"Ja."
"I did not think he came at night," he said softly.
"Not often, but to-night. He wants to practise something for the
festival--with no one to hear," he added significantly.
The boy looked at him pleadingly. His hand strayed to his pockets. They
brought back two coppers, the only wealth he possessed.
The old man looked at him kindly and shook his head. "Nein," he said.
"It is not for the money I shall do it. It is because I have seen you
before--when he played. You shall hear him and see him. Come." He put
aside the youth's impulsive hand, and led the way up a winding, dark
stairway, through a little door in the organ-loft. Groping along the
wall he slipped back a panel.
The boy peered out. Below him, a little to the left, lay the great
organ, and far below in the darkness stretched the church. When he
turned, the old man was gone. Down below in the loft he watched his
twinkling path as the taper flashed from candle to candle.
The great Reinken was a little late. He came in hurriedly, pushing back
the sleeves of his scholar's gown as they fell forward on his hands. The
hands were wrinkled, the boy noted, and old. He had forgotten that the
master was old. Sixty years--seventy--ah, more than seventy. Nine years
ago he was that--at the Bach festival. The boy's heart gave a leap.
Seventy-nine--an old man! ... he should never meet him in open festival
and challenge him. There would not be time.... The music stole about him
and quieted his pulse. He stood watching the face as it bent above the
keys. It was a noble face. There was a touch of petulance in it, perhaps
of pride and impatience in the quick glance that lifted now and then.
But it was a grand face, with goodness in it, and strength and power.
The boy's heart went from him.... If he might but touch a fold of the
faded gown--seek a blessing from the wrinkled hands on the keys. Spring
was about him--white clouds and blossoms and the smell of fresh earth.
"By the waters, the waters of Babylon; by the waters." The slender,
delicate hands called out the notes one by one. Tears ran down the boy's
face. Gropingly he felt for the door--only to seek a blessing of the
hands....
The old verger waited at the foot of the stairs, nodding in the dim
light. He sprang up, startled and rubbing his eyes.
"I want to speak to him," said the youth humbly. "Only a word!"
The old man hesitated. The music had ceased and a slow step was coming
down the church--an old man's step.
"Ja. Stand there," he whispered. "It shall be as you wish. Stand there!"
He pushed the youth behind a pillar and stepped forward, his taper held
aloft.
"Mein Herr," he said softly.
The organist paused and looked at him inquiringly. His face was very
tired. "What wouldst thou, Wilhelm?" he said gently.
"It is a young man--" he stammered and paused.
"A young man?"
"He would speak with you, Mein Herr--but a word." The old man's voice
waited.
"Speak with me? Does he bring credentials?"
"Nay, your honor----"
The great organist drew his gown about him. "I have not time, Wilhelm.
Many seek me and life runs fast. I have not time." He bowed courteously
and moved on. As he passed the pillar a fold of his robe floated out and
touched the hand of the youth, kneeling there, hidden in the dim light.