A Romance of the Republic | Page 4

At last she danced toward her father, and sank,
with a wave-like motion, on the ottoman at his feet. He patted the
glossy head that nestled lovingly on his knee, and drawing a long
breath, as if oppressed with happiness, he murmured, "Ah, Mignonne!"
The floating fairy vision had given such exquisite pleasure, that all had
been absorbed in watching its variations. Now they looked at each
other and smiled. "You would make Taglioni jealous," said Mr.
Fitzgerald, addressing the little dancer; and Mr. King silently thanked
her with a very expressive glance.
As Rosabella retired from the piano, she busied herself with
rearranging a bouquet she had taken from one of the vases. When Mr.
Fitzgerald stationed himself at her side, she lowered her eyes with a
perceptibly deepening color. On her peculiar complexion a blush
showed like a roseate cloud in a golden atmosphere. As Alfred gazed
on the long, dark, silky fringes resting on those warmly tinted cheeks,
he thought he had never seen any human creature so superbly
handsome.
"Nothing but music can satisfy us after such dancing," said Mr.
Fitzgerald. She looked up to him with a smile; and Alfred thought the
rising of those dark eyelashes surpassed their downcast expression, as
the glory of morning sunshine excels the veiled beauty of starlight.
"Shall I accompany you while you sing, 'How brightly breaks the

morning'?" asked she.
"That always sings itself into my heart, whenever you raise your eyes
to mine," replied he, in a low tone, as he handed her to the piano.
Together they sang that popular melody, bright and joyful as sunrise on
a world of blossoms. Then came a Tyrolese song, with a double voice,
sounding like echoes from the mountains. This was followed by some
tender, complaining Russian melodies, novelties which Mr. Fitzgerald
had brought on a preceding visit. Feeling they were too much
engrossed with each other, she said politely, "Mr. King has not yet
chosen any music."
"The moon becomes visible through the curtains," replied he. "Perhaps
you will salute her with 'Casta Diva.'"
"That is a favorite with us," she replied. "Either Flora or I sing it almost
every moonlight night."
She sang it in very pure Italian. Then turning round on the music-stool
she looked at her father, and said, "Now, Papasito querido, what shall I
sing for you?"
"You know, dear, what I always love to hear," answered he.
With gentle touch, she drew from the keys a plaintive prelude, which
soon modulated itself into "The Light of other Days." She played and
sang it with so much feeling, that it seemed the voice of memory
floating with softened sadness over the far-off waters of the past. The
tune was familiar to Alfred, but it had never sung itself into his heart, as
now. "I felt as I did in Italy, listening to a vesper-bell sounding from a
distance in the stillness of twilight," said he, turning toward his host.
"All who hear Rosabella sing notice a bell in her voice," rejoined her
father.
"Undoubtedly it is the voice of a belle," said Mr. Fitzgerald.

Her father, without appearing to notice the commonplace pun, went on
to say, "You don't know, Mr. King, what tricks she can play with her
voice. I call her a musical ventriloquist. If you want to hear the bell to
perfection, ask her to sing 'Toll the bell for lovely Nell.'"
"Do give me that pleasure," said Alfred, persuasively.
She sang the pathetic melody, and with voice and piano imitated to
perfection the slow tolling of a silver-toned bell. After a short pause,
during which she trifled with the keys, while some general remarks
were passing, she turned to Mr. Fitzgerald, who was leaning on the
piano, and said, "What shall I sing for _you_?" It was a simple question,
but it pierced the heart of Alfred King with a strange new pain. What
would he not have given for such a soft expression in those glorious
eyes when she looked at him!
"Since you are in a ventriloqual mood," answered Mr. Fitzgerald, "I
should like to hear again what you played the last time I was
here,--Agatha's Moonlight Prayer, from _Der Freyschütz_."
She smiled, and with voice and instrument produced the indescribably
dreamy effect of the two flutes. It was the very moonlight of sound.
"This is perfectly magical," murmured Alfred. He spoke in a low,
almost reverential tone; for the spell of moonlight was on him, and the
clear, soft voice of the singer, the novelty of her peculiar beauty, and
the surpassing gracefulness of her motions, as she swayed gently to the
music of the tones she produced, inspired him with a feeling of poetic
deference. Through the partially open window came the lulling sound
of a little trickling