.ON ess 
 
 1HUTTBN
 
 J 

 
 -Baroness toon f)tttten. 
 
 VIOLETT. Crown 8vo, $1.50. 
 
 OUR LADY OF THE BEECHES. J2mo, $1.25. 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK.
 
 YIOLETT 
 A CHRONICLE
 
 V I O L E T T 
 
 A CHRONICLE 
 
 BY 
 
 BARONESS VON HUTTEN 
 
 AUTHOR or "Qua LADY or THE BEECHES," ETC. 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 <Cbe flibersiDc prcstf, Cambribge 
 1904
 
 COPYRIGHT 1904 BY BETTINA VON HUTTEN 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 Published February 1904
 
 STACK 
 
 ANNEX 
 
 BAD-KBEUZNACH, SEPTEMBER 1, 1903
 
 Whosoever resisteth temptation, he shall 
 receive the crown of life. 
 
 ST. JAMES.
 
 PART I
 
 YIOLETT 
 
 DAWN. A splendid apricot glow spreading like 
 a smile over the face of the east, edging the small 
 waves with gold, flooding their hollows with rich 
 shadow. 
 
 A strong wind had blown all night, to die slowly 
 as the stars faded, and now night had gone, and 
 day was come. 
 
 At the edge of the little rock-bound garden east 
 of the lighthouse stood an old woman, a woolen 
 shawl over her head, gazing seaward. Under the 
 fringe of the shawl crisp red curls, slightly touched 
 with gray, fluttered in the damp breeze ; her face, 
 fretted with a fine network of wrinkles, was drawn 
 into haggard lines of pain, her eyes dark with an 
 guish. 
 
 While the light grew and strengthened, waking 
 the birds in the stunted trees, she stood motionless, 
 her gaunt figure rigid, as if she awaited something. 
 
 Then, as the sun rose, fading the glow with its 
 splendor, she threw up her arms in a gesture of
 
 2 VIOLETT 
 
 despair, and falling on the rough grass, buried her 
 face in her hands. 
 
 It was happening then, at that moment ; now 
 they had hidden his face; now the clergyman had 
 said the last words ; now 
 
 A deep groan broke the silence, but the woman 
 did not move. 
 
 And the sun rose, and the greatest beauty of the 
 twenty-four hours lay ready for those who did not 
 sleep. 
 
 On the rocks below the garden the sea was sing 
 ing its morning hymn; birds twittered; the morn 
 ing-glories stirred in their sleep; a cock crew. 
 
 When at last the old woman rose, her haggard 
 face was wet, and the merciful tears smoothing it 
 into gentler lines. 
 
 With a last look at the sun, magnificent clock 
 of the simple, she turned and went slowly across 
 the silvery grass to the house at the foot of the 
 great tower, and pushing open the door, passed in. 
 The fire on the hearth was lighted, and from the 
 curved beak of the bright copper kettle rose a 
 plume of steam. The old woman hung her shawl 
 on a nail by the window, smoothed her ruffled hair, 
 and went on into the next room. 
 
 Here in a small bed a boy lay asleep, his head 
 thrown back, his red lips slightly parted. The 
 loose collar of his shirt showed the whiteness of
 
 VIOLETT 3 
 
 his skin below the sun line, but the smooth brow 
 was brown to the roots of the hair. 
 
 The old woman stood looking at him for several 
 minutes, and then, touching his cheek gently, she 
 waked him. 
 
 "Vi lett! Vi lett, my dearie. It is time to get 
 up!" 
 
 He was awake at once, staring vacantly at her 
 with big gray eyes that were almost silvery, in con 
 trast to his brown face. Then suddenly his eyes 
 darkened with terror, and he caught at her hands. 
 "Agnes, Agnes," he stammered, "Is it true?" 
 
 "It is true, my dearie," she returned solemnly, 
 " and we must bear it. It it is over now, God 
 be praised, and his poor soul at rest." 
 
 The child rose and dressed himself without 
 speaking again. The rosy flush sleep had brought 
 to his cheeks faded slowly, but his strange light 
 eyes were brave, and his lips drawn into a stern 
 line. 
 
 When he went into the kitchen, old Agnes stood 
 at the window with her husband, whose hand rested 
 on her shoulder. Violett watched them for a mo 
 ment, a sudden new loneliness closing his throat. 
 They had each other, and he had no one. Alice 
 was gone and his father 
 
 The old people turned, and both of them kissed 
 him. Michael was crying, and his tears were warm
 
 4 VIOLETT 
 
 on the boy s cheek, as the three sat down to their 
 homely breakfast. 
 
 No one spoke until the clock in the corner 
 struck, startling them all, as if the silence, a tan 
 gible thing, had suddenly cracked. 
 
 Then Michael said slowly, stirring his coffee, 
 and not looking up, "Vi lett it s over now." 
 
 "I know. He s dead." Agnes nodded. 
 
 "Dead. And the dead are always to be thought 
 kindly of. He was your father, and he never gave 
 you a hard word. He was ever ready to do a kind 
 deed; he was a fine lightkeeper, them s the 
 things we are going to remember." 
 
 Michael took her hand in his. "Yes, Agnes, 
 you be right, old woman. Only God is great 
 enough to remember the other things wi out 
 being unjust." 
 
 The child looked at them, the early light falling 
 into his luminous eyes, the lines of his mouth re 
 laxing piteously. 
 
 "Agnes, did it hurt him?" he cried suddenly, 
 and before they could answer, he had rushed from 
 the house. It is better to suffer under God s sky 
 than under any man s roof. 
 
 The little gate at the end of the garden was 
 open, and without pausing, the boy passed through 
 it and clambered down the rough path to the small 
 stretch of shingle at its foot.
 
 II 
 
 THAT afternoon a row-boat pushed off from the 
 fishing village nearly opposite the island, and 
 skimmed quickly over the brilliant water towards 
 the landing-place south of the light. The two men 
 in the boat, a barefooted fisherman and a well- 
 dressed, provincial -looking man of fifty, both sighed 
 from time to time, and glanced at each other with 
 sympathetic sadness. 
 
 "I don t envy you, Mr. Barton," remarked 
 Bob Venn at length, as he swept his little craft 
 skillfully between two rocks that lay concealed 
 but for the lazy movement of the water about 
 them. 
 
 " You are right, Bob. It is a most painful busi 
 ness. Poor boy, I pity him with all my heart." 
 
 "Ay! Just think of it, the little lass had lived 
 there all her life, they had been brought up to 
 gether. And it was him that found her dead 
 you know." 
 
 Barton shook his head. "And who told him 
 about his father, I mean? " 
 
 "Old Agnes. She has lived at the island ever 
 since Godfrey himself was a child. She she 
 loved him. God help her." 
 
 They had reached the landing-place, a stoutly
 
 6 VIOLETT 
 
 built platform wedged in between two rocks, and 
 drawing in his oars, Venn fastened his boat. 
 
 Barton got out and went slowly up the steps, 
 leaning on the hand-rail built for safety in bad 
 weather. 
 
 Maule Island was said by the fisher-folk to be 
 an island at high tide, a peninsula at low. Off to 
 his left, Venn could see the narrow line of foam 
 that betrayed the jagged reef joining the island to 
 the mainland. 
 
 Godfrey Maule had, the fisherman remembered, 
 more than once run over the slippery, spiked rocks. 
 He had always enjoyed showing off, and the pos 
 sible admiration of possible onlookers quite out 
 weighed in his mind the certain danger he incurred. 
 
 He had been a strange man, vain and audacious, 
 afraid of nothing Venn broke off with a start ; 
 it was a ghastly subject for thought. 
 
 As he walked up and down the little platform, 
 he heard the sound of footsteps, and turning, saw, 
 instead of Barton, Violett approaching. 
 
 "Oh, Bob," the boy began at once, "I am so 
 glad to see you ! They sent me away Mr. Bar 
 ton, I mean so I came down here " 
 
 Bob Venn blushed under his sunburn, and held 
 out his hand, as he would have done to a man. 
 
 "I m glad to see you, too," he said. " Sit down 
 here in the shade. It s warm to-day."
 
 VIOLETT 7 
 
 Violett sat down. He was a small, lightly built 
 child, with narrow feet and curiously mobile hands, 
 which looked nervous, and yet had a trick of lying 
 perfectly quiet on his knees for long minutes at 
 a time. Venn glanced at them now. They were 
 clenched tight. 
 
 "Vi lett don t you be bothering about what 
 Mr. Barton said." 
 
 "I m not bothering. It s only about money." 
 
 "I know. You are rich they say " 
 
 The boy shook his head. "Agnes says I must n t 
 ever touch it, Bob, and I won t." 
 
 Venn was silent, and he went on hurriedly, " It 
 was Alice s, Bob, that s why I mustn t touch 
 it. Agues said so, and then she scolded Mr. Bar 
 ton." A quick smile touched his lips. 
 
 Venn hesitated. "Look here, Vi lett, Mr. Bar 
 ton s a gentleman, and we be only poor folks, but 
 I think Agnes is right. I wouldn t touch it 
 either if I were you." 
 
 "I won t." 
 
 There was a short pause, and then without any 
 explanation, the boy began to undress, and when 
 he was quite naked, slipped over the edge of the 
 platform into the green water. 
 
 "You be a fish!" exclaimed Venn, laughing. 
 "More in the water than out, you live, don t you? " 
 
 "Yes." Violett s small dark face lay on the sur-
 
 8 VIOLETT 
 
 face, with closed eyes. "Oh, Bob, the green is so 
 soft and warm." 
 
 "The green! That s an idea. The color don t 
 have any feel." 
 
 "Oh, yes, it does. And," his gray eyes opened 
 wide as he spoke, "colors all have sounds, too." 
 
 Venn laughed again. "Here conies Mr. Bar 
 ton." Violett turned over and swam away with 
 out speaking, and Venn, still smiling, looked up 
 the path expecting to see Barton. He was again 
 disappointed. This time it was old Michael, hurry 
 ing down the steps at a breakneck speed, holding 
 in his hand something that flashed blindingly in 
 the westering sun. 
 
 "Beer, Bob Venn!" the old man cried, gayly. 
 "Cold beer!" 
 
 Venn smiled approvingly at the bottle and 
 glasses, and laying his big hand on Corey s shoul 
 der, gave him a mighty shake. "I m not denying 
 thirst, Michael," he said, "Thirst s like a pretty 
 woman, a torment and a trial, but who would be 
 wi out her? " 
 
 The two men sat down, and drank the beer. 
 "Vi lett s clothes," commented Michael, glancing 
 at the little heap of worn brown velveteen. "That 
 boy is half mermaid, I m thinking." 
 
 "Yes. We thought you was Barton, and he 
 cleared out. Poor lad ! "
 
 VIOLETT 9 
 
 Corey sighed and licked the last frothy drop 
 from the bottle. "Yes. It s been a bad summer 
 for us here." 
 
 " Barton told me that Vi lett found the child. Is 
 that true?" 
 
 Michael nodded, his wrinkled old face quiver 
 ing. "Yes. Oh, what a fool he was, what a fool! " 
 
 "Hush, Michael, it ain t right to call a dead 
 man a fool." 
 
 "Death can t make a wise man of a fool, nor a 
 good man of a rogue, Bob Venn. And a fool he 
 was to dream that good could ever come of what 
 he did. Praise God, my old woman and me we 
 were blinded. Blinded by habit there s nothing 
 like it. I was mazed when they fetched him, but 
 when they ixamined me, I was dumb as a fish. 
 Didn t know anything; hadn t noticed anything; 
 had n t seen im give t poor lass the sugar, and 
 my old woman neither." 
 
 "That was a good thing." 
 
 " Ay. For look ee, Bob Venn, it s a blessed 
 gift of the Lord, stupidity like mine. I do be the 
 stupidest old man in England." 
 
 "Happen so stupid they won t let ee keep the 
 light?" 
 
 Corey started. "No, no, that s all right. I sent 
 in my apply as soon as they d taken im away, 
 and I ve got all the papers signed in my box."
 
 10 VIOLETT 
 
 "I m glad of that, Michael. Well, here comes 
 Mr. Barton, and thank you kindly." 
 
 As the attorney came down the steps he stopped 
 the old man. "Your wife is a fool, Corey," he 
 said sharply. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Barton, but I m a bigger. I be 
 surely the biggest fool in all England, God bless 
 her." 
 
 "The money belongs to the boy. Why should 
 he not use it?" 
 
 Michael smiled at him. " She decides all them 
 things, Mr. Barton. Honored by your visit." 
 
 He stood watching the boat for a few minutes 
 and then went back to the house. As he passed 
 around the tower into the garden, Violett came up 
 from the little beach, and walked tranquilly across 
 the grass towards him, perfectly naked. 
 
 "Where s your clothes, Vi lett? Oh, yes, down 
 at the landing." 
 
 But when the old man had entered the house, 
 the boy, after hesitating for a moment, turned and 
 went again down to the beach. Clothes were a 
 very small matter to him; and to-day, his heart 
 aching, his head throbbing with painful thought, 
 his one idea was to be close to if not in the water 
 that he loved. 
 
 He lay down in the warm dry sand, and tried to 
 forget Barton s kindly meant explanations and
 
 VIOLETT 11 
 
 expressions of sympathy, for they hurt him. Sud 
 denly he remembered that it was his birthday. He 
 was nine ! 
 
 It was restful there in the little cove; the 
 shadow of the island stretched out over the water 
 before him; sea-birds whirled against the blue 
 sky; a fishing-boat crawled lazily across the ho 
 rizon. 
 
 Soon it would be night, and Michael would 
 mount the stairs and light the great lamps ; then 
 they would have supper, apple-tarts, perhaps, as 
 it was his birthday. 
 
 When he was a man, he, too, would be light- 
 keeper ; he would be the seventh Maule to fill the 
 office; his father had been proud of his descent; 
 his father would laugh at supper, and tell the 
 story of the parson s donkey 
 
 Then suddenly the remembrance of his misery 
 came over him, waking him from his drowsy 
 dreaming, and bursting into tears he buried his 
 face in his sandy arms. Michael found him fast 
 asleep an hour later, and carried him up to the 
 house. 
 
 Agnes rubbed the sand from his little bare body 
 and put him tenderly into his bed. "He giveth 
 his beloved sleep," the old woman said, as she 
 tucked him in.
 
 Ill 
 
 FOUR weeks passed, and September had come. 
 Four weeks of quiet, broken only by the visit of a 
 government inspector who had toiled up the stairs 
 and examined with minute care everything con 
 nected with the light. Violett followed, full of in 
 terest, and helped once or twice, with a radiant 
 smile on his brown little face that at last attracted 
 the great man s attention. 
 
 "And what is your name, my little man?" he 
 asked, as though there had been in question many 
 other names. 
 
 "Violett Maule." 
 
 The inspector started. "Maule? Dear me! Is 
 he the son? I mean I had forgotten that this 
 was the place." 
 
 Michael nodded gloomily. " Yes, he s the son. 
 Vi lett, run down and see what time it is." 
 
 Violett obeyed slowly, all the spring gone out 
 of his gait. He had forgotten for a minute, and 
 now he remembered. Agnes let him bake a cake 
 for supper, and in the excitement of watching it 
 brown he forgot again. 
 
 The first of September Michael took down the 
 great market-basket from its shelf near the clock, 
 and made his preparations for his monthly for-
 
 VIOLETT 13 
 
 aging expedition to St. Kilian s. Violett fetched 
 his hat from the drawer where it lay between 
 the few occasions when he wore it, and going to 
 the pump outside, washed his face and hands. 
 
 When Michael and Agnes had finished their 
 conference, and the old man had tied in a corner of 
 his red handkerchief the money to be spent, Violett 
 took up the basket. "I m ready," he said con 
 tentedly. 
 
 The two old people started. "Bide here with 
 me, won t ee, dear?" Agnes asked him gently. 
 
 "Why, Agnes? I always go." 
 
 Michael pondered for a moment, and then said 
 gayly, "Off with ee, then, and fetch the oars. 
 Hast thy hat?" 
 
 As the child scampered away, he added, " Soon 
 as well as late, Agnes. An he d best get used to 
 it while he s young." 
 
 "No one will be unkind to the poor lad, Mi 
 chael! " she cried, a flush on her hollow cheeks. 
 
 "Nay, nay, not so long s he doesn t come in 
 their way. That s when they 11 throw t up to 
 im, old wumman." 
 
 She, with her womanly instinct, would rather 
 have hid the child away from all the world, have 
 hedged him in with her love, the flowers to him, 
 the thorns to the rest of the world, but she knew 
 that Michael was right, and made no protest.
 
 14 VIOLETT 
 
 Sitting in the stern of the snug, water-tight lit 
 tle boat and bounding landwards over the glancing 
 water was a delight to the boy, and he laughed 
 again and again. 
 
 Michael was the cleverest of story-tellers, and 
 the tales of his own youth were nothing less than 
 amazing. Violett believed them all. 
 
 "And when you found the cave, what did you 
 do, Michael? How many kegs of rum were 
 there?" 
 
 "Hundreds, dear. Piled up regular to the top 
 of the cave." 
 
 "And did the smugglers come?" 
 
 " Come ! I should think they did come ! Why, 
 there was I, one to six. Six big chaps with black 
 beards." 
 
 "Oh, oh I" Violett wriggled with delight. 
 "What did you do, Michael? I d have kiUed 
 email!" 
 
 The old man started, and his wrinkled face 
 gave a nervous twitch. "Don t ee say that now, 
 Vi lett. T ain t seemly " - 
 
 " But I would. I d ha taken my sword and 
 and " Then his voice fell suddenly and broke 
 into a silent sob. He had again remembered. 
 
 St. Kilian s is just out of sight of Maule s Is 
 land, hidden deep within two curved arms of land 
 that almost meet.
 
 VIOLETT 15 
 
 The village is a rambling, irregular collection 
 of poor houses, most of them fishermen s dwell 
 ings, and has besides its old church, two shops and 
 a fish-market as attractions. 
 
 Michael, used to the free air of the island, dis 
 liked the fishy, close atmosphere of the narrow 
 streets, but to Violett the little town was full of 
 charm. The houses, white or brown, stood out 
 from the sea against the splendid green of the 
 hills behind it, and the rocks, covered with sea 
 weed and lichen, were of beautiful soft colors that 
 he loved but could not name. 
 
 Then there were flowers in some of the gardens, 
 and often he returned home with an armful of bril 
 liant blossoms won by the smile in his eyes as he 
 peered through the palings at them. 
 
 Children, too, played about the shore and near 
 the fish-market, and he loved to watch them and 
 enter into shy conversation with them. 
 
 To-day, when Michael had tied the boat, the 
 two went up the steep, cobble-stoned street to the 
 shop where most of the purchases were to be made. 
 It was a very warm afternoon, and the countless 
 fish scales that lay over everything shone like tiny 
 jewels in the sun. 
 
 In a garden a woman stood with her baby in 
 her arms, talking to a neighbor outside the pal 
 ings. "And her wi a silk dress!" she was say-
 
 16 VIOLETT 
 
 ing, "the lazy" She broke off, nudging her 
 friend, and the two women turned and looked at 
 the old man and the child who were approach 
 ing. 
 
 "It s him, Susan, sure as sure! " 
 
 "Good-day to you, Susan Bennett," said Mi 
 chael politely. "Fine hot weather." 
 
 The woman tossed her head. "You needn t 
 talk to me, Michael Corey!" she cried shrilly. 
 "You be a nice old man to stay there after what s 
 past! Shame to ee !" 
 
 Michael caught Violett s hand and dragged him 
 away. "Don t ee mind, dearie," he murmured, 
 "don t ee heed. You s God s little boy, mind 
 that." 
 
 The shopkeeper gave Violett a sweet biscuit and 
 sent him outside, in order to have free speech 
 while the purchases were being made. 
 
 Violett ate his biscuit, but he understood, and 
 his eyes were full of tears. 
 
 "Won t they ever forget it, Michael?" he 
 asked when the old man joined him, "It s such 
 a long time ago." It was just a month. 
 
 At the other shop no one was about but a 
 strange youth who, with a comforting lack of curi 
 osity, sold them two pounds of gray yarn, and told 
 Violett that he looked like his, the youth s, little 
 brother in Cornwall.
 
 VIOLETT 17 
 
 Violett was much interested in the little boy in 
 Cornwall, and asked several questions about him. 
 As he and Michael, the heavy basket between 
 them, went down the slippery street, a woman in 
 one of the cottages asked them to come in and 
 rest. She was a kind woman, and after a minute s 
 reflection Michael sent Violett in, while he fetched 
 a fish-net that he had left some time since to be 
 mended. The woman, who was busy ironing, in 
 company with two others, set the basket on the 
 table, and giving Violett a chair, offered him a cup 
 of tea, which he gladly accepted. 
 
 "Well, an how be you now? " she asked, peer 
 ing curiously at him with small bright eyes. "An 
 other spoonful of sugar? Yes, do ee. An how 
 be you, did you say ? " 
 
 "I m very well, thank you," he returned po 
 litely. "There is a little boy named Stephen in 
 Cornwall that looks like me. I wish he d come 
 here." 
 
 "Did ye ever, Jennie? In Cornwall! Well, to 
 be sure. How s old Agnes?" 
 
 "Very well, thank you." 
 
 The fixed gaze of the three women began to 
 trouble him ; he wished Michael would come. 
 
 One of the women had unfastened the collar of 
 her gown, and he could see a big brown mole on 
 the whiteness of her neck.
 
 18 VIOLETT 
 
 "We was all so sorry for your trouble," his 
 hostess began, after a pause and a look at her 
 friends. "Was n t us, Luce? " 
 
 Luce nodded. "Yes. Awful bad to lose a fey- 
 ther, let alone that away." 
 
 A feeling of sickness overcame Violett, and he 
 set his half -empty cup on the table. 
 
 Jennie took up her iron and began to pass it 
 slowly over a long brown woolen stocking. "Don t, 
 Luce," she said in an undertone. 
 
 "Don t what, Jennie West? No one s a-blam- 
 ing the child. He can t help his father s being 
 hung, can ee, dearie?" 
 
 Violett rose. "I I must go now," he said 
 breathlessly. "I wish you would n t talk about 
 it." 
 
 His voice broke, and Jennie, leaving her iron 
 where it stood, took him up in her strong arms 
 and carried him into the sunny, flowery garden. 
 
 "Never mind, little lad. Her s only a fool, 
 Luce is. Look at they sweet red roses. Want 
 one?" She picked several and folded them into 
 the child s nerveless fingers. "An there s a but 
 terfly ay, and a beauty. When your boy from 
 Cornwall comes you n him 11 catch butterflies. 
 I 11 make ee a net, like the rector s little gal 
 has." 
 
 The good creature went on, comforting him
 
 VIOLETT 19 
 
 more by the sound of her kind voice than by her 
 words, and in a few minutes Luce Kent came out, 
 a big piece of apple-tart in her hand, which she 
 gave him, and which was delicious. 
 
 Michael found the three in the garden, and as 
 he took leave of Mrs. Kent thanked her for her 
 kindness to the boy. 
 
 All the way home Violett romanced aloud about 
 that little boy in Cornwall. He must come to St. 
 Kilian s; he must come to the island and play all 
 day with Violett. Michael must make a little boat 
 for Stephen, like Violett s Good Hope. It would 
 be so delightful when people could not tell the two 
 boys apart. And when they reached home, Agnes 
 had to be told all over again, and was as interested 
 as any one could possibly wish in the boy in Corn 
 wall.
 
 IV 
 
 ALL good story-tellers know the inspiration of a 
 wood fire, while winter howls at doors and win 
 dows, and darkness is blown about in gusts by a 
 high wind. 
 
 The winter following Godfrey Maule s hanging 
 was an unusually severe one, and in looking back 
 on it Violett saw himself often sitting on a low 
 stool by the fire, Agnes knitting at his right, and 
 to the left Michael, his pipe in hand, his face half 
 astonished at his own inventive faculty. 
 
 All stories gain by being told in the first per 
 son, and many old tales, known to most people as 
 adventures of various great men of history, were 
 long believed by Violett to have happened to 
 Michael Corey in the days described by him as 
 "when I was young." And the wind howled, 
 waves boomed against the rocks, the fire stirred 
 cosily, Agnes s swift needles made a pleasant 
 clicking noise, and Violett sat big-eyed and lis 
 tened. 
 
 Some of the stories referred to Michael s early 
 days at the island, when he was assistant light- 
 keeper, but no mention of Violett s father was ever 
 made. Poor little dead Alice, Violett s cousin, was 
 also banished from the tales, as though she had
 
 VIOLETT 21 
 
 never lived. Once when Michael paused for a 
 minute to light his neglected pipe, Violett said, 
 "But, Michael, Alice was there, don t you remem 
 ber?" 
 
 "Yes, dearie," returned Agnes quickly, who 
 spoke latterly with great pains, that Violett might 
 not forget his "proper English." "Alice was 
 there, asleep in her bed. She loved you, and you 
 were very good to her always." 
 
 Michael jerked his match into the fire and 
 began to speak, when Violett interrupted him: 
 "Agnes, what was the matter with Alice? You 
 know what I mean." 
 
 The two old people exchanged a glance, and then 
 Agnes said quietly, "Alice was not quite like 
 other folks, dear. Her mind stayed little while 
 she growed." 
 
 "Oh! Her mind stayed little while she growed. 
 Then" the child broke off, and then, turning, 
 laid his head on the old woman s knees. "Then 
 perhaps it was n t so bad. I mean father " 
 
 "Don t ee think of that, my lamb. God has 
 judged your feyther ; there s no call to think about 
 it. Go on, Michael." And Michael went on. 
 
 Spring came beautiful as it is only by the sea 
 and summer. 
 
 Violett s life did not change, except that he
 
 22 VIOLETT 
 
 learned to row, and used to help Michael when 
 they went to St. Kilian s. 
 
 The little boy from Cornwall never came, but 
 Violett did not forget him, and down on the little 
 rock -bound beach used to play with him, talking 
 to and for him, and behaving with the greatest 
 courtesy to his guest. 
 
 Once Bob Venn took Violett on a fishing expe 
 dition, and the boy sat all night watching the sea 
 and the stars. At midnight Venn gave him some 
 cold coffee and a bit of bread and bacon, half of 
 which was eaten by the boy from Cornwall, and 
 greatly enjoyed by him, as it appeared there was 
 no bacon in that mysterious country. 
 
 The bears, great and small, the north star, and 
 some few other luminaries were politely pointed out 
 to the boy, who was naturally much interested in 
 such phenomena, and who in return gave a very 
 comprehensive account of his father s farm, on 
 which his own particular charge was a herd of 
 zebras. 
 
 When the chill that precedes dawn made itself 
 felt, Bob Venn wrapped the two boys in a great 
 coat, to the fishy smell of which the boy from 
 Cornwall objected, and would have taken it off but 
 for Violett s convincing him that such a proceed 
 ing would inevitably hurt Bob Venn s feelings. 
 
 On the homeward flight, the boy fell asleep,
 
 VIOLETT 23 
 
 greatly to Violett s displeasure, for it was surely a 
 rather impolite thing to do. 
 
 Bob Venn, on reaching his cottage, expressed to 
 his mother very forcibly the wish that he had six 
 sons, all of which should go to play with that 
 lonely little chap at the island. 
 
 The summer passed quietly, but Violett was not 
 lonely, as yet, and when winter came again, he had 
 a new occupation. 
 
 One day when Michael was at work in the tower, 
 polishing the great reflectors, and Agnes busy bot 
 tling beer for winter use, Violett left the kitchen, 
 where he always sat, and roamed listlessly through 
 the other rooms of the house. There were only 
 four, his little bedroom, the bedroom of the old 
 pair, the room in which his father had slept, and 
 the little best-room. 
 
 In this room there was a small book-case full of 
 books, and the sun, rushing into the room through 
 the window he had opened, fell upon the gay bind 
 ings and drew his eyes to them. It was a meagre 
 collection enough. A gilt-edged volume of "Mor 
 ris s Poems," "Finelly s Light-Houses," "Oliver 
 Twist," with Cruikshank s pictures, a Bible, "Rob 
 inson Crusoe," a "Family Medical Guide," "The 
 Pleasures of Memory," also a gift-book edition, 
 and several badly bound, badly printed books by one 
 A. Humphreys. Violett began with a story called
 
 24 VIOLETT 
 
 "Horace Lynn," the chronicle of a remarkably 
 uninteresting boy who became a clergyman. The 
 tale was as dry as dust, but there were colored 
 prints, and these held the child s interest, and 
 when in a few days he had finished the book, he 
 took the next one to it, and carrying it to the 
 kitchen curled up in Michael s chair and began to 
 read. 
 
 This story, also a child s tale, was called "The 
 Adams Family," and the Adamses were destined 
 to be his best friends for many years. They were 
 a delightful family, rather unusually good, possi 
 bly, but full of the most ingenious schemes for 
 their own amusement. Henry, the eldest, a youth 
 of sixteen, was almost a genius in the carpentering 
 line; Amelia made the garments of the whole 
 family, the father excepted; Louisa sang like an 
 angel, and prayed for her friends like one in 
 spired. Then there were Edmund and Stephen 
 and the baby Sophia. Stephen, having by a won 
 derful coincidence the name of the boy in Corn 
 wall, Violett at once adopted as his own particular 
 friend, and when he had read the book through 
 three times, took to adding to it. It is easy to be 
 a whole family at once when one is eleven, and in 
 the child s mind Henry, Louisa, Stephen, and the 
 rest soon became real people. 
 
 The baby, who never grew any older, was a
 
 VIOLETT 25 
 
 very important person, as she had the croup, which 
 necessitated much care and long nocturnal gallop- 
 ings for the doctor. 
 
 When spring came again and the beach could 
 be used as a playground, all the Adamses used 
 to go down the path every morning, Violett carry 
 ing the baby, Amelia laden with her work-basket. 
 Henry s architectural genius rose to the most sur 
 prising heights at this time, and most people, not 
 knowing what a clever boy can make with a ham 
 mer, a saw, and some nails, would have been sur 
 prised by the houses he built on the rocks. Louisa 
 cooked for the family, and the number of meals 
 partaken in a day by the party would have upset 
 the internal organism of any but the Adamses. As 
 long as Violett lived, the Adamses seemed to him 
 to be more or less real people, though they did not 
 grow older with him, but remained the quaintly 
 dressed early Victorian children that they were the 
 first day of his acquaintance with them. 
 
 Old Agnes knew about them, and was very use 
 ful in giving advice to them on different occasions. 
 She advised a hot bath as first aid in croup, and 
 though Mrs. Adams apparently scorned such a 
 humble treatment and clamored for the doctor as 
 soon as Sophy it was always Sophy began 
 to bark, Violett once decided to send for the 
 doctor, and while awaiting him to try the bath.
 
 26 VIOLETT 
 
 The effect was magical, and a hot bath, in spite 
 of Mrs. Adams, became a family remedy. Henry, 
 Amelia, Louisa, Stephen, Edmund, Violett, and 
 Sophy it was a happy septet. 
 
 There was more than one reason why Violett 
 loved them. They loved him, and then they did 
 not know that terrible thing about his father.
 
 OXE day shortly before his tenth birthday, Violett 
 crossed the grass behind the house, and reaching 
 the rocks, clambered out on them to a great hol 
 low one that was called the Cradle. 
 
 This was a favorite place of the child s, though 
 strangely enough he always came there alone, 
 without the Adamses. 
 
 Below him lay great rough crags over which 
 the sea lapped in low tide, and which in high tide 
 were folded away in her green draperies, and just 
 fringed with white froth. Farther down stretched 
 the jagged reef that led to the mainland. This reef, 
 never hidden, always betrayed by a few dark 
 points and fretted with churning foam, had a great 
 charm for the lonely little boy. His father had 
 several times, he knew, run across it, once when 
 not much older than Violett himself. 
 
 Someday but this was a dream, one of the 
 many gentle, vague dreams of beautiful things 
 that were to come to Violett, Someday. 
 
 Someday he was to take care of the light all 
 alone, while Michael sat snug in the kitchen by 
 the fire ; Someday he was to find a sleeping mer 
 maid curled in a wave of sand ; Someday the boy
 
 28 VIOLETT 
 
 from Cornwall was to come ; Someday There 
 were a great many Somedays. 
 
 And one of the oftenest dreamt-of was the one 
 when Violett was to run at low tide swiftly along 
 the narrow, slippery ledge, a misstep on which 
 meant drowning, and with an easy, delicious spring 
 jump at the end down into the warm, moist sand 
 of the beach. 
 
 This morning, lying on his side at full length in 
 the Cradle, Violett could almost feel the contact 
 of the sand with his bare feet. He was not yet 
 ten. His father had been sixteen six years was a 
 very long time to wait. 
 
 And then suddenly it came over him that he 
 could not wait another day; that he must go that 
 very minute. 
 
 Behind him, beyond the house, Agnes was work 
 ing in the moist earth, loosening it carefully about 
 the roots of her few flowers with a broken fork. 
 Michael sat in the sun, mending clumsily a fish 
 ing line, for he was fond of fishing. And so near 
 them, in the hot sun, the child they loved and cared 
 for took his little life into his little hands and 
 crossed the slippery rocks to the mainland. 
 
 He was slight and supple, and his bare feet were 
 tough. The rough edges of the reef did not hurt 
 him much; he did not slip on the glutinous sea 
 moss; he did not grow dizzy And then, just as
 
 VIOLETT 29 
 
 he had known it would be, his heels dug deep 
 holes in the sand as he jumped down into it, and 
 with a laugh of delight he fell sprawling upon his 
 back. 
 
 And he was only ten, and his father had been 
 sixteen. 
 
 It was all so perfect that he was hardly sur 
 prised to see, not far from him, a child playing 
 with a basket and spade, the most beautiful child 
 in the world, with fat mouse-colored legs and a 
 white frock. 
 
 Violett got up and walked towards her. She 
 was staring at him with solemn blue eyes. "Can 
 you fly? " she asked. "Where s your hat? " 
 
 "No, I can t fly. But I can jump. I did jump. 
 My hat s at home." 
 
 "What s your name?" 
 
 "Violett Maule. What s yours? " 
 
 "Mine s Kitty Sudds. Violet s a girl s name." 
 
 Violett explained to her that it was also a boy s 
 name, for it was his, and as he was a boy it must 
 be. Then they played together. 
 
 It was so beautiful to the solitary little boy, this 
 new thing of playing with some one else. Humbly 
 he obeyed the little girl s orders as if she were a 
 queen and he her slave, and with the unconscious 
 arrogance of a spoiled child she gave the orders, 
 one after the other. They built a palace, they dug
 
 30 VIOLETT 
 
 a river, they raced with the waves, now creeping 
 higher and higher up the beach. And time went 
 on. 
 
 Kitty promised to go to the island with Violett, 
 and he was to show her the big lantern. The stairs 
 were high, but he would help her. 
 
 Then the little girl s mother came from where 
 she had been sitting higher up, under a parasol, 
 a handsome woman with painted cheeks and large 
 red hands. "Come along, Kit," she said, picking 
 up the little spade, "bring your basket. Your 
 pa 11 be waiting for us." 
 
 Violett, who was shy, took courage. "Please, 
 may she come home with me to see the light? " he 
 asked. 
 
 "The light? "Who are you? Ain t you one of 
 the fishermen s boys? " 
 
 "No I m Violett Maule " 
 
 Madame Leonora Sudini, trapeze-artist, pushed 
 him aside with a little shriek. 
 
 "The boy whose pa was hung!" she cried. 
 " Ow dare you come to play with respectable chil 
 dren ! Come along, Kitty ! " 
 
 Violett stood still where they left him, his small 
 brown face wan in the sun. Then it was even yet 
 not forgotten. And no one who knew would play 
 with him, it seemed. People could n t play with 
 a boy whose father had been hanged.
 
