Reading Memorial High School - Pioneer Yearbook (Reading, MA)

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Page Nine The Pioneer the Duchess to give back the money; he had not even stopped to count it. It was a long walk, but Vineron quickly reached the steps. A butler came in answer to his ring, and Viner¬ on thrust the bills into his hands, and turned to hurry away. The next day, as Vineron was going- out for his morning walk, he encount¬ ered a young lady on the dark, nar¬ row stairs. “Pardon me,” said a very sweet voice, “am I speaking to Monsieur Vineron?” “Yes, Mademoiselle,” came from Vineron in a surprised voice. “Do you want me?” “Yes, let us go out into the street.” So Vineron obediently followed, hardly knowing what to think. Be¬ fore the door stood a carriage from the Gerolstein livery. “Come with me, we can ride and talk!” She stepped into the carriage and Vineron stood on the curb, won¬ dering whether to go, when someone said, “Come!” in such a commanding- voice that he immediately stepped into the carriage, and the footman slammed the door. “You are probably aware of who I am, but are wondering what my er¬ rand can be. I received the money wTiich you would not take, and I can see the reasons for which you return it. I haven’t the courage, however, to tell my mother; she must never know for it would be too great a shock in her present condition. There are also many reasons why you should take it. My mother engaged you to play for her; she paid her other musicians, and they have ac¬ cepted the money. Besides, it would help you to gain your great chance of w ' hich my mother told me. It would give you a little comfort, and my mother a great deal, to think that she had perhaps helped you a little.” Vineron sat staring at Frances Rancouras. She talked to him so earnestly. Why was she so anxious about him? What was he to her? No one had ever been so kind to him before. She saw that he was not going to answer, so she added, “I have done all in my power in pleading -with you for the sake of my mother. Can you be so cold-hearted as to refuse the money now?” “Money is not what I want. It is my chance.” “I will promise you the best chance possible if you will only take this money. You do not realize that my mother is eccentric on the subject of money. She thinks everyone must accept her money when she wishes to give it away.” They were back at Vineron’s door. He stepped out, and she held out her hand, which contained the money. All that she said was “Please!” Yet the tone and manner in which she said that single word would have made even a king stoop. Vineron took the money from her hand, and thrust it into his pocket. Bowing, he turned and walked into his lodgings. This morning seemed to put a new feeling into Vineron. He picked up his violin, as was his custom when he came in from his morning walk. The music came with no effort on his part. He sat playing for hours,

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The Pioneer Page Eight MUSICIAN TO HER MAJESTY He had been lost in his playing, when suddenly a knock startled him from his reverie. Who could be com¬ ing to see him? Surely not his land¬ lady, for she knew only too well that he had no money to pay her; yet who was it? He had no other friends since his old teacher, Monsieur Sarrazin, had died. Another knock! He sprang to his feet, laid down his violin and opened the door; before him stood an elder¬ ly lady with snow-white hair, flash¬ ing black eyes and a trim little fig¬ ure. She was dressed in black vel¬ vet, which suited her French type. She could be no other than La Grande-Duchesse de Gerolstein, the wonderful woman so interested in the poor of Paris, in aid of whom she was going to give a concert the next week. “Bonjour, Monsieur Vineron?” “Oui, madam.©, pray what can I do for Your Highness?” “I came here to see the wife of one of my servants who is sick, and I heard you playing a wonderfully sweet piece which I must have played at my concert next week. Would you be willing to do it?” “Madame, it is impossible that you should wish me, a poor musician, to play at your grand concert.” “Ah, will you not play for me? 1 will gladly pay all you ask.” “Ah, ma chere Madame, I will most gladly do it for the honor. It has been my heart’s one desire to have a chance; a chance to show the world what my possibilities are! If this great chance has come at last, I know I can move the people to love my music that comes from the soul.” “Then I will hear you Tuesday evening at the castle.. I must have vour number at the end.” And then she was gone, leaving the man lean¬ ing against the wall, staring at the spot where she had stood. Tuesday, the day of La Grande- Duchesse de Gerolstein’s concert, Vineron sat playing his piece over for the last time. It was hard for him to realize that after twenty years of hard work (for he was now thir¬ ty) his great anticipated chance was to come at last. A knock! Somehow, he hated to open the door. He had a feeling of something cruel which was to happen, but he went slowly to the door, op¬ ened it, and outside stood not the Duchess, but one of her immaculate footmen, with a note for “Monsieur,” written by her daughter. Hastily, Vineron opened it: the first word which caught his eye was “cancelled.” What w r as “cancelled?” He began to read aloud: “Your en¬ gagement to play for my mother will have to be cancelled as she is very ill. Enclosed you will find some money. I am very sorry this should happen, and hope that you will not misunderstand. “Frances Malo Rancouras de Gerol¬ stein” Vineron let the paper fall from his hands and stood motionless, gazing blankly at the floor. Money! He did not want it! He only wanted his chance. He rushed for his hat, hastily picked up the money, and was off to the palace of

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The Pioneer Page Ten and without, realizing it he had flayed melodies which were strangely beauti¬ ful. One he played a number of times, until it grew into a piece which seemed to tell of the man’s hopes and fears, his struggles,—and there came a few happy, hopeful notes to prophe¬ sy the fulfilment of his dreams. Two months later, on a bleak, cold February morning, Vineron had an overwhelming surprise,—a letter from the Duchess asking him to come and play for her that afternoon at four. Promptly at that hour, Vineron was at her home. The butler showed him into a small room, and told him the Duchess would like to have him be¬ gin playing then. The cold had put Vineron in a lively mood. He com¬ menced to play a fast waltz of his own composition. As he became warmer, the quick piece changed into a slower, more solemn strain, like a stately, majestic march. When he had finished he glanced up. Before him stood Pier Majesty Queen Marie. “Oh! quel musicien!” she ex¬ claimed. Vineron, startled, and not knowing how to behave, rose, made a deep bow and rushed from the room. He hurried on until he encountered the Duchess. After some explanation, he went back and asked the Queen’s par¬ don for his strange behavior. The Queen replied that under one condi¬ tion she would grant it. Vineron was only too glad to do something to make amends for his shameful behavior. The Queen went on to state that the condition was that he should be leading court musi¬ cian. Vineron could only bow acknowledgment, but he knew that his chance had come. DOROTHY B. SKILLEN, ’13. HANNAH WOOD’S STORY It seems only yesterday and yet it has been sixteen years since Sir How¬ ard Wood sent for me to come to the Towers and live with him and his motherless daughter Bertha, a baby of two years. I remember the first time I saw little Bertha and exclaimed of her beauty, how her father had said, “She will never be as beautiful as her mother.” Howard was wrong. At eighteen, Bertha was very beautiful, tall, and slightly built, with perfectly shaped hands and feet. Straight dark brows over-arched the deep blue eyes, and rich masses of golden brown hair were drawn from a face more lovely than her mother’s had been. Glancing out of the window, I saw r her and Godfrey Wood walking in the garden. Bertha was holding a bunch of roses in her hands, and Godfrey, handsome and eager, was stooping and whispering to her earnestly. Then he took a rosebud from the bunch; put it for a moment to her smiling lips; then kissed it reverently, and put it away. A few moments later they both came in, Bertha blush¬ ing, and my soldier nephew, Godfrey, looking handsomer than ever, with a proud light in his dark hazel eyes. They did not think that I guessed their secret, and that I knew the white rosebud was already fading against the soldier’s heart.