"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."