TRIUMPH.
Our girls still sat in their corner, but a change had come over them
within the last few minutes. A stout man sitting near them was talking
to Elizabeth across Eleanor's lap--Eleanor lying back in her seat, and
smiling amiably as she listened to them; and Miss King was looking
animated and interested, and showed some signs of enjoying herself at
last. Patty also had lost her air of angry dignity, and was leaning a
little forward, with her hands clasped on her knees, gazing at Herr
Wüllner's venerable face with rapt enthusiasm. Paul, regarding her for
a moment, felt himself possessed of sufficient courage to declare his
presence, and, waiting until he could catch her eye, bowed pleasantly.
She looked across at him with no recognition at first, then gave a
little start, bent her head stiffly, and resumed her attentive perusal
of Herr Wüllner's person. "Ah," thought Paul, "the old fellow has woke
her up. And she wants him to play again." Mrs. Duff-Scott had dropped
into a chair by the piano, and sat there contentedly, talking to the
delighted musician, who had been as a fish out of water since he came
into the room, and was now swimming at large in his native element
again. She was a distinguished looking matron of fifty or thereabouts,
with a handsome, vivacious, intelligent face and an imposing presence
generally; and she had an active and well-cultivated mind which
concerned itself with many other things than china. Having no necessity
to work, no children on whom to expend her exuberant energies, and
being incapable of finding the ordinary woman's satisfaction in the
ordinary routine of society pleasures, she made ardent pursuits for
herself in several special directions. Music was one. Herr Wüllner
thought she was the most enlightened being in female shape that he
had ever known, because she "understood" music--what was really music
and what was not (according to his well-trained theories). She had,
in the first place, the wonderful good sense to know that she could
not play herself, and she held the opinion that people in general had
no business to set themselves up to play, but only those who had been
"called" by Divine permission and then properly instructed in the
science of their art. "We won't look at bad pictures, nor read trashy
books," she would say. "Why should our artistic sense be depraved and
demoralised through our ears any more than through our eyes? Mothers
should know better, my dear Herr Wüllner, and keep the incapables in
the background. All girls should learn, if they _like_ learning--in
which case it does them good, and delights the domestic circle; but
if at sixteen they can't play--what _we_ call play--after having had
every chance given them, they should leave off, so as to use the
time better, or confine their performances to a family audience."
And Mrs. Duff-Scott had the courage of her convictions, and crushed
unrelentingly those presumptuous amateurs (together with their
infatuated mammas) who thought they could play when they couldn't, and
who regarded music as a mere frivolous drawing-room amusement for the
encouragement of company conversation. Herr Wüllner delighted in her.
The two sat talking by the piano, temporarily indifferent to what was
going on around them, turning over a roll of music sheets that had had
a great deal of wear and tear, apparently. Mrs. Aarons sat beside them,
fanning herself and smiling, casting about her for more entertaining
converse. And Paul Brion stood near his hostess, listening and watching
for his opportunity. Presently it came.
Mrs. Duff-Scott lifted up a sheet of crabbed manuscript as yellowed by
time as Patty's Brussels lace, and said: "This is not quite the thing
for a mixed audience, is it?"
"Ah, no, you are right; it is the study of Haydn that a friend of mine
asked of me yesterday, and that I propose to read to him to-night,"
said Herr Wüllner, in that precise English and with that delicate
pronunciation with which the cultivated foreigner so often puts us to
shame. "It is, you perceive, an arrangement for one violin and a piano
only--done by a very distinguished person for a lady who was for a
short time my pupil, when I was a young man. You have heard it with
the four-stringed instruments at your house; that was bad--bad! Ach!
that second violin squeaked like the squeaking of a pig, and it was
always in the wrong place. But in good hands it is sublime. This"--and
he sighed as he added more sheets to the one she held and was steadily
perusing--"this is but a crippled thing, perhaps; the piano, which
should have none of it, has it all--and no one can properly translate
that piano part--not one in ten thousand. But it is well done. Yes, it
is very well done. And I have long been wanting my friend to try it
with me."
"And what about the young lady for whom it was written?--which part did
she take?"
