The hands that hold the roses tremble visibly. She sits there and is silent, and does not look up at the face above her for answering sympathy, because of this strange dread and ecstasy he may read upon her own.
He has read it, despite the downcast eyes. He has read it, and his own heart grows rapturous with a sudden delight, and cold with as sudden a dread.
Fresh applause—fresh entreaties. A moment's silence, and then the great singer seats himself at the piano, and pours out again in the matchless melody of his voice these words:
The old, old pain of earth
On land or sea,
And all that makes life worth
For you or me.
What is it, darling, say,
While stars shine on above.
What makes us glad or gay?
'Tis love—'tis love!
The world's old weariness,
What can it be,
And all life's sad mistakes
That sad lives see.
What makes them, darling, say,
While here we hold our bliss:
What makes us glad to day?
A word—a kiss.
The strange winds sigh above
The bending trees,
And strange and sad days, love,
May follow these.
What care we, darling, now,
Since love is ours,
For winter blasts that rob
The summer flowers?
So that our hearts be one,
So that our love be true,
The world may laugh or frown
For me and you.
Men may be wise or fools,
Stars may die out above;
We ask of life no gift,
But love—but love![[1]]
[[1]] These words are copyright.
He has set the words to music of his own. Music sad and gay and triumphant all in one. Music that finds its way from ear to heart, and fairly carries away the listeners. As he ceases—as the rapturous exclamations of the crowd sound stormily after the long silence—Lauraine looks up and meets Keith Athelstone's eyes.
Only a look!