In the mean time the young man in the tasselled cap and the patent-leathers had strolled leisurely in the opposite direction to that the earl had taken, and in a little while—still followed by the valet, who bore his painting tools—had climbed into a field knee-deep in grass which was ready for the scythe. At the bottom of this meadow ran a little purling stream, with a slant willow growing over it. In obedience to the young gentleman's instructions, the valet set down his burden here, and having received orders to return in an hour's time, departed. The young gentleman sketched the willow and the brook in no very masterly fashion, but at a sort of hasty random, and tiring of his self-imposed task before half an hour was over, threw himself at length beside the brook, and there, lulled by the ripple of the water and the slumberous noise of insects, fell asleep. The valet's returning footsteps awoke him. He rolled over idly and lit a new cigar.
“Shall I take back the things to the Hall, sir?” asked the servant.
“Yes, take them back to the Hall,” said the young gentleman, lazily. Rising to his feet, he produced a small pocket-mirror, and having surveyed the reflection of his features, arranged his scarf, cocked his cap, and sauntered from the field. His way led him past a high time-crumbled wall, over which a half score of trees pushed luxuriant branches. The wall was some ten feet in height, and in the middle of it was a green-painted door which opened inward. It was not quite closed, and a mere streak of sunlit grass could be seen within.
As the idle young gentleman sauntered along with his hands folded behind him, his eyes half closed, and his nose in the air, a sudden burst of music reached his ears and brought him to a stand-still. It surprised him a little, partly because it was extremely well played, and partly because the theme was classic and but little known. He moved his head from side to side to make out, if possible, the inmates of the garden, but he could see nothing but the figure of a girl, who leaned her hands upon a tree and her cheek upon her hands. This, however, was enough to pique curiosity, for the figure was singularly graceful, and had fallen into an attitude of unstudied elegance. He pushed the door an inch wider, and so far enlarged his view that he could see the musicians—three old men and a young one—who sat in the middle of a grassy space and ploughed away at the music with a will. Not caring to be observed in his clandestine espial he drew back a little, still keeping the figure of the girl in sight, and listened to the music.
He was so absorbed that the sudden spectacle of the Earl of Barfield, who came round the corner with a ladder on his shoulder, startled him a little. His lordship was followed by Joseph Beaker, who bore the saw and the billhook, and the old nobleman was evidently somewhat fatigued, and carried the ladder with difficulty. Seeing his young friend, he propped his burden against the wall and mopped his forehead, casting an upward glance at the boughs which stretched their pleasant shadow overhead.
“Well, Ferdinand,” he said, in a discontented voice, “what are you doing here?”
“I am listening to the music,” said Ferdinand, in answer.
“The music?” said his lordship. “That caterwauling?” He waved a hand towards the wall. “Old Fuller and his friends.”
“They play capitally,” said Ferdinand; “for country people they play capitally. They are amateurs, of course?”
“Do they?” asked the earl, somewhat eagerly; “do they, really? Tell 'em so, tell 'em so. Nothing so likely”—he dropped his voice to a whisper—“nothing so likely to catch old Fuller's vote as that. He's mad on music. I haven't ventured to call on him for a long time. We had quite a little fracas years ago about these overhanging boughs. They're quite an eyesore—quite an eyesore; but he won't have 'em touched; won't endure it. Joseph, you can carry the ladder home. We'll go in, Ferdinand—it's an admirable opportunity. I've been wondering how to approach old Fuller, and this is the very thing—the very thing.”
“Wait until they have finished,” said the younger man; and Joseph having shouldered the ladder and gone off with it in his own crab-like way, the two stood together until the musicians in the garden had finished the theme upon which they were engaged.
The earl pushed open the garden door and entered, Ferdinand following in the rear. The girl turned at the noise made by the shrieking hinges, and stood somewhat irresolutely, as if uncertain. Finally, she bowed in a manner sufficiently distant and ceremonious. Ferdinand put up an eye-glass and surveyed her with an air of criticism, while the old nobleman advanced briskly towards the table around which the musicians were seated.
“Good-day, Fuller, good-day,” he said, in a hearty voice; “don't let me disturb you, I beg. We heard your beautiful music as we passed by, and stopped to listen to it. This is my young friend, Mr. De Blacquaire, who's going to stand, you know, for this division of the county. Mr. De Blacquaire is a great amateur of music, and was delighted with your playing—delighted.”
“I was charmed, indeed,” said Ferdinand. “There are lovers of music everywhere, of course, but I had not expected to find so advanced a company of amateurs in Heydon Hay. That final passage was exquisitely rendered.”
The earl stood with a smile distorted in the sunlight, looking alternately from the candidate to the voters.
“Exquisitely rendered, I am sure,” he said—“exquisitely rendered. Praise from Mr. De Blacquaire is worth having, let me tell you, Fuller. Mr. De Blacquaire is himself a distinguished musician. Ah! my old friend Eld! How do you do? how do you do?”
This greeting was addressed to Sennacherib, who had arisen on the earl's arrival, had deliberately turned his back, and was now engaged in turning over the leaves of music which lay on the table before him.
“Sennacherib,” said Isaiah, mildly, “his lordship's a-talking to thee.”
“I can hear,” responded Sennacherib, “as he's a-talking to one on us. As for me, I'm none the better for being axed.”
“And none the worse, I hope,” said his lordship, as cheerily as he could.
“Nayther wuss nor better, so far as I can see,” replied Sennacherib.
“Come, come, Mr. Eld,” said Fuller. “Harmony! harmony!”
“I was a-tekin' my walks abroad this mornin',” said Sennacherib, still bending over his music, “when I see that petted hound of the vicar's mek a fly at a mongrel dog as had a bone. The mongrel run for it and took the bone along with him. It comes into my mind now as if the hound had known a month or two aforehand as he'd want that bone, he'd ha' made friends wi' the mongrel.”
