Part 2

After she had gone Sebastian sat for hours, thinking. Again and again he lived over the bitter scene of the afternoon, wincing painfully every time that memory whispered the word "_stole_." The murmur of voices below ceased finally, and he realized that the rest of the household was wrapped in sleep. He lighted his candle and tried to study his lessons for school, but a sense of sickening disappointment bore down upon him so heavily that, though his eyes sternly travelled the printed lines, his mind had room for no other thoughts than these,--

"I cannot play. I have no music."

He was startled from his reverie by the sound of a piteous whine. He listened for a repetition of the plaint, and when the whine expanded to a howl, Sebastian leaped from his chair, and dashed through the corridor and down the kitchen stair, with a pang of recollection.

"I forgot to let Grubel in, and it's bitter cold outside!"

He made his way swiftly through the dark room, unbolted the outer door, and flung it wide.

A huge St. Bernard bounded into the room, and Sebastian, brushing the snow from the shaggy coat, caressed his pet affectionately.

"Now, Grubel, Schwester doesn't like you to stay in this room. Come along, old fellow, into the passage!"

The dog obediently followed his master across the dark kitchen, and trotted through the door that Sebastian held open for him.

As the boy sought the stairway again, his attention was arrested by a flood of moonlight pouring through the uncurtained pane and illuminating one of the much-used music sheets that had fallen from the bag which Christoff had thrown into the window-sill after locking his own book behind the wicker door.

"How bright the night is," thought Sebastian. "One could read the notes, I believe, without a candle."

Bending over the pages, he found it to be quite true that the dots and lines were clearly definable.

"I wonder if I could write well by such a light; I'll try it," and idly lifting a pen from his sister's table, he dipped it and scribbled his name across the top of the music sheet.

"Very good," observed he, eyeing the scrawl with admiration; then a thought shot through his brain that seemed to turn him to stone, for he stood motionless, with head thrown back and pen uplifted, while the silvery moonlight, bathing him from head to foot, transfixed him into a marble statue of expectancy.

"I wonder if I could, I wonder if I could!" he whispered excitedly. "I'll try now, this very night. If I could get hold of Christoff's fugues, and copy them here in the moonlight, I should have a book of my own, and still keep my promise not to play out of his."

Turning to the cupboard that held the coveted treasure, Sebastian gazed wistfully into its second shelf. The doors were of strong steel lattice work, and Sebastian saw that it would be impossible either to insert his hand through the finely interlaced bars, or to bend them in the hope of securing a wider opening.

The boy's burning desire to obtain the music, and his sense of the justice of his purpose, would not let him draw back without a mighty effort.

Casting about for some means of assistance, his eye fell upon his brother's violin case. Opening this, he hastily extracted the bow, strong and slender, inserted it between the powerful wires, deftly worked the roll of music to and fro, drawing it ever nearer until it lay at the outer edge of the shelf. Slipping one finger and thumb through the mesh, he seized the roll firmly and drew it from the cabinet. For a moment he could do nothing but hug the volume madly to his breast, in the joy of his accomplishment; then running noiselessly up to his room for copy-paper, he speedily returned, spread the sheets before him on his sister's table, drew up a chair, and set to work.

Swiftly and steadily he wrote, bending very low above the page, that he might read his text correctly. He took no note of the flight of time, but as the moon rose higher in the heavens, his pages grew shadowy, and he was obliged to draw the table into the sheen of her passing radiance. The fire died out, the room grew cold, and the boy from time to time threw down his pen, and beat and blew upon his benumbed fingers, warming them to further activity.

At last the light failed utterly, and in the gloom Sebastian rose, carefully rolled his brother's manuscript, strapped it as usual, pushed it through the lattice, adjusted it to its former position by aid of the violin bow, gathered up his freshly written sheets, and crept cautiously to his room.

Next morning he met his brother at breakfast, and Christoff secretly wondered that the boy wore so cheerful a countenance. No reference was made to the distressing scene of yesterday, and the brothers set off together, Christoff on his way to a pupil, and Sebastian to school, quite as though the painful episode had not happened.

