THE THREE COUSINS.
"Is it possible?" they repeated, gazing each upon each in the
triangular fashion.
Every incident in life is a coincident. That is to say, nothing
happens as one expects. The reason is that no one considers the
outside forces, which are unseen; very few, indeed, take into
consideration the inside forces, which are obvious. The trade of
prophet has fallen into decay, because we no longer believe in him; we
know that he cannot really prophesy the coincidence: to him, as to us,
the future is the unexpected. Wise folk, therefore, go about prepared
for anything: they carry an umbrella in July; they build more ships
when peace is most profound. The unexpected, the coincidence, gives to
life its chief charm: it relieves the monotony; it breaks the week,
so to speak. Formerly it might take the form of invasion, a descent
upon the coast: dwellers by the seaside enjoyed, therefore, the most
exciting lives possible. To-day it comes by telegraph, by post, by
postal express. The philosopher of tears says that the unexpected is
always disagreeable; he of smiles says that, on the whole, he has
received more good gifts unexpectedly than thwacks. Mostly however,
the opinion of the multitude, which is always right, is summed up in
the words of the itinerant merchant--the man with the barrow and the
oranges. "We expex a shilling," he says, "and we gits tuppence."
"Is it possible?"
These three people had arisen and gone forth that morning expecting
nothing, and lo! a miracle! For they were enriched, suddenly, and
without the least expectation, by the discovery that they were all
three of common kin. Imagine the boundless possibilities of newly
recovered cousinship! No one knows what may come out of it--an
augmentation of family pride, an increase of family griefs, the
addition of sympathy with the lowly, the shame and honour of ancient
scandals, more money perhaps, more influence perhaps. It may be a most
fortunate event. On the other hand---- But for the moment, these three
had not begun to consider the other side.
"Is it possible?" Well, it is sometimes best to answer a question by
repeating it. The place was a country churchyard; the time, a forenoon
in July. In the churchyard was a group of four. They were all young,
and two of them were of one sex, and two were of the other.
The girls were the first to arrive. They entered by a gate opening
into the churchyard from a small coppice on the north side.
One of the girls, evidently the leader, had in her face, her form,
her carriage, something of Pallas Athênê. She was grave--the goddess,
I believe, seldom laughed; she was one of those girls who can smile
readily and pleasantly, but are not anxious to hear good stories,
like the frivolous man at his club, and really saw very little to
laugh at even in the unexpectedness of men--nothing, of course, in
the ways of women. Her seriousness was sweet in the eyes of those who
loved her--that is to say, of all who had the privilege of knowing
her. Her head was large and shapely--a shapely head is a very lovely
thing in woman. Her figure matched her head in being large and full.
Her features were regular, her cheek was ample, like that of a
certain bronze Venus in the Museum. Her hair was light in colour, and
abundant, not of the feathery kind, but heavy, and easily coiled in
classical fashion. Her eyes were of that dark blue which is wickedly
said to accompany a deceitful nature. If this is ever true, it
certainly was not true of Hilarie Woodroffe. She was dressed in white,
as becomes a girl on a summer morning, with a rose at her throat for
a touch of colour. As a child of her generation, she was naturally
tall; and being, as she was, a girl of the highest refinement and
culture after such an education as girls can now command, and being,
moreover, much occupied with the difficulties and problems of the age,
she bore upon her brow an undoubted stamp of intellectual endeavour.
Twenty years ago, such a girl would have been impossible. If you are
still, happily, so young that you can doubt this assertion, read the
novels--the best and the worst--of that time.
