Old Sanders as boy and man had been in the employ of the banking and
brokerage firm of Wallace Brothers for two generations. The firm
gradually had advanced his position until now he was confidential
adviser and general manager, besides having an interest in the profits
of the business.
He enjoyed the friendship of Mr. Wallace, and had been a constant
visitor at his house from the first days of that gentleman's married
life. He himself was alone in the world, a confirmed bachelor. He had
seen Mildred creep from babyhood into childhood, and bud from girlhood
to womanhood. To Mildred he was one of that numerous army of brevet
relations known as "gran-pop," "pop," or "uncle." To her he was Uncle
Sanders.
If the old man had one touch of human nature in him it was a solicitude
for Mildred's future--an authority arrogated to himself--to see that
she married the right man; but even that was directed to her material
gain in this world's goods, and not to any sentimental consideration
for her happiness. He flattered himself that by timely suggestion he
had "stumped" at least half a dozen would-be candidates for Mildred's
hand. He pooh-poohed love as a necessity for marital felicity, and
would enforce his argument by quoting from the bard:
"All lovers swear more performance than they are able, and yet reserve
an ability that they never perform; vowing more than the perfection of
ten, and discharging less than the tenth part of one."
"You can get at a man's income," he would say, "but not at his heart.
Love without money won't travel as far as money without love," and many
married people whose bills were overdue wondered if the old fellow was
not right.
He was cold-blooded and generally disliked by the men under him. The
more evil-minded gossips in the bank said he was in league with "Old
Nick." That, of course, was absurd, for it does not necessarily follow,
because a man suggests a means looking to an end, disreputable though
it be, that he has Mephistopheles for a silent partner. The
conservative element among the employees would not openly venture so
far, but rather thought if his satanic majesty and old Sanders ran a
race, the former would come in a bad second, if he were not distanced
altogether.
The old man always reached the office at nine. Mr. Wallace usually
arrived a half hour later, seldom earlier, which was so well understood
by Sanders that he was greatly surprised when he walked into the
president's office, the morning after that gentleman had attended
Diotti's concert, to find the head of the firm already there and
apparently waiting for him.
"Sanders," said the banker, "I want your advice on a matter of great
importance and concern to me."
Sanders came across the room and stood beside the desk.
"Briefly as possible, I am much exercised about my daughter."
The old man moved up a chair and buried himself in it. Pressing his
elbows tightly against his sides, he drew his neck in, and with the
tips of his right hand fingers consorted and coquetted with their like
on the opposite hand; then he simply asked, "Who is the man?"
"He is the violinist who has created such a sensation here, Angelo
Diotti."
"Yes, I've seen the name in print," returned the old man.
"He has bewitched Mildred. I never have seen her show the least
interest in a man before. She never has appeared to me as an
impressionable girl or one that could easily be won."
"That is very true," ejaculated Sanders; "she always seemed tractable
and open to reason in all questions of love and courting. I can recall
several instances where I have set her right by my estimation of men,
and invariably she has accepted my views."
"And mine until now," said the father, and then he recounted his
experience of the night before. "I had hoped she would not fall in
love, but be a prop and comfort to me now that I am alone. I am
dismayed at the prospect before me."
Then the old man mused: "In the chrysalis state of girlhood, a parent
arranges all the details of his daughter's future; when and whom she
shall marry. 'I shall not allow her to fall in love until she is
twenty-three,' says the fond parent. 'I shall not allow her to marry
until she is twenty-six,' says the fond parent. 'The man she marries
will be the one I approve of, and then she will live happy ever after,'
concludes the fond parent."
Deluded parent! false prophet! The anarchist, Love, steps in and
disdains all laws, rules and regulations. When finally the father
confronts the defying daughter, she calmly says, "Well, what are you
going to do about it?" And then tears, forgiveness, complete
capitulation, and, sometimes, she and her husband live happily ever
afterwards.
"We must find some means to end this attachment. A union between a
musician and my daughter would be most mortifying to me. Some plan must
be devised to separate them, but she must not know of it, for she is
impatient of restraint and will not brook opposition."
"Are you confident she really loves this violinist?"
"She confessed as much to me," said the perturbed banker.
Old Sanders tapped with both hands on his shining cranium and asked,
"Are you confident he loves her?"
