All Mildred's friends were to be present at the recital. Dr. and Mrs. Graham of course headed the list, the Lorraines and the Somervilles were coming to Kirkton on purpose for the occasion, Miss Cartwright was nearly as much excited as Herr Hoffmann, and St. Cyprianites both past and present were anxious to witness the success of their former schoolfellow.
The big Town Hall was filled to the last seat on the evening of the concert, and in the galleries there was barely even standing room for the many listeners who had thronged to hear the new and unknown performer. Every face was turned towards the platform, and a burst of applause greeted the appearance of the conductor, leading the young violinist who was that night to make her first bow to the public—a slight, girlish figure, whose wonderful dark eyes, soft gold hair, and very simple and unaffected, yet perfectly self-possessed, manner at once made a favourable impression. The vast audience listened with keen attention as, drawing her bow across the strings, she brought out the first liquid notes of Lalo's "Symphonie Espagnole". Her clear, full-blooded, luscious tone, southern in its depth and richness, bewitching, sad, sparkling, and bizarre by turns, served to show not only her exquisite mastery of the instrument, but her wonderful interpretation of the music she was playing. Such strength and yet such melting sweetness of tone, such lucid phrasing, and such delicate feeling for every nicety of accentuation and rhythm her listeners had never heard before, and they realized that they were in the presence of a performer of the very first rank. The short encore scarcely satisfied the zeal of the delighted audience, and Mildred was recalled again and again, till, growing desperate, the conductor was at last obliged to lead on the pianist whose solo was the next item on the programme.
In her second piece, the "Kreutzer Sonata" of Beethoven, Mildred was able to give even a better idea of the scope of her playing than had been possible in the "Symphonie". Her rendering of it was masterly in the fullest sense of the word—so independent and original a performance, with such faultless phrasing of the variations, such a high level of pure loveliness throughout, and such a glorious finale that the very spirit of Beethoven seemed to linger in the notes, and breathe through her beautiful and eloquent reading of the sonata. Warm as it had been before, the audience was now twice as enthusiastic, and deafening cheers began to ring through the hall when, for the third and last time in the evening, Mildred appeared with her violin upon the platform.
The fact that the "Legende" which she was about to play was her own composition raised the interest to its highest pitch, and all waited with anxiety to learn if this marvellous young performer were equally endowed with the gift that can create as well as interpret music. It was an ambitious theme—the story of Undine and the Knight—and it was unfolded with a strength and yet a delicacy of fancy, and a wealth of poetic feeling and imagination which almost took the breath away by the fire of its passion and the daring of its originality. It began very softly, conveying to the listeners the weird and uncanny impression of the haunted German forest; there was moonlight in the music, and the minor key gave that suggestion of sadness which was the motive of the "Legende". The wild fear of the supernatural, which caused the knight to urge his horse with frantic speed through these unknown shades, throbbed in the restrained power of the opening passages, and burst out into a panic of emotion as the vengeful phantom of the foaming waterfall dissolved itself into showers of spray between the rustling branches. The very essence of elvish roguery and frolic rang in the notes when "Undine", the lovely, wayward sylph, charmed the knight with her coquetry and unearthly beauty; the courtship of the changeling water-sprite, her wild whims, her light-hearted gaiety, the strange beings which ever accompanied her from the spirit world, and the sudden change in her bearing when at length she gains a human soul, were portrayed with such fidelity in the airy, elusive character of the music, that the whole of the tender love story seemed to live to the hearers. It was instinct with graceful and piquant fancy, carried out with an exquisite refinement of feeling which never degenerated into sentimentality. In the latter part, where "Undine", the unhappy wife, tries to appease her husband's anger, and to curb the revenge of the supernatural friends who resent her ill treatment, the dramatic fire of the composition rose to a pitch of surpassing grandeur, changing to a dirge-like wail of infinite sadness as, neglected and despised, the once bright sylph melts into the element from which she was first formed, the "Legende" breaking into a finale of such inspired pathos that it seemed as if the spirits of the air above and the water below were joining in a requiem for the soul that had been won at the cost of all earthly joy.
There was dead silence for a moment at the conclusion of the piece, then the audience broke into a roar of applause such as was not often heard in the Town Hall. People cheered and cheered yet again, clapping, stamping, shouting, waving their handkerchiefs, and standing on the seats in the wild enthusiasm of their approval. Bowing again and again at each fresh outburst, Mildred stood on the platform with quivering lips. She felt it was indeed a wonderful power that had been given her, to be able to sway so vast a gathering, to hold her listeners spellbound while she played, and to rouse them to such a height of intense feeling. It was beyond her wildest dreams of success. She had hoped for appreciation and perhaps applause, and she had met with an ovation only accorded to a great master of music.
She ran away at last from the excited crowd, for it appeared as if the cheering would never stop, and in the anteroom behind found a gathering of those friends who had come to wish her joy. To Dr. and Mrs. Graham, her nearest and dearest, to whom she owed the cultivation of her musical talent, she turned first in the hour of her triumph.
"I don't deserve it, Tantie!" she murmured. "They ought to cheer you instead. I should never have played at all if you hadn't made me. The praise is all due to you, and what you have done for me."
Mr. Steiniger was warm in his congratulations, and Herr Hoffmann, whose eyes were wet with emotion, held out his hand to Mildred, saying: "To tell you I am proud would be but a poor way to tell you what I feel. Ach! The 'Legende' was a masterpiece! You are a great exponent of your art, you have the soul of a poet, and the technique of a finished musician. I rejoice that it has been my privilege to take a share in your training. I now with reverence stand aside. The pupil is greater than the master. Go on to still more fame; you rise to heights where I cannot follow you."
Sir Darcy, Lady Lorraine, and Violet were all hearty and enthusiastic in their greetings. They realized at last the extent of Mildred's genius, and acknowledged the wisdom of having cultivated it. The Somervilles seemed as delighted at her reception as if she were one of their own family. Rodney said little, but his few words meant much; and Rhoda kissed Mildred like a sister. Miss Cartwright was overflowing with smiles.
"Your name is to be painted on our board of successes to-morrow," she declared. "You are indeed a credit to St. Cyprian's, and we are proud to count you as a former pupil."