Part 8

"Aha! There is some one who remembers him at this very place--who heard him just once and never forgot it. I might as well tell you: it is the brother of the inn-keeper's wife at Colthorpe; he used to be the hostler, but is too old now. He plays the violin himself, at weddings, sometimes, and dances--but not much, dear. He taught me, but I have gone far ahead--oh, far ahead of him now! He knows when it is good, however, and you should hear what he says of me and my playing. You must see him and ask him. He had climbed up from outside into the window when once my father played at Colthorpe, and he can speak of it as if it had happened yesterday. (He says that I am very like my father, that any one would know me who had seen him. He knew, before asking, whose son I was. Only, my father wore his hair long; well, I will wear my hair long!) He says that, as he played, every trouble he had ever had came back to him, even the death of a dog, and he could not help crying--but he liked it; he enjoyed feeling bad. And he says that it made him see plain before him, but not very plain either, a lot of things he had only heard folks talk about--the shepherds in the East, for instance, with the angels singing good-will in a hole in the clouds. And he knew for sure, he says, how it would have felt if the girl he wanted hadn't married some one else and gone to live away, but had taken him. I asked him, the other day, if I could make him feel those things. He said, 'Not yet, not quite yet;' but he thought I was beginning. He has a number of music sheets; I can read the notes much quicker than he already, though he taught me. But I don't care for those; there must be others much better than those! Those are nothing! I like better what I make up myself than I do those. Did you notice?--but no, you must have been too far--how quickly I can play some passages? My left fingers go like a spider, and it is so easy for them! Giles says my hand is like my father's--he remembers it--a true violinist's hand. I feel that it can do anything, dear--anything! And I mean that it shall do such things! Look at it, mother!" and he held up the thin, unboyishly delicate, angular hand, stronger in appearance than the rest of his body. "Is it like my father's? You are the one, of course, that remembers best. Is it like my father's?"

"Oh, yes--yes!" she almost moaned.

He did not seem to perceive her impatience, but contemplated his own hand a little while, calmly sure that he must be an object of pride to her now. "It is quite unlike Hector's, at least. I should like to see him try to play with his pink paws!"

"He might not be able to play," said Emmie, "but he will, I dare say, do something quite as useful."

"There is nothing quite so useful!" cried the boy superbly, and laughed again in his perverse glee. "It is more useful than anything you can invent to say that Hector is going to do. Hector! Hector will be a rabbit-raiser; he likes rabbits better than anything. But I will come with my violin and make the rabbits stand up on their hind-legs and stare; I will play softly, wheedlingly, going slowly backwards towards the woods, and they will all come after me, without stopping for a nibble. I will lead them away, away, all the flock of little, round-backed, skipping things--just as I made you get out of bed and come up here."

"I came to tell you to stop, foolish boy. I didn't want you to wake the others. It was very inconsiderate in you--very inconsiderate. And I am not sure that I am pleased with you for taking a thing so valuable--it is worth a great deal of money--unknown to me, or for doing things in secret, or for having dealings with people I know nothing of--hostlers and inn-keepers' wives. You certainly play nicely--"

"Ah, did you truly think I did, mother?" he asked, eagerly. "You ought to know; you used to hear himself. Now, tell me, dear--"

"But I am not at all sure"--she interrupted him, lamely querulous--"that the violin--You have been so underhanded, and I see now how you waste your time--it explains your being so bad with your lessons. I am not at all sure that the violin ought not to be taken from you."

"I shall not give it up!" Dorastus said instantly, and it might be perfectly understood that he would struggle with his last breath to keep it, doing as much damage as in him lay to his opposers.

Emmie, quite pale, looked into his face, that had fully returned from its mood of happy pride, and he looked into hers, as they had looked already when he was but a baby. Then, seeing what she had always seen, she tossed up her hands with a little helpless, womanish motion, and complained: "Oh, I am so cold, and I feel so ill! It is like a horrid dream--and I am miserable." She rose and pulled her things about her to go, tears shining on her cheek.

Dorastus, who had leaped up and laid his hand resolutely on his violin and bow, if they should be in any immediate danger, watched her with a strange face. His jaw was iron. When, as she reached the door, he unclinched his teeth to speak, his face worked in spite of him and tears gushed from his eyes. "You never understand anything!" he exploded, in a harsh, angry voice all his pride could not keep from breaking. Then, with the indignant scorn of a child for a grown-up person who seems to him out of all nature dull--"Go!" he said, beating his arms violently about, "Go! Go!"

So Dorastus retained the violin, and defiantly played on it, in and out of season. His mother's failure to be pleased with his playing seemed to have cut her off, in his estimation, from all right to an opinion. It is true that after the first night she armed herself with patience towards a situation she could not change. She did not cross the boy more than her conscience positively enjoined; he might play since he pleased, but must not neglect his studies in pursuit of a vain pastime.

