“May I?” he exclaimed.
“Certainly, if you like—and if you can,” added the other, hesitatingly, as if not sure whether the lad’s skill would be equal to his enthusiasm.
George sat down on the bench, and laid his fingers lovingly on the keys. But he withdrew them before he had sounded a note. “I would rather you did not watch me too closely,” he said, nervously, “for I am only a beginner.”
“Let us go and sit down stairs,” suggested the doctor.
The organist looked still more doubtful than before, and began to repent his offer. However, he retired with the doctor, and made up his mind to be excruciated. They sat down in two of the stalls and waited.
And then George began to play. What he played I cannot tell. It began first in a faint whisper of music which swelled onward into a pure choral melody. Then suddenly the grand old roof trembled with the clash of a martial movement, strong and steady, which carried the listener onward till he was, with the sound, lost in the far distance. Then, in wailing minor numbers the music returned, slowly working itself up into the tumult and fury of a pent-up agony, and finally sweeping all before it in a wild hurricane of bitterness. Then a pause, and then sweetly and in the far distance once more rose the quiet hymn, and after that all was silence.
After the first few notes the organist had uttered a startled ejaculation, and drawn the doctor to another seat farther down the nave, where, till all was over, he sat motionless as a statue. But the moment the music had ceased he ran up the stairs with a face full of pleasure and admiration, and actually seized George by the hand.
“You’re a genius, sir. That was not at all bad, I can tell you.”
A happy smile was all the answer George could give.
“Not at all bad,” repeated the organist. “I was telling your friend,” added he to Dr Wilkins, who had returned more slowly to the organ, “that was not at all bad. He must come here often.”