“I am sure it has a fifth string.”
“And I am equally sure the string can be of no importance or Angelo would have told me of it,” Mildred quickly rejoined.
“I recall a strange story of Paganini,” continued the old man, apparently not noticing her interruption; “he became infatuated with a lady of high rank, who was insensible of the admiration he had for her beauty.
“He composed a love scene for two strings, the ‘E’ and ‘G,’ the first was to personate the lady, the second himself. It commenced with a species of dialogue, intending to represent her indifference and his passion; now sportive, now sad; laughter on her part and tears from him, ending in an apotheosis of loving reconciliation. It affected the lady to that degree that ever after she loved the violinist.”
“And no doubt they were happy?” Mildred suggested smilingly.
“Yes,” said the old man, with assumed sentiment, “even when his profession called him far away, for she had made him promise her he never would play upon the two strings whose music had won her heart, so those strings were mute, except for her.” The old man puffed away in silence for a moment, then with logical directness continued: “Perhaps the string that’s mute upon Diotti’s violin is mute for some such reason.”
“Nonsense,” said the girl, half impatiently.
“The string is black and glossy as the tresses that fall in tangled skeins on the shoulders of the dreamy beauties of Tuscany. It may be an idle fancy, but if that string is not a woven strand from some woman’s crowning glory, then I have no discernment.”
“You are jesting, uncle,” she replied, but her heart was heavy already.
“Ask him to play on that string; I’ll wager he’ll refuse,” said the old man, contemptuously.