The one thing that upheld her was the remembrance of the story of her father's life which her aunt had told her. The unknown father, whom she had lost when she was still only a baby, had left her his Stradivarius as a legacy, with his dying injunction to make the good use of it which he had once hoped to do himself. The violin was her one link with him. Often now, when she practised it, she thought how his fingers had played on it before, and what beautiful music they must have brought from it. To respect his last wish seemed to her a solemn obligation. What he could not accomplish himself he had charged her to perform, and it was a trust which she must strive faithfully to fulfil. She felt as if her success might compensate for his failure. The talent which he had trifled with she must foster to the utmost of her power. The Comte's secret (solved, alas, too late!) should be her watchword for the future. Her father's neglected genius was like a debt left owing to the general good of the world, and on her shoulders must fall the burden of paying it.
Added to this was the knowledge that she had a duty to the uncle and aunt who had already spent much on her music lessons, and to the college where she was receiving her education. Her playing at this concert was an important point for St. Cyprian's, and she must think not only of her own personal successes, but of winning laurels for the school. She knew that Miss Cartwright had been disappointed in the result of the Eisteddfod, and this was a golden opportunity of upholding the reputation which that festival had slightly undermined. St. Cyprian's must show to all Kirkton that its special system of music culture was of real value, and that its training could produce a pupil worthy of its high aims. Yet the very thought of how much depended upon her efforts brought its own penalty.
"I wonder if everybody else is as nervous as I am?" she said, as she talked the matter over with her aunt. "I've heard all the other students now, down at the Philharmonic. We took a full rehearsal last Saturday. I don't believe Mr. Frith, who plays the 'cello, minds at all. He never cares in the least when the Professor's angry, he simply laughs and shrugs his shoulders. Miss Buchanan, the pianist, told me she couldn't sleep at night for thinking about the concert. It means so much to her, because she hopes to get pupils of her own by and by. The orchestra will manage best. The audience won't notice if one of them plays a wrong note, though Herr Hoffmann's sure to hear it, and scold afterwards. I hope the room won't be very hot, or I know I shall break a string. If I did, it would upset me so dreadfully, I don't believe I should be able to go on, even if the Professor handed me his own violin instead."
"We'll hope you may have a better fate than that," returned Mrs. Graham. "Your little Strad. doesn't often treat you so unkindly. It's generally a most faithful servant."
"I'm glad I've such a splendid instrument," continued Mildred. "It makes the most enormous difference to one's playing. When I try some of the other students' violins, they sound like banjos. I believe the Professor likes my 'Strad.' far better than his own Amati. He often catches it up and plays on it, just out of sheer enjoyment. It is a beauty, with its lovely old Cremona varnish, and the wonderful label inside: 'Antonius Stradivarius Cremonensis fecit'. There's no mistake about its genuineness. By the by, Tantie, do you know the Mayor and Mayoress are coming to the concert? Isn't it terrible?"
"I don't think you need mind them very much. They're probably kindly people who will have nothing but praise for all the performers. I should be much more afraid of the newspaper critics, who really know the points of good playing, and will judge you by a musician's standard."
"If only there could be no audience!" groaned Mildred. "It's the feeling that everyone will be looking at me that's so dreadful. We rehearsed in the Town Hall last Saturday, and I quite enjoyed playing to rows of empty benches!"
"Try to forget that anybody is there. Just think of your piece, and imagine you're playing it at school, or in Herr Hoffmann's study. It will be time enough to remember the audience when people begin to clap. Have you anything prepared for an encore?"
"I don't suppose I shall get one, but the Professor's making me practise the D minor Polonaise, so that I could be ready. It's a bright little thing, and not too long. Oh, how glad I shall be when it's all over! And yet I don't want the day to come!"
The brief week left before the concert seemed to Mildred to run away only too quickly. The date had been fixed for 16th July, for Herr Hoffmann liked his recital to form a winding-up of his year of musical tuition, which had commenced in September. It was probably as anxious a time for him as for his quaking pupils, and he certainly spared no trouble in coaching them for their performance, though he lost his temper so often in the attempt that some of the students declared he would never find it again.