“So he encouraged the tenor to put a fine edge on his knife, hoping that he would have a better idea of interpreting his revenge when he had cut the heart out of the bosom of his brother artist? Yes, I'm afraid that though an estimable exponent of the art of vocalism, your maestro was lacking in some of the finer principles of the moralist.”
“He took nothing into consideration except his art,” said Clare. “He admitted to me that he liked to see his pupils miserable, for only then could they be depended on to do justice to themselves. He made mischief between young people only that he might study them when blazing with revenge. He has reproduced for me an entire scena founded on a lover's quarrel that he himself brought about.”
“So cold-blooded an old wretch could not be imagined!” cried Agnes. “And yet he could compose so transcendent a theme as the 'Nightingale'! Oh, my dear Clare, one feels that this art is a terrible thing after all.”
“I feel that I have wasted my time with Signor Marini,” said Clare. “What would I not give now to have studied drawing as I studied singing!”
“You are still afraid of attacking those illustrations? I wonder how the maestro would treat your mood in his music?”
“My mood has been dealt with long ago,” cried Clare. “It is in the opera of 'Orféo'—the despair of Orpheus when he was longing for the unattainable. Oh, I would make a splendid Orpheus at the present moment.” She almost flung herself down on the piano seat and struck a chord; but she only sang a phrase or two of the marvellous lament “Che farô senz' Eurydice?” Her voice was choked. She sprang from her seat and threw herself into the sympathetic arms of her friend. Only for an instant did she remain there. With a long kiss and a rapid “Good-night” she harried from the room.
Agnes was left alone to try to put a coherent interpretation upon her mood. She commenced her task with smiles, thinking of the sentimental young Italian who had not shrunk from the attempt to adapt a serenade to an English November; but before long her smiles had vanished. She sat thinking for a long time; and yet the whole sum of her thoughts found no wider expression than the sigh which came from her as she said:
“Poor child! poor child! May she never know the truth! That is my prayer for her to-night.”