The Golden Slipper, and Other Problems for Violet StrangeGreen, Anna Katharine
General
The Golden Slipper, and Other Problems for Violet Strange
Green, Anna Katharine
Detective and mystery stories, American
But I am going too fast. The meeting I was about to mention was a very
memorable one to me, and I must describe it from the beginning. I had
ridden in my own car as near as I dared to the street where she lived;
the rest of the way I went on foot with one of the servants--a new
one--following close behind me. I was not exactly afraid, but the
actions of some of the people I had encountered at my former visit
warned me to be a little careful for my father’s sake if not for my own.
Her room--she had but one--was high up in a triangular court it was
no pleasure to enter. But love and loyalty heed nothing but the object
sought, and I was hunting about for the dark doorway which opened upon
the staircase leading to her room when--and this was the great moment of
my life--a sudden stream of melody floated down into that noisome court,
which from its clearness, its accuracy, its richness, and its feeling
startled me as I had never before been startled even by the first notes
of the world’s greatest singers. What a voice for a place like this!
What a voice for any place! Whose could it be? With a start, I stopped
short, in the middle of that court, heedless of the crowd of pushing,
shouting children who at once gathered about me. I had been struck by an
old recollection. My sister used to sing. I remembered where her piano
had stood in the great drawing-room. It had been carted away during
those dreadful weeks and her music all burned; but the vision of her
graceful figure bending over the keyboard was one not to be forgotten
even by a thoughtless child. Could it be--oh, heaven! if this voice were
hers! Her future was certain; she had but to sing.
In a transport of hope I rushed for the dim entrance the children had
pointed out and flew up to her room. As I reached it, I heard a trill as
perfect as Tetrazzini’s. The singer was Theresa; there could be no more
doubt. Theresa! exercising a grand voice as only a great artist would or
could.
The joy of it made me almost faint. I leaned against her door and
sobbed. Then when I thought I could speak quite calmly, I went in.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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