Mr. Homer waved the subject to its conclusion, and hurried on: "You have also known Pindar from childhood, and have always felt—may I not say kindly, toward the wayward but high-souled lad?"
"Oh, yes!" murmured Miss Bethia, softly, with another gentle sigh.
"This being so," Mr. Homer went on, "I may say to you without hesitation that this whole matter of the celebration is a—is a nightmare to me! I have led a secluded life, Bethia, as befits a votary of the Muse. Blest with a limited but sufficient number of congenial friends, principally ladies,—though William Jaquith and Thomas Candy have been as sons to me of late, as sons,—I have kept, Miss Bethia, the noiseless tenor of my way,—the expression is Gray's, as you are well aware, and is commonly misquoted, even tenor being the customary, though wholly incorrect version;—a—where was I? Oh, yes, as I was about to say, I have kept the noiseless tenor of my way, in peace and pleasantness, hitherto.
"'For indeed,' as the lamented Keats observes in an early poem which is too little known:
"'For indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure,
(And blissful is he who such happiness finds,)
To possess but a span of the hour of leisure
In elegant, pure, and aerial minds.'
That peculiar pleasure, Miss Bethia, has been mine up to the present time. My brother Pindar's course has been far different. At an early age, as you are aware, he sought the maddening throng; the—a—busy hum; the—a—in short, the roaring mart. I understand that much of his time has been devoted to music, and the remainder to histrionic art. He is permanently employed, as I understand, at a—a metropolitan place of amusement, where he occasionally takes part in Shakespearian representations (he has played the Ghost in 'Hamlet,' he tells me), and at other times performs upon the—in short, the kettledrums. You will readily perceive, my dear friend, that such a life conduces to the development of ideas which are discrepant;—a—divergent from,—a—devoid of commensurability with, the genius loci, the spirit which hovers, or has hitherto hovered, over Elm—I would say Quahaug. Miss Bethia, we are not a dramatic community. With the exception of Mrs. Jarley's Wax Works, some thirty years ago, and an Old Folks' Concert at a somewhat later period, I am unable to recall any occurrence of a—of a histrionic nature in our—shall I say midst? And now,—Miss Bethia, I love my brother tenderly, and am anxious, deeply anxious, to respond to the feeling, the—a—propendency, the—kindling of affection's torch, which has led him to seek his early home. I also respect,—a—revere,—a—entertain the loftiest sentiments in regard to the Muse; but when I am asked to appear in public, clad in draperies which—in short, of domestic origin,"—he waved further detail delicately away,—"and crowned with bays, I—Miss Bethia, I assure you my spirit faints within me. Nor can I feel that the proposed demonstration would in any way have commended itself to my cousin Marcia. It is borne in upon me—strenuously, I may say—that, if my cousin Marcia were present at this time in the—a—fleshly tabernacle, she would receive this whole matter in a spirit of—levity; of—a—derision; of—a—contumely. Am I wrong in this supposition, Miss Bethia?"
"I feel positive that you are right, Homer!" said Miss Wax. "I speak with conviction. In fact, it was the thought of—of Her we honor,"—she glanced at the trophy with an introductory wave,—"that brought me to a decision on the point. I do feel for you, Homer, and share with you the distress of having to—to deny Pindar anything he desires. He will be here soon, and perhaps if we speak to him gently on the subject, he may see it in the light in which it presents itself to us. Probably this side has not been suggested to him." (Has it not? Oh, Miss Prudence! Miss Prudence!) "I think that if we compose our thoughts to a greater degree of calm, we may have more effect. A little music, Homer?"
Mr. Homer put his hand to his head with a sigh. "Miss Bethia," he said, "a little music would be balm to the thirsty soul;—a—wings to the rainbow-hued spirit; a—oil which runs down the—" He waved the rest of the simile away. "I thank you, my elegant and valued friend. May I conduct you to the instrument?"
It was a pleasant sight to see Mr. Homer conducting Miss Bethia Wax to the instrument. After a profound bow (his feet in the first position in dancing), he held out his hand; she laid the tips of her long fingers delicately in it, and, thus supported, glided across the room; a courtesy of thanks, a bow of acknowledgment, and she sank gracefully on the music-stool, while Mr. Homer returned to his favorite chair, drew a long breath, and sank back with folded hands and closed eyes.
Miss Wax's instrument was one of Mr. Homer's chief sources of inspiration, and I must give it a word of description, for perhaps there never was another precisely like it. Tommy Candy called it a barrel-organ, and indeed it was not wholly unlike an idealized barrel of polished rosewood, standing erect on four slender legs. The front was decorated with flutings of red silk; the wood was inlaid with flowers and arabesques in mother-of-pearl. Beneath the silk flutings appeared an ivory handle, and it was by turning this handle that Miss Bethia "performed." "Cecilia's Bouquet" was the name inscribed on the front in flourishing gilt letters; and Miss Bethia had often been told that, when playing on the instrument, she reminded her hearers of the saint of that name. It was perhaps on this account that she was in the habit of assuming a rapt expression at such times, her head thrown back, her eyes raised to the level of the cornice. Thus seated and performing, Miss Bethia was truly a pleasant sight; and the melodies that came faltering out from the old music-box (for really it was nothing else!) were as pensive, mild, and innocent as the good lady herself. "The Maiden's Prayer," "The Sorrowful Shepherd," "Cynthia's Roundelay," and "The Princess Charlotte's Favorite;" these were among them, I remember, but there were twelve airs, and it took quite half an hour to play them all through.