"Wouldn't you help him now?"
"I tell you I have no money."
"But this man is your husband."
"I tell you again, I do not want to know anything about the man."
"Well, I can go and tell him that you're here, rolling in gold. Forty pounds I want, and then I'll become a credit to the family—as a tobacconist.Else you shall have your husband back again. I've only to set him on to you."
"I don't want your secret."
"Not to keep your husband from finding you out? Have you no heart, Alice?"
Molly pointed to the door. "Out!" she ordered. "Out, this instant!"
He turned away reluctantly. "I thought better of you, Alice. Well, it's a wicked world. Go straight, and you go downhill. Chuck your respectability, and you're like the sparks that fly upward. When I came here the other day, I thought I was coming to see a respectable woman."
"Out!" Molly advanced upon him.
He placed a chair in front of him. "I know where your husband is—in the Marylebone Workhouse Infirmary; that's where he is. I shall go to him. 'Anthony,' I shall say, 'your wife's over here—with another man.'"
Molly threw the chair down, and rushed at him.
He fled before the fire and fury of those eyes.
"Molly dear," Alice asked, "am I hard-hearted? I have not a spark of feeling left for that man; it moved me not in the least to hear of his wretched plight. He is to me just a stranger—a bad man—suffering just punishment."
"But his name is Woodroffe. That is strange, is it not?"
"Yes; his name is Woodroffe. He belonged, he always said, to a highly respectable family. That fact did not make him respectable."
"I wonder if he is any relation to Dick—my old friend, Dick Woodroffe. He's a musician now, and singer, too, and his father was a comedian before him."
"Well, dear, I don't know. As for that man in the infirmary, I dare say John will go and see if anything can be done for him. He deserted me first, and divorced me afterwards, Molly, twenty-four years ago—for incompatibility of temper. That is the kind of man he is."
The secret of success is like the elixir of life, inasmuch as that precious balsam used to be eagerly sought after by countless thousands; and because, also like the elixir, it continually eludes the pursuer. One man succeeds. How? He does not know, and he does not inquire. A thousand others, who think they are as good, fail. Why? They cannot discover. But each of the thousand failures is ready to show you a thousand reasons why this one man has succeeded. First of all, he has really not succeeded; secondly, his success is grossly exaggerated; thirdly, it is a cheap success—the unsuccessful are especially contemptuous of a cheap success—they would not, themselves, condescend to a cheap success; fourthly, it is a success arrived at by tortuous, winding, crooked arts, which make the unsuccessful sick and sorry to contemplate—who would desire a success achieved by climbing up the back stairs? If a man writes, and succeeds in his writings, so that ordinary people flock to read him, he succeeds by his vulgarity. Or, he succeeds by his low tastes—who, that respects himself, would pander to the multitude? Or, he succeeds by vacuity, fatuity, futility, stupidity—what self-respectingwriter would sink to the level of the fatuous and vacuous? He succeeds with an A, because he is Asinine; with a B, because he is Bestial; with a C, because he is Contemptible; and so on through the alphabet. Similar reasons are assigned when a man succeeds as a Painter, a Sculptor, a Preacher, a Lawyer. Now, Sir Robert Steele is one of the most successful physicians of the day. His success is easily understood and readily accounted for, on the principles just laid down, by those of his profession who have not by any means achieved the same popularity. He humours his patients—every one knows that; he has a soft voice and a warm hand—he makes ignoble profit out of both. Above all, he asks his patients—some of them—to the most delightful dinners possible.
The latter charge has a foundation in fact: he does ask a few of his more fortunate patients to dinner. More than this, he gives them a dinner much too artistic for most of them to understand. To bring Art into a menu, to invent and build up a dinner which shall be completely artistic in every part, a harmonious whole; one course leading naturally to the next; a dinner of one colour in many tints; the wine gurgling like part of an orchestra, is a gift within the powers of very few. Sir Robert's reputation as a physician is justly, at least, assisted by his reputation as a great poetic creator of the harmonious dinner.
I think, having myself none of thegourmet'sgifts, that the possession of them must cause continual and poignant unhappiness. It is like the endowment of the critical faculty at its highest. Nothing pleaseswholly. When the critic of the menu dines out, alas, what false notes, what discords, what bad time, what feeble rendering, what platitude of conception, he must endure! Let us not envy his gifts, let us rather continue to enjoy, unheeding, dinners which would be only a prolonged torture to the sensitive soul of the perfect critic.
The doctor made his selections carefully from his patients and friends. He knew all the amusing people about town, especially those benefactors to their kind who consent to play and sing for after-dinner amusement; he knew all the actors, especially those who do not take themselves too seriously; he knew the men who can tell stories, sing songs, and are always in good temper. He loved them as King William loved the red deer; he esteemed them higher than princes; more excellent company than poets; more clubable than painters. Among his friends of the profession was Mr. Richard Woodroffe, whom the doctor esteemed even above his fellows for his unvarying cheerfulness and his great gifts and graces in music and in song. Him he invited to dinner on a certain evening, partly on account of these gifts and partly for another reason—the other guests were the Haverils, who would be useless in conversation; Miss Molly Pennefather, their cousin, who would not probably prove a leader in talk; Sir Humphrey Woodroffe, whom he invited for reasons which you know—and others, yet conscious beforehand that the young man would be out of his element and perhaps sulky; and twoumbræ, persons of no account—mere patients—to make up the number of eight, the only number,unless it is four, which is permissible for a dinner-party. For the menu there was only one person to be considered; Dick, for instance, would eat tough steak with as much willingness as a Chateaubriand; Mr. Haveril knew not one dish from another; Humphrey, whom he had met at his mother's table, would be the only guest capable of understanding a dinner. Moreover, Humphrey would have to be conciliated by the dinner itself, to make up for the company. The doctor therefore prepared a dinner of a fewplatsharmonized with the desire of pleasing a young man who was most easily approached, he had already discovered, by means of any one, or any group, of the senses. Dinner, as every artistic soul knows, appeals to a group of the senses, which is the reason why civilized man decorates his tables. Those unhappy persons to whom dinner is but feeding might as well serve up a single dish on one wine-case and sit down to it on another.
The reason, apart from his social qualities, why Sir Robert invited Richard Woodroffe to the dinner was not unconnected with a little conversation held at a smoking concert a few nights before. It was a very good smoking concert; a highly distinguished company was present; and the performers were all professionals.
Richard did his "turn," and then took a seat beside Sir Robert.
