PHILIP went home in high spirits, and the little party rejoiced over his success and congratulated and complimented him ecstatically. Lillie and Rose had heard enough of his Milanese triumph to predict the most wonderful success for him, and revelled in anticipation of the glory which would crown his appearance. Their rapture was complete when the postman brought a box-order to Philip for his friends; and although Dr. Norton was known to be strict in prohibiting evening entertainments to his younger daughters while they were still in the care of a governess, Aunt Delia ventured to promise that just this once they should attend.Two or three days before the concert, Philip, coming into the house after a rehearsal, felt as if he should like to spend a quiet hour dreaming over the music he was to play at the great concert. It was, perhaps, one secret of his wonderful power over his listeners that when a composition pleased him, he would think of it, dream of it, and let it absorb his whole soul, the strains throbbing through his inner consciousness as vividly as if they were actual sounds falling upon his ear.

Quietly, that he need not be seized upon by his lively cousins, he stepped into the darkened parlor and groped his way to a vast easy-chair, whose luxuriously cushioned depths invited repose of mind and body; sinking into it, he covered his eyes with his hands and began to recall the harmony he had just rehearsed. But a murmur of voices broke the silence—Lillie’s and another fresh and young like hers, but unfamiliar. He suspected that it might be his cousin Marion, and the next words convinced him that it was. She had returned while he was absent, and, with Lillie, was discussing the things that had happened during their separation. Rose had been attacked by a sudden feverish cold, and Aunt Delia had sent them downstairs, fearing their chatter might disturb her.

“Poor Rosy! I’m sorry she’s sick,” Philip heard, in the voice that was new to him.

“Yes, it is very hard for her,” responded Lillie. “Particularly as she was so anxious to go to the concert and hear Philip.”

“How you all rave about Philip!” said Marion. “You and Aunt Delia, and even Miss Acton, have talked about him ever since I came into the house.”

“Yes,” admitted Lillie, “we are all devoted to him; and oh, Marion, he is so charming, so beautiful, so talented, every one is wild about him! You have heard about his wonderful triumph at La Scala; and now the duchess has taken him up, and seems to be infatuated about him, and the manager prophesies that he will be the greatest success of the season. He is so perfectly modest about himself, too, I long to have you see him. I am sure you will become just as proud of him as we are.”

What blessed words were these for the happy listener to hear!—for he did hear them, without even a thought of the impropriety of listening to a conversation between people who supposed themselves alone. The delight of learning that his relatives gloried in the honors paid to the son of one who had once been called a disgrace to the family so entranced him that he was unconscious of everything else. He listened eagerly for Marion’s reply, losing for a moment the ever-present recollection of her old disdain of him. Her answer came in clear, cold tones that cut him like a knife.

“Proud of him, Lillie! If he were a hundred times as beautiful and talented as you say, I should only feel a hundred times as much ashamed of being related to him.”

“Oh, Marion, don’t say that!” exclaimed Lillie, in sudden distress; “I thought you were over that feeling long ago. Just think how every one speaks of him, and only this morning papa was saying how proud we ought to be of him.”

“Yes,” said Marion, “I know it; but I know too that papa, in his secret heart, although he will never let himself say it, feels just as I do. It was a whim of Lord Ashden’s to educate him, and he can afford to enjoy his public triumph now because every one knows he is nothing to him; but all this notoriety makes our shame greater. Fancy being pointed out as the cousin of a professional musician! How can I ever go to the Crawfords’ or the Ashleighs’ again, or look any of my friends in the face, with such a fact made public!”

“But, Marion,” said tender-hearted Lillie, now sobbing, “see how he is received by the duchess. He went there last night, and this morning Lady Leaycroft left a card for him. She is Lord Ashden’s cousin, you know, and Aunt Delia says that after he has appeared at the duchess’ morning musicale he will be invited by all her friends. You know you would give anything to go to such houses yourself, Marion.”

“Yes, as an equal perhaps I should,” said Marion scornfully, “but not to be looked upon as occupying a menial position. Why, such people would regard Philip as of no more account socially than a flunky. They like to be entertained, and are willing to let him amuse them, but that is all. I have no doubt that even Lord Ashden thinks him no better than a valet.”

Hard, cruel, false, and unjust words falling from beautiful lips perfect enough to be chosen as an artist’s model, but coming from a heart filled with malice, envy, and dark, unlovely traits. And Philip, shrinking back into the depths of the great chair, beaten down as if by a blow, heard them all.

