For years there had not been such a sensation created among the frequenters of that place, as now, by the appearance of this stranger. The wild, singular style of her beauty made an impression that was heightened by every movement of her graceful figure, every tone of her rich melodious voice. She seemed for the time the very embodiment of the sorrow to which she gave an expression, and the effect was a complete triumph.
Mary Melville and her son gazed on the debutante—they had no word, no look for each other: for they recognised in her voice the tones of a grief of which long ago they heard the prelude—and every note found its echo in the bishop’s inmost heart.
“Come away! let us go home! Duncan, this is no place for us—for you. It is disgrace to be here,” was the mother’s passionate plea, when at last Rosalie disappeared, and other forms stood in her place.
“We will stay and save her,” was the answer, spoken with tears and trembling, by the man for whom, in many a quiet home, prayers in that very hour ascended. “She is mine now, and no earthly consideration or power shall divide us.”
And looking for a moment in her son’s face steadfastly, the lady turned away sighing and tearful, for she knew that she must yield then, and she had fears for the future.
A half-hour passed and the star of the night reappeared, resplendent in beauty, triumphing in hope;—again her marvellous voice was raised, not with the bitter cry of despair that was hopeless, but glad and gay, angelic in its joy.
Again the mother’s eyes were turned on him beside her—and a light was on that pale forehead—a smile on that calm face—a gladness in those eyes—such as she had not seen there in long, long years; but though she looked with a mother’s love upon the one who stood the admiration of all eyes, crowned with the glory-crown of perfection in her art, she could not with Duncan hope. For, alas! her woman-heart knew too well the ordeal through which the daughter of her care and love must have passed before she came into that presence where she stood now, who could tell if still the mistress of herself and her destiny? who could tell if pure and undefiled?
That night and the following day, there were many who sought admittance to the parlours of Rosalie Sherwood; they would lay the homage of their trifling hearts at her feet. But all these sought in vain; and why was this? Because such admiring tribute was not what the noble woman sought; and because, ere she had risen in the morning, a letter, written in the solitude of night, was handed to her, which barred and bolted her doors against the curious world.