In spite of her, his studies suffered. He felt no humiliation now that Hector or any should be ahead of him with books; he could have been far ahead of them if he had chosen, but they could under no circumstance have done what he did. Of these things he was proudly convinced, and he declared them without hesitation. His almost untutored playing took on a strange audacity, a fantastical quality that made it pleasing to none in the household. That did not disturb him; he pursued triumphantly in the direction repugnant to them, taking their disapproval to naturally point to its excellence. Sometimes, half in scorn, he would play for the little girls the simple melodies they knew, to show them that he could do that, too, if he chose; full tenderly could he play them and delight their gentle hearts, but he preferred, if he could catch an unprejudiced soul for audience, a housemaid for instance, to set her opposite to him and play to her from his head, then question her as to what the music had made her think of, helping her to detail her impressions, expressing his contempt freely if the music had not had on her the desired effect, but hugging her if she happened to answer as he wanted.

Whenever he had a holiday, or took one, he disappeared with his instrument, returning with a conqueror's mien, out of place in a boy with whom every one is displeased, and who has had nothing to eat. It was felt by all how he was in these days not friends with anybody, nor anybody friends with him. It suited his pride to carry off the situation as if he had been a king among boors.

Her eldest child's conduct began at last to be something of a grievance to Emmie. She appealed to no one for help to reduce him to obedience. She would not have dared do that; an intimate sense forbade it, a scruple which would have had no voice, perhaps, had she loved him more. She excused and up-held him in her little wars with Lucretia, and respected Gregory's reluctance to interfere with him, founded in justice on the consciousness of a deep-seated, invincible dislike; but she fretted under his undutifulness and only refrained from satisfying the desire to attempt asserting her power over him, though it should be futile as ever, in the idea that, at the worst, he would soon be leaving home, with Hector, for school, when the detested violin must be given up and stronger hands than her own find a way to bend his obstinate spirit. At the same time, in a corner of her heart, she felt unreasonably, unaccountably hurt, as perhaps she would have felt if Dorastus's father had suddenly ceased from his persecutions and she had known by that sign that, worm as he was, he had ceased to care for her.

"This is all very well; but when you get to school--" Phrases begun on that line became frequent in Dorastus's ear as the time approached. He heard them with a singularly bright eye.

The two boys set out for school together, under the guardianship of the tutor. Consternation fell on the family when it was known that Dorastus had been missed on the way. The boy was traced to London; there he was easily lost among the millions of its inhabitants.

While the question was in discussion whether it behooved Gregory himself to travel to London and institute a search for the runaway, came a letter from the boy, making it easily decent for his step-father to leave the stinging weed to get its growth where it might without being a nuisance, and reconciling his mother to letting him take his chances as he pleased, since he was so sure they were brilliant--very brilliant, those chances.

His certainty of himself, his enthusiasm, were such that gradually they communicated themselves in a degree to her. Why not? After all, his father, they had said, was a great man; princes had honored him. An involuntary respect crept through her for Dorastus's daring. It seemed advisable at least to give him the opportunity he wanted; the more that the process of finding him, bringing him back in what to him would seem ignominy, and thereafter keeping watch over him, was uncomfortable to think of.

His letter was to his mother, a mixture of boyishness and manliness, more frank than any speech she had had from him in a long time. It vaguely stirred her heart; for it seemed to restore to her something that possessing she had not prized, but, careful economist, did not like to think lost.

"You must promise that I shall not be troubled by any attempt to get me back. I will do anything terrible if I am trapped. Don't you see that I couldn't go to school with Hector, who is younger? We should be put in classes together, for a while at least, and I couldn't stand it. Besides, I haven't the time, I have so much to do! Besides, I couldn't go on living with _those people_ forever. I don't mean that you shall, either. I won't tell you all now, but after a time you may know that there is to be a house much better than theirs for you to live in, with me. You shall have everything much better. But I will not tell you more. Only, you can be perfectly sure of it. You will not think that I came away without caring about leaving you. I was afraid you would guess something if I hugged you before them as I wanted to, but I had been to your room in the night, and any of your gowns you put on is full of your son's kisses. If I thought you would show this letter, I think that I should never in my life write you again. If you should send me any money, I should return it at once or destroy it, so please don't do it, it would make me angry. I know that we had nothing when we came to their house, except the violin. One of the servants told me how we came. What do you suppose keeping me all these years has cost? When I can, I mean to give them double; you can tell him so, if you choose. I can't now, but what I can do is to take nothing more from them. You need not be anxious about me. I am prepared, because I have long known what I meant to do, and I can take care of myself. I have met several persons already who know of my father; it seems to be something here to be his son, though not at home, except to one man, and he a hostler. Well, I will show them--you, too, dear mother. I don't mean to vex or grieve you, mother, dear. If I have vexed you, I know I shall make you forgive me some day, before long, perhaps, when I shall have made you understand. You can write me at the Tartar's Head, but if you hunted me there, or information concerning me, you would never find me, I vow."

