Drifting
The days had passed swiftly by, and Philip had been for more than
three years in the household of Signor Marini at Milan. To be sure
he had been carried off by Lord Ashden for a month or two at the end
of the first year’s work, and a glorious holiday it had been. The
two travelled together through Switzerland, and Philip surprised his
companion by his powers of endurance and his ability to undertake the
most difficult and often dangerous feats of mountain-climbing without
nervousness or fatigue. The joy of being united was equally great on
both sides, and despite the great difference in their ages, Lord
Ashden found in Philip the most congenial of companions, while the boy
looked up to his friend with a glowing admiration and affection which
day by day increased and strengthened.
It was a painful moment for both when, the vacation over, Philip
returned to Milan for another twelve months of work and study, while
Lord Ashden made a visit to England, promising to return for Philip’s
_début_ the following autumn, for Signor Marini had pushed his private
scholar with might and main, and his enthusiastic hopes for Philip’s
future made the old man quite young again.
“I live over again in your playing, my boy,” he would say, and he
himself made all the arrangements for his pupil’s first public
appearance at La Scala.
Philip himself was strangely unmoved by the prospect of playing before
the largest, and perhaps the most critical, audience in all Europe.
“I can but do my best,” he said quietly with his flashing smile, and
he was far more excited over the promise of Lord Ashden to come to
Milan for the occasion than at the thought of the promised presence of
royalty itself in the audience.
The night came, and Signor Marini was not disappointed in his pupil.
The effect upon the audience of his uncommon beauty and youthfulness,
and his wonderful playing, were instantaneous and lasting, and round
upon round of applause greeted each appearance and exit.
Lord Ashden stood at the wings, pale with excitement, and when Philip
came quietly towards him, saying simply: “They seem to like my playing,
do they not?” he folded the boy in his arms, saying in a voice
trembling with emotion:
“My darling boy, this is the proudest and happiest moment of my life!
And now that the world recognizes your talent, and you have won your
place in the topmost ranks, my dear boy, we must give you a long
vacation,” he said later, when, the performance being over, they were
taking supper in his lordship’s room at the hotel.
Lord Ashden then unfolded a plan of taking Philip with him on an
extended tour through Europe and the East.
The boy was overcome with gratitude, but quietly firm in his refusal to
accept the tempting invitation.
“But please,” he said, forcing himself to speak calmly, “please do not
think me ungrateful for your kindness. You came to me like an angel,
and supported me all these long years, and gave me the opportunity
to acquire my beloved art. You have given me the power to live by my
own efforts, to be happy in the only way that happiness is possible to
me. Even if I could do it, you would not accept the repayment of the
money I have cost you; but if you took it, the debt would be in no way
cancelled, for a thousand times the sum would be far from paying for
the kindness that trusted and befriended me, and made me what I am.
“Oh! Lord Ashden,” he went on, quite breaking through his usual shy
reserve, “I can never kneel to pray without returning thanks for
such a friend as you; and I can never touch my beloved violin without
thinking of you, and hoping that some day it may be my turn to do some
little thing for you. Now, before the impression I have had the good
fortune to make has faded away, I must work for a place in the world.
Maestro Marini says teaching is the surest support, but to-night makes
me hope that I may continue upon the stage; and, if you approve, I
shall try for an engagement. But I must go to England first--I owe it
to dear Aunt Delia. I suppose there is no one else there who will care
much, but she writes to me so tenderly, and every letter says: ‘Dear
boy, come home.’”
“It shall be as you please,” said Lord Ashden, “and the travelling
shall be postponed till you are ready. But don’t feel burdened with
gratitude to me--your success quite repays me. I am sorry to start
off on my travels without you, but I expect to hear great things of
you when I come back. Unless I am mistaken, the newspapers will tell
me something of your career while I am away. You are not destined
to obscurity, my boy; such talent as yours will make you famous,
and I dare to tell you so because I know that nothing will make you
conceited; if anything, you are too humble.”
Praise from such a source was very precious to Philip, and often
afterward he repeated the words again to himself as an encouragement to
the hope he hardly dared to cherish, that some day his father’s family
might be just a little, a very little, proud of him, and that even
Marion might perhaps be no longer ashamed to own him for a relative.
Philip’s engagement at La Scala lasted for a week, and each night
he repeated his triumphs; the city rang with the fame of the boy
violinist, and he was petted and flattered and fêted to a degree which
might have completely turned the head of an ordinary boy of thirteen,
but Philip remained quite un-spoiled, and was secretly glad when the
week neared its close.
It had been arranged that he should return at once to England with Lord
Ashden, for he longed to see the dear friends at Lowdown whom he had
never once forgotten in his long separation from them. Nevertheless,
when at last the day arrived upon which they were to leave Milan,
Philip was sad at the thought of parting from good Signor Marini and
his fellow-pupils at the Conservatory. The famous teacher had greatly
prided himself upon being always able to conceal his emotions; he was
indeed inclined to look with disdain upon any display of feeling, and
to consider it quite out of place for one in his position; yet when the
moment came for him to bid farewell to his little pupil, his feelings
quite overcame him and he burst into tears.