"I haven't seen you since last June, Dick, have I?"
"I've been on tramp."
"What do you go on tramp for?"
"Because I must when the summer comes. I can'tstay in town—I take the fiddle and sling a hand-bag over my shoulders and go off."
"Where do you go?"
"Anywhere. First by train twenty miles or so out of London, and then plunge into the country at random."
"You tramp along the road. And then?"
"Well—you see—the real point is that I take no money with me—only enough for the first day or two—five shillings or so. The fiddle pays my way. I play for bed and supper in a roadside inn. The people of the village come to hear; sometimes I play and sing; sometimes I play for them to dance; then I collect the coppers; next day I go on."
"It sounds delightful for your audience. For me, listening to you is sufficient; as for the rest——"
"It's more delightful than you can believe. Why, I know all the gipsies and their language; sometimes I camp with them. And I know most of the tramps. Some excellent fellows among the tramps. And there's no dress-coat and no dinner-parties."
"What do you mean by saying that you must go?"
"Well, I don't know. It's something in the blood. It's heredity, I suppose. My father was a vagabond before me——"
"Did he also go on the tramp?"
"Well, he was always moving on. He was an actor—of sorts. Some of them still remember him over here, though he went to America five and twenty years ago."
"Do I remember him? Was his name Woodroffe?"
"His stage name was Anthony—John Anthony. His real name was Woodroffe."
"Anthony!" The doctor sat up. "Anthony? I have heard that name. Oh yes; I remember. Anthony! Strange! Only the other day——" he broke off.
"Did you hear that name coupled with any—creditable incident?"
"No—no, not very; it was in connection with a—a former wife.... How old are you, Dick?"
"I am two and twenty."
"Yes. I remember the case now—it was four and twenty years ago. One is always getting reminders. Dick, there's a young fellow of your name—a baronet—son of an Anglo-Indian; are you any relation to him?"
"I've met him. We are very distant cousins, I believe. The more distant the better."
"You don't like him? Well, he isn't quite your sort, is he? All the same, Dick, come and dine with me next Tuesday. You will meet him; but that won't matter. I expect some American people as well—rich people—nouveaux riches—the woman is interesting, the man is plain. They bring a girl with them—a girl, Miss Molly Pennefather. What's the matter?" For Dick jumped.
"Molly? I know Molly!—bless her! I'll come, doctor, even if there were twenty Sir Humphreys coming too. And after dinner I'll sing for you, if you like."
Now you understand why this selection was made. For the first time in his life, Sir Robert invited acompany which could not possibly harmonize. There would be no talk worth having, his wine would be wasted, hiscuisinewould meet with no appreciation. But he would have them all before him—mother, son, stepson—if Richard could be called a stepson—half-brothers; and the master of the situation would study on the spot an illustration of heredity, unsuspected by the patients themselves.
Mrs. Haveril arrived, clothed chiefly in diamonds. Why not? Her husband liked her to wear those glittering things which help to make wealth attractive, otherwise we might all be contented with poverty. But the pale lady's delicate, nun-like face would have looked better without them. With her came Molly, now her daily companion. The girl was dressed, for the first time in her life, as in a dream—a dream of paradise; she wore such a frock, with such trimmings, as makes a maiden, if by happy chance she sees it in a window, gasp and yearn for the unattainable, yet go home thankful for having seen it; and humbled by the sense of personal unworthiness. Yet, what says the poet?
"Ah! but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,Else what's a heaven for?"
"Ah! but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,Else what's a heaven for?"
"Ah! but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,Else what's a heaven for?"
The girl wore the dress with as little self-consciousness as one would expect. It was such a dress as she had seen upon the stage—elaborate, dainty, decorated; perhaps a little too old for her; but, then, an actress must be excused for a little exaggeration. Herrôlethis evening was not a speaking part; she was only a lady of the court; meanwhile, she was on the stage,and it pleased her to find that her audience admired, though they could not applaud.
"I have invited to meet you," said the doctor, "two distant cousins; they bear the same name, and are of the same descent, but their families have gone off in different channels, I understand, for some hundreds of years. It is not often that people can claim cousinship after so long a separation. One of them is the only son of the late Sir Humphrey Woodroffe, a distinguished Anglo-Indian——"
"Woodroffe?" Alice asked. "It was my first husband's name."
"Very possibly he, too, was a cousin. The other is a young fellow called Richard Woodroffe."
"Again the name," said Alice.
"Yes; the distant cousin. He is a musician and a dramatist in a small and clever way."
"Dick is my oldest friend," said Molly.
"I am very glad, then, that he is coming to-night."
Sir Robert considered this young lady more attentively, because a girl who was Dick Woodroffe's oldest friend must be a young lady out of the common. There was, he observed, something certainly uncommon in her appearance, something which might suggest the footlights. Any old friend of Dick Woodroffe must suggest the footlights.
"It is strange," said the doctor, "to have three of our small party belonging to the same name."
The other guests arrived. The last was Humphrey. He looked round the room with that expression of cold and insolent curiosity which made him so much beloved by everybody. "Outsiders all," that lookexpressed. He greeted Dick with a brief nod of astonished recognition, as if he had not expected to meet him in a drawing-room. He stared at Mrs. Haveril's diamonds, and he smiled with some astonishment, but yet graciously, on Molly.
"You are properly dressed to-night," he whispered. "I have never seen you looking so well."
"Doctor," said Mrs. Haveril, as he led her down the stairs, "I wish I could go and sit in a corner."
"Why? You are trembling! What is the matter?"
"I feel as if I was in a dream. It is the sight of these two young men. One is the young man I saw at the theatre—the young man I told you of—so like my husband; the other is like him, too, but differently. I am haunted to-night with my husband's face."
"It is imagination. You have been thinking too much about certain things. Their name is the same as your husband's. Probably he, too, if you knew, was a distant cousin."
"It's not imagination; it is the fact."
"I am sorry you are so disturbed; but, above all, do not agitate yourself," he whispered, as they entered the dining-room.
"I will keep up, doctor; but it's dreadful to sit with two living images of your first husband."
From the ordinary point of view, the dinner was not so great a success as some of those given at this house. The conversation flagged. Yet, below the surface, everybody was interested. Humphrey took in Molly, but Dick sat on the other side of her, and told her stories about his last tramp; Humphrey, therefore, became sulky, and absorbed wine in quantities. Alicegazed at the two young men—her husband's eyes, her husband's mouth, her husband's voice, her husband's hair, in both of them—both like unto her first husband, yet both unlike; they were also like unto each other, yet unlike. She heard nothing that was said; she listened to the voice, she saw the eyes, and she was back again, after all those years, with that vagrant man, that vagabond in morals, as well as in ways, the man who so cruelly used her, the comedian and stroller.
