The girl waited a few seconds, hoping that another voice would swell the general request, but the lips she loved best were mute; and, suddenly tossing the paper bags from her lap, she rose and moved proudly to the piano.
“Miss Manton, will you or Miss Dexter be so kind as to play my accompaniment for me? I am neither Liszt, nor Thalberg, and the vocal gymnastics are all that I can venture to undertake.”
Muriel promptly resumed her seat before the instrument, and played the symphony of an aria from “Favorite,” which Salome placed on the piano-board. Barilli had assured her that she rendered this fiery burst of rage and hatred as well as he had ever heard it; and, folding her fingers tightly around each other she drew herself up to her full height, and sang it.
Mr. Granville leaned against the piano, and Dr. Grey was standing in the recess of the window when the song began, but ere long he moved forward unconsciously and paused, with his hand on his ward’s shoulder and his eyes riveted in astonishment on Salome’s countenance. She knew that the approbation and delight of this small audience was worth all the encore shouts of the millions who might possibly applaud her in future years; and if ever a woman’s soul poured itself out through her lips, all that was surging in Salome’s heart became visible to the man who listened as if spell-bound.
Miss Jane grasped her crutches, and rose, leaning upon them, while a look of mingled joy and wonder made her sallow face eloquent; and Miss Dexter dropped her ivory needle, and gazed in amazement at the singer. Muriel forgot her chords,—turned partially around, and watched in breathless surprise the marvelous execution of several difficult passages, 206 where the rich voice seemed to linger while improvising sparkling turns and trills that were strangely intricate, and indescribably sweet.
As she approached the close of her song, Salome became temporarily oblivious of pride, wounded vanity, and murdered hopes,—forgot all but the man at her side, for whose commendation she had toiled so patiently, and turning her flushed, radiant face, toward him, her magnificent eyes aflame with triumph looked appealingly up at his, and her hands were extended till they rested on his arm.
So the song ended, and for a moment the parlor was still as a tomb. Dr. Grey silently enclosed the girl’s two hands in his, and, for the first time since she had known him, Salome saw tears swimming in his grave, beautiful eyes, and noticed a slight tremor on his usually steady lips.
“There is nothing in the old world or the new comparable to that voice, and I flatter myself I speak ex cathedra. Miss Owen, you will soon have the public at your feet.”
She did not heed Mr. Granville’s enthusiastic eulogy. She saw nothing but Dr. Grey’s admiring eyes,—felt nothing but the close warm clasp, in which her folded fingers lay,—and her ears ached for the sound of his deep voice.
“Salome, I shall not soon forgive you for keeping me in ignorance of the existence of the finest voice it has ever been my good fortune to hear. Knowing your adopted brother’s fondness for music, how could you hoard your treasure so parsimoniously, denying him such happiness as you might have conferred?”