Marion
Philip went home in high spirits, and the little party rejoiced over
his success and congratulated and complimented him ecstatically. Lillie
and Rose had heard enough of his Milanese triumph to predict the most
wonderful success for him, and revelled in anticipation of the glory
which would crown his appearance. Their rapture was complete when the
postman brought a box-order to Philip for his friends; and although Dr.
Norton was known to be strict in prohibiting evening entertainments to
his younger daughters while they were still in the care of a governess,
Aunt Delia ventured to promise that just this once they should attend.
Two or three days before the concert, Philip, coming into the house
after a rehearsal, felt as if he should like to spend a quiet hour
dreaming over the music he was to play at the great concert. It was,
perhaps, one secret of his wonderful power over his listeners that
when a composition pleased him, he would think of it, dream of it, and
let it absorb his whole soul, the strains throbbing through his inner
consciousness as vividly as if they were actual sounds falling upon his
ear.
Quietly, that he need not be seized upon by his lively cousins,
he stepped into the darkened parlor and groped his way to a vast
easy-chair, whose luxuriously cushioned depths invited repose of mind
and body; sinking into it, he covered his eyes with his hands and began
to recall the harmony he had just rehearsed. But a murmur of voices
broke the silence--Lillie’s and another fresh and young like hers, but
unfamiliar. He suspected that it might be his cousin Marion, and the
next words convinced him that it was. She had returned while he was
absent, and, with Lillie, was discussing the things that had happened
during their separation. Rose had been attacked by a sudden feverish
cold, and Aunt Delia had sent them downstairs, fearing their chatter
might disturb her.
“Poor Rosy! I’m sorry she’s sick,” Philip heard, in the voice that was
new to him.
“Yes, it is very hard for her,” responded Lillie. “Particularly as she
was so anxious to go to the concert and hear Philip.”
“How you all rave about Philip!” said Marion. “You and Aunt Delia,
and even Miss Acton, have talked about him ever since I came into the
house.”
“Yes,” admitted Lillie, “we are all devoted to him; and oh, Marion, he
is so charming, so beautiful, so talented, every one is wild about him!
You have heard about his wonderful triumph at La Scala; and now the
duchess has taken him up, and seems to be infatuated about him, and the
manager prophesies that he will be the greatest success of the season.
He is so perfectly modest about himself, too, I long to have you see
him. I am sure you will become just as proud of him as we are.”
What blessed words were these for the happy listener to hear!--for he
did hear them, without even a thought of the impropriety of listening
to a conversation between people who supposed themselves alone. The
delight of learning that his relatives gloried in the honors paid to
the son of one who had once been called a disgrace to the family so
entranced him that he was unconscious of everything else. He listened
eagerly for Marion’s reply, losing for a moment the ever-present
recollection of her old disdain of him. Her answer came in clear, cold
tones that cut him like a knife.
“Proud of him, Lillie! If he were a hundred times as beautiful and
talented as you say, I should only feel a hundred times as much ashamed
of being related to him.”
“Oh, Marion, don’t say that!” exclaimed Lillie, in sudden distress; “I
thought you were over that feeling long ago. Just think how every one
speaks of him, and only this morning papa was saying how proud we ought
to be of him.”
“Yes,” said Marion, “I know it; but I know too that papa, in his
secret heart, although he will never let himself say it, feels just as
I do. It was a whim of Lord Ashden’s to educate him, and he can afford
to enjoy his public triumph now because every one knows he is nothing
to him; but all this notoriety makes our shame greater. Fancy being
pointed out as the cousin of a professional musician! How can I ever go
to the Crawfords’ or the Ashleighs’ again, or look any of my friends in
the face, with such a fact made public!”
“But, Marion,” said tender-hearted Lillie, now sobbing, “see how he is
received by the duchess. He went there last night, and this morning
Lady Leaycroft left a card for him. She is Lord Ashden’s cousin, you
know, and Aunt Delia says that after he has appeared at the duchess’
morning musicale he will be invited by all her friends. You know you
would give anything to go to such houses yourself, Marion.”
“Yes, as an equal perhaps I should,” said Marion scornfully, “but not
to be looked upon as occupying a menial position. Why, such people
would regard Philip as of no more account socially than a flunky. They
like to be entertained, and are willing to let him amuse them, but that
is all. I have no doubt that even Lord Ashden thinks him no better than
a valet.”
Hard, cruel, false, and unjust words falling from beautiful lips
perfect enough to be chosen as an artist’s model, but coming from a
heart filled with malice, envy, and dark, unlovely traits. And Philip,
shrinking back into the depths of the great chair, beaten down as if by
a blow, heard them all.
