The Somerset herald. [volume] (Somerset, Pa.) 1870-1936, 1897-09-22


done there was no time to hesitate.
Seven o'clock, no Chris. Half past I.
l had dressed carefully, chosen an
effective solo that knew by heart.
taken one Of Chris cards and stood
waiting ON the last chance. a quarter
to s, and that door remained locked.
Five minutes later | had called a cab
and was on my way TO the Grand hall.
L recollect asking for the manager
and handing him that card, but the
rest seemed afterward like dream.
Scores of times had played in public,
but always with a nervousness that had
marred my performance. 1t was gone
now. / remember that when about
half past 8, faced that great, critical
audience as Christ Carew was as cool
and confident as though my success
had been assured for years. To pla y
as | had never played before-to carry
home news of u triumph to Christ
And, with the vision of him sitting
at home there always before me, |
| played that night-well, as Chris him
self would have done. The moment
the prelude had ended | was sure of
myself. Never had my fingers seemed
so supple. Never had my bow respond
ed so lovingly to the emotions that pos
sessed me. did not need to wait for
the buzz of applause to know that
''Chris Carew" had justified his en-
gagement remembered afterward
that the manager had shaken hands
with me and said something about a
good notice in the morning papers, but
the first thing / recollected clearly was
trying the handle of the door at home
and whispering eagerly, "Chris, old
man, Chrisr
The handle yielded-the lock was
broken. With an intense awe and
foreboding creeping over me, stood
in the doorway and looked. Two per-
sons were bending over him. He lay
on the bed, his face damp with sweat
and his eyes
"Oh, Pm glad you've comer whis-
pered our landlady. II knew there
was something wrong, and | heard
him groaning and calling out after you
went, so | fetched the doctor at last,
and we had to break in. Ill? Why,
Mr.. Marsh thinks il spells brain feverI
Oh, and he has kept calling out Lot
tie, LOttie, Who is 'Lottie?'
could not tell her just then. What
did was to rush down stairs, seize pen
and paper and, as well as could for
the mist in my eyes, write a scrawl to
the woman he loved and deserved, tell
ing her all and begging her to come.
For something seemed to tell me that
Chris would never know of his triumph
by proxy-that he was going to die.
God spared me that. In a week
Chris was down stairs again, whittier
aud thinner than ever, indeed, but so
much his old se'f that he could smile
and press my hand whenever 1 held it
out. But it was not until-more
through my scheming perhaps than he
will ever know-he led Lottie Arnold
from the altar rs his wife six months
later that 1 could look him in the face
and feel that had atonei in part
Only in part, even at that sacrifice
Of my hopes, for Chris, who might
have been one of our greatest violinists
to-day, has never touched a violin since
that night. Often have pleaded with
him, often enough showed him the
notice of ''Mr. Chris Carew, new and
promising young performer" that APP
peared i'll the newspaper that morning,
but he shakes his head. The wreck of
the instrument that he loved lies at the
bnttom of his box, and his old fixed |
belief that he could never do himself
justice on any other, even if he had
the heart to try, has never been shak-
en.-Tit-