Part 6

At last, when he was just ready to fall down with fatigue, they came to a great iron-barred gate, and the old woman rung the bell very loudly.

In a moment a great rough voice called, in Spanish, as through a trumpet, “Who rings at the gate?”

Very soon the gate was opened by a curious-looking dwarf, who started and grinned fearfully when he saw Paul.

The child offered him the basket, but he only shook his head, pointing after the old woman, who gave him her staff, and walked along with as much ease as little Paul himself.

Now the child was really frightened, and would have run away, but he was already within the gate, and, with a great clang, it closed. The dwarf put up the iron bars, and replaced the bolts. Nothing could be more secure, for all around rose an immense high fence, topped with sharp spikes. It was impossible to escape--no one could get in or out.

A long avenue led to a pleasant-looking house, built in the Spanish fashion. It was shaded with beautiful trees, that had been brought from the southern country. How they waved their long fan-like leaves in the sunshine! It was a picture engraven upon the child’s mind never to be effaced.

Under the shadow of the trees walked the old woman toward the house, and Paul followed with the basket, trembling like the light leaves of the tamarind. Just behind him came the dwarf. He could hear his heavy tread.

“It is no use! no use!” thought the child; but he would gladly have given the tempting crimson tuft, the red morocco ball, all, all his pretty treasures, to have been once more by the mother’s side, selling vegetables in the market.

They entered a large, pleasant drawing-room, with doors opening upon the front piazza and upon the verandah of the inner court, so that, though it was very warm, a delicious breeze swept through the room, and made it delightfully cool.

The old woman threw herself upon a couch, and, pointing to a silver bell, told Paul to ring it, adding, “My little cup-bearer, you must be tired, and I will order something to refresh you before you return to your good mother.”

“I am not so very tired,” said Paul; “let me go--the mother will need me;” and he looked imploringly into the pitiless face that he was beginning to fear above all things.

“Ring the bell, boy,” was the only answer.

So he rang the bell, and the dwarf, who had left them on the piazza, entered.

The woman addressed him in Spanish, which Paul did not understand, but, as he went to and from a large closet, and began spreading the table, he would turn his curious squinting eyes upon the child with looks of compassion.

In a short time all was ready; and what a delicious lunch it might have been to the child, but for the great fear that overshadowed him! Delicate cakes and confections, cold chicken, eggs, and all kinds of fruits that children are so fond of, with many nice-looking things that Paul had never seen before.

There was a great pyramid of ice-cream. “How I should like to eat it with the dear mother!” thought Paul.

Oh! that _was_ a delicious lunch, to be sure!

“Come, let us sit down,” said the old woman.

“I am not hungry,” answered Paul, timidly; for he longed so greatly to be at home, that even these unaccustomed delicacies, and the promised crimson tuft, were as nothing compared with the sweet comfort at the dear mother’s side.

“You silly child! You have walked all this distance, carrying that great basket, and are not hungry? Well, you are thirsty, and for your nectar of the gods, I will return you the sherbet of an eastern prince.”

The woman filled a glass with a clear, rosy liquid, that bubbled up and sparkled so temptingly, that little Paul, who was quite overcome with fatigue and thirst, grasped it eagerly, and did not take the glass from his lips till he had drained it to the bottom.

Then he wished to start for home, but he felt so drowsy that he could not move. He thought of the mother, but felt no emotion, and looked at the hideous old woman, who was grinning horribly, without fear. In a few moments he sunk down upon the couch, in a heavy sleep.

The woman stood over him, chuckling in great glee. “I have you now, my pretty cup-bearer, and will make you of great use to me. I will teach you a thousand things you would be glad not to know! You shall have a crimson tuft, ha! ha! ha! I will teach you to be impertinent to me! My hooked nose! to be sure. Ah! I am old! old! and nothing can make me young and fair. If I could only take for myself your young beauty! But, no! one day I must die, and that will be the end.”