This parable was so obviously directed at his lordship and his youngprotégéthat Sennacherib's companions looked and felt ill at ease. Fuller was heard to murmur “Harmony!” but a disconcerted silence fell on all, and his lordship took snuff while he searched for a speech which should turn the current of conversation into a pleasanter channel. The Earl of Barfield was particularly keen in his desire to run Mr. Ferdinand de Blacquaire for the county, and to run him into Parliament. Ferdinand himself was much less keen about the business, and regarded it all as a mingled joke and bore. This being the case, he felt free to avoid the ordinary allures of the parliamentary candidate, and, apart from that, he had, with himself at least, a reputation to sustain as a man of wit.
“Has this mongrel a bone?” he asked, in a silky tone. “Let him keep it.”
His lordship shot a glance of surprised wrath at him, almost of horror, but Sennacherib began to chuckle.
“Pup's got a bite in him,” said Sennacherib—“got a bite in him.”
His lordship felt a little easier, and looking about him discovered that everybody was smiling more or less, though on one or two faces the smile sat uneasily.
“Come, come, Mr. Eld,” said Fuller, “harmony!”
“Ah!” cried the earl, seizing gladly on the word. “Let us have a little harmony. Don't let our presence disturb your music. Mr. Eld is a local notability, Ferdinand. Mr. Eld speaks his mind to everybody. I'm afraid he's on the other side, and in that case you'll have many a tussle with him before you come to the hustings. Eh? That's so, isn't it, Eld? Eh? That's so?”
“Oh,” said Sennacherib, with the slow local drawl, “we'll tek a bit of a wrastle now and again, I mek no manner of a doubt.”
“And in the mean time,” said his lordship, “let us start harmoniously. Give us a little music, Fuller. Go on just as if we were not here.”
“Ruth, my wench,” said Fuller, “fetch his lordship a chair, and bring another for Mr.——-” He hung upon the Mr., searching to recall the name.
“Devil-a-care,” suggested Sennacherib.
“De Blacquaire,” said the earl, correcting him. “Mr. Ferdinand de Blacquaire.”
The girl had already moved away, and Ferdinand, with an air in which criticism melted slowly into approval, watched her through his eye-glass. The only young man in the quartette party, Reuben Gold, eyed Ferdinand with a look in which criticism hardened into disapproval, and, turning away, fluttered the edges of the music sheets before him with the tip of his bow.
“Look here, lads,” said Fuller, “we'll have a slap at that there sonata of B. Thoven's, eh?”
“Beethoven?” asked Ferdinand, with a little unnecessary stress upon the name to mark his pronunciation of it. “You play Beethoven? This is extremely interesting.” He spoke to the earl, who rubbed his hands and nodded. The young first-violin tossed his chestnut-colored mane on one side with a gesture of irritation. Ruth reappeared with a chair in each hand. They were old-fashioned and rather heavy, being built of solid oak, but she carried them lightly and gracefully. Ferdinand started forward and attempted to relieve her of her burden. At first she resisted, but he insisting upon the point she yielded. The young Ferdinand was less graceful than he had meant to be in the carriage of the chairs, and Ruth looked at Reuben with a smile so faint as scarcely to be perceptible. Reuben with knitted brows pored over his music, and the girl returned to her old place and her old attitude by the apple-tree.
Ferdinand, having the placing of the chairs in his own hands, took up a position in which, without being obtrusively near, he was close enough to address Ruth if occasion should arise, as he was already fairly resolved it should. The three elders were most drolly provincial, to his mind, and their accent was positively barbarous to his ears. Reuben was less provincial to look at, but to Mr. De Blacquaire's critical eye the young man was evidently not a gentleman. He had not heard him speak as yet, but could well afford to make up his mind without that. Nobody but a boof could have employed Reuben's tailor or his shoemaker. As for the girl, she looked like a lily in a kitchen-garden, a flower among the coarse and commonplace things of every-day consumption. It would be a deadly pity, he thought, if she should have an accent like the rest. Her dress was perfectly refined and simple, and Ferdinand guessed pretty shrewdly that this was likely to be due to her own handiwork and fancy.
“What a delightful, quaint old garden you have here, to be sure,” he said.
With a perfect naturalness she raised a warning palm against him, and at that instant the quartette party began their performance. She had not even turned an eye in his direction, and he was a little piqued. The hand which had motioned him to silence was laid now on the gnarled old apple-tree, and she rested her ripe cheek against it. Her eyes began to dream at the music, and it was evident that her forgetfulness of the picturesque young gentleman beside her was complete and unaffected. The picturesque young gentleman felt this rather keenly. The snub was small enough, in all conscience, but itwasa snub, and he was sensitive, even curiously sensitive, to that kind of thing. And he was not in the habit of being snubbed. He was accustomed to look for the signs of his own power to please among young women who moved in another sphere.
It was a very, very small affair, but then it is precisely these very small affairs which rankle in a certain sort of mind. Ferdinand dismissed it, but it spoiled his music for the first five minutes.
The Earl of Barfield was one of those people to whom music is neither more nor less than noise. He loved quiet and hated noise, and the four interpreters of the melody and harmony of Beethoven afforded him as much delight as so many crying children would have done. It had been a joke against him in his youth that he had once failed to distinguish between “God save the King” and the “Old Hundredth.” Harmony and melody here were alike divine in themselves, and were more than respectably rendered, and he sat and suffered under them in his young friend's behoof like a hero. They bored him unspeakably, and the performance lasted half an hour. When it was all over he beat his withered white hands together once or twice, and smiled in self-gratulation that his time of suffering was over.
“Admirably rendered!” cried Ferdinand; “admirably—admirably rendered. Will you forgive me just a hint, sir?” He addressed Sennacherib. “A leetle more light and shade! A performance less level in tone.”
“P'raps the young man'll show us how to do it,” said Sennacherib, in a dry, mock humility, handing his fiddle and bow towards the critic.
The critic accepted them with a manner charmingly unconscious of the intended satire, and walked round the table until he came behind Reuben, when he turned back the music for a leaf or two.
“Here, for example,” he said, and tucking the instrument beneath his chin, played through a score of bars with a certain exaggeratedchicwhich awakened Sennacherib's derision.
