The susceptible Doctor was quite fascinated, translated, as he entered into the spirit of the thing. He thought of scenes in Delibes’ ballets, of Sylvia and Coppelia, also of the wonderful grace of Beaugrand upon Walpurgis night when she first appears enveloped by a cloud descending upon the stage, the cloud disappearing, the dancer wafted forward to whirl amid a maze of fascinating melody.
Adele and Paul also could not resist the temptation to “try it in the hall,” but soon gave that up; Adele expecting to sing herself, therefore careful of her voice, and Paul because the fascination was quite sufficient without the dancing just then. They were again caught sitting on the stairs under the benign countenance of “Fanny,” the old family clock, who ticked on solemnly as if accustomed to witness waltzing and flirtations, in past times as well as to-night,—this when the Doctor put in an appearance to ask Adele to sing.
Adele was an enchanting personification of youthful enjoyment when Paul led her into the room, her dark eyes lustrous and full of fire, yet but little conscious of self when she at once dropped Paul’s arm to rush up to Miss Winchester and thank her for the treat she had given them. “I never heard you play better in my life, my dear! Oh, how I wish I could do it!” and then, feeling her own position, became more subdued in manner as she approached the piano. Henri Semple had kindly offered to accompany her—they had often sung together as she called it, so felt in unity at once. Only a word was necessary to Henri, “Please go straight on, if I should trip I’ll catch up again.” Henri smiled and began the introduction.
Adele first sang a rather pretentious florid aria. Her mother had insisted upon this, evidently thinking that all should be informed at once that her daughter had been educated under the best masters, as she herself had been under Fraulein Ritter. Adele complied with her mother’s request, even if she herself had different notions as to the result. Mrs. Cultus had “dropped her music” soon after the bills had been paid for her education, and never picked it up again except in nursery rhymes for Adele. Those nursery songs had won their way to Adele’s heart, she sometimes sang them yet, but their greatest triumph had been to excite within her a desire to really sing herself. She now proposed to hold on and not drop what she had striven for, to make her voice the means towards expression of higher things, feelings which words could not always express. As to the florid aria to commence with, “Oh, yes! it would do to try the voice and bring out the notes, but the real thing must not be expected until later.”
Her innermost thoughts were quite in this vein when enthusiastic applause greeted her singing. She had sung well. Herr Krantz complimented her, evidently sincere, so she took his appreciation sincerely, but soon turned to Mr. Semple to select something more to her own taste. She chose a composition with which she was very familiar, one of her special favorites, and passed it to Henri.
Semple glanced it over, and being himself of kindred spirit with her own at once detected certain signs,—how it had been well used but carefully handled, certain passages marked, some private marks, evidently her own.
“Miss Cultus, don’t you play this accompaniment yourself?”
“Oh, yes!”
“I thought so—let me resign!”
“Don’t you know it?—it’s not difficult.”