The doctor also watched the two young men. They had, to begin with, many points of resemblance; they were alike, however, as brothers who often differ in disposition as much as strangers. The elder of the two—the doctor considered Mrs. Haveril—took after his mother, and was serious, at least. He thought of Lady Woodroffe's remarks about him: "Selfish." Yes; there was a way of eating his food and absorbing his wine that betokened a selfish pleasure in the food above the delights of society and conversation. He did not converse; he sat glum. "Ill-conditioned and bad-tempered," Lady Woodroffe said. The selfishness, and probably the bad temper, he inherited from the father. From his education he obtained, of course, the air of superiority, which, like the Order of the Garter, has nothing to do with intellect or achievement, or distinction. From his education also his features had probably acquired a certain manner which we call aristocratic.
He kept his guest in something like good temper by asking his opinion, pointedly, as if he valued his judgment, on the champagne. He had little talkswith him on vintages and years and brands, in which the young man was as wide as most youths at the club where champagne flows. And he asked Sir Humphrey's opinion on theplats, and let the others feel that his opinion carried weight, so that his guest forgot something of Molly's perverseness in listening to her neighbour's stories, and of the intolerable nuisance of sitting down to dinner with such a company.
He turned to the other cousin—Dick. This fellow, like unto Humphrey, was yet so much unlike him that, to begin with, his face was as undistinguished as was his cousin's mind. Yet a clever face, capable of many emotions. He was full of life and talk, he was interested in everything, he could listen as well as talk—a young man of sympathy. The artistic side of him came from his father, as did also the nomad side of him; the sympathy and kindliness and honesty came to him from his unknown mother—one supposed.
As for John Haveril, he was chiefly engaged in considering the girl who had thus unexpectedly come into his life to cheer it with her brightness and her grace. I have never found any man so old or so self-made as to be insensible to the charms of sprightly maidenhood and youthful beauty. John Haveril was quite a homely person; he had not been brought up to think of beauty, and lovely dress, and charming airs and graces as belonging to himself in any way. It is this sense of being outside the circle which makes working men apparently deaf and blind to beauty adorned and cultivated. Why admire or think upon the unattainable? They might as well yearn afterthe possession of an ancient castle and noble name as after beauty decorated and set off. And now this girl belonged to them. He himself and his wife were only happy when this girl was with them; she came every day to see them; she drove out with them, took them to see things, taught them what to admire and what to buy, dined with them, consented graciously to accept their gifts, but refused their money.
At all events, she refused to take any. Yet she liked the things that money can buy—lovely frocks, gloves, hats, ribbons, laces, gold chains, and bracelets, and necklaces. To him contempt for money, combined with love of what only money can buy, seemed incongruous. The contempt was only a phrase. Molly had been taught that Art ought to despise wealth; she had not been taught to despise the things artistic that money can buy. The rich man chuckled to think how much money can be spent upon a girl who despises it. He was pleased to make the girl happy by heaping unaccustomed treasures on her gratified shoulders. It was pleasant to be generous to a bright, happy, smiling girl, who kept him alive, and made him forget the burden of his riches. And as he thought of these things he fell into his third manner—that of the gardener—and his eyes went off into space.
After dinner Molly sat down to the piano and began to sing, in a full, flexible contralto, an old ditty about love and flowers, taught her by Dick himself, who possessed a treasure-house full of such songs, new and old, and of all countries, and in all languages. There is but one theme fit for a song—thetheme of youth and love, and the sweet season of roses.
Humphrey stood listening. To this young man, perhaps to others, the effect of Molly's singing, as of her presence and of her voice and of her eyes, was to fill his mind with visions. They came to him in the shape of dancing-girls with tambourines and castanets. When a girl is endowed with the real faculty of singing, she may create in the minds of those who hear, those visions which best fit their inclinations and their natures. To this young man came the troop of dancing-girls, because his disposition inclined him that way: they sang as they danced, and they threw up white arms to a music of wild and reckless joy; they filled him with the longing, the yearning, for the delirium of youth and rapture which seizes every young man from time to time, and sometimes possesses him all the days of his youth, and casts him out long before his youth is over to the husks among the swine. Others, more fortunate, feel the yearning, too, but they make of it a stimulus and an incentive. There is no such rapture beneath the sky as young men dream of; yet the vision may make them poets, and may strengthen them for endeavour; and it may fill them with the worship of woman, which is the one thing needful for a man. Humphrey, wholly filled and possessed by this rapture, would not be cast forth to the husks, because—oh! sordid reason—his mother would pay his debts. Alas! poor Molly! and she so ignorant. She had no such vision—girls never do. When young men reel and tremble with the vision of rapture inconceivable, girls have tobe contented with a mild happiness. To them there comes no dream of gleaming arms—no imagined magic of voice and eyes and face. There is no such thing as a Prodigal daughter; the humblerôleof the Prodigal Girl is to minister, as with the white arms and the castanets, to the service of the Prodigal Son; for which she, too, has to go out presently to sit with the swine, and to maintain a precarious existence on the husks.
Molly had no such vision: yet by the mere power of her voice she could awaken this vision in the mind of a listener. It is a power which makes an actress; makes a queen; makes a lady of authority; whom all obey to whom that power appeals.
Molly, I say, had no respect at all for the flowery way; she could not understand, nor did she ask, why young men should want to dance hand-in-hand with the girls; nor why they like to crown their heads with roses; nor why they drink huge draughts of the wine that fizzeth in the cup, to make their heads as light as their feet.
She created, however, quite a different vision in the mind of the other young man. Dick knew all about the flowery way, and, in fact, despised it. You see, he belonged to the "service;" he played the fiddle for the dancers; like those who gather the roses, polish the floor, lay the cloth, open the champagne, cook the dishes, decorate the rooms, and write the songs; he belonged to the Show. The flowery way was nothing to him but a Show; the white arms amused him not; the soft cheeks he knew were painted; the smiles and the laughing looks werepractised at rehearsals. As for Molly, she was his companion and a helpmeet; one to whom he would impart and give with all that he had, and who would in return love and cherish him. What is the Flowery way compared with the way of Love? This, and nothing else, is the real reason why the Show folk are so different from the other folk; there is no illusion to them; they are the paid dancers, makers of rosy wreaths, musicians and singers of the Flowery way.