"No. Even if he does not, he no doubt makes the pretense, and she
believes him. A man who fiddles for money is not likely to ignore an
opportunity to angle for the same commodity," and the banker, with a
look of scorn on his face, threw himself back into the chair.
"Does she know that you do not approve of this man?"
"I told her that I desired the musician's visits to cease."
"And her answer?"
"She said she would obey me if I could name one reasonable objection to
the man, and then, with an air of absolute confidence in the
impossibility of such a contingency, added, 'But you can not.'"
"Yes, but you must," said Sanders. "Mildred is strangely constituted.
If she loves this man, her love can be more deadly to the choice of her
heart than her hate to one she abhors. The impatience of restraint you
speak of and her very inability to brook opposition can be turned to
good account now." And old Sanders again tapped in the rhythm of a
dirge on his parchment-bound cranium.
"Your plan?" eagerly asked the father, whose confidence in his
secretary was absolute.
"I would like to study them together. Your position will be stronger
with Mildred if you show no open opposition to the man or his
aspirations; bring us together at your house some evening, and if I can
not enter a wedge of discontent, then they are not as others."
* * *
Mildred was delighted when her father told her on his return in the
evening that he was anxious to meet Signor Diotti, and suggested a
dinner party within a few days. He said he would invite Mr. Sanders, as
that gentleman, no doubt, would consider it a great privilege to meet
the famous musician. Mildred immediately sent an invitation to Diotti,
adding a request that he bring his violin and play for Uncle Sanders,
as the latter had found it impossible to attend his concerts during the
season, yet was fond of music, especially violin music.
X
The little dinner party passed off pleasantly, and as old Sanders
lighted his cigar he confided to Diotti, with a braggart's assurance,
that when he was a youngster he was the best fiddler for twenty miles
around. "I tell you there is nothing like a fiddler to catch a
petticoat," he said, with a sharp nudge of his elbow into Diotti's
ribs. "When I played the Devil's Dream there wasn't a girl in the
country could keep from dancing, and 'Rosalie, the Prairie Flower,'
brought them on their knees to me every time;" then after a pause, "I
don't believe people fiddle as well nowadays as they did in the good
old times," and he actually sighed in remembrance.
Mildred smiled and whispered to Diotti. He took his violin from the
case and began playing. It seemed to her as if from above showers of
silvery merriment were falling to earth. The old man watched intently,
and as the player changed from joy to pity, from love back to
happiness, Sanders never withdrew his gaze. His bead-like eyes followed
the artist; he saw each individual finger rise and fall, and the bow
bound over the finger-board, always avoiding, never coming in contact
with the middle string. Suddenly the old man beat a tattoo on his
cranium and closed his eyes, apparently deep in thought.
As Diotti ceased playing, Sanders applauded vociferously, and moving
toward the violinist, said: "Magnificent! I never have heard better
playing! What is the make of your violin?"
Diotti, startled at this question, hurriedly put the instrument in its
case; "Oh, it is a famous make," he drawled.
"Will you let me examine it?" said the elder, placing his hand on the
case.
"I never allow any one to touch my violin," replied Diotti, closing the
cover quickly.
"Why; is there a magic charm about it, that you fear other hands may
discover?" queried the old man.
"I prefer that no one handle it," said the virtuoso commandingly.
"Very well," sighed the old man resignedly, "there are violins and
violins, and no doubt yours comes within that category," this half
sneeringly.
"Uncle," interposed Mildred tactfully, "you must not be so persistent.
Signor Diotti prizes his violin highly and will not allow any one to
play upon it but himself," and the look of relief on Diotti's face
amply repaid her.
Mr. Wallace came in at that moment, and with perfunctory interest in
his guest, invited him to examine the splendid collection of
revolutionary relics in his study.
"I value them highly," said the banker, "both for patriotic and
ancestral reasons. The Wallaces fought and died for their country, and
helped to make this land what it is."
The father and the violinist went to the study, leaving the daughter
and old Sanders in the drawing-room. The old man, seating himself in a
large armchair, said: "Mildred, my dear, I do not wonder at the
enormous success of this Diotti."
"He is a wonderful artist," replied Mildred; "critics and public alike
place him among the greatest of his profession."
"He is a good-looking young fellow, too," said the old man.
"I think he is the handsomest man I ever have seen," replied the girl.
