Philistia. Allen Grant

it. You got it out of your own heart, my boy, out of your own heart. And the thing it says to me as plain as language is just this—you’re in love! You’re in love, Artie, and there’s no good denying it. If any man ever wrote that fantasia without being in love at the time—first love—ecstasy—tremor—tiptoe of expectation—why, then, I tell you, music hasn’t got such a thing as a tongue or a meaning in it.’

      Arthur looked at him gently and smiled, but said nothing.

      ‘Will you tell me about her, Artie?’ asked the old man, caressingly, laying his hand upon his son’s arm.

      ‘Not now, Father; not just now, please. Some other time, perhaps, but not now. I hardly know about it myself, yet. It may be something—it may be nothing; but, at any rate, it was peg enough to hang a fantasia upon. You’ve surprised my little secret, Father, and I dare say it’s no real secret at all, but just a passing whiff of fancy. If it ever comes to anything, you shall know first of all the world about it. Now take out your violin, there’s a dear old Dad, and give me a tune upon it.’

      The father took the precious instrument from its carefully covered case with a sort of loving reverence, and began to play a piece of Arthur’s own composition. From the moment the bow touched the chords it was easy enough to see whence the son got his musical instincts. Old George Berkeley was a born musician, and he could make his violin discourse to him with rare power of execution. There they sat, playing and talking at intervals, till nearly eight, when Arthur went out hurriedly to catch the last train to Oxford, and left the old shoemaker once more to his week’s solitude. ‘Not for much longer,’ the curate whispered to himself, as he got into his third-class carriage quickly; ‘not for much longer, if I can help it. A curacy in or near London’s the only right thing for me to look out for!’