An evening performance was in full swing at the Phoenix Music Hall, a
small but well attended five and ten cent moving picture and vaudeville
establishment on Eighth Avenue, not far from Landsmann's. At present,
the moving pictures were doing a turn, and the auditorium was dark.
Music from a piano, placed close to the stage, was the only
accompaniment, but it was an adequate one. A young, slender, anaemic
individual was seated at the piano.
At the moment, he was playing a dainty popular waltz as a descriptive
background for a French comedy scene. Many a laugh rolled toward him.
Then he commenced a two-step, as the screen announced a change of
pictures. The audience laughed more frequently and with heartier
approval, as an American farce romped by. Again, the screen announced a
change.
An Irish romance was under way. For this class of sketch, Carstairs was
expected to interpolate or to improvise something "sweet and dreamy."
Therefore, he took advantage of the opportunity. He leaned closer to the
keyboard, lowered his head and was soon engulfed in what he was
rendering--so much so, that he did not turn to keep in touch with the
pictures, as was his habit. The yearning sentimental composition had
made him captive.
Let others talk against Erna, he would still hold fast to his faith in
her. Breen was a cynic, and Nielsen too. They flattered themselves that
they knew human nature, but they did not, for they were lacking in
sympathy. He had been foolish to listen to their prattle concerning
Erna. He would not do so in the future. In fact, he ought to drop their
acquaintance or to avoid their company, at least. He would do that. Now,
he could keep his thought of her, so pure, to himself--his thought of
her, who, in spite of her fun-loving and prank-playing nature, was as
pure as the purest and whitest of-- Yes, he would keep her pure. And
Jimmy Allen, well, he had come back, but his influence over her was
dead, dead since the day she had shown him the door, as she had confided
to him that time. He could trust her. She was strong enough and pure
enough to take care of herself.
This was Friday; to-morrow would be Saturday, and then Sunday, a long,
long Sunday, would come and have to pass before she would be with him.
Of course, he would see her to-morrow morning at breakfast, but he must
be careful to avoid the cynics. Even so, how could he tell her that he
had composed this for her, this, the best of his compositions, thanks to
the circumstance that she had been its inspiration. Perhaps, it would be
better not to tell her; it would be a bigger surprise if he were to play
it for her and then offer it to her, as one would a flower or some other
symbol.
Would he have the courage to ask her to come to his studio, so that he
might play for her? And if he had, suppose she should refuse? But she
had accepted an invitation from Breen, and only to pose for him. Surely,
she would not refuse him? And if she did not, could he actually amuse
and hold her attention by merely playing for her? Why not? She sang a
great deal in the store,--it is true, popular music, which he hated--but
she had not been educated to anything higher. That did not make her any
the less musical; moreover, she would learn in time, at his guidance
perhaps, since she possessed so much temperament along with that lovely
voice. Therefore, she would not object should he offer to play for her.
And he would play as he never had for any one, eventually to lead up to
this composition, that belonged so naturally to her. What would she say
when he would offer it to her as her own? He must push his courage far
enough to ask her to come to his studio.
Carstairs continued playing and dreaming.
The audience was very still now. At one end of the front row, a young
couple were sitting, holding hands. When the lights were up a while ago,
one might have recognized them as Erna Vitek and Jimmy Allen. Both were
living in the proverbial seventh heaven.
"Ain't it lovely?" she was whispering.
"The two boobs in the love story?"
"Not them so much--but the music!"
"Pretty good."
"Nice an' dreamy, ain't it?"
"Yes--sounds as though the guy was playing for us."
Erna gave him a reproving nudge, and he laughed. They listened and
watched in silence. But he grew impatient. "Don't care for the story, do
you?"
"Sure! What's the matter with it?"
"Them two boobs gimme a pain."
"Why?"
"I dunno."
"They're true to life?"
"So's my dead gran'mother."