The very soul of song seemed breathed into her, and every nook and corner of the house appeared to vibrate with melody. Even the servants in distant rooms said that it seemed that an angel was singing. After she ceased, the audience sat spellbound for a moment, and then followed prolonged thunders of applause, the portly brewer, Mr. Brown himself, leading off again and again.
“Now let the tenor sing alone,” he said, for, though a coarse man, he was hearty and good-natured.
The audience emphatically echoed his wish, but Dennis as decidedly shook his head.
Then came a cry, “Miss Ludolph and the tenor again”; and the audience took it up with a clamor that would not be denied.
Christine looked inquiringly at Dennis, and he replied in a low tone, “You command me this evening.”
Again she thanked him with her eyes, and from a music stand near chose a magnificent duet from Mendelssohn, in which he must sing several difficult solos.
“Act your pleasure. I am familiar with it,” he said, smiling at the way she had circumvented him in his refusal to sing alone.
Christine sat down and played her own accompaniment, while Dennis stood at her side. He determined to do his best and prove that though he swept a store he could also do something else. Many of the strains were plaintive, and his deep and unconscious feeling for his fair companion in song gave to his voice a depth, and at times a pathos, that both thrilled and touched the heart, and there were not a few wet eyes in the audience. Unconsciously to himself and all around, he was singing his love; and even Christine, though much preoccupied with her part, wondered at the effect upon herself, and recognized the deep impression made upon the audience.
As the last notes died away the sliding-doors were closed.
Dennis had achieved a greater success than Christine, because, singing from the heart, he had touched the heart. His applause could be read in moist eyes and expressive faces rather than in noisy hands. She saw and understood the result. A sad, disappointed look came into her face, and she said in a low, plaintive tone, as if it were wrung from her: “There must be something wrong about me. I fear I shall never reach true art. I can only win admiration, never touch the heart.”
Dennis was about to speak eagerly, when they were overwhelmed by the rush and confusion attendant on the breaking up of the entertainment. Part of the older guests at once left for their homes, and the rest stayed for supper. The parlors were to be cleared as soon as possible for dancing. Christine was joined by her father, who had sat in the audience, scarcely believing his eyes, much less his ears. Was that the young man who was blacking old Schwartz’s boots the other day?
His daughter was overwhelmed with compliments, but she took them very coolly and quietly, for her heart was full of bitterness. That which her ambitious spirit most desired she could not reach, and to the degree that she loved art was her disappointment keen. She almost envied poor Dennis, but she knew not the secret of his success; nor did he, either, in truth. His old manner returned, and he busied himself in rapidly packing up everything that he had brought. Mr. Ludolph, who had received a brief explanation from Christine, came and said, kindly, “Why, Fleet, you have blossomed out strongly today.”
“Indeed, sir, I think I have never had a more rigorous pruning,” was the reply.
When the story had been told Mr. Ludolph in full, he understood the remark. Christine was waiting for the crowd to disperse somewhat, in order to speak to Dennis also, for her sense of justice and her genuine admiration impelled her to warm and sincere acknowledgment. But at that moment Mr. Mellen came in, exclaiming, “Miss Ludolph, they are all waiting for you to lead the dance, for to you is given this honor by acclamation, and I plead your promise to be my partner;” and he carried her off, she meaning to return as soon as possible, and supposing Dennis would remain.
A moment after, light, airy music was heard in the front parlor, followed by the rhythmical cadence of light feet and the rustle of silks like a breeze through a forest.
For some reason as she went away Dennis’s heart sank within him. Reaction followed the strong excitements of the day, and a strange sense of weariness and despondency crept over him. The gay music in the other room seemed plaintive and far away, and the tripping feet sounded like the patter of rain on autumn leaves. The very lights appeared to burn dimmer, and the color to fade out of his life. Mechanically he packed up the few remaining articles, to be called for in the morning, and then leaned heavily against a pillar, intending to rest a moment before going out into the night alone.
Someone pushed back the sliding-door a little and passed into the room. Through the opening he caught a glimpse of the gay scene within. Suddenly Christine appeared floating lightly through the waltz in her gauzy drapery, as if in a white, misty cloud. Through the narrow opening she seemed a radiant, living portrait. But her partner whirled her out of the line of vision. Thus in the mazes of the dance she kept appearing and disappearing, flashing in sight one moment, leaving a blank in the crowded room the next.
“So it will ever be, I suppose,” he said to himself, bitterly; “chance and stolen glimpses my only privilege.”
Again she appeared, smiling archly on the man whose arm clasped her waist.
A frown black as night gathered on Dennis’s brow; then a sudden pallor overspread his face to his very lips. The revelation had come! Then for the first time he knew—knew it as if written in letters of fire before him—that he loved Christine Ludolph.
At first the knowledge stunned and bewildered him,
