Within, at one side of the room, a group of forty sisters, more or
less, sat listening to the song. The room was spacious. Against its
white walls hung various paintings by old masters. The further wall,
facing the western windows, was partly covered by an enormous tapestry
representing Esther and her handmaidens before King Ahasuerus. The king
was on a throne, amid the splendors of his court. Now, at this hour,
its colors were all aglow at the touch of the sinking sun. Between the
three long windows stood growing plants in massive pots of Siena marble.
Across the room, facing the sisters, stood Madame Francesca; and, not
far away, the accompanist with her harp.
The various members of the little audience were affected by the song
in different ways and in different degree, according to temperament.
Some, enraptured by her voice and art, leaned forward in æsthetic joy.
Others, with moister eyes and quicker breath, gave out their hearts to
the deeper meaning of the song. Madame Drusilla, an older woman whose
two young sons had fallen in the war, sat always, on these occasions,
with head bent low, her face in her hands. But all the others kept
their eyes upon the singer. For the personality of Madame Francesca--as
she wished to be called since her retirement from the world--possessed
in itself an irresistible charm. Now, standing in her light gray
uniform, in the flood of golden light from the great windows, she
seemed transfigured--a celestial being from another sphere.
The song itself was the outpouring of a mother's love. And it was
rendered with a pathos, a beauty and a depth of feeling that stirred
the heart of every listener. It seemed to the sisters a marvel of
dramatic art that a woman, however great an artist, could so touch the
hearts of others when not herself a mother. And they marveled that a
woman whose physicians forbade excitement could so move an audience and
not be overwhelmed herself by emotion.
The song ended. As the fingers of the harpist moved gently across the
strings, in the last notes of the accompaniment, Madame Francesca stood
for a moment with closed eyes. Her breathing and the color in her
cheeks showed a degree of feeling which Sister Lucrezia, the physician,
did not approve.
Then came a climax to the song--a climax far transcending any singer's
art. In this short, somewhat solemn silence that followed the song,
there appeared in one of the long windows that opened to the floor,
a figure rarely seen within the convent walls. It was a man. And the
man was neither workman, priest, grand duke or king. Neither was he
old. Men visitors were rare, and the few that entered were usually
middle aged or churchly. This visitor was young, hatless, his hair in
disorder. He wore a checkered suit and leather leggings, and he was in
no way ecclesiastical. His manner was eager,--somewhat excited, with
eyes fixed earnestly on Sister Francesca. He paid no attention to the
other sisters. If such a thing was possible he was ignorant of their
presence. As for the sisters they were too surprised to speak, or move.
They merely sat and stared.
Cyrus stepped within, slowly, as in a trance. Slowly he advanced toward
Madame Francesca. She, as surprised as any of the others, regarded
him in silence until he stopped before her. As they stood facing each
other, the western light on both their faces, the spectators--including
Ruth, now at the open window--began to marvel. Fear began to mingle
with surprise, for many in the audience knew that famous beauties could
be tormented by crazy lovers. But fear, in turn, gave way to wonder,
for it proved a strange interview, never forgotten by those who saw it.
No words were spoken. No words were needed. In the eyes that looked
into his own Cyrus read their greeting as clearly as in an open book.
And she, as clearly, looked deep into his heart--as she had looked
into the heart of his father. Now in his responsive, eager face she
saw the confirmation of his father's letters, that she had bequeathed
to her child her own extraordinary faculty. It brought a sudden joy,
this assurance of a perfect understanding. Each received, in full,
the other's message. In the face of Cyrus--with his grandfather's
drowsy eyes--she saw his happiness in this meeting. He was telling
her in unspoken words of his childhood yearnings; how he had thought
and dreamed of her from early boyhood; that he had prayed and hoped
for this meeting. And now--here, had come the fulfillment of all his
dreams, his hopes, his prayers! And he, as he fathomed to their secret
depths the tragic but tender eyes, found love and a heart-expanding
welcome.
The little audience, however, saw nothing but the outward, silent
greetings. To them was not revealed the greater happiness, the
imperishable bond.
But this silent meeting, with its overwhelming joy, was the prelude to
the drama--its silent overture. The curtain had risen on the Diva's
final triumph, the Immortal Opera with its happy ending.
To the amazement of the audience she drew the young man's face to
hers and kissed him on either cheek. Then, overcome by emotion, as
it seemed, her head fell slowly forward on his breast. Without his
supporting arms she would have sunk to the floor. The sisters saw, and
hastened to her side. Cyrus, with their help, carried the fainting
figure to a nearby bench, where they laid her, with a cushion beneath
her head. Sister Lucrezia, the physician, bent anxiously over the
unconscious form. And so sudden was it all that her hearers could
hardly believe her when at last she arose, and solemnly announced that
the spirit of Madame Francesca had risen to another life.