Sebastian attended his various classes like one in a dream, for his mind was filled with his daring enterprise, and the tremendous effort he must put forth before his book should be completed.

His zeal did not abate, and at evening he waited breathlessly until the household fell into heavy slumber; then once again he stole down to the kitchen, arranged his materials at the window, and toiled feverishly until the white light faded.

Night after night he repeated his adventurous vigil, and no one of the family suspected that anything extraordinary was taking place in the house.

To Sebastian's surprise, he discovered that the moon rose later each night; and ere long he was obliged to wait up so late for his shimmering torch that he was forced to bathe his face in icy water, tramp up and down his chamber, and bite his tongue severely in order to keep awake. Even these heroic measures failed when the moon was delayed until the middle of the night; and Sebastian realized with dismay that he must set his work aside until the time in the following month when his friendly lantern would begin again to mount the sky at an early hour.

Laboring with such hindrances as dim and fleeting light, nearsighted eyes, loss of sleep, and piercing cold, the lad's progress was necessarily slow. Week after week, month after month, he continued at his weighty task; but never once did his interest flag nor his patience fail. His organ lessons with Christoff were carried on in a half-hearted fashion, old selections being rehearsed, and studies previously finished, indifferently played and heard. Had not Sebastian been fired with a dominant purpose, and bent upon mastering his art at any cost to himself, he would doubtless, at this period of cold laxity on his teacher's part, have abandoned his music altogether. But deep in his breast there was rooted a desire so strong, a hope so pure, that even Christoff's unjust denial had not power to discourage him.

If the elder Bach had been less orderly in his habits, Sebastian would not always have found the manuscript within reach; but though Christoff took it daily from the cabinet, he always returned it precisely to the place and position which it had occupied before.

One night Sebastian barely escaped detection. He had just descended to the kitchen, and was groping about for the violin box, when accidentally he stumbled upon the hearth-rug, and overturned a chair with a great clatter. Christoff, roused by the unwonted noise, bounded from his bed and made for the stair, pausing just long enough on the way to light a candle.

Sebastian was appalled at hearing his brother's step. Dropping to the floor, he crept hastily under the dining-table, convinced that its drapery would not screen him from his brother's eagle eye. He shook from head to foot, not with fear of punishment, but with dread of losing his chance at the fugues.

Christoff, however, came only half-way down, and stood upon the stair, holding the candle high above his head and peering about the dusky kitchen for traces of intruders. Nothing out of the ordinary greeted his gaze, for Sebastian had hastily righted the chair before beating his retreat, and the music roll had not yet been taken from the cupboard. The organist, perceiving no mark of robbers, heaved a sigh of relief and quickly repaired to his room, deciding that the disturbance must have been an ugly dream.

Six months had glided slowly by, bringing their gifts of increasing warmth and fragrance, when, one clear midsummer's night, Sebastian finished his book. He was so beset with agitation upon discovering that only one page remained to be copied that he could scarcely command himself to pen the finishing notes.

"I'm almost done," he murmured over and over, as his quill flew across the paper. "One line more, and the fugues will be mine! Now, a single measure, a single measure! One note--ah--it is done, it is done!"

The monument to little Bach's courage and fidelity was built.

The pen dropped from his aching fingers, and, overcome with weariness, he laid down his head beside the closely written sheets and fell asleep.

His friend, the moon, shone upon him brightly for a time, and in her pearly beams the tired child's face was as white as the page beside it. Even she withdrew at length, and nothing disturbed the silence of the room but the regular breathing of the sleeper.

He was awakened by a voice exclaiming,--

"Bübchen, what are you doing here?"

Sebastian started up, bewildered, for Mrs. Bach stood beside him, and the kitchen was blazing with sunshine.

"I--I don't understand," whispered he, dazed by the brightness and the woman's presence.

Mrs. Bach laughed and shook him good-naturedly.

