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.
"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.