PART I.

THE HOSTAGE OF

Τ

LOVE.

I.

HERE are odd times in the lives of men when a chance strain of music, however simple, perhaps commonplace, reaches the inmost heart of the listener. Sometimes the strain, like early love, loses its force and dies away into a faint echo; oftener the melody, like the better, truer, holier love of after days, impresses itself indelibly, and changes the recipient's career, his life. There is but one Kreutzer Sonata; higher impulses have inspired a million melodies of a better sort. Music appeals to the senses, but not to passion; for music has an ennobling tendency, and mere passion is ignoble. The pulsations do not find a response in all, to be sure, but now and then, as I have said, some strain finds an answering chord.

And thus it was, with the permanent, uplifting effect, that a stray note crept into the ear of Edward Holmes and thence to his heart. The music of the Angel Israfil is not always confined to the upper spheres, as poets would have us believe when they tell us their dreams. Occasionally, by the grace of something higher than we, it creeps from the firmament into this practical, workaday world of ours, and lingers here and there, like the echo of a better life.

To this day, although it marked a beginning, Holmes cannot tell exactly when it came to him, as there is a dim haze surrounding the recollection; but he distinctly remembers that it was his salvation. He had reached that point attained at some time in our lives by those of us who were not born with the traditional silver spoon. He was aweary of the world and of the disheartening battle which poor fellows like himself were daily compelled to fight; he was an humble Sisyphus, straining every tense sinew to move the stone a trifle higher and hold it there; but in vain. Yet, withal, he did not wish to see Capital overthrown; nor did he ask his neighbor to divide his portion with him. He was rational, if he was poor.

It had been a discouraging day; he was in one of those dangerous, irresistible moods which have so often swayed men until they ignobly surrendered and sought refuge in drink or death. Labor brought him but a pittance, and the tatters of his muse excited no sympathy. His frugal supper of bread and milk lay untouched, although it was long past the usual supper hour; for, strangely enough, while he had not fared to speak of all day, he had no appetite. Despair, like happiness, is often an antidote for hunger. He could do nothing but sit listlessly and stare at the four bare and discolored walls of his scantily furnished room, so wrapped up in himself as to be deaf to the eerie sounds in the dark hall and the din of the elevated trains, five stories below him.

His past had been gloomy; the present

was darker; the future, overshadowing all, was so uncertain as to be menacing; and as Holmes yielded to the depressing influences of his disheartening situation, his pent-up feelings found utterance in a groan as his head sank heavily upon the pine table before him. He was like many another: a young man reared without any especial object in view, save an inheritance, and then thrown upon his own resources, without the slightest knowledge of battling with circumstances. A wealthy father and an overproud mother are sometimes the greatest misfortunes in life.

Then, of all times the most auspicious and opportune, the music reached him, stealing toward the bowed, helpless figure, like a bit of the melody of heaven. It soared above the outer noises and discords like the voice of a seraph, dispelling with its purity the odors of that human hive, changing all things-the sweet, touching strain of a matchless Cremona.

The player-mysterious, gifted being!-had chosen a simple, beautiful nocturne, executing it with exquisite feeling and delicacy of touch, every note betraying the artist and lover of the bow. The sad, dreamy notes softened and sweetened the night air blowing through the dingy casement, and a sense of infinite pathos, melting the sharp iron that had entered his soul, stole over the listener. His eyes felt strange, and something dropped upon his hand. It was a tearthe first shed since childhood -showing that the music had redeemed the man by exorcising the devil that had momentarily obtained control. And then-oh, bitter moment!- the strain died away; the world darkened again, and Holmes awoke to find himself once more in a wretched room on the upper floor of a tenément. And yet, he was less rebellious, less angry with his Maker, more willing to yield to circumstances, more eager to contend with the fates. Sweet music is like the kiss of a child and the love of a good woman: it draws one nearer to heaven, and purifies the soul.