"You're still asleep, that's what is the matter. See, it's breakfast time, and I am ready to put the kettle on. What have you been doing here?"

Sebastian merely pointed to his final page, lying next Christoff's, and Mrs. Bach gathered the truth at once.

Up went her hands in astonishment, but prudence stifled the comments that rose to her lips.

"Quick! Run up to your room with your papers, and I'll get this roll back into the cabinet. Hurry, for Christoff will be down in a minute!"

Sebastian obeyed, and from the bottom of the stairs Mrs. Bach called him as usual when breakfast was ready.

The following months were filled with delight for Sebastian, who studied his fugues with ever-deepening happiness. For this practice, he intentionally chose the hour when his brother was engaged in teaching at a distant quarter of the town. Every day, when Christoff set off to the house of his pupil, Sebastian would hurry to the church, and play from his precious book until time for the organist to return for his own organ-work.

Winter had come again to Ohrdruf, and one day Sebastian climbed to the organ-loft, placed his cherished book upon the rack, and began to play the Pachelbel fugues.

Mrs. Bach, walking in the street, heard the music and entered the church. Passing up the stair, she drew a stool from a shadowy corner and sat down to listen and enjoy.

Sebastian welcomed her with a nod and smile, for the sympathy of his sister-in-law was his daily comfort.

One number after another he played, and the harmonies swelling from the organ at touch of his flying fingers vibrated through the sacred place from threshold to chancel.

Musician and listener were so absorbed that they failed to hear a footfall upon the stair, and both were unaware that a third presence was added to the gallery.

Like a thunderbolt out of a blue heaven came a derisive hoot in Sebastian's ear. His hands were grasped as in a vise, and Christoff's face bent menacingly above him.

"Again, again, again," thundered the organist; "again you have stolen my book, despite your promise!"

Sebastian struggled to his feet, and confronted his accuser quietly.

"I have not stolen your book. This one is mine."

"Yours," sneered Christoff; "pray, where did you get a book of Pachelbel's fugues?"

Further concealment was useless, now that his brother had discovered the existence of his manuscript, so Sebastian in a few words told the story of his painful and valiant achievement.

Christoff listened amazedly, but no relenting gleam softened his look of scorn. He laughed harshly when the tale was ended, and, catching the fated book from the rack, rolled it tightly and crowded it into his leathern girdle.

"I'll end this pretty business at once," he shouted, bringing his teeth together with a snap. "Finding that steel lattices are not sufficient protection against your prying fingers, I'll lock my book behind a door of solid iron, and," triumphantly tapping the volume in his belt, "I'll put this one along with it for safe keeping."

"Christoff, husband!" cried Mrs. Bach, her voice breaking into sobs; "do not be so cruel as to take his book away. He has worked so long, so hard--"

She ended her defence abruptly as her eyes fell upon the boy.

No trace of passion or grief distorted Sebastian's features, but, instead, his countenance was singularly serene. Turning toward his brother with a smile of mysterious power and sweetness, he said,--

"You may lock my book behind twenty iron doors if you wish, Christoff, but the music is all written in my heart. You can bury my volume in the earth or the ocean, but you never can take the fugues away from me again, for I have memorized them, every one."

Many years later King Frederick II. of Prussia assembled his brilliant court in the throne room at Potsdam to listen to a concert arranged by the musicians of the royal palace.

The program was but fairly begun when a page entered the hall, and dropped upon his knee before the king, with a whispered message.

Frederick bent with impatience toward the lad who had dared to bring a petition from any one at a moment so ill chosen, and was about to dismiss him abruptly, when his ear caught one word of the boy's tremulous speech.

The monarch's look of annoyance changed to one of joyful surprise, and rising quickly, he commanded the musicians to instant silence.

"Bach has come," declared the king in exultant tone; "Bach has come; the mighty maker of music. Bring him hither that we may do him homage!"

A hundred exclamations greeted the king's announcement, and presently a man of distinguished appearance and quiet dignity was ushered into the apartment.

