Years have passed. I now live in the home of my ancestors, Milligan Park. The miserable little wanderer who slept so often in a stable was heir to an old historical castle. It is a beautiful old place about twenty miles west of the spot where I jumped from the train to escape from the police. I live here with my mother, my brother and my wife.
We are going to baptize our first child, little Mattia. To-night all those who were my friends in my poorer days will meet under my roof to celebrate the event and I am going to offer to each one as a little token a copy of my “Memoirs,” which for the last six months I have been writing and which to-day I have received from the bookbinder.
This reunion of all our friends is a surprise for my wife; she will see her father, her sister, her brothers, her aunt. Only my mother and brother are in the secret. One will be missing from this feast. Alas! poor master! poor Vitalis! I could not do much for you in life, but at my request, my mother has had erected a marble tomb and placed your bust, the bust of Carlo Balzini, upon the tomb. A copy of this bust is before me now as I write, and often while penning my “Memoirs,” I have looked up and my eyes have caught yours. I have not forgotten you; I shall never forget you, dear master, dear Vitalis.
Here comes my mother leaning on my brother’s arm, for it is now the son who supports the mother, for Arthur has grown big and strong. A few steps behind my mother comes an old woman dressed like a French peasant and carrying in her arms a little baby robed in a white pelisse. It is dear Mother Barberin, the little baby is my son Mattia.
Arthur brings me a copy of the Times and points to a correspondence from Vienna which states that Mattia, the great musician, has completed his series of concerts, and that, in spite of his tremendous success in Vienna, he is returning to England to keep an engagement which cannot be broken. I did not need to read the article for, although all the world now calls Mattia the Chopin of the violin, I have watched him develop and grow. When we were all three working together under the direction of our tutors, Mattia made little progress in Latin and Greek, but quickly outstripped his professors in music. Espinassous, the barber-musician of Mendes, had been right.
A footman brings me a telegram:
“Sea very rough! Alas! Have been very ill, but managed to stop on my way at Paris for Christina. Shall be with you at 4 o’clock. Send carriage to meet us. Mattia .”
Mentioning Christina, I glanced at Arthur, but he turned away his eyes. I knew that Arthur loved Mattia’s little sister, and I knew that in time, although not just yet, my mother would become reconciled to the match. Birth was not everything. She had not opposed my marriage, and later, when she saw that it was for Arthur’s happiness, she would not oppose his.
Lise comes down the gallery, my beautiful wife. She passes her arm round my mother’s neck.
“Mother dear,” she said, “there is some secret afoot and I believe that you are in the plot. I know if it is a surprise and you are in it, it is something for our happiness, but I am none the less curious.”