A Romance of the Republic by Lydia Maria Francis Child (page 4)

“And that queenly beauty, where is she? I don’t know that I ever heard her name.”

“Rosabella Royal,” replied Fitzgerald. “She is living at a convenient distance from my plantation.”

“Well, I will be generous,” said Bruteman. “If you will make _her_ over to me, I will cancel the debt.”

“She is not in strong health at present,” rejoined Fitzgerald. “She has a babe about two weeks old.”

“You know you have invited me to visit your island two or three weeks hence,” replied Bruteman; “and then I shall depend upon you to introduce me to your fair Rosamond. But we will draw up the papers and sign them now, if you please.”

Some jests unfit for repetition were uttered by the creditor, to which the unhappy debtor made no reply. When he called Tom to bring paper and ink, the observing servant noticed that he was very pale, though but a few moments before his face had been flushed.

That night, he tried to drown recollection in desperate gambling and frequent draughts of wine. Between one and two o’clock in the morning, his roisterous companions were led off by their servants, and he was put into bed by Tom, where he immediately dropped into a perfectly senseless sleep.

As soon as there was sufficient light, Tom started for the house of the Signor; judging that he was safe from his master for three hours at least. Notwithstanding the earliness of the hour, Madame made her appearance in a very few moments after her servant informed her who was in waiting, and the Signor soon followed. In the course of the next hour and a half an incredible amount of talking was done in negro “lingo” and broken English. The impetuous Signor strode up and down, clenching his fists, cursing slavery, and sending Fitzgerald to the Devil in a volley of phrases hard enough in their significance, though uttered in soft-flowing Italian.

“Swearing does no good, my friend,” said Madame; “besides, there isn’t time for it. Rosabella must be brought away immediately. Bruteman will be on the alert, you may depend. She slipped through his fingers once, and he won’t trust Fitzgerald again.”

The Signor cooled down, and proposed to go for her himself. But that was overruled, in a very kind way, by his prudent wife, who argued that he was not well enough for such an exciting adventure, or to be left without her nursing, when his mind would be such a prey to uneasiness. It was her proposition to send at once for her cousin Duroy, and have him receive very particular directions from Tom how to reach the island and find the cottage. Tom said he didn’t know whether he could get away for an hour again, because his master was always very angry if he was out of the way when called; but if Mr. Duroy would come to the hotel, he would find chances to tell him what to do. And that plan was immediately carried into effect.

While these things were going on in New Orleans, Mrs. Fitzgerald was taking frequent drives about the lovely island with her mother, Mrs. Bell; while Rosa was occasionally perambulating her little circuit of woods on the back of patient Thistle. One day Mrs. Fitzgerald and her mother received an invitation to the Welby plantation, to meet some Northern acquaintances who were there; and as Mrs. Fitzgerald’s strength was not yet fully restored, Mrs. Welby proposed that they should remain all night. Chloe, who had lost her own baby, was chosen to nurse her master’s new-born heir, and was consequently tied so closely that she could find no chance to go to the cottage, whose inmates she had a great longing to see. But when master and mistress were both gone, she thought she might take her freedom for a while without incurring any great risk. The other servants agreed to keep her secret, and Joe the coachman promised to drive her most of the way when he came back with the carriage. Accordingly, she made her appearance at the cottage quite unexpectedly, to the great joy of Tulee.

When she unwrapped the little black-haired baby from its foldings of white muslin, Tulee exclaimed: “He looks jus’ like his good-for-nothing father; and so does Missy Rosy’s baby. I’m ‘fraid ‘t will make poor missy feel bad to see it, for she don’t know nothin’ ’bout it.”

“Yes I do, Tulee,” said Rosa, who had heard Chloe’s voice, and gone out to greet her. “I heard Tom tell you about it.”

She took up the little hand, scarcely bigger than a bird’s claw, and while it twined closely about her finger, she looked into its eyes, so like to Gerald’s in shape and color. She was hoping that those handsome eyes might never be used as his had been, but she gave no utterance to her thoughts. Her manner toward Chloe was full of grateful kindness; and the poor bondwoman had some happy hours, playing free for a while. She laid the infant on its face in her lap, trotting it gently, and patting its back, while she talked over with Tulee all the affairs at the “Grat Hus.” And when the babe was asleep, she asked and obtained Rosa’s permission to lay him on her bed beside his little brother. Then poor Chloe’s soul took wing and soared aloft among sun-lighted clouds. As she prayed, and sang her fervent hymns, and told of her visions and revelations, she experienced satisfaction similar to that of a troubadour, or palmer from Holy Land, with an admiring audience listening to his wonderful adventures.

While she was thus occupied, Tulee came in hastily to say that a stranger gentleman was coming toward the house. Such an event in that lonely place produced general excitement, and some consternation. Rosa at once drew her curtain and bolted the door. But Tulee soon came rapping gently, saying, “It’s only I, Missy Rosy.” As the door partially opened, she said, “It’s a friend Madame has sent ye.” Rosa, stepping forward, recognized Mr. Duroy, the cousin in whose clothes Madame had escaped with them from New Orleans. She was very slightly acquainted with him, but it was such a comfort to see any one who knew of the old times that she could hardly refrain from throwing herself on his neck and bursting into tears. As she grasped his hand with a close pressure, he felt the thinness of her emaciated fingers. The paleness of her cheeks, and the saddened expression of her large eyes, excited his compassion. He was too polite to express it in words, but it was signified by the deference of his manner and the extreme gentleness of his tones. He talked of Madame’s anxious love for her, of the Signor’s improving health, of the near completion of their plan for going to Europe, and of their intention to take her with them. Rosa was full of thankfulness, but said she was as yet incapable of much exertion. Mr. Duroy went on to speak of Tom’s visit to Madame; and slowly and cautiously he prepared the way for his account of the conversation between Mr. Fitzgerald and Mr. Bruteman. But careful as he was, he noticed that her features tightened and her hands were clenched. When he came to the interchange of writings, she sprung to her feet, and, clutching his arm convulsively, exclaimed, “Did he do that?” Her eyes were like a flame, and her chest heaved with the quick-coming breath.

He sought to draw her toward him, saying in soothing tones, “They shall not harm you, my poor girl. Trust to me, as if I were your father.” But she burst from him impetuously, and walked up and down rapidly; such a sudden access of strength had the body received from the frantic soul.

“Try not to be so much agitated,” said he. “In a very short time you will be in Europe, and then you will be perfectly safe.”

She paused an instant in her walk, and, with a strange glare in her eyes, she hissed out, “I hate him.”

He laid his hand gently upon her shoulder, and said: “I want very much that you should try to be calm. Some negroes are coming with a boat at daybreak, and it is necessary we should all go away with them. You ought to rest as much as possible beforehand.”

“_Rest_!” repeated she with bitter emphasis. And clenching her teeth hard, she again said, “I hate him!”

Poor Rosa! It had taken a mountain-weight of wrong so to crush out all her gentleness.

Mr. Duroy became somewhat alarmed. He hastened to the kitchen and told Chloe to go directly to Miss Rosa. He then briefly explained his errand to Tulee, and told her to prepare for departure as fast as possible. “But first go to your mistress,” said he; “for I am afraid she may go crazy.”

The sufferer yielded more readily to Tulee’s accustomed influence than she had done to that of Mr. Duroy. She allowed herself to be laid upon the bed; but while her forehead and temples were being bathed, her heart beat violently, and all her pulses were throbbing. It was, however, necessary to leave her with Chloe, who knelt by the bedside, holding her hand, and praying in tones unusually low for her.

“I’m feared for her,” said Tulee to Mr. Duroy. “I never see Missy Rosy look so wild and strange.”

A short time after, when she looked into the room, Rosa’s eyes were closed. She whispered to Chloe: “Poor Missy’s asleep. You can come and help me a little now.”

But Rosa was not in the least drowsy. She had only remained still, to avoid being talked to. As soon as her attendants had withdrawn, she opened her eyes, and, turning toward the babes, she gazed upon them for a long time. There they lay side by side, like twin kittens. But ah! thought she, how different is their destiny! One is born to be cherished and waited upon all his days, the other is an outcast and a slave. My poor fatherless babe! He wouldn’t manumit us. It was not thoughtlessness. He _meant_ to sell us. “He _meant_ to sell us,” she repeated aloud; and again the wild, hard look came into her eyes. Such a tempest was raging in her soul, that she felt as if she could kill him if he stood before her. This savage paroxysm of revenge was followed by thoughts of suicide. She was about to rise, but hearing the approach of Tulee, she closed her eyes and remained still.

Language is powerless to describe the anguish of that lacerated soul. At last the storm subsided, and she fell into a heavy sleep.

Meanwhile the two black women were busy with arrangements for the early flight. Many things had been already prepared with the expectation of a summons to New Orleans, and not long after midnight all was in readiness. Chloe, after a sound nap on the kitchen floor, rose up with the first peep of light. She and Tulee hugged each other, with farewell kisses and sobs. She knelt by Rosa’s bedside to whisper a brief prayer, and, giving her one long, lingering look, she took up her baby, and set off for the plantation, wondering at the mysterious ways of Providence.

They deferred waking Rosa as long as possible, and when they roused her, she had been so deeply sunk in slumber that she was at first bewildered. When recollection returned, she looked at her babe. “Where’s Chloe?” she asked.

“Gone back to the plantation,” was the reply.

“O, I am so sorry!” sighed Rosa.

“She was feared they would miss her,” rejoined Tulee. “So she went away as soon as she could see. But she prayed for ye, Missy Rosy; and she told me to say poor Chloe would never forget ye.”

“O, I’m _so_ sorry!” repeated Rosa, mournfully.