Her companion showed in her face and her appearance more of Aphrodite
than the sister goddess. She looked as sprightly as L'Allegra herself;
of slighter figure than the other, she was one of those fortunate
girls who attract by their manner more than by their beauty. Indeed,
no one could call her beautiful; but many called her charming. Her
grey eyes danced and sparkled; her lips were always smiling; her head
was never still; her face was made for laughing and her eyes for joy;
her hair was of the very commonest brown colour--every other kind of
girl has that kind of hair, yet upon her it looked distinguished. The
dress she wore--she had designed and made it herself--seemed craftily
intended to set off her figure and her face and her eyes. In a word,
she was one of those girls--a large class--who seem born especially
for the delight and happiness of the male world. They are acting
girls, singing girls, dancing girls, even stay-at-home girls; but
always they delight their people or the public with their vivacity,
and their cheerfulness, and their sympathy. By the side of the other
girl she looked like an attendant nymph. I have always thought that it
would be a pleasing thing to detach from Diana's train one of those
attendant nymphs, whose undeveloped mind knew nothing but the narrow
round of duty; to run breathlessly after the huntress, or to bathe
with her in a cold mountain stream. I would take her away, and teach
her other things, and make her separate and individual. But the fear
of Dian has hitherto prevented me. Ladies-in-waiting, in other words,
must have a dull time of it.
Both girls, of course, were strong, healthy, and vigorous: they
thought nothing of twenty miles on a bicycle; they could row; they
could ride; they could play lawn tennis; they would have climbed the
Matterhorn if it had been within reach. They were such girls as we
have, somehow, without knowing how, without expecting it, presented
to modern youth, athletic and vigorous, of the last decade of the
nineteenth century.
"This is my churchyard, Molly," said Hilarie. "You have seen the
house--this place belongs to the house--and the whole of it belongs to
the family history."
"It must be very nice to have a pedigree," said Molly--"ancestors who
wore laced coats and swords, like the characters on the stage. My
people, I suppose, wore smock-frocks. I gather the fact because my
father never mentioned his father. Smocks go with silence."
"One would rather, I suppose, have a pedigree than not."
"Small shops, also, go with silence. I wonder why one would rather
have a grandfather in a smock than in a small shop."
"I will tell you something of the family history. Let us sit down on
this tombstone. I always sit here because you can see the church, and
the alms-houses, and the school, if you like to take them together.
So. Once there was a man named Woodroffe, who lived in this village,
seised of a manor, as they say. He was a small country gentleman, an
Armiger; I will show you his tomb presently, with his coat of arms.
This man--it was five hundred years ago--had four sons. One of them
stayed at home, and carried on the family descent; the second son was
educated by the Bishop, and rose to the most splendid distinction.
He actually became Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Chancellor of
England. Now, the father of these lads had friends or cousins--they
came from the next village, where their descendants are living
still--in the City of London. So the two younger sons were sent up
to town and apprenticed, one to a mercer, and the other to a draper;
and one of these became Lord Mayor--think of that!--and the other,
Sheriff. There was a wonderful success for you! The effort seems to
have exhausted the family, for no one else has ever distinguished
himself. Stay; there was an Indian civilian of that name, who died
some time ago, but I don't know if he belonged to the family. My own
branch has always remained hopelessly undistinguished--squires, and
plain gentlemen, and Justices of the Peace. They hunted, flogged
vagabonds, and drank port. And, of course, after all these years, one
does not know what has become of the citizens' descendants."
"Still, Archbishop, Lord Mayor, and Sheriff--that ought to last a long
time."
"It has lasted a long time. Well, when they became old, these men
resolved to show their grateful sense of the wonderful success which
had been accorded to them. So they came back to their native village,
and they replaced the little church by a beautiful and spacious
church--there it is!"
Truly it was a great and noble church, of proportions quite beyond the
needs of a small village; its tower and spire standing high above all
the country round, its recessed porch a marvel of precious work. The
windows and the clerestory and the roof may be seen figured in all the
books on ecclesiastical architecture as the finest specimens of their
style.
"Yes, this church was built by these brothers. They walled the
churchyard--this is their old grey wall, with the wallflowers; they
built the lych-gate--there it is--in the churchyard; they founded a
school for the young--there it is"--she pointed to a small stone hall
standing in the north-west corner of the churchyard. It was of the
same period and of the same architecture as the church; the windows
had the same tracery; the buttresses were covered with yellow lichen:
a beautiful and venerable structure. From the building there came
a confused murmur of voices. "And on the other side of the church
they built an almshouse for the old--there it is"--she pointed to a
long low building, also of the same architecture. "So, you see, they
provided, in the same enclosure, a place of worship for the living, a
place of burial for the dead, a school for the young, and a haven of
rest for the old."