“What dost want to writhe i' that fashion for?” he demanded. “Dost find thine inwards twisted? It's a pretty tone, though,” he allowed. “The young man can fiddle. Strikes me, young master, as thee'dst do better at the Hopera than the House o' Commons. Tek a fool's advice and try.”
Ferdinand smiled with genuine good-humor. This insolent old personage began to amuse him.
“Really I don't know, sir,” he answered. “Perhaps I may do pretty well in the House of Commons, if you will be good enough to try me. One can't please everybody, but I promise to do my best.”
“The best can do no more,” said Fuller, in a mellow, peace-making kind of murmur; “the best can do no more.”
“I've no mind for that theer whisperin' and shout-in' in the course of a piece of music,” said Sennacherib. “Pianner is pianner, and forte is forte, but theer's no call to strain a man's ears to listen to the one, nor to drive him deaf with t'other. Same time, if the young gentleman 'ud like to come an' gi'e us a lesson now and then we'd tek it.”
“I'm not able to give you lessons, sir,” returned Mr. De Blacquaire, with unshaken good-humor; “but if you'll allow me to take one now and then by listening, I shall be delighted.”
“Nothin' agen that, is theer, Mr. Fuller?” demanded Sennacherib.
“Allays pleased to see the young gentleman,” responded Fuller.
“When may I come to listen to you again, gentlemen?” asked Ferdinand. His manner was full ofbonhomienow, and had no trace of affectation. It pleased everybody but Reuben, who had conceived a distaste for him from the first. Perhaps, if he had not placed his chair so near to Ruth, and had regarded her less often and with a less evident admiration, the young man might have liked him better.
“Well,” said Fuller, “we are here pretty nigh every evenin' while the fine weather lasts. We happen to be here this afternoon because young Mr. Gold is goin' away for to-night to Castle Barfield. You'll find we here almost of any evenin'—to-morrow, to begin with.”
“We had better be going now, Ferdinand,” said his lordship, who dreaded the new beginning of the music. “Good-afternoon, Fuller. Good-afternoon, Eld. Good-afternoon, Gold.”
“Good-day, my lord,” said Reuben, rather gloomily. He had not spoken until now, and Ferdinand had wished to note the accent. There was none to note in the few words he uttered.
“Your little girl is growing into a woman, Fuller,” said his lordship.
“That's the way wi' most gells, my lord,” said Fuller.
“Good-afternoon, Miss Ruth,” said the old nobleman, nodding and smiling.
“Good-afternoon, my lord,” said Ruth. Ferdinand's attentive ear noted again the absence of the district accent. He removed his cap and bowed to her.
“Good-afternoon. I may come to-morrow evening, then?” The query was addressed to her, but she did not answer it, either by glance or word. She had answered his bow and turned away before he had spoken.
“Ay,” said Fuller; “come and welcome.”
He bowed and smiled all round, and walked away with his lordship. He turned at the garden door for a final glance at the pretty girl, but she had her back turned upon him, and was leaning both hands on her father's shoulder.
The rustic little church at Heydon Hay made a nucleus for the village, which, close at hand, clustered about it pretty thickly, but soon began to fray off into scattered edges, as if the force of attraction decreased with distance, after the established rule. Beside the church-yard, and separated from it by a high brick wall, was a garden, fronted by half a dozen slim and lofty poplars. Within the churchyard the wall was only on a level with the topmost tufts of grass, but on the garden side it stood six feet high, and was bulged out somewhat by the weight of earth which pressed against it. Facing the tall poplars was a house of two stories. It looked like a short row of houses, for it boasted three front doors. Over each of these was hung a little contrivance which resembled a section of that extinguisher apparatus which is still to be found suspended above the pulpit in some old-fashioned country churches. All the windows of the old house were of diamond panes, and those of the upper story projected from the roof of solid and venerable thatch. A pair of doves had their home in a wicker cage which hung from the wall, and their cooing was like the voice of the house, so peaceful, homely, and Old-world was its aspect.
Despite the three front doors, the real entrance to the house was at the rear, to which access was had by a side gate. A path, moss-grown at the edges, led between shrubs and flowers to a small circle of brickwork, in the midst of which was a well with rope and windlass above it, and thence continued to the door, which led to an antique, low-browed kitchen. A small dark passage led from the kitchen to a front room with a great fireplace, which rose so high that there was but just enough room between the mantle-board and the whitewashed ceiling for the squat brass candlesticks and the big foreign sea-shells which stood there for ornament.
The diamonded window admitted so little light that on entering here from the outer sunshine the visitor could only make out the details one by one. When his eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness he was sure to notice a dozen or more green baize bags which hung upon the walls, each half defining, in the same vague way as all the others, the outline of the object it contained. Each green baize bag was closely tied at the neck, and suspended at an equal height with the rest upon a nail. There was something of a vault-like odor in the room, traceable probably to the two facts that the carpet was laid upon a brick floor, and that the chamber was rarely opened to the air.
Ezra Gold, seated upright in an oaken arm-chair, with a hand lightly grasping the end of either arm, was at home in the close, cool shadow of the place. The cloistered air, the quiet and the dim shade seemed to suit him, and he to be in harmony with them. His eyes were open, and alighted now and again with an air of recognition on some familiar object, but otherwise he might have seemed asleep. On the central table was a great pile of music-books, old-fashioned alike in shape and binding. They exhaled a special cloistral odor of their own, as if they had been long imprisoned. Ezra's eye dwelt oftener on these musty old books than elsewhere.
He had sat still and silent for a long time, when the bells of the church, with a startling nearness and distinctness, broke into a peal. He made a slight movement when the sound first fell upon his ear, but went back to his quiet and his dreams again at once.
Ten minutes went by and the bells were still pealing, when he heard a sound which would have been inaudible in the midst of the metallic clamor to ears less accustomed than his own. He had lived there all his life, and scarcely noticed the noise which would almost have deafened a stranger. The sound he had heard was the clicking of the gate, and after a pause it was followed by the appearance of his nephew Reuben, who looked about him with a dazzled and uncertain gaze.
