“Very well,” said the Boy, getting up reluctantly. “Please go not till I return, gracious ladies. I will play fast. I do so much wish to see this strange thing together,” and off the child scampered, leaving the three girls staring in amazement at the remarkable manners of a prodigy.
“He’s a real little boy,” said Edith, drawing a long breath of surprise. “To see him playing with these toys, and then imagine what he can do with those wonderful little fingers of his! Listen!” as the wonderful strains floated in.
“Isn’t he a darling?” exclaimed Marjorie enthusiastically. “He isn’t spoiled a bit!”
The boy’s father had left the room, and Mrs. Drayton joined the girls.
“He is very carefully managed and trained,” she said. “He is allowed to see very few people, on the whole, and as he has played before an audience ever since he was five years old, it is nothing to him. They want to keep him simple and unspoiled.”
If the girls had been in their seats, they would have been amused to see the Boy come half running on the stage. He made a funny little sidewise bow, and climbed upon the piano-stool. He had already kept the audience waiting a full minute, but he placidly took up a programme that lay on the piano, ran down it with his finger, found the place, creased the paper across, laid it down, and instantly was the inspired little musician again. It was a magnificent concerted piece, and the programme announced that the child had seen it, for the first time, the day before, but his tiny fingers interpreted the large, grave measures in a way that held the great audience breathless. In a long, elaborate bit, that belonged to the first violin, he would soundlessly follow the notes with the fingers of one hand, as if in pure enjoyment of the swift motion.
The selection came to an end at last, with a grand succession of chords. The instant the last notes had died away, the child slipped down, and ran away without his bow, before any one could stop him. He darted into the dressing-room.
“Are you here yet, gracious ladies?” he said, breathlessly. “I’m so glad! Now I want to get this together; I don’t play next time. Do you hear the clapping? They want me to come back and play again, but I shan’t till it’s time. See! this is the way it goes!”
Just then, amid the prolonged applause of the audience, some one came to lead him back to make his acknowledgments, and play again.
“I don’t want to, now, and I shan’t,” he said, positively. “It isn’t my turn. Let the next one play.”