Molly's song, therefore, opened another kind of vision to Master Richard. All he saw was a long road shaded with hills, and Molly in the middle of it marching along with him, singing as she went, and carrying the fiddle.
When the song was finished, Molly got up.
"May I sing you one of my own songs?" Humphrey asked her, paying no attention to the rest.
He sat down and struck a note and began a song. It had no melody; it was without a beginning and without an end; the words told nothing, neither a story nor a sentiment; like the music to which they were set, they began in the middle of a sentence and ended with a semicolon. His voice was good enough, but uncultivated. When he finished, he closed the piano, as if there was to be no more music after him.
"It is music," he said coldly, "of the advanced school. I am proud to belong to the music of the future—the true expression of Art in song."
"I will show you"—Richard opened the piano and took his place—"I will show you something of the music of the present."
With vigorous and practised fingers he ran up and down the notes; then he struck into an air—light, easy, catching, and began to sing the "Song of the Tramp"—one of his vagabond songs.
Mrs. Haveril sat watching the two young men. When Dick began, the other one turned away sullenly, and began to look into a portfolio of etchings, with the air of one who will not listen.
"Doctor," she whispered, "that young man sings and plays exactly like my husband. It might be the same. He would sit down and sing just that same way, as if nothing ever happened and nothing mattered. I wonder how men can go on like that, with age and sickness and the end before them. Women never can. Oh, how like my husband he is! The other is not like him in manner; not a bit; yet in face—oh, in face—and voice—and eyes—and hair! It is wonderful!"
"One can hardly expect the son of Sir Humphrey Woodroffe to be altogether like a comedian."
"Yet," she repeated, "so like him in face and everything; I cannot get over it."
Just then Humphrey looked up. There was just a moment—what was it?—a turn of the face; a look in the eyes, that made the doctor start.
"Heavens!" he thought. "He's exactly like his mother!"
Dick finished. John Haveril walked over to the piano before he got up.
"Mister," he said, "I like it. I find it cheerful. If you could see your way, now, to look in upon us of an evening, I think you might do good to my wife,who's apt to let her spirits go down. Come and sing to us."
"I will, with pleasure. When shall I come?"
"Come to-morrow evening. Come every evening, if you like, young gentleman. My wife doesn't care for the theatres much. If we could sit quiet at home, with a little lively talk and a little singing, she would like it ever so much better. You and Molly know each other, it appears. Come to dinner to-morrow, and see how you like us."
The party broke up. Sir Humphrey was left alone with the doctor.
"Stay for a cigarette." Sir Robert rang the bell. "I hope you liked the dinner and the wine."
"Both, Sir Robert, were beyond and above all praise. An artistic dinner is so rare!"
"It was thrown away upon some of my guests. However, if you will come another day, you shall meet a more distinguished company. I did not understand, Sir Humphrey, until this evening, the very strong resemblance you bear to your mother."
"Indeed! It is my father whom I am generally thought to resemble."
"Yes. You have, no doubt, a strong resemblance to him; but it is your mother of whom you remind me from time to time most strongly. It came out oddly this evening. The inheritance of face and figure and qualities interests me, and your own case, Sir Humphrey; the son of such a father and such a mother is extremely interesting." He took a cigarette. "Extremely interesting, I assure you."
"Molly?" Richard arrived before the time, and found his old friend alone. "You here again? Last night I could not ask what it meant—the ineffable frock and the heavenly string of pearls. What does it mean?"
She had on another lovely frock with the same pearl necklace.
"It means, Dick," she replied, with much dignity, "that Alice—Mrs. Haveril—is my father's first cousin, and is therefore my own cousin. It also means, which you will hardly credit, that she is very fond of me."
"That is, indeed, difficult of belief. And you are a good deal with them? And this other frock, too, this thing—is it cloth of gold or samite?—was given to you by your cousin. Molly, Molly, have a care! The love of gold creeps upon one as a thief in the night."
"Dick!" She assumed an injured air. "When it affords them so much pleasure to give me things, why should I refuse? And confess, ridiculous creature, that you never saw me look so nice before!"
"You look very nice, Molly—very nice, indeed; but I never knew you look otherwise."
"You dear old boy!" She gave him her hand. "You always try to spoil a simple shepherdess."
"But, I say, Molly, is this kind of marble hall good for study? Does it bring you nearer to Mrs. Siddons? Does it suit the cothernus? Methinks the liquefaction of black velvet more befits the tragic muse than the frou-frou of the flowered silk."
"Very well put, Dick. I will remember."
"Tell me something about them, Molly. If I am to entertain them, you know——"
"Mr. John Haveril—whom I call John, for short—is slow of speech. Don't take that, however, for dulness. Everybody says he's as sharp as a razor. And he speaks slowly, and he's got a way while he talks of gazing far away."
"And madam? She looks like a saint in sadness because she's got to wear cloth of gold instead of sackcloth."
"She is in delicate health. Her husband is always anxious about her. Dick, he has many millions, and you always used to say that a man can't get rich honestly; but he does seem honest, and he's awfully fond of his wife."
"A man may be fond of his wife and yet not austerely honest. Go on, Molly, before they come in."
"Well, Dick," Molly lowered her voice, "she has something on her mind. I don't know what—she hasn't told me yet. But she will. It's some trouble. Sometimes the tears come into her eyes for nothing;sometimes she has fits of abstraction, when she hears nothing that you say; sometimes she becomes agitated, and her heart begins to flutter. I don't know what the trouble is, but it robs her life of happiness. She wants something. She goes to church and prays for it. If she were not such a good woman, I should think she had done something."
"What shall I play for her?"
"Play something that will rouse her. Play one of your descriptive things, Dick. I will play an accompaniment for you. Make the fiddle talk to her, as you know how. Nobody plays the fiddle quite so well as you, Dick."
They dined in the public room, where Molly observed, with profit, making mental notes, the dresses of the ladies. Dick, on his part, as an observer of manners, listened to the conversation and wasted his time. Most conversation in public places is naught; very few people can say anything worth hearing, either in public or in private; most people cannot forget that they are in a public place and may be overheard—but the modesty is passing away. The world follows the example of the young man who was admonished by Swift not to set up for a wit, "because," he said, "there are ten thousand chances to one against you." The young man took that advice, and is, therefore, unknown to history.