She objected to taking the nourishment Tulee offered, saying she wanted to die. But Mr. Duroy reminded her that Madame was longing to see her, and she yielded to that plea. When Tulee brought the same travelling-dress in which she had first come to the cottage, she shrunk from it at first, but seemed to remember immediately that she ought not to give unnecessary trouble to her friends. While she was putting it on, Tulee said, “I tried to remember to put up everything ye would want, darling.”

“I don’t want _any_thing,” she replied listlessly. Then, looking up suddenly, with that same wild, hard expression, she added, “Don’t let me ever see anything that came from _him_!” She spoke so sternly, that Tulee, for the first time in her life, was a little afraid of her.

The eastern sky was all of a saffron glow, but the golden edge of the sun had not yet appeared above the horizon, when they entered the boat which was to convey them to the main-land. Without one glance toward the beautiful island where she had enjoyed and suffered so much, the unhappy fugitive nestled close to Tulee, and hid her face on her shoulder, as if she had nothing else in the world to cling to.

* * * * *

A week later, a carriage stopped before Madame’s door, and Tulee rushed in with the baby on her shoulder, exclaiming, “_Nous voici_!” while Mr. Duroy was helping Rosa to alight. Then such huggings and kissings, such showers of French from Madame, and of mingled French and Italian from the Signor, while Tulee stood by, throwing up her hand, and exclaiming, “Bless the Lord! bless the Lord!” The parrot listened with ear upturned, and a lump of sugar in her claw, then overtopped all their voices with the cry of “_Bon jour, Rosabella! je suis enchantee_.”

This produced a general laugh, and there was the faint gleam of a smile on Rosa’s face, as she looked up at the cage and said, “_Bon jour, jolie Manon_!” But she soon sank into a chair with an expression of weariness.

“You are tired, darling,” said Madame, as she took off her bonnet and tenderly put back the straggling hair. “No wonder, after all you have gone through, my poor child!”

Rosa clasped her round the neck, and murmured, “O my dear friend, I _am_ tired, _so_ tired!”

Madame led her to the settee, and arranged her head comfortably on its pillows. Then, giving her a motherly kiss, she said, “Rest, darling, while Tulee and I look after the boxes.”

When they had all passed into another room, she threw up her hands and exclaimed: “How she’s changed! How thin and pale she is! How large her eyes look! But she’s beautiful as an angel.”

“I never see Missy Rosy but once when she wasn’t beautiful as an angel,” said Tulee; “and that was the night Massa Duroy told her she was sold to Massa Bruteman. Then she looked as if she had as many devils as that Mary Magdalene Massa Royal used to read about o’ Sundays.”

“No wonder, poor child!” exclaimed Madame. “But I hope the little one is some comfort to her.”

“She ha’n’t taken much notice of him, or anything else, since Massa Duroy told her that news,” rejoined Tulee.

Madame took the baby and tried to look into its face as well as the lopping motions of its little head would permit. “I shouldn’t think she’d have much comfort in looking at it,” said she; “for it’s the image of its father; but the poor little dear ain’t to blame for that.”

An animated conversation followed concerning what had happened since Tulee went away,–especially the disappearance of Flora. Both hinted at having entertained similar suspicions, but both had come to the conclusion that she could not be alive, or she would have written.

Rosa, meanwhile, left alone in the little parlor, where she had listened so anxiously for the whistling of _Ca ira_, was scarcely conscious of any other sensation than the luxury of repose, after extreme fatigue of body and mind. There was, indeed, something pleasant in the familiar surroundings. The parrot swung in the same gilded ring in her cage. Madame’s table, with its basket of chenilles, stood in the same place, and by it was her enamelled snuffbox. Rosa recognized a few articles that had been purchased at the auction of her father’s furniture;–his arm-chair, and the astral lamp by which he used to sit to read his newspaper; a sewing-chair that was her mother’s; and one of Flora’s embroidered slippers, hung up for a watch-case. With these memories floating before her drowsy eyes, she fell asleep, and slept for a long time. As her slumbers grew lighter, dreams of father, mother, and sister passed through various changes; the last of which was that Flora was puzzling the mocking-birds. She waked to the consciousness that some one was whistling in the room.

“Who is that!” exclaimed she; and the parrot replied with a tempest of imitations. Madame, hearing the noise, came in, saying: “How stupid I was not to cover the cage! She is _so_ noisy! Her memory is wonderful. I don’t think she’ll ever forget a note of all the _melange_ dear Floracita took so much pains to teach her.”

She began to call up reminiscences of Flora’s incessant mischief; but finding Rosa in no mood for anything gay, she proceeded to talk over the difficulties of her position, concluding with the remark: “To-day and to-night you must rest, my child. But early to-morrow you and the Signor will start for New York, whence you will take passage to Marseilles, under the name of Signor Balbino and daughter.”

“I wish I could stay here, at least for a little while,” sighed Rosa.

“It’s never wise to wish for what cannot be had,” rejoined Madame. “It would cause great trouble and expense to obtain your freedom; and it is doubtful whether we could secure it at all, for Bruteman won’t give you up if he can avoid it. The voyage will recruit your strength, and it will do you good to be far away from anything that reminds you of old troubles. I have nothing left to do but to dispose of my furniture, and settle about the lease of this house. You will wait at Marseilles for me. I shall be uneasy till I have the sea between me and the agents of Mr. Bruteman, and I shall hurry to follow after you as soon as possible.”

“And Tulee and the baby?” asked Rosa.

“Yes, with Tulee and the baby,” replied Madame. “But I shall send them to my cousin’s to-morrow, to be out of the way of being seen by the neighbors. He lives off the road, and three miles out. They’ll be nicely out of the way there.”

It was all accomplished as the energetic Frenchwoman had planned. Rosa was whirled away, without time to think of anything. At parting, she embraced Tulee, and looked earnestly in the baby’s face, while she stroked his shining black hair. “Good by, dear, kind Tulee,” said she. “Take good care of the little one.”

At Philadelphia, her strength broke down, and they were detained three days. Consequently, when they arrived in New York, they found that the Mermaid, in which they expected to take passage, had sailed. The Signor considered it imprudent to correspond with his wife on the subject, and concluded to go out of the city and wait for the next vessel. When they went on board, they found Madame, and explained to her the circumstances.

“I am glad I didn’t know of the delay,” said she; “for I was frightened enough as it was. But, luckily, I got off without anybody’s coming to make inquiries.”

“But where are Tulee and the baby? Are they down below?” asked Rosa.

“No, dear, I didn’t bring them.”

“O, how came you to leave them?” said Rosa. “Something will happen to them.”

“I have provided well for their safety,” rejoined Madame. “The reason I did it was this. We have no certain home or prospects at present; and I thought we had better be settled somewhere before the baby was brought. My cousin is coming to Marseilles in about three months, and he will bring them with him. His wife was glad to give Tulee her board, meanwhile, for what work she could do. I really think it was best, dear. The feeble little thing will be stronger for the voyage by that time; and you know Tulee will take just as good care of it as if it were her own.”

“Poor Tulee!” sighed Rosa. “Was she willing to be left?”

“She didn’t know when I came away,” replied Madame.

Rosa heaved an audible groan, as she said: “I am so sorry you did this, Madame! If anything should happen to them, it would be a weight on my mind as long as I live.”

“I did what I thought was for the best,” answered Madame. “I was in such a hurry to get away, on your account, that, if I hadn’t all my wits about me, I hope you will excuse me. But I think myself I made the best arrangement.”

Rosa, perceiving a slight indication of pique in her tone, hastened to kiss her, and call her her best and dearest friend. But in her heart she mourned over what she considered, for the first time in her life, a great mistake in the management of Madame.

* * * * *

After Tom’s return from New Orleans, he continued to go to the cottage as usual, and so long as no questions were asked, he said nothing; but when his master inquired how they were getting on there, he answered that Missy Rosy was better. When a fortnight had elapsed, he thought the fugitives must be out of harm’s way, and he feared Mr. Bruteman might be coming soon to claim his purchase. Accordingly he one day informed his master, with a great appearance of astonishment and alarm, that the cottage was shut up, and all the inmates gone.

Fitzgerald’s first feeling was joy; for he was glad to be relieved from the picture of Rosa’s horror and despair, which had oppressed him like the nightmare. But he foresaw that Bruteman would suspect him of having forewarned her, though he had solemnly pledged himself not to do so. He immediately wrote him the tidings, with expressions of surprise and regret. The answer he received led to a duel, in which he received a wound in the shoulder, that his wife always supposed was occasioned by a fall from his horse.

When Mr. Bruteman ascertained that Madame and the Signor had left the country, he at once conjectured that the fugitive was with them. Having heard that Mr. Duroy was a relative, he waited upon him, at his place of business, and was informed that Rosabella Royal had sailed for France, with his cousin, in the ship Mermaid. Not long after, it was stated in the ship news that the Mermaid had foundered at sea, and all on board were lost.

CHAPTER XVII.

While Rosabella had been passing through these dark experiences, Flora was becoming more and more accustomed to her new situation. She strove bravely to conceal the homesickness which she could not always conquer; but several times, in the course of their travels, Mrs. Delano noticed moisture gathering on her long black eyelashes when she saw the stars and stripes floating from the mast of a vessel. Once, when a rose was given her, she wept outright; but she soon wiped her eyes, and apologized by saying: “I wonder whether a _Pensee-Vivace_ makes Rosa feel as I do when I see a rose? But what an ungrateful child I am, when I have such a dear, kind, new Mamita!” And a loving smile again lighted up her swimming eyes,–those beautiful April eyes of tears and sunshine, that made rainbows in the heart.

