go down, Moses, way down in Egypt’s land,
Tell ol’ Pharaoh, let my people go.”
sang the woman in tones that awakened ringing harmonies in the heart of every listener.
“By Jove!” Reuel heard Livingston exclaim. For himself he was dazed, thrilled; never save among the great artists of the earth, was such a voice heard alive with the divine fire.
Some of the women in the audience wept; there was the distinct echo of a sob in the deathly quiet which gave tribute to the power of genius. Spellbound they sat beneath the outpoured anguish of a suffering soul. All the horror, the degradation from which a race had been delivered were in the pleading strains of the singer’s voice. It strained the senses almost beyond endurance. It pictured to that self-possessed, highly-cultured New England assemblage as nothing else ever had, the awfulness of the hell from which a people had been happily plucked.
Reuel was carried
