He was cheerful and fairly eloquent over the lessons, for Florence Darley was one of those responsive, appreciative pupils, who are the true teacher’s delight. The classical gems which he offered her she seized with avidity, and studied them under his direction, as such music should be studied.
He had given the last hints toward an intelligent studyof the lesson under consideration, when she arose from the piano-stool and requested him to play for her, as was often the case.
He sat himself at the instrument and considered for a moment before touching the keys.
Then, with a look in his eyes that seemed to tell of forgetfulness of all present trouble, of a view into regions of light and bliss unalloyed, he began to play. Soft, mellow chords and witching harmonic changes broke on the ear, and mingled with the murmuring sound was a melody of surpassing beauty, coming to the listener like a dream or a revelation. It was a tale of intense passion, timorously yet beseechingly told.
“Exquisite!” murmured Florence, in a low voice, as the last chord died away.
“It is the Liebeslied of Henselt—‘love song’ you call it in English,” he said, turning toward her and gazing intently into her face. “Oh, Florence, it is a wonderful story, told in a marvelous language. It breathes the tale of my secret—my precious, cherished secret—that cannot be spoken in words! In music only may it be confessed—in music only may be revealed to you the——”
A sudden pallor overspread his face, a spasm of pain distorted his features, as he abruptly ceased speaking.
He bethought himself, in the midst of his wild outpourings, of the burden under which he rested, and with a twinge of pain and misery checked his flow of speech.
A moment of silence—a brief struggle—and he resumed calmly, though in a voice not entirely firm:
“Yes, it is seh huebsch—very pretty. So you like it. Vell, you shall blay it. At anoder lesson I vill give it you. Good-day, Fraulein.”