“Well, Reuben, lad?” said the old man; but his voice was lost for his nephew in the noise which shook the air. “Dost not see me?” he cried, speaking loudly this time.
“I'm fresh from the sunlight,” Reuben shouted, with unnecessary force. “You spoke before. I couldn't hear you for the bells.”
The old man with a half-humorous gesture put his hands to his ears.
“No need to shout a man's head off,” he answered. “Come outside.”
Rueben understood the gesture, though he could not hear the words, and the two left the room together, and came out upon the back garden. The sound of the bells was still clear and loud, but by no means so overwhelming as it had been within-doors.
“That's better,” said Reuben. “They're making noise enough for young Sennacherib's wedding.”
“Young Sennacherib?” asked his uncle. “Young Eld? Is young Eld to be married?”
“Didn't you Know that? The procession is coming along the road this minute. Old Sennacherib disapproves of the match, and we've had a scene the like of which was never known in Heydon Hay before.”
“Ay?” said Ezra, with grave interest, slowly, and with a look of a man long imprisoned, to whom outside things are strange, but interesting still. “As how?”
“Why thus,” returned Reuben, with a laugh in his eyes. “Old Sennacherib comes to his gate and awaits the wedding-party. Young Snac, with his bride upon his arm, waves a braggart handkerchief at the oldster, and out walks papa, plants himself straight in front of the company, and brings all to a halt. 'I should like to tell thee,' says the old fellow before them all, rolling that bull-dog head of his, 'as I've made my will an' cut thee off with a shillin'!'”
“Dear me!” said Ezra, seriously; “dear me! And what answer made young Snac to this?”
“Young Snac,” said Reuben, “was equal to his day. 'All right,' says he; 'gi'e me the shillin' now, an' we'll drop in at the “Goat” and split a quart together.' 'All right,' says the old bull-dog; 'it's th' on'y chance I shall ever light upon of mekin' a profit out o' thee.' He lugs out a leather bag, finds a shilling, bites it to make sure of its value, hands it to the young bull-dog, and at the 'Goat' they actually pull up together, and young Snac spends the money then and there. 'Bring out six pints,' cries Snac the younger. 'Fo'penny ale's as much as a father can expect when his loving son is a-spendin' the whole of his inheritance upon him.' Everybody sipped, the bride included, and the two bull-dogs clinked their mugs together. I sipped myself, being invited as a bystander, and toasted father and son together.”
“But, mind thee, lad,” said Ezra, “it's scarcely to be touched upon as a laughing matter. Drollery of a sort theer is in it, to be sure; but what Sennacherib Eld says he sticks to. When he bites he holds. He was ever of that nature.”
“I know,” said Reuben; “but young Nip-and-Fasten has the breed of old Bite-and-Hold-Fast in him, and if the old man keeps his money the young one will manage to get along without it.”
At this moment the bells ceased their clangor.
“They've gone into the church, Reuben,” said the old man. “I'll do no less than wish 'em happiness, though there's fewer that finds it than seeks it by that gate.”
“It's like other gates in that respect, I suppose,” Reuben answered.
“Well, yes,” returned the elder man, lingeringly. “But it's the gate that most of 'em fancy, and thereby it grows the saddest to look at, lad. Come indoors again. There'll be no more bells this yet-awhile.”
Reuben followed him into the cloistral odors and shadows of the sitting-room. Ezra took his old seat, and kept silence for the space of two or three minutes.
“You said you wanted to speak to me, uncle,” said the younger man, at length.
“Yes, yes,” said Ezra, rising as if from a dream. “You're getting to have a very pretty hand on the fiddle, Reuben, and—well, it's a shame to bury anything that has a value. This”—he arose and laid a hand on the topmost book of the great pile of music—“this has never seen the light for a good five-and-twenty year. Theer's some of it forgot, notwithstanding that it's all main good music. But theer's no room i' the world for th' old-fangled an' the newfangled. One nail drives out another. But I've been thinking thee mightst find a thing or two herein as would prove of value, and it's yours if you see fit to take it away.”
“Why, it's a library,” said Reuben. “You are very good, uncle, but—”
“Tek it, lad, tek it, if you'd like it, and make no words. And if it shouldn't turn out to have been worth the carrying you can let th' old chap think it was—eh?”
“Worth the carrying?” said Reuben, with a half-embarrassed little laugh. “I'm pretty sure you had no rubbish on your shelves, uncle.” He began to turn over the leaves of the topmost book. “'Études?” he read, “'pour deux violins, parJoseph Manzini.' This looks good. Who was Joseph Manzini? I never heard of him.”
“Manzini?” asked the old man, with a curious eagerness—“Manzini.” His voice changed altogether, and fell into a dreamy and retrospective tone. He laid a hand upon the open pages, and smoothed them with a touch which looked like a caress.
“Who was he?” asked Reuben. “Did you know him?”
“No, lad,” returned the old man, coming out of his dream, and smiling as he spoke, “I never knew him. What should bring me to know a German musician as was great in his own day?”
“I thought you spoke as if you knew him,” said Reuben.
“Hast a quick ear,” said Ezra, “and a searching fancy. No, lad, no; I never knew him. But that was the last man I ever handled bow and fiddle for. I left that open” (he tapped the book with his fingers and then closed it as he spoke)—“I left that open on my table when I was called away on business to London. I found it open when I came home again, and I closed it, for I never touched a bow again. I'd heard Paganini in the mean time. Me and 'Saiah Eld tried that through together, and since then I've never drawn a note out o' catgut.”
“I could never altogether understand it, uncle,” said Reuben. “What could the man's playing have been like?”
“What was it like?” returned the older man. “What is theer as it wa'n't like? I couldn't tell thee, lad—I couldn't tell thee. It was like a lost soul a-wailing i' the pit. It was like an angel a-sing-ing afore the Lord. It was like that passage i' the Book o' Job, where 'tis said as 'twas the dead o' night when deep sleep falleth upon men, and a vision passed afore his face, and the hair of his flesh stood up. It was like the winter tempest i' the trees, and a little brook in summer weather. It was like as if theer was a livin' soul within the thing, and sometimes he'd trick it and soothe it, and it'd laugh and sing to do the heart good, an' another time he'd tear it by the roots till it chilled your blood.”