 VIOLETT 31 
 
 At length he climbed the rocks slowly. The reef 
 was covered; a gently moving foam wreathed and 
 coiled from where he stood out to the Cradle. It 
 was high tide. 
 
 Bob Venn in his row-boat came like a god and 
 rowed him back to the landing. Violett did not 
 tell the kind fisherman the morning s story, but 
 Bob talked to him, scolded, and admired him for 
 his crossing of the reef, and when the landing was 
 reached Violett was half consoled. 
 
 Bob Venn loved him, and the Adamses! The 
 Adamses didn t mind, either.
 
 VI 
 
 OFTEN as he played with the Adamses, Violett 
 would stop speaking, and with, in his eyes, the 
 vague look of the born dreamer, recall the bliss of 
 that hour on the beach before the lady with the 
 red cheeks came. Kitty was so beautiful, with her 
 round eyes, invisible nose, and fat cheeks! And 
 after all it was better not to have to do all the 
 talking one s self. 
 
 He was not disloyal to the Adamses, but living 
 people were so interesting! 
 
 There was never in his gentle heart the ghost 
 of a feeling of resentment towards the lady with 
 the red cheeks; he unconsciously accepted as a 
 natural law of things that people could not play 
 with a boy whose father had been hanged. And it 
 was very sad. 
 
 Two years had passed since his father had been 
 taken away, and he began to miss even Alice, his 
 little cousin, though she had talked seldom, and 
 had not been much good as a playmate. For the 
 first time, the boy began to be lonely as well as 
 solitary. 
 
 When he went to St. Kilian s with Michael the 
 people were kind enough to him, but his shy efforts 
 to be friendly with the children were met with an
 
 VIOLETT 33 
 
 awkwardness or an excitement that drove him 
 red-faced back to Michael. Once some little girls 
 admitted him to a sort of intimacy based on his 
 interest in their dolls, but a slight dispute brought 
 a circle of mocking faces around him, while shrill 
 voices called, "Father s hung! father s hung!" 
 until he fled, his hands to his aching ears, to tell 
 Michael that he would come to St. Kilian s no 
 more. 
 
 "Ay, Vi lett, that s the best. You bide on 
 the island ; that s the best place for ee, poor 
 boy." 
 
 So Violett bided on the island, and began to be 
 lonely. One day in September Bob Venn came out 
 and took him for a row. Violett sat in the stern of 
 the boat and told the big fisherman all about Kitty 
 Sudds. 
 
 "Wasn t it too bad, Bob?" he finished sim- 
 
 pty- 
 
 Bob s eyes glistened. "They Sea-Urchins! " he 
 said in a voice full of unequivocal meaning. 
 "How do you mean, Sea-Urchins?" 
 "Oh, it s a house, a cottage bout half a mile 
 inland, called Sea-Urchin Cottage. B longs to 
 Capes, an he rents it to different parties, play 
 actors, most on em. Don t ee fret, Vi lett, bout 
 what such as them says. You re a good boy an 
 us loves you, by God."
 
 34 VIOLETT 
 
 "Yes, Bob, and thank you. Only I wish more 
 people loved me." 
 
 The Cradle, as its outlook was towards the main 
 land, and from it he could see the place where he 
 and the vanished phantom of delight had played 
 together, became Violett s favorite spot. Here he 
 would sit and invent Somedays by the hour, to the 
 accompaniment of the nibbling of the waves on the 
 rocks below him. 
 
 One day as he sat there, his arms hugging his 
 knees, he gave a sudden start. Some one was on 
 the beach Kitty Sudds! The distance was so 
 short that he could see the color of her hair and 
 her sash. 
 
 His promise given to Agnes never to cross the 
 reef again was forgotten, and a few minutes later 
 he jumped down, as he had before, into the sand. 
 
 Suddenly a feeling of fear came over him. Why 
 had he come? She couldn t play with him. Oh, 
 if he had only been some other boy, the boy in 
 Cornwall, for instance. He rose slowly with som 
 bre eyes, and then his heart gave a thump. It 
 was n t Kitty Sudds; it was another little girl, 
 with pale yellow curls and the smallest, whitest 
 face he had ever seen. 
 
 Miss Sudds had been a fairy; this was an angel. 
 And she did not know that he was the boy whose 
 father had been hanged. He shut his eyes for a
 
 VIOLETT 35 
 
 minute, and hoping hard that she would not ask 
 his name, went slowly towards her, digging his 
 bare toes deep into the wet sand to give himself 
 courage. 
 
 The angel, however, possessed the useful social 
 quality of forthcomingness. "Hello, boy," she ob 
 served. 
 
 "Hello," returned Violett. 
 
 "I m digging a hole through to China." 
 
 "Through what?" 
 
 "Through the world, goose. Help me I m 
 tired." 
 
 Violett took the spade and worked until he 
 panted, while the angel sat down and looked on. 
 
 "My father s going to give me sixpence when 
 I ve reached China. He s asleep there under the 
 umbrella." 
 
 Violett did not like talking about fathers. "I ve 
 got two shillings," he put in hastily. 
 
 "Have you? Where?" All roads led to Rome. 
 
 " I 11 I 11 give it to you. Shall I ? " 
 
 The angel scrambled to her feet. "Oh, yes, do! 
 Now! This minute!" 
 
 "Can t. I 11 bring it to-morrow. Are you 
 coming to-morrow?" 
 
 The angel nodded. "Yes. We are here for a 
 long, long time, cause father s ill." 
 
 The children played together for an hour, as the
 
 36 VIOLETT 
 
 sun lowered and evening came on. At last, tired, 
 they sat down, and yielding to a curiosity that 
 made him forget prudence, Violett asked her her 
 name. 
 
 " Minnie Bayne. What s yours ? " 
 
 He paused. It was all over, then ; as soon as he 
 had told her she would go away in indignation; 
 and he loved her. 
 
 "Stephen Adams," he said suddenly. 
 
 It was the first lie the child had ever told in his 
 life, and it had almost told itself. He had meant 
 to say Violett Maule and he had said Stephen 
 Adams. 
 
 Minnie nodded. "That s a pretty name. I 
 shall call you Stevie." 
 
 And Stevie was the most beautiful name in the 
 world. 
 
 Michael had missed Violett, and suspecting his 
 whereabouts rowed in to look for him. 
 
 As the boat approached, the man under the um 
 brella rose and joined the two children. He was a 
 pale man with very little hair, and deep-cut wrin 
 kles all over his face. Violett had never seen such 
 lines. 
 
 "Well, Min," the man said in a curious hoarse 
 voice, "found a sweetheart, have you? What s 
 your name, youngster? "
 
 VIOLETT 37 
 
 "His name s Stevie Adams, pa," answered the 
 other child, "and he s coming to play with me 
 every day." 
 
 She could not pronounce the letter "r," and 
 twisted her red lips fantastically in her efforts to 
 master the difficulty. 
 
 "All right. Fisherman s boy, are you ? Come 
 along, Min ; the Missis 11 give it us if we re 
 late." 
 
 Violett watched them go away with relief, for 
 the boat would be in in a moment. They did not 
 look around, but went slowly up the road, the 
 man s high shoulders bent, the child hopping along 
 beside him like a bird. 
 
 Michael was angry and a little cross, for Violett 
 had broken his promise; but the boy hardly heard 
 his rough words. He was thinking of Minnie 
 Bayne.
 
 VII 
 
 FOR eight weeks Violett lived in paradise. That 
 there was little paradisiacal in the temporary in 
 mates of Sea-Urchin Cottage, matters not. 
 
 Zola s great description of a work of art as being 
 a bit of nature seen through a temperament may 
 be, slightly paraphrased, made to explain happi 
 ness. Happiness is a circumstance seen through a 
 temperament, and Violett s loving heart brought 
 the light that, shed over his new environment, lent 
 it a radiance that seemed heavenly to him. 
 
 Jim Bayne, "Song and Dance Artist on the 
 London Alls," as he described himself, his wife, 
 Senora Dolores Gomez, Musical Phenomenon, and 
 Mdlle. Fee, in private life Miss Bayne, these 
 were the people who gave Violett Maule eight 
 weeks of absolute happiness the summer when he 
 was but ten, and the people who discovered in the 
 quaint brown child the strange sensitiveness and 
 capability of expression of impression that is called 
 genius. 
 
 Day after day Bayne brought Minnie to the 
 shore and found Violett waiting for her. Bayne 
 then stretched his tired bones out on the soft sand, 
 dozing until the children approached to tell him 
 that they were hungry. The man was overworked
 
 VIOLETT 39 
 
 and ill, and only too glad to know that his daughter 
 was in such good hands as he instinctively realized 
 Violett s to be. 
 
 Minnie, a docile, delicate child, in the country 
 for the first time, was delighted with her play 
 mate. 
 
 Violett knew the most wonderful things. He 
 taught her to lie in the sand just out of reach of 
 the waves, and to listen with closed eyes to the 
 music they made. "Do you hear?" he said once 
 to her, "the beautiful green song?" 
 
 "I hear swish swish, but it isn t music, 
 Stevie, and besides, music can t be green." 
 
 Violett sat up and looked at her. " Music can 
 be all colors, Minnie." 
 
 The only music he had ever heard was the 
 hymns and anthems played in the church at St. 
 Kilian s and the fiddling of an old man who 
 played at fairs and weddings. 
 
 Minnie looked at him a little awed, but still in 
 clined to laugh at him. " You are a funny boy, 
 Stevie. My father can play. Oh, he can play 
 everything." 
 
 "On a fiddle?" 
 
 "No, on the piano." 
 
 "What is a piano?" 
 
 Minnie reflected. "It s a long box with keys, 
 white and black keys."
 
 40 VIOLETT 
 
 "Do you turn the keys?" 
 
 The other child burst out laughing. "Oh, how 
 funny! No, they are n t keys like in doors; they 
 are white and black things. You must come home 
 with me some day, and see them." 
 
 For days, however, they continued to play on 
 the beach, or in the little wood that ran up the 
 hill north of the island. 
 
 They played that they were divers beasts and 
 divers people; they lay very quiet among the un 
 dergrowth listening to the songs of the birds. 
 
 Violett knew the names of no birds; the names 
 he taught Minnie were of his own making. A 
 yellow-wing, a welcome-spring, a golden -voice, 
 these were some of them. Each bird-voice, he in 
 sisted, had its own particular color, and Minnie s 
 persistency in not hearing the color was the only 
 thing that ever irritated him with her. 
 
 He taught her to see a bit of heaven reflected in 
 the dew-filled cups of a certain kind of moss; he 
 taught her to build birds -nests. His theory was 
 simple, that if they could make a very beautiful 
 nest some absent-minded bird might be deluded 
 into thinking it hers and laying her eggs in it; 
 and then the joy of being able to watch them being 
 hatched out, and later of helping the busy parents 
 provide the fledgelings with worms ! 
 
 They built many nests, and arranging them care-
 
 VIOLETT 41 
 
 fully on conveniently low boughs, laid in wait quiv 
 ering with confident expectation for the absent- 
 minded bird that never came. But the best things 
 were after all found at the edge of the water, 
 shells and seaweed, wet pebbles, the yellow lace 
 left by the waves. Minnie learned to wade, and 
 watched with admiration the swimming and diving 
 of the boy, who slipped his clothes off and on with 
 primitive simplicity, and ran about in his white 
 skin as innocent as a little animal, until Bayne 
 once told him not to. 
 
 "Why not?" Violett asked with grave interest. 
 
 The man hesitated. "Well, I don t know, but 
 people keep their clothes on, as a rule." 
 
 "Not when they re in swimming." 
 
 Bayne laughed gently. "Perhaps not, but you 
 better not go in swimming when you re with Min, 
 she can t go with you, you see." 
 
 Violett was satisfied. 
 
 A fortnight passed thus, and then came a great 
 day, the day of the storm.
 
 VIII 
 
 THE storm came up suddenly, blowing in from the 
 sea, and darkening the water like the approach of 
 an uncanny giant bird. 
 
 Bayne, who had been asleep, woke suddenly to 
 find the air grown chill, the sky black. Calling 
 the children, he found them standing hand in hand 
 at the edge of the ocean. Minnie s small face was 
 white with excitement. The sound of the wind, 
 Violett had told her, was black, and she fancied 
 that she could hear the color. 
 
 "Oh, pa! hear the wind! It is black!" 
 
 "Black? It s bringing a storm; we must 
 hurry." 
 
 The child held Violett s hand tight. "Stevie 
 must come too, or he will get wet." 
 
 Violett laughed. He loved a storm, and no more 
 minded getting wet than would a duck. 
 
 Bayne looked at him kindly from under his 
 grotesquely bushy eyebrows. "Will you come, 
 Stevie?" 
 
 And Violett went with them. The rain came 
 down as they reached the edge of the wood, and 
 Bayne, picking Minnie up in his arms, strode 
 along, panting and coughing, his coat-tails flop 
 ping against his thin legs.
 
 VIOLETT 43 
 
 The villa was a shabby house with sagging doors 
 and loose windows. It had a small garden with 
 a winding path from which most of the gravel 
 had mysteriously disappeared, and a few stunted 
 trees. 
 
 When the little party reached it, the day of the 
 storm, they went in at a side door, and into the 
 little sitting-room where the senora sat reading a 
 dirty but romantic novel. Bayne explained in a 
 very hoarse voice that Min was soaked, and then 
 he and the child went upstairs to change, leaving 
 Violett face to face with the big woman in the 
 white dressing-gown, who for some strange reason 
 reminded him of the lady with red cheeks of hor 
 rid memory. 
 
 He knew that the senora played on little silver 
 barrels, on glasses of water, on bottles, and on 
 various other articles the musical qualifications of 
 which were not patent to the lay eye. But there 
 were no silver barrels to be seen, and the big 
 woman continuing to eye him with the lazy bene 
 volence habitual to her, he at length asked, not 
 timidly, but rather with a sort of reserve, "Won t 
 you please play on something?" 
 
 She laughed, showing beautiful teeth, and pick 
 ing up a pencil from the table, played a wonderful 
 tune with it on her teeth. 
 
 "How do you like that? " she asked.
 
 44 VIOLETT 
 
 Gravely he gave her his opinion. " It is funny, 
 but it isn t music." 
 
 She laughed again, reaching for the soiled pink 
 satin slipper that had fallen from her foot, and 
 picking it up neatly with her toes. 
 
 "Min s been talkin , as she?" she returned, in 
 spite of her Spanish name, in the English of Lime- 
 house Wharf. "Did she tell you she can fly ? " 
 
 "No," gasped the astonished Violett. 
 
 "Flies like a bird don t you, Min?" 
 
 The senora turned lazily to her daughter, who 
 had just entered. 
 
 " Oh, Minnie, are n t you afraid ? " Violett was 
 awed. 
 
 Minnie tossed her hair, which possessed the pe 
 culiarity of being tails in the morning, curls in the 
 afternoon. " I ain t afraid. Mr. Lobbs catches me, 
 and the band plays Don t You wish You could ? 
 
 She was an abnormally slight little creature with 
 blue rings about her eyes, and an exhausted voice 
 that now and then threatened to go out altogether. 
 She was only eight, always said " beaucause," and 
 her r s turned to v s, greatly to her distress. Vio 
 lett watched her as she made her declaration of 
 fearlessness with a strange feeling in his heart, a 
 feeling almost paternal. He loved her so ! 
 
 "Pa, play something to Stevie. E s never seen 
 a piano! "
 
 VIOLETT 45 
 
 Bayne laughed, and sitting down before the 
 black box in the corner, opened its mouth, and its 
 big teeth grinned a welcome to Violett Maule. 
 
 The air the Song and Dance man played was 
 " Loch Lomond." When he had played it he 
 turned. In his excitement the boy had drawn his 
 thick black brows down over his light eyes, and 
 his face was like a grim little mask. Slowly he 
 drew near to the wonderful thing, and stretching 
 out his hand without speaking, touched a few keys, 
 one at a time, very gently. " I want it to say what 
 it did to you." 
 
 The senora laughed. "Lord bless you, Stevie, 
 it was Bayne as done it ! " 
 
 Violett shook his head. "I want it to say what 
 it did to you," he insisted. Then he began to touch 
 the piano with both hands, in perfect rhythm, but 
 of course there was no melody, and suddenly he 
 banged both closed fists down on the discolored 
 keys, his eyes flashing fire. 
 
 The seSora was delighted, but Bayne, watching 
 the angry young face with sudden interest, began 
 to play the air simply, with one finger. The child 
 followed, slowly, hesitatingly: then he began on 
 another note and played it in a new key, counting 
 under his breath and going on from key to key 
 slowly, laboriously, but at last almost without a 
 fault.
 
 46 VIOLETT 
 
 Suddenly he stopped. "That s all clear blue 
 do you hear, Min? " 
 
 "What do you mean, Stevie?" It was Bayne 
 who spoke, his ugly thin face alight with interest. 
 
 "I mean the color of the song of the music. 
 It is blue; you hear it? It was red when you 
 played it first, but this is prettier." 
 
 Bayne shook his head. "But it s just the same 
 tune wherever I play it." 
 
 " Oh, yes," explained Violett patiently, " only it s 
 a different color." And Bayne, placing him in a 
 window, with his back to the piano, tried him in all 
 the keys. C major, the original, remained red, a 
 color he hated, and B flat major the blue he loved. 
 
 The storm was over and the sky clear again 
 when Violett said good-by to the Baynes and set 
 out for home. As was his custom, he went down 
 the road to St. Kilian s, as far as Bob Venn s 
 lonely cottage, and begged the good fisherman to 
 row him to the island. "Bob," the child said 
 as the boat bounded along over the high waves, 
 "Minnie s father has a piano." 
 
 "Has he, now? The Hector has one too, but 
 I ve never seen it. What s it like, Vi lett? " 
 
 Violett trailed his hand in the water. "It s a 
 big box, Bob, full of music that comes when you 
 call it. It is more beautiful than everything in 
 the world except the sea."
 
 IX 
 
 THAT night Violett awoke in his little dark room 
 with the most wonderful sensation. He had been 
 playing on a piano, making music that still rang 
 in his ears, and his hands rested on the cool keys 
 quiet and gentle, full of the stillness of strength 
 and power. He could play! 
 
 The child lay still for several seconds, enjoying 
 the consciousness with a keenness that was almost 
 pain, and then the keys were only the sheet on 
 his bed, and he only Violett Maule, who could not 
 play. 
 
 It was a bitter disappointment, but one consola 
 tion remained. Above and around the sound of the 
 waves on the rocks, interwoven and blended with 
 that music which had been in his ears all his life, 
 pulsed the splendid melody that he had heard in 
 his dream. And he knew that it was the song of 
 the sea which had suddenly become intelligible to 
 him. He had heard it all his life, and yet he heard 
 it now for the first time. 
 
 Quietly he rose, and dressing in the darkness, 
 for fear of disturbing Agnes and Michael, the 
 child went out into the night. It was a very black 
 night, moonless and starless. The sea was still 
 rhythmically singing its song; and standing in the
 
 48 VIOLETT 
 
 little garden, Violett raised his frail child s voice 
 and joined in the music. 
 
 It was the most beautiful music in the world, 
 and it had come to him. All his life it seemed that 
 music came to him, not that he himself made it. 
 His voice disturbed a bird in a tree; it chirped 
 fretfully. After a pause the boy went down to the 
 little beach. It was warmer there in the sheltered 
 cove, and the warm sand pleasant to his bare feet. 
 
 And the sea sang, and at its edge stood the boy, 
 listening in the darkness.
 
 THE next morning Violett was kept busy skimming 
 the froth from a brass kettle of cooking fruit. 
 Agnes was making jelly. He was not discon 
 tented, he was never that, but when dinner 
 was over, he sped at once to the Sea-Urchin to tell 
 Minnie the wonderful tale of the night. When he 
 reached the cottage he found its inmates very busy, 
 a surprising state of things. Mrs. Bayne was mov 
 ing slowly about the small parlor, dusting the or 
 naments, her white dressing-gown trailing rather 
 magnificently on the shabby carpet. Bayne was 
 in the garden, arranging in a corner under the trees 
 a table and several chairs, and even Minnie was 
 at work stuffing tight-packed bunches of asters 
 into three vases, on the little balcony, her hair, 
 instead of hanging limply far below her waist, as 
 was usual at that time of day, rolled up into hard 
 lumps on the back of her head and bristling with 
 crossed hairpins. 
 
 "Oh, Stevie," she cried as he came up the path, 
 "we re going to have company! A party! " 
 
 Violett stood still; his heart sank. 
 
 "Oh!" he said. 
 
 The senora, who had come out from her labors
 
 50 VIOLETT 
 
 and stood behind her daughter, smiled, and waved 
 her large white hand graciously. 
 
 "You may come too, Stevie. There is always 
 room for one more at the Baynes ." 
 
 "Oh, thank you, Senora. I I thank you." 
 
 His eyes filled with tears of gratitude, which 
 the big woman saw, and which gratified her. 
 
 "Only a few friends faithful friends," she 
 went on, laying her hand, in which the duster 
 might have been a lace handkerchief, on Minnie s 
 head. "A little supper, a little music that is 
 all. As the Bible says, a feast of friends and a 
 flow of soul. " 
 
 Her h s were unsteady, her a s trended i-ward 
 as the sparks fly upward, but her voice was big 
 and mellow, her manner really rather splendid. 
 
 Violett adored her. He had become used to her 
 resemblance to the lady with the red cheeks, and 
 unconsciously set it down to its right source: the 
 senora, too, had red cheeks and red lips. When he 
 had admired the arrangement of the parlor, which 
 had burst into a bloom of photographs and bric-a- 
 brac, and been taken upstairs by Minnie to ad 
 mire the seuora s gown that lay spread over the 
 bed, a glory of mauve satin and small glittering 
 things like fish-scales in the sun, Minnie sent Vio 
 lett home to dress. "I m going to wear my pink 
 sash, Stevie, an my co-vals. What 11 you wear? "
 
 VIOLETT 51 
 
 Violett s Sunday suit looked, as he surveyed it 
 an hour later, after having run all the way to 
 Bob Venn s cottage and prevailed on the fisher 
 man s mother, in the absence of her son, to row 
 him home, very inadequate to the great occa 
 sion. 
 
 "Agnes," he said gravely, "I need a new coat." 
 
 "Yes. You shall have one for Christmas, 
 Vi lett." 
 
 "But, Agnes, am I very poor? Mr. Barton 
 said there was money " 
 
 The old woman pushed back her close red curls 
 impatiently. "Thou s too little to understan , my 
 dearie. Trust old Agnes, and don t ee bother 
 bout coat. Come, brush your hair." 
 
 To his surprise, in spite of the tightness of his 
 coat and the shortness of his trousers, Violett was 
 a success at the party. 
 
 When he came in, shy and still, one of the faith 
 ful friends, a yellow-haired lady with big glisten 
 ing stones in her ears, gave a little shriek. 
 
 "Oh, you sweet boy! Come here and tell me 
 your name ! " 
 
 She took Violett s hand and pushed his brown 
 hair back from his brown brow. 
 
 "Lor, Dooloars, what a lovely little fellow! 
 Quite the gentleman, too ! " 
 
 The senora, who was fanning herself with Ian-
 
 52 VIOLETT 
 
 guid grace, nodded slowly. "Oh, yes, indeed, 
 Clare. Is father s istory is most interesting. I 
 must tell it to you." 
 
 Violett turned perfectly white under his sun 
 burn, and gripped the yellow-haired lady s hand 
 so tight that she winced. 
 
 "Good gracious! ow e squeezed my and!" 
 she said, with a giggle, as Violett drew away from 
 her and went out on the balcony, where Minnie 
 was sitting. 
 
 So the senora knew about his father. And she 
 had let him stay. And she was good to him. His 
 head whirled, his lips shook. He would die for the 
 senora. He would 
 
 Minnie looked up at him curiously. "Why, 
 Stevie, whatever is the matter?" she asked, 
 smoothing the folds of her very clean frock. 
 
 "Nothing," Violett returned. "Oh, Minnie, 
 how beautiful your mother is ! " 
 
 One of the men heard his remark, and turning 
 repeated it to the company. Every one screamed 
 with laughter, but the senora s dignity was un 
 shaken. "Poor child," she murmured to Mrs. 
 St. Pierre, who was a leading dramatic luminary in 
 certain small cities, " e s that fond of me. As I 
 was saying, is father was younger son to a dook. 
 I was told in confidence, so I cawn t tell the nime, 
 but e married " Violett was admiring Minnie s
 
 VIOLETT 53 
 
 curls now, as they hung over the back of her chair. 
 He did not hear. 
 
 His heart was big with gratitude and love. 
 
 Supper was served at seven. Beside homelier 
 dainties there was a great pink cake from town, an 
 umble tribute from the St. Pierres; chocolates in 
 a glazed box, brought by Mr. Lobb, a small man 
 with enormous shoulders and a broken front tooth ; 
 and to crown the whole, rivers of champagne, which 
 the company drank out of tumblers. 
 
 The senora, in the contemplation of whose sud 
 denly slender waist Violett was much interested, 
 presided with a grace the little boy firmly believed 
 unique; opposite her sat Bayne, his pale face 
 ghastly above his black coat and white satin cravat. 
 
 Mr. Lobb sat by the senora, Mrs. St. Pierre 
 by the host, Mr. St. Pierre, a youth of twenty, 
 and the other lady, Miss Mae Bohun, and the two 
 children occupying the other seats. 
 
 Violett was very silent, but he was so happy 
 that he trembled. 
 
 The old care-taker, Mrs. Binns, who lived at 
 Sea-Urchin Cottage all the year round, came in at 
 length and removed from the table that part of the 
 service which belonged to the house. 
 
 "I ain t a-goin to ave my things smashed," she 
 answered, when remonstrated with, "and I can see 
 ow things is a-goin ."
 
 54 VIOLETT 
 
 Instead of being angry, as Violett expected, the 
 senora and the guests laughed helplessly, and Miss 
 Bohun spilt her champagne on Mr. St. Pierre s 
 sleeve, an accident that apparently gave Mr. St. 
 Pierre the greatest satisfaction. 
 
 Only four glasses remaining after the rescue 
 by Mrs. Binns, the ladies consented to drink out 
 of the gentlemen s glasses. Violett thought them 
 all so good-humored. He liked champagne, and 
 the senora gave him a great deal. 
 
 Mrs. St. Pierre sang a ballad, about a little 
 boy who tried to find the road to heaven, whither 
 his mother had gone ; Mr. St. Pierre gave a reci 
 tation, of which he unfortunately forgot the end, 
 though no one seemed to notice the omission. 
 Bayne was urged to sing, and refused. He was 
 the least agreeable of the party, Violett thought. 
 Miss Bohun, urged to "do " a dance, regretted her 
 inability to oblige, as champagne always went to 
 her feet. And Violett, longing to do something 
 great and beautiful for them all, because they did 
 not mind about his father, leaned back in his chair 
 and fell asleep.
 
 XI 
 
 JIM BAYNE played every day for Vlolett. It 
 amused him to play something and then make the 
 child sing it to him. Then he would repeat the 
 song in another key, and Violett, commenting 
 gravely, "Now it s blue," or "Now it s gray," 
 his way of explaining the change of tone, would 
 sing it, almost without exception, unerringly. 
 
 Bayne could not talk much, for talking made 
 him cough, but once he burst out impatiently, 
 "It s all rot about the colors, Stevie! Music ain t 
 got any color, and it s wicked to tell lies." 
 
 Violett looked at him. 
 
 "I m not telling lies. It is true. Can t you hear 
 that that is blue ? And when you play it two keys 
 higher up, it turns green, like lime-leaves in the 
 spring. I wish you could hear it." 
 
 Bayne could not hear it, nor could the senora or 
 Minnie, so Violett tried to keep his sensations to 
 himself, but it no more occurred to him that he 
 could not hear color than that he could not hear 
 sound. 
 
 The senora, who was possessed of a languid 
 grace supposedly due to her Spanish extraction, 
 used to lie on the sofa during the lessons, nibbling 
 chocolates and picking up her constantly falling
 
 56 VIOLETT 
 
 satin slippers with her remarkably prehensile 
 toes. 
 
 "Play im something lively, Jim," she suggested 
 once, when Violett had been transposing "Loch 
 Lomond " into several keys, Bayne looking on. 
 
 Her husband shook his head. "No, Dooloars," 
 he returned. " E needs to ear good stuff, and 
 I m blessed if I know any." 
 
 Violett paused, smiling at him. 
 
 "It is all good, Mr. Bayne, what you play." 
 
 But Bayne shook his head again. 
 
 " E needs instruction, that s what e needs," he 
 went on later to the senora. " E s got genius, 
 that boy, and I I can t teach im." 
 
 "Genius don t need instruction, you old gaby," 
 Senora Dolores scoffed good-naturedly. "Genius 
 teaches itself. Who taught me to play on gob 
 lets?" 
 
 Years ago Bayne had had a sense of humor, and 
 even now the shadow of a smile passed over his 
 cadaverous face. Then he answered, returning to 
 Violett in his mind, 
 
 "Genius needs instruction more than anything. 
 It s a good slave, but a bad master." 
 
 But the senora had dropped asleep, and did not 
 hear him. 
 
 Mr. Winnock, the rector of the parish, was
 
 VIOLETT 67 
 
 walking in his sweet old walled garden a few even 
 ings later, looking at his ripening wall-fruit and 
 enjoying his roses, when some one knocked at the 
 gate. The rector opened it, and Jim Bayne came 
 in. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir," the man began 
 hoarsely, "I am the tenant of Sea-Urchin Villa." 
 
 Mr. Winnock nodded blandly. He was a large, 
 handsome man of middle age, with a peculiarly 
 fine voice. "Indeed? " he asked. 
 
 "My name is Bayne. If I might sit down? 
 I ve no lungs to speak of, sir." 
 
 The rector led him to a bench, and stood look 
 ing approvingly at the sunset until the music-hall 
 artist had got his breath. 
 
 "There s a boy that plays with my girl, sir, 
 and e s a musical genius, unless I m much mis 
 taken, which I ain t." 
 
 "A musical genius? " 
 
 " Yes, sir. E s only ten, and he plays by ear 
 everything I play for him. E plays Andel s 
 Largo in every key on the board." 
 
 Mr. Winnock was interested. " Dear me does 
 he, really?" 
 
 Bayne studied the handsome, rather stupid face 
 with the keenness of the clever man who has had 
 to earn his bread. 
 
 "I have heard you preach, sir," he went on
 
 58 VIOLETT 
 
 politely, "and I says to myself, Bayne, Mr. Win- 
 nock is the man to know what to do with Stevie ; 
 e s the only one hereabouts who would under 
 stand genius " 
 
 "You flatter me, Mr. B Baynes." Which was 
 truer than he knew. 
 
 " Only ten, you say ? But many children play by 
 ear. I did myself." 
 
 " Mr. Winnock if I may make so free, sir 
 you let him play to you. I m an artist myself and 
 I ve had a lot to do with artists, /know. Stevie 
 is born to be great." 
 
 The rector smiled at him. 
 
 " Sterne? Surely not Stephen Love, the shep 
 herd s boy?" 
 
 "No, no ! The lightkeeper s boy, Mr. Win- 
 nock. The little brown chap with light eyes " 
 
 "But that s poor little Maule! Violett Maule! 
 God bless my soul! Why do you call him Ste 
 vie?" 
 
 Bayne stared. " Violett ? E said is name was 
 Stephen Stephen Adams, sir! " 
 
 "Dear me, dear me, that is bad, very bad! A 
 child of ten lying about his own name ! However, 
 the poor boy has reason enough to be ashamed of 
 his." 
 
 Bayne looked his inquiry. 
 
 " It was his father who poisoned the little half-
 
 VIOLETT 59 
 
 witted child two years and a half ago, for her 
 inheritance " 
 
 "Was it indeed! Well really, now!" Bayne s 
 ugly face was full of pity. "Poor boy! " 
 
 Before he left the now shadowy garden, he had 
 persuaded the rector to shed the light of his coun 
 tenance on Violett. 
 
 Bayne said nothing to his wife and daughter 
 about Violett s real name.
 
 XII 
 
 THE rector came, heard, and was conquered. The 
 result of his interest was at first a most horrible 
 one to Violett. 
 
 He was given piano lessons. Every other day 
 he went to the Baynes , and for an hour was in 
 structed in the elements of the art of music by a 
 little Frenchwoman who had come to the neigh 
 borhood as a governess, married the village apothe 
 cary, and settled there. Her name was legally 
 Mrs. Patch, but she having, before her courtship 
 began, nicknamed the obsequious little apothecary, 
 in translation of his name, La Mouche, her pupils 
 in turn dubbed her Mouchette, and Mouchette she 
 had remained, though twenty years had passed 
 since her marriage. 
 
 Mouchette, then, a small, trim person with 
 beautiful little hands and an elaborate coiffure of 
 curls and braids, came, armed with a well sharp 
 ened pencil and an apple, in what Minnie and Vio 
 lett called her "ridiculous bag," to teach Violett to 
 play the piano. 
 
 Those were hours of rapturous torture for the 
 little old woman, for Violett hated his lessons, 
 and showed an ingenuity in tormenting her that 
 evoked Minnie s jubilant admiration. The apple,
 
 VIOLETT 61 
 
 cut into halves, quarters, eighths, etc., was used to 
 teach him the value of the notes, something 
 that he never learned. 
 
 Then he refused gently but absolutely to call 
 the keys by any but their color names, and as he 
 could play anything by ear when he had heard 
 it twice, the little duets she tried to teach him 
 nearly killed her. 
 
 Suddenly, without breaking off, the boy would 
 change into another key, and go on quite correctly 
 in that key, but thereby turning poor Mouchette s 
 simple accompaniment into the most hideous dis 
 cord. 
 
 Her admiration for him was infinite, but some 
 times she cried from sheer vexation ; then he would 
 kiss her pretty hands, and be very good for the 
 rest of the hour. 
 
 What they both enjoyed the most was when 
 Violett stood looking away from the piano, and 
 called out to her the names of the keys as she played 
 different things to him. 
 
 " Red ! bah ! horrid bright red ! " 
 
 "Oh, Stevie!" 
 
 " Well, C major, then. Go on ! That s green 
 I mean F sharp major. I should think any one 
 could hear that green." 
 
 lie was very dull about learning to read notes, 
 and never learned to count without great trouble.
 
 62 VIOLETT 
 
 Mouchette s shrill little voice was often raised 
 in a tragi-comic despair over his stupidity. 
 
 "Dieu, qu il est etonnant, cegar9on! C est a 
 la fois un genie et une bete!" And Violett, de 
 lighting in his new-found pastime of teasing her, 
 would repeat her words most accurately, and then 
 very rapidly say them backwards. 
 
 He had, too, a horrible way of playing things 
 backwards that drove her perfectly frantic. 
 
 "Oh, Stevie, you are a bad boy," Minnie told 
 him once, not without the vaingloriousness of a 
 "good child." Violett looked at her. He never 
 teased her. 
 
 "I am not a bad boy, Minnie. But I do so hate 
 all that stuff Mouchette tells me! The piano 
 never tells her beautiful things, and" He 
 broke off. Even to Minnie he could not confide 
 his conviction that the piano hated the lessons as 
 much as he did. 
 
 Sometimes he stayed away from his lesson, and 
 had to be fetched by Bayne, who in such cases 
 invariably found him either in the water or lying 
 very near it. 
 
 It then appeared that Violett had suddenly 
 found it perfectly impossible to look at a piano 
 that day. "If I did, all the color would go out of 
 everything," he said; and Bayne, who, though still 
 inwardly irritated by the persistence with which
 
 VIOLETT 63 
 
 he clung to his color theory, had learned the use- 
 lessness of contesting it, would sit down beside 
 him and try to persuade him always quite use 
 lessly to go back to the villa with him. 
 
