Two men were sitting in the billiard room lounging over iced punch. Light, perfumed and golden, poured from the rooms below upon the summer night, and the music of a waltz made its way into the darkness.
“What an odd fish Livingston has grown to be,” said one, relighting a thin, delicate-looking cigar. “I watched him out of curiosity a while ago and was struck at the change in him.”
“Ah!” drawled the other sipping the cooling beverage. “Quite a Priuli on the whole, eh?”
“Y‑e‑s! Precisely. And I have fancied that the beautiful Mrs. Briggs is his Clarisse. What do you think? She shudders every time he draws near, and sinks to the ground under the steady gaze of his eye. Odd, isn’t it?”
“Deucedly odd! About to marry Miss Vance, isn’t he?”
“That don’t count. Love is not always legitimate. If there’s anything in it, it is only a flirtation probably; that’s the style.”
“What you say is true, Skelton. Let’s drink the rest of this stuff and go down again. I know we’re missed already.”
When they had swallowed the punch and descended, the first person they saw was Livingston leaning against the door of the salon. His face was abstracted and in dead repose, there lurked about the corners of his full lips implacable resolution. The waltz was ended.
Some interminable argument was going on, generally, about the room. Conversation progressed in sharp, brisk sentences, which fell from the lips like the dropping shots of sharpshooters. There was a call for music. Molly mentally calculated her available talent and was about to give up the idea and propose something else, when she was amazed to see Dianthe rise hurriedly from her seat on an ottoman, go to the piano unattended and sit down. Unable to move with astonishment she watched in fascination the slender white fingers flash over the keys. There was a strange rigid appearance about the girl that was unearthly. Never once did she raise her eyes. At the first sharp treble note the buzz in the room was hushed at stillness. Livingston moved forward and rested his arm upon the piano fastening his gaze upon the singer’s quivering lips.
Slowly, tremulously at first, pealed forth the notes:
“Go down, Moses, way down in Egypt’s land,
Tell ol’ Pharaoh, let my people go.”
Scarcely was the verse begun when every person in the room started suddenly and listened with eager interest. As the air proceeded, some grew visibly pale, and not daring to breathe a syllable, looked horrified into each other’s faces. “Great heaven!” whispered Mr. Vance to his daughter, “do you not hear another voice beside Mrs. Briggs’?”
It was true, indeed. A weird contralto, veiled as it were, rising and falling upon every wave of the great soprano, and reaching the ear as from some strange distance. The singer sang on, her voice dropping sweet and low, the echo following it, and at the closing word, she fell back in a dead faint. Mr. Vance caught her in his arms.
“Mrs. Briggs has the soul of an artiste. She would make a perfect prima donna for the Grand Opera,” remarked one man to Molly.
“We are as surprised as anyone,” replied the young girl; “we never knew that Mrs. Briggs was musical until this evening. It is a delightful surprise.”
They carried her to the quiet, cool library away from the glaring lights and the excitement, and at her request left her there alone. Her thoughts were painful. Memory had returned in full save as to her name. She knit her brow in painful thought, finally leaning back among her cushions wearily, too puzzled for further thought. Presently a step paused beside her chair. She looked up into Livingston’s face.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked, gently taking in her slender wrist and counting the pulse-beats.
Instead of answering his question, she began abruptly: “Mr. Livingston, Reuel told me to trust you implicitly. Can you and will you tell me what has happened to me since last I sang the song I have sung here tonight? I try to recall the past, but all is confusion and mystery. It makes my head ache so to think.”
Livingston suddenly drew closer to her.
“Yes, Felice, there is a story in your life! I can save you.”
“Save me!” exclaimed the girl.
“Yes, and will! Listen to me.” In gentle accents he recounted to her there in the stillness, with the pulsing music of the viols beating and throbbing in her ears like muffled drums, the story of Dianthe Lusk as we have told it here. At the close of the tale the white-faced girl turned to him in despair the more eloquent because of her quietness.
“Did Reuel know that I was a Negress?”
“No; no one recognized you but myself.”
She hid her face in her hands.
“Who ever suffered such torture as mine?” she cried, bitterly. “And there is no rest out of the grave!” she continued.
“Yes, there is rest and security in my love! Felice, Dianthe, I have learned to love you!”
She sprang from his touch as if stung.
He continued: “I love you better than all in the world. To possess you I am prepared to prove false to my friend—I am prepared to save you from the fate that must be yours if ever Reuel learns your origin.”
“You would have me give up all for you?” she asked with a shudder.
“Ay, from your husband—from the world! We will go where none can ever find us. If you refuse, I cannot aid you.”
“Pity me!”
She sank upon her knees at his feet.
“I give you a week to think it over. I can love, but cannot pity.”
In vain the