The sentiment of the history touched her companion, who looked about
her, and murmured--
"It seems a peaceful place."
"Everything in the place seems to belong to those four brothers:
the old house behind those trees, the broken cross at the gate, the
ruined college in the village, the very cottages, all seem to me to be
monuments of those four brothers."
"It is a beautiful thing owning such a house and such a place," said
the other. "But I prefer your gardens to your churchyard, Hilarie, I
confess."
Just then a young man, in a hired victoria, drove up to the gate and
descended, and looked about him with an indolent kind of curiosity. He
wore a brown velvet coat, had a crimson scarf with a white waistcoat,
carried a pince-nez on his nose, had sharp and somewhat delicate
features, carried his head high, and was tall enough to convey by that
attitude, which was clearly habitual, the assumption of superiority,
if not of disdain. And there was in him something of the artist. His
face was pale and clean shaven; his lips were thin; his hair was
light, with a touch of yellow in it; his eyes, when you could make
them out, were of a light blue, and cold. His figure was thin, and not
ungraceful. In a word, a young man of some distinction in appearance;
of an individuality certainly marked, perhaps self-contained, perhaps
selfish.
He walked slowly up the path. When he drew near the girls he raised
his hat.
"Am I right," he asked, "in thinking this to be Woodroffe Church?"
"Yes. It is Woodroffe Church."
"The church built by the Archbishop and his brothers?"
"This is their church. That is their school. That is their almshouse.
Would you like to go into the church? I have the key with me, and am
going in at once."
At this moment they were joined by another young man, whose entrance
to the churchyard was not noticed. He had been walking with light
elastic step along the middle of the road. A small bag was slung from
his shoulder by a strap; he carried a violin-case. His broad felt
hat, his brown tweed suit, his brown shoes, were all white with the
dust of the road. He passed the church without observing it; then
he remembered something, stopped, came back, and turned into the
churchyard.
He was quite a young man. His face was clean shaven--a mobile face,
with thin lips and quick blue eyes. His hair, as he lifted his hat,
was a light brown with a trace of yellow in it, growing in an arch
over his forehead. His step was springy, his carriage free. His
hair--longer than most men wear it,--the blue scarf at his throat, his
long fingers, made one think of art in some shape or other. Probably a
musician.
In the churchyard he looked about him curiously.
Then he turned to the group of three, and put exactly the same
question as that proposed by the first young man.
"May I ask," he said, "if this is Woodroffe Church?"
The attendant nymph jumped up. "Oh!" she cried. "It's Dick!"
"You here, Molly?" he asked. "I never expected----"
"Hilarie," said the girl, "this is my old friend Dick. We were
children together."
Hilarie bowed graciously. "I am pleased to know your friend," she
said. "I was just telling this other gentleman that this is Woodroffe
Church. We are going into the church: would you like to come too?"
Hilarie led the way, and opened the door of the south porch. Within,
restorers had been at work. The seats which replaced the old oaken
pews were machine-made, and new; they wanted the mellowing touch of
two hundred years, and even then they would be machine-made still. The
rood screen, as old as the Archbishop, was so polished and scraped,
that it looked almost as much machine-made as the seats. Even the
roof, after its scraping and painting, looked brand new. Yet they had
not destroyed all the antiquity of the church: there were still the
grey arches, the grey pillars, the grey walls and the monuments. There
were many monuments in the church; two or three tablets in memory of
former vicars; all the rest, shields, busts, and sculptured tombs, in
memory of bygone Woodroffes. A low recessed arch in the north wall
contained the figure of a Crusader. "He is one of the Woodroffes,"
said the guide. A recent tablet commemorated one who fell at the
Alma. "He was another of them," said the guide. "You are walking over
the graves of a whole family; they have been buried here from time
immemorial. Every slab in the aisle, and every stone in the chancel,
covers one of them."