 The rector was never told of these attacks of 
 gentle insubordination. Mouchette herself would 
 not allow it. "He is not like other children," the 
 little old woman would say, with a wise shake of 
 her head. "He is above us all, and we must give 
 him time. Only time will cure him of his divine 
 foolishness, and only time can ripen that most 
 delicate fruit, genius." 
 
 Once, while Mouchette sat waiting, gazing sadly 
 at her apple, Minnie went with Bayne to fetch the 
 truant. They found him on the beach, buried up 
 to his chin in the hot sand, his small face looking 
 very strange, thus apparently bodiless. 
 
 "I will not come, Mr. Bayne," the head said 
 gently. 
 
 "Oh, Stevie, please," put in Minnie. 
 
 And Violett came, as he had never since the first 
 day refused her anything. 
 
 The lesson was, however, a dreadful failure, so 
 that Minnie never again was allowed to influence 
 her playmate. 
 
 Thus the summer passed by. It was a beautiful 
 summer.
 
 XIII 
 
 THE first of October it rained, and the Baynes 
 went away. 
 
 Violett walked with them to Barnfield, where 
 they took the train, and then, having been kissed 
 by them all in turn, and having nearly choked the 
 senora, he watched the train out of sight and went 
 slowly back. 
 
 Back over the sandy road through the slant 
 rain; back past the dear cottage, where Mrs. 
 Binns, grim of visage, was slamming the shutters 
 to as he passed; back to the beach, the sand of 
 which was beaten by the rain to a darker color ; 
 back in the clumsy old boat to the island ; back 
 to the lonely old days, and to the Adamses. 
 
 Old Agnes watched the child a little anxiously 
 for a few days as he sat quietly in his corner, 
 house-bound by the pouring rain. 
 
 "He s lonely, Michael," she said sadly, "lonely, 
 poor child, and lonely he s bound to be all s 
 life." 
 
 Michael nodded. "Ay. Me an Bob Venn was 
 sayin t other day, God s curse is on im." 
 
 But Agnes shook her head indignantly. " Shame 
 on ee, Michael Corey. The God o justice an
 
 VIOLETT 66 
 
 mercy be n t goin to curse an innocent child for 
 what his father did. You re an old fool ! " 
 
 " Don t, Agnes ! T was you yourself as said the 
 boy was bound to be lonely all is life, didn t 
 ee, now?" 
 
 " Yes. But lonely is far from accursed, Michael. 
 Many a man an wumman has been lonely under 
 God s blessing." 
 
 And Violett was lonely but for a short time. 
 The rector s niece, Miss Kose Carstairs, the most 
 splendid, beautiful, and perfect young lady in the 
 world, came to live with him, and she chose Vio 
 lett for her friend. The rector, who was very kind, 
 as are so many pompous people, had allowed Mou- 
 chette to bring the boy to the rectory once in a 
 while for a lesson on the old Erard in the drawing- 
 room, and one misty day in late October Rose 
 came in. She listened to poor Mouchette s martyr 
 dom, for it was a bad day, and Violett s fingers 
 full of mischief; and then when the little old 
 Frenchwoman had hurried away through the yel 
 low dusk, Rose, who had made Violett stay, had 
 a long talk with him. 
 
 She learned all about the island, about Agnes 
 and Michael, about the Adamses, about Minnie and 
 the senora and Bayne. 
 
 Then she was told of the color of the keys, and 
 understood perfectly. She understood, also, that
 
 66 VIOLETT 
 
 there is nothing in the world so splendid as the 
 song of the sea, and even appreciated the fearful 
 joy of playing things backward. 
 
 She was an understanding person, Violett told 
 Agnes that evening, and understanding persons 
 are none too many. 
 
 The winter was early and severe that year. Of 
 ten Violett could not go for his lesson, but when 
 he could, Rose kept him for an hour after it, and, 
 quite opposed to poor Mouchette s rock-bound 
 musical principles, helped him to play by ear, en 
 couraging his small brown hands in their amazing 
 winning of the keys. She was a quiet-faced girl, 
 this understanding person, with an absent look in 
 her clear eyes. Violett always knew that she was 
 lonely. Once he asked her very gently, "Was 
 your father hung too, Miss Rose ? " 
 
 And she understood that, too, and kissed him, 
 and pressed his dark head to the breast whose 
 troubled beat he could feel. 
 
 Agnes grew more silent that winter, and more 
 fond of standing at the edge of the cliff, gazing at 
 the wind-blown waters. 
 
 She was a hardy old woman, and even when it 
 was very cold a small shawl over her head was 
 her only wrap. 
 
 The sea and the sky seemed to Lave for her the
 
 VIOLETT 67 
 
 greatest charm, and she would stand curiously mo 
 tionless in the whirl and flutter of her skirts and 
 her shawl, her old eyes fixed on the water or the 
 clouds. 
 
 "You love the water, don t you, Agnes?" 
 Violett once asked her. 
 
 "Yes. God made the water first, Vi lett," she 
 answered in her careful English. " The spirit of 
 God moved on the face of the waters. That was 
 before he made light. Sometimes I think that " 
 she broke off short. 
 
 "What do you sometimes think, Agnes?" 
 
 "Only that God s spirit rests on the water in 
 the darkness, even now." 
 
 "At night?" 
 
 "Ay, my dearie. At night; when it s dark." 
 
 "When the mist creeps up, Agnes, and you can 
 see the waves underneath, that s like God s 
 spirit, I think. I mean the mist is." 
 
 The old woman nodded. "Yes, Vi lett. Always 
 mind that whatever God does is right. Even if it 
 hurts, it s right." 
 
 One day when Violett was reading by the fire, 
 and Michael was at work chopping wood, Agnes 
 came in, her dress and her hair white with snow. 
 Shaking the melting flakes off, she sat down in 
 her chair, and Violett saw that she was very 
 pale.
 
 68 VIOLETT 
 
 "What is the matter, Agnes?" he asked, tak 
 ing her hard hand in his. 
 
 "Naught, Vi lett. Night is coming, that s a ! " 
 
 The child looked up at the big clock in the cor 
 ner. "Ay. It s nearly five o clock. Were you 
 out?" 
 
 "I was on the cliff. There is darkness on the 
 face of the waters." 
 
 She spoke very quietly, but he was awed. 
 
 "Agnes, I am reading such a nice book," he 
 said. "Shall I tell you about it? " 
 
 The old woman paused a moment before reply 
 ing, and then said suddenly, "Yes. Read to me, 
 dearie." 
 
 And Violet read : 
 
 " The sun s rim dips, 
 The stars rush out, 
 At one stride conies the dark ; 
 With far-heard whisper in the sea 
 Off shot the phantom bark." 
 
 The old woman listened eagerly, at times hold 
 ing up her hand and making him re-read a line or 
 a stanza that pleased her. Once it was 
 
 " So lonely t was, that God himself 
 Scarce seemed there to be." 
 
 Again : 
 
 " Alone, alone, all, all alone ; 
 Alone on a wide, wide sea."
 
 VIOLETT 69 
 
 Violett repeated the words slowly, proud of 
 having interested Agnes, happy at seeing the con 
 traction of pain smooth from her dear face. 
 
 " Alone, alone, all, all alone ! " The musical 
 beauty of the phrase held a great charm for both 
 the old woman and the child. 
 
 They both knew loneliness, and here it was put 
 into words in a way that brought the feeling back 
 to them, although they sat close together by the 
 friendly fire. 
 
 "Agnes," Violett laid down the book and leaned 
 his chin in his hands, "I am not lonely really, I 
 suppose, but I feel lonely in my inside." 
 
 "That s where loneliness is, Vi lett, I be 
 here on t island for fifty years, and I never was 
 alone until now." 
 
 "And why are you now?" 
 
 "Ay, why? Because God wills it, dearie." 
 
 The child was silent for a moment, and then he 
 said slowly, the peculiarly flexible play of his lips 
 distinct in the firelight, "It s like a great black 
 bird, Agnes. First it is high up in the light, an 
 then it comes lower and lower, and its black winjjs 
 
 O 
 
 shut out all the rest " 
 
 "Yes. Great black wings." She rose suddenly. 
 
 "Now I am going out, Vi lett; you bide here 
 by the fire." 
 
 The old woman caught up her shawl, drew it
 
 70 VIOLETT 
 
 over her head, and went out into the dusk. Time 
 and time again this happened. 
 
 Violett grew accustomed to her restlessness, and 
 with childhood s quiet acceptance of the inexpli 
 cable watched this new phase of her character in 
 silence. 
 
 Often he found her standing at the edge of the 
 cliff gazing seaward with a strange expression 
 in her old eyes. He, too, loved the great gray 
 waters the better when they were tossed heaven 
 wards by the wind, and the heavy splash of the 
 breaking waves below gave him a little shiver of 
 delight. 
 
 Michael s old joints were stiff with rheumatism 
 that winter, so that he groaned very audibly when 
 he walked. Agnes s youthful immunity from such 
 ills was a source of something like impatience in 
 him, and once when he complained of their un 
 equal fates, the old woman looked at him with a 
 smile so beautiful that tears rushed to the watch 
 ing Violett s eyes. 
 
 "Yes, Michael, thou be rheumaticky, and I be 
 well. God s will, old man." 
 
 One night a terrible storm blew in from the sea, 
 and Violett could not sleep. He was not afraid, 
 for he loved the roar of the wind, but it kept him 
 awake, and he lay warm in his bed, listening, as he 
 thought, to the cold outside.
 
 VIOLETT 71 
 
 At dawn he heard a door open quietly, and 
 hushed footsteps. Then it was day and he could 
 get up. Hurrying into his clothes, the child felt 
 his way to the kitchen, but no one was there ; on 
 the hearth lay last night s ashes. It was still too 
 dark to see the clock, so he lit a candle, and climb 
 ing up On a chair, held it close to the brass face 
 of .the old timepiece. Six o clock. Then Michael 
 or Agnes was up. The boy opened the door and 
 looked into the tempestuous morning. 
 
 It was gray, - the bare garden, the low, torn 
 sky, the very wind. And at the edge of the cliff 
 stood Agnes. 
 
 Violett went across the hard grass to her, but 
 she did not hear him. 
 
 " Alone, alone, all, all alone, " she said slowly, 
 and then again, " All, all alone. 
 
 Her hands, close wrung, were pressed to her 
 breast; her eyes were closed. Something in her 
 face frightened the child. 
 
 " All, all alone ! " He caught at her arm. 
 "No, no, Agnes, not alone," he cried anxiously; 
 "I am here." 
 
 For a moment she did not speak, while the set 
 lines in her face changed and softened. Then, 
 opening her eyes very wide, and taking his hand 
 in hers, she answered slowly, "Ay, Vi lett, thou rt 
 right. Not all alone. God is there his spirit on
 
 72 VIOLETT 
 
 the face of the waters and thou Now, dearie, 
 lead me back to the house, for I cannot see. I am 
 blind." 
 
 Violett learned a great deal that winter; he 
 learned to do all those things that Agnes could 
 no longer do. He learned to make bread all 
 but the mixing and kneading; he it was who mea 
 sured and sifted the flour, prepared the yeast, and 
 when Agnes had done her part, he put the dough 
 into the pans, and he it was who decided when the 
 baking was complete. He mended socks and gar 
 ments, grotesquely at first, and then for he was 
 deft-fingered neatly enough. He scrubbed the 
 floors and built the fires, and between times he 
 read poetry to the blind woman, whom he hardly 
 pitied, for she never pitied herself. 
 
 The days passed. Michael s joints unstiffened, 
 as did the lumpy earth in the garden, and Violett s 
 arms and legs were too long for his clothes, and the 
 water grew blue, and the sun yellow, and birds 
 sang. 
 
 Spring had come down that way.
 
 XIV 
 
 THERE are days in childhood that are full to the 
 brim of splendor, days when the sky is as blue as 
 a great flower, and the air as fragrant as if it were 
 indeed a giant violet bending over the green earth ; 
 days when one is so happy that one s voice thrills 
 like a bird, and one must turn somersaults and 
 sing loudly, and hug the people one loves, and even 
 these delightful methods of expression prove in 
 adequate. 
 
 Such a day was the twentieth of June to Vio- 
 lett. He rose early, and after helping Agnes make 
 an unnaturally exquisite breakfast, ate his share 
 with a face so brilliant with delight that even old 
 Michael noticed it, and asked him what was the 
 matter. 
 
 "Nothing, Michael," the boy answered, his 
 voice vibrating, "I am just so glad about about 
 everything." 
 
 "Glad Mrs. Patch is away, dearie, and you 
 don t have to go for a lesson? " 
 
 Agnes smiled gently at him ; she fully sympa 
 thized with his dislike of his music lessons. 
 
 "I wasn t thinking of that, Agnes. It s just 
 everything, you know."
 
 74 VIOLETT 
 
 "You re a good boy, Vi lett," Michael said, 
 as he rose from the table, laying his hand on the 
 child s shoulder. 
 
 Violett rested his cheek against the hand that 
 loved him. 
 
 After breakfast, when the dishes were washed 
 and the kitchen set in order, he ran down the path 
 to the beach, and flinging himself upon his back, 
 kicked his long legs joyfully in the air until he 
 was too tired to move, and lay in a delicious fa 
 tigue, listening to the clear sound of the little 
 waves breaking on the sand. 
 
 And suddenly all the Adamses came and sat down 
 beside him. He had not seen them for months; 
 he had not thought of them, but they were too kind 
 to reproach him. Every one was kind, that day, 
 just as everything was beautiful. They had not 
 changed, they had not grown, they were just as 
 they had always been, and he loved them. 
 
 "Do you hear the waves?" he asked them. 
 "Do you hear the lovely green sound? " 
 
 And they heard. He sang them the Song of the 
 Sea, and they could hear it in the measured beat 
 of the waves at their feet. They were very intelli 
 gent and sympathetic, the Adamses. 
 
 At length it grew so warm that they all decided 
 to go in swimming, and undressed hastily, Mr. 
 and Mrs. Adams and all the rest, and Violett.
 
 VIOLETT 75 
 
 The water was cool, but smooth and delicious, and 
 they licked their chins to taste the salt. 
 
 Then, suddenly, came a splendid idea to them : 
 they would swim around the island. And they did 
 it, pausing now and then to rest on a rock for 
 Violett dared not, for fear of cramp, overtire 
 himself or on a spit of sand, but proud of their 
 strength and the speed of their progress through 
 the water. Sophia, as the youngest, swam by 
 Violett, who helped her now and then, and gave 
 her little short orders, such as " Look out for that 
 rock, Sophia," or called to her, "Tell me when 
 you re tired, dear." 
 
 At last the party reached the rocks below the 
 Cradle, and climbed carefully up over the slippery 
 spikes between them and it. Then, with a sigh of 
 content, they rested. 
 
 Bob Venn, drawing near in his boat, shaded his 
 eyes with his broad hand. "What s that on they 
 rocks?" he asked. "Looks like" 
 
 His companion, Mr. Barton, the lawyer, turned. 
 "The sun is blinding it looks like a dog. Have 
 they a white dog on the island? " 
 
 Venn burst into a loud laugh, and swung his 
 boat to the right. 
 
 "It s Vi lett, Mr. Barton the lad himself, 
 an naked as he coom into the world! "
 
 76 VIOLETT 
 
 Violett, seeing the boat, rose and stood at the 
 edge of the Cradle. "Bob! Bob Venn! It s me! 
 Stop, an I 11 swim out to ee ! " 
 
 Venn hesitated. "Better send him back to t 
 house, eh, Mr. Barton ? You 11 want to see old 
 Michael? " 
 
 Barton shook his head. "Indeed I do not want 
 to see old Michael, nor his wrong-headed wife. 
 Let the boy swim to us, Venn." 
 
 So Violett scrambled down to the water and 
 struck out, laughing, towards the boat. Venn 
 dragged him over the gunwale. 
 
 "Here s Mr. Barton, Vi lett. He wants to see 
 you." 
 
 Violett pushed the over-long hair out of his face, 
 and turned, his under lip pushed out thoughtfully. 
 
 "Mr. Barton?" 
 
 "Yes. I you don t remember me, Violett, 
 but I I am your man of business." 
 
 "Oh! " The boy had remembered, and the sky 
 had lost its blue. 
 
 " 1 m cold, Bob. Give me something to wrap 
 up in." 
 
 Venn gave him his coat, and a minute later 
 Barton was explaining carefully, choosing his 
 words. He was a kind man, and the look in 
 Violett s eyes hurt him. 
 
 "Then .you mean," the boy said at length,
 
 VIOLETT 77 
 
 drawing Venn s coat closer over his breast, "that 
 I have <10,000, and you think I ought to take 
 it?" 
 
 "No, no, not take it. But you are how old? " 
 
 "I am eleven." 
 
 "Just so. And you are not at school. You 
 ought to learn something. Your father was an 
 educated man " 
 
 "I am learning I am learning music." The 
 boy turned away. Then after a long pause he let 
 the others see his face again. 
 
 " Mr. Barton I never quite understood 
 please tell me. It the money was Alice s ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And it is mine now?" 
 
 "Yes. Your cousin was the only child of her 
 dead parents, there is no one but you. You are 
 the last Maule." 
 
 "And I ought to go to school, Mr. Barton? 
 I can t go to school. The the others won t have 
 me. They won t play with me, they can t, you 
 see, because my father " He broke off short. 
 
 Barton was touched. "I know. But there are 
 other schools, where they would not know 
 and you could learn It is very sad, the whole 
 story, but you are young, and when all is said and 
 done, the money is yours." 
 
 Violett hesitated. He could go away and learn ;
 
 78 VIOLETT 
 
 people would not know; other boys would play 
 with him 
 
 Then Bob Venn said, drawing in his oars with 
 a loud noise, "Vi lett, lad, you can t touch that 
 money. You can t! It s blood-money!" 
 
 And Barton protested in vain. 
 
 Violett saw suddenly, as clearly as he saw the 
 sun on the water, that he could never touch the 
 money. And his shame rose up again and over 
 whelmed him. 
 
 "No, I can t take it! I can t! I mustn t go 
 to school! I mustn t learn! Other boys" He 
 flung off the coat, rose, stood a minute at the edge 
 of the boat, and then without another word jumped 
 overboard, and swam off. 
 
 Barton blew his nose angrily. "You are a fool, 
 Venn! A meddling, harmful fool! " 
 
 "A fool I may be, but I weren t harmful, Mr. 
 Barton. I was right. He must bear his burden 
 we has all a burden and no man can help 
 him, but clean hands is stronger than dirty 
 ones ! " 
 
 Violett swam slowly back to the beach. The 
 Adamses were gone. Everything was gone. He 
 was cold, and his soul ached. 
 
 He was the boy whose father had been hanged ; 
 and he must always be that boy. Some day he 
 would be the man whose father had been hanged.
 
 VIOLETT 79 
 
 Only the Adamses loved him, and they, he told 
 himself with mournful truth, were not real people. 
 Minnie Bayne did not love him ; she loved a boy 
 who was not a real boy, she loved Stevie Adams, 
 and he was Violett Maule.
 
 XV 
 
 "VI LETT!" 
 
 Violett looked up. Venn had rowed in near to 
 the beach, and sat smiling at him. 
 
 "Hello, Bob!" 
 
 It was July now, and Violett was reading in the 
 shade of a rock. 
 
 Venn s face was full of mystery. "Come," he 
 said, "undress and swim out to me, Vi lett. I be 
 come to fetch ee." 
 
 Violett rolled up his trousers to his hips, and 
 waded out. "To fetch me?" he asked, his small, 
 dark face aglow, as he stepped into the boat. 
 
 "Yes, Vi lett. Sea-Urchin is let again." 
 
 The boy s eyes darkened. "Is it?" he asked, 
 with an indifference that struck Venn as pathetic. 
 
 "Yes. It s they Baynes, Vi lett." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Yes. I met the man an the little gal, and 
 they asked me where you be. They called you " 
 
 "I know, Bob, Stevie Adams. There was 
 a lump in the boy s throat. "They think that s 
 my name. Bob, did they want to see me? " 
 
 "Ay, that they did. And here be I come to 
 fetch ee." 
 
 The boat turned the corner of the island, and
 
 VIOLETT 81 
 
 on the long narrow beach on the mainland two 
 figures were to be seen. 
 
 "I told em," Venn went on almost fiercely, 
 " that you re a good boy, Stevie Adams, and that 
 I 11 bring ee every day and fetch ee in t even 
 ing me or mother. The name don t make any 
 difference, Vi lett. Folks is fools that d blame 
 ee for for that. You didn t do it, an you be 
 a good boy. Never mind about t name. Let them 
 call you Stevie Adams." 
 
 "But, Bob, I am bigger now and it is a lie." 
 
 Bob slowly uttered an oath, that was not regis 
 tered against him. 
 
 "Some lies is better than some truths, Vi lett. 
 Thou s Stevie Adams to them, an God won t 
 mind. Here we be." 
 
 The boat had reached the beach, and just out of 
 reach of the waves stood Minnie Bayne and her 
 father. 
 
 The minute he had joined them and kissed Min 
 nie, Violett forgot all about his name, and became 
 almost drunk with joy. Bayne, who looked worse 
 than he had the year before, and was very hoarse, 
 was kind and cordial to the boy, and Minnie, in a 
 rose-covered hat, angelic. 
 
 Bayne sat down under an umbrella, and with a 
 word of warning to Violett not to let Minnie get 
 wet, went to sleep, leaving the whole world empty
 
 82 VIOLETT 
 
 but for the two children. They looked at each 
 other, soberly shy, and Minnie told the events of 
 the past year. 
 
 She had been on tour, and had several new 
 " acts " which were greatly admired. Her mother 
 had sung at the "Crown Prince," and had a new 
 silver gown. Father had been ill, and once in the 
 middle of a song his voice had suddenly given 
 out. It was very dreadful, but he was better now. 
 Stevie had grown. 
 
 Yiolett listened a little absently. The perfect 
 beauty of Minnie dazed him. Her lips were redder 
 than ever, her skin whiter, her hair longer, and 
 the shadows about her eyes deeper. She had not 
 grown, but she was thinner, and he thought that 
 a fat angel would be a horrid anachronism. 
 
 He was so happy that from time to time a shiver 
 crept over him. Only one thing distressed him, 
 the lie about his name. If she only knew! She 
 was so good, so perfect, she surely would not 
 mind. /She would know that it was not his fault. 
 
 And then he would be happy perfectly happy ! 
 The year before he had not minded, it had hardly 
 seemed a lie to him ; but now he knew better, and 
 there was a spot on the sun of his bliss. 
 
 "Minnie," he began suddenly, "there is a boy 
 who lives near here whose whose father was 
 hanged."
 
 VIOLETT 83 
 
 Minnie nodded. "I know. Some one told 
 mother. They thought you were the boy. Wi- 
 diculous! Ma said her daughter don t play with 
 caviminal s children." 
 
 "Wouldn t your mother let you play with a 
 a caviminal s child?" 
 
 Violett had never heard the word " criminal " 
 in his life. 
 
 "Not me!" Miss Bayne rose and shook her 
 curls with a new air. "Ma says we re poor, but 
 we re artists, and I couldn t play with that 
 boy. I d be afraid." 
 
 Violett s heart sank. "He would n t hurt you, 
 Minnie," he faltered. 
 
 " Oh, never mind that awful ca-veature, Stevie, 
 let s run to the rocks." 
 
 And they raced to the rocks, and she won and 
 was happy. 
 
 Bayne asked Violett to go to Sea-Urchin Cot 
 tage with them for dinner; and as Bob Venn had 
 promised to tell Agnes where he was, the boy ac 
 cepted gratefully, and the three waded down the 
 sandy road under a blazing sun, tired and silent. 
 
 The senora, most lovely in a peacock blue plush 
 garment, was very gracious. Since her success in 
 the London Halls her manner had become a trifle 
 more magnificent, but as she explained to Violett, 
 a friend is a friend, be e never so umble.
 
 84 VIOLETT 
 
 At dinner she drank beer, and under its enliv 
 ening effects became most motherly, and cried as 
 she told Violett that she too had once had a boy, 
 her hangel Reginald. Violett looked like her 
 hangel Reginald, it appeared, and sharper than a 
 serpent s tooth 
 
 Bayne laughed shortly at this point, which Vio 
 lett thought disagreeable. 
 
 Minnie ate quietly during the ensuing discus 
 sion. She seemed used to tears on her mother s 
 part and disgusted shrugs on her father s. 
 
 After dinner, as the two children sat in the gar 
 den eating apples, Violett asked suddenly, "Min 
 nie, why was your father so cross?" 
 
 "I don t know. He s often cross." 
 
 "But the senora was so so beautiful ! " 
 
 Minnie laughed. "How funny you are, Stevie! 
 Ma always talks about my brother when she s been 
 drinking beer. His name was Sam." 
 
 And all these things Violett pondered, on 
 Minnie, on the senora, and on Bayne. He loved 
 the senora, for she knew, as he believed, his real 
 name and yet was kind to him. He loved Minnie 
 because she was Minnie and he was Violett. 
 
 Bayne, with his hoarse voice and sarcastic 
 speeches to the splendid senora, the boy had al 
 ways been half afraid of; and this year scenes and 
 quarrels between the man and his wife were so
 
 VIOLETT 85 
 
 frequent and so hideous to the gentle child, that 
 his mild dislike for Bayne grew to something ap 
 proaching hatred. For if they quarreled, it was of 
 course not the senora s fault, but Bayne s. It was 
 even in some curious way his fault when his wife 
 scolded him because he had lost his voice and could 
 no longer sing. 
 
 Children are not logical, and the senora having 
 won Violett s heart through her lazy kindness and 
 what he believed to be her beauty, he unreservedly 
 took sides with her in her quarrels with her hus 
 band. He was even perfectly sure that if by any 
 evil chance Bayne should learn that he was the 
 boy whose father was hanged, Minnie would no 
 longer be allowed to play with him. 
 
 One evening when the children had been playing 
 on the beach, it began to rain, and they went to the 
 cottage. The house door was open, and they entered 
 hand in hand, without knocking. On the thresh 
 old they stood still, Minnie with a little shrug of 
 disgust, Violett with a terror that stiffened his 
 muscles to stone. 
 
 Bayne held his wife by the shoulders, and was 
 silently shaking her with all his force, her big 
 body, in its loose, dingy gown, helpless in his 
 grasp. 
 
 Violett saw his face and uttered a little cry; 
 then as the man turned, the boy jumped forward
 
 86 VIOLETT 
 
 and caught his arm. "Let go! "he screamed; 
 "let go! You are Idlling her! " 
 
 Bayne laughed. " You let go, you little fool! 
 Clear out!" 
 
 The senora sobbed out something unintelligible ; 
 and feeling his helplessness, Violett dropped the 
 thin arm he was clutching, and doubling up his 
 hand, struck the man with all his force. Bayne let 
 go, and with a gurgling laugh the seuora stumbled 
 to her knees, swayed a minute, and then fell face 
 downward to the floor, where she lay motionless. 
 
 Bayne looked at her for a minute, a frown of 
 pain on his pale forehead. 
 
 "Minnie ! Minnie ! " stammered Violett, 
 "She s dead! He s killed her! " 
 
 Then Bayne laughed aloud, and Violett, turning, 
 saw Minnie s small face and shoulders expressing 
 a mild disgust. 
 
 "She s not dead, Stevie," the man said gently. 
 "And you needn t have struck me in the 
 wind!" 
 
 Violett shuddered. "I am sorry," Mr. Bayne, 
 only " He looked a little wildly around, and 
 then at the inert woman on the floor. 
 
 "Mrs. Bayne is all right; you needn t worry. 
 She has been drinking, that s all." 
 
 And the mighty disgust that lies in most men 
 for the woman who has been drinking sent a hot,
 
 VIOLETT 87 
 
 sickening flush up the boy s face, and he drew 
 back towards the door. 
 
 Minnie took a red silk pillow from the sofa, and 
 kneeling by her mother raised her head and shoved 
 the pillow under it. Then she rose and left the 
 room without speaking. 
 
 Outside, the rain fell heavily; it was almost 
 dark in the small room. Bayne sat down and 
 leaned his head on his pale hands. 
 
 Suddenly Violett sobbed. 
 
 "And I struck you in the wind! " 
 
 The man gave a short laugh. "You did indeed, 
 but never mind. I m only sorry that you came 
 in." 
 
 Violett went close to him. 
 
 "Mr. Bayne I I must tell you. My name 
 is Violett Maule; I am the boy whose father was 
 hung." 
 
 Bayne looked up. " I know, Stevie I ve al 
 ways known. Don t you tell them, though." 
 
 The boy could not speak for a minute, and then, 
 stooping, he kissed Bayne s thin hand. 
 
 "You knew? And you did n t mind? " 
 
 "Not I. You ain t to blame. But don t tell 
 them." 
 
 " She I mean the senora knows." 
 
 " Dooloars knows? " Bayne shook his head. 
 "No, she don t nor Min."
 
 88 VIOLETT 
 
 This was such a surprise that Violett hardly 
 knew how to readjust his ideas. So it was Bayne 
 who knew and did not mind, and the senora, who 
 was disgusting, did not know. 
 
 And he had hurt Bayne. He bent again and 
 kissed Bayne s hand, his eyes full of tears. 
 
 "Please forgive me," he murmured, and then 
 rushed out into the rain.
 
 XVI 
 
 DURING the long months when Sea-Urchin Cot 
 tage was vacant, Violett s music lessons took place 
 at the rectory, in the old schoolroom where Rose 
 Carstairs had passed so much of her solitary child 
 hood. 
 
 The piano, a very ancient and unmelodious one, 
 stood between two seaward -looking windows, and 
 it was very hard for the boy to fix his mind on the 
 unsympathetic subject of counting while the sea 
 yonder seemed to call to him. 
 
 Rose Carstairs often came in and sat listening, 
 and on these occasions the work went better. There 
 was between the young girl and the little boy one 
 of those beautiful understandings that sometimes 
 grow up between two people destined to be misun 
 derstood by the world. Violett, always ready to 
 love as he was, felt instinctively that the quiet- 
 eyed lady listened to him with her heart. 
 
 And on the days when the rector bade his pro 
 tege come into the drawing-room and give a mod 
 est exhibition of his musical accomplishments on 
 the splendid old Erard, the child involuntarily 
 tried to forget the uninspiring presence of his 
 pompous benefactor, and to play exclusively to 
 Miss Rose.
 
 90 VIOLETT 
 
 "Now, Violett, show me what progress you have 
 made since I last heard you play," Mr. Winnock 
 would say, and Violett, telling himself seriously, 
 with mental pressure, so to say, "He is not here; 
 only Miss Rose and me are here," would begin. 
 
 First, with a curiously grim face and deep lines 
 of determination about his mouth, he played his 
 scales usually badly. Then he played a " mor- 
 ceau." His morceaux were usually the epitome of 
 vulgarity in composition, and he hated them. They, 
 too, went clumsily, impatiently. After them came a 
 short pause, while the rector admired the morceau, 
 and mildly regretted the inadequacy of its inter 
 pretation, and Rose went on sewing, a smile on 
 her lips. 
 
 "Now, Violett, play to us," the girl always 
 said, at length, and Violett would play. He 
 played all sorts of things, French nursery songs 
 reluctantly played to him by Mouchette and turned 
 into exquisite works of art by his sense of har 
 mony, scraps of things Bayne had played him, 
 songs that Bob Venn sang as his boat flew across 
 the water, old lullabies that Agnes had crooned 
 to him, hymns. Then he caricatured, a gleam in 
 his eyes, the things he had played, turning " Au 
 Clair de la Lune " to a waltz, and " Malbrouck " 
 to a minor dirge. These things delighted the 
 rector, and Rose listened patiently.
 
 VIOLETT 91 
 
 Usually it was afternoon when Violett made his 
 visit, and until five the rector was what he called 
 "busy" in his study behind closed doors. 
 
 Therefore by the time the boy came to that part 
 of his modest exposition that he loved, the wester 
 ing sun came in at the long windows, painting 
 strange creeping shadows on the old oak floor, 
 drawing wonderful tints from the faded satin of 
 the furniture, and spinning, like a great golden 
 spider, a splendid web of reality and imagination 
 over the lovely, delicately faded room. 
 
 And Violett, his thin legs hanging down from 
 the stool, his head thrown back, let his hands lie 
 on the piano, while it sang to him. This is what 
 it seemed to the boy. And always, every time, the 
 Song of the Sea came, and was listened to rever 
 ently, for was it not the first song that had come 
 to him? 
 
 Years after, Rose Carstairs wrote to a friend a 
 description of one of these afternoons. "His face 
 was to me the most beautiful thing in the world, 
 while he played. His mouth, always innocently 
 plaintive, had then something like the shadow of 
 a smile on it, and his big eyes, half closed, were 
 homes of melody. About the color theory, I do 
 not know what to say. It is for me nonsense, but 
 it is a divine nonsense, as poor Mouchette used 
 to say, and Violett believed in it as you and I do
 
 92 VIOLETT 
 
 in the gospel. He thought he could hear color, 
 and however that may be, it is certain that his 
 sense of hearing was marvelously acute. And even 
 in those days I could half believe that the piano 
 did, as he seriously insisted, tell him things, 
 only he should have said sang him things, for 
 it sang under his little brown hands in a most 
 wonderful way." 
 
 And as the little brown hands wooed the keys, 
 the good rector listened, much pleased with his 
 pupil. Then Rose gave Violett a kiss and a cup of 
 tea with much cake, and the boy went slowly, the 
 tips of his fingers still cool and sensitive to the 
 feeling of the ivory, to Bob Venn s cottage. 
 
 If Venn was not at home, he waited, sitting 
 silently on the doorstep, watching the sea and lis 
 tening to Bob s old mother as she tripped about 
 the kitchen preparing supper. 
 
 "Well, Vi lett, did you play?" the big fisher 
 man invariably asked, as he took up his oars, and 
 Violett as invariably answered, "Yes, Bob, I 
 played." 
 
 The short passage to the island was usually a 
 silent one, and when he had said good-night to 
 his kind friend, the boy sped up the steps to the 
 lighthouse, his eyes still alight with the beauty of 
 music.
 
 XVII 
 
 THE summer when Violett was nearly thirteen, 
 Bayne came alone to the island. The senora and 
 Minnie were, he told Yiolett, at work touring, but 
 he was too ill, and had come again for the sea air. 
 He was too poor to go to a hotel or an inn, and as 
 he hated to be quite alone, he wanted to know 
 whether Violett would rent him a room for a small 
 sum for two months. 
 
 "I ll ask Michael," the boy answered eagerly. 
 "I am sure they will." 
 
 Bayne smiled. "You needn t ask them," he 
 said, "everything on the island except the light 
 itself belongs to you." 
 
 But Violett asked Agnes, nevertheless, and she 
 agreed at once, glad to have some one with whom 
 Violett could talk. 
 
 "They say that folks as is blind from birth can 
 see with their fingers, sir," she said, when the boy 
 proudly brought his friend to her, " but I cannot. 
 You have been kind to Vi lett, I know. Surely 
 you will never be unkind to him or to us." 
 
 And Bayne promised. He was hoarser than ever 
 and thinner, his long, bent nose gleaming with a 
 curious whiteness against the yellow of his face. 
 He would never be able to sing again, he told Vio-
 
 94 VIOLETT 
 
 lett, but he hoped to get a position as clown in a 
 circus. 
 
 "My voice will make em laugh," he said, with a 
 bitter smile, "and my legs, too." 
 
 Violett had no social prejudice against clowns 
 as clowns, but he feared the work would be too 
 fatiguing for his friend, and said so. 
 
 "No, no. Charley Massey, the proprietor, is a 
 friend of mine, so I 11 get on." 
 
