"Francesca."
His thoughts wandered. In spirit he was far from Longfields. Below him
gleamed the Adriatic, azure blue. The breath of spring came gently to
his cheeks. Before him, and very near, is a woman's face, radiant with
beauty and with love, and with unfailing devotion. Her eyes looking
deep into his own, searching his innermost thoughts. There are none to
hide, for all are hers.
The smile still upon his lips he murmured in French--his voice fainter
with each succeeding word--a message.
And the last word, "Francesca," was scarcely a breath.
Cyrus knew that another spirit had joined the countless host: that
into these final words a faithful lover had breathed his soul.
* * * * *
At that sunny hour of the afternoon, in Longfields, night had fallen
in the city of Milan. The great opera house was crowded. To lovers of
music the farewell appearance of the Diva was a memorable occasion.
It was also cause for surprise, but physicians had given warning of a
certain weakness about the heart. Besides, it may have been that after
thirty years of triumph--though apparently as young as ever--there had
come a surfeit of glory; a yearning for the tranquil life; for days and
nights of less effort and less excitement.
So, still beautiful, erect as ever, and looking to perfection the
heroine, with the fresh, full voice of girlhood that charmed the world,
she was singing to-night before an audience, or rather, a host of
friends, that filled the great building from the floor to the topmost
seats. Both the glorious voice and the Diva herself seemed unchanged.
To-night she was still the envy of other singers. And to-night, as
usual, she thrilled an enchanted audience.
Near the end of the second act came a surprise. Then it was that the
great singer seemed conquered by some strange emotion--some mysterious
agency that hushed her voice and enslaved her spirit. And to that
audience it always remained a mystery.
Softly, from the orchestra, rose the accompaniment to the aria--the
divine aria--flooding the house with its melody. The Diva, with lips
parting for the opening notes, was moving slowly toward the front of
the stage. Then, instead of the voice for which the hundreds of eager
listeners were waiting, they saw her stop, and stand in silence. With
eyes closed, and face upturned, transfigured--as angels' faces are
transfigured--she stood, unconscious of the world about her. Vainly
the audience waited. Vainly the conductor waved his baton, as his
orchestra, with every bar, was leaving the Diva still further behind.
But the Diva was far away. She heard him not. She heard nothing save
the thing unheard by others. The orchestra and its leader, the opera
house and the people in it, all had vanished--all had vanished as
completely from her thoughts as from her sight. The very music itself
helped the spirit's flight--to bear it aloft, to transport her far--oh
far indeed!--from where she stood.
[Illustration: "But the Diva was far away. She heard nothing save the
thing unheard by others."]
As a dying zephyr mingles with the fragrance of the flowers, so with
the harmony of the music came, from over seas, a lover's message. Her
name--Francesca--interwoven with the melody, came gently to her senses.
She knew from whom. And she alone knew what memories it revived,
crowding upon her through the music; precious memories of the only
passion of her life; of the one being to whom she had given her heart,
her self, her very soul--and for all time. Now, once again, they were
meeting. It came, the message, not in words--merely the breath of a
dying lover. It brought this truth, that all joy of living had ended at
their parting--nearly thirty years ago. Not a moment in those years had
his devotion wavered, a devotion greater and more real than all else in
life, beyond and far above the reach of death. Now, on the borders of
that other world where loyal hearts shall know no parting--there she
would find him waiting. Again her name--Francesca--fading away into the
melody of the aria.
The Diva lowered her face, pressed a hand against her temples and
swayed as if to fall. But her recovery was sudden. She smiled toward
the sea of anxious faces and nodded to the conductor, who started his
orchestra afresh. Then she sang the aria as never before.
[Illustration]