Fifty-Two Stories For Girls 2 – Anonymous · Library Across
Literature · Short Stories
Fifty-Two Stories For Girls 2Part 1 · Chapter 2
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Literature · Short Stories
Fifty-Two Stories For Girls 2
Part 1 · Chapter 2
AnonymousEnglish
There had been the first fall of the snow, and "ye Antiente Citie" looked like some town in dreamland, or in fairyland, as Miss Melford's boarders (myself amongst the number) went through its streets and wynds to the ballad concert (in aid of Crumblebolme's Charity), at which Mamselle, then La Narda, the cantatrice, was announced to sing. We were naturally much excited; it seemed, as Ivy Davis remarked, almost as though we were all going to sing in public.
We had front seats, quite near the tapestried platform from whence we took note of the audience.
"Look, look!" whispered Milly Reed eagerly. "The Countess of Jesmond, and the house-party at Coss have come to hear our Mamselle. That dark, handsome man next the countess is Count Mirloff, the Russian poet. Just think I----"
What more Milly would have said I really cannot say, for just then there was a soft clapping of hands, and La Narda came down the crimson steps of the Justice Room, and advanced to the footlights.
"She's like a fairy queen! She's just too lovely!" said the irrepressible Ivy. And though Miss Melford shook her head, I am sure she also was of the same opinion, and was proud of my dear brown nightingale.
The petite figure was robed in white silk, trimmed with frosted leaves and pink roses, and wore a garland of the same on her dark bright head.
"Tell me, thou bonnie bird,
When shall I marry me?
When three braw gentlemen
Churchward shall carry ye,"
sang the sweet full voice, and we listened entranced. The next song was "Robin Adair."
Then came an encore, and as Narda acknowledged it, an accident occurred which (as the newspapers say) might have had a fatal termination.
A flounce of the singer's dress touched the footlights, and the flame began to creep upwards like a snake of fire.
Narda glanced downward, drew back, and was about to try to crush it out with her hands, when in less time than it takes to tell it, the Russian gentleman sprang forward, wrapped his fur-lined coat about her, and extinguished the flame.
The poet had saved the nightingale, and Miss Melford's romantic girls unanimously resolved "that he ought to marry her."
