He gave me a keen glance, saying: "I hope you did not grow too enthusiastic. One need not hang out a placard to prove we can comprehend the intricate and profound."
Mrs. Flaxman answered hastily for me.
"No, indeed; she was too quiet; and only Mr. Bovyer and myself detected the tears dropping behind her fan. But Mr. Bovyer seemed gratified at the meaning he read from them."
My face was burning; but after a few seconds' silence I stole a glance at Mr. Winthrop. He was apparently absorbed in his breakfast, and Beethoven's Symphonies were not mentioned in his presence until evening, when Mr. Bovyer, true to his appointment, sat chatting for two or three hours with Mr. Winthrop and his other guests. As usual, I sat a silent listener, comprehending readily a good many things that were said; but some of the conversation took me quite beyond my depth. I found Mr. Bovyer could grow eloquent over his favorite topics, which, from his phlegmatic appearance, surprised me. He seemed thoroughly acquainted with other subjects than music, and I noticed that even Mr. Winthrop listened to his remarks with deference. Before the evening closed Mr. Winthrop asked him for some music. He complied so readily that I fell to contrasting his unaffected manner with that of lady musicians who, as a rule, take so much coaxing to gratify their friends' desire for music, and their own vanity at the same time. I noticed Mr. Winthrop settling back into his favorite position in his arm-chair—his head thrown back and eyes closed. Mrs. Flaxman took up her fan and held it as if shielding her eyes from the light. I discovered afterward it was merely a pretext to conceal the emotion Mr. Bovyer usually awakened when she listened to his music.
His first touch on the piano arrested me, and I turned around to watch his face. I recognized the air—the opening passage from Haydn's Creation. I was soon spellbound, as were all the rest. Mrs. Flaxman laid down her fan; there were no melting passages to bring tears in this symphony, descriptive of primeval darkness, and confusion of the elements, the evil spirits hurrying away from the glad, new light into their native regions of eternal night—the thunder and storm and elemental terrors. Presently I turned to Mr. Winthrop. He was sitting erect in his chair, his eyes no longer closed in languorous enjoyment; when suddenly the measure changed to that delicious passage descriptive of the creation of birds. Mr. Bovyer's voice was a trifle too deep and powerful for the air, but it was sympathetic and rarely musical.
He ended as abruptly as he began and glided off into one of those old English glees,—"Hail, Smiling Morn."
Presently turning around he asked: "Are you tired?"
"We have failed to take note of the flight of time; pray go on," Mr. Winthrop urged.
"What do you say, Miss Selwyn?"
"I would like if you could make Mr. Winthrop cry. If you tried very hard, you might touch his fountain of tears."