Mrs. Delano wisely kept her occupied with a succession of teachers and daily excursions. Having a natural genius for music and drawing, she made rapid progress in both during a residence of six months in England, six months in France, and three months in Switzerland. And as Mr. and Mrs. Percival were usually with them, she picked up, in her quick way, a good degree of culture from the daily tone of conversation. The one drawback to the pleasure of new acquisitions was that she could not share them with Rosa.

One day, when she was saying this, Mrs. Delano replied: “We will go to Italy for a short time, and then we will return to live in Boston. I have talked the matter over a good deal with Mr. Percival, and I think I should know how to guard against any contingency that may occur. And as you are so anxious about your sister, I have been revolving plans for taking you back to the island, to see whether we can ascertain what is going on in that mysterious cottage.”

From that time there was a very perceptible increase of cheerfulness in Flora’s spirits. The romance of such an adventure hit her youthful fancy, while the idea of getting even a sly peep at Rosa filled her with delight. She imagined all sorts of plans to accomplish this object, and often held discussions upon the propriety of admitting Tulee to their confidence.

Her vivacity redoubled when they entered Italy. She was herself composed of the same materials of which Italy was made; and without being aware of the spiritual relationship, she at once felt at home there. She was charmed with the gay, impulsive people, the bright costumes, the impassioned music, and the flowing language. The clear, intense blue of the noonday sky, and the sun setting in a glowing sea of amber, reminded her of her Southern home; and the fragrance of the orange-groves was as incense waved by the memory of her childhood. The ruins of Rome interested her less than any other features of the landscape; for, like Bettini, she never asked who any of the ancients were, for fear they would tell her. The play of sunshine on the orange-colored lichens interested her more than the inscriptions they covered; and while their guide was telling the story of mouldering arches, she was looking through them at the clear blue sky and the soft outline of the hills.

One morning they rode out early to spend a whole day at Albano; and every mile of the ride presented her with some charming novelty. The peasants who went dancing by in picturesque costumes, and the finely formed women walking erect with vases of water on their heads, or drawing an even thread from their distaffs, as they went singing along, furnished her memory with subjects for many a picture. Sometimes her exclamations would attract the attention of a group of dancers, who, pleased with an exuberance of spirits akin to their own, and not unmindful of forthcoming coin, would beckon to the driver to stop, while they repeated their dances for the amusement of the Signorina. A succession of pleasant novelties awaited her at Albano. Running about among the ilex-groves in search of bright mosses, she would come suddenly in front of an elegant villa, with garlands in stucco, and balconies gracefully draped with vines. Wandering away from that, she would utter a little cry of joy at the unexpected sight of some reclining marble nymph, over which a little fountain threw a transparent veil of gossamer sparkling with diamonds. Sometimes she stood listening to the gurgling and dripping of unseen waters; and sometimes melodies floated from the distance, which her quick ear caught at once, and her tuneful voice repeated like a mocking-bird. The childlike zest with which she entered into everything, and made herself a part of everything, amused her quiet friend, and gave her even more pleasure than the beauties of the landscape.

After a picnic repast, they ascended Monte Cavo, and looked down on the deep basins of the lakes, once blazing with volcanic fire, now full of water blue as the sky it reflected; like human souls in which the passions have burned out, and left them calm recipients of those divine truths in which the heavens are mirrored. As Mrs. Delano pointed out various features in the magnificent panorama around them, she began to tell Flora of scenes in the Aeneid with which they were intimately connected. The young girl, who was serious for the moment, dropped on the grass to listen, with elbows on her friend’s lap, and her upturned face supported by her hands. But the lecture was too grave for her mercurial spirit; and she soon sprang up, exclaiming: “O Mamita Lila, all those people were dead and buried so long ago! I don’t believe the princess that Aeneas was fighting about was half as handsome as that dancing Contadina from Frascati, with a scarlet bodice and a floating veil fastened among her black braids with a silver arrow. How her eyes sparkled, and her cheeks glowed! And the Contadino who was dancing with her, with those long streamers of red ribbon flying round his peaked hat, he looked almost as handsome as she did. How I wish I could see them dance the saltarello again! O Mamita Lila, as soon as we get back to Rome, do buy a tambourine.” Inspired by the remembrance, she straightway began to hum the monotonous tune of that grasshopper dance, imitating the hopping steps and the quick jerks of the arms, marking the time with ever-increasing rapidity on her left hand, as if it were a tambourine. She was so aglow with the exercise, and so graceful in her swift motions, that Mrs. Delano watched her with admiring smiles. But when the extempore entertainment came to a close, she thought to herself: “It is a hopeless undertaking to educate her after the New England pattern. One might as well try to plough with a butterfly, as to teach her ancient history.”

When they had wandered about a little while longer, happy as souls newly arrived in the Elysian Fields, Mrs. Delano said: “My child, you have already gathered mosses enough to fill the carriage, and it is time for us to return. You know twilight passes into darkness very quickly here.”

“Just let me gather this piece of golden lichen,” pleaded she. “It will look so pretty among the green moss, in the cross I am going to make you for Christmas.”

When all her multifarious gleanings were gathered up, they lingered a little to drink in the beauty of the scene before them. In the distance was the Eternal City, girdled by hills that stood out with wonderful distinctness in the luminous atmosphere of that brilliant day, which threw a golden veil over all its churches, statues, and ruins. Before they had gone far on their homeward ride, all things passed through magical changes. The hills were seen in vapory visions, shifting their hues with opaline glances; and over the green, billowy surface of the broad Campagna was settling a prismatic robe of mist, changing from rose to violet. Earth seemed to be writing, in colored notes, with tenderest modulations, her farewell hymn to the departing God of Light. And the visible music soon took voice in the vibration of vesper-bells, in the midst of which they entered Rome. Flora, who was sobered by the solemn sounds and the darkening landscape, scarcely spoke, except to remind Mrs. Delano of the tambourine as they drove through the crowded Corso; and when they entered their lodgings in Via delle Quattro Fontane, she passed to her room without any of her usual skipping and singing. When they met again at supper her friend said: “Why so serious? Is my little one tired?”

“I have been thinking, Mamita, that something is going to happen to me,” she replied; “for always when I am very merry something happens.”

“I should think something would happen very often then,” rejoined Mrs. Delano with a smile, to which she responded with her ready little laugh. “Several visitors called while we were gone,” said Mrs. Delano. “Our rich Boston friend, Mr. Green, has left his card. He follows us very diligently.” She looked at Flora as she spoke; but though the light from a tall lamp fell directly on her face, she saw no emotion, either of pleasure or embarrassment.

She merely looked up with a smile, as she remarked: “He always seems to be going round very leisurely in search of something to entertain him. I wonder whether he has found it yet.”

Though she was really tired with the exertions of the day, the sight of the new tambourine, after supper, proved too tempting; and she was soon practising the saltarello again, with an agility almost equal to that of the nimble Contadina from whom she had learned it. She was whirling round more and more swiftly, as if fatigue were a thing impossible to her, when Mr. Green was announced; and a very stylishly dressed gentleman, with glossy shirt-bosom and diamond studs, entered the room. She had had scarcely time to seat herself, and her face was still flushed with exercise, while her dimples were revealed by a sort of shy smile at the consciousness of having been so nearly caught in her rompish play by such an exquisite. The glowing cheek and the dimpling smile were a new revelation to Mr. Green; for he had never interested her sufficiently to call out the vivacity which rendered her so charming.

Mrs. Delano noticed his glance of admiration, and the thought occurred, as it had often done before, what an embarrassing dilemma she would be in, if he should propose marriage to her _protegee_.

“I called this morning,” said he, “and found you had gone to Albano. I was tempted to follow, but thought it likely I should miss you. It is a charming drive.”

“Everything is charming here, I think,” rejoined Flora.

“Ah, it is the first time you have seen Rome,” said he. “I envy you the freshness of your sensations. This is the third time I have been here, and of course it palls a little upon me.”

“Why don’t you go to some new place then?” inquired Flora.

“Where _is_ there any new place?” responded he languidly. “To be sure, there is Arabia Petraea, but the accommodations are not good. Besides, Rome has attractions for me at present; and I really think I meet more acquaintances here than I should at home. Rome is beginning to swarm with Americans, especially with Southerners. One can usually recognize them at a glance by their unmistakable air of distinction. They are obviously of porcelain clay, as Willis says.”

“I think our New England Mr. Percival is as polished a gentleman as any. I have seen,” observed Mrs. Delano.

“He is a gentleman in manners and attainments, I admit,” replied Mr. Green; “but with his family and education, what a pity it is he has so disgraced himself.”

“Pray what has he done?” inquired the lady.

“Didn’t you know he was an Abolitionist?” rejoined Mr. Green. “It is a fact that he has actually spoken at their meetings. I was surprised to see him travelling with you in England. It must be peculiarly irritating to the South to see a man of his position siding with those vulgar agitators. Really, unless something effectual can be done to stop that frenzy, I fear Southern gentlemen will be unable to recover a fugitive slave.”

Flora looked at Mrs. Delano with a furtive, sideway glance, and a half-smile on her lips. Her impulse was to jump up, dot one of her quick courtesies, and say: “I am a fugitive slave. Please, sir, don’t give _me_ up to any of those distinguished gentlemen.”

Mr. Green noticed her glance, and mistook it for distaste of his theme. “Pardon me, ladies,” said he, “for introducing a subject tabooed in polite society. I called for a very different purpose. One novelty remains for me in Rome. I have never seen the statues of the Vatican by torchlight. Some Americans are forming a party for that purpose to-morrow evening, and if you would like to join them, it will give me great pleasure to be your escort.”