 " And Minnie and the senora ? " 
 
 They were sitting together on the little beach at 
 the foot of the path, Bayne lying comfortably in a 
 hole Violett had dug for him in the warm sand. 
 
 "Minnie s got a voice and sings now; Dooloars 
 is back at the musical game. Minnie will get on, 
 she s very pretty." 
 
 Day after day the two sat together in the sand, 
 and as time went by, Violett told his friend about 
 the Adamses, about his Somedays, about the books 
 he read in the winter. And then Bayne told him 
 that people could read in the summer, too, a 
 fact Violett had never realized. 
 
 After that, the future clown led the blind wo 
 man every day down the path, and Violett read 
 aloud to them. 
 
 Agnes liked the man, and was happy that he 
 liked Violett. Bayne s light eyes, with their look 
 of pain, used to study the old woman s quiet face
 
 VIOLETT 95 
 
 as she listened to the boy s voice, and the bitter 
 lines about his mouth smoothed away. 
 
 "I am happy here," he said one day, as Vio- 
 lett ran up the path for a drink of water. 
 
 " Yes ; there s God s quiet here," the old woman 
 returned. 
 
 "I don t believe in God, Agnes." 
 
 "Poor man, poor man! " 
 
 Bayne looked at her. "Why don t you ask me 
 not to put such ideas into Violett s head?" 
 
 She laughed. "No, no. I m not afraid of that, 
 Mr. Bayne. You re not a bad man." 
 
 The summer was a golden one, full of still 
 mornings and long, fragrant afternoons. Bayne 
 grew stronger, and even went in swimming once 
 or twice. 
 
 One evening when he and Violett were alone, 
 the man began, with something in his voice that 
 caused Violett to look at him quickly, "Violett, 
 did you ever hear of the Goths?" 
 
 No, Violett did not know whether they were 
 people or things. 
 
 "They were a people, a great people," Bayne 
 went on. "They conquered Italy and Borne and 
 they were heroes. Big blond brave men, Vio 
 lett, who were never hoarse and never tired 
 they were heroes." 
 
 "Oh, tell me about them."
 
 96 VIOLETT 
 
 " Yes. Well, I am writing a play about 
 them, Violett, and I will read it to you." There 
 was a curious proud timidity in his manner, as of 
 one who is used to being laughed at. 
 
 Violett was enchanted, interested, full of con 
 fidence, the best listener one could wish. Bayne 
 read the play himself, lingering over the places he 
 considered good, explaining the merits, deprecat 
 ing the faults. 
 
 He had chosen Totila, the blond king, as his 
 hero, beginning with his coronation and ending 
 the end was merely blocked out with his burial 
 in Numa Pompilius s tomb. The play was long, 
 clumsily constructed, and halting, but full of rough 
 poetry, and written in a spirit of adoration for the 
 beautiful, successful, betrayed hero that touched 
 Violett, he did not know why. 
 
 Bayne had once hoped to play the role of the 
 king himself, but long ago he had given up the 
 idea, and now his wish was to finish the play and 
 sell it to Arthur Wauchope, the great actor-man 
 ager. 
 
 "It is sure to be a hit," Bayne said confidently, 
 and Violett believed him. 
 
 After that evening, Bayne wrote every day for 
 an hour or more, and then read aloud what he had 
 accomplished. It was a happy time, and when 
 Bayne went away, bearing a shy greeting to Min-
 
 VIOLETT 97 
 
 nie from Violett, he promised to come back the 
 next summer. 
 
 The next summer Violett waited eagerly all 
 through June, July, and August, but no one came, 
 and no letter. Only early in September a big 
 package of books, "Rob Roy," "The Scottish 
 Chiefs," "Pendennis," "Oliver Twist," "King 
 Lear," and Keats s poems. 
 
 All through the autumn and winter the boy stud 
 ied his new books, learning pages by heart, read 
 ing aloud to Agnes, shedding understanding tears 
 over poor little Oliver, and following, with the un- 
 resentful sorrow with which he met his own wrongs, 
 the history of the poor old king. There was a mel 
 ody that came to him whenever he read Lear, that 
 grew to be the expression of the old man s tragedy 
 to him and to Rose Carstairs. 
 
 One day, when he had been playing it to the 
 young girl, she said to him suddenly, "Violett, 
 some one is coming here to-morrow. It is Son- 
 nenthal, the great pianist. You know, I told you 
 about him." 
 
 The boy nodded. "I remember the little man 
 with the big soul, the one you love." 
 
 She started. 
 
 "Oh, Violett! How do you know? " 
 
 " I know. Is he coming here ? Then that is why 
 you are so happy."
 
 98 VIOLETT 
 
 Kose bent and kissed him. "Yes, he is coming. 
 And he will play. Only you mustn t say that 
 I love him." 
 
 "Very well, I won t, if you don t," he answered. 
 
 It was a pity that no one was there to see the 
 beauty of her eyes as she answered loyally, "I 
 do, Violett, but you must n t say it. Oh, yes, I 
 do!" After a moment she added, her hand on the 
 boy s shoulder, "You must come some afternoon 
 and hear him play. He will help you to hear 
 mwsic." 
 
 "No one can help me. I must just wait," he re 
 turned, his arms folded, his heavy brows drawn 
 down over his eyes. 
 
 A phrase from the "Imitation" came into the 
 girl s head as she watched him: "Speak, Lord, 
 for thy servant heareth." 
 
 The boy s attitude of patient receptiveness 
 struck her as it had never done. He was a cup 
 held reverently for the heavens to fill. 
 
 A day or two later, Violett was shown into the 
 drawing-room at the rectory, to find Sonnenthal at 
 the piano, playing. Miss Carstairs did not see the 
 child, nor did the great man. Violett stood in the 
 doorway, and as the music went on, he dropped to 
 the rug in his favorite cross-legged attitude. The 
 little man at the piano, with his large nose and in 
 digo chin, disappeared; Hose, with her closed eyes,
 
 VIOLETT 99 
 
 melted away; there was no room, no piano, no 
 thing but a forest, in the centre of which a great 
 soft cataract tumbled over smooth, mossy stones; 
 and on the edge of the pool into which it fell, 
 ferns and forget-me-nots grew. 
 
 And then the river flowed on, through lush 
 green fields, under a blue sky, under brown bridges 
 where the shadows were deep, on and on to the 
 sea; and when it had reached the sea nestled into 
 its endless waters as softly as a baby into its warm 
 bed. Then that was the end, and Violett remem 
 bered, in the bareness of the silence, that he had 
 been hearing music. 
 
 "Thank you," said Kose Carstairs, very gently. 
 The man with the blue chin rose and came to her. 
 
 "It was beautiful?" he asked, "beautiful?" 
 
 "Rose," he went on, taking her hand and hold 
 ing it in his, "I love you." 
 
 She did not speak, but she looked up. 
 
 "And you love me." 
 
 Then she said, "Yes, I have always loved you." 
 
 Violett listened most innocently. It was a part 
 of the beauty of life, her face and the man s 
 voice. 
 
 "If you marry me," Sonnenthal went on, still 
 holding her hands, "you will not be happy. I am 
 not the man to make his wife happy." 
 
 "I do not ask to be happy, Felix."
 
 100 VIOLETT 
 
 "From that day, two years ago, I have known 
 that we loved each other, Rose. But I have tried 
 to keep away. Then the other day, I could no 
 longer do so, and I came. When will you marry 
 me?" 
 
 " Whenever you like." 
 
 He kissed her hands, and leaving her, went 
 hurriedly to the piano and began to play. 
 
 Violett listened, his eyes like silver lamps in the 
 dark. It was a rushing, overwhelming music, this, 
 sweeping away obstacles, hurting people, hurting it 
 self ; it was a flood or a fire. It hurt the child too, 
 in some way he did not understand. He wanted to 
 rush in and rescue Miss Eose, yet even then he 
 knew that he could not, that she could not be 
 helped. He rose to his knees, and crept away into 
 the hall and down into the winter evening. 
 
 The following day Sonnenthal went back to 
 London. "Where is your genius? "he asked, as 
 Hose drove him to the station. 
 
 "Violett? Ah, yes he did not come he is a 
 queer child! "
 
 xvni 
 
 VIOLETT was at the little church the bleak, dark 
 morning when Rose Carstairs was married to Felix 
 Sonnenthal. The child rarely went to church. It 
 was quite, three miles inland ; and since the begin 
 ning of her blindness old Agnes had had such a 
 fear of the water that she had gradually given up 
 leaving the island, and Michael had never been a 
 church-goer. 
 
 So the boy looked around the little old building 
 with a feeling of strangeness, while he waited, 
 shivering, for the bride to come in. 
 
 Agnes s simple piety and perfect familiarity with 
 the Bible had taught him most of the best of reli 
 gion, but very little of form. It surprised him that 
 people should kneel in prayer. His instinct was to 
 stand, his body drawn to its full height, his head 
 thrown back face to face with God. 
 
 "I should kneel if I were ashamed," he thought, 
 "and I am not ashamed." 
 
 When the short ceremony was over, and the 
 bride and groom stood in the vestry waiting for 
 the carriage, Mrs. Sonnenthal caught sight of her 
 favorite at the door, and sent for him. 
 
 "Felix, this is Violett Maule," she said, al 
 most the first words she said to her husband.
 
 102 VIOLETT 
 
 Sonnenthal took Violett s hand and looked at 
 him. 
 
 "You can play the piano? " he asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You can distinguish tones and notes by ear?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You love music? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Sonnenthal looked at the boy s hand with curi 
 ous intentness, turned it over, moved the flexible 
 wrist, bent back the supple first joints, and studied 
 the strong little thumbs with a leisure that was 
 rather resented by some of the people standing 
 near. 
 
 "Who is it?" asked Sir Capel Berkeley, the 
 greatest landowner of the neighborhood, of Mrs. 
 Pinckney, who put up her gold glass and examined 
 the great musician and the poorly dressed child 
 with careless scrutiny. 
 
 "I don t know, I m sure," she returned audi 
 bly. " Oh, yes, I do ; it s the lighthouse boy, 
 Maule s son. You remember about Maule s mur 
 dering his niece always such a nice, civil man 
 I was quite shocked." 
 
 Violett heard. 
 
 He drew his hand away from Sonnenthal s and 
 slipped quietly through the door into the church 
 yard.
 
 VIOLETT 103 
 
 His mother was buried there, close to a hedge 
 now bare and brown. 
 
 Violett could not remember his mother, and he 
 had never missed her. Agnes had been a mother 
 in all but fact to him. 
 
 Now, however, he sat down by the grave, with 
 its slanting mossy stone, and cried. 
 
 Five years had passed, and yet people did not 
 forget. And he knew that people never would 
 forget.
 
 XIX 
 
 A FEW months after Eose Carstairs s marriage 
 Mouchette died, and the music lessons came to an 
 end. Mr. Winnock, whose health, though quite 
 satisfactory to his friends, was considered by him 
 self to be failing, went to Italy for the winter, and 
 in his absence the pianos were locked, as a protec 
 tion against the curate s children, so that Violett 
 had no piano on which to play. 
 
 And the loneliness of mind and hands when 
 deprived of the bow or the keys ! 
 
 The boy was very unhappy at first; he awoke 
 night after night from blissful dreams to find his 
 fingers positively aching for the cool touch of the 
 smooth ivory. 
 
 At first the color of all sounds faded for him to 
 a dull neutral tint that was a gray to his ears, and 
 he sat for hours in the cold wind trying to hear 
 the color of the waves breaking. 
 
 Agnes was anxious about him. 
 
 "He s growin too fast, Michael," the old wo 
 man said once, "and he s just aching for music." 
 
 "All nonsense, a lightkeeper s boy iver to have 
 had lessons, anyhow ! " Michael answered gruffly, 
 but his eyes followed Violett s languid figure with 
 concern, nevertheless.
 
 VIOLETT 105 
 
 Gradually, Time did his work. 
 
 The hours in the rectory drawing-room grew 
 less painfully vivid. The boy s hands forgot the 
 haunting coolness of the keys, and the sound of 
 the sea was sea-color once more. 
 
 The winter passed and spring blossomed into 
 summer. One June day Violett sat in the Cradle, 
 listening to a splendidly rhythmical march that the 
 sea was singing to him. 
 
 It was a glorious, golden morning, full of the 
 joy of life, and the air throbbed with music. 
 
 When Bob Venn s boat appeared Violett called 
 to him, his voice vibrating with the instinctive 
 delight of youth in spring, "Hello, Bob, isn t 
 it aU beautiful!" 
 
 Venn waved his hand, with something white in 
 it. 
 
 "A letter for you,Vi lett from London ! " 
 
 It was the boy s first letter. 
 
 Slipping out of his clothes he crawled down 
 his supple little body white against the moss, brown 
 in the blue water and swam out to the boat. 
 The letter was addressed by Bayne, but inside it 
 was a second envelope on which some one had 
 written "Stevie." 
 
 Violett flushed with excitement. 
 
 "It it must be from her!" he said breath 
 lessly.
 
 106 VIOLETT 
 
 But there was no letter. Instead it was a pho 
 tograph. 
 
 The picture represented the little girl in tights 
 and a short pleated skirt, her hair hanging below 
 her waist in ringlets. Violett never forgot that 
 moment : Bob Venn leaning on his oars and smil 
 ing kindly, he himself sitting naked in the stern, 
 and Minnie s little pleased face smiling up at him 
 from the photograph. 
 
 The next event in the child s life was a very 
 different one. 
 
 Rose Sonnenthal and her husband came back to 
 the rectory once, to visit the rector, who was to 
 give up his living and had returned to make the 
 necessary arrangements; and the young woman 
 sent for her protege to come to see her. 
 
 Violett, coming into the drawing-room, beaming 
 with happiness, stopped short as he saw the pale 
 face turned to welcome him from the fireside. 
 There was tragedy and sorrow in the atmosphere, 
 and his painfully sensitive nature felt it at once. 
 
 Sonnenthal, who was at the piano, nodded good- 
 naturedly to the boy without stopping his playing, 
 and Violett, going quickly to Mrs. Sonnenthal, 
 stood looking at her and her baby, without a word. 
 
 "Hello! So you are our friend the genius! " 
 
 The music had ceased. 
 "I am Violett Maule."
 
 VIOLETT 107 
 
 "The boy I saw in the vestry. You have 
 grown." 
 
 Violett did not answer. His eyes were fixed 
 quietly on the speaker s face. 
 
 "Violett why don t you answer?" 
 
 The nervous anxiety in Rose Sonnenthal s voice 
 told the whole story. She was afraid of her hus 
 band. 
 
 "Yes, I have grown." 
 
 Sonnenthal was in a radiant humor. Calling the 
 boy to him, he laid one hand on his thin young 
 shoulder and talked to him. 
 
 "Can you play?" 
 
 "Yes, I can play." 
 
 "Have you worked hard?" 
 
 "No, Mouchette is dead, and Mr. Winnock 
 was away." 
 
 "But you hear sky-blue sea music, and red- 
 poppy-in-the-corn music?" 
 
 "Don t tease him, Felix dear!" Rose came 
 and stood by them. 
 
 At length, still jocose, the great man rose, and 
 shoving Violett into his place, told him to play. 
 
 Miss Rose s pitiful face before him, Sonnen 
 thal s recent music in his ears, Violett sat help 
 lessly at the piano, his thin, boyish hands lying 
 limp on the keys. Something was wrong. Miss 
 Rose was unhappy, Sonnenthal in a bad mood. 
 Violett could not play.
 
 108 VIOLETT 
 
 "Well, well, go on, begin something!" the 
 great man said impatiently, and Rose added has 
 tily, nervously, " Yes, Violett. Do play something 
 for the master. I have told him about you." 
 
 And Violett tried, and could not. He hated 
 Sonuenthal; he loved Rose. His head hummed 
 with hateful melody, that meant the little German 
 Jew with the blue chin, and beautiful, plaintive 
 silver-gray airs, that meant Rose. 
 
 With a hideous discord that brought a cry to 
 his own lips, he rose, turning helplessly to Rose. 
 
 "Ach! That is your genius, my dear," said 
 Sonnenthal, with a sneer. "You had better be 
 come a butcher of pigs and calves, Mr. Violett, 
 than a butcher of art." 
 
 Rose bit her lip helplessly. "Oh, Violett! " she 
 cried, as her husband left the room. 
 
 Violett caught her hand, tears rolling down 
 his cheeks. "Miss Rose, I couldn t help it! I 
 couldn t play! " 
 
 "But you used to! And I told him so much 
 about it. I thought it would amuse him it is 
 so dull for him here." 
 
 Violett wiped his eyes, and bending down to 
 her said very low and hurriedly, "I hate him ! " 
 
 Then he rushed from the house. 
 
 This scene often came back to him, the strength 
 of his reasonless dislike of the great man, who was
 
 VIOLETT 109 
 
 ready to help him ; the utter impossibility of play 
 ing for that man; poor Rose Sonnenthal s sad 
 face 
 
 He did not go again to the rectory. The old 
 longing for a piano had come back to him, the 
 dreams, the loneliness. There was music every 
 where, only the piano was needed to develop it, 
 and in the absence of the medium, harmony be 
 came discord. 
 
 One evening a few weeks later, Violett was sit 
 ting by the dying fire alone with Agnes, who was 
 asleep. 
 
 He had been haunted for days by an air that 
 would not come right, an air full of beauty and 
 strength, but that was hopelessly tangled and dis 
 torted in his mind. His slim hands, lying on his 
 knees, shaped themselves unconsciously to the key 
 board he was dreaming into a momentary reality ; 
 the firelight flickered on his hopeless, weary face. 
 
 For a long time there was utter silence in the 
 room, and then looking up, the boy gave a little 
 cry. Mr. Barton had come in and was looking at 
 him. 
 
 A moment later, the visit was explained. 
 
 "Violett," Barton said, "I have just heard from 
 Mrs. Sonnenthal. She wrote me a long letter 
 about you, and asked me to come to see you." 
 
 "Did she, sir?"
 
 110 VIOLETT 
 
 "It appears that you have a great talent for 
 music." 
 
 "I love music." 
 
 "Mrs. Sonnenthal tells me that for several years 
 you have had lessons at the rector s expense, and 
 showed great promise. SCm ! Since Mrs. Patch s 
 death, you have had no instruction, and no piano 
 to play on. You may not know," he went on, "that 
 though Mrs. Sonnenthal is much interested in you, 
 she cannot give you any practical help." 
 
 Agnes flushed, and her brown hands caught each 
 other tight. "If by practical help, sir, you mean 
 money," she began with timid pride, "Violett 
 needs no charity beyond that of word and thought." 
 
 "My good woman, will you let me finish what I 
 have to say? Mrs. Sonnenthal has no money of 
 her own, and I fancy from what she says, that her 
 husband has refused to help you." 
 
 "I hate him! " said Violett tranquilly. "He is 
 not good to her!" 
 
 "That s as may be. Now, knowing in a vague 
 way that you have a small fortune, and that I am 
 your guardian, she has applied to me, and I have 
 come to tell you that I am prepared to advance 
 you enough money to buy yourself a piano. You 
 can repay me when you are of age." 
 
 Violett never forgot the two faces, both turned 
 to him, waiting for his answer.
 
 VIOLETT 111 
 
 "A piano!" 
 
 It meant so much to him. 
 
 "Violett," Agnes rose and laid her hand on his 
 arm, "you hated the piano lessons, dearie." 
 
 "Piano lessons and a piano are very different 
 things," commented Barton impatiently. "Pray 
 let the boy decide for himself; he is quite old 
 enough, and your objections to the use of the 
 money are ridiculous." 
 
 "Yes Agnes. I must decide for myself" 
 The boy hesitated for a moment. " I will go out 
 for a little while." 
 
 "Yes. Go. And God go with you, my dearie. 
 Remember, until to-day you are innocent in God s 
 sight of that which your father did. But if you 
 partake of the money, you partake of his crime." 
 
 It was December, and the gray water was cold. 
 Violett stood in the little cove looking seawards. 
 It was here where he had so often played with the 
 Adamses, where the ocean had sung to him the 
 night his father had paid the price of the money 
 that was offered him now. It was here that he had 
 first heard in full the song of the sea, his com 
 panion now for many years. 
 
 If he had a piano, all for himself, he could sit 
 by it for hours, and it would sing to him all the 
 inarticulate but splendid melodies that he knew, 
 and the others, more beautiful still, which he knew
 
 112 VIOLETT 
 
 were waiting for him. It would mean a life brim 
 ful of splendor; it would mean happiness. 
 
 He would have it. He would take the money. 
 
 The feeling of the cool, smooth ivory came again 
 to his fingers, so strongly that he looked down at 
 them half expectantly. 
 
 Under the dull winter sky he dreamed on, and 
 at his feet the sea sang. 
 
 It was its own splendid, rhythmical melody, 
 the Song of the Sea, the melody that had come to 
 him years ago in the night. 
 
 And as the day was leaden and gray, its sound 
 was to him leaden and gray, just as in the sum 
 mer sun it was blue and flashing. The sense of 
 harmony that was so keenly his stirred the boy s 
 heart as he listened. The piano was to be his, and 
 it would express to other people the music of na 
 ture that they were too dull to hear. 
 
 And then with a little sharp sound in his throat, 
 he lay down in the chill sand, hiding his face. The 
 color was going ! Gently and relentlessly the har 
 monious grayness of the waves sound was fading 
 into a chaotic nothingness that was horrible. It 
 was as if the sky had lost its color, and become a 
 whirling blank above ghastly trees and inharmo 
 nious meadows. 
 
 Violett was frightened. Harmony had become 
 discord.
 
 VIOLETT 113 
 
 And then in an instant he knew why. His was 
 not at all a religious nature ; he did not say to him 
 self that his conscience had risen up in arms against 
 his determination to take the money for the piano. 
 He merely felt that to take the money was unnatu 
 ral, a sin against the laws of inner harmony, and 
 that therefore he must not do it. 
 
 Rushing up the path to the house, he announced 
 to Barton that he would not have the piano, and 
 opposed the man s practical arguments with an 
 eager obstinacy so totally unlike his usual passivity 
 as to surprise even Agnes. 
 
 "Violett, dearie," the blind woman exclaimed, 
 when the door had closed, and she and the boy 
 were alone, "I m glad very glad! But why? 
 What happened to change ee so? " 
 
 He gave a nervous shudder. 
 
 "I couldn t, Agnes," he returned simply.
 
 XX 
 
 THE line between youth and manhood is in most 
 cases less a line than a soft encompassing mist that 
 creeps about one until all distinctive landmarks 
 are hidden, and one wanders on gropingly. When 
 at last it clears away one must look backward to 
 see familiar things, for before one lies the un 
 known; one s feet are set on a splendid strange 
 path that they reached in the mist. 
 
 Violett s case was different. 
 
 He rose one day a child, and when he went to 
 bed, childhood had gone. He had grown to be a 
 tall, over-slight youth with thin wrists and ankles; 
 his dark hair, burnt by the sun to a rusty brown, 
 hung in a heavy lock over his brow. His face, thin 
 and brown, was long, the chin pointed, and the 
 unusually long lower lashes, shadowing his bright, 
 gray eyes, gave him a look of delicacy. 
 
 He had read a great deal since Bayne had been 
 at the island, and of late had discovered Keats, 
 whom he loved to the end of his days, the best of 
 all poets. Lonely, shut in, with literally no one 
 with whom he could talk of his books otherwise 
 than as an instructor, he had grown to be over- 
 thoughtful, over-dreamy, and the exaggeration of 
 the two qualities showed in his grave young face.
 
 VIOLETT 115 
 
 Late in the afternoon of his seventeenth birth 
 day, the boy sat in the Cradle, his arms clasped 
 about his knees, a book lying face down on the 
 rock beside him. 
 
 It was the worn volume of Byron that he had 
 found years before in his mother s little library, 
 worn, but with the inglorious wornness of disuse. 
 The leaves, thin as the lining of an egg, and 
 gilded, were gray ; the bright blue of the cover had 
 faded, but for the bright squares where smaller 
 books had leaned for years against it. It was a 
 mournful little book, and Violett did not love it. 
 To-day, for the first time, he had found in it some 
 thing that pleased him, and he had learned the 
 first stanza by heart. 
 
 " She walked in beauty, like the night 
 Of cloudless climes and starry skies." 
 
 He repeated it slowly to himself, and then was 
 silent, and thought of Minnie Bayne. He was now 
 seventeen ; that made Minnie sixteen. 
 
 " And all that s best of dark and light 
 Meets in her aspect and her eyes." 
 
 The world was so exquisitely beautiful, and Min 
 nie, now nearly a woman, was in it, somewhere. 
 
 In his simple thoughts Minnie s yellow hair still 
 floated about her slight shoulders, but yet there 
 would be a great change, and the thought of the 
 change thrilled him to his finger-tips.
 
 116 VIOLETT 
 
 He had thought of Minnie all day, for some 
 reason, and he loved everything. 
 
 When she came again, and she would come, he 
 would go to her with outstretched hands, and she 
 would lay her hands in his, and he would be 
 happy. 
 
 He had not seen her for five years, and yet that 
 day he fell in love with her; for his time had 
 come, and he knew no other woman. 
 
 All the beautiful things he had ever read ap 
 plied to her, even the poems of nature. She it was 
 who "was a phantom of delight," she it was who 
 was "like a red, red rose," whose voice was "as 
 the bird s in May." Everything beautiful in the 
 world was hers, and he himself was hers, and she 
 was his. 
 
 Childhood had gone.
 
 PART II
 
 HIGH up in an old house not far from the river, in 
 one of London s dreary, respectable poorer quar 
 ters, Jim Bayne lay in bed. The room was dark, 
 for it was November and late afternoon, and the 
 table lamp threw but a faint light. 
 
 Near the table the senora sat sewing, her fat 
 back bent over her work, her untidy hair bristling 
 with curl-papers. She had grown much older since 
 she had been at the Sea-Urchin, and the encroach 
 ing fat, as well as worse things, was ruining her 
 beauty. As she worked, she cast impatient glances 
 first at the sick man, then towards the door. 
 
 "He ain t a-comin at all, it seems," she re 
 marked at last, and Bayne sighed. 
 
 "I told you it was nonsense, Bayne, but you 
 was always that obstinate." 
 
 "He ll come," ejaculated the man hoarsely. 
 " Where sMin?" 
 
 "Rehearsin I D Orsay is goin to bring er 
 ome." 
 
 She drew her needleful of cotton through the 
 gay satin with a snap, and looked furtively at her 
 husband, who, however, did not speak for several 
 seconds. When he did, it was to say painfully, "I 
 don t like d Orsay, Dooloars."
 
 120 VIOLETT 
 
 "I know you don t, and it s very silly of you. 
 E s a gentleman, and mikes is pound a week." 
 
 "Not a gentleman. Oh, no, not that!" He 
 broke off to cough painfully, and she rose, and not 
 unkindly arranging his pillows, gave him some 
 water. 
 
 "Poor old chap, you re breaking up fast, ain t 
 yer? " she asked, with a mild curiosity. 
 
 He nodded. "Yes, I m goin thank Gawd. 
 If Stevie don t come " 
 
 Her old lazy good humor, of late such a fluctuat 
 ing quantity, came back with a rush, and sitting 
 down by him, she took his hot hand in hers, and 
 stroked it softly. 
 
 " E 11 come. E was always a good boy, Stevie, 
 an e was that fond of me!" 
 
 She smiled at the recollection, and meditatively 
 pulled the curl-papers out of her hair. 
 
 "Better put some clothes on," Bayne suggested, 
 smiling. "You ain t very fine." 
 
 A few minutes later, when Violett came in, the 
 senora was gorgeous in a yellow, much spangled, 
 if somewhat soiled, evening gown. 
 
 "It s so warm," she explained with an -exagger 
 ation of her old languid grace, "that I dressed a 
 little earlier." 
 
 Violett nodded vaguely. Bayne was dying, and 
 he had come to say good -by. That was all he
 
 VIOLETT 121 
 
 could think of. Even Minnie was forgotten for 
 the moment. 
 
 "I was afraid you d come too late, boy," the 
 man told him, "and I ve so much to say to you. 
 You remember my play ? " 
 
 "Do I! Of course I do." 
 
 " Well it s going on. It s going to be played 
 this year." 
 
 Violett flushed. "Mr. Wauchope? " 
 
 "No, no. It wasn t good enough for him. It s 
 a cheap company, not much, but it s to be given, 
 and that s the chief thing. I want Totila to be 
 good, though, Vi Stevie. That s why I sent for 
 you," went on the dying man rapidly, propping 
 himself on one elbow and gazing earnestly at the 
 boy. " You must act him." 
 
 "I, Mr. Bayne? But I can t act. I don t 
 know how," stammered Violett. 
 
 Mrs. Bayne poured some spirits into a glass and 
 laughed. 
 
 " Bayne s took it into is ead that you an no 
 other are the man to do it. E says you read the 
 lines so well." 
 
 "Oh, read! Yes, I can read, but I can t act, 
 Senora." 
 
 Bayne reached under his pillow and drew out a 
 ragged manuscript. 
 
 "Here, read it now, she s a good judge. Read
 
 122 VIOLETT 
 
 the part where he harangues the women and chil 
 dren, and tells them that they must jump into the 
 crater if the battle is lost." 
 
 The boy did not hesitate. He had known the 
 scene by heart once, and even now it came rushing 
 into his active memory from the recesses of that 
 passive one where so much lies half forgotten. 
 
 He rose and stood in the middle of the untidy 
 room, his thin shadow quivering across the floor 
 as he moved, and repeated the lines with his sim 
 ple dramatic taste, to which the warmth of his 
 young voice lent something very touching. 
 
 " And you, you Gothic women, in whose arms 
 Lie Gothic babies never to be men, 
 Your part is this " 
 
 On and on it went, rough and halting verse, sim 
 ply delivered, but thrilling because it held thoughts 
 that, turned over and over in a man s heart for 
 a lifetime, were written with emotion and truth 
 fulness. 
 
 When he had come to the end of the scene, Violett 
 looked up, to see tears coursing down the furrows 
 of Bayne s face, and even splashing on the senora s 
 yellow satin bosom. His own eyes were wet, as they 
 traveled to the door, and there he saw Minnie ; and 
 dropping the roll of papers, he went simply toward 
 her, both hands held out.
 
 VIOLETT 123 
 
 The young girl came in, a smile on her face. 
 "Oh, Stevie!" she said, and gave him her small 
 gloved hands. 
 
 It was absolute heaven, and Violett forgot every 
 thing for one second. 
 
 "Now then, now then, Min, who the deuce s 
 this young gent? " 
 
 The man who had come in with Minnie laid his 
 hand on her arm, and she and Violett sprang 
 apart. 
 
 "Now don t you be hasty," the young girl re 
 torted, with an air of conscious coquetry. " What s 
 it to you who I shake hands with ? Here, Stevie, I 
 am that glad to see you ! " 
 
 She smiled up at the tall boy, for she had grown 
 but little, and in her great eyes was a mixture of 
 two expressions, one of which delighted Violett, 
 while the other hurt him. 
 
 "Mr. d Orsay," broke in the senora in her most 
 magnificent manner, "allow me to present to you 
 Mr. Haddams, a young friend of ours a child 
 hood s friend of Miss Bayne." 
 
 Violett bowed, overwhelmed by the splendor of 
 a mother s calling her daughter Miss Bayne. 
 
 Mr. d Orsay, looking at the childhood s friend 
 with an anything but friendly eye, melted a little 
 as he observed the extreme poverty of the boy s 
 clothes, the shortness of his sleeves, the cut of his
 
 124 VIOLETT 
 
 hair. "Chawmed," he murmured in the deep voice 
 that was making his fortune as a polite villain. 
 
 Violett rudely paid no attention to him, how 
 ever, but stood gazing at Minnie until Bayne in 
 terrupted his trance by suddenly, without a word 
 of warning, fainting dead away. 
 
 When he was somewhat restored, the sick man 
 called Violett and explained what he wished him 
 to do. 
 
 "Mr. Chaffee, the manager, is coming in to 
 night, and you re to read the role to him. Then 
 he 11 take you to the theatre and you 11 see the 
 others. Oh, Gawd, if I could only live until it s 
 given ! " 
 
 Violett, to whom it never occurred to explain 
 that he wished to be a lighthouse-keeper and not 
 an actor, listened acquiescently. 
 
 If Bayne had chosen to have him climb the 
 dome of St. Paul s, he would at once have set out 
 to make the attempt. Bayne was Minnie s father. 
 
 Evening came, and Minnie and Mr. d Orsay, 
 after a light meal, went off to the theatre, the 
 senora having already departed for her music-hall 
 round. 
 
 Minnie, Bayne told Violett, was singing now in 
 light comedy. Her voice was very good, and she 
 was to have a role next year. As yet she was in 
 the chorus.
 
 VIOLETT 125 
 
 Violett listened eagerly, asking a question now 
 and then, but very quiet in his mingled happiness 
 and sorrow. He was with Minnie again, but 
 Bayne, who had been his friend, was dying. 
 
 "D Orsay comes around a good bit," Bayne 
 went on, "and 1 m sorry. I don t like him. Doo- 
 loars says he s a gentleman, Vi lett, but he ain t. 
 E s a gent, that s what e is, and Lord knows 
 that s far from being a gentleman." He paused a 
 moment, and then went on, "How old are you, 
 Vi lett I must n t call you that Stevie ! " 
 
 " I m eighteen, Mr. Bayne. In August, you 
 know." 
 
 Bayne sighed. "I wish you was a few years 
 older. Like s not she won t wait that long, or 
 Dooloars won t let er." 
 
 "Wait for what, Mr. Bayne? " 
 
 "To marry, Vi lett. Dooloars wants er to 
 marry d Orsay." 
 
 Violett pressed the palms of his hands very hard 
 to the arms of his chair. Minnie marry d Orsay! 
 
 "Will you let her marry me, Mr. Bayne?" he 
 asked simply. 
 
 Bayne laughed. "You re too young, my boy. 
 And then you have no money." 
 
 Violett turned very pale and went to the win 
 dow. 
 
 "You could n t keep a wife, could you?" The
 
 126 VIOLETT 
 
 sick man sat up in bed, his eyes bright with sudden 
 hope. 
 
 " Keep a wife " 
 
 "I mean ave you any money? A little would 
 do, Stevie just enough to live on" 
 
 There was a star hanging low over the waste of 
 chimney pots before him, and Violett s eyes were 
 fixed on it. 
 
 "Would she? I mean, do you think" 
 
 "Oh, Stevie ave you any money? This is 
 not the life for er, and she was always fond of 
 you I I could die appy. " 
 
 The money was there, in Mr. Barton s hands. 
 Formerly it had meant a piano; now it meant 
 Minnie. The boy turned. 
 
 "I" he began, and then suddenly he remem 
 bered the horrible tumult of the sea, that day when 
 he had tried to take the money; the awful color- 
 lessness of all sound; the discord of everything. 
 "I there is the island," he said, his voice so 
 harsh that Bayne turned and stared at him, "but 
 I have no money."
 
 II 
 
 D ORSAY used a strong scent, and the smell of it 
 was almost unbearable to Violett. The man in 
 every way was horrible, his smooth black hair, 
 his smart clothes, and his voice. The boy used to 
 watch him with a look that was almost horror in 
 his eyes. 
 
 Minnie, laughing, sulking, smiling at the actor, 
 almost broke Violett s heart. Once he ventured to 
 remonstrate. 
 
 "Minnie I wish you wouldn t look at that 
 that man in that way." 
 
 She burst out laughing. "Wazzum jealous? 
 Diddums want to bite the big black bowwow? " 
 she answered, and he drew back as if she had 
 struck him. 
 
 Mr. Chaffee, the manager of the touring com 
 pany that was to produce "The Gothic King," 
 turned surly when he learned that Adams whom 
 Bayne had assured him to be just the man for 
 the title role of the drama was a mere boy 
 who had never seen the inside of a theatre in his 
 life. 
 
