The Fifth String Read online

  XII

  A tipsy man is never interesting, and Sanders in that condition was noexception. The old man arose with some effort, walked toward the windowand, shading his eyes, looked out. The snow was drifting, swept hitherand thither by the cutting wind that came through the streets in greatgusts. Turning to the violinist, he said, "It's an awful night; betterremain here until morning. You'll not find a cab; in fact, I will notlet you go while this storm continues," and the old man raised thewindow, thrusting his head out for an instant. As he did so the icyblast that came in settled any doubt in the young man's mind and heconcluded to stop over night.

  It was nearly two o'clock; Sanders showed him to his room and thenreturned down stairs to see that everything was snug and secure. Afterchanging his heavy shoes for a pair of old slippers and wrapping adressing gown around him, the old man stretched his legs toward thefire and sipped his toddy.

  "He isn't a bad sort for a violinist," mused the old man; "if he wereworth a million, I believe I'd advise Wallace to let him marry her. Afiddler! A million! Sounds funny," and he laughed shrilly.

  He turned his head and his eyes caught sight of Diotti's violin caseresting on the center table. He staggered from the chair and wenttoward it; opening the lid softly, he lifted the silken coverlet placedover the instrument and examined the strings intently. "I am right," hesaid; "it is wrapped with hair, and no doubt from a woman's head.Eureka!" and the old man, happy in the discovery that his surmises werecorrect, returned to his chair and his toddy.

  He sat looking into the fire. The violin had brought back memories ofthe past and its dead. He mumbled, as if to the fire, "she loved me;she loved my violin. I was a devil; my violin was a devil," and theshadows on the wall swayed like accusing spirits. He buried his face inhis hands and cried piteously, "I was so young; too young to know." Hespoke as if he would conciliate the ghastly shades that movedrestlessly up and down, when suddenly--"Sanders, don't be a fool!"

  He ambled toward the table again. "I wonder who made the violin? Hewould not tell me when I asked him to-night; thank you for your pains,but I will find out myself," and he took the violin from the case.Holding it with the light slanting over it, he peered inside, but foundno inscription. "No maker's name--strange," he said. He tiptoed to thefoot of the stairs and listened intently; "he must be asleep; he won'thear me," and noiselessly he closed the door. "I guess if I play a tuneon it he won't know."

  He took the bow from its place in the case and tightened it. Helistened again. "He is fast asleep," he whispered. "I'll play the songI always played for her--until," and the old man repeated the words ofthe refrain:

  "Fair as a lily, joyous and free, Light of the prairie home was she; Every one who knew her felt the gentle power Of Rosalie, the Prairie Flower."

  He sat again in the arm-chair and placed the violin under his chin.Tremulously he drew the bow across the middle string, his bloodlessfingers moving slowly up and down.

  The theme he played was the melody to the verse he had just repeated,but the expression was remorse.

  * * *

  Diotti sat upright in bed. "I am positive I heard a violin!" he said,holding one hand toward his head in an attitude of listening. He waswide awake. The drifting snow beat against the window panes and thewind without shrieked like a thousand demons of the night. He couldsleep no more. He arose and hastily dressed. The room was bitterlycold; he was shivering. He thought of the crackling logs in thefire-place below. He groped his way along the darkened staircase. Ashe opened the door leading into the sitting-room the fitful gleam ofthe dying embers cast a ghastly light over the face of a corpse.

  Diotti stood a moment, his eyes transfixed with horror. The violin andbow still in the hands of the dead man told him plainer than words whathad happened. He went toward the chair, took the instrument from oldSanders' hands and laid it on the table. Then he knelt beside the body,and placing his ear close over the heart, listened for some sign oflife, but the old man was beyond human aid.

  He wheeled the chair to the side of the room and moved the body to thesofa. Gently he covered it with a robe. The awfulness of the situationforced itself upon him, and bitterly he blamed himself. The terriblepower of the instrument dawned upon him in all its force. Often he hadplayed on the strings telling of pity, hope, love and joy, but now, forthe first time, he realized what that fifth string meant.

  "I must give it back to its owner."

  "If you do you can never regain it," whispered a voice within.

  "I do not need it," said the violinist, almost audibly.

  "Perhaps not," said the voice, "but if her love should wane how wouldyou rekindle it? Without the violin you would be helpless."

  "Is it not possible that, in this old man's death, all its fatal powerhas been expended?"

  He went to the table and took the instrument from its place. "You wonher for me; you have brought happiness and sunshine into my life. No!No! I can not, will not give you up," then placing the violin and bowin its case he locked it.

  The day was breaking. In an hour the baker's boy came. Diotti went tothe door, gave him a note addressed to Mr. Wallace and asked him todeliver it at once. The boy consented and drove rapidly away.

  Within an hour Mr. Wallace arrived; Diotti told the story of the night.After the undertaker had taken charge of the body he found on the deadman's neck, just to the left of the chin, a dullish, black bruise whichmight have been caused by the pressing of some blunt instrument, or bya man's thumb. Considering it of much importance, he notified thecoroner, who ordered an inquest.

  At six o'clock that evening a jury was impaneled, and two hours laterits verdict was reported.