"The piano--the piano. But then she had a wonderful execution and
sympathy--it was truly wonderful for a lady, and she so young. Women
play much better now, as a rule, but I never hear one who is an amateur
play as she did. And so quick--so quick! It was an inspiration with
her. Yes, this was written on purpose for that lady--I have had it ever
since--it has never been published. The manuscript is in her own hand.
She wrote out much of her music in her own hand. It was many, many
years ago, and I was a young man then. We were fellow-pupils before I
became her master, and she was my pupil only for a few weeks. It was a
farce--a farce. She did not play the violin, but in everything else she
was better than I. Ah, she was a great genius, that young lady. She was
a great loss to the world of art."
"Did she die, Herr Wüllner?"
"She eloped," he said softly, "she ran away with a scapegrace. And the
ship she sailed in was lost at sea."
"Dear me! How very sad. Well, you must make your friend try it over,
and, if you manage it all right, bring him with you to my house on
Monday evening and let me hear it."
"That shall give me great pleasure," said the old man, bowing low.
"You have your violin with you, I suppose?" she asked.
"It is in the hall, under my cloak. I do not bring it into this room,"
he replied.
"Why not?" she persisted. "Go and fetch it, Herr Wüllner, and let Mrs.
Aarons hear you play it"--suddenly bethinking herself of her hostess
and smiling upon that lady--"if she has never had that treat before."
Mrs. Aarons was eager to hear the violin, and Herr Wüllner went
himself, though reluctantly, to fetch his treasure from the old case
that he had hidden away below. When he had tuned up his strings a
little, and had tucked the instrument lovingly under his chin, he
looked at Mrs. Duff-Scott and said softly, "What?"
"Oh," cried Mrs. Aarons, striking in, "play that--you know--what you
were talking of just now--what Mrs. Duff-Scott wanted so much to hear.
_I_ want to hear it too."
"Impossible--impossible," he said quickly, almost with a shudder. "It
has a piano part, and there is no one here to take that."
Then Paul Brion broke in, conscious that he was running heavy risks of
all sorts, but resolved to seize his chance.
"I think there _is_ someone who could play it," he said to Mrs. Aarons,
speaking with elaborate distinctness. "The Miss Kings--one of them, at
any rate--"
"Nonsense," interrupted Mrs. Aarons, sharply, but under her breath.
"Not at all likely." She was annoyed by the suggestion, and wished to
treat it as if unheard (it was unreasonable, on the face of it, of
course); but Mrs. Duff-Scott caught at it in her direct way. "Who are
they? Which are the Miss Kings?" she asked of Paul, putting up her
eye-glass to see what manner of man had taken upon himself to interfere.
"My dear lady," sighed Herr Wüllner, dropping his bow dejectedly, "it
is out of the question, absolutely. It is not normal music at its
best--and I have it only in manuscript. It is impossible that any lady
can attempt it."
"She will not attempt it if she cannot do it, Herr Wüllner," said Paul.
"But you might ask her."
Mrs. Duff-Scott had followed the direction of his eyes, and her
attention was violently arrested by the figures of the three girls
sitting together, who were so remarkably unlike the majority of Mrs.
Aarons's guests. She took note of all their superficial peculiarities
in a moment, and the conviction that the lace and the pearls were real
flashed across her like an inspiration. "Is it the young lady with the
bright eyes?" she inquired. "What a charming face! Yes, Herr Wüllner,
we _will_ ask her. Introduce her to me, Mrs. Aarons, will you?"
She rose as she spoke and sailed towards Patty, Mrs. Aarons following;
and Paul Brion held his breath while he waited to see how his reckless
enterprise would turn out. In a few minutes Patty came towards the
piano, with her head up and her face flushed, looking a little defiant,
but as self-possessed as the great lady who convoyed her across the
room. The events of the evening had roused her spirit, and strung up
her nerves like Herr Wüllner's fiddle-strings, and she, too, was in a
daring and audacious mood.
"This is it," said the old musician, looking at her critically as he
gave a sheet of manuscript into her hand. It was a wonderful chance, of
course, but Patty had seen the facsimile of that manuscript many times
before, and had played from it. It is true she had never played with
the violin accompaniment--had never so much as seen a violin until she
came to Melbourne; but her mother had contrived to make her understand
how the more delicate and sensitive instrument ought to be deferred to
in the execution of the piano part, and what the whole should sound
like, by singing the missing air in her flexible trilling voice; and
just now she was in that peculiar mood of exaltation that she felt
inspired to dare anything and assured that she should succeed. "You
will not be able to read it?" Herr Wüllner suggested persuasively,
drawing hope from her momentary silence.