Other letters came from time to time, written in fine spirits always, referring, but mysteriously, to fine successes. Emmie felt a certain modesty about these letters. She communicated what was in them with reserve, and adopted towards inquirers the tone of discretion that the letters had with herself. But she found herself often brooding over the contents. They charmed the imagination; they sounded like things one read. It was so remarkable, this circumstance of a poor boy, a boy of her own, arriving in a great city, with little but his violin, and by sounds merely forcing the things one values to come to him, as he had spoken fancifully once, she remembered, of making a flock of rabbits follow him into the woods. He wrote little very definite, but dropped telling hints of how he had played before this great man and that man of importance, and this one had said--the other had promised. He had been called upon to perform at a certain levee, and out of his fee had bought the things he was sending; he had money to spare. And there came a parcel of presents for Emmie and the little girls, by which all were greatly impressed. Dorastus's rank in the memory of his family rose a degree. Now, on looking back, each knew that he had always foreseen how, with that powerful will, Dorastus must be able to hew his way through difficulties and compel circumstances to serve him. He was looked on rather as a man than a boy, even as he looked on himself. His mother was grateful to him for seeming to efface the weak foolishness out of her first marriage: she was justified in her latter days, and proved a virgin full of good sense. She wrote Dorastus encouraging letters. Her good words got glowing answers: surely it would not be long; he was working with all his might. But they must be patient, for success as a material recompense was slow; and he hinted with the effect of a sigh at rivalries, at the density of the public mind. Yet talent must inevitably triumph in the end and manly effort meet its reward.

When Hector came home for his holidays he found it just a little stupid to have been a good boy. The personage in the general mind seemed to be his undisciplined half-brother. He contrived, however, in the course of weeks, to fix a good deal of attention on himself. He restored the balance to his mother's mind. Dorastus sank into his natural place in relation to her other children. She waited in serene patience--sometimes with a passing touch of scepticism, the reflection of some outsider's attitude, oftener with childish perfection of faith--for the developments he announced in letters somewhat decreasing in frequency, but preserving their early tone of hopefulness.

So time passed. The unusual became the usual and lost consideration, according to its habit.

Then the sisters-in-law, those perfect daughters, mothers, and wives, came to visit the head of the house in the home of their girlhood. They brought maids and children and chattels manifold.

Now these ladies had been in London, and Emmie heard much from them of the glories and greatness of that city; she had long opportunity to learn respect for their manners and gowns, which alike came from there. They had not happened upon Dorastus; they could not remember hearing of him, and as that seemed to make it plain to Emmie they had not been in the most polite places, they explained that the city was so large and populous you might not come across a person in a lifetime.

They left on a rainy autumn morning. Emmie, with her forehead against the glass, watched their carriages dwindling, dwindling. Gone, with all their patterns for gowns, with the last sweet thing in worsted-work; gone, with their fashionable conversation, the art of which she had not had quite time yet to master. But even if she had become perfect in all, as they, of what use could it have been to her here? she asked, turning from the dripping window-pane.

She moved with an air of being the moon by day. The sickness of the decaying year seemed to have got into her blood; she felt as if she herself were the perishing summer, which had somehow been wasted. She said over her children's ages with a sort of terror, a sense of time having stolen a march on her; she was vaguely panic-stricken to think there was so little of the good time of life left before her. She sought the mirror to divert her mind with trying on again the bonnet the sisters had bestowed on her, pronouncing it so becoming. Under the severe gray light the face she saw reflected held more than ever to her discontented eyes a forecast of the cheerless coming days when the rose should be withered, the gold gone. The deadly quiet of the country, the silence of the well-regulated house, suddenly seemed to her an outrage, a roof incontrovertible that no one cared what happened to her. Gregory in particular did not care. Else would he not have comprehended that movement and novelty and gayety alone could at this pass save her from the insidious oncreeping evil that encouraged hard lines between the pale cheek and the drooping mouth? Clearly he did not care. He cared for nothing but not to be disturbed after dinner. In this connection she thought over many a subtle wrong she had been putting up with for years. She thought of Dorastus, from whom this husband, with his royal indifference, allowed her to be so long separated; Dorastus, who as she looked to him, turning from the lukewarm, apathetic tribe surrounding her, seemed an embodiment of swiftness and strength, a tempered steel blade to rely on, a flame at which to warm the numb hands of the heart. Ah, well, he was making a home for her with him, yonder in the living city. She lost sight of the mirror into which she was staring; she saw that home. Suddenly it seemed to her she could not live longer without seeing her boy. She rose with the energy of true inspiration. It was such an obviously legitimate desire, this desire to behold again her own flesh and blood, that she need not be at pains to fabricate palliation or excuse for it. She sought Gregory directly. She was weary and ill, she had dreams at night, he did not know how hard her life had become. She wanted to see Dorastus.

