by Myrtle Reed
Tr?umerei
He stood at the side of the brilliantly lighted opera-house with anote-book and pencil in his hand. Would that interminable symphonynever be finished? The audience listened breathlessly, but he, themusical critic of a thriving daily paper, only drummed idly with hisfingers and stared vacantly at the people near him.
There was a momentary hush, the orchestra leader waved his baton, andthe trained musicians, with perfect precision began the brilliant_finale_. The audience was unusually sympathetic, and for an instantafter the closing passage all was still; then came a great burst ofapplause.
The leader bowed his acknowledgment, but the clamour only increased.The critic sank wearily into an empty seat and looked across the house.He started and grew pale, as among the throng of fashionables he saw aface that he knew--that he had known.
A sweet face it was too; not beautiful, but full of subtle charm and ahaunting tenderness that he had tried to forget. He sat like one in adream, and did not know that the orchestra was about to play the nextnumber till its opening measures woke him from his abstraction.
Music]
Tr?umerei! Anything but that! Oh, God, this needless pain! And hethought he had forgotten!
Music]
He stood again in a little room which the autumn moonlight made asbright as day. Down below on the rocks was the far-off sound of thesea, and she, with his roses on her breast, sat before the piano andplayed dreamily, tenderly, yes, this same Tr?umerei that was nowbreaking his heart.
He had stood behind her, with his arms around her, his dark, eager facedown close to hers, and whispered huskily: "Sweetheart, I love you."
And she had turned her face up to his and said, softly, "Ilove--you--too--dear;" and he had hugged her tightly to him andcovered her face with burning kisses that were almost pain.And--that--had--been--their--betrothal. Then for a little while therewas happiness--then there was a misunderstanding--and there--shewas--and----
Up through those arches of light the clear, sweet melody stole. Had heforgotten? Had she? He seized his opera-glass and a quick turn of thescrew brought her again close to him.
Yes, there were tears in her eyes; he could see the white lids quiver,and her lips trembled and----
With a deeper throb of pain than any he yet had known, the buried lovecame back, strong and sweet, as in those dear days when the whole worldseemed aglow with love of her.
He rose and walked nervously around the shining circle and down theaisle to where she sat. His breath came quick and fast, he hardly daredtrust himself to speak, but with a great effort he commanded himselfand bent over her chair.
She looked up and her tear-wet eyes met his own. He whispered,hoarsely, "Forgive me--come out a minute--I want to speak to you."
Hardly knowing what she did, she followed him into the dimly lighted,deserted foyer.
With the last strain of that wordless love-sweet song, the dear olddream came back and, unrebuked, he put his arm about her once more.
"Sweetheart," he said, "I love you."
A soft arm stole round his neck, and she answered as of old,
"I love you, too, dear."
"Swing Low, Sweet Chariot"
