“‘A passionate ballad, gallant and gay, Singing afar in the springtime of life, Singing of youth and of love And of honor that cannot die.’”
Io drew a deep, tremulous breath. “Yes; it’s like that. What a voice! And what an art to be buried out here! It’s one of her own songs, I think. Probably an unpublished one.”
“Her own? Does she write music?”
“She is Royce Melvin, the composer. Does that mean anything to you?”
He shook his head.
“Some day it will. They say that he—every one thinks it’s a he—will take Massenet’s place as a lyrical composer. I found her out by accidentally coming on the manuscript of a Melvin song that I knew. That’s her secret that I spoke of. Do you mind my having told you?”
“Why, no. It’ll never go any further. I wonder why she never told me. And why she keeps so shut off from the world here.”
“Ah; that’s another secret, and one that I shan’t tell you,” returned Io gravely. “There’s the piano again.”
A few indeterminate chords came to their ears. There followed a jangling disharmony. They waited, but there was nothing more. They rode on.
At the lodge Banneker took the horses around while Io went in. Immediately her voice, with a note of alarm in it, summoned him. He found her bending over Miss Van Arsdale, who lay across the divan in the living-room with eyes closed, breathing jerkily. Her lips were blue and her hands looked shockingly lifeless.