"It will be my turn next," said her friend of the chestnut locks. "There's one comfort in coming on early, you get it over,—though I always find the audience cold at first. I suppose they think if they call for encores too soon, they'll never get through the programme. I see you're three-quarters down. That's the best place you could possibly have, just when everyone has got enthusiastic, and before it's time to begin and think about catching trains. You couldn't have been more lucky. There's the last bar! Now for my ordeal! Good-bye!"
Sitting waiting with her violin in her hand, poor Mildred felt as if no concert had ever dragged along so slowly. She wished she could take a peep into the hall, and see where her uncle and aunt were sitting. That the room was very full she knew from the remarks of the other students, but so far the audience, though fairly appreciative, could hardly be described as warm. Piece followed piece, then came the ten minutes' interval; the second part of the programme commenced, and at length the "Frühlingslied" drew near. As the finale of the orchestral movement which preceded it died away, Mildred took her violin, and summoning all her courage went with a beating heart up the steep little staircase which led to the platform. The Professor stood at the top, his broad face beaming encouragement.
"So far it goes sehr gut," he announced. "No one have break down or spoil anything. Remember, mein Kind, not to hurry ze time in ze legato passage, and to wait in ze allegretto till ze 'cello begin."
He tested her Stradivarius himself to see that it was in tune with the other instruments, then handed her between the rows of violin stands to her place in front of the piano, and taking up his baton rapped smartly on the conductor's desk, as a signal for the orchestra to be in readiness. For the first time in her life Mildred found herself face to face with a public audience. She stood there for a moment, such a childish little figure in her white dress, with her golden hair falling over her shoulders, and a frightened look in her dark eyes, that a wave of sympathy seemed to pass through the hall, and a few people began to clap. She started at the sound, and so great a panic of fear seized her that she felt as though she could scarcely draw her breath; but at that instant, looking down in front, she caught her aunt's eyes fixed upon her with a hope and confidence in them which calmed her, notwithstanding the knowledge that hundreds of listeners were waiting for her first notes. Suddenly the remembrance of Mrs. Graham's words came back to her—the Stradivarius had been in public before, and could make her succeed in spite of herself. It was the bird of the "Frühlingslied". She had only to draw the bow, and it would surely sing.
"Are you ready? Now!" whispered the Professor. He waved his baton, and the piece began.
Once the ice was broken, Mildred forgot the hall and the rows of people. There was something inspiring in the subdued accompaniment of the orchestra, her violin was like a living creature that thrilled under her fingers, and so well did it respond to her touch that all the springtime seemed to ring in the full, clear tones. She had got at the heart of the musician's meaning, and those who listened felt that throb of pure delight which comes to us sometimes with the sight of the dawn or the early song of a thrush, that sense of freshness, of oneness with Nature at her gladdest, that can raise our commonplace lives for the moment to the level of the skies above.
It was an astounding performance for a girl of scarcely sixteen. The piece not only demanded extreme facility of execution, but the maturest thought and feeling, and to many it appeared incredible that so young a player could have assimilated so much of the life and the mystery of things as to enable her thus to interpret the mind of a great composer. The audience seemed to hold its breath as the last crisp chord resounded and died away; then it broke into a perfect storm of applause. There was no mistaking the warmth of the reception, for instead of subsiding, the clapping grew louder, and shouts of "Brava!" and "Encore!" echoed through the hall. Suddenly realizing that she was the centre of all eyes, Mildred made a frightened acknowledgment, and fled precipitately to the staircase, to be brought back by her triumphant master, who, taking her hand, led her once again to the front of the platform.
"Courage, mein Kind!" he whispered. "One little effort more! You will not fail now? Ze encore!"
How Mildred played the "Polonaise" she never quite knew. She only afterwards retained a confused remembrance of glaring light, a sea of faces before her, and a sense that the notes came of themselves, urged somehow from her fingers by the knowledge that they gave pleasure to her hearers. It seemed a dream, a strange, bewildering unreality, an exhilaration such as she had never before experienced, but which ended in so great a revulsion of feeling that as she turned from the applauding audience to leave the platform she could control herself no longer, and, breaking down utterly, burst into tears.
"There, there!" said the Professor soothingly, patting the subdued golden head; "it is finished now, and you are my very good pupil. Wait in ze anteroom till I come, for I would speak to you after ze performance."