In the north transept there stood a long low altar-tomb, with carvings
on the sides, and a slab of grey granite on the top. Formerly it
had been surrounded and covered by a white marble tabernacle richly
carved; this was now broken away and destroyed, except a few fragments
in the wall. The tomb itself was dilapidated; the granite slab was
broken in two, yet the inscription remained perfectly legible. It was
as follows:--
"Hic jacent
ROBERTUS WOODROFFE, Armiger,
et
HILARIS, Uxor Ejus,
Qui Robertus obiit Sep. 2, A.D. MCCCCXXXIX."
In the right-hand corner of the slab were the arms of the deceased.
"This tomb," said the guide, "was erected by the Archbishop, to the
memory of his father."
On the opposite side of the south transept one of the common
Elizabethan monuments was affixed to the wall. It represented figures
in relief, and painted. The husband and wife, both in high ruffs,
knelt before a desk, face to face. Below them was a procession of
boys and girls, six in number. Over their heads was a shield with a
coat-of-arms--the same arms as on the other tomb. The monument was
sacred to the memory of Robert Woodroffe, Knight, and Johanna his
wife. Beneath the figures was a scroll on which the local poet had
been allowed to do his worst.
"After thy Dethe, thy Words and Works survive
To shew thy Virtues: as if still alive.
When thou didst fall, fair Mercy shrieked and swoon'd,
And Charity bemoaned her deadly Wounde.
The Orphan'd Babe, the hapless Widow cry'd,
Ah! who will help us now that thou hast dyed?"
"They made him a knight," said the guide, "against his will. James
the First insisted on his assuming the dignity. It was the only
honour ever attained by any of this branch. They all stayed at home,
contented to make no noise in the world at all. Well, I think I have
shown you all the monuments."
"This is my ancestor," said the man with the violin-case, pointing to
the first tomb. "Not this one at all."
"Why, the elder Robert is my ancestor also!" said the first young man,
wondering.
"Good gracious! He is my ancestor as well!" cried Hilarie, in
amazement. "All these Woodroffes belong to me, and I to them."
"Your ancestor? Is it possible?" she added, turning from one to the
other.
"Is it possible?" the two men repeated.
"The Archbishop's elder brother is my direct ancestor," said Hilarie.
"He is buried here beneath this stone."
"Mine was Lord Mayor Woodroffe," said the first young man. "He was
buried in the Church of All Hallows the Less, where his tomb was
destroyed in the Fire."
"And mine was the Sheriff," said the second young man. "He was buried
in St. Helen's, where you may see his tomb to this day."
"Oh, it is wonderful!" Hilarie looked at her new cousins with some
anxiety. The first young man seemed altogether "quite:" well-dressed,
well-spoken, well-mannered, well-looking, of goodly stature, a
proper youth. In fact, proper in the modern sense. His turn-out was
faultless, and of the very day's--not yesterday's--mode. She turned
to the other. Circumstances, perhaps, were against him: the dust with
which he was covered; the shabby old bag hanging round his neck; his
violin-case. A gentleman does not travel on foot, carrying a violin.
Besides, his face was not the kind of face which comes out of Eton
and Trinity. It was a humorous face; there was a twinkle, or the fag
end of a smile, upon it. Such a girl as Hilarie would not at first
take readily to such a face. However, he looked quiet, and he looked
good-natured; his eyes, realizing the oddness of the situation, were
luminous with suppressed laughter.
"Molly," he said, "please tell this lady--your friend--who I am."
"Hilarie, this is Dick Woodroffe. I suppose you have never heard of
him. I never thought of his name being the same as yours. Dick is an
actor. He sings and plays, and writes comediettas; he is _awfully_
clever."
"Thank you, Molly. Add that I am now on tramp."
He looked with some contempt on the other young man.
"Since you are my cousin, Mr. Woodroffe, I hope we shall be friends."