Flora, being appealed to, expressed acquiescence, and Mrs. Delano replied: “We will accept your invitation with pleasure. I have a great predilection for sculpture.”

“Finding myself so fortunate in one request encourages me to make another,” rejoined Mr. Green. “On the evening following Norma is to be brought out, with a new _prima donna_, from whom great things are expected. I should be much gratified if you would allow me to procure tickets and attend upon you.”

Flora’s face lighted up at once. “I see what my musical daughter wishes,” said Mrs. Delano. “We will therefore lay ourselves under obligations to you for two evenings’ entertainment.”

The gentleman, having expressed his thanks, bade them good evening.

Flora woke up the next morning full of pleasant anticipations. When Mrs. Delano looked in upon her, she found her already dressed, and busy with a sketch of the dancing couple from Frascati. “I cannot make them so much alive as I wish,” said she, “because they are not in motion. No picture can give the gleamings of the arrow or the whirlings of the veil. I wish we could dress like Italians. How I should like to wear a scarlet bodice, and a veil fastened with a silver arrow.”

“If we remained till Carnival, you might have that pleasure,” replied Mrs. Delano; “for everybody masquerades as they like at that time. But I imagine you would hardly fancy my appearance in scarlet jacket, with laced sleeves, big coral necklace, and long ear-rings, like that old Contadina we met riding on a donkey.”

Flora laughed. “To think of Mamita Lila in such costume!” exclaimed she. “The old Contadina would make a charming picture; but a picture of the Campagna, sleepy with purple haze, would be more like you.”

“Am I then so sleepy?” inquired her friend.

“O, no, not sleepy. You know I don’t mean that. But so quiet; and always with some sort of violet or lilac cloud for a dress. But here comes Carlina to call us to breakfast,” said she, as she laid down her crayon, and drummed the saltarello on her picture while she paused a moment to look at it.

As Mrs. Delano wished to write letters, and Flora expected a teacher in drawing, it was decided that they should remain at home until the hour arrived for visiting the Vatican. “We have been about sight-seeing so much,” said Mrs. Delano, “that I think it will be pleasant to have a quiet day.” Flora assented; but as Mrs. Delano wrote, she could not help smiling at her ideas of quietude. Sometimes rapid thumps on the tambourine might be heard, indicating that the saltarello was again in rehearsal. If a _piffero_ strolled through the street, the monotonous drone of his bagpipe was reproduced in most comical imitation; and anon there was a gush of bird-songs, as if a whole aviary were in the vicinity. Indeed, no half-hour passed without audible indication that the little recluse was in merry mood.

At the appointed time Mr. Green came to conduct them to the Vatican. They ascended the wide slopes, and passed through open courts into long passages lined with statues, and very dimly lighted with occasional lamps. Here and there a marble figure was half revealed, and looked so spectral in the gloaming that they felt as if they were entering the world of spirits. Several members of the party preceded them, and all seemed to feel the hushing influence, for they passed on in silence, and stepped softly as they entered the great Palace of Art. The torch-bearers were soon in readiness to illuminate the statues, which they did by holding a covered light over each, making it stand out alone in the surrounding darkness, with very striking effects of light and shadow. Flora, who was crouched on a low seat by the side of Mrs. Delano, gazed with a reverent, half-afraid feeling on the thoughtful, majestic looking Minerva Medica. When the graceful vision of Venus Anadyomene was revealed, she pressed her friend’s hand, and the pressure was returned. But when the light was held over a beautiful Cupid, the face looked out from the gloom with such an earnest, childlike expression, that she forgot the presence of strangers, and impulsively exclaimed, “O Mamita, how lovely!”

A gentleman some little distance in front of them turned toward them suddenly, at the sound of her voice; and a movement of the torch-bearer threw the light full upon him for an instant. Flora hid her face in the lap of Mrs. Delano, who attributed the quick action to her shame at having spoken so audibly. But placing her hand caressingly on her shoulder, she felt that she was trembling violently. She stooped toward her, and softly inquired, “What is the matter, dear?”

Flora seized her head with both hands, and, drawing it closer, whispered: “Take me home, Mamita! Do take me right home!”

Wondering what sudden caprice had seized the emotional child, she said, “Why, are you ill, dear?”

Flora whispered close into her ear: “No, Mamita. But Mr. Fitzgerald is here.”

Mrs. Delano rose very quietly, and, approaching Mr. Green, said: “My daughter is not well, and we wish to leave. But I beg you will return as soon as you have conducted us to the carriage.”

But though he was assured by both the ladies that nothing alarming was the matter, when they arrived at their lodgings he descended from the driver’s seat to assist them in alighting. Mrs. Delano, with polite regrets at having thus disturbed his pleasure, thanked him, and bade him good evening. She hurried after Flora, whom she found in her room, weeping bitterly. “Control your feelings, my child,” said she. “You are perfectly safe here in Italy.”

“But if he saw me, it will make it so very unpleasant for you, Mamita.”

“He couldn’t see you; for we were sitting in very deep shadow,” replied Mrs. Delano. “But even if he had seen you, I should know how to protect you.”

“But what I am thinking of,” said Floracita, still weeping, “is that he may have brought Rosa with him, and I can’t run to her this very minute. I _must_ see her! I _will_ see her! If I have to tell ever so many _fibititas_ about the reason of my running away.”

“I wouldn’t prepare any _fibititas_ at present,” rejoined Mrs. Delano. “I always prefer the truth. I will send for Mr. Percival, and ask him to ascertain whether Mr. Fitzgerald brought a lady with him. Meanwhile, you had better lie down, and keep as quiet as you can. As soon as I obtain any information, I will come and tell you.”

When Mr. Percival was informed of the adventure at the Vatican, he sallied forth to examine the lists of arrivals; and before long he returned with the statement that Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald were registered among the newcomers. “Flora would, of course, consider that conclusive,” said he; “but you and I, who have doubts concerning that clandestine marriage, will deem it prudent to examine further.”

“If it should prove to be her sister, it will be a very embarrassing affair,” rejoined Mrs. Delano.

Mr. Percival thought it very unlikely, but said he would ascertain particulars to-morrow.

With that general promise, without a knowledge of the fact already discovered, Flora retired to rest; but it was nearly morning before she slept.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Though Flora had been so wakeful the preceding night, she tapped at Mrs. Delano’s door very early the next morning. “Excuse me for coming before you were dressed,” said she; “but I wanted to ask you how long you think it will be before Mr. Percival can find out whether Mr. Fitzgerald has brought Rosa with him.”

“Probably not before noon,” replied Mrs. Delano, drawing the anxious little face toward her, and imprinting on it her morning kiss. “Last evening I wrote a note to Mr. Green, requesting him to dispose of the opera tickets to other friends. Mr. Fitzgerald is so musical, he will of course be there; and whether your sister is with him or not, you will be in too nervous a state to go to any public place. You had better stay in your room, and busy yourself with books and drawings, till we can ascertain the state of things. I will sit with you as much as I can; and when I am absent you must try to be a good, quiet child.”

“I will try to be good, because I don’t want to trouble you, Mamita Lila; but you know I can’t be quiet in my mind. I did long for the opera; but unless Mr. Fitzgerald brought Rosa with him, and I could see her before I went, it would almost kill me to hear Norma; for every part of it is associated with her.”

After breakfast, Mrs. Delano sat some time in Flora’s room, inspecting her recent drawings, and advising her to work upon them during the day, as the best method of restraining restlessness. While they were thus occupied, Carlina brought in a beautiful bouquet for Miss Delano, accompanied with a note for the elder lady, expressing Mr. Green’s great regret at being deprived of the pleasure of their company for the evening.

“I am sorry I missed seeing him,” thought Mrs. Delano; “for he is always so intimate with Southerners, I dare say he would know all about Mr. Fitzgerald; though I should have been at a loss how to introduce the inquiry.”

Not long afterward Mr. Percival called, and had what seemed to Flora a very long private conference with Mrs. Delano. The information he brought was, that the lady with Mr. Fitzgerald was a small, slight figure, with yellowish hair and very delicate complexion.

“That is in all respects the very opposite of Flora’s description of her sister,” rejoined Mrs. Delano.

Their brief conversation on the subject was concluded by a request that Mr. Percival would inquire at Civita Vecchia for the earliest vessels bound either to France or England.

Mrs. Delano could not at once summon sufficient resolution to recount all the particulars to Flora; to whom she merely said that she considered it certain that her sister was not with Mr. Fitzgerald.

“Then why can’t I go right off to the United States to-day?” exclaimed the impetuous little damsel.

“Would you then leave Mamita Lila so suddenly?” inquired her friend; whereupon the emotional child began to weep and protest. This little scene was interrupted by Carlina with two visiting-cards on a silver salver. Mrs. Delano’s face flushed unusually as she glanced at them. She immediately rose to go, saying to Flora: “I must see these people; but I will come back to you as soon as I can. Don’t leave your room, my dear.”

In the parlor, she found a gentleman and lady, both handsome, but as different from each other as night and morning. The lady stepped forward and said: “I think you will recollect me; for we lived in the same street in Boston, and you and my mother used to visit together.”

“Miss Lily Bell,” rejoined Mrs. Delano, offering her hand. “I had not heard you were on this side the Atlantic.”

“Not Miss Bell now, but Mrs. Fitzgerald,” replied the fair little lady. “Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Fitzgerald.”

Mrs. Delano bowed, rather coldly; and her visitor continued: “I was so sorry I didn’t know you were with the Vatican party last night. Mr. Green told us of it this morning, and said you were obliged to leave early, on account of the indisposition of Miss Delano. I hope she has recovered, for Mr. Green has told me so much about her that I am dying with curiosity to see her.”