She spoke in Italian but Cyrus knew its meaning. His head drooped and
he stood motionless, crushed, as if his own spirit and that of the
sleeping figure on the bench were still together.
It was the Diva's long sleep. The last notes of her enchanting voice
had died away; the curtain was down, the orchestra gone, the lights
out. The audience had vanished. No more in the empty house would be
heard the clapping of hands, the cries of enthusiasm, the _bravos_ and
_encores_.
But there are memories that never die. And now, to those who looked
upon the tranquil face, it seemed as if memories of conquest and of
triumph--or of something higher--still lingered in her heart. For the
face was more than peaceful. There was a smile upon the lips that bore
witness to a perfect contentment beyond the touch of death.
* * * * *
Cyrus was recalled to himself by the voice of the Mother Superior,
a tall, gray-haired, kind-faced woman. She approached him, and in a
voice of sympathy addressed him, in Italian. He understood the meaning
of the message; that she shared his grief, but the presence of men
was forbidden; the rules were strict, and she begged him to go. He
expressed his gratitude by a respectful inclination and a few words
in English. Then he walked over to the silent figure. Upon her folded
hands he laid one of his own and stood, for a moment, looking down upon
the face. The rosy light from the western sky seemed to bring the flush
of life to the Diva's cheeks. He knelt beside the bench. Reverently he
touched his lips to the sleeper's forehead.
He arose and moved toward the terrace. Near the window he stopped, and
to the watching sisters he bowed. In this obeisance he told his sorrow
and his profound respect. Then he turned and went out as he came.
The Mother Superior, still apprehensive, asked Ruth to accompany him
to the gates and make sure of his departure. But Cyrus did not walk
toward the gates. He walked toward the spot where he and Ruth had met,
then beyond among the trees. During this walk neither spoke. As Cyrus
was obviously in deepest sorrow Ruth refrained from words. Absorbed in
her own thoughts, she suddenly realized that she was approaching an
unfamiliar object. This unfamiliar object, a thing about twenty feet
in length and a little taller than a man, might pass for some unknown
monster of the deep, or a minor whale. It seemed to be of iron with a
trap-door in the side just large enough for a man to climb within. Its
color was a dull gray.
"Look!" she exclaimed. "What on earth is that?"
"My flying machine. That is what I came in."
"You came in that?"
As she looked up at him he nodded, slowly, and made no other reply.
The light was fading, but she could see that a change had come into
his face since they stood together at the garden wall. This new
expression showed a side of his character that she had forgotten. She
now remembered that it was the same look that had come into his face
when he vanquished the Tormentor in the Unitarian Church, years ago;
when the good natured, easy going boy became, of a sudden, a reckless
gladiator, the fearless defender who fights--and dies, if needed--for a
sacred cause; his God, his Country, or--on that occasion--for his girl.
It told deep emotions, of strength of purpose and the courage that has
no respect for obstacles. Yet the slumbrous eyes were friendly as he
said:
"Come, Ruth. Come home with me. I will make you happier than you will
ever be in this place."
"No, Cyrus. No. I cannot."
"Do you mean that you will stay here all your life, from a sense of
duty?"
"No--not wholly. Oh, why begin all over again? Please be reasonable,
Drowsy. Please go away quietly."
His voice was gentle, but there was something in his face that
recalled the boy of long ago, the boy who vanquished giants. Now it
was the man--who might defy the gods. She was afraid:--of what, she
knew not. But she took a backward step, a hand to her breast as if to
calm a nervous heart. There was reason to be afraid. For then happened
the unforgivable thing--doubly unforgivable when applied to a woman
of sensibility and pride. He bent forward, to pick up something at
her feet, she thought. Then, without warning, and all too sudden for
escape, she felt an arm behind her knees, another across her back,
and she was lifted from the ground. Before she could protest, or even
struggle, he pushed open the door of the iron monster with his foot and
passed her within as if she were a child. Gently he placed her on the
floor and climbed in himself. She found herself sitting in front of
him, her shoulders held firmly between his knees. He shut the little
door at his side and all was dark. A button was pressed, one or two
small levers manipulated, then a buzzing sound, a slight quivering
of the car and through the port hole in front she saw that they were
rising above the tops of the trees.
Then, high into the air.
[Illustration]