A few hours later, when he went to draw some water, he encountered in the hall a slim feminine figure, clad in simple black. It was evidently that of a girl, but in the semi-gloom he could not see her face, and he concluded that she was a caller. As he was returning to his apartment he stopped for a moment at the door of a fellow-lodger-a Bohemian artist who had won a medal at the Paris Salon, only to dissolve it, together with his brightest dreams of the future, in alcohol and fusil oil. Just then the latter was putting the finishing touches to six paintings, with an advertisement in the corner of each. They were after one of Landseer's, with a lordly stag in the centre, and he had thus far made thirty-six of them, for Art would have starved but for Trade.

"This is an imitation of Art going hand in hand with Commerce, said the artist, chuckling softly as he paused to relight his pipe, for he never spared himself.

"We have a new neighbor," Holmes ventured, for he was not in the mood to jest at the scars inflicted by outrageous fortune.

"Yes, Mam'selle Paganini," the other replied, smiling through a haze of tobacco smoke. "She plays divinely. I have heard graduates of the Conservatoire do much worse.'

Holmes understood him perfectly. It was the painter's delight to nickname those who entered the little colony on the top floor, and this pseudonym was most happy, for the player had the touch of a Paganini, if not a little of his genius. And a girl, too! possibly the one he had met in the hallway. Holmes wondered what she was like, and if her personality were in harmony with her music.

From that night forward Holmes spent more of his evenings at home, so that he should not miss the melody she created. The strains of her violin were like a tonic, and made a new man of him. If they were grave they brought him into closer proximity with his better self, inspiring higher thoughts; if they were gay, the world seemed brighter and the battle of life less fierce in action and uncertain in results. At all times and under all circumstances they crept into his heart's core and nestled there, as they altered the pulsations to fit their own rhythm. Hope lived anew within his breast; he went forth into the world with more courageous mien, and won a little greater meed of success; he applied himself more diligently to the literary task he had imposed upon himself, and those to whom he appealed for recognition seemed kindlier. He went so far, even, as to endeavor to brighten up his poor den with a cheap picture or two, which served their purpose admirably until the artist discovered them, coolly tore them down and hung up two of his own stray canvases-a Caprian scene and a mild caricature of himself.

"Anything but a chromo or an engraving!" he said, as he kicked the objectionable adornments into the hall.

"One is a libel upon art; the other is art's corpse. I wish I had something better to offer. Some day, perhaps, I'll give you a sketch of Mam'selle."

It was a simple thing to so change the current of a man's thoughts and clear the film from his eyes as to make the world less dark to his tired gaze; but, simple as it was, it did the work well. And by and by Holmes met the one to whom he owed so much. Tenements, such as the one in which they lived-or vegetated, rather-know no such thing as strict conventionality. The exigencies of life do not allow one to ignore a neighbor's existence, while poverty is a common cause and binds families and individuals together. It was not long, therefore, before Holmes and the player were on speaking terms.

First they exchanged pleasant glances of recognition when they met on the stairs or in the hall; for the stairs were rickety and the halls so narrow that he was invariably compelled to stand with his hat in his hand and his back to the wall to allow her to pass, which she did smilingly. Then, once upon a time, he assisted her to remove the hem of her gown from the rusty head of an obtrusive nail, muttering some commonplace as he did so; and after that they were acquaintances, at least.

The look she gave every one was the nature of a boon, for there was ever a little smile accompanying it, and when she smiled her pure young face was angelic. It was not a strong face, nor a very characterful one; but it contained all the elements of gentle, girlish beauty, enhanced by dark, thoughtful eyes, a pensive mouth, and an elusive foreign quality which imparted a piquancy to the whole, as it did to her speech. She brightened that gloomy top story as a rose and a bar of sunlight would have done.

One day she tapped lightly upon the door of his room."

"Are you handy with tools?" she asked, hesitatingly, when Holmes appeared.

"I think so, Mam'selle, although I am not a mechanic," he replied, wondering at the odd question.

She laughed merrily, displaying her perfect teeth, and inquired: