When Paul rose and stood before this audience, violin in hand, he certainly presented quite a strong contrast to his rival.
Paul Beck, as we have already said, was a tall, thin, lantern-jawed man, clad in solemn black, his face of a sickly, sallow hue.
Philip was of fair height, for his age, with a bright, expressive face, his hair of a chestnut shade, and looking the very picture of boyish health. His very appearance made a pleasant impression upon those present.
“He’s a nice-looking boy,” thought more than one, “but he looks too young to know much about the violin.”
But when Philip began to play, there was general surprise. In a dancing-tune there was not much chance for the exhibition of talent, but his delicate touch and evident perfect mastery of his instrument were immediately apparent. In comparison, the playing of Paul Beck seemed wooden and mechanical.
There was a murmur of approbation, and when Philip had finished his first part of the program, he was saluted by hearty applause, which he acknowledged by a modest and graceful bow.
Paul Beck’s face, as his young rival proceeded in his playing, was an interesting study. He was very disagreeably surprised. He had made up his mind that Philip could not play at all, or, at any rate, would prove to be a mere tyro and bungler, and he could hardly believe his ears when he heard the sounds which Philip evoked from his violin.
In spite of his self-conceit, he secretly acknowledged that Philip even now was his superior, and in time would leave him so far behind that there could be no comparison between them.
It was not a pleasant discovery for a man who had prided himself for many years on his superiority as a musician. If it had been a man of established fame it would have been different, but to be compelled to yield the palm to an unknown boy, was certainly mortifying.
When he heard the applause that followed Philip’s performance, and remembered that none had been called forth by his own, he determined that he would not play again that evening. He did not like to risk the comparison which he was sure would be made between himself and Philip. So, when Andrew Blake came up to him and asked him to play for the next dance, he shook his head. “I don’t feel well enough,” he said “I thought I was stronger than I am.”
“Do you want the boy to play all the rest of the evening?”
“Yes; he plays very fairly,” said Beck, in a patronizing manner, which implied his own superiority.
“There can be no doubt about that,” said Andrew Blake, with emphasis, for he understood Mr. Beck’s meaning, and resented it as one of the warmest admirers of the boy-musician whom he had engaged.
But Paul Beck would not for the world have revealed his real opinion of Philip’s merits.
“Yes,” he continued, “he plays better than I expected. I guess you can get along with him.”
“How shall we arrange about the compensation, Mr. Beck?” asked Blake. “We ought in that case to give him more than half.”
“Oh, you can give him the whole,” answered Beck carelessly. “If I felt well enough to play, I would do my part, but I think it will be better for me to go home and go to bed.”
His decision was communicated to Philip, who felt impelled by politeness to express his regrets to Mr. Beck.
“I am sorry you don’t feel able to play, Mr. Beck,” he said politely.
“Oh, it’s of no consequence, as they’ve got some one to take my place,” returned Beck coldly.
“I should be glad to hear you play again,” continued Philip.
Paul Beck nodded slightly, but he felt too much mortified to reciprocate Philip’s friendly advances. Half an hour later he left the hall.
The dancers by no means regretted the change of arrangement. They evidently preferred the young musician to his elderly rival. The only one to express regret was Miss Maria Snodgrass.
“I declare it’s a shame Mr. Beck has given up,” she said. “I wanted you to dance with me, Mr. Gray. I am sure if you can dance as well as you can play, you would get along perfectly lovely. Now you’ve got to play, and can’t dance at all.”
“It isn’t leap-year, Maria,” said Jedidiah Burbank, in a jealous tone.
Miss Snodgrass turned upon him angrily:
“You needn’t put in your oar, Jedidiah Burbank!” she said. “I guess I know what I’m about. If it was leap-year fifty times over, I wouldn’t offer myself to you!”
And the young lady tossed her head in a very decided manner.
“Now don’t get mad, Maria!” implored Jedidiah, feeling that at the prompting of jealousy; he had put his foot in it. “I didn’t mean nothing.”
“Then you’d better say nothing next time,” retorted the young lady.
Meanwhile, Philip acknowledged the young lady’s politeness by a smile and a bow, assuring her that if it had been possible, it would have given him great pleasure to dance with her.
“If Mr. Burbank will play for me,” he said with a glance at the young man, “I shall be glad to dance.”
Miss Snodgrass burst out laughing.
“Jedidiah couldn’t play well enough for an old cow to dance by,” she said.
“There ain’t any old cows here,” said Jedidiah, vexed at being ridiculed.
“Well, there are some calves, anyway,” retorted Maria, laughing heartily.
Poor Jedidiah! It is to be feared that he will have a hard time when he becomes the husband of the fair Maria. She will undoubtedly be the head of the new matrimonial firm.
There was nothing further to mar the harmony of the evening. It had begun with indications of a storm, but the clouds had vanished, and when Mr. Beck left the hall, there was nothing left to disturb the enjoyment of those present.
The favorable opinions expressed when Philip commenced playing were repeated again and again, as the evening slipped away.
“I tell you, he’s a regular genius!” one enthusiastic admirer said to his companion. “Paul Beck can’t hold a candle to him.”
“That’s so. He’s smart, and no mistake.”
Poor Mr. Beck! It was fortunate he was unable to hear these comparisons made. He could not brook a rival near the throne, and had gone home in low spirits, feeling that he could never again hold his head as high as he had done.
When the dancing was over, there was a brief conference of the committee of management, the subject of which was soon made known.
Andrew Blake approached Philip and said:
“Mr. Gray, some of us would like to hear you play something else, if you are not tired—not a dancing-tune.”
“I shall be very happy to comply with your request,” answered Philip.
He spoke sincerely, for he saw that all were pleased with him, and it is gratifying to be appreciated.
He paused a moment in thought, and then began to play the “Carnival of Venice,” with variations. It had been taught him by his father, and he had played it so often that his execution was all that could be desired. The variations were of a showy and popular character, and very well adapted to impress an audience like that to which he was playing.
“Beautiful! Beautiful!” exclaimed the young ladies, while their partners pronounced it “tip-top” and “first-rate,” by which they probably meant very much the same thing.
“Oh, Mr. Gray!” exclaimed Miss Snodgrass fervently. “You play like a seraphim!”
“Thank you!” said Philip, smiling. “I never heard a seraphim play on the violin, but I am sure your remark is very complimentary.”
“I wish you could play like that, Jedidiah,” said Maria.
“I’ll learn to play, if you want me to,” said Mr. Burbank.
“Thank you! You’re very obliging,” said Maria; “but I won’t trouble you. You haven’t got a genius for it, like Mr. Gray.”
The evening was over at length, and again Philip was made the happy recipient of three dollars. His first week had certainly been unexpectedly prosperous.
“This is better than staying in the Norton Poorhouse!” he said to himself.
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