“It was not so much vanity, as respect for your grandfather, that made me want to appear at my best when I met him.”
“You see, he didn’t notice them. Why should you care, anyhow, if I liked them.”
There was a certain charm in her contempt for risks and consequences. A waiter was brought out clinking with glasses.
“This will not only prove your welcome, Mr. Andrews, but aid your digestion as well,” Mr. Campbell said, as he came out of the hall to join them.
Andrews filled his glass that yielded fragrance and soft fire. He touched it to his lips. “This is excellent. Is it some of your own make?”
“The grapes came from my vineyard.”
“I helped to make it—I strained it,” Esther interrupted, “but I never tasted any in my life.” Mr. Campbell laid his hand on her head.
“This is to you—to your art.” Glenn Andrews motioned to her, lifted his glass and sipped the wine, slowly realizing it was beautiful to every sense. Esther stole into the parlor, and was playing her violin before they knew it. They followed her in. It was an old-time parlor with black, carved furniture, a slender legged center table, polished as smooth as a mirror, holding a china vase of curious design, in which leaned one long stemmed rose, as red as the wine that had made their hearts large and soft. The walls were almost hidden by family portraits that reached from the ceiling to the floor, set in deep tarnished gilt frames. The carpet had a shred of tracery suggesting a design—it might have been only a shadow of gorgeous wreaths that had been worn away by dear feet that had long gone—the whole faint impression still hallowed by their tread.
Esther loved her violin irregularly. This was a time when she really needed it. They went in very quietly, hoping not to interrupt her. The soft, tremulous tones that she had not meant to give, showed that she was excited, unnerved. Just as Glenn was about to utter an apology for the confusion, his face became serious and silent. He was peculiarly sensitive to the influence of the violin. He was conscious of a dreamy exaltation, and the awakening of a new enthusiasm. The music had burst into a wild, passionate tenderness, as though she was daringly investing all her dreams with life-throbbing human life—the tone fairly voicing the longing of her soul.
It was infinitely touching, infinitely tender. A quick flush went up to his forehead and died out again, as the music trembled into stillness, and she lowered the violin, exhausted.