The woman’s face grew convulsed--for she was haunted by the grim specter, Death, as with a dread terror. Her life had been so filled with darkness, that she could not look forward to the calm hereafter. All the brightness and beauty of heaven, the golden, was like the fleeting dreams of childhood, that the rolling years, bearing her to the portals of dim old age, had swept away.

She had studied magic, and tried to find the elixir of life, but in vain. She had discovered many wonderful things, but not the fountain of perpetual youth, nor the precious elixir of life.

For a few moments she stood gazing at the fresh face and rich curls of the child, as he lay sleeping in his pure innocence. Once the word “mother” passed his rosy lips, and the woman waved a perfumed fan over him, till even the mother was no longer the companion of his dreamless sleep.

“Now, it will do to begin,” said the old woman, and she took from a secret drawer in the closet several bottles containing liquids, and placed them on a little table. Taking a pair of sharp scissors, she sat down by the child, and cut off all his beautiful brown curls, leaving only a little tuft. This she made quite stiff in some way, and colored it bright red, tying it upon the top of his head, so that it stood up and looked very strangely.

“There is the crimson tuft, my little cup-bearer,” she said, laughing heartily at her wicked work.

Then she tinged his eyebrows red, and his skin a dark mahogany color, until, instead of the beautiful little Paul that everybody had loved and admired, he appeared the ugliest little wretch one could well imagine.

She took off his neat, plain clothes, dressing him in yellow leather breeches and a fantastic red jacket. Upon his feet she put shoes with long pointed toes, that turned up and were tied with red ribbons. When she had finished, she looked at him with great satisfaction.

“Even the old dame herself would not know her cub now. What an ugly little goat he has become, to be sure!” And the old woman, after her usual way, muttered to herself.

At last she sat down, and, eating and drinking, for, by this time, she was quite hungry, every few moments she would stop and rub her long bony hands together, and laugh, as she looked at the transformed child.

Paul slept all the afternoon, and awoke in the dusky shadow of the twilight, confused and bewildered, to find himself in a strange room with the horrible woman, sitting before a blazing fire, gazing steadily into its fantastic pictures.

At first he could not tell where he was, but in a moment he remembered all, and jumped up in the greatest excitement, saying, “How could I have slept, when the dear mother was expecting me? She will be so anxious. Oh, let me go to her! Please, good lady, let me go!”

“What do you mean,” answered the old woman. “You have no mother! you are my little servant, Crimson Tuft. I gave you that name, myself, on account of your red hair, which stands up like a crest on the top of your ugly head.”

Then the child began to cry, saying, “My hair is not red, and my name is Paul, and it was my dear mother who sold you vegetables at the market this morning. Let me go home, oh! please let me go home to the dear mother.”

The child’s voice was broken with sobs, but the hard-hearted woman only laughed, “Ha! ha! it is a curious dream you have had, or are you going crazy? your hair not red! indeed! why, look in the glass yourself.”

She led him to a mirror, and there the unhappy child saw reflected the ugly wretch called Crimson Tuft, but never again the handsome little Paul.

The child was more frightened and bewildered than ever. He was sure he had left the mother that morning, in company with this horrible old woman. Every thing in the rude little home rose in his mind, yet he could not realize his own identity. Paul surely he could not see in the reflecting mirror, only the ugly little Crimson Tuft.

He raised his hands and took hold of the stiff shock of red hair that stood up· right upon his head. Oh, no! it was not Paul’s soft silken curls.

Yet there _was a look_ about the eyes that reminded him of Paul, but even they were very different: they were the red, swollen, terror-strained eyes of Crimson Tuft.

“Are you satisfied now,” said the old woman. “It was only a dream, a queer dream that you have had, Crimson Tuft, and how funny that you should think you were an old vegetable-woman’s child. You, my servant, who have never been out of this place in your life.”

Still the child only cried the more, and entreated, “Let me go home to the mother, let me go home.”

Though he was faint from the effects of the narcotic, and from fasting for a long time, he refused food, and continued to sob, begging the old woman to let him go home, but she only answered, “you are dreaming still, or crazy.” Then she told him how sometimes people were bewitched, and did not know themselves.

