CHAPTER XII.
THE OTHER CHILD OF DESERTION
"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 repartee where 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 to côtelettes 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, slightly mal 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, is the 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 the chef were 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 an experiment. 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, or Barley 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. "Now we 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't bear 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."
CHAPTER XIII.
A MIDNIGHT WALK
"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 in Comus, 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 makes us 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 very little; 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 my début. 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 are conventions, 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."