With a stifled moan he turned from the sight of her sorrowful beauty, and rushed from the room, while the beautiful singer fell like a broken lily to the floor and prayed to die.
[CHAPTER XXX.]
Ronald Valchester thought after he had left the presence of his lost love that day that he would not attend the opera again at night.
But he had promised his mother, who had just arrived in New York that morning, to accompany her, and he had also engaged the same box with Walter and Violet Earle, so it was almost impossible for him to remain away.
When the vast theater rang with the wild plaudits that greeted the queen of song, he was in his place by his mother's side, and his eyes saw nothing clearly but the one face that had filled his heart for years—his ears heard nothing but the silvery voice that carolled its songs to the world now, but which long ago—it seemed years and years, measured by his pain—had sung to him alone beneath the blossoming apple boughs, while her heart had thrilled within him at the sweetness of the strain.
How like and how unlike was the brilliant prima donna of to-night, to the pretty, simple girl of three years ago. The love-light that had beamed in those dark eyes then was so different from their quiet sadness now. As she stood there in her costly robes and gleaming jewels, while fragrant flowers rained at her feet, and the rapturous applause thundered over her head, her beauty was peerless.
Yet no smile curved the rich, red lips as she bent her graceful head, though the lashes swept low on the cheek that for a moment wore a crimson flush like the sunset glow.
There was no gladness on the beautiful face, and yet it was not cold or indifferent.