"Where does he come from?" continued Sanders.
"St. Casciano, a small town in Tuscany."
"Has he a family?"
"Only a sister, whom he loves dearly," good-naturedly answered the girl.
"And no one else?" continued the seemingly garrulous old man.
"None that I have heard him speak of. No, certainly not," rather
impetuously replied Mildred.
"How old is he?" continued the old man.
"Twenty-eight next month; why do you wish to know?" she quizzically
asked.
"Simply idle curiosity," old Sanders carelessly replied. "I wonder if
he is in love with any one in Tuscany?"
"Of course not; how could he be?" quickly rejoined the girl.
"And why not?" added old Sanders.
"Why? Because, because--he is in love with some one in America."
"Ah, with you, I see," said the old man, as if it were the greatest
discovery of his life; "are you sure he has not some beautiful
sweetheart in Tuscany as well as here?"
"What a foolish question," she replied. "Men like Angelo Diotti do not
fall in love as soldiers fall in line. Love to a man of his nobility
is too serious to be treated so lightly."
"Very true, and that's what has excited my curiosity!" whereupon the
old man smoked away in silence.
"Excited your curiosity!" said Mildred. "What do you mean?"
"It may be something; it may be nothing; but my speculative instinct
has been aroused by a strange peculiarity in his playing."
"His playing is wonderful!" replied Mildred proudly.
"Aye, more than wonderful! I watched him intently," said the old man;
"I noted with what marvelous facility he went from one string to the
other. But however rapid, however difficult the composition, he
steadily avoided one string; in fact, that string remained untouched
during the entire hour he played for us."
"Perhaps the composition did not call for its use," suggested Mildred,
unconscious of any other meaning in the old man's observation, save
praise for her lover.
"Perhaps so, but the oddity impressed me; it was a new string to me. I
have never seen one like it on a violin before."
"That can scarcely be, for I do not remember of Signor Diotti telling
me there was anything unusual about his violin."
"I am sure it has a fifth string."
"And I am equally sure the string can be of no importance or Angelo
would have told me of it," Mildred quickly rejoined.
"I recall a strange story of Paganini," continued the old man,
apparently not noticing her interruption; "he became infatuated with a
lady of high rank, who was insensible of the admiration he had for her
beauty.
"He composed a love scene for two strings, the 'E' and 'G,' the first
was to personate the lady, the second himself. It commenced with a
species of dialogue, intending to represent her indifference and his
passion; now sportive, now sad; laughter on her part and tears from
him, ending in an apotheosis of loving reconciliation. It affected the
lady to that degree that ever after she loved the violinist."
"And no doubt they were happy?" Mildred suggested smilingly.
"Yes," said the old man, with assumed sentiment, "even when his
profession called him far away, for she had made him promise her he
never would play upon the two strings whose music had won her heart, so
those strings were mute, except for her."
The old man puffed away in silence for a moment, then with logical
directness continued: "Perhaps the string that's mute upon Diotti's
violin is mute for some such reason."
"Nonsense," said the girl, half impatiently.
"The string is black and glossy as the tresses that fall in tangled
skeins on the shoulders of the dreamy beauties of Tuscany. It may be an
idle fancy, but if that string is not a woven strand from some woman's
crowning glory, then I have no discernment."
"You are jesting, uncle," she replied, but her heart was heavy already.
"Ask him to play on that string; I'll wager he'll refuse," said the old
man, contemptuously.
"He will not refuse when I ask him, but I will not to-night," answered
the unhappy girl, with forced determination. Then, taking the old
man's hands, she said: "Good-night, I am going to my room; please make
my excuses to Signor Diotti and father," and wearily she ascended the
stairs.
Mr. Wallace and the violinist soon after joined old Sanders, fresh
cigars were lighted and regrets most earnestly expressed by the
violinist for Mildred's "sick headache."
"No need to worry; she will be all right in the morning," said Sanders,
and he and the violinist buttoned their coats tightly about them, for
the night was bitter cold, and together they left the house.
In her bed-chamber Mildred stood looking at the portrait of her lover.
She studied his face long and intently, then crossing the room she
mechanically took a volume from the shelf, and as she opened it her
eyes fell on these lines:
"How art thou fallen from Heaven, O Lucifer, son of the Morning!"
* * *
Old Sanders builded better than he knew.