“Still, I am Paul, let me go.” At last the woman, losing all patience, called the dwarf to beat him, if he did not stop crying and begin to eat. So terror and hunger at last conquered, and the little boy, choking down his sobs, sat upon a stool in silence, to eat his supper, very desolate and leaden hearted.

From that day a new era commenced in the history of the child. An era of servitude, sorrow, and tears, that washed away so far into the past the memory of his free and joyous childhood, that he began to believe what the woman so often told him, that his mind had gone astray, that he had been bewitched.

Sometimes he would stand looking long into the great mirror, at the stiff, red hairs and brown skin of poor Crimson Tuft, thinking what a beautiful myth it was, about the happy little Paul, and the dear mother. How it had stolen into his heart like a real life, and still the señora, as all about the house called her, said it was only a bewildering dream.

Into his eyes he would often look, saying, “Those are Paul’s eyes, but the red brows give a different expression to their sadness,” he would add, “No! no! they are not Paul’s eyes.”

Always the red hair, brown skin and sorrowful heart, “I must be only poor Crimson Tuft.”

Very often his hungry heart would cry out, “Oh, mother! mother!”

Too often the shrill voice of the old woman would be the discordant answer, sending him to some new task.

As months, then years, rolled by, the child became more accustomed to his sorrowful lot, and in many ways it grew pleasanter. He learned to talk Spanish fluently, and became very fond of the queer looking dwarf, who had frightened him so much at first. He often talked to him about his mysterious change, but of these things the dwarf would never speak, so at last Crimson Tuft ceased to mention them.

His kind-hearted friend taught him many things in leisure hours--to read, write, and solve difficult problems--so that at twelve, he was as much advanced in his studies as most boys of his age.

With the señora he had become quite a favorite, although at first, for a long time, he had only menial service to perform, there came a change. One day she heard him reading aloud to the dwarf, and was so much delighted with his distinct enunciation, and fine rendition of what happened to be a favorite author, that she called him to her private library, and talked a long time in a way she had never before addressed him.

“He is a boy of quick mind,” thought she, “and may be more than an ordinary servant to me. He is just what I shall need in my troublesome Mexican affairs. I must train him to his work.”

From that day he used to sit hours in the library reading to her, and often she gave him long papers to copy, which he was soon able to do, to her entire satisfaction.

Very often she would talk to him as though he were a man, in fact the training he was receiving brought only the man’s thoughts. He had left his happy boyhood at the little stall in the market-place.

One day he found an old guitar in the attic of an out-house, which was filled with broken furniture, and many things disused and forgotten. From that hour he enjoyed a real pleasure. In a short time he picked out the chords and wove them into delicious harmonies, and then there came into his mind a rich old melody of the fatherland. It was like the memory of a happy dream, and the tears filled his eyes. Again he was happy, for every thing save the spell of the divine melody was forgotten.

Two more years glided by, and the young boy was advancing toward manhood. He was tall, and finely developed; and deep within his dreamy eyes slept the wonderful magnetic charm. Still the brown skin and stiff hair remained, and he was only poor ugly Crimson Tuft.

In all this time he had never been outside the massive gate which was always strongly locked and barred; and though he had often entreated the dwarf, the only reply was a grave shake of the head, and a sad, compassionate look, from the odd squinting eyes of his companion, and if he persisted the dwarf would go away and leave him alone.

He had never ventured to speak to the Señora but once, on the subject, in years, and then her fury was so unbounded, that he feared she would tear him in pieces with her long bony fingers, which, when she was enraged, possessed the power of a vice. For a week after, she fed him on bread and water, and kept him confined in a dark room with too heavy tasks to allow him to question the mysterious past, or speculate on the uncertain future.

“Always a foolish dreamer,” she said. “I will teach you something, you, the brown-skinned Crimson Tuft.”

Yet it was all no use: the boy had his thoughts, that could not be chained. He was determined to escape.

