At the
dying-out of the applause, the violinist addressed himself to the nook
where Io was no more than a vague, faerie figure to his eyes, misty
through interlaced bloom and leafage.
"Now, Madame, I play you somezing of a American. Ver' beautiful, it is.
Not for violin. For voice, contralto. I sing it to you--on ze G-string,
which weep when it sing; weep for lost dreams. It is called 'Illusion,'
ze song."
He raised his bow, and at the first bar Io's heart gave a quick, thick
sob within her breast. It was the music which Camilla Van Arsdale had
played that night when winds and forest leaves murmured the overtones;
when earth and heaven were hushed to hear.
"Oh, Ban!" cried Io's spirit.
Noiseless and swift, Banneker, answering the call, bent over her. She
whispered, softly, passionately, her lips hardly stirring the
melody-thrilled air.
"How could I hurt you so! I'm going because I must; because I daren't
stay. You can understand, Ban!"
The music died. "Yes," said Banneker. Then, "Don't go, Io!"
"I must. I'll--I'll see you before. When we're ourselves. We can't talk
now. Not with this terrible music in our blood."
She rose and went forward to thank the player with such a light in her
eyes and such a fervor in her words that he mentally added another to
his list of conquests.
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