At this table the conversation was difficult, not so much because there was no wit among the small company, as because there were no opportunities for the display of wit. It is necessary for wit to have something to work upon; there can be no reparteewhere there is no talk. It is also difficult, if you think of it, to provide conversation for an elderly gentleman, who for the greater part of his life has been more accustomed to pork and beans than tocôtelettes à la Soubise; who has habitually consumed bad coffee with his dinner, instead of claret and champagne; who is wholly ignorant of literature; has never looked upon a good picture; and has never heard of science except in connection with railways; who was originally apprenticed to a gardener; who in early life belonged to the Primitive Methodists. He might have discoursed upon shares and corners, but on such matters not even his own wife knew anything.
One is apt to imagine that the man who has rapidly made millions by playing upon the gambling spirit of the people, upon their greed, and their credulity, and their ignorance, must have moments, at least, of misgiving, perhaps of remorse. We talk of the ruined homes, the wrecks of families, the desolated hearths. Well, that is not the way in which the man who has succeeded where the rest all fail, looks at it. It is not the way in which John Haveril regards his own career. He puts it in his own way this evening at dinner. Unaccustomed to the society of the rich, Dick dropped some remark, slightlymal à propos, about money-making.
"In Yorkshire, sir," said John Haveril, "when a man buys a horse, he buys him as he stands. It's his business to find out that animal's faults. It's the business of the owner to crack up the animal. That's trading, all the world over. The man who wins, isthe man who knows. The man who loses, is the man who gambles. I have never gambled."
"I thought it was all gambling."
"I buy stocks which I know are going up. I buy mines when there is going to be a run upon mines. I buy land where I know there will be built a town. Other people buy because they see others buying. The world gambles all the time. Men like me, sir, do not gamble. We buy for the rise in the market, which we understand."
"I know nothing, really," said Dick, abashed.
"No, sir; but you know as much as anybody. I have read in an English paper that I have ruined thousands. That is not true. They have ruined themselves. They buy in a rising venture, not knowing that it has risen too high, and they sell when it falls. My secret is, that I know."
"How do you know?"
"That, sir, I cannot explain. Why do you sing, and play that fiddle of yours better than anybody else? It is your gift, sir. So it's mine to know."
In spite, however, of these new lights on the mystery, or craft, of money-making, which were of little use to Mr. Haveril's guests, the conversation languished. The elder lady was pensive and sad; the marvels and miracles of thechefwere thrown away upon her; she looked as if she longed to be upstairs again, lying on her sofa, looking out upon the full tide of human life surging round Charing Cross.
After dinner they took coffee in their private room. "Now," said Dick, taking out his violin, "I want to play something that will please you, Mrs. Haveril."He began to tune his instrument, talking the while. "Molly thinks that you would like a little foolish entertainment that I sometimes give—a descriptive piece. The fiddle describes, I only explain with a word or two, and Molly plays an accompaniment."
Molly took her place and waited.
"You must understand what we are going to talk about, first of all, otherwise you will understand nothing. Very good. I am just a strolling player, or a musician, as you please; I carry my fiddle with me, and I am on tramp. In my pocket there is no money. I earn my bed, and my supper, and my breakfast, with the fiddle and the bow. I take any odd jobs that I can get at country theatres, or at music-halls, or taverns, or anything. My girl is with me, of course. She can sing a little, and dance a little, so that on occasion we are prepared with a little show of our own. We carry no luggage except a bag with a few necessaries. It is my business to carry the bag. My girl carries the fiddle, which is lighter. Now you understand."
At the mention of the word "tramp," Mrs. Haveril, who had composed herself to quiet meditation at the window while the others talked, sat up and turned her head.
"So," Dick struck a chord—a bold, loud chord, which compelled the mind to listen. "We are on the road," he went on, talking in a monotone with murmurous voice, which became subordinated to the music, so that one heard the latter and forgot the former, insomuch that the music seemed by itself, and without any aid, to bring the scene before the eyes.It was the work of a magician. Molly played a running accompaniment which helped the illusion, if it added nothing more. Dick watched that one of his audience whom he desired to hold. After a little her eyes dropped; she sat with clasped hands, listening, carried away—enchanted by the sorcerer.
"We are on the road," he went on, "the broad, high-road, with banks of turf at the side. There is nobody else upon the road. We swing along; we sing as we go; it is morning; the village is behind us; another village is before us; we pick flowers from the hedge; we listen to the lark in the sky; and we catch the voice of the blackbird from the wood; we sit down in the shade when we are tired; we dine resting on a stile. The air is fresh and sweet; the flowers are all aflame in hedge and meadow."
As he played and as he talked, the listener heard the birds; the cool breeze of the country fanned her cheek; she saw the flowers; the sun warmed her; the hard road fatigued her; she listened to the birds in the woods, the rustle of the leaves, the whistling of the wind in the telegraph-wires; she sat in the grateful shade; she bathed her feet in the cool, running water.
Alice listened—carried away; her cheeks were flushed; she clutched the cushions of the sofa. Far away—out of sight—forgotten—were the grand rooms of the rich man's hotel; far away—forgotten—were the diamonds and the silks.
Dick watched, with grave and earnest face, the effect of his playing. With him it was always anexperiment. He tried to mesmerize his people; to charm them into forgetfulness.
"Sometimes," he went on, "I get a place in a country theatre—in the orchestra, you know. This is the orchestra." He became, on the spot, a whole orchestra, blatant, tuneless, paid to make a noise; you heard all the discordant instruments played together. Alice sank back in her chair. She did not care much about the orchestra. Dick changed quickly. "Sometimes I join a circus, and play in the procession through the town. The band goes first in a cart; you can hear how the bumping shakes the music." Indeed it did—the cart was without springs, and the road was uneven. "Behind us are the horses with the splendid riders." The music passed down the street, while the patter of the horses on the road was loud enough to be heard above the music. "Last of all the riders, before the clown and the rest of the people, is the Lady Equestrienne of the Haute École. At sight of her all the girls in the town yearn for the circus, and the hearts of all the young men sink with love and admiration." No. Mrs. Haveril cared very little for this part of the show, either. "Sometimes we come to a village, where there is a green. Then the people come out—it is a fine summer evening—and I play to them, and they dance. What shall it be?Sellinger's Round, orBarley Break? Take your partners—take your places; curtsey and bow, and hands across and down the middle, and up again and one place lower. Now then, keep it up—time—time—time." Again the lady sat up and listened with rapt face. Dick watched her closely. "Nowwe find a school-treat in a field—I play to them. Jump and dance; boys and girls, come out to play. Lasses and lads, take leave of your dads. Boys, don't be rough with the girls, but dance with each other. Now, hands all—and round we go, and round we go." Then the tears came into the pale lady's eyes. "Good-bye—we are on the road again. The sun is sinking; the swallows fly low; we shall have rain; luckily, we've got our supper in the bag. My girl, we must take shelter in this barn. Come—you are tired—I play my girl to sleep with a gentle lullaby. Sweet hay—sweet hay—it hath no fellow. Sleep, dear girl, sleep. Good night. Good night—Good night."