“She is better, I thank you, but not well enough to see company,” replied Mrs. Delano.

“What a pity she will be obliged to relinquish the opera to-night!” observed Mr. Fitzgerald. “I hear she is very musical; and they tell wonderful stories about this new _prima donna_. They say she has two more notes in the altissimo scale than any singer who has been heard here, and that her sostenuto is absolutely marvellous.”

Mrs. Delano replied politely, expressing regret that she and her daughter were deprived of the pleasure of hearing such a musical genius. After some desultory chat concerning the various sights in Rome, the visitors departed.

“I’m glad your call was short,” said Mr. Fitzgerald. “That lady is a perfect specimen of Boston ice.”

Whereupon his companion began to rally him for want of gallantry in saying anything disparaging of Boston.

Meanwhile Mrs. Delano was pacing the parlor in a disturbed state of mind. Though she had foreseen such a contingency as one of the possible consequences of adopting Flora, yet when it came so suddenly in a different place, and under different circumstances from any she had thought of, the effect was somewhat bewildering. She dreaded the agitation into which the news would throw Flora, and she wanted to mature her own future plans before she made the announcement. So, in answer to Flora’s questions about the visitors, she merely said a lady from Boston, the daughter of one of her old acquaintances, had called to introduce her husband. After dinner, they spent some time reading Tasso’s Aminta together; and then Mrs. Delano said: “I wish to go and have a talk with Mr. and Mrs. Percival. I have asked him to inquire about vessels at Civita Vecchia; for, under present circumstances, I presume you would be glad to set out sooner than we intended on that romantic expedition in search of your sister.”

“O, thank you! thank you!” exclaimed Flora, jumping up and kissing her.

“I trust you will not go out, or sing, or show yourself at the windows while I am gone,” said Mrs. Delano; “for though Mr. Fitzgerald can do you no possible harm, it would be more agreeable to slip away without his seeing you.”

The promise was readily and earnestly given, and she proceeded to the lodgings of Mr. and Mrs. Percival in the next street. After she had related the experiences of the morning, she asked what they supposed had become of Rosabella.

“It is to be hoped she does not continue her relation with that base man if she knows of his marriage,” said Mrs. Percival; “for that would involve a moral degradation painful for you to think of in Flora’s sister.”

“If she has ceased to interest his fancy, very likely he may have sold her,” said Mr. Percival; “for a man who could entertain the idea of selling Flora, I think would sell his own Northern wife, if the law permitted it and circumstances tempted him to it.”

“What do you think I ought to do in the premises?” inquired Mrs. Delano.

“I would hardly presume to say what you ought to do,” rejoined Mrs. Percival; “but I know what I should do, if I were as rich as you, and as strongly attached to Flora.”

“Let me hear what you would do,” said Mrs. Delano.

The prompt reply was: “I would go in search of her. And if she was sold, I would buy her and bring her home, and be a mother to her.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Delano, warmly pressing her hand. “I thought you would advise what was kindest and noblest. Money really seems to me of very little value, except as a means of promoting human happiness. And in this case I might perhaps prevent moral degradation, growing out of misfortune and despair.”

After some conversation concerning vessels that were about to sail, the friends parted. On her way homeward, she wondered within herself whether they had any suspicion of the secret tie that bound her so closely to these unfortunate girls. “I ought to do the same for them without that motive,” thought she; “but should I?”

Though her call had not been very long, it seemed so to Flora, who had latterly been little accustomed to solitude. She had no heart for books or drawing. She sat listlessly watching the crowd on Monte Pincio;–children chasing each other, or toddling about with nurses in bright-red jackets; carriages going round and round, ever and anon bringing into the sunshine gleams of gay Roman scarfs, or bright autumnal ribbons fluttering in the breeze. She had enjoyed few things more than joining that fashionable promenade to overlook the city in the changing glories of sunset. But now she cared not for it. Her thoughts were far away on the lonely island. As sunset quickly faded into twilight, carriages and pedestrians wound their way down the hill. The noble trees on its summit became solemn silhouettes against the darkening sky, and the monotonous trickling of the fountain in the court below sounded more distinct as the street noises subsided. She was growing a little anxious, when she heard soft footfalls on the stairs, which she at once recognized and hastened to meet. “O, you have been gone so long!” she exclaimed. Happy, as all human beings are, to have another heart so dependent on them, the gratified lady passed her arm round the waist of the loving child, and they ascended to their rooms like two confidential school-girls.

After tea, Mrs. Delano said, “Now I will keep my promise of telling you all I have discovered.” Flora ran to an ottoman by her side, and, leaning on her lap, looked up eagerly into her face. “You must try not to be excitable, my dear,” said her friend; “for I have some unpleasant news to tell you.”

The expressive eyes, that were gazing wistfully into hers while she spoke, at once assumed that startled, melancholy look, strangely in contrast with their laughing shape. Her friend was so much affected by it that she hardly knew how to proceed with her painful task. At last Flora murmured, “Is she dead?”

“I have heard no such tidings, darling,” she replied. “But Mr. Fitzgerald has married a Boston lady, and they were the visitors who came here this morning.”

Flora sprung up and pressed her hand on her heart, as if a sharp arrow had hit her. But she immediately sank on the ottoman again, and said in tones of suppressed agitation: “Then he has left poor Rosa. How miserable she must be! She loved him so! O, how wrong it was for me to run away and leave her! And only to think how I have been enjoying myself, when she was there all alone, with her heart breaking! Can’t we go to-morrow to look for her, dear Mamita?”

“In three days a vessel will sail for Marseilles,” replied Mrs. Delano. “Our passage is taken; and Mr. and Mrs. Percival, who intended to return home soon, are kind enough to say they will go with us. I wish they could accompany us to the South; but he is so well known as an Abolitionist that his presence would probably cause unpleasant interruptions and delays, and perhaps endanger his life.”

Flora seized her hand and kissed it, while tears were dropping fast upon it. And at every turn of the conversation, she kept repeating, “How wrong it was for me to run away and leave her!”

“No, my child,” replied Mrs. Delano, “you did right in coming to me. If you had stayed there, you would have made both her and yourself miserable, beside doing what was very wrong. I met Mr. Fitzgerald once on horseback, while I was visiting at Mr. Welby’s plantation; but I never fairly saw him until to-day. He is so very handsome, that, when I looked at him, I could not but think it rather remarkable he did not gain a bad power over you by his insinuating flattery, when you were so very young and inexperienced.”

The guileless little damsel looked up with an expression of surprise, and said: “How _could_ I bear to have him make love to _me_, when he was Rosa’s husband? He is so handsome and fascinating, that, if he had loved me instead of Rosa, in the beginning, I dare say I should have been as much in love with him as she was. I did dearly love him while he was a kind brother; but I couldn’t love him _so_. It would have killed Rosa if I had. Besides, he told falsehoods; and papa taught us to consider that as the meanest of faults. I have heard him tell Rosa he never loved anybody but her, when an hour before he had told me he loved me better than Rosa. What could I do but despise such a man? Then, when he threatened to sell me, I became dreadfully afraid of him.” She started up, as if struck by a sudden thought, and exclaimed wildly, “What if he has sold Rosa?”

Her friend brought forward every argument and every promise she could think of to pacify her; and when she had become quite calm, they sang a few hymns together, and before retiring to rest knelt down side by side and prayed for strength and guidance in these new troubles.

Flora remained a long time wakeful, thinking of Rosa deserted and alone. She had formed many projects concerning what was to be seen and heard and done in Rome; but she forgot them all. She did not even think of the much-anticipated opera, until she heard from the street snatches of Norma, whistled or sung by the dispersing audience. A tenor voice passed the house singing, _Vieni_ _in Roma_. “Ah,” thought she, “Gerald and I used to sing that duet together. And in those latter days how languishingly he used to look at me, behind her back, while he sang passionately, ‘_Ah, deh cedi, cedi a me_!’ And poor cheated Rosa would say, ‘Dear Gerald, how much heart you put into your voice!’ O shame, shame! What _could_ I do but run away? Poor Rosa! How I wish I could hear her sing ‘Casta Diva,’ as she used to do when we sat gazing at the moon shedding its soft light over the pines in that beautiful lonely island.”

And so, tossed for a long while on a sea of memories, she finally drifted into dream-land.

CHAPTER XIX.

While Flora was listlessly gazing at Monte Pincio from the solitude of her room in the Via delle Quattro Fontane, Rosabella was looking at the same object, seen at a greater distance, over intervening houses, from her high lodgings in the Corso. She could see the road winding like a ribbon round the hill, with a medley of bright colors continually moving over it. But she was absorbed in revery, and they floated round and round before her mental eye, like the revolving shadows of a magic lantern.

She was announced to sing that night, as the new Spanish _prima donna_, La Senorita Rosita Campaneo; and though she had been applauded by manager and musicians at the rehearsal that morning, her spirit shrank from the task. Recent letters from America had caused deep melancholy; and the idea of singing, not _con amore_, but as a performer before an audience of entire strangers, filled her with dismay. She remembered how many times she and Flora and Gerald had sung together from Norma; and an oppressive feeling of loneliness came over her. Returning from rehearsal, a few hours before, she had seen a young Italian girl, who strongly reminded her of her lost sister. “Ah!” thought she, “if Flora and I had gone out into the world together, to make our own way, as Madame first intended, how much sorrow and suffering I might have been spared!” She went to the piano, where the familiar music of Norma lay open before her, and from the depths of her saddened soul gushed forth, “_Ah, bello a me Ritorno_.” The last tone passed sighingly away, and as her hands lingered on the keys, she murmured, “Will my heart pass into it there, before that crowd of strange faces, as it does here?”