Gregory yielded.

They came to London. They took rooms at a quiet hotel known to him of old.

The novelty of all, the anticipation, made Emmie feel young again. Her violet eyes were still childishly clear, her hair was pretty still; little was missed of the beauty of her youth but its slender lightness.

"No, no; you must leave it all to me," she said, when Gregory would have accompanied her in her search for Dorastus. "I have a clue which I will not betray. He has shown, dear fellow, that he might be trusted to take care of himself. I will bring him home to dine with us. You may take seats for the pantomime."

So the good Gregory put her in the care of a trusted driver, and saw her started on her adventure.

Now she was driven--it seemed to her they were hours on the way--to the Tartar's Head, a coffee-house of not very imposing appearance, in a crowded part.

Before reaching her destination she almost wished she had let Gregory come: it was so noisy; the air was so dingy it deadened one's spirits despite wealth of delightful prospects; and she must face various unknown, perhaps unfriendly, faces before finding his face--after which all would be well.

She descended from the carriage with a little flutter, then with the haste of rout got into it again, and requested the driver to bring some one to her, as if she had been a great person.

A young man came out to take her commands, a well-oiled young man in side-whiskers and a broad shirt-front.

Had not letters been received there addressed to so-and-so?

The young man was more than polite. Inquiries were made. Such letters had been received. The person to whom they were addressed called for them.

"I am his mother," said Emmie, lamely, for she had prepared another course than this simple one, a course involving strategy. "Does he not live here? Where does he live?"

The young man continued very obliging. He made further inquiries and came back looking a little blank. The person came himself and left no direction for forwarding his letters; a letter had once been waiting several weeks.

"Does no one here know him?" asked his mother, nearly in tears. Of a sudden this city seemed to her terribly large, and terribly full of people who cared nothing for any distress of hers. "He plays on the violin--he plays very beautifully on the violin."

A possibility of intelligence dawned in the obliging young man's face, and he ran in-doors again. He came back with a hopeful air. "Yes, your ladyship. There is an old man belonging to the place knows him. He took him a letter once when he couldn't come himself, being laid up. He didn't want to tell at first, saying how he'd sworn. But I let him know your ladyship was the young man's mother, and he told. It's a bit far."

The waiter stepped up to the coachman and gave him instructions. Emmie rewarded his obligingness with bounty in proportion to her relief at all proving so easy. Of course some one knew him. It was part of his boyishness to suppose he could hide, after his light had begun shining through the bushel, too.

She looked out through the misty pane at the bright passing shop-windows; there seemed to her thousands in a row, and hundreds of carriages rolling along with her. She liked the city again exceedingly, and was glad to hope she might be there often after a time; it was so various, it put life into one. If only the murky cloud would lift that rested on the chimney-tops, and the rain stop making more the gray slime on the flags.

It was a long distance. She looked out until she was tired and confused; then leaned back and meditated pleasantly for a time, then looked out again, with a little shock of disappointment at seeing no more bright windows.

They were going more slowly; the streets here were narrow, the air seemed dingier, the houses and people looked miserable.

She watched with a saddened interest these that she fixed upon as the poor city-people in their poor quarters. She was sorry for them, but she would be relieved when they were left behind for the gayer thoroughfares, or the roomier, more cheerful suburbs.

Now at the entrance of a narrow court the carriage stopped. She wondered what could be hindering its progress, and fidgeted while the coachman left his box and came to the door. He opened it with a stolid face and held his finger to his hat, waiting for her to alight.

"But--but"--she stammered, eying the poverty-stricken appearance of the place, "this cannot be it!"

"The directions were clear, ma'am; I've followed them," said the man, with respectful firmness. "This is as near as I can get to the house; there's no room to turn around in the court."

Emmie leaned back a moment, determined not to stir from her cushions--the mistake was on the face of it too stupid.

The coachman stood waiting, a man of patience carved in wood. Emmie eyed him helplessly; then, seeing that the imposing creature would be satisfied with no less from her, with the abruptness of impatience she alighted, and rustled into the dark court, peering upward for the number.

There it was. She knocked, and listened, with a heart in which strange things seemed to be happening. To the capless woman who opened she stammered a name, looking for the relief of being told instantly that none of that name lived there.