(Emma Churchman Hewitt: For Short Stories.)
The chorus has just ended and the conductor has acknowledged the
plaudits of an enthusiastic audience.
Waiting in the side wings is a little bent old man, his silvery hair
lying across his violin as he murmurs to it loving words.
At last! at last he will be heard in solo!
What matter all the weary years without recognition? He will be heard!
What matter that it is only a charity concert and he has proffered his
services? He will be heard! and the appreciation of the audience will
testify to his genius.
But hark!
There has been some mistake!
That should have been _his_ number, not the tenor solo!
Never mind, it is all right! What matters a few moments more or less,
when one is about to reach one’s soul’s desire?
So he sits and listens, his heart beating loudly with suppressed but
consuming excitement.
At last! At last!
But what is that?
The audience is leaving!
_Why he hasn’t played yet!_
He looks around in a dazed way. Moritz will explain it, he tells
himself wearily, Moritz always understands everything, and he lays his
head down on the table beside him.
* * * * *
A young man hastens from among the orchestra players, his face pale
and his teeth set, as he thinks of the disappointed old man behind
the scenes. He thinks his father is weeping over his disappointment.
“Father,” he cries, a sob in his voice, “it is all right, it _shall_
be all right! There were so many encores, you see there was not time
for all. The manager didn’t know and he left out the wrong thing. But
you are to play to-morrow night, father, so it will be all right, you
see,” and he smiles as he raises the dear old face, as he would have
done that of a child. Upon the furrowed cheeks there are no tears, but
on the face, chiseled by the stern hand of death ... a look of pained
surprise ... bewildered disappointment ... the old man’s heart is
broken.