behind the big hedge.
They were hardly out of sight before the figure of a little, gray-haired man walked slowly up to the gate, opened it, and continued his way up the walk, and Dorothy Calvert, her heart beating wildly, realized that she was being treated to her first sight of the famous music master, Herr Deichenberg.
As the Herr paused before the steps of the Calvert mansion, hat in hand, both Mrs. Calvert and Dorothy arose to greet him.
Dorothy saw before her a deeply intellectual face, framed in a long mass of gray hair; an under lip slightly drooping; keen blue eyes, which snapped and sparkled and seemed always to be laughing; a nose slightly Roman in shape, below which two perfect rows of white teeth gleamed as Herr Deichenberg smiled and bowed.
“I hope I find you vell dis morning, ladies,” was his simple greeting.
“Indeed, yes, Herr,” Aunt Betty responded, offering her hand. “I am glad to see you again. This is the young lady of whom I spoke – my great-niece, Dorothy Calvert.”
“H’m! Yes, yes,” said the Herr, looking the girl over with kindly eye, as she extended her hand. Then, with Dorothy’s hand clasped tightly in his own, he went on: “I hope, Miss Dorothy, dat ve vill get on very good togedder. I haf no reason to believe ve vill not, an’ perhaps – who knows? – perhaps ve shall surprise in you dat spark of genius vhich vill make you de best known little lady in your great American land.”
“Oh, I hope so, Herr Deichenberg – I hope so,” was the girl’s fervent reply. “It has been my greatest ambition.”
The Herr turned to Aunt Betty:
“She iss in earnest, Madame; I can see it at a glance, and it iss half de battle. Too many things are lost in dis world t’rough a lack of confidence, and de lack of a faculty for getting out de best dat iss in one.”
The Herr sank into one of the deep, comfortable rockers on the gallery, near Aunt Betty, as Dorothy, at a signal from her aunt, excused herself and went in search of Dinah, with the result that mint lemonade, cool and tempting, was soon served to the trio outside, greatly to the delight of the Herr professor, who sipped his drink with great satisfaction. After a few moments he became quite talkative, and said, after casting many admiring glances over the grounds of old Bellvieu:
“Dis place reminds me more than anything I have seen in America, of my fadder’s place in Germany. De trees, de flowers, de shrubs – dey are all de same. You know,” he added, “I live in Baltimore, dat iss true, yet, I see very little of it. My list of pupils iss as large as I could well desire, und my time iss taken up in my little studio.”
“But one should have plenty of fresh air,” said Aunt Betty, “It serves as an inspiration to all who plan to do great things.”
“Dat sentiment does you credit, madame. It iss not fresh air dat I lack, for I have a little garden in vhich I spend a great deal of time, both morning und evening – it iss de inspiration of a grand estate like dis. It makes me feel dat, after all, there iss something I have not got out of life.”
There was a suspicious moisture in the Herr’s eyes, brought there, no doubt, by recollections of his younger days in the Old Country, and Aunt Betty, noticing his emotion, hastened to say:
“Then it will give us even greater pleasure, Herr Deichenberg, to welcome you here, and we trust your visits will be neither short nor infrequent.”
“Madame, I am grateful for your kindness. No one could say more than you have, and it may be dat I vill decide to give Miss Dorothy her lessons in her own home, dat ve may both have de inspiration of de pretty trees und flowers.”
“Aside from the fact that I am anxious to see your studio,” said the girl, “that arrangement will please me greatly.”
“It vill please me to be able to show you my studio, anyvay,” said the Herr.
“How long have you been in America?” Aunt Betty wanted to know, as the Herr again turned toward her.
“I came over just after de Civil War. I was quite a young lad at de time und a goot musician. I had no difficulty in finding employment in New York City, vhere I played in a restaurant orchestra for a number of years. Den I drifted to Vashington, den to Baltimore, vhere I have remained ever since.”
“And have you never been back across the water?” asked Dorothy.
“Yes; once I go back to my old home to see my people. Dat was de last time dat I see my fadder und mudder alive. Now I have few relatives living, und almost no desire to visit Germany again. America has taken hold of me, as it does every foreigner who comes over, und has made of me vhat I hope iss a goot citizen.”
The talk then drifted to Dorothy’s lessons. Herr Deichenberg questioned her closely as to her experience, nodding his head in grave satisfaction as she told of her lessons from Mr. Wilmot at Deerhurst. Then, apparently satisfied that she would prove an apt pupil, he asked to be allowed to listen to her playing. So, at Aunt Betty’s suggestion, they adjourned to the big living-room, where Dorothy tenderly lifted her violin from its case.
As she was running her fingers over the strings to find if the instrument was in tune, she noticed Herr Deichenberg holding out his hand for it.
She passed it over. The old German gave it a careful scrutiny, peering inside, and finally nodding his head in satisfaction.
“It iss a goot instrument,” he told her. “Not as goot as either a Cremona or a Strad, but by all means goot enough to serve your purpose.”
“It was a present from my Uncle Seth,” said Dorothy, “and I prize it very highly, aside from its actual value.”
“Und so you should – so you should,” said the Herr. “Come, now,” – moving toward the piano. “You read your music of course?”
Dorothy admitted that she did.
The Herr, sitting on the stool before the large, old-fashioned instrument, struck a chord.
“Tune your instrument with me, und we vill try something you know vell. I shall then be able to judge both of your execution und your tone. There iss de chord. Ah! now you are ready? All right. Shall we try de ‘Miserere’ from ‘Il Trovatore?’ I see you have it here.”
Dorothy nodded assent.
Then, from somewhere in his pocket, Herr Deichenberg produced a small baton, and with this flourished in his right hand, his left striking the chords on the piano, he gave the signal to play.
Her violin once under her chin, the bow grasped firmly in her hand, what nervousness Dorothy had felt, quickly vanished. She forgot the Herr professor, Aunt Betty – everything but the music before her. Delicately, timidly, she drew her bow across the strings, then, when the more strenuous parts of the Miserere were reached, she gathered boldness, swaying to the rhythm of the notes, until a light of positive pleasure dawned in Herr Deichenberg’s eyes.
“Ah!” he murmured, his ear bent toward her, as if to miss a single note would be a rare penance. “Ah, dat iss fine – fine!”
Suddenly, then, he dropped his baton, and fell into the accompaniment of the famous piece, his hands moving like lightning over the keys of the piano.
Such music Aunt Betty vowed she had never heard before.
With a grand flourish the Herr and Dorothy
