Philip: The Story of a Boy Violinist

by Virginia C. Young; Mary C. Hungerford

It was now Lord Ashden’s turn to speak; he had not remained unmoved during this touching scene, which exhibited his old friend, the hard, rather unfeeling music teacher in quite a new light.

“I will see to it,” he said kindly, laying one hand on the shoulder of the old man and the other on Philip’s fair head, “that two such fast friends meet again, and that before very long. The distance between Milan and London grows shorter every year, you know, and I am not sure but I shall turn up here again myself before long, and perhaps I can persuade our young friend to come too.”

So the sadness of their parting was lessened for both teacher and pupil, between whom there existed a very true and real friendship and affection, and as Philip turned away from the dingy old house which had been his home for three years, he waved his cap to the sad little group on the doorstep, shouting, “Addio, addio, my friends, until next winter.”

When they reached Paris a friend of Lord Ashden, who was just starting on a cruise on his yacht, begged the travellers to accompany him.

“Our little violinist is looking decidedly thin and pale,” he said, “and it will never do to send him back to England until he has some color in his cheeks. His friends will surely think that he has been starved and ill-treated in Italy; come off with me for a fortnight and I promise you the time will not be wasted.” And Lord Ashden, when he came to look more critically, at Philip remarked that it was as his friend said.

“You are right,” he said; “the dear boy is pale and thin. What an idiot I was not to have noticed it before! I know you are impatient to see the dear friends in England, Philip, but just this once I must have my way.”

And Philip, although he was at first keenly disappointed to delay for another two weeks the joyous home-coming to which he had looked forward for so long, was yet forced to admit the wisdom of Lord Ashden’s decision. Indeed, he had not realized how thoroughly tired he was until he went aboard the yacht and his exhausted nerves and muscles could thoroughly relax.

There were long delicious days when the yacht drifted lazily through the calm blue waters of the Mediterranean, and life seemed only a hazy dream of warm sunshine and opalescent sea and sky. Philip would lie in a steamer-chair under a green sun-umbrella, with half-closed eyes, and sometimes with an unopened book in his lap, thinking over the days in Milan, or picturing the delight of once again sitting in the pleasant drawing-room at Lowdown, with the rector, dear Aunt Delia, Dr. Norton and his gentle wife, and the little girls. Philip smiled as he thought of how many questions he should have to ask and to answer; he wondered if he should find them all much changed in the years since he had seen them. Lillie and Rose would be much taller, he supposed, and Marion quite a young lady—Lord Ashden had told him that she was preparing to make her début into London society the following winter; and Dash—dear old fellow! He had never been quite the same, Aunt Delia wrote, since Philip’s departure, and he had not forgotten him—oh, no! For whenever Philip’s name was mentioned he would prick up his ears and give a little excited bark. Philip loved to think of how Dash would come running down the path when he should hear his master’s familiar whistle at the gate. Oh, it was glorious to have learned really to play the violin, and to feel that he could without shame take his place among the great musicians whom only three years ago he had regarded reverently as beings of another sphere; but, after all, the boy thought, there was no joy in the world quite so great as the joy of going home, and of being united once again with the dear friends who loved him, not because he was talented or famous, but for himself.

Lord Ashden left Philip a great deal to himself during these long, lazy days on the yacht, and the complete rest and freedom from exertion and excitement were just what the tired boy needed. At the end of the first week a faint color began to appear in his pale cheeks, and before the fortnight had ended he was romping about on the deck, his old happy, light-hearted self again.

“Who would think,” said his host to Lord Ashden one day, as they sat together in the cabin, the sound of Philip’s merry laughter floating down to them from the deck above, “who would think that that mischievous sprite could be the same boy as the pale, spiritual-looking child violinist of La Scala?”