Hilarie shook hands with him. "My name is Hilarie Woodroffe, and I am
descended from the eldest brother. The old house, which I will show
you presently, has remained with us. And you--are you really another
cousin?"
She turned to the first comer.
"I hope so. My name is Humphrey Woodroffe."
"Oh, this is delightful! May I ask what your branch has been doing all
these years?"
"I have a genealogy at home. We have had no more Lord Mayors or
Archbishops. A buccaneer or two; a captain under Charles the First;
a judge under William the Third; and an Anglo-Indian, my father, now
dead, of some distinction."
"Your branch has done more creditably than mine. And yours, Cousin
Dick?"
He laughed. "We went down in the world, and stayed there. Some of us
assisted in colonizing Virginia, in the last century, by going out in
the transports. There is a tradition of highwaymen; some of us had
quarters permanently in the King's Bench. I am a musician, and a mime,
and a small dramatist. Yet we have always kept up the memory of the
Sheriff."
"Never mind, Dick," said Molly; "you shall raise your branch again."
He shook his head. "There is not so much staying power," he said, "in
a Sheriff as in a Lord Mayor."
Hilarie observed him curiously. "Why," she said, "you two are
strangely alike. Do you observe the resemblance, Molly?"
"Yes. Oh yes!"--after a little consideration. "Mr. Humphrey is taller
and bigger. But they certainly _are_ alike."
"Good Heavens! It is wonderful. The same coloured hair, growing in the
same manner; the same eyes. It is the most extraordinary instance of
the survival of a type."
The young men looked at each other with a kind of jealousy. They
resented this charge of resemblance.
"Like that bounder?" said the look of the young man of clubs.
"Like this Piccadilly masher?" was the expression on the speaking
countenance of the man on tramp.
"After five hundred years." Hilarie pondered over this strange
coincidence. "Let us go back to the churchyard."
At the porch she paused, and bade them look round. "Tell me," she
said, "if you have ever seen a place more beautiful or more peaceful?"
The amplitude of the churchyard was in harmony with the stateliness
of the church. An ancient yew stood in one corner; the place was
surrounded by trees; the steps of the old Cross were hollowed by the
feet of many generations; beyond the quiet mounds the dark trees with
their heavy foliage made a fitting background; two or three of the
bedesmen stood at their door, blinking in the sunshine.
"The almshouse is a reading-room now," said Hilarie. "The old people
have quarters more commodious for sleeping, but they come here all day
long to read and rest."
They stood in silence for a while.
The swifts flew about the tower and the spire; the lark was singing
in the sky, the blackbird in the coppice. The air was full of soft
calls, whispers-twitters of birds, the humming of insects, and the
rustle of leaves. From the schoolroom came the continuous murmur of
children's voices. Another old man passed slowly along the path among
the graves towards the almshouse: it seemed as if he were choosing his
own bed for a long sleep. Everything spoke of life, happy, serene, and
peaceful.
"I am glad you came here," said Hilarie. "It is your own. When you
know it you will love everything in it--the church and the churchyard,
the trees and the birds, the old men and the children, the living and
the dead."
Her eyes filled with tears. Those of the man with the violin-case
softened, and he listened and looked round. Those of the other showed
no response--they were resting with admiration upon the other girl.
"Come"--Hilarie returned to the duty of hostess,--"let me show you the
house--the old, old house--where your ancestors lived."
She led the way to the gate by which she had entered. She conducted
them along a path under the trees into a small park. In the middle of
the park were buildings evidently of great age. They were surrounded
by a moat, now dry, with a bridge over it, and beyond the bridge a
little timbered cottage which had taken the place of gate tower and
drawbridge. Within was a garden, with flowers, fruit, and vegetables,
all together. And beyond the garden was the house. And surely there is
no other house like unto it in the whole country. In the middle was
a high-roofed hall; at either end were later buildings; beyond these
buildings, at one end, was a low broad tower, embattled. The windows
of the hall were the same as those of the church, the school, and the
almshouse.
