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"Perhaps so; still each one wishes to try for himself, and though I can scarce hope to be more successful than you, yet I must try, if only for my own peace of mind. Oh, Bicina cara! to think of her sweet and gentle nature being subject to such torments as those ruffians can inflict!
Infidel!" and he shook his head at her, playfully. A long conversation followed, chiefly about Langhetti's plans. He was going to engage a place in London for his opera, but wished first to secure a singer. Oh, if he only could find Bice his Bicina, the divinest voice that mortal ever heard. Despard and Mrs.
"Very," returned Beatrice, musingly. "He always called me 'Bice' sometimes 'Bicetta, 'Bicinola, 'Bicina; it was his pretty Italian way. But oh, if you could hear him play! He could make the violin speak like a human voice. He used to think in music. He seemed to me to be hardly human sometimes." "And he loved to hear you sing?" said Brandon, in the same voice.
I have tried to find out from some of them what it all means, but they give me no satisfaction. At any rate, my Bicina, you will make your debut under the most favorable circumstances. You saw how they admired your voice at the rehearsal. The world shall admire it still more at your first performance."
He leaped from the carriage toward her, and caught her in his arms. "Oh, Bice! Alas, my Bicina!" he cried, and a thousand fond words came to his lips. Beatrice looked up with eyes filled with grateful tears; her lips murmured some inaudible sentences; and then, in this full assurance of safety, the resolution that had sustained her so long gave way altogether.
Oh, my Bicina to what misery have you come But do you say that you have been there?" "Yes." "Did you go to the Hall?" "No." "Why not?" "Because I know the man to be a villain indescribable " Langhetti thought for a moment, and then said, "True, he is all that, and perhaps more than you imagine." "I have done the utmost that can be done!" said Despard.
"I hope, my Bicina, that the time will come before long." "Yet why do you wait, if you know or even suspect any thing in which I am concerned?" "I wish to spare you." "That is not necessary. Am I so weak that I can not bear to hear any thing which you may have to tell? You forget what a life I have had for two years. Such a life might well prepare me for any thing."
Was not an Italian name better for a singer? Despard was an English name, and, though aristocratic, was not one which a great singer might have. "I am thinking of other things, my Bicina," said Langhetti, who had never given up his old, fond, fraternal manner toward her. "It has no connection with art. I do not consider the mere effect of the name for one moment."
Langhetti bowed over her as he chafed her hands. "Ah, my Bicina," he cried; "is it thus I find you! Ah, poor thin hand! Alas, white wan face! What suffering has been yours, pure angel, among those fiends of hell!" He paused, and turned a face of agony toward Despard. But as he looked at him he saw a grief in his countenance that was only second to his own.
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