“I will not excite suspicion; I will strive to please; and a time will come, yes, the time will come, when I shall know all.”

Thus in striving to lull the suspicions of the Argus-eyed woman to sleep, he grew into great favor, and became indispensable to her.

“He can do so many things that no one else can do,” she would say to herself, “but those great luminous eyes torment me. If they too could be changed. But that is beyond my power. Would I could make them dull leaden and red as his flaming crimson tuft. He is useful, very useful, but there are times, with all his quiet seeming, when I think he suspects me. Dare I trust him? that is the question.”

Here the old woman would fall into long fits of musing, and gaze into the glowing embers, till they faded into dead ashes.

One morning the old woman called Crimson Tuft to her, saying: “I am going away, to be gone for some days, and I want you to copy these papers for me. They are the deeds and other valuable papers of my property in Mexico, which you will see is very great. Let the copies be made with great distinctness, for these duplicates may be required. You see I am cautious, and trust you very much, very much.”

A look of suspicion crossed her sharp wizen face; but in the ugly brown countenance she could detect nothing but truth and sincerity.

“I can do no better,” she thought, but aloud she added, “the dwarf knows all and will see to the safety of these and every thing. If one of them is lost it would bring no end of trouble, and you would have your share.” With an ominous shake of the head, the old señora rose and left Crimson Tuft bending over the yellowed parchment, that was of the most inestimable value to her.

About noon she left the house, with the dwarf following her to the gate, which, when she had passed he barred more securely than ever.

For some days Crimson Tuft worked diligently over the papers. There were deeds of haciendas and mines, mortgages, and grants of land, and many long, intricate pages of law papers. Really to copy all these was a task, and Crimson Tuft was filled with amazement at the greatness of the old señora’s possessions.

At last they were all finished, and locked up by the dwarf in the iron-bound oaken chest, and that again was locked in the great closet, and the dwarf carried the key. So it was very secure.

Still the old señora did not return! “Now the time has come,” thought Crimson Tuft, “I must escape.” But that was easier planned than done. Everywhere the dwarf followed him, and when Crimson Tuft grew angry he laid his heavy hand upon his arm, saying, “from the first I have loved you, boy,--believe me it will all be well--only wait a little longer.”

Then Crimson Tuft took his hard, honest hand, saying, “you alone have loved me, and for your sake I will wait, but not long, I _can not_--do not ask it.”

One evening, about a week after this, the bell rang, and the señora entered, followed by a most beautiful little maiden about twelve years of age.

She was dressed in mourning, with a black shawl about her head; her long glossy hair hung carelessly over her graceful shoulders; her complexion was a clear olive, and her skin soft and smooth as satin; while her large, dark eyes had a depth as of the mystic sea, and a pure clear look as of heaven.

They were more beautiful than any thing Crimson Tuft had ever seen, and some how they startled him. It was not like the old vision, yet it touched him more deeply--this was of the present--that of the past.

“This is my only granddaughter,” said the old woman to the dwarf and Crimson Tuft. Both bowed very low to the pretty señorita. They were such a queer-looking pair, that she clapped her dainty little hands together laughing in a pure ringing tone, clear as the notes of a silver bell.

Poor Crimson Tuft was very much confused, for to him the young Donna Leota was the first dream of beauty that had kindled the dawning fire of manhood in his heart, and he was ready to bow down and kiss her foot-prints in the sand.

Strange to say, the little Leota swayed the grandmother as absolutely as she had ruled the dwarf and Crimson Tuft, but in one respect the old woman was resolute, the heavy gate was locked as securely upon Leota as upon the other inmates of the mansion, and no persuasion could induce her to change in this regard.

Leota was passionately fond of music, and played the harp very sweetly.

Once in the still hours of night, she was awakened by the notes of her own harp vibrating in the most exquisite harmony.

She was filled with delight though she trembled with fear, for she was quite sure there was no one in the house who knew any thing of music but herself, yet the chords were swept as by a master’s hand.

