"I am not surprised to hear you express this feeling," responded he.
"I had supposed it must be so. It seems to me the _libretti_ of operas are generally singularly ill conceived, both morally and artistically.
Music is in itself so pure and heavenly, that it seems a desecration to make it the expression of vile incidents and vapid words. But is the feeling of which you speak sufficiently strong to induce you to retire from the brilliant career now opening before you, and devote yourself to concert-singing?"
"There is one thing that makes me hesitate," rejoined she. "I wish to earn money fast, to accomplish certain purposes I have at heart.
Otherwise, I don"t think I care much for the success you call so brilliant. It is certainly agreeable to feel that I delight the audience, though they are strangers; but their cries of "_Bis! Bis_!"
give me less real pleasure than it did to have Papasito ask me to sing over something that he liked. I seem to see him now, as he used to listen to me in our flowery parlor. Do you remember that room, Mr.
King?"
"Do I _remember_ it?" he said, with a look and emphasis so earnest that a quick blush suffused her eloquent face. "I see that room as distinctly as you can see it," he continued. "It has often been in my dreams, and the changing events of my life have never banished it from my memory for a single day. How _could I_ forget it, when my heart there received its first and only deep impression. I have loved you from the first evening I saw you. Judging that your affections were pre-engaged, I would gladly have loved another, if I could; but though I have since met fascinating ladies, none of them have interested me deeply."
An expression of pain pa.s.sed over her face while she listened, and when he paused she murmured softly, "I am sorry."
"Sorry!" echoed he. "Is it then impossible for me to inspire you with sentiments similar to my own?"
"I am sorry," she replied, "because a first, fresh love, like yours, deserves better recompense than it could receive from a bruised and worn-out heart like mine. I can never experience the illusion of love again. I have suffered too deeply."
"I do not wish you to experience the _illusion_ of love again," he replied. "But my hope is that the devotion of my life may enable you to experience the true and tender _reality_" He placed his hand gently and timidly upon hers as he spoke, and looked in her face earnestly.
Without raising her eyes she said, "I suppose you are aware that my mother was a slave, and that her daughters inherited her misfortune."
"I am aware of it," he replied. "But that only makes me ashamed of my country, not of her or of them. Do not, I pray you, pain yourself or me by alluding to any of the unfortunate circ.u.mstances of your past life, with the idea that they can depreciate your value in my estimation. From Madame and the Signor I have learned the whole story of your wrongs and your sufferings. Fortunately, my good father taught me, both by precept and example, to look through the surface of things to the reality. I have seen and heard enough to be convinced that your own heart is n.o.ble and pure. Such natures cannot be sullied by the unworthiness of others; they may even be improved by it. The famous Dr. Spurzheim says, he who would have the best companion for his life should choose a woman who has suffered. And though I would gladly have saved you from suffering, I cannot but see that your character has been elevated by it. Since I have known you here in Rome, I have been surprised to observe how the young romantic girl has ripened into the thoughtful, prudent woman. I will not urge you for an answer now, my dear Miss Royal. Take as much time as you please to reflect upon it.
Meanwhile, if you choose to devote your fine musical genius to the opera, I trust you will allow me to serve you in any way that a brother could under similar circ.u.mstances. If you prefer to be a concert-singer, my father had a cousin who married in England, where she has a good deal of influence in the musical world. I am sure she would take a motherly interest in you, both for your own sake and mine. Your romantic story, instead of doing you injury in England, would make you a great lioness, if you chose to reveal it."
"I should dislike that sort of attention," she replied hastily. "Do not suppose, however, that I am ashamed of my dear mother, or of her lineage; but I wish to have any interest I excite founded on my own merits, not on any extraneous circ.u.mstance. But you have not yet advised me whether to remain on the stage or to retire from it."
"If I presumed that my opinion would decide the point," rejoined he, "I should be diffident about expressing it in a case so important to yourself."
"You are very delicate," she replied. "But I conjecture that you would be best pleased if I decided in favor of concert-singing."
While he was hesitating what to say, in order to leave her in perfect freedom, she added: "And so, if you will have the goodness to introduce me to your relative, and she is willing to be my patroness, I will try my fortune in England. Of course she ought to be informed of my previous history; but I should prefer to have her consider it strictly confidential. And now, if you please, I will say, _An revoir_; for Papa Balbino is waiting for some instructions on matters of business."
She offered her hand with a very sweet smile. He clasped it with a slight pressure, bowed his head upon it for an instant, and said, with deep emotion: "Thank you, dearest of women. You send me away a happy man; for hope goes with me."
When the door closed after him, she sank into a chair, and covered her face with both her hands. "How different is his manner of making love from that of Gerald," thought she. "Surely, I can trust _this_ time.
O, if I was only worthy of such love!"
Her revery was interrupted by the entrance of Madame and the Signor.
She answered their inquisitive looks by saying, rather hastily, "When you told Mr. King the particulars of my story, did you tell him about the poor little _bambino_ I left in New Orleans?"
Madame replied, "I mentioned to him how the death of the poor little thing afflicted you."
Rosa made no response, but occupied herself with selecting some pieces of music connected with the performance at the opera.
The Signor, as he went out with the music, said, "Do you suppose she didn"t want him to know about the _bambino_?"
"Perhaps she is afraid he will think her heartless for leaving it,"
replied Madame. "But I will tell her I took all the blame on myself.
If she is so anxious about his good opinion, it shows which way the wind blows."
