The Fifth String Page 8

  VIII

  The sun was high in the heavens when the violinist awoke. A greatweight had been lifted from his heart; he had passed from darkness intodawn.

  A messenger brought him this note:

  My Dear Signor Diotti--I am at home this afternoon, and shall bedelighted to see you and return my thanks for the exquisite pleasureyou gave me last evening. Music, such as yours, is indeed the voice ofheaven. 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 theminutes to one, and from that time until he left the hotel each secondwas tabulated in his mind. Arriving at her residence, he was usheredinto the drawing-room. It was fragrant with the perfume of violets, andhe stood gazing at her portrait expectant of her coming.

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

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

  She, bidding him arise: "And I forever yours." And wondering at herboldness, she added, "I know and feel that you love me--your eyesconfirmed your love before you spoke." Then, convincingly andingenuously, "I knew you loved me the moment we first met. Then I didnot understand what that meant to you, now I do."

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

  The magic of his music had changed her very being, the breath of lovewas in her soul, the vision of love was dancing in her eyes. The childof 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 identity. 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, theirambitions. She assumed absolute proprietorship in him. She gloried inher possession.

  He was born into the world, nurtured in infancy, trained in childhoodand matured into manhood, for one express purpose--to be hers alone.Her ownership ranged from absolute despotism to humble slavery, and hewas happy through it all.

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

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

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

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

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

  "Nonsense," he said, smiling, "that is all part of my profession; it isnot me they care for, it is the music I give that makes them happy. If,in my playing, I achieve results out of the common, they admire me!"and he kissed away the unwelcome tears.

  "I know," she continued, "but lately, since we have loved each other, Ican not bear to see a woman near you. In my dreams again and again anindefinable shadow mockingly comes; and cries to me, 'he is not to beyours, he is to be mine.'"

  Diotti flushed and drew her to him "Darling," his voice carryingconviction, "I am yours, you are mine, all in all, in life here andbeyond!" And as she sat dreaming after he had gone, she murmuredpetulantly, "I wish there were no other women in the world."

  Her father was expected from Europe on the succeeding day's steamer.Mr. Wallace was a busy man. The various gigantic enterprises he servedas president or director occupied most of his time. He had been absentin Europe for several months, and Mildred was anxiously awaiting hisreturn to tell him of her love.

  When Mr. Wallace came to his residence the next morning, his daughtermet him with a fond display of filial affection; they walked into thedrawing-room, hand in hand; he saw a picture of the violinist on thepiano. "Who's the handsome young fellow?" he asked, looking at theportrait with the satisfaction a man feels when he sees a splendid typeof his own sex.

  "That is Angelo Diotti, the famous violinist," she said, but she couldnot add another word.

  As they strolled through the rooms he noticed no less than threelikenesses of the Tuscan. And as they passed her room he saw stillanother on the chiffonnier.

  "Seems to me the house is running wild with photographs of thatfiddler," he said.

  For the first time in her life she was self-conscious: "I will wait fora more opportune time to tell him," she thought.

  In the scheme of Diotti's appearance in New York there were to be twomore concerts. One was to be given that evening. Mildred coaxed herfather to accompany her to hear the violinist. Mr. Wallace was not fondof music; "it had been knocked out of him on the farm up in Vermont,when he was a boy," he would apologetically explain, and besides he hadthe old puritanical abhorrence of stage people--putting them all in oneclass--as puppets who danced for played or talked for an idle andunthinking public.

  So it was with the thought of a wasted evening that he accompaniedMildred to the concert.

  The entertainment was a repetition of the others Diotti had given, andat its end, Mildred said to her father: "Come, I want to congratulateSignor Diotti in person."

  "That is entirely unnecessary," he replied.

  "It is my desire," and the girl led the unwilling parent back of thescenes and into Diotti's dressing-room.

  Mildred introduced Diotti to her father, who after a few commonplaceslapsed into silence. The daughter's enthusiastic interest in Diotti'sperformance and her tender solicitude for his weariness after theefforts of the evening, quickly attracted the attention of Mr. Wallaceand irritated him exceedingly.

  When father and daughter were seated in their carriage and werehurriedly driving home, he said: "Mildred, I prefer that you have aslittle to say to that man as possible."

  "What do you object to in him?" she asked.

  "Everything. Of what use is a man who dawdles away his time on afiddle; of what benefit is he to mankind? Do fiddlers build cities? Dothey delve into the earth for precious metals? Do they sow the seed andharvest the grain? No, no; they are drones--the barnacles of society."

  "Father, how can you advance such an argument? Music's votaries offerno apologies for their art. The husbandman places the grain within thebreast of Mother Earth for man's material welfare; God places music inthe heart of man for his spiritual development. In man's spring time,his bridal day, music means joy. In man's winter time, his burial day,music means comfort. The heaven-born muse has added to the happinessof the world. Diotti is a great genius. His art brings rest andtranquillity to the wearied and despairing," and she did not speakagain until they had reached the house.

  The lights were turned low when father and daughter went into thedrawing-
room. Mr. Wallace felt that he had failed to convince Mildredof the utter worthlessness of fiddlers, big or little, and as onedissatisfied with the outcome of a contest, re-entered the lists.

  "He has visited you?"

  "Yes, father."

  "Often?"

  "Yes, father," spoken calmly.

  "Often?" louder and more imperiously repeated the father, as if theremust be some mistake.

  "Quite often," and she sat down, knowing the catechizing would belikely to continue for some minutes.

  "How many times, do you think?"

  She rose, walked into the hallway; took the card basket from the table,returned and seated herself beside her father, emptying its contentsinto her lap. She picked up a card. It read "Angelo Diotti," and shecalled the name aloud. She took up another and again her lips voicedthe beloved name. "Angelo Diotti," she continued, repeating atintervals for a minute. Then looking at her father: "He has calledthirty-two times; there are thirty-one cards here and on one occasionhe forgot his card-case."

  "Thirty-two!" said the father, rising angrily and pacing the floor.

  "Yes, thirty-two. I remember all of them distinctly."

  Her father came over to her, half coaxingly, half seriously. "Mildred,I wish his visits to cease; people will imagine there is a romanticattachment between you."

  "There is, father," out it came, "he loves me and I love him."

  "What!" shouted Mr. Wallace, and then severely, "this must ceaseimmediately."

  She rose quietly and led her father over to the mantel. Placing a handon each of his shoulders she said:

  "Father, I will obey you implicitly if you can name a reasonableobjection to the man I love. But you can not. I love him with my wholesoul. I love him for the nobility of his character, and because thereis none other in the world for him, nor for me."