 "Wait till you ear his voice," pleaded Bayne. 
 
 "Voice is all very well, but it takes more than 
 that to make an actor."
 
 128 VIOLETT 
 
 Bayne sat up in bed, his thin face flushed. 
 "There isn t one person in your company that as 
 a grain of talent, Joe Chaffee, and you know it. 
 Adams is a genius, I tell you oh, not for acting, 
 but better for music, an he reads aloud to make 
 a man sob. Wait till you ear im." 
 
 So Violett recited again the scene of the good- 
 by, and Chaffee listened. 
 
 The boy was no actor, but his gestures, full of 
 his own supple grace, his utter freedom from self- 
 consciousness, and the beauty of his voice struck 
 the manager. When he learned that Violett, far 
 from expecting a salary, considered Chaff ee s ac 
 ceptance of his service as a great favor that enabled 
 him to give pleasure to poor Bayne, the manager 
 melted, and Violett was accepted as one of the 
 third-rate band of players, in which he at first 
 believed utterly. 
 
 Chaffee had long thought that Bayne was mad, 
 and immediately put Violett into the same inter 
 esting and sometimes profitable category. 
 
 The rehearsals of "The Gothic King" went on 
 regularly, and some of the excitement of theatrical 
 life crept into Violett s veins. There was a won 
 derful charm in the dusty darkness of the stage, 
 while the company gathered, waiting for Mr. 
 Chaffee; and then when the electric light was 
 turned suddenly on, the boy s imagination saw
 
 VIOLETT 129 
 
 wonderful things in the shadows, the very heaps of 
 scenery were full of poetry to him, and the dusky 
 emptiness of the unlit auditorium was peopled for 
 him by creatures of his own brain. He knew his 
 role by heart at once, and soon was able to help 
 most of the others, whispering a forgotten cue or 
 joggling an inattentive elbow. 
 
 The other members of the company liked the 
 tall, silent boy, always ready to do a good turn to 
 any of them, and he soon learned that in spite of 
 his limited years he was not unpleasing to the 
 women and girls. 
 
 One of the latter, a little blonde with a dimple 
 in her cheek, after making in vain several flirta 
 tious advances to him, suddenly brought him to 
 confusion by declaring to the assembled company, 
 "Well, dears all, it s up to you to congratulate 
 Mr. Hadams. E s engaged." 
 
 "To whom?" 
 
 "To me. E proposed last night, and very neat 
 e did it, for the first time." 
 
 Violett stood still, his hands clinched tight, while 
 the girls and one or two of the men shouted with 
 laughter. 
 
 "Where s your ring, Maudie?" asked one man 
 at length. 
 
 Maudie giggled. "E s telegraphed to is guv - 
 nor for the family jools, ain t you, Ducky?"
 
 130 VIOLETT 
 
 Violett looked at her. "If I had asked you to 
 marry me, would it be so funny?" 
 
 He had no sense of humor, but he had dignity. 
 They all had a rough kind of humor, but not one 
 of them any dignity. Therefore they were im 
 pressed. They stopped laughing, and into Maud 
 Courtenay s* eyes came a look of curiosity that 
 stayed until it changed to something else. 
 
 One evening Violett and Minnie sat by the 
 window talking in low tones while Bayne slept. 
 Minnie was sewing some rosettes on a pair of 
 high-heeled satin shoes, and Violett watched her 
 small white hands as they twisted and turned over 
 their work. 
 
 "Minnie," the boy said at length, "are you sure 
 you like d Orsay?" 
 
 " Sure I like him ? What a question, Stevie ! Of 
 course I m sure, or I d ave sent im about his 
 business long ago." 
 
 "Your father doesn t like him." 
 
 "I know. Poor pa s very queer. Ma likes im, 
 though, and ma knows the world. Whatever made 
 you think of d Orsay?" 
 
 "I think of him often, Minnie." 
 
 She looked up at him with the precocious co 
 quetry of her kind, but beneath his steady gaze 
 her eyes changed and fell. 
 
 "You re a funny boy," she murmured.
 
 VIOLETT 131 
 
 "I m not a boy at all. I am a man." 
 
 "Then stop bothering me about d Orsay, and 
 
 say some poetry to me." 
 
 Violett hesitated for a moment, and then began, 
 
 almost under his breath, to recite, 
 
 " Bid me to live and I will live 
 Thy protestant to be." 
 
 Minnie dropped the little shoe and listened, her 
 eyes bent on her hands. 
 
 The boy s voice, always beautiful, was as full of 
 melody then as is a nightingale s. When he came 
 to the words 
 
 " Bid me to weep and I will weep 
 While I have eyes to see " 
 
 his hearer raised her own eyes, that had seen and 
 understood so much of evil for years, and yet were 
 innocent, and looked at him, while her lips shook 
 nervously, and his eyes, younger in some ways, yet 
 full of the wisdom given by solitude, held hers 
 until he had ceased speaking. 
 
 There was a long pause, and then Violett, lay 
 ing his hand on hers, rose. "Minnie it isn t 
 d Orsay," he said slowly, "it is me." 
 
 Bending, he kissed her, and when she looked 
 up, brushing her eyes with her hand, her face was 
 younger by years. 
 
 "Yes, Stevie, it is you." 
 
 They sat hand in hand in the growing dusk,
 
 132 VIOLETT 
 
 their young heads together, in an almost unbroken 
 silence. The little room s walls had melted away; 
 they were in a new land, so beautiful that they 
 had no words to describe it. It was enough just to 
 sit close and think together of the same wonderful 
 thing. 
 
 At length the sound of mounting footsteps 
 aroused them, and they started away from each 
 other, Minnie fumbling with the lamp, Violett 
 leaning against the window, looking out at the 
 world of misty chimney pots that had succeeded to 
 his Arcadia. 
 
 "Good-evening, Min; are you ready ?" 
 
 It was d Orsay, a carnation in his coat, his 
 newly cut hair curled and scented. Violett won 
 dered why he had ever disliked him, and turned 
 cordially. 
 
 "Isn t it a a beautiful evening?" he asked, 
 with the new note bubbling in his voice. 
 
 D Orsay stared. "Clean dotty, aren t you?" 
 he answered at length with a laugh. "It s a vile 
 evening, drizzly and cold. Heady, Min?" 
 
 Minnie hesitated, her pretty face flushed. "I 
 promised Mr. Adams he might take me to the 
 theatre this time," she said. 
 
 "You promised Mr. d Orsay first, then. Mr. 
 Adams can stay and admire the sunset from the 
 window."
 
 VIOLETT 133 
 
 Violett did not protest. Pie was not jealous, 
 and used as he was to solitude, even Minnie s ab 
 sence at that moment was pleasant rather than 
 otherwise. When the other two had gone he sat 
 by the window dreaming, so happy that he almost 
 wished he might die, for it lay in his nature uncon 
 sciously to doubt the possibility of the continuance 
 of such divine happiness. He sat very quiet, until 
 at length Bayne awoke, and called him. 
 
 "Min gone?" 
 
 "Yes Mr. d Orsay fetched her." 
 
 The sick man sighed, and Violett went on, 
 going to the bed and sitting down by it, "Mr. 
 Bayne, Minnie is going to marry me." 
 
 "You? But you said"- 
 
 "I know. But there is the island, and we have 
 always lived there, Agnes and Michael and I." 
 
 Bayne frowned nervously. " Live there always ? 
 Min ? It s an abnormal life for a young wo 
 man, and she s used to excitement, Min is. Does 
 she know she 11 ave to live there?" 
 
 Violett shook his head and smiled. "She won t 
 care, Mr. Bayne. We shall be together and by 
 the sea." 
 
 The sick man fell back against his pillows with 
 the sudden acceptance of the inexplicable common 
 to children and very ill people. 
 
 "I am glad, Stevie; I ave ated this rackety
 
 134 VIOLETT 
 
 life for er. She s that nervous and delicate I 
 am glad." 
 
 After a pause he added suddenly, "Stevie 
 don t tell er about your father. It would 
 frighten er. She ain t strong, you know, and she 
 as awful screaming fits." 
 
 Violett nodded, and went back to the window. 
 He knew that his father s crime was his; that 
 people who knew could not like him. It did not 
 seem cruel or unfair to him, for he was used to 
 the idea. 
 
 "Very well," he said after a pause, "I won t 
 teU her."
 
 Ill 
 
 MAUDIE COURTENAY sat on the floor, putting on 
 a pair of pale-blue silk stockings. Her plump 
 shoulders and arms , liberally sprinkled with scented 
 powder, gleamed white in the bright light; her 
 chemise, rich with lace frills, billowed about her 
 like the petals of a gigantic flower. It was at the 
 Regent s Theatre at Plymouth, early in January, 
 and the first night of "The Gothic King." 
 
 Miss Courtenay (formerly Miss Maggie Crumm) 
 was twenty-two years old, and had been on the 
 stage since she was seventeen, but this was her 
 first important role. As the young queen of the 
 Goths, she was to appear in a splendid garment 
 of purple velvet, liberally trimmed with cat-fur 
 and gold braid. This was very charming, but the 
 best was that she was in half an hour to win the 
 heart of her desperate bridegroom, King Totila, 
 who in a state of siege had married her merely 
 as an encouragement to his soldiers. 
 
 And Miss Courtenay was in love with Violett, 
 and counted much on the opportunities offered by 
 the dramatic situation of the play. 
 
 "Bless is pretty eyes," thought the girl, as she 
 smoothed the last wrinkle from her stockings and 
 rose, "I bet e gives me a real kiss to-night."
 
 136 VIOLETT 
 
 Violett, in his room, was suffering an agony of 
 stage fright, while his dresser bound his legs with 
 thongs, and he gazed at himself in the glass. It had 
 not occurred to him that he would be frightened. 
 The whole thing had been strangely impersonal 
 until to-night, but now he was on the point of 
 breaking down. 
 
 The straight black hair of his long wig hung 
 about his pale young face and gave it a strange 
 look. His sheepskin garment left his arms bare 
 in their youthful thinness, and near by stood his 
 great shield and sword. 
 
 "Jones," he said at length to his dresser, 
 "what am I to do? I can t remember one word 
 of my lines! " 
 
 Jones, a red-nosed person who had been on inti 
 mate terms, to believe his own story, with every 
 great actor of the past half-century, knotted the 
 thong he had been at work on, and rose. 
 
 "Don t you worry," he observed comfortably, 
 "they re all like that on first-nights. You d 
 orter seed Booth. Jones, e useder say, I m a 
 lost man ! I ve clean forgotten my lines ! Then 
 I d buck im up a bit and it d go all right." 
 
 "I wish you d buck me up a bit. I I don t 
 think I can go on." 
 
 Jones went out, and soon returned with a glass 
 of beer. "Drink that, Mr. Haddams, it s cheerin .
 
 VIOLETT 137 
 
 Kean allus stuck to beer, not too cold, which it 
 chills the inside." 
 
 Violett drank the beer obediently, and Jones 
 began work on his face. 
 
 It was nearly eight o clock, and in a few min 
 utes the call-boy would come. 
 
 " * You men of Goth who side by side the 
 boy broke off " who side by side - - Jones, 
 give me the book there under the curling tongs. 
 I ve forgotten it all!" 
 
 When the curtain went up on the great hall in 
 the palace at Naples, and the two generals had 
 carefully explained the situation to each other, two 
 men who sat in the stalls together smiled and shook 
 their heads. 
 
 "Chaffee is the greatest fraud that ever lived," 
 said the one. "Of course his company is frankly 
 third rate, but he swore to me that this one play 
 was worth something." 
 
 "Perhaps it is. At any rate, it is better than 
 poking all the evening at the hotel. Hello, who s 
 this?" 
 
 Through the great door at the back of the stage 
 came a youth, a long velvet mantle hung over his 
 rough fur doublet. He walked slowly, haltingly, 
 his head bent on his breast, and stopped in the 
 middle of the stage. Then he looked up and said 
 four words, "So it has come."
 
 138 VIOLETT 
 
 Arthur Wauchope sat up. 
 
 Violett hesitated, for he could not recall his 
 next words, and to help himself out repeated the 
 first ones, "So it has come! " 
 
 And the strange beauty of his voice was such that 
 one might have heard the fall of the usual pin. 
 
 Then the prompter s voice awfully and audibly 
 gave the cue, and the young king went on with his 
 soliloquy. 
 
 The play was absurd, full of anachronisms, of 
 bombastic speeches and impossible situations, but 
 it pleased the audience. When the body of the 
 centenarian herald was brought in with two large 
 arrows in his breast, and the king wept, Plymouth 
 wept with him, and the first act ended to a thun 
 der of applause. 
 
 "The king is not bad," the elder of the two men 
 in the stalls declared to his friend. 
 
 " He has no more idea of acting than of flying, 
 but he has a voice ! I never heard such a voice in 
 my life, except Edwin Booth s, perhaps. What s 
 his name? Adams," he read from the programme. 
 "I think I 11 go behind and speak to him. Will 
 you come?" 
 
 Violett was sitting on a bench talking to his 
 queen when the manager appeared, very much flur 
 ried, to introduce the great Arthur Wauchope to 
 him.
 
 VIOLETT 139 
 
 The boy, who had taken off his wig, rose and 
 bowed in silence. 
 
 "How old are you?" asked the actor-manager 
 abruptly. 
 
 "I 11 be nineteen in August." 
 
 The elder of the two strangers here came for 
 ward. "Is your name really Adams?" he asked. 
 
 Violett hesitated. "No." 
 
 "Then you must be Violett Maule are you? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I am Mr. Barton, Richard Barton. I am your 
 guardian, you know." 
 
 Maudie Courtenay listened curiously. 
 
 "I know," Violett answered. "Please don t 
 talk about it any more." 
 
 Wauchope grew impatient. 
 
 "Will you come to see me to-morrow at the 
 Eoyal? I have several things to say to you." 
 
 "Thank you. Yes, I will come." 
 
 The two men withdrew, and Maudie turned to 
 Violett. 
 
 " Violet s your name ! Perhaps you re a girl in 
 disguise ? That fat old bird your guardian ? Well, 
 I must s y. Perhaps you run away from ome to 
 go on the stige? " 
 
 Violett shook his head. "No, I did n t. Please 
 don t talk about it, Maudie." 
 
 The girl shrugged her shoulders and left him.
 
 i40 VIOLETT 
 
 Chaffee, who had just come back from accompany 
 ing his distinguished acquaintance to the door, 
 met her. 
 
 "This is a go," he declared, his face red with 
 excitement. "Guess who the young un is." 
 
 Maudie shook her head. " The real heir of the 
 Prince of Wiles?" 
 
 Chaffee pinched her arm. "Give me a kiss and 
 I ll tell you." 
 
 Maudie complied carelessly with his request, and 
 ran her hand through his arm. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "You remember the poisoning case about ten 
 years ago? A lighthouse-keeper on the east coast 
 poisoned a child with sugar and swung for it? 
 Well that was Adams s father! " 
 
 "Oh, Gawd!" 
 
 Maudie s remark expressed merely horrified ex 
 citement. " Not really ! " 
 
 "Sure thing. The old bloke with Wauchope 
 told me. He told me not to mention it, so don t 
 give it away." 
 
 The girl tossed her head. "7 shan t give it 
 aw y." 
 
 The next scene was in the tent overlooking the 
 Gothic defenses, and in it the young queen won 
 the love of her new lord. It was Maud Courtenay s 
 chance. When she found Totila weeping over his
 
 VIOLETT 141 
 
 shield, and laid her arm on his shoulder to comfort 
 him, it was a very living arm and a close. 
 
 Then, when they shared the last bit of bread in 
 the royal larder and she picked up the crumbs and 
 gave them to him on her palm, he should have 
 kissed her. The boy was an artist, but he was 
 not an actor, and he loved Minnie Bayne, so the 
 enforced contact with this other girl was disagree 
 able to him, and he avoided it as much as possible. 
 At length two generals came in and held the centre 
 of the stage for a few minutes, during which time 
 the king, his heart full of new-born love, talked 
 at the foot of the throne with his bride. 
 
 "Put your arm closer," the bride whispered. 
 He obeyed mechanically, and as he did so, she 
 swung forward, clasped his neck with her free arm, 
 and kissed him full on the lips, greatly to the sat 
 isfaction of the audience. 
 
 It was not in the play, and Violett shrank away. 
 "Don t! " he said sharply. 
 
 "Oh, Stephen, don t you love me just one 
 little bit? " she whispered. 
 
 "Oh, don t! No, I don t love you. I like you 
 very much, but " 
 
 Bending, she caught his hand, and to the audi 
 ence sweetly kissing it, buried her small teeth 
 deep in the fleshy part of the palm. 
 
 He did not cry out, and the curtain went down.
 
 142 VIOLETT 
 
 As he passed to his room, his lips pale with 
 pain, Miss Courtenay stood talking excitedly with 
 a little group of warriors and ladies. 
 
 "Hung, I tell you," she cried, " hung till his 
 neck broke! / don t want to act with no man as 
 has poisoning in his f am ly ; it might be eredit ry ! " 
 
 The listeners laughed, and Violett went on, his 
 feet dragging like leaden things. So it had fol 
 lowed him here, too. 
 
 The last act went fairly well, though his voice 
 failed queerly from time to time, and his acting 
 was obviously a tour de force, until towards the 
 end, when he had to divide a piece of bread, 
 brought him by a faithful slave, between his bride 
 and a dying soldier. 
 
 Breaking the crust, he held out half to the 
 queen. 
 
 " This quite last bit of Gothic bread 
 E er to be eaten by a Goth I give 
 To you, my queen, my bride. " 
 
 The queen took it, and retired to the back of 
 the stage, saying audibly to the king and the war 
 riors and ladies, "No, thank you, King Violett; I 
 ain t ready to die yet f " 
 
 There was a sudden, quickly subdued laugh, and 
 Violett lost his head. He stammered, forgot his 
 lines, and with a short cry rushed from the stage.
 
 IV 
 
 IT was raining when the boy, wrapped in a long 
 cloak he had caught up in passing, left the theatre. 
 The streets were gleaming with the lights, the cor 
 ners of the buildings rounded to softness by the 
 clinging fog that crept in from the sea. 
 
 The chill air was grateful to his hot face, and 
 the tears that stood on his lashes dried without 
 falling. 
 
 On and on he went, walking very fast, keeping 
 in the shadow as much as possible, darting across 
 the street or into some blind alley to avoid an 
 occasional wayfarer. 
 
 He must be alone alone to give his misery 
 head alone to suffer. 
 
 His aching hand, bound in a handkerchief, he 
 held to his breast, and with the other he gathered 
 close the cloak that covered his stage costume. 
 
 He was not angry, even with the woman who 
 had so cruelly wounded him; the laughter of the 
 others seemed to him most natural; it was only 
 that once more the fact of his being a pariah was 
 brought home to him in a way pitilessly distinct, 
 and he was facing as a man for the first time what 
 he had so often faced as a child. 
 
 Minnie would hear, and then she would never
 
 144 VIOLETT 
 
 see him again. Or rather, she couldn t see him 
 again. It was no fault of hers, and she would 
 suffer as much as he. 
 
 He had come to the lower part of the town, and 
 out on to the Barbican. To his right slept the 
 tall old houses ; an occasional pot-house window 
 gleamed through the mist; to his left, pale water. 
 
 Some instinct had brought him there, and the 
 voice of his old friend comforted him. He walked 
 to the end of the jetty, passing unconsciously over 
 the stone that marks the place from which the 
 Mayflower had set sail so long ago, and sat down, 
 his feet hanging over the water. 
 
 He tried to decide what to do, and then sud 
 denly everything seemed to have decided itself. 
 
 He would go home, go back to Agnes and the 
 Cradle, go back where nobody mocked him, where 
 he could be alone. 
 
 That some one would tell Minnie at once, he 
 had no doubt ; and he would not see her again. 
 
 It was cowardice, but there was bravery in it. 
 It had grown with his growth, nourished by the 
 nature of his life, and he had no strength to fight. 
 
 His courage was of the passive kind; he could 
 bear bravely, in silence, all that might come to 
 him, but he could not fight, and he could not see 
 Minnie shrink from him. So the next day, when 
 he had got his clothes, and been stormed at and
 
 VIOLETT 145 
 
 abused by the indignant Chaffee, refusing with a 
 gentle obstinacy even to try the role once more, 
 the boy left Plymouth, and went home. 
 
 It was evening when he reached St. Kilian s and 
 made his way to Bob Venn s cottage. The fisher 
 man, whose old mother had been his companion for 
 years, met him at the door with a drawn face and 
 red eyes. 
 
 "Mother s gone, Vi lett,"he said, too much ab 
 sorbed in his own grief to notice the suddenness of 
 the boy s appearance. "Her went Sunday." 
 
 "Oh, Bob!" 
 
 "Yes. And I m alone now. Come in an look 
 at er. She s jest sleepin like." 
 
 On the clean white bed the little old woman 
 lay, in a decent black gown, her hands clasped on 
 her breast. 
 
 "She grow d littler and littler all winter. It 
 weren t a sickness, she said; it were jest like a 
 tree in the autumn, dry in up." The big man sat 
 down and looked at his dead. 
 
 "It s a wonderful thing, a mother, Vi lett," he 
 went on. "Other folks can love you, but only your 
 mother understands. She works for you, looks 
 after you, loves you, forgives you anything you 
 may do, understands you, and then the only thing 
 bad she iver does to you is to die an leave you." 
 
 Violett nodded. " She was tired, Bob, perhaps ? "
 
 146 VIOLETT 
 
 "Tired? Not her ! Not my old wumman ! Tired 
 o doing for me? Nay, nay, lad, you never had a 
 mother, so to speak; you can t know." He laid 
 his great hand very gently on the little cold folded 
 ones. 
 
 "Vi lett, I m a-goin to bury her to-night. 
 Will ee come along an help me? " 
 
 "To-night, Bob Venn?" 
 
 "Yes. No passon and churchyard for her. My 
 father was drownded, an she loved the watter." 
 
 "Are you going to to drown her?" stam 
 mered the boy. 
 
 Venn laughed. "I be a-goin to take her out 
 in my boat, an let her sink down through God s 
 clear watter. Then when I m fishing, or coming 
 home in the sunset, or goin out before the dawn, 
 Vi lett, she 11 be near me. Will ee come? " 
 
 "Yes, I 11 come." 
 
 Venn went to the kitchen, and came back with 
 three flatirons. "Weights," he said, simply ex 
 planatory. "They ve served her many a time; 
 they shall serve her this once more." 
 
 He handed the flatirons to the boy, and then 
 taking a gray woolen cloak down from its nail, 
 laid it over the old woman, and lifted her gently 
 in his arms. 
 
 It was but a step from the cottage down the 
 steep path to the shore, and a few yards out the
 
 VIOLETT 147 
 
 little boat was dancing like a wraith in the faint 
 starlight. 
 
 Venn waded in, and Violett followed. The old 
 woman lay in the stern, decently covered with her 
 cloak, as the boat, its anchor pulled up, sped away 
 from the neighborhood of the shore. 
 
 Violett sat very quiet, watching the stars. He 
 was glad to be at home, and the sort of apathy 
 that had come over him was not unpleasing. 
 
 He would help Agnes, who knew and loved him, 
 he would help Michael, he would try to comfort 
 Bob Venn. He shuddered at the thought of his 
 recent experience, and his hand ached. 
 
 After a short run Venn pulled in his sail and 
 dropped anchor. 
 
 "This will do," he said briefly. "The cottage 
 is in sight, and the light, and I can pass here as 
 often as I like." 
 
 He uncovered the dead woman s quiet face and 
 looked at her for a moment. Then he fastened the 
 flatirons to her feet and waist, and lifted her. He 
 did not speak again, and his eyes were dry. When 
 he had let her slip gently out of his arms into the 
 waiting water there was a short pause. 
 
 "Strange, Vi lett," he said, at last, looking to 
 wards the quiet stars, "I sent her down, but she s 
 gone straight up yonder ! " 
 
 The boat skimmed onward towards the island,
 
 148 VIOLETT 
 
 where the great steady light glowed against the 
 sky. 
 
 "Have you come back for good, Vi lett?" 
 
 The boy started. 
 
 "Yes, Bob Venn." 
 
 "Was it very bad?" 
 
 "Yes. Bad enough." 
 
 "Because of that which you can t help?" 
 
 "Yes. People can t stand it, you see. It is too 
 bad. You and Agnes and Michael don t mind, 
 though, do you?" 
 
 "No, an my old wumman neither, she didn t 
 mind, and I tell you, Vi lett, gentlemen and ladies 
 wouldn t mind either. It s the other kind of peo 
 ple as can t stand it. It s main sad you be n t a 
 gentleman, for then no one d bring it up gainst 
 you. God makes all people equal, that s true. All 
 little bare babies is equal, but he lets em grow up 
 very unequal, an the ones that grow up ladies 
 and gentlemen understands better." 
 
 Violett looked wistfully at him. 
 
 "Yes, I wish I was a gentleman," he said.
 
 Two days after his return, Violett was at work 
 making some slight repairs to one of the wicks of 
 the great light. 
 
 It was a mild day, full of the trouble of early 
 spring, though it was only January. The boy sat 
 on the floor of the little platform, the sky blue 
 above him, but his heart heavy in his breast. 
 
 Even to his passive, patient nature, renunciation 
 was hard ; and he had renounced not only Minnie, 
 but, it seemed to him, life itself. 
 
 He had once more proved that his father s act 
 had put him, the son, beyond the pale, that the 
 only place left for him was the island. And he 
 was eighteen years old. He recalled, as he worked, 
 the hours passed with Minnie by her father s bed 
 side, the evenings when she had come home tired 
 from the theatre, and his had been the privilege of 
 preparing a little supper for her. 
 
 One Sunday they had walked in the Park, and 
 Minnie had told him who some of the occupants 
 of the beautiful carriages were, for she was well 
 informed about many things of which he, of course, 
 was utterly ignorant. 
 
 Another Sunday they had walked on the Em 
 bankment, in the evening, and watched the lights
 
 150 VIOLETT 
 
 bursting out of the misty gloom. The magic of 
 that hour in a great city is very strong to such 
 natures as the boy s; the mystery of human life 
 wonderful, as the passers-by disappear, never to be 
 seen again, the rich and the poor, the happy 
 and the miserable. 
 
 It had struck Violett, he remembered, that one 
 could count in the absent on the regular fulfilling 
 of but two things, their eating and their sleeping. 
 In that all men are alike. 
 
 What Minnie was doing he could not tell, but 
 he knew she drank coffee at half-past eight, ate 
 meat at noon, and tea and bread and butter before 
 the sleep in which she must sometimes dream of 
 him. 
 
 The sound of Michael s slow footsteps toiling up 
 the stairs roused him from his reverie. 
 
 " Vi lett, Vi lett," the old man began, before his 
 head had appeared out of the darkness, "a tele 
 gram for ee! " 
 
 Then the lined old face appeared, served up on 
 his red muffler as on a plate, his eyes gleaming 
 with curiosity. 
 
 " Violett Maule, Maule Island, St. Kilian s, 
 Xshire. That s you, Vi lett. Now open it and 
 let s see who be a-sendin us telegrams." 
 
 Violett took the dispatch and opened it with icy 
 fingers. It was the first he had ever seen in his life.
 
 VIOLETT 151 
 
 "Please come back. Minnie." 
 
 With a cry, he crushed the paper to his lips, 
 and rushed down the dark stairs at a break-neck 
 speed. He was to go back ! She wanted him ! 
 
 He flew through the muddy garden and down 
 the path, hardly knowing whither he was bound, 
 and then, when he found himself close to the sea, 
 lay down in the warm, wet sand, and cried his 
 heart out. 
 
 The waves whispered, "Minnie." A great gull 
 that whirred above him rejoiced with him. The 
 very sky was blue and light with sympathy. 
 
 The boy rose at length, and returned to the 
 house, where old Agnes sat patiently waiting for 
 an explanation. 
 
 "Agnes," he said, kissing her worn cheek, "I 
 am going to be married." 
 
 "Married! You married, Vi lett? Bless and 
 save us, lad, have ee lost your wits? " 
 
 "To Minnie Minnie Bayne. Agnes," he 
 added solemnly, "she is an angel." 
 
 Agnes had never seen Minnie, but she had all 
 a woman s natural distrust of the unknown woman 
 loved by a dear man. 
 
 "Women be n t angels, Vi lett," she said, pass 
 ing her hand over his face and feeling his tremu 
 lous smile. "I pray she is a good girl, and that 
 will suffice."
 
 152 VIOLETT 
 
 "She is a good girl. And oh, she is so beauti 
 ful, Agnes! If only you could see her! " 
 
 He sat down on his little old stool, his knees 
 under his chin, his hand in the old woman s. 
 "Shall I tell you what she looks like? " 
 
 "Ay, tell me, dearie." 
 
 The clock drowsed in the corner, the low fire 
 glowed, and Violett described his lady. 
 
 "She is small, Agnes, slight, with narrow feet 
 and hands oh, her little pointed fingers! Her 
 hair is yellow like ripe corn, but with a lustre like 
 sunlight. Her face is small and white, with dark 
 eyebrows, each like a tiny feather, and her eyes 
 are blue, dark blue, like the sea, sometimes almost 
 purple, sometimes almost gray. Her nose I 
 never noticed her nose," he added dreamily, "but 
 her mouth ! Ah, the dear mouth ! It is pink, and 
 smooth like a rose leaf, and curved like the inside 
 of a shell. It is warm and sweet " 
 
 He broke off, staring into the fire. 
 
 "A young maid s mouth, Vi lett, to the lad that 
 loves her," remarked Agnes gently, a smile in her 
 blind eyes. "Now tell me about her heart." 
 
 "Ah, she is kind and gentle and loving. She 
 is busy and quiet and cheerful, and sometimes very 
 tired, when she must sit quite still, with her little 
 hands idle. Then the dear shadows under her eyes 
 are darker, and the corners of her mouth droop."
 
 VIOLETT 153 
 
 "Weakly like?" 
 
 "Yes. She is not strong. Every night she must 
 sing in a theatre, you know. Once I went to 
 hear her. There were a great many girls singing 
 together, but I could hear her voice above all the 
 others." 
 
 "She is a play-actress?" asked Agnes very 
 gently, to hide the sudden pang that smote her. 
 
 "Yes. Of course. You knew that Mr. Bayne 
 was." 
 
 "I had forgotten. And when you are married, 
 Violett, where shall you live? " 
 
 "Live? I don t know. Together." 
 
 She had n t the heart to insist. He had no 
 plans; that she saw. Always vague, he was now 
 in his enveloping happiness vaguer than ever. In 
 silence they sat by the dying fire, each occupied 
 with the thought of the little chorus girl in Lon 
 don. 
 
 And the sun went down, and night crept in from 
 the sea.
 
 VI 
 
 WHEN Violett arrived in London the second time, 
 he was met, to his great delight, by Mrs. Bayne, 
 resplendent in an olive plush mantle and a very 
 plumy bonnet. 
 
 "My dear boy I may say, my dear sou," she 
 began majestically, extending to him a fat hand 
 in a soiled white kid glove, "welcome!" And if 
 the mayor and corporation had offered him the 
 freedom of the city on a purple cushion, the boy 
 could not have been prouder. 
 
 "Bayne being still confined to his room," the 
 senora went on, as they left the station and stood 
 waiting for the enchanted bus that was to fly with 
 them to Minnie s side, "I decided to come myself 
 to meet you, for as I said to Bayne, James, this 
 is no hordinary occasion. 
 
 The bus stopped, and the senora being with 
 some difficulty hoisted to a position sufficiently 
 elevated to satisfy her sense of dignity, she went 
 on : " Minnie being our honly child, since the loss 
 of our hever to be lamented Reginald, the givin 
 of er hup is not easy, Stevie, but when two loving 
 earts loves each other, what am I to hinterfere? " 
 
 Violett beamed gratefully at her. " Dear Se 
 nora," he said, "I can t thank you for being so
 
 VIOLETT 155 
 
 good to me ; you were always good to me, but I 
 am grateful, indeed, indeed I am." 
 
 The senora bowed in her most stately manner. 
 "I believe it, Stevie." 
 
 A wag on the box seat here turned, and lifting 
 his hat began jabbering veiy rapidly and quite in 
 comprehensibly to either the lady or Violett. 
 
 "Wot s that yer saying?" she asked, divided 
 between offense and curiosity. 
 
 "Aw, I beg your pardon, ma am. I understood 
 the young gent to call you senora, and as I m a 
 Spaniard, I could n t resist the chawnce for a few 
 words in my nitive tongue." 
 
 He was so obviously a Briton that every one 
 laughed, except the senora, whose retort was much 
 to the point, if not over-civil, and Violett, who 
 flushed painfully and wished he had n t heard what 
 she said. 
 
 All feelings of discomfort fled, however, a few 
 minutes later, when the bus stopped, and he and 
 the senora clambered down into the beautiful mud. 
 Minnie, Minnie! 
 
 The young girl was sitting with her father when 
 they came in, and when Violett s first breathless 
 ecstasy was over, he was startled to find her look 
 ing very ill. The purple shadows under her eyes 
 had deepened to a dark brown; her lips were of 
 the palest salmon color.
 
 156 VIOLETT 
 
 "Pining for you, Stevie. Oh, you men!" ob 
 served the senora, waggishly reproachful. 
 
 The boy drew the girl to the window. 
 
 "Was it really that, Minnie?" he asked, his 
 brows knit with anxiety. 
 
 "Yes no. I don t know. It was unkind of 
 you to go away like that." 
 
 " But you knew why ? " 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Chaffee told father. It was silly of 
 you to break down, Stevie, but you needn t 
 have run away. It didn t make any difference 
 to me." 
 
 His eyes filled with tears, and his heart smote 
 him. 
 
 " I thought you would hate me, that you 
 would n t be able to stand it." 
 
 "Min!" called the senora, who had taken off 
 her boots and was resting her feet on the bed, "I 
 ope you ve something nice for supper?" 
 
 Minnie left the window and set the table, while 
 Violett sat down by his future parents-in-law. 
 
 "You must have thought me very foolish to 
 run away," he began with some difficulty, "but 
 I thought she d never care to see me again." 
 
 "My dear boy, it was stage fright. Just that 
 and nothing more. All us hartists as ad it," 
 answered the senora. 
 
 "Yes, but I meant"
 
 VIOLETT 157 
 
 She held up a warning forefinger. "Sstf It 
 don t do to talk about it, my dear. Let bygones 
 bury their dead. Min is very nervous, so don t 
 you worry er about your father s misfortune. 
 Why, she cried for hours the other day about a 
 child that fell into a vat of b iling liquid. As the 
 liquid was b iling, the child was naturally b iled 
 too. But it gave Min the errors, reg lar." 
 
 "But she does know? "he persisted gently. 
 "I mean, my real name, and about my father? " 
 
 "Of course she knows, or ow could she ave 
 sent you that dispatch," returned the senora, with 
 a genial disregard of consequences. "So don t you 
 be a stoopid and upset her. She says to me, Ma, 
 don t let im talk about it; that s all I hask. 
 
 Bayne tossed his hands nervously on the bed- 
 quilt. "Do what Dooloars tells you, Stevie," he 
 said. "She knows Min, and if you want er you ve 
 got to be careful." 
 
 Violett was content, and when the little sup 
 per was ready, they all ate it with much pleasure. 
 
 "Weal-an - am pie is a dish as cawn t be beat, 
 to my mind," observed the senora, helping herself 
 for the third time, "and with a good glass of beer, 
 what more can the queen erself, Gawd bless er, 
 ask for?" 
 
