Stories by English Authors: Germany (Selected by Scribners) | Page 7

of view; but we have had a splendid morning
together, and I have enjoyed every minute of it. And to-morrow I go on
my way."

"And to-morrow you go," he repeated. "Can it not be the day after
to-morrow?"
"I am a bird of passage," she said, shaking her head. "You must not
seek to detain me. I have taken my rest, and off I go to other climes."
They had arrived at the hotel, and Oswald Everard saw no more of his
companion until the evening, when she came down rather late for table
d'hote. She hurried over her dinner and went into the salon. She closed
the door, and sat down to the piano, and lingered there without
touching the keys; once or twice she raised her hands, and then she let
them rest on the notes, and, half unconsciously, they began to move
and make sweet music; and then they drifted into Schumann's
"Abendlied," and then the little girl played some of his "Kinderscenen,"
and some of his "Fantasie Stucke," and some of his songs.
Her touch and feeling were exquisite, and her phrasing betrayed the
true musician. The strains of music reached the dining-room, and, one
by one, the guests came creeping in, moved by the music and anxious
to see the musician.
The little girl did not look up; she was in a Schumann mood that
evening, and only the players of Schumann know what enthralling
possession he takes of their very spirit. All the passion and pathos and
wildness and longing had found an inspired interpreter; and those who
listened to her were held by the magic which was her own secret, and
which had won for her such honour as comes only to the few. She
understood Schumann's music, and was at her best with him.
Had she, perhaps, chosen to play his music this evening because she
wished to be at her best? Or was she merely being impelled by an
overwhelming force within her? Perhaps it was something of both.
Was she wishing to humiliate these people who had received her so
coldly? This little girl was only human; perhaps there was something of
that feeling too. Who can tell? But she played as she had never played
in London, or Paris, or Berlin, or New York, or Philadelphia.

At last she arrived at the "Carnaval," and those who heard her declared
afterward that they had never listened to a more magnificent rendering.
The tenderness was so restrained; the vigour was so refined. When the
last notes of that spirited "Marche des Davidsbundler contre les
Philistins" had died away, she glanced at Oswald Everard, who was
standing near her almost dazed.
"And now my favourite piece of all," she said; and she at once began
the "Second Novelette," the finest of the eight, but seldom played in
public.
What can one say of the wild rush of the leading theme, and the
pathetic longing of the intermezzo?
. . . The murmuring dying notes, That fall as soft as snow on the sea;
and
The passionate strain that, deeply going, Refines the bosom it trembles
through.
What can one say of those vague aspirations and finest thoughts which
possess the very dullest among us when such music as that which the
little girl had chosen catches us and keeps us, if only for a passing
moment, but that moment of the rarest worth and loveliness in our
unlovely lives?
What can one say of the highest music except that, like death, it is the
great leveller: it gathers us all to its tender keeping--and we rest.
The little girl ceased playing. There was not a sound to be heard; the
magic was still holding her listeners. When at last they had freed
themselves with a sigh, they pressed forward to greet her.
"There is only one person who can play like that," cried the major, with
sudden inspiration--"she is Miss Thyra Flowerdew."
The little girl smiled.

"That is my name," she said, simply; and she slipped out of the room.
The next morning, at an early hour, the bird of passage took her flight
onward, but she was not destined to go off unobserved. Oswald Everard
saw the little figure swinging along the road, and she overtook her.
"You little wild bird!" he said. "And so this was your great idea--to
have your fun out of us all, and then play to us and make us feel I don't
know how, and then to go."
"You said the company wanted stirring up," she answered, "and I rather
fancy I have stirred them up."
"And what do you suppose you have done for me?" he asked.
"I hope I have proved to you that the bellows-blower and the organist
are sometimes identical," she answered.
But