“My dear boy,” he said, straining Philip to his heart, “what shall I
do when you are gone? I have loved you like a dear son, and you--you
will soon forget your poor old teacher, who has been so often cross and
severe.”
“Oh, no, no, my dear, dear master!” replied the boy, his own eyes
swimming with tears; “you have been always the wisest of teachers and
the kindest and best of friends; indeed, indeed, I will never forget
you and good Signora Marini.”
“And you will come again to Milan?”
It was now Lord Ashden’s turn to speak; he had not remained unmoved
during this touching scene, which exhibited his old friend, the hard,
rather unfeeling music teacher in quite a new light.
“I will see to it,” he said kindly, laying one hand on the shoulder of
the old man and the other on Philip’s fair head, “that two such fast
friends meet again, and that before very long. The distance between
Milan and London grows shorter every year, you know, and I am not sure
but I shall turn up here again myself before long, and perhaps I can
persuade our young friend to come too.”
So the sadness of their parting was lessened for both teacher and
pupil, between whom there existed a very true and real friendship and
affection, and as Philip turned away from the dingy old house which
had been his home for three years, he waved his cap to the sad little
group on the doorstep, shouting, “Addio, addio, my friends, until next
winter.”
When they reached Paris a friend of Lord Ashden, who was just starting
on a cruise on his yacht, begged the travellers to accompany him.
“Our little violinist is looking decidedly thin and pale,” he said,
“and it will never do to send him back to England until he has some
color in his cheeks. His friends will surely think that he has been
starved and ill-treated in Italy; come off with me for a fortnight and
I promise you the time will not be wasted.” And Lord Ashden, when he
came to look more critically, at Philip remarked that it was as his
friend said.
“You are right,” he said; “the dear boy is pale and thin. What an idiot
I was not to have noticed it before! I know you are impatient to see
the dear friends in England, Philip, but just this once I must have my
way.”
And Philip, although he was at first keenly disappointed to delay for
another two weeks the joyous home-coming to which he had looked forward
for so long, was yet forced to admit the wisdom of Lord Ashden’s
decision. Indeed, he had not realized how thoroughly tired he was
until he went aboard the yacht and his exhausted nerves and muscles
could thoroughly relax.
There were long delicious days when the yacht drifted lazily through
the calm blue waters of the Mediterranean, and life seemed only a hazy
dream of warm sunshine and opalescent sea and sky. Philip would lie
in a steamer-chair under a green sun-umbrella, with half-closed eyes,
and sometimes with an unopened book in his lap, thinking over the
days in Milan, or picturing the delight of once again sitting in the
pleasant drawing-room at Lowdown, with the rector, dear Aunt Delia,
Dr. Norton and his gentle wife, and the little girls. Philip smiled as
he thought of how many questions he should have to ask and to answer;
he wondered if he should find them all much changed in the years since
he had seen them. Lillie and Rose would be much taller, he supposed,
and Marion quite a young lady--Lord Ashden had told him that she
was preparing to make her _début_ into London society the following
winter; and Dash--dear old fellow! He had never been quite the same,
Aunt Delia wrote, since Philip’s departure, and he had not forgotten
him--oh, no! For whenever Philip’s name was mentioned he would prick up
his ears and give a little excited bark. Philip loved to think of how
Dash would come running down the path when he should hear his master’s
familiar whistle at the gate. Oh, it was glorious to have learned
really to play the violin, and to feel that he could without shame take
his place among the great musicians whom only three years ago he had
regarded reverently as beings of another sphere; but, after all, the
boy thought, there was no joy in the world quite so great as the joy
of going home, and of being united once again with the dear friends who
loved him, not because he was talented or famous, but for himself.
Lord Ashden left Philip a great deal to himself during these long, lazy
days on the yacht, and the complete rest and freedom from exertion and
excitement were just what the tired boy needed. At the end of the first
week a faint color began to appear in his pale cheeks, and before the
fortnight had ended he was romping about on the deck, his old happy,
light-hearted self again.
“Who would think,” said his host to Lord Ashden one day, as they
sat together in the cabin, the sound of Philip’s merry laughter
floating down to them from the deck above, “who would think that that
mischievous sprite could be the same boy as the pale, spiritual-looking
child violinist of La Scala?”
“I confess I like him better this way,” said Lord Ashden. “The Philip
of La Scala awed and frightened me a little. I was afraid he would not
live to grow up, such children so often die young; and I have lost so
many of those I have loved that it would be very dreadful to think what
life would be to me without this dear child.”
“Dear old Frederick!” said his friend, laying his hand affectionately
on his broad shoulders. “It is not strange that you love the boy, and
I hope with all my heart that he may be spared to you for many, many
happy years to come.”