 Minnie was very gentle with her father, feeding 
 him milk with a spoon, holding his poor skull-like
 
 158 VIOLETT 
 
 head when the dreadful coughing fits came, and 
 soothing him with loving words. 
 
 Violett wished Agnes was there. 
 
 After supper Minnie and he went into the other 
 room and washed the dishes by candle-light. It 
 being Sunday, there was no opera; and washing 
 dishes by candle-light is an occupation for the 
 gods. The play, Minnie told the boy, had only 
 been given once more, but was to rejoice the in 
 habitants of Devonport that week. "Mr. Briggs 
 is doing the king, you know. I had a letter from 
 Maudie yesterday." 
 
 Violett s heart sank. "I have an idea that 
 Maudie didn t exactly hate you, Stevie," the girl 
 went on, turning a glass round and round in the 
 folds of her dish-towel. "Now did she? " 
 
 Violett blushed. "Why should she hate me?" 
 he asked. 
 
 The young girl took the candle and held it to 
 his face. "Oh, you wicked boy, you are blushing! 
 Did she make love to you? Come, tell me." 
 
 He took the candle and set it down on the table, 
 then he kissed her. So much nature taught him. 
 Then he blundered. 
 
 "You know I love only you, Min," he said, 
 much too seriously. "Don t tease me." 
 
 And Minnie, nervous, overworked all her life, 
 tired now from nursing her father, burst into a
 
 VIOLETT 159 
 
 wild sobbing that frightened him nearly out of his 
 wits. 
 
 "Min, Min, don t! Don t cry, darling. Why 
 are you crying?" 
 
 But she pushed him away, and rushing into the 
 next room, flung herself into her mother s arms, 
 shrieking that Stevie loved Maud Courtenay and 
 was false. 
 
 The senora s motherly dignity was wonderful. 
 She carried the girl into the bedroom, closed the 
 door, and left Violett alone with Bayne, who was 
 almost too weak to talk, but who managed to ar 
 ticulate, 
 
 " She is ill, Violett. I told you not to worry her. " 
 
 "But I didn t mention my father to her! It 
 was all about Maud." 
 
 A faint smile stirred the sick man s dry lips. It 
 was a fly in the ointment, but not a very bad one. 
 
 The next day the young girl was sweet and 
 sorry, and Violett s heart full almost to the burst 
 ing-point. 
 
 That evening the senora asked him what plans 
 he was making for the future. 
 
 "Plans?" His eyes were perfectly vague as he 
 looked up at her. 
 
 " Plans yes for the wedding." 
 
 It had never occurred to him to arrange a wed 
 ding day. He was so happy in the present that the
 
 160 VIOLETT 
 
 future seemed to be quite capable of taking care 
 of itself. 
 
 "The wedding!" 
 
 The senora laughed. "The wedding. Bayne 
 can t last much longer, and he d like to see Min 
 married would n t you, Bayne? " 
 
 Violett looked with frightened eyes at the sick 
 man, who, however, merely nodded. 
 
 "I am ready, any time," the boy went on. 
 
 "Then let us say a week from Wednesday?" 
 
 "Yes," said Violett. 
 
 The big woman looked at him and shook her 
 head. "You are opeless, Stevie. Who s a-goin 
 to get yer license? You don t know no more about 
 getting married than a bibe in arms ! " 
 
 Violett laughed shamefacedly, and the senora 
 rose. "We 11 talk it over to-morrow, and now it 
 is eleven o clock, and I am weary." 
 
 Violett took the hint and went out to the land 
 ing to wait for Minnie, who must soon be coming. 
 
 He sat down on the dusty stairs, in the dark 
 ness, and leaned his head on his hand. In ten 
 days he was to be married. The house was very 
 still. Once a door closed ; once a clock struck. 
 
 It never occurred to the boy that it would be 
 better for Minnie not to come home alone or with 
 some casual companion, at eleven o clock at night. 
 
 Once he had fetched her at the theatre, but she
 
 VIOLETT 161 
 
 had begged him not to do so again, as the girls 
 teased her about him. So he sat in the darkness 
 waiting for her, and at last she came, alone. 
 
 She was very tired, and cried a little from sheer 
 fatigue, her head on his shoulder, as they sat hud 
 dled together, talking. 
 
 It was as much an idyl to her, poor child, as it 
 was to him, his honest, boyish love falling like 
 moonlight on her sordid life, and making it beau 
 tiful. 
 
 At last they kissed each other good-night, and 
 separated, Violett going to his little room under the 
 roof, to sit another hour by the window, dreaming.
 
 VII 
 
 THE wedding was to be on Wednesday, and Mon 
 day morning found the senora very busy making 
 preparations for the breakfast. 
 
 The little kitchen, dark even at midday, was 
 illuminated with the big lamp, and the senora her 
 self sat at the table, her trailing silken garments 
 folded snugly about her waist, and covered with a 
 blue checked apron, polishing the silver. Opposite 
 her sat Maudie Courtenay, just back in town after 
 a big smash-up of the company in Liverpool, who 
 had come to invite the wedding party to a supper 
 the next evening. 
 
 "Chaffee done is best, it s only fair to say, but 
 the company was too rotten. Even the smaller 
 towns could n t stand Miss de Vere. That woman 
 always ad a cold in er nose, and er snuffling was 
 something omt." 
 
 The senora straightened a fork that she had bent 
 in the energy of her polishing. 
 
 "Law, not reely! " 
 
 "Yes. She was a reg lar orror." Miss Courte 
 nay hesitated for a second and then went on, 
 
 "Say, Senora, what does Min think about 
 Stevie s father?" 
 
 " Is father? Is father s dead."
 
 VIOLETT 163 
 
 "I know. Oh, I know all about it. I should 
 think it d give er the creeps, though, poor dear. 
 Anging is so awful." 
 
 The senora was startled, but her splendid com 
 posure stood her in good stead. "Dreadful," she 
 assented, breathing on the bowl of a spoon, and 
 then rubbing it vigorously. "But that was Maule 
 as was ung, my love." 
 
 "Well, Stevie s name is Violett Maule." 
 
 "It is; but Minnie does not know it." 
 
 "You don t mean that she doesn t know is 
 name isn t Adams! " 
 
 "No. You see, she s dreadful sensitive, Min 
 is, and me 11 er fawther thought it best not to 
 shock her." 
 
 "But he can t be married under a false nime! " 
 cried the erstwhile Gothic queen shrewdly. 
 
 "Of course he can t. Any idiot knows that. 
 But we decided to tell er the evening before the 
 wedding, that is, to-morrow, that he s ad to 
 change is name on account of the money. See?" 
 
 "Money? What money? " 
 
 The seuora rose, and taking off her apron, al 
 lowed her gown to fall into its usual classic folds, 
 before answering with some pomp, "Didn t you 
 know e ad nearly twelve thousand pounds? " 
 
 "That boy?" 
 
 Maudie s chin dropped, her mouth hanging half 
 open.
 
 164 VIOLETT 
 
 "Nearly twelve thousand pounds? " 
 
 "Then why in the name of goodness does he 
 wear such hawful clothes? An not a single 
 ring!" 
 
 The senora hesitated. Then she said, deciding 
 against the splendid dramatic possibilities of a story 
 of a recent inheritance, "It s a long story. Mr. 
 Wauchope, who is a great friend of Stevie s, told 
 Mr. Bayne. They are going to live at Stevie s 
 place, on the east coast." 
 
 But this was too much for Maudie. 
 
 "Place! Plice, indeed! Is father was a light- 
 keeper; I know that much, Mrs. Bayiie." 
 
 "Well, an cawn t a lighthouse be called a 
 place, Miss Crumm ? " 
 
 Before the outraged Miss Courtenay could re 
 tort, Bayne called from the next room, and the 
 senora swept splendidly out of the kitchen. 
 
 "Don t fight her, Dooloars," the sick man whis 
 pered, catching her hand in his hot one. "She 11 
 give the whole thing away to Min." 
 
 The senora nodded. "I 11 make it up with er, 
 Jim. Min won t be back until late, anyhow." 
 
 "And where s the boy? " 
 
 " E s coming any minute now." 
 
 Bayne lay still on his hot pillows. The wedding 
 was to be the next day but one, and to the tired 
 man it seemed as if with it came his deliverance.
 
 VIOLETT 165 
 
 Minnie once married, he could die in peace. 
 The girl s weak, fanciful, over-nervous nature her 
 father knew, perhaps because of some subtle re 
 semblance in it to his own, better than any one in 
 the world. 
 
 D Orsay saw one side of it, the foolish, admira 
 tion-loving, coquettish side ; her mother the artistic 
 side, full of the laziness in practical things common 
 to the small, uneducated artist; Violett, with his 
 loving young eyes, saw the girl as she might have 
 been, affectionate, simple, and truthful. 
 
 Only Bayne, and he only since he had been 
 forced by illness to the leisure that gave him time 
 for hours of reflection, saw all the sides combined 
 into a whole. 
 
 And in his wisdom he had allowed his wife to 
 do what she did out of motives very different from 
 her own. It was perfectly indifferent to the se- 
 Sora whether or no all of her future son-in-law s 
 forbears had been hanged or not. The point was 
 that Violett wanted to marry Minnie, was fond of 
 her, and best and most important of all, had 
 money. 
 
 Until she learned, through Wauchope s careless 
 recital of Barton s story, of the money, she had 
 been keenly for d Orsay, who was to her mind a 
 handsome and smart man of talent. 
 
 Violett s fortune, however, swung the balance
 
 166 VIOLETT 
 
 around, and knowing that Minnie would shrink 
 from the boy if she knew his father s story, she 
 had contrived to make him think that it was known 
 to the girl, but that she did not wish to talk of it. 
 
 Then she would tell Minnie that Stevie had 
 changed his name to obtain a large fortune ; in the 
 hurry of the wedding day there would be no time 
 for questioning, and once married, they could fight 
 it out. 
 
 "Min 11 screech a bit, as she did over that 
 grave-robbing story, but she 11 quiet down all 
 right," she told her husband comfortably, and he, 
 relieved from his great anxiety regarding d Orsay, 
 whom he had always distrusted, and seeing no 
 other way out of the difficulty, held his peace. 
 
 "After all," he thought that morning, while the 
 sound of the senora s most imposing voice, as she 
 made peace with Miss Courtenay, reached him at 
 intervals, "she does love him in her way, and 
 once away from London, away from d Orsay " 
 He broke off, for even in his thoughts he hated to 
 admit that his daughter seemed, even while the 
 best in her clung to Violett, strongly attracted by 
 the actor s dark face. D Orsay continued coming 
 to see her, and to bring her home from the theatre, 
 in spite of the engagement, on which he had po 
 litely congratulated the instantly propitiated Vio 
 lett ; and more than once Bayne, lying unobserved
 
 VIOLETT 167 
 
 in his bed, had noticed glances between the older 
 man and his daughter that he disliked. Then 
 Minnie had frequently come home with a gardenia 
 on her breast, and d Orsay was rarely without one 
 of the hatefully sweet flowers. 
 
 "Yes, it is the only thing to do," he decided, too 
 tired to think further; "it will be all right." 
 
 As he closed his eyes and allowed himself to 
 sink into the stupor-like sleep he so often had to 
 fight against, Violett came in, a bunch of gera 
 niums in his hand. 
 
 "From home, Mr. Bayne! Agnes sent them to 
 Minnie. She must have quite ruined all her 
 pots!" 
 
 He held the brilliant things to the sick man s 
 face, and then, as he turned, the senora came in 
 with Maud Courtenay. 
 
 Violett started. He had not seen the girl since 
 the night in Plymouth. 
 
 She, however, met him with a smile and an 
 outstretched hand. 
 
 " Dear king, my lord, mine eyes are full of 
 light in seeing thee, " she quoted. "I m glad to 
 be in time for the wedding! The senora as just 
 invited me." 
 
 The boy stared at her in honest silence. He 
 hated seeing her : she reminded him of one of the 
 most painful events in his life, and worst of all,
 
 168 VIOLETT 
 
 she would remind Minnie of things he had been 
 warned not to mention to her. 
 
 Minnie had of late been so nervous, so irrita 
 ble even, at times, that he had been afraid she 
 herself would begin on the subject. She had not 
 done this, however, and the senora had told him, 
 with a wonderful air of motherly mystery, that 
 Minnie was agitated at the prospect of being mar 
 ried, and leaving her parents. 
 
 "Glad to see me, Mr. Maule?" went on Miss 
 Courtenay, "or I suppose you are still Mr. 
 Hadams ? " 
 
 Violett, to whom the telling of the story of his 
 assumed name had been very painful, glanced at 
 the senora, who was heating a curling iron at the 
 fire. 
 
 "Of course not, my dear," that lady explained 
 graciously; "but we all still call him Stevie. Vi 
 olett is such a extrawnery nime for a man." 
 
 The girl nodded, and held out her hand to 
 Violett. 
 
 " Well, good-by for the present. I I m sorry 
 1 was so disagreeable at Plymouth, Stevie. I only 
 wanted to be pl yful, and you didn t understand." 
 
 As she left the room, the boy looked half invol 
 untarily at his hand, on which two still reddish 
 marks remained as a souvenir of her playfulness.
 
 VIII 
 
 THE senora, Minnie, and Violett arrived together 
 at Miss Courtenay s, the senora, resplendent in 
 a peacock blue gown thickly sown with spangles, 
 facetiously explaining that it was not strange, their 
 simultaneous appearance, as they had left home 
 together. 
 
 "Charming room, Miss Courtenay," the great 
 lady went on, with the graciousness peculiar to 
 her, "them folding beds is most convenient." 
 
 The table was spread, and garnished with a 
 large bouquet of roses in a blue jar. 
 
 "D Orsay sent me the flowers," Maudie ex 
 plained, with a side glance at Minnie, who sat, 
 very pale, with nervously clasped hands, by the 
 window. 
 
 "Always the gentleman, d Orsay," approved 
 the senora. "Ain t e coming?" 
 
 Maudie smiled. "Trust im! Of course e s 
 coming. Ain t e the best man?" 
 
 Minnie started. "No, he ain t, Maudie he 
 ain t the best" 
 
 Maudie burst into a roar of laughter. " Now 
 don t you chew the rag, my ducky. Of course 
 your Tim Stevie is the best man in the world. I 
 meant "
 
 170 VIOLETT 
 
 " I know Maudie my head aches so I m 
 stupid " 
 
 Minnie blushed in her confusion, a phenomenon 
 that transported Violett to a seventh heaven of 
 rapture, and while he watched her d Orsay came 
 in, breathing fragrance about him, his smooth 
 black hair gleaming from the recent pomade. 
 
 "Welcome, little stranger," Maudie called. 
 "Now we re all ere. Couldn t ask any more, for 
 I ve only got five chairs." 
 
 They sat down at the table; and the supper, 
 served by a shabby man from a neighboring res 
 taurant, began. 
 
 Violett ate little; he hated being in the room. 
 It and Maudie s voice and Maudie herself seemed 
 red to him, the color he loathed. 
 
 Even pale Minnie lost her silver gray tone, and 
 took on a reddish tint, as does a little willow against 
 a crimson sky. 
 
 To-morrow they would be away, on the quiet 
 island, within the sound of the sea. 
 
 The boy recalled the supper at the Sea-Urchin 
 long ago, when Minnie and he were children; he 
 remembered the laughter and jokes of the guests, 
 the beauty of the senora, Bayne s quiet face. 
 
 "You ain t eating a thing, Mr. A ra Adams," 
 cried Maudie at this point. " Don t you like veal ? " 
 
 Violett hated it, and as he never lied, smiled at
 
 VIOLETT 171 
 
 her, his smile almost affectionate in his sorrow for 
 hurting her feelings. The girl s face changed. 
 "Please eat something," she said gently; and the 
 senora, manfully attacking the veal herself, sec 
 onded her hostess with enthusiasm and a full 
 mouth. 
 
 "Delicious, Stevie, an the grivy is something 
 splendid." 
 
 Minnie smiled absently. She was happy. She 
 was glad to be going away with Stevie, who was 
 always gentle and good with her; she was tired of 
 noise and crowds; the quiet of the island would 
 rest her. The best that was in the girl was satis 
 fied. 
 
 D Orsay watched her, his always pale face curi 
 ously white, a fixed smile under his mustache. 
 
 Maud Courtenay saw that her guests were not 
 doing justice to the rather elaborate supper, and 
 she knew why. Only the senora ate steadily on 
 with a placid greediness. At length the shabby 
 man came in with two pails of ice, in each of 
 which a bottle of champagne was buried. "Ah, 
 yes, Maudie, I took the liberty," explained d Or- 
 say with magnificent carelessness, "you having no 
 man in your family." 
 
 But Maudie needed no apologies, and blew him 
 a succession of kisses to express her delight at his 
 thoucrhtfulness.
 
 172 VIOLETT 
 
 The wine, drunk out of water glasses, contrib 
 uted largely to the gayety of the occasion. 
 
 The senora drank repeated toasts to the health 
 of her dear children. Minnie smiled, and a little 
 pink came to her thin cheeks. D Orsay s eyes, still 
 fixed on the girl, glowed darkly. Maudie danced 
 a cakewalk, to which no one but the shabby 
 waiter paid any particular heed. 
 
 Violett watched them all dreamily; he drank 
 very little wine, but that little softened the hated 
 color of his surroundings to a deep rose. And 
 Minnie sat opposite him, her blue eyes fixed on 
 him, on her lips a smile for him. 
 
 "Ladies and genple gentlemen ! " The senora 
 struck the table sharply with her knife -handle. 
 "Once more the health of my darling cheeild 
 and her blushing bridegroom no, I mean, my 
 blushing cheeild " 
 
 "Ma, do stop!" 
 
 "Let er alone, Min; what s the arm, if it 
 amuses er! " Miss Courtenay refilled the senora s 
 glass. 
 
 D Orsay laughed sharply. "Don t be too hos 
 pitable, Maudie. JTcawn t carry er ome." 
 
 Violett shrank back into his chair. 
 
 "Nerrermind, Maudie, you re perfectly right," 
 pursued the senora with amiable vagueness, 
 "what s the arm? Stevie, ere s looking at you."
 
 VIOLETT 173 
 
 Violett bowed. "Thank you, Senora; thank you 
 very much." 
 
 "She s my only child, since my darling, my 
 darling" "Reginald," suggested Violett qui 
 etly. "Since e died, she s my only daughter. 
 Treat er good, Stevie; be kind to er." 
 
 Violett took her hand, promising in an under 
 tone that he would be very good and kind. 
 
 Minnie smiled tremulously. 
 
 "It s late, Stevie. Perhaps we d better go? 
 No no more wine, ma please." 
 
 They rose ; and Violett, as he passed Minnie to 
 fetch the senora s hat, laid his hand for an instant 
 on the young girl s arm. 
 
 Maud Courtenay saw it ; she saw the look in his 
 eyes, and with a laugh and a quick glance at 
 d Orsay, caught up her wineglass. 
 
 "A toast! One more. Here s luck to you, 
 Minnie, and lucky you are, for you s got not only 
 love, but riches." 
 
 Minnie smiled vaguely, but her mother caught 
 at the word. 
 
 "Ah, yes riches it is that is, e don t own 
 Buckingham Palace, Stevie don t, nor yet Wind 
 sor, but e s a nice little what you callem a 
 nice little fortune." 
 
 D Orsay raised his heavy eyebrows in polite ad 
 miration. " Ave you now, reely, Mr. Adams?
 
 174 VIOLETT 
 
 My congratulations. And to you, too, Miss Bayne. 
 You did well. In that case you builded better 
 than I knew, to accept Mr. Adams, and not the 
 poor player." 
 
 Violett listened, puzzled. "There is some mis 
 take," he said simply, after a pause. "I am not 
 rich. I have no money." 
 
 Maudie shrugged her shoulders. "The senora 
 told me you ad, I m sure, but it s of no conse 
 quence. Let s dance ! " 
 
 Picking up her skirts she began an impromptu 
 dance that involved much kicking. Minnie watched 
 her, amused. 
 
 "The senora tells the truth," observed that per 
 sonage with great dignity. " E as a fortune which 
 whyshud deny t." 
 
 Violett gave her her hat. "Come, Senora," the 
 boy said gently, "we must go. Mr. Bayne is all 
 alone." 
 
 "Go away, Stevie Adams! " cried the indignant 
 woman. "Don t you lie about it! If I said you 
 was rich, you are rich! " 
 
 "Yes, yes, maw, e s awful rich. E s a-going to 
 put the Koh-i-noor in the wedding cake as a sou 
 venir," put in Minnie with soothing facetiousness. 
 
 Maud Courtenay looked on, half frightened by 
 what she had brought about. D Orsay s eyes were 
 still fixed on Minnie.
 
 VIOLETT 175 
 
 "Then if you have no money, how dare you ask 
 me for my daughter?" 
 
 The seuora was sobered now. 
 
 "I never said I had any money, Senora." 
 
 "But thingummy did e said so. The money 
 that lawyer has for you." 
 
 Violett stood perfectly quiet, facing them all. 
 
 "Ah, that money!" 
 
 "Yes. It is money, ain t it?" 
 
 "Yes. But I shall never touch it." 
 
 "Never touch it ! " screamed the senora. "Never 
 touch it ! Then what are you going to live on, I d 
 like to know? " 
 
 "What is it, Stevie? What does she mean?" 
 Minnie came to him and laid her hand on his arm. 
 
 "It is some money that I can never use, Min 
 nie. You don t mind, do you? " 
 
 Minnie shook her head. "I wish you would, 
 Stevie!" 
 
 "But I can t, dear. It is wicked money." 
 
 The senora had pinned on her hat with the air 
 of a warrior putting on his helmet. 
 
 "Come, Miss Bayne, we will now go home to 
 your pa. Mr. Adams, good-by. If you are a 
 pauper, you are no usband for my daughter." 
 
 Violett stood quite still, and every one looked 
 at him. There was something very strange in his 
 smitten passivity.
 
 176 VIOLETT 
 
 "Perhaps she ll take you poor anyhow," 
 faltered Maudie at length. 
 
 Then the boy turned his miserable eyes to Min 
 nie, and she sprang back to him and put her arms 
 around him. 
 
 "I don t care, Stevie! I will marry you just the 
 same, and we will be poor together ! " 
 
 Maud turned away, her jealousy and hatred 
 dead in her heart. She felt as though she were in 
 a temple. 
 
 Even yet there was a chance for the boy. The 
 malice of the woman who loved him and the man 
 who loved Minnie were overpowered, beaten by the 
 force of better things ; and the senora was not an 
 unkind woman, and at another time would doubt 
 less have held her tongue and let things take their 
 course. But the senora had been drinking. 
 
 "Leave him, Min! Come ere to me! I can t 
 see you touch im ! Is fawther was hung! Hung, 
 I tell you!" 
 
 Minnie gave a little cry, and left Violett s side. 
 
 "Hung!" 
 
 "Hung till is neck broke for murder! E 
 killed, e poisoned a little child! " 
 
 "Is is it true, Stevie?" 
 
 The girl turned a perfectly white face to Vio 
 lett s. 
 
 "It is true," he returned dully.
 
 VIOLETT 177 
 
 With a gesture of unutterable abhorrence, she 
 turned away, and burst into hysterical shrieks. 
 
 "Minnie ! " It was Maud Courtenay who spoke, 
 now thoroughly frightened and ashamed of herself. 
 "Min, e didn t do nothing! " 
 
 But Maud drew back, frightened anew, asd Or- 
 say came to the sobbing girl and took her into 
 his arms. 
 
 "Minnie, dearest, do not cry. You never loved 
 him and I " 
 
 His voice shook with real emotion, and Minnie, 
 clinging to him as a terrified child clings to the 
 nearest protector, sobbed out, " Make him go away ! 
 Make him go away! " 
 
 But there was no need to make Violett go away. 
 He had already gone.
 
 PART III
 
 A LIGHT rain was falling, softening the sharp an 
 gles of the world, veiling everything with its tender 
 grayness. Violett stood on Westminster Bridge, 
 looking down at the leaden water. He had walked 
 until he was utterly exhausted and could go no 
 more. 
 
 It was all over now. The grim ghost of his 
 father that had haunted him all his life had at the 
 last stepped definitely in between him and not 
 happiness, but life. 
 
 There was no revolt in the boy s heart, no wild 
 anger against the inevitable; he had no idea of 
 killing himself. 
 
 Passive, he had come to what appeared to him 
 the end of his life, and as he could see nothing 
 ahead of him, and believed that there was no fu 
 ture, he stood on the great bridge, awaiting, with 
 his curious fatalism, the end. 
 
 The clock in the tower boomed out seven o clock, 
 softly, mistily, its loud voice gray in the moist 
 air. Violett turned and looked towards the sound. 
 Its neutral tone, or as he felt, its neutral color, 
 soothed him. It was gray like the sea, like beau 
 tiful music.
 
 182 VIOLETT 
 
 "Well fine evening, ain t it? Nice moist 
 rain, good for the vigetition! " 
 
 A girl stood beside him and smiled at him from 
 under her gay though bedraggled hat. 
 
 He did not answer, but looked quietly at her 
 without curiosity. 
 
 "Deef and dumb?" 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "Oh. Just orty. Well good-by. I thought 
 you looked lonely, that s all." 
 
 Then he spoke, as she turned on her worn heel 
 and started off. 
 
 "I am lonely." 
 
 She was back at his side almost before he had 
 finished. "Are you? Then let s be lonely to 
 gether." 
 
 They walked slowly past the Abbey and turned 
 towards Piccadilly. 
 
 The girl watched her companion curiously, her 
 black eyes puzzled. "Glad you came?" she asked 
 at length. 
 
 "Came where?" 
 
 "Why, ere. With me." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I m glad," he returned, with weary 
 politeness. 
 
 "Have you had any supper? " 
 
 "No. I haven t eaten anything all day." 
 
 "Not all day! Why, you must be starving."
 
 VIOLETT 183 
 
 Violett stopped walking and looked at her, ab 
 sently thoughtful. "Perhaps it is that," he com 
 mented, after a pause. 
 
 " What s that? What d you mean? " 
 
 "I mean this queer feeling." 
 
 She laughed shortly. "It s a precious queer 
 feeling, my child. It s an emptiness that just Jills 
 you." 
 
 "It s that." 
 
 They stared at each other for a second, and 
 then she took his arm and turned him briskly down 
 a side street. 
 
 "We 11 ave our supper," she said gayly, "and 
 then we 11 go and look at the nobs going to the 
 
 pi y." 
 
 Violett hurried along, hardly conscious of what 
 he was doing. 
 
 It would have been a relief to him to have her 
 take the initiative had he noticed in himself any 
 lack of initiative, but he had not. He had simply 
 drifted about the streets since the evening before, 
 with the indifference of utter despair, neither car 
 ing nor observing whither chance led him. 
 
 And now chance having materialized into the 
 form of this large black-eyed girl who wished him 
 to eat, he would eat. 
 
 When at last they reached the little restaurant, 
 and had sat down at a table with an almost ingen-
 
 184 VIOLETT 
 
 iously dirty cloth, the girl leaned across and said 
 to him firmly, "Now then, Romeo, wike up and 
 say what you want." 
 
 "I don t want anything." He looked at her 
 for a moment, and then added, as if the statement 
 simplified and explained everything, "My father 
 was hung." 
 
 She stared. "Was e, now? I only wish mine 
 was. You re in luck." 
 
 Then suddenly she turned and called loudly to 
 the nearest waitress, "I s y, come ere, e s 
 fainted!" 
 
 A few minutes later Violett came to himself, to 
 find himself lying on a sofa in a bad-smelling, dark 
 little room, with wet hair, and brandy spilt all over 
 him. 
 
 "Are you better?" " E s getting is color 
 back." "Poor boy!" People were talking, but 
 it did not seem to him that they were talking 
 about him. 
 
 Then he heard the voice of the girl who had 
 brought him to the place. 
 
 " E says is father was hung, and then off e 
 goes like a blessed girl! " she ended, with a giggle 
 in which the other girl and an old woman with a 
 beard joined her. 
 
 "Were d you pick im up, Rosamund?" 
 
 "On Westminster Bridge."
 
 VIOLETT 185 
 
 "Well," she added, turning to the boy, "bet 
 ter? " 
 
 He sat up slowly, smiling at her. " I am quite 
 well, thank you. You have been very kind to me." 
 
 The three women regarded him silently. His 
 manner was extraordinarily gentle, and yet they 
 somehow felt that they were his inferiors. 
 
 "You must just eat a bit of something," Rosa 
 mund said tentatively. "You re too weak to 
 walk. You ve been ill, ave n t you? " 
 
 "Oh, no; I have not been ill." 
 
 He rose, and then, as he reached the door, 
 turned. "Please come with me," he asked simply, 
 and the girl s assurance returned with a comfort 
 able rush. If he wanted her, she surely needn t 
 be afraid of him. 
 
 Veal, roasted and then set afloat in a small sea 
 of strange gravy, was what they ate, and porter was 
 what they drank. 
 
 "What s your name?" 
 
 Violett laid down his fork and looked at her. 
 "Violett Maule. My father was hung, don t you 
 remember?" 
 
 Rosamund shook her head. "Maule ? No. It 
 was n t im as cut up the lydy in the lodgings at 
 Rotherhithe?" 
 
 "No. He killed my little cousin Alice poi 
 soned her with sugar for her money. It was a 
 long time ago."
 
 186 VIOLETT 
 
 He told the tragic story so quietly, so simply, 
 that the girl stared at him, not in the least know 
 ing how to take it. 
 
 "Did e, now?" she said at last. "Poisoned a 
 little girl! Oh, Gawd!" 
 
 Violett started. It was Maud Courtenay s ex 
 pression, and brought back to him with fearful 
 distinctness the scene of the supper. 
 
 "To-day," he said, a moment later, "is my wed 
 ding day." 
 
 Rosamund set down her glass. She was afraid 
 of crazy people. Then the extreme youth of the 
 boy, the childishness of his helpless manner, the 
 expression in his hopeless eyes, reassured her. 
 
 "Your wedding day! Oh, come!" 
 
 "It is. Indeed it is. Or I mean it was. She 
 wouldn t marry me, of course." 
 
 "Why of course? What do you mean? " 
 
 "I mean on account of my father," Violett ex 
 plained patiently. 
 
 "Oh, rot!" Rosamund rose and stood looking 
 down at him. "What s your father got to do with 
 you ? I 11 pay, if you 11 give me the money. Got 
 any? " 
 
 The boy pulled out a handful of silver, among 
 which a sovereign gleamed. It was the money for 
 the journey home. The girl paid, gave him the 
 change, and led him out into the rainy evening.
 
 VIOLETT 187 
 
 "Reely, now, was it your wedding day? " 
 
 "Yes. Why should I say so if it wasn t? Oh 
 what s this what s this place ? " Catching at 
 his companion s arm, he stared up at the glare of 
 electric lights on the great door. 
 
 "That s the Frivolity; you don t know nothing 
 do you?" 
 
 "Let s go in." 
 
 Rosamund was delighted. 
 
 The theatre was full of people. On the stage a 
 man was just ending a song, amid much applause. 
 
 Violett sat down in silence. In a minute he 
 would see Minnie. And Minnie came and sang, 
 with five other girls. They wore short pink gowns 
 and great black hats that flopped quaintly as they 
 sang. They were much painted, but Minnie looked 
 desperately ill. 
 
 Her thin voice, sweet as that of a bird, rose and 
 fell on the smooth waves of the orchestra. She was 
 something so wonderful, so perfect, that the boy 
 felt a stir of consolation at his heart. 
 
 Of course such a creature could not marry a man 
 whose father had been hanged. He had lost not 
 a possibility, a reality ; he had awakened from a 
 dream. 
 
 "Like em?" asked Rosamund, with a wink. 
 But he did not hear her. 
 
 On Minnie s left hand something sparkled.
 
 n 
 
 KOSAMUND RUNDLE did her best for Violett. The 
 boy, in his strange, passive condition , might easier 
 have fallen into worse hands than hers. 
 
 For a week she looked after him, taking him 
 home to her poor rooms and giving him her bed, 
 sleeping herself on the floor on a borrowed mat 
 tress. She made him eat, she made him walk, she 
 made him talk. 
 
 He was as biddable as a good child, obeying her 
 with unquestioning docility, but there was no re 
 bound in him. He had never, since they left the 
 theatre, taken the initiative in anything. Some 
 thing in him seemed broken. Like a watch with a 
 snapped mainspring, as long as she wound, he went, 
 but when she stopped, he was motionless. Pa 
 tiently she made him tell her about Minnie, about 
 his engagement, and about the final rupture. 
 
 She learned, with the keen-wittedness of her 
 kind, that Maud Courtenay was at the bottom of 
 it; that she still loved Violett in her way, and 
 that d Or say wanted Minnie. 
 
 Rosamund herself did not admire Minnie; she 
 was too pale and thin for the big, robust girl s taste. 
 But d Orsay she had once seen in a play, and was, 
 by her own admiration for the polite villain s curls
 
 VIOLETT 189 
 
 and deep voice, convinced that Minnie, too, was not 
 unappreciative of these charms. 
 
 "Of course she ll marry im, though why e 
 wants the like of er, only Gawd knows ! Vi lett 
 ought to ave ad er; e s er kind." 
 
 In the girl s mind there was a deep sense of the 
 fitness of things. 
 
 Violett, she realized, was much more likely to 
 make a good husband than the big actor ; but even 
 as she appreciated her protege s good qualities, she 
 smiled at his youthfulness and what she called, with 
 a tenderness not without a touch of the maternal, 
 his silly ways. 
 
 "You must go back to your island, Vi lett," she 
 told him one evening, as they sat by the window, 
 he watching her expend much energy on sewing 
 a button on her boot. 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "London s no place for you." 
 
 Violett smiled at her, again shaking his head. 
 
 "But it ain t. Why, look ere, what are you 
 going to do when your money s all gone? You ve 
 only got a little left." 
 
 "It doesn t make any difference, Rosamund." 
 
 The girl bit off her thread with a vicious snap 
 of her strong teeth. 
 
 "Doesn t make any difference! Got any more 
 at ome?"
 
 190 VIOLETT 
 
 There was a short pause, during which Violett 
 closed his eyes. 
 
 "I have a lot of money," he said at last. "I 
 don t know how much, but I think it must be 
 about five thousand pounds." 
 
 The girl s shoe was large, and it fell to the floor 
 with a loud noise. 
 
 "Five thous you re dotty! " 
 
 "No, I m not. It is about that. It s the money 
 that belonged to the little girl my father poisoned." 
 
 There was something rather terrible in the quiet 
 with which the words crossed his lips. He had 
 been so dreadfully ashamed of his father s crime 
 all his life; he had tried to avoid thinking of it; 
 he had never looked it straight in the face before. 
 But now the worst had happened, and in the mis 
 ery to which the crime had brought him the crime 
 itself seemed almost commonplace to him. 
 
 Rosamund argued with him for an hour, if a 
 one-sided flow of unopposed opinion can be called 
 argument. 
 
 He could not touch the money. It was not that 
 he would not; the matter was simplified to him by 
 the utter impossibility of his ever doing so. 
 
 At length the girl rose. "Well, I m going out. 
 I ve got to buy me a hat ; I couldn t go to the 
 factory to-morrow with that old thing." 
 
 "The factory?"
 
 VIOLETT 191 
 
 Violett turned from the window and looked at 
 her, vaguely disturbed. 
 
 "I told you twicet that I d got a plice in a 
 paper-box factory. Did you think I lived on a 
 pension from the Queen for good conduct?" She 
 whirled around, pinned on her despised headgear, 
 and ran downstairs. 
 