He found Marion at the table with the others, when he rather tardily
answered the summons to dinner, and their meeting was quiet and cool
enough. She showed nothing of the cordiality which her sisters felt
for him, and his manner to her was as distant and grave as if he were
the proud and self-sufficient relative instead of the obscure musician,
whose birth and profession were disgraceful in her eyes.
But with all his quiet manner he never, for one half-instant, lost the
bitter memory of those terrible words of Marion’s that had crushed his
sensitive nature and wounded him more fearfully than if his actual
living flesh had been pierced by a barb of steel. In his humility he
never once thought of resenting even in thought the unkindness of her
speech, or comforted himself with an assurance that her words were
cruelly unjust; he simply sank into blank despair at the belief that
all his efforts to elevate himself had been in vain, and all his hopes
of winning fame and glory by his art the idle fancies of an ignorant
dreamer.
Locked in his own room, while the family believed him still at the
rehearsal, he had a fierce struggle with himself, and it was only
love for dear old Aunt Delia and gratitude to Lord Ashden that helped
him to regain composure at last, and not follow his first impulsive
determination to fly anywhere, anywhere, off, far, far off, where they
never should find him or hear of him again. But self-pleasing had never
been his habit, so it came rather more naturally to him than it might
to some to conquer his own desires and compel himself to keep the
engagements for the public and private concerts, the thought of which
had now grown hateful to him.
His beautiful spiritual face was startlingly pale and his hands
trembled nervously, but Aunt Delia never doubted but that these were
the signs of a natural excitement caused by the anticipation of the
approaching concert. His appearance and manners showed refinement and
cultivation so far beyond anything that Marion had expected to see
that she was really greatly surprised and, in spite of her previous
sentiments, interested in him. But not even to her sister would she
admit that her views were in any way changed, and when going to the
concert was discussed, she would not acknowledge any desire to hear
Philip play, but appeared to give her consent to going with Lillie and
Miss Acton simply to please the others.
After dinner Aunt Delia whispered to Philip that she would like to have
him stop in her room for a moment on his way upstairs. He followed her
almost immediately, and his ruffled feelings were soothed at once under
the influence of her gentle presence.
“My dear boy,” she said, when they had entered the pleasant chamber
together and she had closed the door, “I have something for you which
I am sure will please you--and which I hope you will enjoy carrying
about with you as much as I have enjoyed having it prepared for you.”
She unlocked a drawer and took from it a small square box which she
laid in Philip’s hand; the boy removed the outer covering with fingers
which trembled with pleasure and excitement, and drew forth from its
wrappings of tissue-paper a small oval case of dark leather. Touching a
spring at the side, the case flew open, and Philip gave a little gasp
of wonder and delight as he gazed upon two portraits, similar in size
and execution, of his father and mother. They were exquisitely painted
on ivory, and Philip noticed at once that the picture of his father was
exactly similar to the one which his mother had worn about her neck.
“But my mother!” he exclaimed; “it is perfect--her eyes, her hair, her
mouth; the artist must have seen her, surely.”
“He did,” said Aunt Delia gently, “for the artist was your father,
Philip. You remember that in the old desk which stood in your mother’s
room, and which we opened after her death, there were a number of
papers and packages, the greater part of no particular value. You will
also remember that you asked me to take charge of these and look them
over at my leisure. Well, it was not until a month ago that I had the
heart to do so, and from the first package which I untied there fell
out your mother’s picture, which your father must have painted just
before or perhaps soon after their marriage. It occurred to me all at
once that the two portraits (that of your father I had already planned
to give you on your return to England) could be framed together, for in
death they are not divided.”
“Dear Aunt Delia,” murmured the boy, his swimming eyes fixed upon his
mother’s face as though he would have devoured it, “how can I thank
you?--and oh, how I wish that you could have known my mother! I know, I
feel sure, that you would have loved her.”
“I do love her, my boy,” said Aunt Delia quietly, “and I believe her to
have been a lovely and noble woman, and fully worthy of the love of a
fine man like your father, Philip.”
The boy turned and flung his arms about Mrs. Seldon’s neck.
“Oh, Aunt Delia, thank you!” he sobbed. “It is just that which I have
longed to hear you say.”
And when the two went downstairs together arm in arm, Philip’s face was
so radiant that when Lillie whispered:
“Look, Marion! Is not Philip really beautiful to-night?” her sister was
forced to reply:
“Yes, I must acknowledge that he is tolerably good-looking.”