He stopped and laid down the fiddle, well pleased with himself. For that part of his audience to which he had played was in tears.
Molly jumped up. "Alice dear, what is the matter?"
"Oh, Molly, it is beautiful! Oh, it is beautiful! For I've done it. I know it all. I've been on tramp myself—just as he played it—with the fiddle, too—just as he made it. Oh, I know the country fair, and the village inn, and the circus, and all! I remember it all. When last I went on tramp I had my——!"
"Alice," her husband interposed. "Don't, my dear."
"It is four and twenty years ago. I remember it all so well. I had my——"
"Alice"—her husband stopped her again.
She sighed. "Yes—yes. I try not to think of it. He deserted me after that last tramp. He couldn'tbear the crying of the dear child. He deserted me, and when I found him again, in America, he put me away—by the law, as if he was ashamed of me."
"Desertion and divorce," said Dick, "were my mother's lot as well. She, too, was deserted and divorced. Is it a common lot?"
"His name," said Alice, "was the same as yours. It was Woodroffe—and you are strangely like him."
"My father's name was John Anthony Woodroffe."
Alice sprang to her feet and clasped her hands. "Oh, my dream—my dream! Is it coming true? You are—you are—— Oh, how old are you?"
She caught him by the arm, and gazed into his face as if seeking her own likeness there as well as her husband's.
"I am twenty-two."
"No; it is impossible." She sank back. "For a moment I thought you might be—my own boy. Yet you are his. Oh, it is strange! Who was your mother, then?"
"She was a rider in a circus."
"And he married her and deserted her?"
"Yes—and divorced her; and I know nothing more about him."
"He must have married your mother directly after he divorced me."
"No doubt he has treated a dozen women in the same manner since then," said Dick, with unfilial bitterness. "The fifth commandment always presented insuperable difficulties to me."
"Your mother was a player, too?" said Alice. "He always grumbled because I could not play."
"My mother was the Equestrienne of the Haute École that I talked about just now. She was represented on the bills as the Pride of the States, the Envy of Europe, who had refused princes in the lands of tyrants, rather than forsake nature's nobility and the aristocracy of the republic."
"I remember, Dick," said Molly. "You used to tell my father all about it."
"I was born and brought up in the sawdust. And I played all the instruments in the orchestra one after the other. And I was afraid to go to church on account of that terrible announcement about the generations to follow the wicked man."
"He will suffer; he must suffer," said Alice. "But I have long since put him out of my mind."
"My mother never put him out of her mind. She died hoping that he would be made to suffer. For my own part, I hope that I may never meet him."
"My dream! My dream! First the doctor; then my husband's son. The past is returning."
Alice covered her face with her hands to hide the tears.
"Nay, nay," said her husband. "Keep quiet—keep quiet."
She sank back on the couch, and lay still, with closed eyes and pale face.
Molly felt her heart. "It is beating too fast," she said. "Let her be still awhile."
Thus the evening, which began with an attempt at mere amusement and entertainment, became serious.
Alice recovered and opened her eyes. "John," she said, "does he understand?"
"I think so," Dick replied. "You were my father's first wife. In order to be free, he divorced you. He then married my mother. Believe me, madam, my mother was wholly ignorant, to the last, of this history."
"Indeed, I believe it. I do not think there was a woman in America who would have married a man with such a record."
"At all events, my mother would not."
"And you are—my stepson."
"No." Dick considered. "If I were your stepson, my mother would have come first. I'm not your stepson. In fact, there isn't a word in the language to express the relationship. But—if I may venture——"
"Alice," Molly interposed, "make a friend of Dick, as you have of me. He will be the handiest, usefullest friend you can have. And he really is the best fellow in the world—aren't you, Dick?"
"Of course I am," he replied stoutly.
"As for trying to get money from you, he is incapable of it. Dick is one of the few people in the world who don't want money. You must call him Dick, though."
The pale lady smiled faintly. "Dick," she said, "if I may ... we have a common sorrow and a common misfortune—mine, to have married a bad man; you, to be his son. Can these things make a foundation for friendship?"
"Let us try," said Dick, with something like a moistening of the eye. He was a tender-hearted, sentimental creature, who could not bear to see a woman suffer.
Alice held out her thin, white hand. Dick took it and kissed it.
"If friendship," he said, "can exist between mistress and servant, then am I your friend. But if not, then your servant at your command."
"This place," John Haveril laid his hand upon Dick's shoulder, "is your home, and what we have is at your service."
"Dick," said Molly, "we are now a kind of cousins, and you are a sort of stepson of the house."
"So long, Molly, as you don't call me brother."
"John"—after the young people had gone—"did you tell him about his father?"
"No, I didn't." John sat down, and gave his reasons very slowly. "Why? This way, I thought. He's the young man's father; that's true. But he ran away from his wife and his child—twice, he did. That won't make the son respect the father much, will it? Next, Alice, I've been to see the sick man."
"You've been to see him, John? You are a good man, John. You deserve a less troublesome wife. When that creature in rags wanted to sell his secret, I pretended I didn't care. But I did. It made me sick and sorry to think of that poor, bad man, without a friend or a helper in his time of need. You are not jealous, are you, John? I did love the man once. He is a worthless, wicked man. You are not jealous, are you, John? I have no such feeling left for him. It is all pity—pity for a man who is punished for his sins."
"Not I, lass—not I. Pity him as much as you please."
"Tell me what he looks like."
"Well, he's like this young fellow Dick. Also, he's like that other chap—Sir Humphrey—more like him than the other. He's grey now, and thin, cheeks sunk in, and fingers like bits of glass. I told him who I was, but he only half understood. He won't desert any more women, I reckon. They've got stories about him at the Hospital—the boys there pick up everything. No, Alice. I don't think it would make this fellow they call Dick any happier to see his father. I'll go again. Don't think of him any more, my dear. Remember what the doctor said. Keep quiet."