The Senorita Rosita Campaneo and her attendants had flitted, no one knew whither, before the public were informed that her engagement was not to be renewed. Rumor added that she was soon to be married to a rich American, who had withdrawn her from the stage.
"Too much to be monopolized by one man," said Mr. Green to Mr.
Fitzgerald. "Such a glorious creature belongs to the world."
"Who is the happy man?" inquired Mrs. Fitzgerald.
"They say it is King, that pale-faced Puritan from Boston," rejoined her husband. "I should have given her credit for better taste."
In private, he made all possible inquiries; but merely succeeded in tracing them to a vessel at Civita Vecchia, bound to Ma.r.s.eilles.
To the public, the fascinating _prima donna_, who had rushed up from the horizon like a brilliant rocket, and disappeared as suddenly, was only a nine-days wonder. Though for some time after, when opera-goers heard any other _cantatrice_ much lauded, they would say: "Ah, you should have heard the Campaneo! Such a voice! She rose to the highest D as easily as she breathed. And such glorious eyes!"
CHAPTER XXII.
While Rosabella was thus exchanging the laurel crown for the myrtle wreath, Flora and her friend were on their way to search the places that had formerly known her. Accompanied by Mr. Jacobs, who had long been a steward in her family, Mrs. Delano pa.s.sed through Savannah, without calling on her friend Mrs. Welby, and in a hired boat proceeded to the island. Flora almost flew over the ground, so great was her anxiety to reach the cottage. Nature, which pursues her course with serene indifference to human vicissitudes, wore the same smiling aspect it had worn two years before, when she went singing through the woods, like Cinderella, all unconscious of the beneficent fairy she was to meet there in the form of a new Mamita. Trees and shrubs were beautiful with young, glossy foliage. Pines and firs offered their aromatic incense to the sun. Birds were singing, and bees gathering honey from the wild-flowers. A red-headed woodp.e.c.k.e.r was hammering away on the umbrageous tree under which Flora used to sit while busy with her sketches. He c.o.c.ked his head to listen as they approached, and, at first sight of them, flew up into the clear blue air, with undulating swiftness. To Flora"s great disappointment, they found all the doors fastened; but Mr. Jacobs entered by a window and opened one of them. The cottage had evidently been deserted for a considerable time. Spiders had woven their tapestry in all the corners. A pane had apparently been cut out of the window their attendant had opened, and it afforded free pa.s.sage to the birds. On a bracket of sh.e.l.l-work, which Flora had made to support a vase of flowers, was a deserted nest, bedded in soft green moss, which hung from it in irregular streamers and festoons.
"How pretty!" said Mrs. Delano. "If the little creature had studied the picturesque, she couldn"t have devised anything more graceful. Let us take it, bracket and all, and carry it home carefully."
"That was the very first sh.e.l.l-work I made after we came from Na.s.sau,"
rejoined Flora. "I used to put fresh flowers on it every morning, to please Rosa. Poor Rosa! Where _can_ she be?"
She turned away her head, and was silent for a moment. Then, pointing to the window, she said: "There"s that dead pine-tree I told you I used to call Old Man of the Woods. He is swinging long pennants of moss on his arms, just as he did when I was afraid to look at him in the moonlight."
She was soon busy with a heap of papers swept into a corner of the room she used to occupy. They were covered with sketches of leaves and flowers, and embroidery-patterns, and other devices with which she had amused herself in those days. Among them she was delighted to find the head and shoulders of Thistle, with a garland round his neck. In Rosa"s sleeping-room, an old music-book, hung with cobwebs, leaned against the wall.
"O Mamita Lila, I am glad to find this!" exclaimed Flora. "Here is what Rosa and I used to sing to dear papa when we were ever so little.
He always loved old-fashioned music. Here are some of Jackson"s canzonets, that were his favorites." She began to hum, "Time has not thinned my flowing hair." "Here is Dr. Arne"s "Sweet Echo." Rosa used to play and sing that beautifully. And here is what he always liked to have us sing to him at sunset. We sang it to him the very night before he died." She began to warble, "Now Phoebus sinketh in the west."
"Why, it seems as if I were a little girl again, singing to Papasito and Mamita," said she.
Looking up, she saw that Mrs. Delano had covered her face with her handkerchief; and closing the music-book, she nestled to her side, affectionately inquiring what had troubled her. For a little while her friend pressed her hand in silence.
"O darling," said she, "what a strange, sad gift is memory! I sang that to your father the last time we ever saw the sunset together; and perhaps when he heard it he used to see me sometimes, as plainly as I now see him. It is consoling to think he did not quite forget me."
"When we go home, I will sing it to you every evening if you would like it, Mamita Lila," said Flora.
Her friend patted her head fondly, and said: "You must finish your researches soon, darling; for I think we had better go to Magnolia Lawn to see if Tom and Chloe can be found."
"How shall we get there? It"s too far for you to walk, and poor Thistle"s gone," said Flora.
"I have sent Mr. Jacobs to the plantation," replied Mrs. Delano, "and I think he will find some sort of vehicle. Meanwhile, you had better be getting together any little articles you want to carry away."
As Flora took up the music-book, some of the loose leaves fell out, and with them came a sketch of Tulee"s head, with the large gold hoops and the gay turban. "Here"s Tulee!" shouted Flora. "It isn"t well drawn, but it _is_ like her. I"ll make a handsome picture from it, and frame it, and hang it by my bedside, where I can see it every morning.
Dear, good Tulee! How she jumped up and kissed us when we first arrived here. I suppose she thinks I am dead, and has cried a great deal about little Missy Flory. O, what wouldn"t I give to see her!"