“Didn’t you like all that petting, my dear boy?” Lord Ashden asked in an amused voice as they rolled away from the musicale in the duchess’ own carriage, which she had insisted upon sending for them.
“I don’t know,” said Philip thoughtfully. “I am glad they like my music of course, but somehow—a word or two from you, or one of dear Signor Marini’s funny little grunts of approval, seems to make me ten times happier. I wish”—he paused a moment and his eyes shone in the darkness of the carriage—“I wish I could thank you. I pray each night that God will reward you for all that you have done for me.”
“He has rewarded me,” exclaimed Lord Ashden, “by sending you to be the comfort and joy of my life.”
The night of the concert came at last, and Philip was by all odds the calmest and least excited of the party. Lord Ashden had some misgivings as to the result of this first public appearance in England, for in spite of the boy’s undoubted success at La Scala he knew that the audience of a London concert-hall were far more likely to be coldly critical than the music-loving and excitable Italians. He realized, too, that upon the success or failure of this rather bold experiment depended in large measure the young violinist’s future career, and he confessed secretly to Aunt Delia that he would be relieved and glad when the evening was over. As for the dear old lady herself, she was scarcely able to control her excitement, and she kept following Philip about the house all day with milk-punches and some homœopathic pellets which she had been told were excellent for the nerves.
“But Philip has no nerves,” said Lord Ashden, laughing, and baring the boy’s wrist that Aunt Delia might lay her hand upon the pulse which was beating with the calmness and regularity of a trip-hammer. As for Philip, he could only repeat what he had said at Milan:
“I can but play my best, and I hope the audience may like it; at any rate, I have no fear of breaking down, for I know my score perfectly.”
His cousins were all excitement and affectionate interest, all, that is to say, except Marion, who continued to maintain her air of haughty disdain, and once or twice when the others were talking of the concert, she even yawned perceptibly, and at last left the room.
Philip, try as he would not to care, was deeply wounded by her behavior, and in his humility he felt that he must be in some way deserving of her scorn.
“She is so clever,” he thought, “and so perfectly at her ease in a drawing-room! I suppose that in comparison I must appear very green and awkward; and yet Rose and Lillie seem to like me. I wonder if they are only kind to me because they fear to hurt my feelings?”
And thus the poor sensitive boy tormented himself up to the moment when the carriage appeared at the door to take them to the concert; then, fortunately for his peace of mind, he began to think of the music which he was about to play, and this soon drove all other thoughts from his mind.