And then the carriage drew up before the stage-door, and Philip was pounced upon by his manager and carried off, while the others slowly made their way through the crowds which were pouring into the building, to the box which had been reserved for their party near the stage.
There were to be other performers besides Philip—a celebrated pianist, a player on the harp, and a popular prima donna; so many attractions filled the house that even Marion, looking at the brilliant audience, was forced to acknowledge that it was a great compliment to Philip’s playing that he should have been asked to appear on such an occasion; while Lord Ashden felt some nervous apprehension as he remarked several of the most distinguished musical critics in London in a box near their own.
Just before Philip’s turn to play came on the programme, a friend of Lord Ashden sent down from his box in the centre of the house to suggest that the party should join him there, as a better view of the whole house and of Philip’s effect upon the audience could be gained at a greater distance from the stage; so Dr. and Mrs. Norton, Mrs. Seldon and Lord Ashden, quietly made the change, leaving the girls in charge of Miss Acton during their absence.
The latter shared with Lillie her nervousness and excitement, and they were both so full of hopes and fears for Philip that they hardly gave civil attention to the professor’s wonderful piano gymnastics, or listened to Madame Lalage when she sang Cherubini’s “Ave” in her thrilling and matchless voice. And even Marion leaned breathlessly forward, forgetful for once of herself and her becoming new gown, as the prima donna’s billowy robes and shimmering satin train swept out of sight and Philip stepped quietly forth upon the stage.
They need not have feared for him, for he was perfectly composed, and stood looking curiously about the house, smiling a little and waiting until the applause which followed the retreating favorite should have quite died away. He was unknown to the greater part of the audience, and a murmur went about the house; he was so young, a mere baby,—was it possible he could play? And then he raised his violin and began. The people glanced at their programmes: “Bach’s Allemande, Suite No. 2, in C Major.” Another flutter of surprise, and then gradually silence, deep and profound, as dreamily and rhythmically the wave-like accentuation of the mystical melody fell upon the listening ears which were entranced by the wonderful pathos of the composition as the young performer rendered it. An intense stillness held the whole house, and not a note was lost till he finished, and with downcast eyes made his low, grave salutation, and turned to leave the stage. Before he vanished a superb bouquet from the duchess was handed him, and his patroness herself from her box bent forward with sparkling eyes, bowing and smiling her delighted approval.
The spellbound audience rallied then and deafened itself with applause, but owing to the length of the bill there were to be no encores; so the pianist took his place, to be succeeded by the other performers, and then, after another song by Lalage, Philip returned, and as he took his place there was a rather quick fluttering of programmes as people looked quickly to see what they were to hear from the beautiful, wonderful boy violinist. But “A Study,” with no composer’s name annexed, gave no clue to what they might expect.
He began with a sweet, soft melody in A, a pathetic lullaby that seemed, with all its sweetness, to carry a desolate sadness that made the tears start to many eyes; then the music changed strangely, and wild, defiant sounds took the place of the unutterably sweet melody; gradually these new sounds gave way to throbbing, wailing strains, which told of unfathomable sorrow and hopeless despair. The keen agony that the music expressed seemed to oppress the audience, and many of them wept unrestrainedly. Lillie and Miss Acton, feeling certain that the “Study” was Philip’s own composition, and was the musical expression of his own thoughts, shrank to the back of the box to conceal their convulsive weeping. Marion kept her place, but even she lifted her handkerchief to wipe the tears from her eyes. She could hardly feel ashamed of her emotion when she saw the impulsive and music-loving duchess opposite sobbing like a child; but no one is all evil, and perhaps the music really touched what was good and genuine in her nature, and elevated her for the time above the arrogance that made her unlovely in spite of all her grace and beauty.
In another moment the pitiful minor passages that were thrilling the listeners would have become unbearable, but sweet flashes of sound began to break through, and the woe melted into a lovely pastoral that, like a song without words, told the story of a quiet, happy life, with only the occasional anguish of a dull minor strain that broke upon the calm like the disturbing intrusion of a haunting, uneasy thought that could not always be repressed. Once, as he played, he turned his head slightly and looked fixedly for a moment into his cousins’ box, and the color burned for an instant in his pale face as he met Marion’s tearful eyes; but there was no pause in the music, and if any one noticed the passing emotion, no one understood it. And once again the thunder of clapping hands passed over the house as the young musician quietly withdrew, and people turned their programmes to see if he was to play again.
“Once more,” they murmured, and Lillie and Miss Acton retired again to the back of the box, where this time they were joined by Marion, to talk over their cousin’s triumph.