Edward Carlyon successfully maintained a strict impartiality in his dealings with his pupils; but in his heart of hearts he kept a special corner for Max Brenton. Well pleased with Harry’s request, he leant towards the “twentieth fiddle”, and said:
“You hear, Max? You’re honoured by a distinct invitation; so up with you to the platform and let’s hear what you can do!”
Max, covered with blushes, was pushed forward by the entire orchestra, while Carlyon seated himself in front of the piano.
“What shall it be, lad?—The Old Brigade, I think. Muriel, will you tell the boys and girls behind to provide Max with a chorus?”
Max plucked up courage, and obeyed. His slight figure, in its trim Eton suit, stood out bravely on the platform, reminding Harry and one or two others of another evening when the boy had sung “against time” to save a woman from suffering.
All the Altruists knew The Old Brigade, and had chimed in with a chorus many a time when the Carlyons’ young choristers had held their merry practices in the boys’ school-room. So the gallant song went with splendid spirit, and when it reached its last verse the chorus was reinforced by the greater number of the audience, who proceeded rapturously to encore themselves.
Max’s song was an excellent finish to the concert; and then the onlookers were allowed a few minutes to recover their breath and discuss the performance, while the stage was made ready for the Travesty.
In front reigned mirth, satisfaction, and pleasing hopes of more good things to come. Behind, the aspect of affairs had changed suddenly. At the end of Max’s song a letter was handed to Carlyon, whose face, as he read, became a proclamation of disaster. He was in the little room at the end of the passage, which had been made ready for the use of the performers when off the platform; and round him had gathered the boys and girls who were to figure in the Travesty.
“Bad news, youngsters,” said Carlyon dismally. “The first hitch in our evening’s entertainment. I wondered why Frank Temple was so late in arriving. This letter—which evidently ought to have reached me before—is to tell me that Mr. and Mrs. Temple have been summoned by telegram to Mr. Temple’s home, where his father is lying dangerously ill. The boy was named in the telegram—his grandfather had asked for him; so of course he has gone with his parents. Now,” continued Carlyon, looking at the blank faces before him, “I know that all of you will feel very much for Frank; but just at present we must think also of the poor folk in the school-room, who are waiting patiently for your appearance. What shall we do? Shall we give up the Travesty? Or will someone go on and read the part of the King?”
“Oh, don’t stop the play! Let’s act!” cried some.