"You cannot wonder," said the girl, "that I love to call this house
my own--my very own. There is nothing in the world that I would take
in exchange for this house. Come in, Cousin Humphrey," she said
hospitably. "And--and--my other cousin, Cousin Dick. Besides, you are
a friend of Molly's. Come in. You are both welcome."
She opened the door. Within, the great hall had a stone bench running
all round; the high-pitched roof was composed of thick beams, black
with age; the floor was boarded; the daïs stood raised three or four
inches for the high table; the circular space was still preserved
beneath the lantern, where the fire was formerly made.
"Here lived Robert," said the chatelaine, "with his four sons. There
was no floor to the hall then. The servants took their meals with the
master, but below him. The men slept on the floor. This was the common
living-room." She led the way to the north end. "Here was the kitchen,
built out beyond the hall"--there were signs of women-servants--"and
above it"--she led the way up a rude stair--"the solar of three or
four rooms, where the lord and lady slept, and the daughters, and the
women-servants. At the other end"--she led them to the south end of
the hall--"was the lady's bower, where the lady with her maids sat at
their work all day. And beyond is the tower, where the men-at-arms,
our garrison, lay."
These rooms were furnished. "They are our sitting-rooms." Three or
four girls now rose as Hilarie entered the room. She presented her
cousins to them. "My friends," she said, simply. "Here we live; we
take our meals in the hall. Our servants sleep in the gate-house; we
in the solar. Confess, now, my newly-found cousins, is it not a noble
house?"
She showed them the tower and the dungeon and the guard-room, all
belonging to the Wars of the Roses. And then she led them back to the
hall, where a dainty luncheon was spread on a sideboard. The high
table was laid for about a dozen. The girls, to whom the cousins
had been presented, trooped in after them. At the lower table stood
the servants, the coachman and grooms, the gardener and his staff,
the women-servants, the wives and children of the men. All sat down
together at their table, which ran along the middle of the hall.
Before Hilarie's chair, in the middle of the high table, stood an
ancient ship in silver; ready for her use was a silver-gilt cup, also
ancient; silver cups stood for each of her guests.
"We all dine together," she said--"my friends and I at our table, my
servants below; we are one family. My ancestors"--her cousins sat
on each side of her--"dined in this fashion. There is something in
humanity which makes those friends who break bread together."
"It is like a picnic five hundred years back," said Humphrey. "I have
heard talk, all my life, about this place. My father always intended
to visit it, but at last grew too old."
Hilarie watched her two guests. The taller, Humphrey, had the
manners of society; he seemed to be what the world, justly jealous,
allows to be a gentleman. Yet he had a certain coldness of manner,
and he accepted the beauty of this ancient place without surprise or
enthusiasm.
"What are you by profession, Cousin Humphrey?" she asked.
"Nothing, as yet; I have been travelling since I left Cambridge." He
laid his card before her--"Sir Humphrey Woodroffe."
"You have the title from your father. I hope you will create new
distinctions for yourself."
"I suppose," he said coldly, "that I shall go into the House. My
people seem to want it. There are too many cads in the House, but it
seems that we cannot get through the world without encountering cads."
He looked through his hostess, so to speak, and upon the third cousin,
perhaps accidentally.
"You certainly cannot," observed the third. "For instance, I am
sitting with you at luncheon."
"You will play something presently, Dick, won't you?"
Molly, sitting on the other side of the table, saw a quick flush upon
her friend's cheek, and hastened to avert further danger. One may be a
cad, but some cads are sensitive to an openly avowed contempt for cads.
Dick laughed. "All right, Molly. What shall I play? Something serious,
befitting the place? Luncheon is over--I will play now, if you like."
He looked down the hall. "That, I suppose, is the musicians' loft?"
"That is the musicians' gallery. It is a late addition--Elizabethan, I
believe."
"The musicians' gallery? Well, Miss Woodroffe, I am the music. Let me
play you something in return for the fine ancestors you have given me,
and for your gracious hospitality."
He took up his violin-case, to which he had clung with fidelity,
marched down the hall, climbed up into the gallery, and began to tune
his fiddle.