She lay motionless until the last note died away, and it was long before she fell asleep, for the spell of the rich melodies still floated through the air around her. In the morning she spoke of it, but no one could explain the mystery. Again and again, in the silent hours came the rich melody, not old familiar airs, but the exquisite improvisations of genius.

One night, when the golden moon was casting its soft amber light over land and sea, and the enchanted harp sending forth its entrancing strains, Leota rose softly from her couch, and summoning all her courage, determined herself to solve the mystery. She glided quietly along the passage-way to the large glass door of the parlor, and there she saw Crimson Tuft bending fondly over the harp, and calling out the bewildering melody that she had thought could be born only of mystical enchantment. The imagination of the young girl was so vivid that she was easily prepared for things supernatural, but to see poor brown Crimson Tuft, the great magician, he, the slave, of whom she thought only to laugh at--this was stranger than all.

The soft moonlight fell full upon his face, and his large luminous eyes were dewy with the spirit of the rich melody. With the rare beauty that was all their own, they almost redeemed the brown skin and flaming hair from positive ugliness. Leota stood entranced till the last note died out of the thrilled chords of the trembling harp, then, as she turned to go, the rustling of her robe caused Crimson Tuft to raise his eyes, and they fell full upon her face, to him at least the most beautiful face in the world. He was covered with deep confusion. Over his redeeming eyes fell the heavy red lashes, and the ugly brows contracted.

She, his rare divinity, had seen him play, and heard how the notes flowed from his own heart, through the sympathizing harp-strings that thrilled with his devotion to her, which would last all his life long.

Leota was greatly bewildered, and as she stole away to her own room, strange thoughts chased themselves through her mind. Not one word had been spoken, but every thing had changed. Crimson Tuft was no longer only the ugly servant of her grandmother, but he was Crimson Tuft of the mystery.

There was something interesting in that; besides, shut up in those high walls, with only the old grandmother for company, and little amusement, one must think a great deal. So Leota had her thoughts. Crimson Tuft had wonderful eyes. She had found that out, and it was a great deal there in that dull place.

She wished to be in Mexico again, where the most beautiful flowers bloom, and the delicious fruit grows ripe on the broad-leafed trees. Yet she did not like to think she would never see the beautiful eyes again. “But one must not think too much of a servant,” she would say to herself. “She was of good blood, and that would not do, yet one must treat inferiors kindly.” Really it was difficult to tell what one must do. So, all in a maze, she fell asleep, and dreamed of the most radiant eyes, which _were_ Crimson Tuft’s, and the handsomest face, which surely _was not_ Crimson Tuft’s.

The morning dawned clear and bright, as Crimson Tuft arose and began the duties of the day. Though he was advanced to the post of private secretary, the old señora had left him some tasks in the early part of the day that would prevent him from forgetting his position as a servant.

First he swept and dusted the parlor and halls. This had always been his work, and no one else could please the señora so well. As he dusted the señorita’s harp a flash of indignation filled his heart. He was only a servant, the ugly Crimson Tuft, and she the most beautiful maiden, the divinity of his soul. There was a great difference, yet he felt himself a man, and he would conquer fate in the end, even with his ugly Crimson Tuft. This was what he thought.

When Leota appeared she said nothing of her discovery, but when she spoke to him it was in a different tone from formerly. The mystery of the enchanted harp was over, but the greater mystery had begun.

The wonderful eyes acted as a talisman upon her heart, and though she strove against it, she found herself forgetting Crimson Tuft’s position, his ugly brown skin and red hair.

One glance of his beaming eyes would set her warm blood dancing through her veins till her neck and brow were a soft rose-tint, and this was in no way pleasant to the proud little maiden.

The next night Crimson Tuft did not touch the harp, and in the morning the Donna Leota passed him at his work with a haughty toss of her dainty head, but with a quiver in her voice she said, “Crimson Tuft, play when you like, the music pleases me.”

After that Crimson Tuft would always play at twilight, and even the old grandmother was touched by the magical spell of his genius.