"Oh, yes," she said, looking up bravely: "I think so. You will stop me,
please, if I do not play it right." And she seated herself at the piano
with a quiet air of knowing what she was doing that confounded the two
ladies who were watching her and deeply interested Mrs. Duff-Scott.
Paul Brion's heart was beating high with anticipated triumph. Herr
Wüllner's heart, on the contrary, sank with a mild despair.
"Well, we will have a few bars," he sighed. "And pray, my dear young
lady, don't bang the piano--I mean don't play over me. And try to keep
time. But you will never do it--with the best intentions, my dear, you
will never be able to read it from such a manuscript as that."
Patty looked up at him with a sort of radiant calmness, and said
gently, "Go on. You see you have an opening movement to yourself."
Bewildered, the old man dropped his bow upon the strings, and set forth
on his hopeless task. And at exactly the right moment the piano glided
in, so lightly, so tenderly, and yet with such admirable precision and
delicate clearness, that it justified, for once, its trespass upon
ground that belonged to more aerial instruments. It was just what Paul
Brion had counted on--though Paul Brion had not the least idea what
a wild chance had brought about the fulfilment of his expectations.
Patty was able to display her chief accomplishment to the very best
advantage, and the sisters were thereby promoted to honour. The cold
shade of neglect and obscurity was to chill them no more from this
happy moment. It was a much greater triumph than Patty herself had any
idea of, or than anybody had had the least reason to expect. _She_
knew that piles of music, all in this self-same handwriting (she had
never seen any other and supposed that all manuscript music was alike),
were stowed away in the old bureau at home, and in the ottoman which
she had constructed out of a packing-case, and that long familiarity
had made it as easy to her to read as print; but Herr Wüllner was not
in a position to make the faintest guess at such a circumstance. When
Elizabeth moved her seat nearer to the piano, as if to support her
sister, though he was close enough to see it, he did not recognise in
the miniature round her neck the face of that young lady of genius who
eloped with a scapegrace, and was supposed to have been drowned at
sea with her husband. And yet it was that lady's face. Such wonderful
coincidences are continually happening in our small world. It was not
more wonderful than that Herr Wüllner, Mrs. Duff-Scott, Paul Brion, and
Patty King should have been gathered together round one piano, and that
piano Mrs. Aarons's.
The guests were laughing and talking and flirting, as they were wont to
do under cover of the music that generally prevailed at these Friday
receptions, when an angry "Hush!" from the violinist, repeated by Mrs.
Duff-Scott, made a little circle of silence round the performers. And
in this silence Patty carried through her responsible undertaking
with perfect accuracy and the finest taste--save for a shadowy mistake
or two, which, glancing over them as if they were mere phantoms of
mistakes, and recovering herself instantly, only served to show more
clearly the finished quality of her execution, and the thoroughness of
her musical experience. She was conscious herself of being in her very
best form.
"Ah!" said Herr Wüllner, drawing a long breath as he uttered the
exclamation, and softly laying down his violin, "I was mistaken. My
dear young lady, allow me to beg your pardon, and to thank you." And he
bowed before Patty until his nose nearly touched his knees.
Mrs. Duff-Scott, who was a woman of impulses, as most nice women are,
was enthusiastic. Not only had she listened to Patty's performance with
all her intelligent ears, but she had at the same time investigated
and appraised the various details of her personal appearance, and been
particularly interested in that bit of lace about her neck.
"My dear," she said, putting out her hand as the girl rose from the
music-stool, "come here and sit by me and tell me where you learned to
play like that."
Patty went over to her readily, won by the kind voice and motherly
gesture. And, in a very few minutes, Paul had the pleasure of seeing
the great lady sitting on a sofa with all three sisters around her,
talking to them, and they to her, as if they had known one another for
years.
Leaving them thus safe and cared for, he bade good-night to his
hostess, and went home to his work, in a mood of high contentment.