"Hilarie," Molly said, "Dick plays in the most lovely way possible. He
carries you quite out of yourself. That is why everybody loves him so."
However, the artist, standing up alone in the gallery, struck a chord,
and began to play.
I suppose that the magic belonged to the fiddle itself. It is
astonishing what magical powers a fiddle may possess. This was the
most sympathetic instrument possible. It was a thought leader or
inspirer. The moment it began, all the listeners, including the
servants below the salt, sat upright, their eyes fixed upon the
gallery, rapt out of themselves.
Hilarie, for her part, saw in a vision, but with a clearness and
distinctness most marvellous, her ancestor Robert with Hilarie his
wife. They were both well-stricken in years; they were standing in
the porch with their eldest son, his wife and children, to receive
their visitors. And first, across the drawbridge, rode the great Lord
Archbishop and Lord Chancellor, followed by his retinue. When the
Archbishop dismounted, the old man and his wife, and the son, and his
wife, and his children went on their knees; but the Archbishop bade
them rise, and kissed his parents lovingly. Meantime, the pages and
the varlets were unloading pack-horses and pack-mules, because the
Archbishop would not lay upon his father so great a charge as the
entertainment of his following. And she saw next how the Lord Mayor
and the Sheriff, his brother, rode up side by side, the Sheriff a
little behind the Mayor, and how they dismounted and knelt for their
father's blessing; and so all into the hall together, to take counsel
for the great things they were minded to do for their native village.
Hilarie turned to her cousin on the right. "Cousin," she said, still
in her dream, "we must think of our forefathers, and of what they did.
We must ask what the Archbishop would have done in our place."
But her cousin made no reply. He was looking with a kind of wonder at
Molly. Had the man never seen an attractive girl before? He had; but
out of a thousand attractive girls a man may be attracted by one only.
And the music went on. What was it that the musician played? Indeed, I
know not; things that awakened the imagination and touched the heart.
"No one knows," said Molly, "what he plays; only he makes one lost to
everything."
As for herself, she had a delicious dream of going on the tramp with
Dick, he and she alone--he to play, and she---- But when she was about
to tell this dream, she would not confess her part in the tramp.
The music was over; the fiddle was replaced in its case; the musician
was going away.
In the porch stood Hilarie. "Cousin," she said, "do you go on tramp
for pleasure or for necessity?"
"For both. I must needs go on tramp from time to time. There is a
restlessness in me. I suppose it is in the blood. Perhaps there was a
gipsy once among my ancestors."
"But do you really--live--by playing to people?"
"He needn't," said Molly; "but he must. He leaves his money at home,
and carries his fiddle. Oh, heavenly!"
"Why not? I fiddle on village greens and in rustic inns. I camp among
the gipsies; I walk with the tramps and casuals. There is no more
pleasant life, believe me!"
He began to sing in a light, musical tenor--
"When daffodils began to peer,
With heigh! the doxy over the dale,
Why then comes in the sweet o' the year;
For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.
The lark that tirra-lirra chants
With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay,
Are summer songs for me and my aunts,
While we lie tumbling in the hay."
"You are a strange man," said Hilarie. "Come and see me again."
"I am a vagabond," he replied, "and my name is Autolycus."
Dick took off his hat and bowed low, not in Piccadilly style at all;
he waved his hand to Molly; he glared defiance at Humphrey, who
loftily bent his head; and then, catching up his violin-case, he
started off with a step light and elastic.
Humphrey, the other cousin, half an hour later, stood beside his
carriage.
"I must congratulate myself," he said, "on the good fortune which has
presented me to the head of my family."
"To two cousins, say."
"Oh! I fancy we shall not see much of Autolycus. Meanwhile, since you
kindly grant me permission, I hope to call upon you again."
"I shall be very pleased."
As he drove away, his last look was not on Hilarie, but on the girl
beside her--the girl called Molly--the nymph attendant. Some, the
goddess charms; but more, the nymph attendant.
"What was she doing with all those girls?" he asked. "Making a home
for them, or some such beastly nonsense, I suppose."