Beautiful Rienzi; or, The secret vendetta — page 52: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

BEAUTIFUL RIENZEI, 47 great, kindly throng, and the gentlemen cried “ encore,” though I was now burning with remorse that I had not merited their kindness more, and thinking to myself how my gifted master In Venice, who had formed all my notes with artistic care, would have encored in a different mood ; but I swept a grateful courtesy and retired to my place. T had now leisure to look about, and I used my eves. First they went a-trip to the dear father in the box, who was clapping his hands louder than any of them, his eyes sparkling with pride; and we telegraphed a smile to each other. ‘Then I looked at Miss Meredith, and my smile faded. She was bent across the front of the seat, her ivory fan pressed against her bosom until it bent, her soft face cold and hard, her eyes fastened, her lips satirically smiling. Un- utterably startled at such an expression, I directed my eyes also to the pair she watched so intently. My sister sat some distance from me on her velvet chair near a piano, upon which shortly she was to perform. Her face was drooping, her face which was surely too bitterly reproachful to be turned to the public and Cecil Beaumont was bending his head close to hers, unchecked ; a music- sheet held up asa shield from other eyes, while he whispered ceaselessly. It was all interpreted but too well by wronged Lillia Meredith, mad now with jealousy and indignation. The concert proceeded; there were more songs by lad’es whose tones did not tremble as mine had done. The orchestra played through an opera while we rested ourselves. Isolina and the professor performed their piano duet, which was wonderfully admired. Thetimecame at last for Isolina and me to sing a duet then much in vogue, though now somewhat antiquated, ‘“‘ Mira O Norma,’ from ‘Don Giovanni.” I stood with my sister inthe empty area and watched her, while with a low, pathetic cadence, she fell into Bellini’s sweet air, which strangely enough seemed to fall into a deso- late chime with her life-opera. With what wistfulness she murmured the opening prayer; how her tones deepened in- to vehemence; how her vehemence intensified to passion as she sang: ‘* Ah! he shall feel, who caused thy anguish, How deep hath been thy silent sorrow!” CONMUC OOO S (©)