“You heard him often?” asked Reuben.
“Never but once,” said Ezra, shaking his head with great decision. “Never but once. He wa'n't a man to hear too often. 'Twas a thing to know and to carry away. A glory to have looked at once, but not to live in the midst on. Too bright for common eyes, lad—too bright for common eyes.”
“I've heard many speak of his playing,” said Reuben. “But there are just as many opinions as there are people.”
“There's no disputing in these matters,” the older man answered. “I've heard him talked of as a Charley Tann, which I tek to be a kind of humbugging pretender, but 'twas plain to see for a man with a soul behind his wescut as the man was wore to a shadow with his feeling for his music. 'Twas partly the man's own sufferin' and triumphin' as had such a power over me. It is with music as th' other passions. % Theer's love, for example. A lad picks out a wench, and spends his heart and natur' in her behalf as free as if there'd niver been a wench i' the world afore, and niver again would be. And after all a wench is a commonish sort of a object, and even the wench the lad's in love with is a commonish sort o' creature among wenches. But what's that to him, if her chances to be just the sort his soul and body cries after?”
“Ah!” said Reuben, “ifhis soul cries after her. But if he values goodness his soul will cry after it, and if he values beauty his soul will cry after that. I never heard Paganini, but he was a great player, or a real lover of music like you would never have found what he wanted in him.”
“Yes, lad,” his uncle answered, falling suddenly into his habitual manner, “the man was a player. Thee canst have the music any time thee likst to send for it.”
Reuben knew the old man and his ways. The talkative fit was evidently over, and he might sit and talk, if he would, from then till evening, and get no more than a monosyllable here and there in return for his pains.
“It will take a hand-cart to carry the books,” he said; “but I will take Manzini now if you will let me.” The old man, contenting himself with a mere nod in answer, he took up the old-fashioned oblong folio, tucked it under his arm, and shook hands with the donor. “This is a princely gift, uncle,” he said, with the natural exaggeration of a grateful youngster. “I don't know how to say thank you for it.”
Ezra smiled, but said nothing. Reuben, repeating his leave-taking, went away, and coming suddenly upon the bright sunlight and the renewed clangor of the bells, was half stunned by the noise and dazzled by the glare. With all this clash and brilliance, as if they existed because of her, and were a part of her presence, appeared Ruth Fuller in the act of passing Ezra's house. Ruth had brightness, but it was rather of the twilight sort than this; and the music which seemed fittest to salute her apparition might have been better supplied by these same bells at a distance of a mile or two. Reuben was perturbed, as any mere mortal might expect to be on encountering a goddess.
Let us see the goddess as well as may be.
She was country-bred to begin with, and though to Heydon Hay her appearance smacked somewhat of the town, a dweller in towns would have called her rustic. She wore a straw hat which was in the fashion of the time, and to the eyes of the time looked charming, though twenty years later we call it ugly, and speak no more than truth. Beneath this straw hat very beautiful and plenteous brown hair escaped in defiance of authority, and frolicked into curls and wavelets, disporting itself on a forehead of creamy tone and smoothness, and just touching the eyebrows, which were of a slightly darker brown, faintly arched on the lower outline, and more prominently arched on the upper. Below the brows brown eyes, as honest as the day, and with a frank smile always ready to break through the dream which pretty often filled them. A short upper lip, delicately curved and curiously mobile, a full lower lip, a chin expressive of great firmness, but softened by a dimpled hollow in the very middle of its roundness, a nose neither Grecian nor tilted, but betwixt the two, and delightful, and a complexion familiar with sun and air, wholesome, robust, and fine. In stature she was no more than on a level with Reuben's chin; but Reuben was taller than common, standing six feet in his stockings. This fact of superior height was not in itself sufficient to account for the graceful inclination of the body which always characterized Reuben when he talked with Ruth. There was a tender and unconscious deference in his attitude which told more to the least observant observer than Reuben would willingly have had known.
Ezra Gold saw the chance encounter through the window, and watched the pair as they shook hands. They walked away together, for they were bound in the same direction, and the old man rose from his seat and walked to the window to look after them.
“Well, well, lad,” he said, speaking half aloud, after the fashion of men who spend much of their time alone, “theert beauty and goodness theer, I fancy. Go thy ways, lad, and be happy.”
They were out of sight already, and Ezra, with his hands folded behind him, paced twice or thrice along the room. Pausing before one of the green baize bags, he lifted it from its nail, and having untied the string that fastened it, he drew forth with great tenderness an unstrung violin, and, carrying it to the light, sat down and turned it over and over in his hands. Then he took the neck with his left hand, and, placing the instrument upright upon his knee, caressed it with his right.
“Poor lass,” he said, “a' might think as thee was grieved to have had ne'er a soul to sing to all these years. I've a half mind to let thee have a song now, but I doubt thee couldst do naught but screech at me. I've forgotten how to ask a lady of thy make to sing. Shalt go to Reuben, lass; he'll mek thee find thy voice again. Rare and sweet it used to be—rare and sweet.”
He fell into a fit of coughing which shook him from head to foot, but even in the midst of the paroxysm he made shift to lay down the violin with perfect tenderness. When the fit was over he lay back in his chair with his arms depending feebly at his sides, panting a little, but smiling like a man at peace.
These had been a long spell of fair weather, and the Earl of Barfield had carried on his warfare against all and sundry who permitted the boughs of their garden trees to overhang the public highway, for a space of little less than a month. The campaign had been conducted with varying success, but the old nobleman counted as many victories as fights, and was disposed, on the whole, to be content with himself. He was an old and experienced warrior in this cause, and had learned to look with a philosophic eye upon reverses.
But on the day following that which saw the introduction of his lordship's parliamentary nominee to the quartette party, his lordship encountered a check which called for all the resources of philosophy. He was routed by his own henchman, Joseph Beaker.
