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Updated: May 17, 2025
Picture Reuben Elgar reduced to the necessity of toiling for daily bread that is to say, brought down from his pleasant heights of civilization to the dull plain where nature tells a man that if he would eat he must first sweat at the furrow; one hears his fierce objurgations, his haughty railing against the gods.
But my hand was paralyzed when I thought of the idiotic comments such a picture would occasion in England. One fellow would say I had searched through history in a prurient spirit for something sensational; another, that I read a moral lesson of terrible significance; and so on." "A grand subject, decidedly!" exclaimed Elgar, with genuine enthusiasm, which restored Marsh to his own good opinion.
When the tailor met Ellis on Duck Bank greatly wearing a new suit, the scene was impressive. It was as though Elgar had stopped to hear Paderewski play 'Pomp and Circumstance' on the piano. Ellis descended from his bedroom into the hall, took his straw hat, chose a stick, and went out into the portico of the new large house on the Hawkins, near Oldcastle.
His failure would easily be explained; either he had mistaken the train, or something inevitable had hindered him; possibly she had made a slip of the pen in writing. Nearing home, she grew tremulous, nervously impatient. Before the cab had stopped, she threw the door open. The servant who admitted her wore an unusual expression, but Cecily did not observe this. "Mr. Elgar is at home?"
Madame Jacquelin, a stout and very plain woman, who told us anecdotes of George Sand; remind me to repeat them to-morrow. And Mr. Bickerdike, the pillar of idealism." "Bickerdike was there?" Elgar exclaimed, with an air of displeasure. "He didn't refer to his acquaintance with you. I wonder why not?" "Did you talk to the fellow?" "Rather pertly, I'm afraid.
"You shall promise me that you won't betray your knowledge of this," added Reuben. "At all events, not now. Promise me that. Your word is to be trusted, I know." "It's very unlikely that I should think of touching on the matter to your sister. I shall make no promise." "Have you seen Cecily herself?" Elgar asked, leaving the point aside in his eagerness to come to what concerned him more deeply.
"I'm only a little afraid they may think you are imitating Elgar," she murmured after a moment. "Imitating Elgar!" "Not that you are, or ever would do such a thing. It isn't your music, it's the subject, that makes me a little afraid. It seems to me to be an Elgar subject." "Really!" The conversation dropped, and was not resumed.
Won't it be something to be the mother of the greatest English composer of the twentieth century? 'It would be rather fun. 'We shan't hear quite so much about Strauss, Elgar, Debussy and all those people when Archie Ottley grows up, declared Madame Frabelle. 'I hear very little about them now, said Bruce.
Again she seated herself. "She went there to ask about me," said Elgar, in a forced voice. "You think so? Why to him? Wouldn't she rather have come to me? Why did she stay so long? Why did he go away with her? And why hasn't she returned home?" Question followed question with cold deliberateness, as if the matter barely concerned her. "But Mallard? What is Mallard to her?" "How can I tell?"
Elgar glanced at him once or twice, expecting him to speak, but the other was mute. "Your judgment of me," Elgar resumed, "is harsh and unfounded. I don't know how you have formed it. You know nothing of what it means to me to love such a girl as Cecily. Here I have found my rest. It supplies me with no new qualities, but it strengthens those I have.
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