University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

THE engagement of the Señorita 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 début, 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 Señorita 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,
Au revoir; for Papa Balbino is waiting for some instructions
on matters of business.”

She offered her hand with a very sweet smile. He
elasped 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 did n'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 Señorita 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!”