"Let me walk home with you," said Dick. "It is a fine night, and we can walk."
They left the hotel, and turned northwards across Trafalgar Square.
"The pale, worn face of that poor woman haunts me, Molly. It is a strange adventure."
"You will love her, Dick, as much as I do. But there is that trouble behind, whatever it is, that she has not yet told me."
Dick looked up and straightened himself. They were in the crowd—the crowd infect and horrible at the top of the Haymarket.
"It is really peaceful night," he said. "The air just here is corrupt with voices, and there are shapes about that mock the peace of darkness; but it is really peaceful night."
"And overhead are the stars, just as in the country."
"You are like the lady inComus, Molly. These are only shapes and shadows that you see. They do not exist, except in imagination. They are the ghosts and devils that belong to night in streets."
Molly pressed a little closer to him, but made no reply.
What do men understand of the wonder, the bewilderment, with which a girl looks on the rabble rout, if ever she is permitted to see it? What does it reveal to her, this mockery of the peaceful night?
Presently they came to the upper end of Regent Street, which was quieter; and to Portland Place, which was quite deserted and peaceful; and then to the outer circle of Regent's Park, where they were beyond the houses, and where the cool wind of October fell upon their faces from the broad level of the park.
"It is almost country here. Let us walk in the middle of the road, Molly." He held out his left hand. Molly linked her little finger with his. "That is the way we used to walk what time we went on tramp, Molly."
"Yes, Dick; it was this way."
She was strangely quiet, contrary to her usual manner.
"You must never become a town girl, Molly, or a West End woman, or a society woman."
"I don't know, Dick. Perhaps I must."
They went on a little farther.
"Molly, I wanted to talk to you about something else, but I must talk about this evening. It's been a very remarkable evening. I am enriched by a kind of stepmother—a stepmother before the event, so to speak, not after—a relationship not in any dictionary. I am the child of a younger Sultana. Who would expect to meet in a London hotel, in the person of a middle-aged millionairess, the elder Sultana?"
"Ought one to be sorry for you, Dick? You couldn't have a better stepmother."
"Not sorry, exactly. But she recalls the sins of the forefathers. I have always understood that he was that kind of person. My mother, who took it wrathfully, was careful that I should know the kind of person he was. Her history halved the fifth commandment. This good lady takes it tearfully."
"She was thinking of her own dead child. For a moment she thought you were her son."
"Does one weep for a child four and twenty years after its death? There was more than a dead child in those tears."
"It was your playing, then. You never played so well. The violin talked all the time. It made me glow only to think of your birds and breezes and flowers."
"I shall call on her to-morrow. She wants to talk about it again. Molly, it's a wonderful thing."
"What is a wonderful thing?"
For he stopped.
"Woman is a wonderful thing. Acting, as you know, my poor Molly, makes real emotion difficult for us, because we are always connecting emotion with its theatrical gesture. When we ought to weep, we begin to think of how we weep."
"You talk like a book sometimes, Dick. Where do you get all your wisdom?"
"Not from books. Come on tramp with me, and you shall learn where I get it, Molly. All the thoughts worth having come to a man as he walks along the road, especially by night. Books can't tell him anything. I say that we can't help connecting emotion with the stage way of expressing it. This makesus quick to understand emotion when we do see it without the stage directions. Which is odd, but it's true. An actor born is a kind of thought-reader."
"What are you driving at, Dick?"
"I mean that an actor knows real emotion, just because it isn't like the stage business."
"Well, what then?"
"I was thinking of that poor pale lady, Molly. It's four and twenty years since her husband deserted her, and she thinks about him still. There isn't room in a woman's heart for more than one lover in a life, that's all."
"What then?"
"It's the lingering passion that she thinks was extinguished long ago. Poor old Haveril is all very well, but he hasn't the engaging qualities of the light comedian. Good, no doubt, at making money, and without the greater vices; but, Molly, my dear, without the lighter virtues. And these she remembers."
"Well, but that isn't what lies on her mind. You will be a thought-reader, indeed, Dick, if you can read what is written there."
They walked on together, side by side, in silence. Then the figure of the pale, fragile, sad woman went out of their thoughts. They returned, as is the way with youth, to themselves.
"You are happy, Molly?" he asked.
"I am happy enough," she sighed.
"Most of us are. We make ourselves as happy as we can. Of course, nobody is entirely happy till he gets all he wants. For my own part, I want verylittle; and I am very nearly quite happy, because I've got it all except one thing, Molly."
"Hadn't we better talk about the wisdom acquired on tramp?"
"That is just what I am doing, my dear child. To-night the stars are out, the skies are clear, the air is fresh. I smell the fragrant earth across the park. I can almost believe that we are miles and miles from a town. And I want to have a real talk with you, Molly."
"Will you let me talk first?"
"Certainly, if you won't abuse the privilege. But leave time for me to answer. We mustn't throw away such a chance as this."
"I know what you want to say very well. I don't ask you to put it out of your head, because—— Oh, Dick, you know very well that I like you ever so much! You are the only kind of brother I ever had."
"By your leave, Molly, you never had any brother. You might have had the kindness to call me pal, or cousin, or comrade, or companion, or confidential clerk, even—but not any kind of brother. That relationship doesn't exist for you. I might as well call myself the child of that good lady, being only a kind of posthumous stepson. Now, Molly, you may go on."
"I only mean so that I can tell everything to you."
"That is permitted. Now I shall not interrupt."
"Very well. First of all, Hilarie is anxious about my appearance. So am I. She remains firm in the belief that I am the tragedian of the future."
Dick shook his head. "Vain hopes! Fond dreams!"
"You know, don't you, Dick, that it is impossible?"
"Comedy, light and sparkling, if you please, Molly. As soon as your name is made, I shall write a part for you on purpose. You shall take the town by storm—you yourself, as you are, witch and enchantress."
"Which makes it the more unfortunate that I'm compelled to go in for the other business."
"What about advertising 'Lady Macbeth,' and getting ready a burlesque?"
Molly took no notice of this suggestion. "Hilarie thinks the time is now approaching when I ought to make mydébut. Dick, I declare that I don't care one farthing about disappointed ambition. I told you so before. But I do care about disappointing Hilarie. And that weighs on my soul more than anything almost—more than the two other things."
"What are the two other things?"
"I am coming to them. Either of them, you see, would bring consolation—of sorts—for disappointed ambition. First, your cousin, Sir Humphrey——"
"Oh! He goes on making love, does he?"