 It was a warm evening in February; the window 
 was open, and the air that stole in across the roofs 
 was moist and mild. The quiet roar of the busy 
 streets nearest at hand had grown to silence to the 
 boy s accustomed ears. He leaned forward and 
 watched a baby being undressed by its mother in 
 a neighboring window. It was a fat baby with 
 crooked red legs, and a friz of curls standing erect 
 on its crown. He could see it laugh as the mother 
 danced it up and down. At another window a man 
 sat, his elbows on the sill, smoking. The smoke 
 hung like a cloud in the heavy air. A cat crept 
 dainty-pawed from one window to another. The 
 quiet of evening was yet unbroken by the return 
 home of most of the people, whose loud voices 
 would shatter it. 
 
 And chimney-pots have a beauty of their own, 
 standing grimly against the sky, acres of them. 
 
 Violett s was the gift of seeing beauty in his 
 surroundings, and he loved the quiet prospect be 
 fore him as much as he loved anything now. It
 
 192 VIOLETT 
 
 was so still. The people he saw were far away, and 
 they did not know him ; they did not know that his 
 father had been hanged. 
 
 There was a geranium in a window off to his 
 left, not a glaring red flower like a trumpet tone, 
 but a soft pink one. While the boy sat there, an 
 old woman came and watered the flower tenderly, 
 poking up the earth about its root with a bit of 
 stick. She did it as Agnes had done long ago, be 
 fore she was blind. Poor Agnes ! Poor Michael ! 
 
 He had not written to the old people, nor thought 
 much of their anxiety over his non-appearance. 
 That he had accepted as he had his own misery, 
 as inevitable. He was vaguely sorry for it, but that 
 was all. The wet leaves of the humble flower, so 
 full, in the place it filled in the old woman s life, 
 of poetry, gleamed a little through the haze. 
 
 Suddenly a sound stole softly across the inter 
 vening expanse of roofs a sound at which the 
 boy s face changed wonderfully. It was music: 
 splendid, heavenly music, that grew and swelled 
 and diminished and grew again; music that was 
 gray and green and cream-white, lit by sunlight 
 and darkened by hallowed shadow, the Song of 
 the Sea! 
 
 Violett rose and stood listening. It was his 
 "Song of the Sea," the song that had come to him 
 years ago, that night in bed, after the first touch
 
 VIOLETT 193 
 
 of his hands to a piano ; the song that he had sung 
 back to the sea in the dusk of dawn ; the song that 
 he had lost for days or was it years ? 
 
 But it was not borne to him on the clean-cut, 
 liquid notes of a piano; it came on the golden 
 strands of string music, violins and a cello.
 
 HI 
 
 DRAWN by the magic of his own music, Violett 
 stepped from his window to the damp roof and 
 passed half a dozen houses to his left : he passed the 
 cat, sitting demurely under a chimney, licking its 
 paws; he passed the pink geranium; he passed 
 the baby s window, and heard the crooning mo 
 ther inside the room. All these things, seen and 
 heard subconsciously, were a part of the song. 
 
 The sea was about him; its voice was calling 
 him. 
 
 The windows from which the music came were 
 lighted, the only ones in sight that were not gray 
 with the dusk. They were also hung with muslin 
 curtains. 
 
 Violett went quietly to one and looked in. It 
 was a room belonging to poor people, but it was 
 a pleasant one, and bore an air of distinction in its 
 simple furnishings. Around a large table in its cen 
 tre, three men were sitting, sheets of manuscript 
 music propped up against the lamp that shed its 
 light on their earnest faces as they played. 
 
 Two were old, the cellist and one of the violin 
 ists. The other man, also playing on a violin, was 
 young, and had a white flower in his shabby coat. 
 
 There was a jug with several roses in it on an-
 
 VIOLETT 195 
 
 other table; books; a table set for supper with a 
 white cloth and gleaming silver forks in the back 
 ground ; and around and above and under the 
 "Song of the Sea." 
 
 Violett was born to love the cold piano tones 
 better than any, in spite of the penetrating beauty 
 of those of strings, and he missed them. 
 
 The song as it was played was too warm, too 
 thick. It wanted the limpidity of cold water and 
 piano notes. 
 
 But oh, the wonder of it ! 
 
 The boy stood looking in, not thinking to stay 
 beyond the lamplight, his head high, his eyes splen 
 did with ecstasy. Then something went wrong. 
 The music went on, faultless, beautiful, clear; but 
 it was not the " Song of the Sea." 
 
 It grew loud, conventionally tumultuous, and 
 then melted to a fictitious hushedness. And the 
 color had changed from sea-color to yellow, a 
 tender, pale gold, the color of ripe wheat, beauti 
 ful, but not sea-color. 
 
 "That is wrong!" said Violett suddenly but 
 quite confidently, leaning into the room. 
 
 The apparition of his thin young face, hung round 
 with elf -like locks of black hair, brought the music 
 to an abrupt close. 
 
 "What s wrong? "asked the old violinist, his 
 bow still poised over the strings.
 
 196 VIOLETT 
 
 "The music. The last part isn t the Song of 
 the Sea at all!" 
 
 The three men stared at each other. " The 
 * Song of the Sea ! How do you know it s the 
 Song of the Sea ? " asked the youngest, with a 
 strong foreign accent. 
 
 Violett laughed at the absurd question. "How 
 do I know? Well, you see, it came to me first." 
 
 "It came to you? What do you mean?" The 
 cellist rose and went to the window, after laying 
 his cello carefully upon his chair. 
 
 Violett liked him. 
 
 "I mean I heard it in the night. I suppose 
 you d say I composed it." 
 
 The old man raised his white eyebrows in a 
 funny, irregular way, and wiped his musical and 
 gleaming brow on his handkerchief. "You com 
 posed it? " 
 
 " Oh, come, now," called the foreigner gayly, 
 "dat is a little too strong! " 
 
 " The Song of the Sea was written by Son- 
 nenthal," the old cellist added. 
 
 Violett flushed. " No. I it is mine. And you 
 don t play it right," he persisted. 
 
 The second old man, who had been carefully 
 resining his bow, turned with a significant wink to 
 the young one. 
 
 "Well, well, suppose you come in and tell us
 
 VIOLETT 197 
 
 how you happened to write Sonnenthal s * Sym 
 phonic Poem. 
 
 Violett stepped over the sill into the room. "It 
 is n t a a poem. It s a song, and it is n t that 
 man s." 
 
 His old dislike for Sonnenthal came back to him 
 suddenly. 
 
 "You better have him up before ze beak," pro 
 posed the youngest of the musicians in his careful 
 slang. 
 
 Violett paid no attention to him. 
 
 "Play it again! I ll tell you where it ends 
 and something else begins." 
 
 " We are too shy to play for such a distinguished 
 composer," jeered the Pole. 
 
 But the two old men watched the boy kindly. 
 
 "Play, Pidgeon," proposed the violinist. "Come, 
 Petrovsky." 
 
 And they played. Then, just as they began 
 what they called the Rondo, Violett held up his 
 hand. 
 
 "There! that is something else. Can t you hear 
 that it is n t the sea any more ? Why, it is n t even 
 green." 
 
 Pidgeon s eyebrows wriggled again. "Can you 
 play the violin? " he asked. 
 
 "No. I can play the piano." 
 
 Petrovsky burst out laughing.
 
 198 VIOLETT 
 
 " Bien ! Then play ! The piano is behind your 
 Altesse Royale." 
 
 The boy turned. Dark and shapeless in the 
 gloom, one or two gleams of light from the lamp 
 falling athwart its mystery, stood a grand piano, 
 the first one he had seen for years. 
 
 And in the great clumsy box, tight shut and 
 solemn, were hidden all the beauty, all the joy of 
 life. 
 
 Struck by the look in the boy s face, old Pid- 
 geon rose and opened the instrument. 
 
 And the keys, shining in the light which the 
 cellist s fat body had kept at bay until he rose, 
 drew Violett s hands, as cold as they, to the splen 
 did responsiveness of their greeting. 
 
 He struck, very softly, a chord, the chord of 
 shifting water, of green and gray heights and hol 
 lows, of lapping waves, of grave depths. 
 
 And misery and pain and hopelessness slipped 
 from him as his fingers called shyly and timidly 
 the message of the water ; and as it came, haltingly 
 but perfectly, soft but triumphant, the three men 
 listened, silent and wondering. 
 
 "That is it," commented the Pole at last. 
 
 "Hush! " answered old Barr. 
 
 Violett played on and on, stumbling now and 
 again, as if his fingers themselves wondered at the 
 sounds they evoked.
 
 VIOLETT 199 
 
 It was imperfect, strange, awkward, and won 
 derful. At length he paused. "Don t you hear?" 
 
 Barr nodded. "I hear something. What is 
 your name?" 
 
 Violett rose abruptly. "I am Violett Maule. 
 My father killed a little girl and was hung," he 
 said. 
 
 There was a short silence. Then the Pole, whose 
 eyes were full of tears, laid his hand on his arm. 
 "Never mind your name, or what your father 
 killed," he cried warmly. 
 
 "Tell me, Violett Maule," asked Pidgeon prac 
 tically, "did you ever see Sonnenthal?" 
 
 " Yes. He married a lady I know Miss Rose 
 Carstairs. I saw him twice or three times." 
 
 "H m ! Ever play for him ? " 
 
 "Yes no. I tried, and couldn t." 
 
 "Then where did he get hold of your song?" 
 
 Violett laughed. " Miss Rose loved it. Tell me, 
 do you know Mr. Sonnenthal? " 
 
 Pidgeon laughed. "Do I know him? Not I. 
 He s a great man, Sonnenthal; we are small fry." 
 
 The young Pole frowned. "I have met him. 
 And I have met his wife, poor thing." 
 
 " Where is Miss Rose ? " 
 
 "They live in Kensington." 
 
 "Play it again, lad, your sea song," suggested 
 Barr, sitting down and nursing his violin lovingly.
 
 200 VIOLETT 
 
 "I must go. Rosamund will be anxious." 
 
 "Rosamund?" 
 
 "Yes. I have been with her. She has taken 
 care of me. She is very good." 
 
 The Pole gave a short laugh, and then stopped 
 abruptly. "Come, play it just once more." 
 
 It was one o clock before Violett left the room. 
 The moon had risen and the roof -world was beau 
 tiful. 
 
 And the magic of the music the trio of friends 
 had played for him hung like the moonlight over 
 everything.
 
 IV 
 
 ROSAMUND S pleasure in the extraordinary change 
 that had taken place in Violett was not unnaturally 
 tinged with contempt. 
 
 He had heard music, he had touched a piano, 
 and had come back to her rooms in a sort of trance 
 of ecstasy, as incomprehensible to the girl as had 
 been his former condition of apathetic misery. 
 
 "Music well, I m glad you enjoyed your even 
 ing," she said, as she lit her candle preparatory to 
 going to her mattress in the next room, "but I 11 
 be blowed if 1 can see what difference music can 
 mike to any one." 
 
 Violett did not sleep, but being awake was bliss. 
 The quiet hours trooped by to a great hushed 
 march of triumph ; each striking of a near church 
 clock was a white milestone on the road to morn 
 ing, and in the morning there was more music. 
 
 The world was full of music, and nothing else 
 mattered ! 
 
 When at last the dim day dawned, the boy rose 
 quietly, and without disturbing Rosamund dressed 
 and went out into it. It was very early, even for 
 the poor. The first person he met was a man going 
 home, a faded yellow rose hanging limp in his coat. 
 
 The second wayfarer was a beggar, who asked
 
 202 VIOLETT 
 
 for a penny. Violett looked at him vaguely, as he 
 gave him the money, and wondered why the man 
 was unhappy. There was music in the world ! 
 
 With the instinct born in him, the boy made his 
 way to the nearest water, the river. Brown and 
 sullen it swept under a great bridge, wisps of fog 
 hanging over it, the light that was coming to the 
 sky reflected faintly on its glassy surface. Violett 
 leaned over the parapet and tried to hear the sound 
 of its rushing, but wagons and carts rattled and 
 groaned behind him. 
 
 "It is music, though," he thought. 
 
 Conscious of hunger for the first time for many 
 days, he stopped at a coffee-stand and consumed a 
 cup of dark brown nectar, with a large slice of am 
 brosia and butter. 
 
 Then, it being nearly eight o clock, he returned 
 to the humble home that had taken him in. Rosa 
 mund had gone to her work, leaving some coarse 
 food for him on the table. As he looked at it he 
 realized suddenly how great the girl s kindness had 
 been. Tears rushed to his eyes. 
 
 And Agnes! And Michael! And Bob Venn! 
 poor things, who could not fly into these exquisite 
 azure clouds! What did they think about him, 
 down there in their pitiful brown world ? He would 
 write Agnes. But not yet. Now the piano was 
 waiting for him.
 
 VIOLETT 203 
 
 Stepping out upon the roof, he ran swiftly along 
 to the magical window. As he reached it, a cross, 
 unshaven -looking man in the next house called to 
 him, "Hello there, sneaking into other people s 
 windows ! " 
 
 Violett turned and beamed at the poor thing 
 with such a smile of perfect love and joy, that he 
 was allowed to enter the room without further pro 
 testation. 
 
 It was empty. Old Pidgeon, who owned it, was 
 a watchmaker by trade, and had gone to his shop. 
 It was bare and shabby enough, but to Violett it 
 was the home of melody. The piano was closed, 
 and the joy of slowly opening it was his ; the joy 
 of peeping into the wonderful metal inside of the 
 thing ; the joy of stroking the yellowed keys softly 
 with his hand, and then the joy of playing. 
 
 If ghosts exist, and if those of the watchmaker s 
 daughter, to whom the instrument had been given 
 years ago by a childless old woman who had her 
 self played on it for years, if pretty, silly Louisa 
 Pidgeon s pretty, silly ghost had come back that 
 morning, together with poor little Mouchette s, 
 they would have held their ghostly breaths and 
 grasped each other s ghostly hands with surprise. 
 For Violett, alone at the piano, unwatched, un 
 heard, as he thought, found that the thoughts and 
 feelings that he had had of late the happiness, the
 
 204 VIOLETT 
 
 sorrow, and now this supreme joy had flown into 
 the old rosewood box, to nestle among the silver 
 strings, and prepared mysteriously in its depths, 
 now came tumbling out over each other, pealing, 
 wailing, shouting, in a splendid harmonized confu 
 sion comparable to nothing but the rush of the great 
 wind through trees, the beating of waves on hard 
 sand. 
 
 At noon Pidgeon came back. 
 
 "Well!" the old man puffed, as he entered, 
 "the stairs is lined with people listening to you; 
 better and around the at ! " 
 
 Violett smiled. "It was splendid! " he returned 
 simply. 
 
 "What was splendid?" 
 
 "The music." 
 
 Pidgeon shook his head ominously. "Now look 
 ere, Vi lett, don t you go an get vain. You play 
 very nicely considering, but any girl of sixteen 
 that s been to a school can play better than you." 
 
 "I know. Oh, I didn t mean the playing, I 
 meant the music. It just came rushing." 
 
 The watchmaker kept him to dinner, which he 
 cooked himself, with skill and some delicacy of 
 taste, in his tiny kitchen. 
 
 "You must ave lessons in armony," the little 
 man said, slicing an onion neatly. 
 
 "Harmony?"
 
 VIOLETT 205 
 
 "Yes. Ow to write down the music the way 
 Sonnenthal wrote down your Song of the Sea. 
 You can t play, but you are going to be a com 
 poser." 
 
 "Like Beethoven," agreed the boy simply. 
 
 Pidgeon laughed. "We 11 see, we 11 see! Like 
 yourself, I ope." 
 
 Violett answered all his questions quite directly, 
 telling the tale of Minnie and her defection with 
 gentle excuses. "You see, a girl couldn t stand 
 that" 
 
 Pidgeon looked at him. "But it s a very short 
 time ago. Are n t you unhappy about her ? " 
 
 Violett hesitated. "Being happy or unhappy," 
 he answered slowly, " doesn t seem to matter so 
 much if one is in tune. I mean, happiness is major, 
 and unhappiness minor, but one s key can be 
 complete in its way, and right." 
 
 Pidgeon nodded. "Yes, you are right; armony, 
 inner armony, is the thing." 
 
 They were both silent for a few minutes.
 
 PETROVSKY found Sonnenthal at the piano when 
 he entered the Master s house a week or so after 
 Violett s appearance in the window of Pidgeon s 
 rooms. 
 
 The Master, as he liked to be called, sat at the 
 far end of the long room, in a stained-glass alcove, 
 through which a mesh of glowing color fell on his 
 plump figure and smooth, fat face. 
 
 The years were said to have dealt kindly with 
 Felix Sonnenthal. His face bore no lines, his hair 
 was still brown and glossy, his teeth white. 
 
 He looked distinctly younger than he was, but 
 one close observer knew that his face should have 
 had lines, lines of thought, of work, of struggle 
 with himself, the lines that every middle-aged face 
 should bear; and they were not there. 
 
 People who remembered the man as he had been 
 ten years before, his fits of moody silence, his 
 uneven temper, considered that he had improved. 
 
 "He is so much more pleasant, my dear," one 
 of these observers said to Rose Sonnenthal, "so 
 much more comfortable, and it must be your in 
 fluence; you must be very proud." 
 
 And the great man s wife smiled and said no 
 thing. She had followed, step by step, the gradual
 
 VIOLETT 207 
 
 deterioration of her husband s character, the 
 easy relinquishing of the rudder he had once tried 
 to hold, the encroachment of the laisser alter that 
 is so fatal to people who have the artistic tempera 
 ment. 
 
 She knew that the moody temper, the flashes of 
 anger of the old days, had meant, at least, a re 
 sentment against the usurpation of the worse half 
 of his nature, and that the easy good temper that 
 was now his was the outward expression of an utter 
 indifference to right and wrong other than as social 
 assets. 
 
 And her face bore the lines that his lacked. She 
 had lived and suffered for two. 
 
 Sonnenthal smiled when he recognized his guest. 
 "Bon jour, bon jour!" he cried gayly, without 
 ceasing to play. " If you mention concerts to me, 
 I will wring your neck! " 
 
 " I shall not mention concerts, Maestro. I come 
 on other grounds," returned the younger man, 
 laughing. 
 
 The velvety fingers played with the notes as a 
 kitten does with a rosebud, and then with a little 
 whirr tossed them away into memory. 
 
 "You look very solemn. Take a cigarette." 
 Sonnenthal rose from the piano and lay down on 
 a low divan covered with a white bearskin. 
 
 "Solemn? Well perhaps. It is about your 
 sea symphony."
 
 208 VIOLETT 
 
 "My sea poem ? Et apres ? " 
 
 "Apres, it has another claimant." 
 
 Sonnenthal laughed. "Not really! Who?" 
 
 "A boy a queer creature, I think a little 
 touched, and quite undoubtedly a bit of a genius. 
 He used to know Mrs. Sonnenthal. Violett Maule 
 is his name." 
 
 With a grunt of amusement at his own diffi 
 culty, the Master rolled over and sat up. "Maule ! 
 Ah, yes, I remember. So he says he wrote my 
 music?" 
 
 Petrovsky laughed. "No. He says that you 
 wrote his music." 
 
 "And you believe him?" 
 
 "I never believe anything, Maestro. But I 
 warn you. He will make trouble for you." 
 
 Then Sonnenthal understood, and rising, smiled. 
 
 "You charming boy, how much do you want?" 
 
 The Pole was attempting a little vicarious black 
 mail without a qualm, but in cheery cynicism he 
 was no match for the man whose delicate inter 
 pretation of Chopin had won him renown all the 
 world over. 
 
 "How much what? " he stammered. 
 
 "How much pounds, shillings, pence?" 
 
 "Then Maule s story is true? " 
 
 The Master lay flat on his back, looking up 
 through a cloud of smoke.
 
 VIOLETT 209 
 
 "True? That the melody is his yes. That 
 the Poeme Syinphonique is his jamais cle la vie, 
 mon cher! " Curiously enough, musician though 
 the man was, he still said, "Chamais te la fie." 
 
 " The fact remains, as you say. The melody 
 the whole first movement is his. He is going to 
 claim it." 
 
 "He will make himself famous," replied the 
 older man, with a shrug, "but that will not hurt 
 me." 
 
 Suddenly Petrovsky lost his patience. "It will 
 hurt you," he said angrily. "He has witnesses. 
 Your wife is one of them." 
 
 The shot told. 
 
 Sonnenthal jumped up and threw down his ciga 
 rette. " My wife did he tell you this ? " 
 
 "Yes. You laugh at me, but I wanted to warn 
 you." 
 
 "Then it was not you? I am glad, Lao." 
 
 The Pole winced at the kindness in the tone of 
 the man who had helped him. 
 
 "You had.no right to think that," he retorted 
 angrily. "I will go now." 
 
 Sonnenthal took a check-book from the drawer 
 of a table in the corner. 
 
 "Keep it quiet, Lao. It was nothing as I found 
 it, a simple melody. My wife used to sing it 
 I made it great."
 
 210 VIOLETT 
 
 "Ah, yes; you hatched the egg, but it is his, 
 and he knows it." 
 
 It was kinder to spare the Master the knowledge 
 of his, Lao s, dishonesty; it would hurt the Master 
 to know. 
 
 "He is clever enough, but he wants a tall sum 
 for his wares a hundred pounds." 
 
 Sonnenthal wrote the check in silence. It was 
 one of the disagreeable surprises of life, that was 
 all, a stone in the runner s sandal.
 
 VI 
 
 MRS. SOXNENTHAL stood at the door of Albert 
 Hall, waiting for her carriage. The concert had 
 been a great success ; the audience, chiefly composed 
 of women, was most enthusiastic; the programme, 
 wisely composed of all sorts of music, with just the 
 right preponderance of Chopin, played from be 
 ginning to end with neatness and poetry. 
 
 And the artist s wife listened with a little smile 
 of melancholy amusement to the remarks made as 
 people crowded out into the street. It was a great 
 success, oh, yes, and Felix would come home con 
 tented and hungry. 
 
 With his characteristic cynical audacity Sonnen- 
 thal had put on his programme that day his piano 
 arrangement of the sea poem, and though his wife 
 knew nothing of Violett s appearance in London, 
 she had listened to it with quiet horror. It had 
 meant so much to her, Sonnenthal s appropriation 
 of the beautiful melody. His doing so had been 
 the cause of her first admitting to herself the fact 
 of his moral faultiness. 
 
 But he had played it to-day how he had 
 played it! 
 
 "Wasn t that too lovely the sea poem!" a 
 woman behind her exclaimed suddenly.
 
 212 VIOLETT 
 
 "He is a great genius. Since I heard the thing 
 years ago, I cannot hear the sea without its beat 
 ing this thing of Sonnenthal s into my ears." 
 
 "Yes. It really is the sea s voice." 
 
 They had passed, and Mrs. Sonnenthal s foot 
 man had found her. 
 
 As she went out of the door, some one touched 
 her arm. 
 
 "Miss Rose!" 
 
 The pale, tall boy could be only Violett. With 
 a frightened blush, she shook hands with him. 
 
 "You here! In London! " 
 
 "I live here now. I am so glad to see you 
 Mrs. Sonnenthal." 
 
 For some reason it was distasteful to her to have 
 him call her by her husband s name. " Call me 
 Miss Rose, " she said hurriedly. "You must 
 come to see me that is " 
 
 They had reached her carriage. 
 
 " Violett, come home with me now I " 
 
 The boy obeyed gladly, and sat down by her in 
 her brougham. 
 
 "I have a piano," he began at once, "and I 
 am learning to play. I am going to be a com 
 poser." 
 
 "You but tell me all about it." 
 
 She was sorry now that she had brought him. 
 Felix would not like it; and Violett must have
 
 VIOLETT 213 
 
 noticed that the motif of Sonnenthal s elaborate 
 sea poem was the old "Song" that years before 
 the little brown boy had played to the dreamy-eyed 
 girl in the old rectory drawing-room. 
 
 "So I am learning. I live with Mr. Pidgeon 
 now, and, he plays to me on his violin, but I like 
 the piano best " 
 
 "Mr. Pidgeon? Oh, yes." 
 
 Then she asked for news of Agnes and Michael, 
 and he told her of a letter he had had that morn 
 ing. Michael had an assistant now, and they 
 missed Violett, and was he soon coming home? 
 
 "But I shall stay here until I have learned a 
 great deal. I was at the concert to-day. I heard 
 Mr. Sonnenthal. I cried," he added. 
 
 When the little house in South Kensington was 
 reached, Rose took the boy to her morning-room 
 and rang for tea. 
 
 Violett stood by the fire, his eyes studying the 
 appointments of the charming room. Suddenly he 
 exclaimed, 
 
 " He played my Song of the Sea. Do you 
 remember?" 
 
 She started. "Yes I remember." 
 
 "Mr. Pidgeon and the two others play it on 
 violins, but it is better on the piano." 
 
 "I think so too." 
 
 The man brought in tea, and when he had gone,
 
 214 VIOLETT 
 
 the poor woman went on, "He of course changed 
 it a great deal, Violett, and made it much more 
 beautiful. It is hardly the same thing now." 
 
 "The melody is the same thing. That could 
 not change, you know." 
 
 She paused in her occupation of pourjng tea in 
 the delicate cups, and looked up at him. 
 
 "But you don t mind, do you? I mean, you 
 don t mind his using it?" And then she felt the 
 danger of her admission, and wished that she had 
 not spoken. 
 
 "Mind?" The boy hesitated. "I am not sure. 
 It was mine, and I am going to be a composer, 
 you know. I should have liked to to make it 
 into music myself." 
 
 As he finished, he noticed her face, and came a 
 sudden step nearer. 
 
 "But I don t care, Miss Eose. No, really, I do 
 not. You like it better this way, and so do I." 
 
 "But, Violett do you understand if you tell 
 -it will be it will" - 
 
 And Violett, kneeling down by her, laid his long 
 hands on hers, as hers wrung each other help 
 lessly. 
 
 "I know. I do understand. People would say 
 that I will not tell, Miss Kose, never. Only, 
 don t look like that." 
 
 And she accepted his sacrifice, and let him pro-
 
 VIOLETT 215 
 
 raise, because she loved, even while she despised, 
 her husband. 
 
 "Even to him, Violett you will not mention 
 it? You see he heard it so long ago I sup 
 pose he thinks it all his own." 
 
 Violett looked at her gravely and rose. He 
 recognized the lie. 
 
 "I think he knows," he returned, gently uncom 
 promising, " but I 11 not mention it to him." 
 
 When Sonnenthal came in, half an hour later, 
 and his wife introduced her visitor to him, he 
 started, and gave a short laugh. Then he held out 
 his hand, and with a sarcastic enthusiasm at which 
 Violett was surprised, welcomed him to his house. 
 
 "I hear that you are a genius," he began, sit 
 ting down and ringing. 
 
 The boy did not answer. He disliked Sonnen 
 thal, quite apart from the matter of the sea song. 
 His intense sensitiveness had told him long ago 
 that Rose was unhappy, and now it told him that 
 in spite of her unhappiness her husband had influ 
 enced her. And he wished to go, and was uncer 
 tain whether his immediate departure might not 
 hurt his hostess. 
 
 Sonnenthal was amused by the boy s audacity, 
 as he considered it, in coming to the house of the 
 man he was blackmailing. 
 
 "Were you at my concert? " he asked suddenly.
 
 216 VIOLETT 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Did you like it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Sonnenthal smiled at him, and added a dash of 
 brandy to his soda. 
 
 "What did you think of the sea poem?" 
 
 Violett looked at him thoughtfully for a second. 
 Then he answered, "I think it very beautiful." 
 
 And his apparent self-control delighted Sonnen 
 thal. 
 
 "Good! Let s go into the next room, and you 
 shall play to me." 
 
 But Violett refused. It was late, and he must 
 go home. 
 
 Mrs. Sonnenthal accompanied him to the stairs, 
 and as she gave him her hand, whispered, "Thank 
 you, Violett."
 
 VII 
 
 VIOLETT told no one of his visit to the Sonnen- 
 thals. lie deeply regretted, in the light of recent 
 events, that he had already told the three mu 
 sicians of his claim to Sonnenthal s melody, and 
 now it seemed to him best to let the matter be 
 forgotten. 
 
 Petrovsky had been away, but old Barr and 
 Mr. Pidgeon played together very frequently, and 
 Violett, at the piano, was rapturous. A month 
 passed, and then a most wonderful thing hap 
 pened. 
 
 One day Mrs. Sonnenthal sent a note to Violett, 
 asking him to come to see her that afternoon. The 
 carriage was at the door when he arrived; and, 
 telling him that she had some errands to do, she 
 bade him follow her into it, and they sped away 
 to the shops. 
 
 They went to one where clothes were sold, and 
 she bought two suits for the boy. Then a hat, 
 boots, and wonderful linen and socks. Even gloves 
 and handkerchiefs were not forgotten. It was con 
 science money that she was spending. She knew 
 that she owed him a great debt, and in this way 
 she tried to pay him. 
 
 He accepted her gifts with great joy and grati-
 
 218 VIOLETT 
 
 tude, but without the least hesitation. She was 
 Miss Rose, and he Violett. Neither of them men 
 tioned the "Song of the Sea," and the boy had 
 indeed almost forgotten it, otherwise than as some 
 thing in connection with which he had been able 
 to do a favor to Miss Rose. 
 
 He was not ambitious, and since he had lived 
 with Pidgeon had been as happy as a bee in a gar 
 den. That is surely all that any one can wish. 
 
 Clad in a well cut gray suit, with a soft hat and 
 brown gloves, simply vain of his fine appearance, 
 Mr. Maule, as Rose declared she must now call 
 him, drove home with Mrs. Sonnenthal, and went 
 with her into the drawing-room. 
 
 "You know," he said seriously, gazing at him 
 self in a mirror, "I think 1 look almost like a 
 gentleman now." 
 
 Rose laughed with an enjoyment not felt by her 
 for weeks. "You are a dear! Now play to me." 
 
 And Violett played, for they were alone. He 
 played as he never had before, for behind him 
 lay six weeks of hard work, and a wave of inspira 
 tion caught him and tossed him heavenward. 
 
 When at length he broke off, Sonnenthal stood 
 by him. 
 
 "That was splendid! Shake hands with me." 
 The great man s face looked less pleasant than 
 usual, and was therefore much more pleasing.
 
 VIOLETT 219 
 
 "You are going to be a musician, and I am going 
 to help you." 
 
 Violett s helpless face amused while it puzzled 
 him. 
 
 " Oh, I know you do not like me. But neither 
 do I like you. You yourself may go to the devil 
 for all I care, but your music must be saved. 
 So I am going to give, you lessons." 
 
 Mrs. Sonnenthal had drawn nearer. "Violett, 
 why don t you thank him? He has never given 
 lessons to any one." 
 
 But the Master, good-naturedly attributing the 
 boy s embarrassment to remorse, waved her aside. 
 
 "I want no thanks. It will not be amusing, que 
 diable, to be my pupil, but I will drag it out of 
 you, the music. Now go, and come here to-morrow 
 at ten." 
 
 Violett gave a little nervous shiver. Sonnenthal 
 was personally repugnant to him. He hated the 
 thought of coming into frequent contact with him. 
 And then the man s own remark, "You yourself 
 may go to the devil, but your music " "Thank 
 you," he said, taking up his hat; "it is very good 
 of you." Then he went home.
 
 VIII 
 
 IT was a curious alliance, that between Sonnenthal 
 and Violett. The personal antipathy of each for 
 the other, confronted by their mutual musical sym 
 pathy, tried hard to efface itself, and succeeded 
 only in hiding behind backs, so to say. 
 
 Sonnenthal naturally added to his old distaste 
 for the boy a scorn for the supposed blackmailer, 
 while Violett feeling more and more, as time 
 went on, how his master s inherent falsity had 
 influenced the once beautifully upright Kose, 
 still shivered uncomfortably at the very sound of 
 his voice. 
 
 Yet, bound by their great tie, the two gave each 
 other their best; they worked together with that 
 steady enthusiasm that can accomplish such won 
 ders, and eagerly they watched the wonder grow. 
 
 Violett learned with a surprising rapidity, and 
 anything that he learned was his for the rest of 
 his life. 
 
 After a few weeks of daily lessons, Sonnenthal 
 bade him, with the new gruff ness that his wife so 
 loved, to pack up all his belongings and come to 
 live in his house. "I must be near you; it must 
 be one long lesson," he added, and Violett obeyed, 
 with a perfunctory expression of thanks. He loved
 
 VIOLETT 221 
 
 living with Pidgeon, and he would hate being un 
 der the same roof with Sonnenthal ; but he came at 
 once, telling old Pidgeon, in the same passive 
 obedience to Sonnenthal, merely that he was going 
 away for a time. The great man had said, " I wish 
 no one to know that you are my pupil ; I should be 
 tortured with applications, so hold your tongue." 
 
 Upstairs in his room, the boy had an upright 
 piano, and here it was that he did his work. Ris 
 ing every day at dawn, he went for a walk, creep 
 ing down the dark stairs into the gray streets, and 
 after an hour s wandering, during which he saw 
 little and heard much, returned to breakfast. 
 
 Then came work until noon, a sleep, according 
 to orders, more work, a drive or a walk, and late 
 in the afternoon Sonnenthal played for him. It 
 was an hour for which many people would have 
 paid many pounds, but to the obscure boy it was 
 not all pleasure. 
 
 Sonnenthal put his soul, such as it was, into his 
 music, and Violett, hearing the weakness and dis 
 cords of that soul through the strength and beauty 
 of the music, was hurt as much as he was made 
 happy by it. 
 
 And always, when music was not the business 
 of the moment, the boy avoided the man, and the 
 man avoided the boy. Sonnenthal, quite unashamed 
 of his theft of the melody, a theft so intangible as
 
 222 VIOLETT 
 
 to be almost none, thought that he read in Violett s 
 eyes a constant memory of it ; while Violett, re 
 membering his promise to Rose, but rarely recall 
 ing the reason for the promise, was uncomfortable 
 in the man s presence chiefly because he disliked 
 him, and helplessly resented Rose s love for him 
 who was so greatly her inferior. 
 
 One morning in June Violett was taking his 
 walk. It was the beginning of a beautiful day, and 
 the trees in the park, washed with a gentle rain in 
 the night, were crisp and green against the pale 
 sky. 
 
 Violett was very happy. In a week Sonnenthal 
 and his wife were going to the sea, and the even 
 ing before, Rose had told the boy that he was to 
 go with them. 
 
 The thought of being again by the water, of 
 sitting in warm sand and listening to the waves, 
 was a delight. After all, people were very kind to 
 him. Sonnenthal knew about his father, and did 
 not care. Violett wished he could like Sonnen 
 thal; gratitude is bitter where no love can be. 
 
 But he could play now; he was working at a 
 tough problem of Bach s, and the beauty of it be 
 gan to shine through ; and then a new song in his 
 own mind was almost ready to come to his fingers, 
 a soft, lonely melody, as the sky seen through 
 bare boughs.
 
 VIOLETT 223 
 
 Suddenly, in one of the most beautiful parts of 
 the park, he turned a corner, and there was Min 
 nie, Minnie wrapped in a little shawl, though 
 it was so warm; Minnie in a flat hat on which 
 bloomed the one rose in the world. 
 
 "Stevie!" 
 
 "Minnie!" 
 
 They stood staring at each other for a second, 
 and then he turned and walked into paradise with 
 her. 
 
 "How long is it? " he asked at length. 
 
 " Oh very long. Are you are you well ? " 
 
 He laughed. "Well? Oh, yes. And you? No, 
 Minnie, you are not well, you are ill." 
 
 She did not deny it. 
 
 "It has been warm and I ve hurt my arm." 
 
 He saw that her delicate little arm was in a stiff 
 bandage and hung in a sling, and his heart seemed 
 to stand quite still. 
 
 "How what was it? " he asked when he could 
 get his breath. 
 
 She flushed. "I I fell downstairs. I m liv 
 ing in Street, now, you know." 
 