He found Marion at the table with the others, when he rather tardily answered the summons to dinner, and their meeting was quiet and cool enough. She showed nothing of the cordiality which her sisters felt for him, and his manner to her was as distant and grave as if he were the proud and self-sufficient relative instead of the obscure musician, whose birth and profession were disgraceful in her eyes.

But with all his quiet manner he never, for one half-instant, lost the bitter memory of those terrible words of Marion’s that had crushed his sensitive nature and wounded him more fearfully than if his actual living flesh had been pierced by a barb of steel. In his humility he never once thought of resenting even in thought the unkindness of her speech, or comforted himself with an assurance that her words were cruelly unjust; he simply sank into blank despair at the belief that all his efforts to elevate himself had been in vain, and all his hopes of winning fame and glory by his art the idle fancies of an ignorant dreamer.

Locked in his own room, while the family believed him still at the rehearsal, he had a fierce struggle with himself, and it was only love for dear old Aunt Delia and gratitude to Lord Ashden that helped him to regain composure at last, and not follow his first impulsive determination to fly anywhere, anywhere, off, far, far off, where they never should find him or hear of him again. But self-pleasing had never been his habit, so it came rather more naturally to him than it might to some to conquer his own desires and compel himself to keep the engagements for the public and private concerts, the thought of which had now grown hateful to him.

His beautiful spiritual face was startlingly pale and his hands trembled nervously, but Aunt Delia never doubted but that these were the signs of a natural excitement caused by the anticipation of the approaching concert. His appearance and manners showed refinement and cultivation so far beyond anything that Marion had expected to see that she was really greatly surprised and, in spite of her previous sentiments, interested in him. But not even to her sister would she admit that her views were in any way changed, and when going to the concert was discussed, she would not acknowledge any desire to hear Philip play, but appeared to give her consent to going with Lillie and Miss Acton simply to please the others.

After dinner Aunt Delia whispered to Philip that she would like to have him stop in her room for a moment on his way upstairs. He followed her almost immediately, and his ruffled feelings were soothed at once under the influence of her gentle presence.

“My dear boy,” she said, when they had entered the pleasant chamber together and she had closed the door, “I have something for you which I am sure will please you—and which I hope you will enjoy carrying about with you as much as I have enjoyed having it prepared for you.” She unlocked a drawer and took from it a small square box which she laid in Philip’s hand; the boy removed the outer covering with fingers which trembled with pleasure and excitement, and drew forth from its wrappings of tissue-paper a small oval case of dark leather. Touching a spring at the side, the case flew open, and Philip gave a little gasp of wonder and delight as he gazed upon two portraits, similar in size and execution, of his father and mother. They were exquisitely painted on ivory, and Philip noticed at once that the picture of his father was exactly similar to the one which his mother had worn about her neck.

“But my mother!” he exclaimed; “it is perfect—her eyes, her hair, her mouth; the artist must have seen her, surely.”

“He did,” said Aunt Delia gently, “for the artist was your father, Philip. You remember that in the old desk which stood in your mother’s room, and which we opened after her death, there were a number of papers and packages, the greater part of no particular value. You will also remember that you asked me to take charge of these and look them over at my leisure. Well, it was not until a month ago that I had the heart to do so, and from the first package which I untied there fell out your mother’s picture, which your father must have painted just before or perhaps soon after their marriage. It occurred to me all at once that the two portraits (that of your father I had already planned to give you on your return to England) could be framed together, for in death they are not divided.”

“Dear Aunt Delia,” murmured the boy, his swimming eyes fixed upon his mother’s face as though he would have devoured it, “how can I thank you?—and oh, how I wish that you could have known my mother! I know, I feel sure, that you would have loved her.”

“I do love her, my boy,” said Aunt Delia quietly, “and I believe her to have been a lovely and noble woman, and fully worthy of the love of a fine man like your father, Philip.”

The boy turned and flung his arms about Mrs. Seldon’s neck.

“Oh, Aunt Delia, thank you!” he sobbed. “It is just that which I have longed to hear you say.”

And when the two went downstairs together arm in arm, Philip’s face was so radiant that when Lillie whispered:

“Look, Marion! Is not Philip really beautiful to-night?” her sister was forced to reply:

“Yes, I must acknowledge that he is tolerably good-looking.”