Down from his throne stepped the king, advancing half-way up the hall to meet the new-comer. By a quick gesture, he forbade the stranger to bend the knee, but said simply,--

"Play for us."

Without a word the visitor sat down before the piano, and speedily the room was filled with such music as had never before been heard in the king's palace.

Frederick would not permit him to leave the instrument, but sat close by, in rapt enjoyment, while Bach gave one after another of his marvellous compositions.

"For a long, long time I have known of you, Sebastian Bach," murmured the king, when at last they parted for the night. "Strange tales have come to my ears of the court composer of Poland and Saxony. I have heard of the princes who are proud to take you by the hand; of the beggars that listen in companies before your door; but I never imagined that music could be such music as you have given us here."

That night, had the palace of Potsdam had heart to feel and brain to understand, it surely would have throbbed with hospitality, for within its well-defended walls slept two who led the world in thought and action: one was Frederick the Great; the other, Bach the Victor.

FOOTNOTE:

[3] Bach (pronounced _Bakh_).

"THE LITTLE BOY AT ABERDEEN"

[BYRON]

"Vacation's here! Vacation's here!" shouted George Byron, bursting into the room and throwing his books upon the table.

"And a pity it is," returned his mother coldly; "you are so bad at numbers that you ought to be at school every day in the year."

George flushed deeply, but did not reply. He had learned that when Mrs. Byron wore this worried expression it was wiser of him to keep silence. Doubtless she had received one of those troublesome business letters again. Such missives always did disturb matters in the Aberdeen apartment, often causing Mrs. Byron to speak sharply to those about her.

This lady had belonged to the Gordons, one of the proudest families in Scotland; and upon her marriage with handsome Jack Byron, her fortune was seized to pay his numerous debts. Consequently, at her husband's death a few years later, Mrs. Byron was left in the city of Aberdeen with scarcely enough to keep herself and her child from want. The tiny rooms in Broad Street were filled with the massive furniture and costly vases, mirrors, and china that Mrs. Byron had brought from her father's house at her bridal; but the cupboard was scantily provisioned, and much thought and labor were required to keep George's apparel in trim for school. While, however, Mrs. Byron spent only pennies where her neighbors lavished pounds, her brain and fingers contrived so successfully that neither she nor the lad ever presented a shabby appearance.

"Come, George," said the lady more gently, repenting her impatience, "put your books away, and May will serve tea at once."

The boy's face brightened, and whistling softly, he crossed the room to the bookshelves. The odd slide and sudden halt with which he moved, together with the stout cane upon which he leaned, betokened that "the little boy at Aberdeen" was not quite like other boys.

Sadly enough, George Byron was lame, a burden very hard for an impetuous lad to bear. He was, however, too plucky ever to allude to his affliction in the presence of his playmates, but carried his misfortune bravely and independently as long as his companions seemed to forget it, and seldom was any of them so unkind as to mention his crooked feet. Athletic sports were his chief delight, although there were few that he could enter. At running, leaping, and dancing he was helpless, always forced to stand aside and watch when these were in progress; but he was an expert archer, could throw farther than any boy at the grammar school, and with the sling his marksmanship was astonishing. He was a prime favorite with all the boys at school and in the neighborhood of Broad Street, and he was thoroughly accustomed to the rôle, for his handsome face and fun-loving disposition speedily won admiration wherever he went.

He gayly joined the boys in their pranks and adventures, often with his ringing voice and daring spirit commanding the expeditions, but, to the lads' amazement, he found his best enjoyment in the company of a little girl named Mary Duff. She was such a pretty child that passers-by often turned to look after her, and her soft voice and sweet manner showed her to be a real little gentlewoman. The mothers approved of this friendship, for they said that Mary improved George's manners, and that George helped Mary with her reading. The children loved each other dearly, and seldom did there pass a day when they two were not seen together.

To-night, at bedtime, George said:

"Wake me early, please, mother, for Mary, Aladdin, and I are going to spend the day by the river."