“To be sure it will, dear,” responded Madame, who had entered softly and stood listening to the last strains.

“Ah, if all would hear with _your_ partial ears!” replied Rosabella, with a glimmering smile. “But they will not. And I may be so frightened that I shall lose my voice.”

“What have you to be afraid of, darling?” rejoined Madame. “It was more trying to sing at private parties of accomplished musicians, as you did in Paris; and especially at the palace, where there was such an _elite_ company. Yet you know that Queen Amelia was so much pleased with your performance of airs from this same opera, that she sent you the beautiful enamelled wreath you are to wear to-night.”

“What I was singing when you came in wept itself out of the fulness of my heart,” responded Rosabella. “This dreadful news of Tulee and the baby unfits me for anything. Do you think there is no hope it may prove untrue?”

“You know the letter explicitly states that my cousin and his wife, the negro woman, and the white baby, all died of yellow-fever,” replied Madame. “But don’t reproach me for leaving them, darling. I feel badly enough about it, already. I thought it would be healthy so far out of the city; and it really seemed the best thing to do with the poor little _bambino_, until we could get established somewhere.”

“I did not intend to reproach you, my kind friend,” answered Rosa. “I know you meant it all for the best. But I had a heavy presentiment of evil when you first told me they were left. This news makes it hard for me to keep up my heart for the efforts of the evening. You know I was induced to enter upon this operatic career mainly by the hope of educating that poor child, and providing well for the old age of you and Papa Balbino, as I have learned to call my good friend, the Signor. And poor Tulee, too,–how much I intended to do for her! No mortal can ever know what she was to me in the darkest hours of my life.”

“Well, poor Tulee’s troubles are all over,” rejoined Madame, with a sigh; “and _bambinos_ escape a great deal of suffering by going out of this wicked world. For, between you and I, dear, I don’t believe one word about the innocent little souls staying in purgatory on account of not being baptized.”

“O, my friend, if you only _knew_!” exclaimed Rosa, in a wild, despairing tone. But she instantly checked herself, and said: “I will try not to think of it; for if I do, I shall spoil my voice; and Papa Balbino would be dreadfully mortified if I failed, after he had taken so much pains to have me brought out.”

“That is right, darling,” rejoined Madame, patting her on the shoulder. “I will go away, and leave you to rehearse.”

Again and again Rosa sang the familiar airs, trying to put soul into them, by imagining how she would feel if she were in Norma’s position. Some of the emotions she knew by her own experience, and those she sang with her deepest feeling.

“If I could only keep the same visions before me that I have here alone, I should sing well to-night,” she said to herself; “for now, when I sing ‘Casta Diva,’ I seem to be sitting with my arm round dear little Flora, watching the moon as it rises above the dark pines on that lonely island.”

At last the dreaded hour came. Rosa appeared on the stage with her train of priestesses. The orchestra and the audience were before her; and she knew that Papa and Mamma Balbino were watching her from the side with anxious hearts. She was very pale, and her first notes were a little tremulous. But her voice soon became clear and strong; and when she fixed her eyes on the moon, and sang “Casta Diva,” the fulness and richness of the tones took everybody by surprise.

“_Bis! Bis_!” cried the audience; and the chorus was not allowed to proceed till she had sung it a second and third time. She courtesied her acknowledgments gracefully. But as she retired, ghosts of the past went with her; and with her heart full of memories, she seemed to weep in music, while she sang in Italian, “Restore to mine affliction one smile of love’s protection.” Again the audience shouted, “_Bis! Bis_!”

The duet with Adalgisa was more difficult; for she had not yet learned to be an actress, and she was embarrassed by the consciousness of being an object of jealousy to the _seconda donna_, partly because she was _prima_, and partly because the tenor preferred her. But when Adalgisa sang in Italian the words, “Behold him!” she chanced to raise her eyes to a box near the stage, and saw the faces of Gerald Fitzgerald and his wife bending eagerly toward her. She shuddered, and for an instant her voice failed her. The audience were breathless. Her look, her attitude, her silence, her tremor, all seemed inimitable acting. A glance at the foot-lights and at the orchestra recalled the recollection of where she was, and by a strong effort she controlled herself; though there was still an agitation in her voice, which the audience and the singers thought to be the perfection of acting. Again she glanced at Fitzgerald, and there was terrible power in the tones with which she uttered, in Italian, “Tremble, perfidious one! Thou knowest the cause is ample.”

Her eyes rested for a moment on Mrs. Fitzgerald, and with a wonderful depth of pitying sadness, she sang, “O, how his art deceived thee!”

The wish she had formed was realized. She was enabled to give voice to her own emotions, forgetful of the audience for the time being. And even in subsequent scenes, when the recollection of being a performer returned upon her, her inward excitation seemed to float her onward, like a great wave.

Once again her own feelings took her up, like a tornado, and made her seem a wonderful actress. In the scene where Norma is tempted to kill her children, she fixed her indignant gaze full upon Fitzgerald, and there was an indescribable expression of stern resolution in her voice, and of pride in the carriage of her queenly head, while she sang: “Disgrace worse than death awaits them. Slavery? No! never!”

Fitzgerald quailed before it. He grew pale, and slunk back in the box. The audience had never seen the part so conceived, and a few criticised it. But her beauty and her voice and her overflowing feeling carried all before her; and this, also, was accepted as a remarkable inspiration of theatrical genius.

When the wave of her own excitement was subsiding, the magnetism of an admiring audience began to affect her strongly. With an outburst of fury, she sang, “War! War!” The audience cried, “_Bis! Bis_!” and she sang it as powerfully the second time.

What it was that had sustained and carried her through that terrible ordeal, she could never understand.

When the curtain dropped, Fitzgerald was about to rush after her; but his wife caught his arm, and he was obliged to follow. It was an awful penance he underwent, submitting to this necessary restraint; and while his soul was seething like a boiling caldron, he was obliged to answer evasively to Lily’s frequent declaration that the superb voice of this Spanish _prima donna_ was exactly like the wonderful voice that went wandering round the plantation, like a restless ghost.

Papa and Mamma Balbino were waiting to receive the triumphant _cantatrice_, as she left the stage. “_Brava! Brava_!” shouted the Signor, in a great fever of excitement; but seeing how pale she looked, he pressed her hand in silence, while Madame wrapped her in shawls. They lifted her into the carriage as quickly as possible, where her head drooped almost fainting on Madame’s shoulder. It required them both to support her unsteady steps, as they mounted the stairs to their lofty lodging. She told them nothing that night of having seen Fitzgerald; and, refusing all refreshment save a sip of wine, she sank on the bed utterly exhausted.

CHAPTER XX.

She slept late the next day, and woke with a feeling of utter weariness of body and prostration of spirit. When her dressing-maid Giovanna came at her summons, she informed her that a gentleman had twice called to see her, but left no name or card. “Let no one be admitted to-day but the manager of the opera,” said Rosa. “I will dress now; and if Mamma Balbino is at leisure, I should like to have her come and talk with me while I breakfast.”

“Madame has gone out to make some purchases,” replied Giovanna. “She said she should return soon, and charged me to keep everything quiet, that you might sleep. The Signor is in his room waiting to speak to you.”

“Please tell him I have waked,” said Rosa; “and as soon as I have dressed and breakfasted, ask him to come to me.”

Giovanna, who had been at the opera the preceding evening, felt the importance of her mission in dressing the celebrated Senorita Rosita Campaneo, of whose beauty and gracefulness everybody was talking. And when the process was completed, the _cantatrice_ might well have been excused if she had thought herself the handsomest of women. The glossy dark hair rippled over her forehead in soft waves, and the massive braids behind were intertwisted with a narrow band of crimson velvet, that glowed like rubies where the sunlight fell upon it. Her morning wrapper of fine crimson merino, embroidered with gold-colored silk, was singularly becoming to her complexion, softened as the contact was by a white lace collar fastened at the throat with a golden pin. But though she was seated before the mirror, and though her own Spanish taste had chosen the strong contrast of bright colors, she took no notice of the effect produced. Her face was turned toward the window, and as she gazed on the morning sky, all unconscious of its translucent brilliancy of blue, there was an inward-looking expression in her luminous eyes that would have made the fortune of an artist, if he could have reproduced her as a Sibyl. Giovanna looked at her with surprise, that a lady could be so handsome and so beautifully dressed, yet not seem to care for it. She lingered a moment contemplating the superb head with an exultant look, as if it were a picture of her own painting, and then she went out noiselessly to bring the breakfast-tray.

The Senorita Campaneo ate with a keener appetite than she had ever experienced as Rosabella the recluse; for the forces of nature, exhausted by the exertions of the preceding evening, demanded renovation. But the services of the cook were as little appreciated as those of the dressing-maid; the luxurious breakfast was to her simply food. The mirror was at her side, and Giovanna watched curiously to see whether she would admire the effect of the crimson velvet gleaming among her dark hair. But she never once glanced in that direction. When she had eaten sufficiently, she sat twirling her spoon and looking into the depths of her cup, as if it were a magic mirror revealing all the future.

She was just about to say, “Now you may call Papa Balbino,” when Giovanna gave a sudden start, and exclaimed, “Signorita! a gentleman!”

And ere she had time to look round, Fitzgerald was kneeling at her feet. He seized her hand and kissed it passionately, saying, in an agony of entreaty: “O Rosabella, do say you forgive me! I am suffering the tortures of the damned.”

The irruption was so sudden and unexpected, that for an instant she failed to realize it. But her presence of mind quickly returned, and, forcibly withdrawing the hand to which he clung, she turned to the astonished waiting-maid and said quite calmly, “Please deliver _immediately_ the message I spoke of.”

