With a cry of delight the father threw himself into his son’s arms.
“Thank God for that—thank God for that!” he murmured. “You have not worked in vain, my boy; I have not prayed in vain. The truth has been revealed to you. You are my son.”
“Can any one doubt that this is the truth?” said the boy.
Betsy saw that he was careful to avoid looking in her direction. That was why she felt that he was addressing her personally.
“No, no!” she said, catching his hand again. “No, no, dear Tom; no one in this house will doubt that music is the only subject worth a word, a thought. It is our life. Is there any better life? How we can gladden the hearts of all who come near us! Even at Oxford—I have sung a great deal at Oxford, you know—I have seen the tears upon the faces of those men—the most learned men in the world. Just think of a poor ignorant girl like myself being able to move a learned man to tears! Oh, there is nothing worth a thought in the world save only music. Let me sing to you now, Tom; you will be able to say if I have improved.”
Tom’s face glowed.
“We have wasted an hour over supper,” he said, and there was actually mournfulness in his voice. Happily his mother, the pie-maker, was not present; she had run from the room at the first mention of music. “I always think that eating is a huge waste of time. We might have been singing an hour ago. And what think you of this new instrument—the forte-piano—father? I have heard it affirmed that it will make even the harpsichord become obsolete. I laughed, having heard you play the harpsichord.”
“Burney talks much about the forte-piano,” said the father. “And Mr. Bach, who has been giving his concerts in the Thatched House in St. James’s Street, has surprised us all by his playing upon its keyboard; but, my son, ’tis less refined than my harpsichord.”
“No one will ever be able to invent any instrument that will speak to one as does your violin, Tom,” said Betsy. “You need have no fear that your occupation will soon be gone.”