The sun was high in the heavens when the violinist awoke. A great weight had been lifted from his heart; he had passed 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 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, their ambitions. She assumed 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 cluster 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.
``Nonsense,'' he said, smiling, ``that is all part of my profession; it is not 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, I can not bear to see a woman near you. In my dreams again and again an indefinable shadow mockingly comes; and cries to me, `he is not to be yours, he is to be mine.' ''
Diotti flushed and drew her to him ``Darling,'' his voice carrying conviction, ``I am yours, you are mine, all in all, in life here and beyond!'' And as she sat dreaming after he had gone, she murmured petulantly, ``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 served as president or director occupied most of his time. He had been absent in Europe for several months, and Mildred was anxiously awaiting his return to tell him of her love.
