The Fifth String Part 4

When they were seated Perkins plied Diotti with all manner of questions: "How did it happen?" "How did you escape?" and the like, all of which Diotti parried with monosyllabic replies, finally saying: "I was dissatisfied with my playing and went away to study."

"Do you know that the failure to fulfill your contract has cost me at least ten thousand dollars?" said the shrewd manager, the commercial side of his nature a.s.serting itself.

"All of which I will pay," quietly replied the artist. "Besides I am ready to play now, and you can announce a concert within a week if you like."

"If I like?" cried the hustling Perkins. "Here, James," calling his office boy, "run down to the printer's and give him this," making a note of the various sizes of "paper" he desired, "and tell Mr.

Tompkins that Diotti is back and will give a concert next Tuesday.

Tell Smith to prepare the newspaper 'ads' and notices immediately."

In an hour Perkins had the entire machinery of his office in motion.

Within twenty-four hours New York had several versions of the disappearance and return, all leading to one common point--that Diotti would give a concert the coming Tuesday evening.

The announcement of the reappearance of the Tuscan contained a line to the effect that the violinist would play for the first time his new suite--a meditation on the emotions.

He had not seen Mildred.

As he came upon the stage that night the lights were turned low, and naught but the shadowy outlines of player and violin were seen. His reception by the audience was not enthusiastic. They evidently remembered the disappointment caused by his unexpected disappearance, but this unfriendly att.i.tude soon gave way to evidences of kindlier feelings.

Mildred was there, more beautiful than ever, and to gain her love Diotti would have bartered his soul that moment.

The first movement of the suite was ent.i.tled "Pity," and the music flowed like melodious tears. A subdued sob rose and fell with the sadness of the theme.

Mildred's eyes were moistened as she fixed them on the lone figure of the player.

Now the theme of pity changed to hope, and hearts grew brighter under the spell. The next movement depicted joy. As the _virtuoso's_ fingers darted here and there, his music seemed the very laughter of fairy voices, the earth looked roses and sunshine, and Mildred, relaxing her position and leaning forward in the box, with lips slightly parted, was the picture of eager happiness.

The final movement came. Its subject was love. The introduction depicted the Arcadian beauty of the trysting place, love-lit eyes sought each other intuitively and a great peace brooded over the hearts of all. Then followed the song of the Pa.s.sionate Pilgrim:

"_If music and sweet poetry agree, As they must needs, the sister and the brother, Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other._

_Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious sound That Phoebus' lute (the queen of music) makes; And I in deep delight, am chiefly drown'd When as himself to singing he betakes.

One G.o.d is G.o.d of both, as poets feign, One knight loves both, and both in thee remain._"

[Ill.u.s.tration: He took her hand reverently]

Grander and grander the melody rose, voicing love's triumph with wondrous sweetness and palpitating rhythm. Mildred, her face flushed with excitement, a heavenly fire in her eyes and in an att.i.tude of supplication, reveled in the glory of a new found emotion.

As the violinist concluded his performance an oppressive silence pervaded the house, then the audience, wild with excitement, burst into thunders of applause. In his dressing-room Diotti was besieged by hosts of people, congratulating him in extravagant terms.

Mildred Wallace came, extending her hands. He took them almost reverently. She looked into his eyes, and he knew he had struck the chord responsive in her soul.

VIII

The sun was high in the heavens when the violinist awoke. A great weight had been lifted from his heart; he had pa.s.sed from darkness into dawn.

A messenger brought him this note:

_My Dear Signor Diotti--I am at home this afternoon, and shall be delighted to see you and return my thanks for the exquisite pleasure you gave me last evening. Music, such as yours, is indeed the voice of heaven._

_Sincerely, Mildred Wallace._

The messenger returned with this reply:

_My Dear Miss Wallace--I will call at three to-day._

_Gratefully, Angelo Diotti._

He watched the hour drag from eleven to twelve, then counted the minutes to one, and from that time until he left the hotel each second was tabulated in his mind. Arriving at her residence, he was ushered into the drawing-room. It was fragrant with the perfume of violets, and he stood gazing at her portrait expectant of her coming.

Dressed in simple white, entrancing in her youthful freshness, she entered, her face glowing with happiness, her eyes languorous and expressive. She hastened to him, offering both hands. He held them in a loving, tender grasp, and for a moment neither spoke. Then she, gazing clearly and fearlessly into his eyes, said: "My heart has found its melody!"

He, kneeling like Sir Gareth of old: "The song and the singer are yours forever."

She, bidding him arise: "And I forever yours." And wondering at her boldness, she added, "I know and feel that you love me--your eyes confirmed your love before you spoke." Then, convincingly and ingenuously, "I knew you loved me the moment we first met. Then I did not understand what that meant to you, now I do."

He drew her gently to him, and the motive of their happiness was defined in sweet confessions: "My love, my life--My life, my love."

The magic of his music had changed her very being, the breath of love was in her soul, the vision of love was dancing in her eyes. The child of marble, like the statue of old, had come to life:

"_And not long since I was a cold, dull stone! I recollect That by some means I knew that I was stone; That was the first dull gleam of consciousness; I became conscious of a chilly self, A cold, immovable ident.i.ty.

I knew that I was stone, and knew no more!

Then, by an imperceptible advance, Came the dim evidence of outer things, Seen--darkly and imperfectly--yet seen The walls surrounding me, and I, alone.

That pedestal--that curtain--then a voice That called on Galatea! At that word, Which seemed to shake my marble to the core, That which was dim before, came evident.

Sounds, that had hummed around me, indistinct, Vague, meaningless--seemed to resolve themselves Into a language I could understand; I felt my frame pervaded by a glow That seemed to thaw my marble into flesh; Its cold, hard substance throbbed with active life, My limbs grew supple, and I moved--I lived!

Lived in the ecstasy of a new-born life!

Lived in the love of him that fashioned me!

Lived in a thousand tangled thoughts of hope._"

Day after day he came; they told their love, their hopes, their ambitions. She a.s.sumed absolute proprietorship in him. She gloried in her possession.

He was born into the world, nurtured in infancy, trained in childhood and matured into manhood, for one express purpose--to be hers alone.

Her ownership ranged from absolute despotism to humble slavery, and he was happy through it all.

One day she said: "Angelo, is it your purpose to follow your profession always?"

"Necessarily, it is my livelihood," he replied.

"But do you not think that after we stand at the altar, we never should be separated?"

"We will be together always," said he, holding her face between his palms, and looking with tender expression into her inquiring eyes.

"But I notice that women cl.u.s.ter around you after your concerts--and shake your hand longer than they should--and talk to you longer than they should--and go away looking self-satisfied!" she replied brokenly, much as a little girl tells of the theft of her doll.