The defeat arrived in this wise: his lordship having carefully arranged his rounds so that Joseph should carry the ladder all the long distances while he himself bore it all the short ones, had found himself so flurried by the defeat he had encountered at the hands of Miss Blythe, that he had permitted Joseph to take up the ladder and carry it away from where it had leaned against the apple-tree in the little old lady's garden. This unforeseen incident had utterly disarranged his plans, and since he had been unadvised enough to post his servitor in the particulars of the campaign, Joseph had been quick to discover his own advantage.
“We will go straight on to Willis's, Joseph,” said his lordship, when they began their rounds that afternoon. The stroke was simple, but, if it should only succeed, was effective.
“We bain't a-goin' to pass Widder Hotchkiss, be we, governor?” demanded Joseph, who saw through the device. His lordship decided not to hear the question, and walked on a little ahead, swinging the billhook and the saw.
Joseph Beaker revolved in his mind his own plan of action. In front of Widow Hotchkiss's cottage the trees were unusually luxuriant, and the boughs hung unusually low. When they were reached, Joseph contrived to entangle his ladder and to bring himself to a stand-still, with every appearance of naturalness.
“My blessed!” he mumbled, “this here's a disgrace to the parish, gaffer. Theer's nothin' in all Heydon Hay as can put a patch on it. Thee bissent agoin' past this, beest? Her's as small-sperited as a rabbit—the widder is.”
“We'll take it another time, Joseph,” said his lordship, striving to cover his confusion by taking a bigger pinch of snuff than common—“another time, Joseph, another time.”
“Well,” said Joseph, tossing his lop-sided head, as if he had at last fathomed the folly and weakness of human nature, and resigned himself to his own mournful discoveries, “I should niver ha' thought it.” He made a show of shouldering the ladder disgustedly, but dropped it again. “We fled afore a little un yesterday,” he said. “I did look for a show o' courage here, governor.” His lordship hesitated. “Why, look at it,” pursued Joseph, waving a hand towards the overhanging verdure; “it 'ud be a sinful crime to go by it.”
“Put up the ladder, Joseph,” replied his lordship, in a voice of sudden resolve. The Hotchkiss case was a foregone victory for him, and his own desires chimed with Joseph's arguments, even while he felt himself outgeneralled.
The widow sweetened the business by a feeble protest, and the Earl of Barfield was lordly with ner.
“Must come down, my good woman,” said his lordship, firmly, “must come down. Obstruct the highway. Disgrace to the parish.”
“That's what I said,” mumbled Joseph, as he steadied the ladder from below. The widow watched the process wistfully, and my lord chopped and sawed with unwonted gusto. Branch after branch fell into the lane, and the aged nobleman puffed and sweated with his grateful labor. He had not had such a joyful turn for many a day. The widow moaned like a winter wind in a key-hole, and when his lordship at last descended from his perch she was wiping her eyes with her apron.
“I know full well what poor folks has got to put up with at the hands o' them as the Lord has set in authority,” said the widow, “but it's cruel hard to have a body's bits o' trees chopped and lopped i' that way. When ourn was alive his lordship niver laid a hand upon 'em. Ourn 'ud niver ha' bent himself to put up wi' it, that he niver would, and Lord Barfield knows it; for though he was no better nor a market-gardener, he was one o' them as knowed what was becomin' between man and man, be he niver so lowly, and his lordship the lord o' the manor for miles around.”
“Tut, tut, my good woman,” returned his lordship. “Pooh, pooh! Do for firewood. Nice and dry against the winter. Much better there than obstructing the high-road—much better. Joseph Beaker, take the ladder.”
“My turn next time,” replied Joseph. “Carried it here.”
His lordship, a little abashed, feigned to consider, and took snuff.
“Quite right, Joseph,” he answered, “quite right. Quite fair to remind me. Perfectly fair.” But he was a good deal blown and wearied with his exertions, and though anxious to escape the moanings of the widow he had no taste for the exercise which awaited him. He braced himself for the task, however, and handing the tools to his henchman, manfully shouldered the ladder and started away with it. The lane was circuitous, and when once he had rounded the first corner he paused and set down his burden. “It's unusually warm to-day, Joseph,” he said, mopping at his wrinkled forehead.
“Theer's a coolish breeze,” replied Joseph, “and a-plenty o' shadder.”
“Do you know, Joseph,” said the earl, in a casual tone, “I think I shall have to get you to take this turn. I am a little tired.”
“Carried it last turn,” said Joseph, decidedly. “A bargain's a bargain.”
“Certainly, certainly,” returned his lordship, “a bargainisa bargain, Joseph.” He sat down upon one of the lower rungs of the ladder and fanned himself with a pocket-handkerchief. “But you know, Joseph,” he began again after a pause, “nobody pushes a bargain too hard. If you carry the ladder this time I will carry it next. Come now—what do you say to that?”
“It's a quarter of a mile from here to Willis's,” said Joseph, “and it ain't five score yards from theer to the Tan-yard. Theer's some,” he added, with an almost philosophic air, “as knows when they are well off.”
“I'll give you an extra penny,” said his lordship, condescending to bargain.
“I'll do it for a extry sixpince,” replied Joseph.
“I'll make it twopence,” said his lordship—“twopence and a screw of snuff.”
“I'll do it for a extry sixpince,” Joseph repeated, doggedly.
Noblesse oblige. There was a point beyond which the Earl of Barfield could not haggle. He surrendered, but it galled him, and the agreeable sense of humor with which he commonly regarded Joseph Beaker failed him for the rest of that afternoon. It happened, also, that the people who remained to be encountered one and all opposed him, and with the exception of his triumph over the Widow Hotchkiss the day was a day of failure.
When, therefore, his lordship turned his steps homeward he was in a mood to be tart with anybody, and it befell that Ferdinand was the first person on whom he found an opportunity of venting his gathered sours. The young gentleman heaved in sight near the lodge gates, smoking a cigar and gazing about him with an air of lazy nonchalance which had very much the look of being practised in hours of private leisure. Behind him came the valet, bearing the big square color-box, the camp-stool, and the clumsy field easel.