Giovanna left the room and proceeded directly to the adjoining apartment, where Signor Balbino was engaged in earnest conversation with another gentleman.

Fitzgerald remained kneeling, still pleading vehemently for forgiveness.

“Mr. Fitzgerald,” said she, “this audacity is incredible. I could not have imagined it possible you would presume ever again to come into my presence, after having sold me to that infamous man.”

“He took advantage of me, Rosa. I was intoxicated with wine, and knew not what I did. I could not have done it if I had been in my senses. I have always loved you as I never loved any other woman; and I never loved you so wildly as now.”

“Leave me!” she exclaimed imperiously. “Your being here does me injury. If you have any manhood in you, leave me!”

He strove to clutch the folds of her robe, and in frenzied tones cried out: “O Rosabella, don’t drive me from you! I can’t live without–“

A voice like a pistol-shot broke in upon his sentence: “Villain! Deceiver! What are you doing here? Out of the house this instant!”

Fitzgerald sprung to his feet, pale with rage, and encountered the flashing eyes of the Signor. “What right have _you_ to order me out of the house?” said he.

“I am her adopted father,” replied the Italian; “and no man shall insult her while I am alive.”

“So _you_ are installed as her protector!” retorted Fitzgerald, sneeringly. “You are not the first gallant I have known to screen himself behind his years.”

“By Jupiter!” vociferated the enraged Italian; and he made a spring to clutch him by the throat.

Fitzgerald drew out a pistol. With a look of utter distress, Rosa threw herself between them, saying, in imploring accents, “_Will_ you go?”

At the same moment, a hand rested gently on the Signor’s shoulder, and a manly voice said soothingly, “Be calm, my friend.” Then, turning to Mr. Fitzgerald, the gentleman continued: “Slight as our acquaintance is, sir, it authorizes me to remind you that scenes like this are unfit for a lady’s apartment.”

Fitzgerald slowly replaced his pistol, as he answered coldly: “I remember your countenance, sir, but I don’t recollect where I have seen it, nor do I understand what right you have to intrude here.”

“I met you in New Orleans, something more than four years ago,” replied the stranger; “and I was then introduced to you by this lady’s father, as Mr. Alfred King of Boston.”

“O, I remember,” replied Fitzgerald, with a slight curl of his lip. “I thought you something of a Puritan then; but it seems _you_ are her protector also.”

Mr. King colored to the temples; but he replied calmly: “I know not whether Miss Royal recognizes me; for I have never seen her since the evening we spent so delightfully at her father’s house.”

“I do recognize you,” replied Rosabella; “and as the son of my father’s dearest friend, I welcome you.”

She held out her hand as she spoke, and he clasped it for an instant. But though the touch thrilled him, he betrayed no emotion. Relinquishing it with a respectful bow, he turned to Mr. Fitzgerald, and said: “You have seen fit to call me a Puritan, and may not therefore accept me as a teacher of politeness; but if you wish to sustain the character of a cavalier, you surely will not remain in a lady’s house after she has requested you to quit it.”

With a slight shrug of his shoulders, Mr. Fitzgerald took his hat, and said, “Where ladies command, I am of course bound to obey.”

As he passed out of the door, he turned toward Rosabella, and, with a low bow, said, “_Au revoir_!”

The Signor was trembling with anger, but succeeded in smothering his half-uttered anathemas. Mr. King compressed his lips tightly for a moment, as if silence were a painful effort. Then, turning to Rosa, he said: “Pardon my sudden intrusion, Miss Royal. Your father introduced me to the Signor, and I last night saw him at the opera. That will account for my being in his room to-day.” He glanced at the Italian with a smile, as he added: “I heard very angry voices, and I thought, if there was to be a duel, perhaps the Signor would need a second. You must be greatly fatigued with exertion and excitement. Therefore, I will merely congratulate you on your brilliant success last evening, and wish you good morning.”

“I _am_ fatigued,” she replied; “but if I bid you good morning now, it is with the hope of seeing you again soon. The renewal of acquaintance with one whom my dear father loved is too pleasant to be willingly relinquished.”

“Thank you,” he said. But the simple words were uttered with a look and tone so deep and earnest, that she felt the color rising to her cheeks.

“Am I then still capable of being moved by such tones?” she asked herself, as she listened to his departing footsteps, and, for the first time that morning, turned toward the mirror and glanced at her own flushed countenance.

“What a time you’ve been having, dear!” exclaimed Madame, who came bustling in a moment after. “Only to think of Mr. Fitzgerald’s coming here! His impudence goes a little beyond anything I ever heard of. Wasn’t it lucky that Boston friend should drop down from the skies, as it were, just at the right minute; for the Signor’s such a flash-in-the-pan, there ‘s no telling what might have happened. Tell me all about it, dear.”

“I will tell you about it, dear mamma,” replied Rosa; “but I must beg you to excuse me just now; for I am really very much flurried and fatigued. If you hadn’t gone out, I should have told you this morning, at breakfast, that I saw Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald at the opera, and that I was singing at them in good earnest, while people thought I was acting. We will talk it all over some time; but now I must study, for I shall have hard work to keep the ground I have gained. You know I must perform again to-night. O, how I dread it!”

“You are a strange child to talk so, when you have turned everybody’s head,” responded Madame.

“Why should I care for everybody’s head?” rejoined the successful _cantatrice_. But she thought to herself: “I shall not feel, as I did last night, that I am going to sing _merely_ to strangers. There will be _one_ there who heard me sing to my dear father. I must try to recall the intonations that came so naturally last evening, and see whether I can act what I then felt.” She seated herself at the piano, and began to sing, “_Oh, di qual sei tu vittima_.” Then, shaking her head slowly, she murmured: “No; it doesn’t come. I must trust to the inspiration of the moment. But it is a comfort to know they will not _all_ be strangers.”

* * * * *

Mr. King took an opportunity that same day to call on Mr. Fitzgerald. He was very haughtily received; but, without appearing to notice it, he opened his errand by saying, “I have come to speak with you concerning Miss Royal.”

“All I have to say to you, sir,” replied Mr. Fitzgerald, “is, that neither you nor any other man can induce me to give up my pursuit of her. I will follow her wherever she goes.”

“What possible advantage can you gain by such a course?” inquired his visitor. “Why uselessly expose yourself to disagreeable notoriety, which must, of course, place Mrs. Fitzgerald in a mortifying position?”

“How do you know my perseverance would be useless?” asked Fitzgerald. “Did she send you to tell me so?”

“She does not know of my coming,” replied Mr. King. “I have told you that my acquaintance with Miss Royal is very slight. But you will recollect that I met her in the freshness of her young life, when she was surrounded by all the ease and elegance that a father’s wealth and tenderness could bestow; and it was unavoidable that her subsequent misfortunes should excite my sympathy. She has never told me anything of her own history, but from others I know all the particulars. It is not my purpose to allude to them; but after suffering all she _has_ suffered, now that she has bravely made a standing-place for herself, and has such an arduous career before her, I appeal to your sense of honor, whether it is generous, whether it is manly, to do anything that will increase the difficulties of her position.”

“It is presumptuous in you, sir, to come here to teach me what is manly,” rejoined Fitzgerald.

“I merely presented the case for the verdict of your own conscience,” answered his visitor; “but I will again take the liberty to suggest for your consideration, that if you persecute this unfortunate young lady with professions you know are unwelcome, it must necessarily react in a very unpleasant way upon your own reputation, and consequently upon the happiness of your family.”

“You mistook your profession, sir. You should have been a preacher,” said Fitzgerald, with a sarcastic smile. “I presume you propose to console the lady for her misfortunes; but let me tell you, sir, that whoever attempts to come between me and her will do it at his peril.”

“I respect Miss Royal too much to hear her name used in any such discussion,” replied Mr. King. “Good morning, sir.”

“The mean Yankee!” exclaimed the Southerner, as he looked after him. “If he were a gentleman he would have challenged me, and I should have met him like a gentleman; but one doesn’t know what to do with such cursed Yankee preaching.”

He was in a very perturbed state of mind. Rosabella had, in fact, made a much deeper impression on him than any other woman had ever made. And now that he saw her the bright cynosure of all eyes, fresh fuel was heaped on the flickering flame of his expiring passion. Her disdain piqued his vanity, while it produced the excitement of difficulties to be overcome. He was exasperated beyond measure, that the beautiful woman who had depended solely upon him should now be surrounded by protectors. And if he could regain no other power, he was strongly tempted to exert the power of annoyance. In some moods, he formed wild projects of waylaying her, and carrying her off by force. But the Yankee preaching, much as he despised it, was not without its influence. He felt that it would be most politic to keep on good terms with his rich wife, who was, besides, rather agreeable to him. He concluded, on the whole, that he would assume superiority to the popular enthusiasm about the new _prima donna_; that he would coolly criticise her singing and her acting, while he admitted that she had many good points. It was a hard task he undertook; for on the stage Rosabella attracted him with irresistible power, to which was added the magnetism of the admiring audience. After the first evening, she avoided looking at the box where he sat; but he had an uneasy satisfaction in the consciousness that it was impossible she could forget he was present and watching her.

The day after the second appearance of the Senorita Campaneo, Mrs. Delano was surprised by another call from the Fitzgeralds.

“Don’t think we intend to persecute you,” said the little lady. “We merely came on business. We have just heard that you were to leave Rome very soon; but Mr. Green seemed to think it couldn’t be so soon as was said.”

“Unexpected circumstances make it necessary for me to return sooner than I intended,” replied Mrs. Delano. “I expect to sail day after to-morrow.”