Mrs. Byron promised, and accordingly the next morning George felt himself being shaken by the shoulder, while from the midst of a dream he heard his mother say,--

"Wake up, wake up! This is the third time that I have called you, and Mary is already here."

Up sprang George, all drowsiness put to flight. When he had dressed himself and finished his bowl of oatmeal, he joined Mary in the drawing-room with a tin box of sandwiches, and an apple in each pocket.

The visitor bore a small basket containing her contributions to the luncheon; and as she slipped off the sofa at George's entrance her pinafore and little sunbonnet rustled loudly in their starchy crispness.

Down the stairs hurried the pair, bent upon calling for Aladdin, the third member of their company.

As they reached the street, George was accosted by Bobby Black, who, with a group of neighboring boys, was emerging from his gate opposite.

"Come on, Byron, we're going to watch the cricket game in Murdoch's field!"

George shook his head decisively.

"I'm going somewhere else."

"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!" jeered the boys in chorus, and Bobby called out in a teasing tone,--

"Oh, you'd rather go with Mary Duff than with us. You're Mary Duff's beau! Ha, ha! You're Mary Duff's beau!"

The little girl crimsoned with annoyance at Bobby's silly taunt, but George retorted quickly,--

"Well, _you_ can't be Mary Duff's beau until you learn to wash your hands."

The laugh turned on Bobby, and George and Mary set off in quest of comrade number three.

As they approached a square stone building, a man standing before its open door disappeared within, only to return immediately, leading Aladdin, the most captivating of Shetland ponies.

This animal was George's one important possession, but instead of a plaything, it had been purchased for the boy's convenience in getting about. George's poor feet made walks of any great length painful undertakings, but sitting on Aladdin's back, he could go as far and as swiftly as he desired.

The pony was black and satiny for the most part, but upon his forehead a small white patch was to be seen, and his mane and tail were snowy. He was so fond of his master that he would follow him about like a kitten; and he always whinnied joyfully whenever the boy appeared at the stable door.

George tied his box and Mary's basket to the small red saddle, and turned to his companion.

"We'll ride and tie, of course. You mount first, and leave him at Baillie's stile."

Stooping, as he had read that the great lairds did, he allowed Mary to place her chubby foot in his clasped hands. Then, with her agile spring, he landed her securely on Aladdin's back. She gathered up the reins and trotted away, while George took up his walking stick and limped slowly after her.

Their plan was the old one, followed often by farmers and mountaineers, when two persons travel with one horse. One rides to a certain point, dismounts, ties the horse and walks on, while the other trudges along on foot until he comes to the place where the horse is waiting, when he mounts and rides to a second stopping-place, secures the animal for his friend, and once more tramps on his way. Thus, by changes of walking and riding, a goodly journey can be accomplished with less fatigue than might be supposed.

To-day the playmates proceeded along the wooded shore of the river Dee, at no great distance from home, but far enough that they were able to walk on the soft earth, to stand in a forest of mighty trees, and to bask in sunshine undimmed by the city's smoke and grime.

The journey was a difficult one for George, for he insisted upon walking his full share of the way, and, hopping along with his stout cane, he would sometimes be obliged to lean heavily against a tree or rock, panting violently and clutching at his support with both hands. He dared not drop down on the mossy bank, lest with no one near to lend him a hand he might not manage to get up again. So, after but two or three turns of marching, George sat down upon a stump and waited for Mary and Aladdin to come up with him.

The pony, with his dainty sunbonneted rider, soon came into view, and George hailed them from the roadside.

"Hi! Let's stay here. Don't you think we have gone far enough?"

"Yes," said Mary, pushing back her bonnet and glancing about the quiet place, where dazzling sunbeams pierced through the leafy ceiling and lightened the carpet of gay green moss; "do let's stay here; it seems nice and far."

Whereupon the lady slipped from her saddle, and leaving Aladdin to his own devices, after prudently freeing him of box and basket, joined George on the stump.

"What shall we do first?" she queried.

"Let's throw clay balls," suggested George, rising quickly.