“Daubing again, I presume?” said his lordship, snappishly.
“Yes,” said Ferdinand, holding his cigar at arm's-length and flicking at the ash with his little finger, “daubing again.”
His lordship felt the tone and gesture to be irritating and offensive.
“Joseph Beaker,” he said, “take the ladder to the stables. I have done with you for to-day. Upon my word, Ferdinand,” he continued, when Joseph had shambled through the gateway with the ladder, “I think you answer me with very little consideration, for—in short, I think your manner a little wanting in—I don't care to be addressed in that way, Ferdinand.”
“I am sorry, sir,” said Ferdinand. “I did not mean to be disrespectful. You spoke of my daubing. I desired to admit the justice of the term. Nothing more, I assure you.”
His lordship, in his irritated mood, felt the tone to-be more irritating and offensive than before.
“I tell you candidly, Ferdinand, that I do not approve of the manner in which you spend your time here. If you imagine that you can walk over the course here without an effort you are very much mistaken. I take this idleness and indifference very ill, sir, very ill indeed, and if we are beaten I shall know on whom the blame will rest. The times are not what they were, Ferdinand, and constitutional principles are in danger.”
“Really, sir,” returned Ferdinand, “one can't be electioneering all the year round. There can't be a dissolution before the autumn. When the time comes I will work as hard as you can ask me to do.”
“Pooh, pooh!” said his lordship, irritably. “I don't ask you to spout politics. I ask you to show yourself to these people as a serious and thoughtful fellow, and not as a mere dauber of canvas and scraper of fiddles. You come here,” he went on, irritated as much by his own speech as by the actual circumstances of the case, “as if you were courting a constituency ofdilettanti, and expected to walk in by virtue of your little artistic graces. They don't want a man like that. They won't have a man like that. They're hard-headed fellows, let me tell you. These South Stafford fellows are the very deuce, let me tell you, for knowing all about Free-trade, and the Cheap Loaf, and the National Debt.”
“Very well, sir,” said Ferdinand, laughing, “I reform. Instead of carrying easel andporte-couleur,Harvey shall go about with a copy of 'The Wealth of Nations,' and when a voter passes I'll stop and consult the volume and make a note. Butl'homme sérieuxis not the only man for election times. I'll wager all I am ever likely to make out of politics that I have secured a vote this afternoon, though I have done nothing more than offer a farmer's wife a little artistic advice about the choice of a bonnet. I told her that yellow was fatal to that charming complexion, and advised blue. Old Holland is proud of his young wife, and I hooked him to a certainty.”
“Holland!” cried his lordship, more pettishly than ever—“Holland is conservative to the backbone. We were always sure of Holland.”
“Well, well,” said Ferdinand, in a voice of toleration, “we are at least as sure of him as ever.”
The allowance in the young man's manner exasperated the old nobleman. But he liked his young friend in spite of his insolence and tranquil swagger, and he dreaded to say something which might be too strong for the occasion.
“We will talk this question over at another time,” he said, controlling himself; “we will talk it over after dinner.”
“I must go vote-catching after dinner,” returned Ferdinand. “I promised to go and listen to the quartette party this evening.”
“Very well,” returned his lordship, with a sudden frostiness of manner. “I shall dine alone. Good-evening.”
He marched away, the senile nodding of his head accentuated into pettishness; and Ferdinand stood looking after him for a second or two with a smile, but presently thinking better of it, he hastened after the angry old man and overtook him.
“I am sorry, sir, if I disappoint you,” he said. “I don't want to do that, and I won't do it if I can help it.” The earl said nothing, but walked on with an injured air which was almost feminine. “Are you angry at my proposing to go to see old Fuller? I understood you to say yesterday that his vote was undecided, and that nothing was so likely to catch him as a little interest in his musical pursuits.”
“I have no objections to offer to your proposal,” replied his lordship, frostily—“none whatever.”
“I am glad to hear that, sir,” said Ferdinand, with rather more dryness than was needed. His lordship walked on again, and the young man lingered behind.
The household ways at the Hall were simple, and the hours kept there were early. It was not yet seven o'clock when Ferdinand, having already eaten his lonely dinner, strolled down the drive, cigar in month, bound for old Fuller's garden. He thought less of electioneering and less of music than of the pretty girl he had discovered yesterday. She interested him a little, and piqued him a little. Without being altogether a puppy, he was well aware of his own advantages of person, and was accustomed to attribute to them a fair amount of his own social successes. He was heir to a baronetcy and to the estates that went with it. It was impossible in the course of nature that he should be long kept out of these desirable possessions, for the present baronet was his grandfather, and had long passed the ordinary limits of old age. The old man had outlived his own immediate natural heir, Ferdinand's father, and now, in spite of an extraordinary toughness of constitution, was showing signs of frailty which increased almost day by day. And apart from his own personal advantages, and the future baronetcy and the estates thereto appertaining, the young man felt that, as the chosen candidate of the constitutional party for that division of the county at the approaching election, he was something of a figure in the place. It was rather abnormal that any pretty little half-rustic girl should treat him with anything but reverence. If the girl had been shy, and had blushed and trembled before him a little, he could have understood it. Had she been pert he could have understood it. Young women of the rustic order, if only they were a trifle good-looking, had an old-established license to be pert to their male social superiors. But this young woman was not at all disposed to tremble before him, and was just as far removed from pertness as from humility.
As he strolled along he bethought him, vaguely enough—for he was not a young gentleman who was accustomed to put too much powder behind his purposes—that it would be rather an agreeable thing than otherwise to charm this young woman, if only just to show her that she could be charmed, and that he could be charming. He had been a little slighted, and it would be nice to be a little revenged. He was not a puppy, in spite of the fact that his head gave house-room to this kind of nonsense. The design is commoner among girls than boys, but there are plenty of young men who let their wits stray after this manner at times, and some of them live to laugh at themselves.