“What a pity your daughter should go without hearing the new _prima donna_!” exclaimed Mrs. Fitzgerald. “She is really a remarkable creature. Everybody says she is as beautiful as a houri. And as for her voice, I never heard anything like it, except the first night I spent on Mr. Fitzgerald’s plantation. There was somebody wandering about in the garden and groves who sang just like her. Mr. Fitzgerald didn’t seem to be much struck with the voice, but I could never forget it.”

“It was during our honeymoon,” replied her husband; “and how could I be interested in any other voice, when I had yours to listen to?”

His lady tapped him playfully with her parasol, saying: “O, you flatterer! But I wish I could get a chance to speak to this Senorita. I would ask her if she had ever been in America.”

“I presume not,” rejoined Mr. Fitzgerald. “They say an Italian musician heard her in Andalusia, and was so much charmed with her voice that he adopted her and educated her for the stage; and he named her Campaneo, because there is such a bell-like echo in her voice sometimes. Do you think, Mrs. Delano, that it would do your daughter any serious injury to go with us this evening? We have a spare ticket; and we would take excellent care of her. If she found herself fatigued, I would attend upon her home any time she chose to leave.”

“It would be too exciting for her nerves,” was Mrs. Delano’s laconic answer.

“The fact is,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald, “Mr. Green has told us so much about her, that we are extremely anxious to be introduced to her. He says she hasn’t half seen Rome, and he wishes she could join our party. I wish we could persuade you to leave her with us. I can assure you Mr. Fitzgerald is a most agreeable and gallant protector to ladies. And then it is such a pity, when she is so musical, that she should go without hearing this new _prima donna_.”

“Thank you,” rejoined Mrs. Delano; “but we have become so much attached to each other’s society, that I don’t think either of us could be happy separated. Since she cannot hear this musical wonder, I shall not increase her regrets by repeating your enthusiastic account of what she has missed.”

“If you had been present at her _debut_, you wouldn’t wonder at my enthusiasm,” replied the little lady. “Mr. Fitzgerald is getting over the fever a little now, and undertakes to criticise. He says she overacted her part; that she ‘tore a passion to tatters,’ and all that. But I never saw him so excited as he was then. I think she noticed it; for she fixed her glorious dark eyes directly upon our box while she was singing several of her most effective passages.”

“My dear,” interrupted her husband, “you are so opera-mad, that you are forgetting the object of your call.”

“True,” replied she. “We wanted to inquire whether you were certainly going so soon, and whether any one had engaged these rooms. We took a great fancy to them. What a desirable situation! So sunny! Such a fine view of Monte Pincio and the Pope’s gardens!”

“They were not engaged last evening,” answered Mrs. Delano.

“Then you will secure them immediately, won’t you, dear?” said the lady, appealing to her spouse.

With wishes that the voyage might prove safe and pleasant, they departed. Mrs. Delano lingered a moment at the window, looking out upon St. Peter’s and the Etruscan Hills beyond, thinking the while how strangely the skeins of human destiny sometimes become entangled with each other. Yet she was unconscious of half the entanglement.

CHAPTER XXI.

The engagement of the Senorita Rosita Campaneo was for four weeks, during which Mr. King called frequently and attended the opera constantly. Every personal interview, and every vision of her on the stage, deepened the impression she made upon him when they first met. It gratified him to see that, among the shower of bouquets she was constantly receiving, his was the one she usually carried; nor was she unobservant that he always wore a fresh rose. But she was unconscious of his continual guardianship, and he was careful that she should remain so. Every night that she went to the opera and returned from it, he assumed a dress like the driver’s, and sat with him on the outside of the carriage,–a fact known only to Madame and the Signor, who were glad enough to have a friend at hand in case Mr. Fitzgerald should attempt any rash enterprise. Policemen were secretly employed to keep the _cantatrice_ in sight, whenever she went abroad for air or recreation. When she made excursions out of the city in company with her adopted parents, Mr. King was always privately informed of it, and rode in the same direction; at a sufficient distance, however, not to be visible to her, or to excite gossiping remarks by appearing to others to be her follower. Sometimes he asked himself: “What would my dear prudential mother say, to see me leaving my business to agents and clerks, while I devote my life to the service of an opera-singer?–an opera-singer, too, who has twice been on the verge of being sold as a slave, and who has been the victim of a sham marriage!” But though such queries jostled against conventional ideas received from education, they were always followed by the thought: “My dear mother has gone to a sphere of wider vision, whence she can look down upon the merely external distinctions of this deceptive world. Rosabella must be seen as a pure, good soul, in eyes that see as the angels do; and as the defenceless daughter of my father’s friend, it is my duty to protect her.” So he removed from his more eligible lodgings in the Piazza di Spagna, and took rooms in the Corso, nearly opposite to hers, where day by day he continued his invisible guardianship.

He had reason, at various times, to think his precautions were not entirely unnecessary. He had several times seen a figure resembling Fitzgerald’s lurking about the opera-house, wrapped in a cloak, and with a cap very much drawn over his face. Once Madame and the Signor, having descended from the carriage, with Rosa, to examine the tomb of Cecilia Metella, were made a little uneasy by the appearance of four rude-looking fellows, who seemed bent upon lurking in their vicinity. But they soon recognized Mr. King in the distance, and not far from him the disguised policemen in his employ. The fears entertained by her friends were never mentioned to Rosa, and she appeared to feel no uneasiness when riding in daylight with the driver and her adopted parents. She was sometimes a little afraid when leaving the opera late at night; but there was a pleasant feeling of protection in the idea that a friend of her father’s was in Rome, who knew better than the Signor how to keep out of quarrels. That recollection also operated as an additional stimulus to excellence in her art. This friend had expressed himself very highly gratified by her successful _debut_, and that consideration considerably increased her anxiety to sustain herself at the height she had attained. In some respects that was impossible; for the thrilling circumstances of the first evening could not again recur to set her soul on fire. Critics generally said she never equalled her first acting; though some maintained that what she had lost in power she had gained in a more accurate conception of the character. Her voice was an unfailing source of wonder and delight. They were never weary of listening to that volume of sound, so full and clear, so flexible in its modulations, so expressive in its intonations.

As the completion of her engagement drew near, the manager was eager for its renewal; and finding that she hesitated, he became more and more liberal in his offers. Things were in this state, when Mr. King called upon Madame one day while Rosa was absent at rehearsal. “She is preparing a new aria for her last evening, when they will be sure to encore the poor child to death,” said Madame. “It is very flattering, but very tiresome; and to my French ears their ‘_Bis! Bis_!’ sounds too much like a hiss.”

“Will she renew her engagement, think you?” inquired Mr. King.

“I don’t know certainly,” replied Madame. “The manager makes very liberal offers; but she hesitates. She seldom alludes to Mr. Fitzgerald, but I can see that his presence is irksome to her; and then his sudden irruption into her room, as told by Giovanna, has given rise to some green-room gossip. The tenor is rather too assiduous in his attentions, you know; and the _seconda donna_ is her enemy, because she has superseded her in his affections. These things make her wish to leave Rome; but I tell her she will have to encounter very much the same anywhere.”

“Madame,” said the young man, “you stand in the place of a mother to Miss Royal; and as such, I have a favor to ask of you. Will you, without mentioning the subject to her, enable me to have a private interview with her to-morrow morning?”

“You are aware that it is contrary to her established rule to see any gentleman, except in the presence of myself or Papa Balbino. But you have manifested so much delicacy, as well as friendliness, that we all feel the utmost confidence in you.” She smiled significantly as she added: “If I slip out of the room, as it were by accident, I don’t believe I shall find it very difficult to make my peace with her.”

Alfred King looked forward to the next morning with impatience; yet when he found himself, for the first time, alone with Rosabella, he felt painfully embarrassed. She glanced at the fresh rose he wore, but could not summon courage to ask whether roses were his favorite flowers. He broke the momentary silence by saying: “Your performances here have been a source of such inexpressible delight to me, Miss Royal, that it pains me to think of such a thing as a last evening.”

“Thank you for calling me by that name,” she replied. “It carries me back to a happier time. I hardly know myself as La Senorita Campaneo. It all seems to me so strange and unreal, that, were it not for a few visible links with the past, I should feel as if I had died and passed into another world.”

“May I ask whether you intend to renew your engagement?” inquired he.

She looked up quickly and earnestly, and said, “What would you advise me?”

“The brevity of our acquaintance would hardly warrant my assuming the office of adviser,” replied he modestly.

The shadow of a blush flitted over her face, as she answered, in a bashful way: “Excuse me if the habit of associating you with the memory of my father makes me forget the shortness of our acquaintance. Beside, you once asked me if ever I was in trouble to call upon you as I would upon a brother.”

“It gratifies me beyond measure that you should remember my offer, and take me at my word,” responded he. “But in order to judge for you, it is necessary to know something of your own inclinations. Do you enjoy the career on which you have entered?”

“I should enjoy it if the audience were all my personal friends,” answered she. “But I have lived such a very retired life, that I cannot easily become accustomed to publicity; and there is something I cannot exactly define, that troubles me with regard to operas. If I could perform only in pure and noble characters, I think it would inspire me; for then I should represent what I at least wish to be; but it affects me like a discord to imagine myself in positions which in reality I should scorn and detest.”

“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 passed 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 circumstances 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 noble 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 circumstances. 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 circumstance. 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 Marseilles.

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 passed 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 woodpecker was hammering away on the umbrageous tree under which Flora used to sit while busy with her sketches. He cocked 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 passage to the birds. On a bracket of shell-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 shell-work I made after we came from Nassau,” 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!”

She had peeped about everywhere, and was becoming very much dispirited