"He goes on pressing for an answer. What answer shall I give him?"
"I will try to answer as if I was a disinterested bystander. You must consider not what he wants, but what you want."
"He offers me position and—I suppose—wealth. He wants me to marry him secretly, and to live out of the world, while he smooths matters with his mother."
Dick stopped in the middle of the road. "What?" he cried. "He wants you to marry him secretly? The—the—no, I won't use names and language. Marry him secretly and go into hiding? Why? Because you love the man? But you don't. Because he will make you Lady Woodroffe? But he won't—he will hide you away. Because he is rich? My dear, I know all about him. He has no money at all. The money is his mother's; she could cut him off with a shilling, if she liked. Because he is clever? He isn't. He's the laughing-stock of everybody, except the miserable little clique that he belongs to; they talk of Art—who have no feeling for Art; they hand about things they call Art, which are——"
"That will do, Dick."
"Add to this that he is a moody, ill-conditioned beast. If he loves you, it's because any man would love you. He'd be tired of you in a week. I know the man, my dear; I've made it my business to find out all about him. He is unworthy of you—quite unworthy, Molly. If you loved him it might be different; I say, might, because then there might be some lessening of the misery you would draw on your head—I don't know, it might only mean greater misery—because you would feel his treatment more."
"You are incoherent, Dick."
"Could you marry a man without loving him, Molly? I ask you that."
"Here is a seat," said Molly, evading the question, which is always a delicate one for girls. Should they—ought they—ever to marry without love? One would rather not answer that question. There areconventions, there are things understood rather than expressed, there are imaginations, men are believed to be what they are not, the secret history of men is not suspected, there are reasons which might possibly make love quite a secondary consideration. It is not, indeed, a question which ought to be put to any girl.
"Here is a seat," Molly repeated. "It is chilly; but I am tired. Let us sit down for a minute, Dick."
He pressed his question. "Could you possibly marry this fellow, Molly, when you cannot respect him or love him?"
"About loving a man, Dick. I suppose it's quite possible to marry anybody, whether you love him or not. Whether a girl can screw up her courage to endure a man all day long when she doesn't like him, I don't know. Women have to do a great many things they don't like. Very few women can afford to choose——"
"You can, Molly."
"And if a man is a gentleman, he may be trusted, I suppose, not to do horrid things. He wouldn't get drunk; he would be tolerably kind; he would not spend all the money on himself; he would not desert one; he wouldn't throw the furniture about."
"That's a contented and a lowly state of mind, Molly."
"Well, and you must consider what a man may have to offer. Money; position; independence. You should listen to girls talking about these things with each other."
"Go on, Molly. It's a revelation."
"Not really, Dick? Why, as for love, I don't know what it means. I don't, indeed."
"Don't tell lies, Molly," he said, pressing her fingers.
"I mean that I don't love Sir Humphrey a bit."
"In that case, why not present him with the Boot?"
"He won't leave me alone. He hangs about the street, waiting for me when I go to my lesson. He comes to the college when I am staying with Hilarie, and, oh, Dick, can't you understand the temptation of it?"
"No, I can't."
"Well, then, try to understand it. Here I am, a girl with no money, dependent on Hilarie, who is all sweetness and goodness, yet dependent; and this man, who may be—very likely—all that you say, offers me this promotion."
"You ought not to be tempted. He is insulting you. If he means what he says, why doesn't he take you by the hand and lead you to his mother? He won't. He wants to hide you away. But he shall not, Molly—he shall not, so long as I breathe the upper air."
Molly made no reply. What was there to say?
"Fine love! Very fine love!" Dick snorted.
"I don't think I care much about his being all that you say, Dick, because, if I have no particular regard for him, I should not inquire, and I should not mind. I suppose he would be tolerably well-behaved with me."
"Then you are credulous, Molly, because he can't behave well to anybody."
"And while I am pulled this way and that way with doubts, Hilarie is wanting me to make my first appearance and to conquer the world; and my teacher thinks I shall do pretty well, and learn by experience, and I know the contrary, because you say so, Dick."
"Certainly. Quite the contrary."
"And you are always telling me what you want."
"I want you, Molly. Nothing short of that will satisfy me."
"Then comes another temptation—worse than anything."
"What is that?"
"It's Alice. She wants me——"
"Does she hiss 'diamonds' in your ear?"
"No. She says that she's so fond of me she cannot live without me, and she wants me to live with them altogether. And John chimes in. Says he will adopt me, and make me his heiress. Think of that, Dick! Millions! All for me—for me, the daughter of a failure."
"Molly." Dick spoke with solemnity suitable to the occasion. "This goes to the very root of things. You can't go on tramp with me if you begin to hanker after millions. No one ever heard of a great heiress talking to a gipsy or dancing in a barn. It can't be done. The weight of the dollars would nail your very heels to the boards."
"But, Dick, they're my own people, you know."
"My child"—Dick rose, for it was getting cold—"this is the most alarming temptation of all. Itmust be stopped right away. Look here, Molly," they were standing face to face under the lamp-post beside the railings of the park, "you know very well that you are only shamming. You love me; and I—well, shall I say it?"
"Stage people have no emotions, Dick. You said so yourself just now."
"This is not an emotion. It is part of me. I live in it; I breathe it; I only exist, my Molly, because of you. There isn't any stage gesture to signify my state of mind. The stalls would be disturbed in their little minds if one put this passion into visible representation. Even the gallery wouldn't understand. Put your arms on my shoulders, Molly."
She obeyed; she was quite as tall as her lover, and she had no difficulty in throwing her arms quite round his neck, which she did. If she blushed, the stars, which blink because they are short-sighted, could not see it. The lamp on the lamp-post is, of course, used to such things.
"You are the best girl in the world," he said, "the best and the dearest; and I promise you, Molly—the best and the dearest—that Humphrey shall never marry you, and that Mrs. Siddons shall never have a rival in you, and that you shall never become Miss Molly Pennefather Haveril, heiress of millions, with decayed dukes and barefooted barons languishing after you."
He kissed her on the forehead and the lips. The girl made no reply, except to draw a long breath, which might have meant remonstrance, and might equally well mean satisfaction.
She took up the violin-case. "If I must carry the fiddle," she said, "let me see how it feels."
He made no objection. The action was a symbol. He accepted it as a visible expression of acquiescence, and so, side by side, in silence, they walked home under the stars and the lamp-posts.