But while Ferdinand was thinking, an idea occurred to him which caused him to smile languidly. It would be amusing to awaken Barfield's wrath by starting a pronounced flirtation with this village beauty. It was scarcely consistent to have an inward understanding with himself, that if the flirtationshouldtake place it should be kept secret from his noble patron of all men in the world. It would certainly be great fun to take the little hussy from her pedestal. She was evidently disposed to think of herself a good deal more highly than she ought to think, and perhaps it might afford a useful lesson to her to be made a little more pliant, a little less self-opinionated, a little less disposed to snub young gentlemen of unimpeachable attractions. Thinking thus, Ferdinand made up quite a contented mind to be rustic beauty's school-master.
The green door in the garden wall was still a little open when he reached it, but he could hear neither music nor voices.
The evening concert had not yet begun, and he was fain to stroll on a little farther. This of itself was something of an offence to his majesty, though he hardly saw on whom to fix it. He did not know his way round to the front of the house, and did not care to present himself at the rear unless there were somebody there to receive him. He lit a new cigar to pass away the time, and re-enacted his first and only interview with the girl he had made up his mind to subjugate. In the course of this mental exercise he experienced anew the sense of slight he had felt at her hands, but in a more piercing manner. He had spoken to her, and she had waved her hand against him as if he had been a child to be silenced. He had spoken to her again, and she had not even responded. In point of fact she had ignored him. The more he looked at it the more remarkable this fact appeared, and the more uncomfortable and the more resolved he felt about it.
When his cigar was smoked half through he sighted the upright and stalwart figure of Reuben Gold, who was striding at a great pace towards him, swinging his violin-case in one hand. Ferdinand paused to await him..
“Good-evening, Mr. Gold,” he said, as Reuben drew near.
“Good-evening,” said Reuben, raising his eyes for a moment, and nodding with a preoccupied air. His rapid steps carried him past Ferdinand in an instant, and before the young gentleman could propose to join him he was so far in advance that it was necessary either to shout or run to bring him to a more moderate pace. Ferdinand raised his eye-glass and surveyed the retreating figure with some indignation, and dropped it with a little click against one of his waistcoat-buttons. Then he smiled somewhat wry-facedly.
“A cool set, upon my word,” he murmured. “Boors, pure and simple.”
He was half inclined to change his mind and stay away from the al fresco concert, but then the idea of the duty he owed himself in respect to that contumelious young beauty occurred to him, and he decided to go, after all. He followed, therefore, in Reuben's hasty footsteps, but at a milder pace, and, regaining the green door, looked into the garden and saw the quartette party already assembled. Old Fuller, who was the first to perceive him, came forward with rough heartiness, and shook hands with a burly bow.
“Good-evenin', Mr. De Blacquaire,” said Fuller. “We're pleased to see you. If you'd care to tek a hand i'stead of settin' idle by to listen, we shall be glad to mek room. Eh, lads?”
“No, no, thank you, Mr. Fuller,” said Ferdinand, “I would rather be a listener.” Ruth was standing near the table, and he raised his cap to her. She answered his salute with a smile of welcome, and brought him a chair. “Good-evening, Miss Fuller,” he said, standing cap in hand before her. “What unusually beautiful weather we are having. Do you know, I am quite charmed with this old garden? There is something delightfully rustic and homely and old-fashioned about it.”
“You are looking at the statues?” she said, with half a laugh. “They are an idea of father's. He wants to have them painted, but I always stand out against that—they look so much better as they are.”
“Painted?” answered Ferdinand, with a little grimace, and a little lifting of the hands and shrinking of the body as if the idea hurt him physically. “Oh no. Pray don't have them painted.”
“Well, well. Theer!” cried Fuller. “Here's another as is in favor o' grime an' slime! It's three to three now. Ruth and Reuben have allays been for leavin' 'em i' this way.”
“Really, Mr. Fuller,” said Ferdinand, “you must be persuaded to leave them as they are. As they are they are charming. It would be quite a crime to paint them. It would be horribly bad taste to paint them!”
After this partisan espousal of her cause, he was a little surprised to notice an indefinable but evident change in the rustic beauty's manner. Perhaps she disliked to hear a stranger accuse her father—however truly—of horribly bad taste, but this did not occur to Ferdinand, who had intended to show her that a gentleman was certain to sympathize with whatever trace of refinement he might discover in her.
“Would it?” said Fuller, simply. “Well, theer's three of a mind, and they'm likely enough to be right. Anny ways theer's no danger of a brush coming anigh 'em while the young missis says 'No.' Her word's law i' this house, and has been ever since her was no higher than the table.”
“Wasn't that a ring at the front door?” asked Sennacherib, holding up his hand.
“Run and see, wench,” said Fuller.
Ruth ran down the grass-plot and into the house. She neither shuffled nor ambled, but skimmed over the smooth turf as if she moved by volition and her feet had had nothing to do with the motion. She had scarce disappeared, when Isaiah, who faced the green door, sung out,
“Here's Ezra Gold, and bringin' a fiddle, too. Good-evenin', Mr. Gold. Beest gooin' to tek another turn at the music?”
“No,” said Ezra, advancing. “I expected to find Reuben here. I've got it on my mind as the poor old lady here “—he touched the green baize bag he carried beneath his arm—“is in a bit o' danger o' losin' her voice through keeping silence all these length o' years, and I want him to see what sort of a tone her's got left in her.”
Reuben rose from his seat with sparkling eyes and approached his uncle.
“Is thattheold lady I've heard so much about?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Ezra, “it's the old lady herself. I don't know,” he went on, looking mildly about him, “as theer's another amateur player as I'd trust her to. Wait a bit, lad, while I show her into daylight.”
Reuben stood with waiting hands while the old man unknotted the strings at the mouth of the green baize bag, and all eyes watched Ezra's lean fingers. At the instant when the knot was conquered and the mouth of the bag slid open, Ruth's clear voice was heard calling,
“Father, here's Aunt Rachel! Come this way, Aunt Rachel. We're going to have a little music.”