 Violett did not know ; he knew nothing. 
 
 "I m married," she went on hurriedly, sitting 
 down on a bench, and stooping to tie her shoe. 
 
 "To Mr. d Orsay?" 
 
 "Yes. Is name s Dunn."
 
 224 VIOLETT 
 
 "Oh! " There was a short silence, while Violett 
 watched a fat robin eat a fat worm, and wondered 
 how he could have lived without knowing that she 
 was married. What had he been doing on her 
 wedding day? 
 
 "Stevie have you forgiven me?" And oh, 
 the little catch in her voice! 
 
 "I hadn t anything to forgive you for, Minnie. 
 It was impossible, and I ought to have known 
 it." 
 
 "It wouldn t ave been impossible if I hadn t 
 been a fool." 
 
 The bitterness in her voice was so unchildlike 
 and so new that the boy turned and looked at her. 
 
 "Oh, Min, don t cry!" 
 
 The tears stood still on her curved lashes, and 
 she tried to smile, to comfort him. "I am tired, 
 Stevie, that s all." 
 
 "But, Minnie you are happy?" 
 
 He watched her anxiously as she answered, 
 
 "Oh, that ! Yes, of course I m appy." 
 
 He told her about his music, that he was living 
 with Sonnenthal, that he was going to the sea. 
 
 Then she told him that Sam was very good to 
 her, that fond of er, that she was of course not 
 singing now, because of her arm, that Sam had no 
 employment at present, but the prospect of some 
 thing very fine for the autumn.
 
 VIOLETT 225 
 
 And now the sun was out in all his glory, and 
 the trees sparkled, and the robins dug fresh pink 
 worms out of the silvery grass. 
 
 Minnie, who would not let Violett accompany 
 her home, told him that she came every morning 
 for a walk in the park, as she slept very badly and 
 the air did her good. Then they parted, and Vio 
 lett flew back to his piano, and in its wonderful 
 responsiveness it sang to him all the bliss of the 
 morning. 
 
 "What s that you re playing?" Sonnenthal 
 asked, coming in suddenly. 
 
 "It s I don t know." 
 
 The Master sat down at the table. "Well, play 
 it again and I 11 scratch it down for you." 
 
 As he did so he watched Violett. He had never 
 mentioned the blackmailing to the boy. If he did 
 so, he thought it would be impossible to continue 
 the relations it pleased him to maintain with his 
 protege. And now he was wondering whether 
 Violett was not ashamed, and congratulating him 
 self on the fact that after all the benefits received 
 at his hands, the boy could never in any way 
 use his knowledge about the most famous of all 
 the Master s compositions. 
 
 There is now, much played by orchestras, a 
 beautiful symphonic poem by Felix Sonnenthal 
 called "A Morning Walk."
 
 IX 
 
 THE beauty of dawn and its succeeding hour is 
 such that those who know and love it must wonder 
 that these hours are wasted by almost every one. 
 
 The praise of moonlight and of starlight is sung 
 by the most unpoetic, and even prosaic lovers pre 
 fer to meet in the evening rather than at broad 
 noon or staring three o clock. 
 
 But the wonderful, ethereal, breathless charm of 
 the early morning is better than that of evening. 
 The baby day is winsome as it opens its sleepy 
 eyes, and worldly troubles and worries seem smaller 
 then than at any other hour. 
 
 Violett, a musician and a lover, met Minnie 
 every morning under the wise old trees in the park, 
 and every minute he passed with her was an eter 
 nity of happiness. 
 
 The young woman herself, so much wiser in 
 worldly things, wondered at him. There was no 
 jealousy in him; none of the misery she would 
 have expected. She was his for that one hour, 
 and he was satisfied. 
 
 At first, to try him, she had talked of her hus 
 band, telling how happy they were together. And 
 then Violett s unselfish contentment disarmed her,
 
 VIOLETT 227 
 
 and she gave herself up to the pleasure of being 
 with him. 
 
 He had improved in every way, and her poor, 
 sordid little heart rejoiced in his good clothes, in 
 the careless way he wore his hat, in his neat nails. 
 She was proud of him. 
 
 "I am sorry you are going away, Stevie," she 
 said on the third morning after their first meeting. 
 "I shall miss you." 
 
 "I shall miss you, too, Min. Why won t you 
 let me come to see you? " 
 
 "Because we ave such a small room. It s 
 uncomfortable for visits." 
 
 "Oh! You don t like it?" 
 
 Something like horror was in his voice, as he 
 thought of his luxurious little nest at Sonnenthal s. 
 
 "Like it?" Minnie hesitated for a minute. 
 Should she play on his pity? No. "It is our 
 home, Stevie, so of course we love it," she an 
 swered with a real dignity behind the assumed. 
 
 "Well why mayn t I come? I I should 
 like to tell Mr. Dunn that I am sorry I used 
 to not like him." 
 
 "Do you like him now?" 
 
 Violett turned his eyes full on her, while he re 
 flected. She could almost see his thoughts at 
 work. 
 
 "I like him for making you happy, Minnie."
 
 228 VIOLETT 
 
 And she turned to hide the twist of her mouth. 
 There was something so childlike, so innocent in 
 his love for her, that in spite of his year or more 
 of seniority, a feeling almost maternal prompted 
 her to preserve it. 
 
 Minnie had grown old suddenly. 
 
 Once as they sat together at the edge of a wind 
 ing bridle-path, watching the sun s upward pro 
 gress behind big tree trunks, velvety with recent 
 rain, she asked him the question that she had been 
 pondering ever since their first morning meeting, 
 
 "Stevie did you care much?" 
 
 "Yes, I cared. A great deal, Min." 
 
 His face was so calm and unmoved that in spite 
 of her good resolutions the girl went on, 
 
 "How did you get over it so quickly? " 
 
 "But I haven t got over it." 
 
 Her painted face flushed. "I mean you are 
 happy now ? Without me ? " 
 
 "I am happy. Yes. You are n t afraid of me 
 any more, Min." 
 
 And she understood. 
 
 "If I hadn t been afraid then, that evening, 
 Stevie I d ave been your wife now." 
 
 He did not answer. 
 
 "I d ave been your wife." 
 
 "Yes. But of course you couldn t, dear; I 
 understand. It is too horrible. Your liking me
 
 VIOLETT 229 
 
 again and not minding is almost too good to be 
 true." 
 
 His short upper lip was shaded with a soft down, 
 she noticed as he spoke, and he had grown heavier. 
 His hands were muscular, and the carriage of his 
 head less dreamy and more assured. He wore a 
 white carnation in his coat. 
 
 The next morning when he came, she ran to 
 him, her hands outstretched. 
 
 "Stevie, don t go away!" 
 
 "Away?" 
 
 "I mean to the sea. I want you." 
 
 He took her hands in his and swung them lightly 
 to and fro. "You want me, Min?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then I ll stay." 
 
 And he stayed, accepting Sonnenthal s anger 
 and Rose s reproaches with gentle determination. 
 
 The day after their departure, he went as usual 
 to the park at dawn, but Minnie did not come. 
 
 The morning was Very long, and for the first 
 time he realized how utterly he depended on her; 
 how empty the world was without her. Pie knew 
 this; he saw that the shadows were darker, the 
 sunlight paler, the birds less joyous, the air less 
 sweet, and yet he did not guess why. 
 
 And when she came across the silvery grass 
 under the oaks, the next day, her small white
 
 230 VIOLETT 
 
 face shadowed by a big hat, he did not know why 
 everything became in a heart-beat so sublimely 
 beautiful. 
 
 She, of course, knew. Her dark eyes glowed as 
 she watched him, and with a delicious pang she 
 realized why it was that their meeting eyes held 
 the sun. 
 
 And her delicate lips quivered with a half ma 
 ternal mockery of his innocence. 
 
 They wandered about in the greenness ; they fed 
 the swans; they sat hand in hand on rustic benches 
 and watched children playing on the grass. 
 
 And every day the wonder of meeting came to 
 pass. 
 
 The world was pulsing with harmony for Vio- 
 lett, but he did not touch his piano during that 
 week; the music was everywhere about him. 
 
 It was not he who touched the wrong note that 
 brought jarring discord into the whole. 
 
 On the last and the fairest morning of the week 
 the two were sitting on the bench near where they 
 had first met, talking of the old days by the sea. 
 
 Minnie s wan little hand lay idly in the boy s, 
 but their talk was of sand houses and wading; of 
 the color of the sea music and the rushing of sud 
 den storms. 
 
 "Do you remember" 
 
 "Z>o I remember?"
 
 VIOLETT 231 
 
 And thus d Orsay found them. 
 
 What he said does not matter. It was the foul- 
 mouthed accusation of a half-drunken scoundrel 
 mad with jealousy. Minnie, trembling and crying, 
 shrank away into the shrubbery, but the boy, 
 awakened out of his innocent dream of happiness, 
 faced her accuser. 
 
 "Sneakin out ere," went on Dunn, "to meet 
 a little beast like you ! " And then all the anger 
 that he had ever felt in his life took possession of 
 the murderer s son. His face lost its color, his eyes 
 turned, and with a short yell he sprang at the big 
 ger man, who, taken by surprise, stumbled and fell 
 full length on the grass. 
 
 Minnie saw her champion kneel on her hus 
 band s chest; she saw the lithe, long hands fasten 
 around Dunn s throat, and she heard Violett say 
 something ; she could not tell what. And then 
 suddenly Violett let go and rose. 
 
 He stood stupidly staring at the prostrate man, 
 and then said slowly, " It was my father who 
 killed. Not I." 
 
 "Violett!" 
 
 Minnie had never before uttered the name. He 
 turned to her. 
 
 "I thank you, Violett." 
 
 The boy shook his head vaguely. "He knows 
 he lied, Minnie. And it was my father, not I."
 
 232 VIOLETT 
 
 Minnie caught his hand. "He s fainted, dear. 
 Go now, and to-morrow come in the morning." 
 
 She saw his eyes change ; she saw the innocence 
 go out of them ; she saw selfishness, evil thought, 
 and ruthlessness come into them. But she called 
 the new look love, and crept into his arms. And 
 by the fainting man s side he kissed her fiercely, 
 holding her so close that she felt the pumping of 
 his heart. 
 
 "To-morrow, yes, and every day. Come we 
 will go now, Min you and I. You can t stay 
 with him. You belong to me. You love me and 
 I love you. He " he touched the inanimate body 
 scornfully with his foot "is a beast; he does not 
 need you." 
 
 "Yes. We wiU go." 
 
 He had loved her all his life, and now at last 
 he had waked up, and she was his. He gave a loud 
 laugh at his own silly dreaming. He had indeed 
 slept. 
 
 Suddenly his eyes caught the crimson glow of 
 the sun on the water. It was like blood ; it was 
 the color he hated. The wind had come up and 
 swung the boughs above him. Where was the 
 harmony? Where was the symphonic splendor of 
 nature s music ? It was all confusion. 
 
 And his taking Minnie meant eternal confusion, 
 for it was not in harmony.
 
 VIOLETT 233 
 
 "I can t do it, Minnie," he said slowly. "It 
 would kill us both." 
 
 She stared ; then she wept. "He beats me, 
 Stevie Violett. He threw me downstairs; he 
 is always drinking. I can t go back." 
 
 And then Violett, who had been in a church 
 only half a dozen times in his life, preached a 
 sermon. 
 
 "You must. I d rather die than let you; I 
 think it will kill me to have you, but you must. 
 I don t know why, but it s so. If you did n t it 
 would be out of tune and horrible. God meant 
 it so." 
 
 Then he kissed her hands, and ran across the 
 sward to the nearest park entrance. He told a 
 policeman that a man had fainted, and then slowly 
 went home. The crimson light faded as he went.
 
 WHEN a small cloud creeps across a sunny sky, 
 its little shadow skimming over the placid world 
 below; when a puff of wind stirs quiet leaves with 
 ominous caprice ; when a dark note occurs in the 
 summer harmony; when, in a word, a storm begins 
 to gather its scattered forces, its beginnings, com 
 ing singly, are so surprisingly insignificant that 
 when the light has gone, carrying with it the brood 
 ing quiet of warm days, one looks in vain for even 
 a bit of blueness above, a still corner below. And 
 so it was with Violett. 
 
 He had lost Minnie ; he had lost his innocence 
 of heart; he had lost the sense of harmony that 
 seemed music to him ; and to complete his misery, 
 he lost Rose Sonnenthal s friendship. 
 
 When he reached the villa at Eastbourne the 
 next day, he found its mistress alone in the draw 
 ing-room, sitting idly by the window. Violett 
 stood by the door, gazing at her with a simple reve 
 lation of his unhappiness in his eyes. She loved 
 him ; she must know that he was miserable ; it was 
 very simple. 
 
 But when she looked up, she laughed. "So 
 you have come back ! Why ? " 
 
 "Why?"
 
 VIOLETT 235 
 
 "Yes. Is it music you have come for, or 
 money?" 
 
 He stared. "What do you mean, Miss Rose? " 
 
 She laughed again. 
 
 "I mean that my husband has told me of your 
 first communication with him." 
 
 It was an ugly laugh; for the story of the boy s 
 supposed blackmail, an amusing incident to Son- 
 nenthal, told in an after-dinner mood, had been 
 another blow to her tottering faith in human na 
 ture. 
 
 Violett sat down and clasped his hands, sitting 
 there in the nervous immobility usual to him in 
 moments of agitation. 
 
 "Please tell me," he said slowly, "what you 
 mean." 
 
 " I mean that your your courage, in coming 
 here and accepting my husband s ch kindness, 
 after blackmailing him, is no less admirable than 
 surprising." 
 
 " What is blackmailing ? " 
 
 As she leaned back in her chair, the hateful 
 laugh once more stirring her pale lips, the door 
 opened and Sonnenthal came in. 
 
 "A la bonheur! My dear boy, I am glad to 
 see you again! " 
 
 His dark face beamed with the kindness of one 
 delighted at feeling a sharp and useful implement
 
 236 VIOLETT 
 
 again in his unaccustomed hand. "I have missed 
 you!" 
 
 Then suddenly turning to his wife, "Well, 
 what s wrong? " 
 
 "Master," asked the boy eagerly, "what is 
 blackmailing? " 
 
 Sonnenthal smiled at him and scowled at Rose 
 at the same time. 
 
 "So you have been doing that, my dear? You 
 have told him! Never mind, Violett, it is for 
 given and forgotten. You are you, and I am I; 
 that is sufficient. Come, play for me." 
 
 " It Felix how can you ? You are so good, 
 so generous," she cried piteously, with the sad 
 enthusiasm of one eager to admire what he loves. 
 "No one but you could forgive " 
 
 "Ah, bah! I want him to play. I tell you, he 
 may do what he likes, and I don t care. Genius 
 must be many-sided." 
 
 Violett, not understanding, felt that the man 
 who was kind to him was selfish and bad ; that the 
 cruel woman was good and heartbroken in her 
 unkindness. 
 
 "I cannot play," he stammered. 
 
 Sonnenthal clapped him genially on the shoul 
 der. "Nonsense! Of course you can play. Don t 
 bother about that any more." 
 
 And then, embittered and miserable as she was,
 
 VIOLETT 237 
 
 Hose Sonnentlial uttered the most cruel words of 
 her life. 
 
 "Very well have him play, by all means. 
 After all, his being a blackmailer is not so sur 
 prising, blood will tell." 
 
 Sonnenthal stared. It was uncomfortably crude 
 of her. 
 
 "Leave the room! " he shouted angrily. "And 
 be good enough to let me manage my own affairs 
 without any unsolicited assistance. I have not yet 
 reached the point where I need help from a whin 
 ing fool like you ! " 
 
 He gave a snarling laugh, and without an in 
 stant s hesitation Violett struck him, his cham 
 pion and protector, across the mouth. 
 
 A minute later, a pale-faced man, with the bit 
 terness of self-disdain in his eyes, stood on the 
 beach listening to the beating of the inharmonious 
 waves. It was Violett.
 
 PART IV
 
 AGNES love for Violett was most rarely beautiful, 
 for it was untainted by curiosity. 
 
 When he came back, broken and still, with a 
 dazed look in his eyes, she had not a single ques 
 tion for him. Open arms and a silent tongue were 
 her simple welcome, and he accepted it without a 
 word of gratitude. 
 
 He told nothing of his recent life ; she knew, for 
 he had written occasionally, of his living with Son- 
 nenthal, and that he was not married. She knew, 
 too, that he had come back home with something 
 as near to a broken heart as ever beat in a man s 
 breast. That was all, and it was enough. 
 
 The days passed, and Violett hardly knew it. 
 He sat for hours, without moving, in the sand, his 
 eyes fixed on the summer ocean. His was the pain 
 of living over and over the unchangeable. 
 
 With pulsing monotony the scenes he had lived 
 through came back to him in ceaseless reiteration, 
 the beautiful morning hours with Minnie, hours 
 white-winged and sunny, innocent as those of child 
 hood ; his joy in being with her, in gazing into the 
 lucent depths of her sombre eyes, of touching her 
 hand. 
 
 And then the awakening! The hideous quarrel
 
 242 VIOLETT 
 
 with d Orsay; the still more hideous rapture of 
 holding d Orsay s wife to his heart; the awful 
 confusion, his flight through the busy town. Over 
 and over it turned in his mind like a wheel of 
 fire. 
 
 And then Rose Sonnenthal s incomprehensible 
 unkindness; Sonnenthal s kindness; his own love 
 for Rose and dislike for the man. "She was cruel 
 to me and I love her ! he was kind to me and I hate 
 him!" 
 
 His untrained mind, tortured beyond endurance, 
 clung with weary persistence to these puzzling 
 facts. Over and over he asked himself why he 
 loved Rose and hated Sonnenthal. 
 
 Sometimes he fell asleep in the sun, and awoke 
 with new strength for thought. Sometimes he 
 went in swimming, but he could not go far, for 
 fear of the cramp that seized him when overtired, 
 so he sat almost all the time by the edge of the 
 water he loved. 
 
 He was not far from madness, those long, golden 
 summer days. And the longing for Minnie grew 
 greater instead of less, and he knew that it was 
 evil, and he hated it, for he was pure in heart. 
 
 Work, that greatest blessing of God, was un 
 known to him ; he had never worked in his life, 
 and the terribly potent demons of idleness hovered 
 about him with unceasing energy.
 
 VIOLETT 243 
 
 When the sound of the sea at last grew from its 
 dreadful discords into a new song, it was a song 
 that in its beauty was far worse than the old lack 
 of harmony. It was a song of Minnie of the new 
 Minnie; of the Minnie he had kissed. And it 
 pulsed and beat in his ears until they ached. It told 
 him of life somewhere far away, where Minnie 
 and he might be always together; where he would 
 be hers and she his, and where nothing else mat 
 tered. And sometimes he would rise and look back 
 towards the clump of wood that hid the road lead 
 ing to the station. 
 
 When the moon came, the song took on new en 
 chantments. It was the most exquisite melody in 
 the world then, surely. And in a cloud he once 
 saw Minnie s face. 
 
 He read no books ; it was a waste of time that 
 might be spent with Minnie. One day in Septem 
 ber Bob Venn came over to the island, bringing a 
 letter. When Violett caught sight of the sun on 
 the fisherman s sail he knew that it was Bob, and 
 that he had a letter, and that the letter was from 
 Minnie. 
 
 When he was alone in the Cradle, he read the 
 letter, which was written on pink paper like the 
 inside of a shell, and which smelled like Minnie s 
 little handkerchiefs. The scent made his head 
 swim for a minute, but presently he could read.
 
 244 VIOLETT 
 
 DEAK VIOLETT, Are you not going to write 
 to me again? Where are you? Are you well? 
 Sam was very bad ; his head was hurt when he fell 
 against the roots of the tree. He treats me very 
 cruel. If you do not come I think I shall kill my 
 self. I go every day to the park. 
 
 MINNIE. 
 
 The waves, breaking on the rocks below, laughed 
 softly at his hesitation and sang, " Why not ? Why 
 not?" 
 
 And then he remembered what Rose Sonnenthal 
 had said, "It is not surprising blood will tell." 
 
 And the comfort of hereditary sin crept over 
 him. He was his father s son. 
 
 He rose and went back to the house. Agnes 
 looked up at him with her blind eyes. 
 
 "Vi lett?" 
 
 "Yes, Agnes." 
 
 She laughed gently. "You said that just like 
 your mother, dearie, Yes, Agnes, like a little 
 flute!" 
 
 "Tell me about my mother." 
 
 He sat down at her feet, as he had done when a 
 child. 
 
 "She was little and thin and gentle. She did 
 not talk much, and her eyes were sweet, like a 
 child s."
 
 VIOLETT 246 
 
 "Did she love my father? " 
 
 The old woman hesitated. "Yes, she loved him." 
 
 "But she was not happy." 
 
 "No, she was not happy." In the silence the 
 old clock ticked gravely. It must have ticked just 
 so during her short life there. And Agnes had 
 been there; only he, Violett, had not been there! 
 If he had, she would have been happier. Or if 
 she were there now, he would be happier. 
 
 "Agnes," he said at length, "when you don t 
 know what to do, what do you do?" 
 
 The old woman laid her wrinkled hand on his 
 head. "I pray, dearie." 
 
 The boy went slowly back to the edge of the 
 water. He did not pray ; but he did not write to 
 Minnie, nor did he go. 
 
 That night there was a storm, and its savage 
 splendor was grateful to him. All night he sat at 
 the edge of the garden listening to the thumping 
 of the monster waves on the rocks beneath. The 
 moon was full, and its intermittent glory, shining 
 forth from between racing cloud-rack, fell on the 
 tumbling sea like peace on a troubled mind. 
 
 " The face of the waters, " Violett repeated 
 over and over to himself, finding a vague consola 
 tion in the words. 
 
 The thought of Minnie faded as time passed. 
 He was too tired to think of anything, and the
 
 246 VIOLETT 
 
 cooling hand of nature lay on his hot brow and 
 quieted him. 
 
 At dawn the storm ceded to the glory of coming 
 day, and as the sky grew full of faint color the 
 waves sank to a quiet, slumberous movement that 
 caressed the gleaming sand. 
 
 Violett had fallen asleep, his arms clasped about 
 his knees. 
 
 When he awoke, he sat listening tensely for a 
 moment, and then a happy change came to his pale 
 young face, and his eyes filled. The " Song of the 
 Sea " had come back to him ; his troubled sound 
 world had subsided with the waves into perfect 
 harmony.
 
 n 
 
 "Ax engigement, Miss? You?" 
 
 Mr. Reginald Moss knocked the ash of his cigar 
 into a brass cup, and smiled. "Sleep s wot you 
 want, and Bovril, if not * Force, and igh air 
 I should say St. Moritz, my dear." 
 
 "Oh, rot! I can sing, if I am ill, I tell you." 
 
 "111? Be as ill as you like, my love, that s no 
 hodds. The thing you cawn t be on the stige is 
 a living skeleton, and that s wot you re a-getting 
 to be." 
 
 Minnie s eyes filled with helpless tears. "I 
 know it. Oh, / know. But I can t help it, and 
 I must live. Maud Courtenay told me to come to 
 you." 
 
 Moss s eyes twinkled. "Maudie! Ah, that s 
 another thing. Maudie s young and pretty and 
 plump. I m sorry, Miss, but I tell you frankly, 
 I cawn t do anything for you." 
 
 He was good-natured, like most people con 
 nected with the stage; and Minnie, with a touch 
 of rouge on her haggard cheeks, was very piteous. 
 
 She rose. "I m two years younger than er," 
 she returned drearily. "Sorry I troubled you." 
 
 She coughed a little as she went out into the 
 November fog. For weeks she had tried to get an
 
 248 VIOLETT 
 
 engagement, and had met with rebuffs everywhere. 
 This man Moss had been her last hope. 
 
 Her husband had gone on tour with a fairly 
 good company, and as her money was almost at 
 an end, she did not know what she was to do. 
 
 The irony of failing for the lack of a few pounds 
 of flesh did not appeal to her, but she had begun 
 to think of the river. Wrapping her thin cloak 
 close around her, she went quickly through the 
 crowded streets to a shop where she had a letter 
 box. 
 
 For weeks she had come every day, in the hope 
 of a letter from Violett. He had not written, 
 though her letters to him had grown to be a sort 
 of passion; she could not refrain from writing 
 him, and did so almost every day. 
 
 If he would come she would be happy. That 
 was all that she knew. She was too ignorant to 
 reason about it ; she was too dull to realize that she 
 was only dreaming impossibilities. He loved her, 
 though he had left her, and she loved him. There 
 are still some people primitive enough to live al 
 most without reasoning, entirely by feeling. Min 
 nie was one of them. Possessed by the one thing, 
 her love for the boy she had jilted, all other things 
 passed her by. 
 
 Entering the dingy butter and eggs shop, her 
 pale cheeks glowed suddenly in the hope of finding
 
 VIOLETT 249 
 
 a letter. He would have touched it, his hand have 
 written the very address, "Miss Brown." 
 
 But there was no letter, and a burden of years 
 seemed to settle on her pinched face as she turned 
 away.
 
 Ill 
 
 DEAR MIN, It s no good. I ain t coming back. 
 Our manager wants us to go to America, and 
 I am going. 
 
 You won t care, my dear. You never cared a 
 damn for me, and there s no use in pretending we 
 are n t both dead sick of each other. 
 
 We re married fast enough, worse luck, but 
 short of marrying some one else we can be pretty 
 comfortable. Maudie and I get on pretty well to 
 gether, and she says she would not have took up 
 with me if she didn t know that you won t care. 
 So good-by, and good luck to you. You can get 
 an engagement, or that chap Adams can help you. 
 
 SAM. 
 
 Minnie read the letter twice, and then she burst 
 out laughing. So Sam and Maud were off together. 
 She was glad to be rid of her husband. He had 
 ill-treated her, and she hated him more than any 
 one in the world, except Maud. Her eyes dark 
 ened with anger. She would like to get her nails 
 into that little beast s eyes going off with mar 
 ried women s husbands! She had always known 
 that Maud was a nasty little devil. Suddenly she 
 began to cry, and cried until she fell asleep.
 
 VIOLETT 251 
 
 When she awoke it was evening. Dunn s letter 
 lay on the floor by her. She picked it up and re 
 read it. 
 
 Then a sudden inspiration came to her; she 
 would send it to Violett. Taking an envelope she 
 addressed it, and then after a moment s reflection 
 wrote below her husband s sprawling signature, 
 "You see how he has treated me. If you don t 
 come immediately to this address, you shall never 
 see me again. There is the river and worse." 
 
 When she had posted the letter she crept into 
 bed and fell asleep thinking of what she should 
 wear Thursday afternoon, the day he was sure to 
 come. 
 
 But Violett did not come. 
 
 When her letter reached him he tied it around 
 a bit of stone, and standing on the rocks near the 
 Cradle, dropped it into the sea, unread. 
 
 Then he sat down and listened to the song of 
 the waves. It seemed to him that they had washed 
 the evil out of her poor little letters and that the 
 beauty of the love that is good sounded in their 
 soft voices. 
 
 Peace had come back to him.
 
 IV 
 
 AN evening in February. The ends of the great 
 bridge hidden in swathing folds of fog, the great 
 arch hung seemingly in mid-air. Below, dark and 
 greasy, the river slid from oblivion into oblivion. 
 
 A fine rain dripped from the fog, and through 
 the thick atmosphere the strokes of a great clock 
 fell muffled nine soft, booming vibrations. 
 
 A girl stood just beyond the blur of fog that 
 hid the end of the bridge, peering down at the 
 water. Her big hat hid her face, but her tight 
 green cloth jacket showed a graceful, rather over- 
 buxom figure. As the last stroke of the clock sank 
 hushedly into the misty atmosphere, she turned 
 sharply. Another girl stood beside her grotesquely 
 prim in the costume of the Salvation Army. 
 
 "Oh, Gawd! " the first ejaculated, with a giggle. 
 
 "Put a guard on your tongue! And come to 
 Jesus. He is waiting for you. Come to Him." 
 
 The droning, mechanical voice from the depths 
 of the bonnet ceased suddenly. 
 
 "Aw, chuck it! You mike me tired." 
 
 The Salvation Army girl drew back as her eyes 
 fell on the gayly tinted face under the scraggy 
 feathers. 
 
 "Why, Maud Courtenay! "
 
 VIOLETT 253 
 
 "Min!" There was a short pause, and then 
 Maud went on with a giggle, "Are you down on 
 me about d Orsay? I suppose you are." 
 
 Minnie shook her head. "No. I ain t. I was at 
 first, but I ain t any more. Where is e?" 
 
 "Gawd knows and e don t tell much. I left 
 Sam six weeks ago. E drank too much to suit my 
 book." 
 
 "But were n t you in America? " 
 
 The elder girl burst into a loud laugh. "Not us, 
 my love ! That was just is little gyme. We ve 
 been living in a palace over in Rotherhithe 
 Love s young dream. But you, Min why are 
 you in that get-up?" 
 
 "I m saving souls." 
 
 " Souls be blowed ! Where s Stevie Vio- 
 lett, or whatever is flowery nime is? " 
 
 Minnie hesitated. "I don t know where e is." 
 
 "You don t know ! Why, Sam told me a fairy- 
 story about your a-goin out to meet im in the 
 park mornings." 
 
 "That was n t a fairy-story, Maud. It was true. 
 Every day e used to come." Minnie s voice was 
 full of pride. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "And then he went away. I I ve written 
 once to the place he used to live in, but 
 he as n t answered."
 
 254 VIOLETT 
 
 Both girls were silent for a minute, and then 
 Maud, with a sudden upward jerk of her chin, 
 laughed. 
 
 "All alike, ain t they? Did he was he in 
 love with you? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Ever kiss you?" 
 
 "Once." 
 
 "Well, then, I don t see oh, well, they re 
 all alike. So you ve took to soul-snatching. Like 
 it?" 
 
 Minnie laughed faintly. "I did at first, but 
 it s awful dull. Never a bit of fun." 
 
 " Fun y s all right. What you going to do to 
 night?" 
 
 "Big mass meeting. I sing, you know." 
 
 "Prayers and so on? " 
 
 "Yes. And tambourines and drums. It s real 
 exciting sometimes; people cry and faint. What 
 are you going to do?" 
 
 Maud laughed grimly. "Me? Oh, I m on my 
 w y to Marlborough ouse. A fam ly dinner to 
 meet the German hemperor." 
 
 Minnie stared. " What do you mean ? Ave you 
 got an engagement? " 
 
 "No. I ve got no money for agents. I m on 
 the loose. I am going to the Italia. It s warm 
 there, and light."
 
 VIOLETT 255 
 
 Minnie understood. "An they laugh and eat 
 and drink all my bloomin pals whine and talk 
 rot. I m sick of it, I can tell you." 
 
 Maud bent forward suddenly and peered under 
 the absurd bonnet. 
 
 "Like my at, Min?" 
 
 "Yes. It s becoming !" 
 
 "Try it on." 
 
 Hurriedly the two girls changed hats and then 
 half shamefacedly looked at each other. 
 
 "Put it more to the left. My, them plumes is 
 becoming! " 
 
 "Pokes ain t so bad on a nice round face like 
 yours, Maudie." 
 
 The green jacket hung in folds from Minnie s 
 thin shoulders, but her long cloak hid decorously 
 all of Maud s piteous finery. Minnie s cheeks 
 were flushed. 
 
 "I am so sick of the army! " 
 
 "Cut along to the Italia. You look sweet, 
 dear." 
 
 "So do you. Oh, rub the paint off, or the 
 captain will pounce on you." 
 
 Agreeing to meet at the same spot at midnight, 
 the two girls separated, each one going her way 
 through the fine rain, her heart beating with ex 
 citement.
 
 ROSE SONNENTHAL had died that afternoon. Vio- 
 lett, for whom she had sent, stood by her bed, his 
 eyes dark with sorrow. He was a little bewildered 
 by being once more in the roar of the great city 
 that had brought him misery, and even the dying 
 woman s confession of her cruel mistake and the 
 Pole s falsity did not affect him keenly. 
 
 The main fact, that she was dying, blinded his 
 eyes to lesser things. 
 
 She was dying ; going away from the few to the 
 many, from the lesser to the greater. That she 
 was glad to go did not surprise him, nor did the 
 reason for her sending for him. 
 
 "Promise me," she had said, "that you will 
 help Felix." 
 
 "I will help him." The boy did not ask how or 
 when he was to help the man who must hate him 
 for the blow given that evening when the world 
 had more or less ended. He would help Sonnen- 
 thal in any way at any time. Then Rose told him 
 how she had learned of Petrovsky s villainy months 
 ago. 
 
 "I should have told you, Violett, and begged 
 your pardon, but it was too late. Felix has a 
 new pupil."
 
 VIOLETT 257 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 A sudden aching longing for the wonderful in 
 struction he had lost caught him. 
 
 Rose laughed faintly. "It s a girl. She is a 
 genius. And she is young, and pretty. Of course 
 he likes her. It is perfectly natural." Then she 
 laughed again at the innocent vagueness of Vio- 
 lett s face. 
 
 "He loves her, you see. He is in love with her. 
 You must make him marry her." 
 
 "Make him!" 
 
 "Yes. You see, Violett, she is poor, a cousin 
 of Petrovsky s. He Felix might not marry 
 her, but he must. If he lets himself lapse into 
 Bohemianism, he will lose all his music. I have 
 bored him, but I have kept him straight." 
 
 Even Violett understood this. 
 
 "Yes. He must keep straight. He must be 
 good." 
 
 The dying woman nodded. "Yes. And he 
 likes you, Violett. He will not care so much about 
 your music, for he is teaching Marie, but you 
 are musical, so he will let you look after him. 
 And never be practical with him. He can t 
 stand practical people. Be eccentric; make the 
 commonest things seem caprices. I have learned, 
 now that it is too late." 
 
 When she fainted and they sent him away, the
 
 258 VIOLETT 
 
 boy roamed through the foggy streets for hours, 
 thinking. 
 
 He was thinking, not of his promise to protect 
 the unprotectible, but of death. And it seemed 
 to him like a cool, soft mist that hovered over each 
 life, ever ready to settle on and obliterate it with 
 gentle touch. 
 
 It seemed to him like a slow-breaking green 
 wave that should wash away the writing on the 
 sand. 
 
 It seemed to him a great bird on whose slow, 
 steady pinions each mortal shall some day be borne 
 into the sunset glow with unblinded eyes.
 
 VI 
 
 WHEN he met Minnie, as it was written, at the 
 corner near the bridge, just as the girl, frightened 
 by her evening at the music hall, had changed 
 back into the monotonous safety of her grotesque 
 bonnet and cloak, he was not surprised. 
 
 "Minnie!" 
 
 "Violett!" 
 
 That was all, but it is all-sufficient. Where 
 were the streets and the houses ? Where were the 
 encroaching fog and the misty lights? Where 
 were the rest of the world s inhabitants? Gone, 
 all of them. And the universe was a spark of fire 
 just large enough for two. 
 
 A few minutes later things began to come back, 
 a bit of the bridge, whither they had gone ; a 
 big electric light; a patch of shining river; one or 
 two people. 
 
 And then Violett dropped Minnie s hand, and 
 a slow blush crept up his face. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked sharply. 
 
 "I am ashamed." 
 
 In matters of love the scruples should be the 
 woman s. 
 
 Minnie tossed her head. "If you are ashamed, 
 then you had better go."
 
 260 VIOLETT 
 
 "Where shall I go?" 
 
 His old passivity, his uncowardly lack of resist 
 ance to greater forces, sounded distinctly in his 
 voice. 
 
 "I I mean if you are ashamed. But what are 
 you ashamed of?" 
 
 "Because I love you, and because you love me." 
 
 She had taken off her hideous bonnet, and now 
 gave her neglected head another toss. 
 
 " Ow do you know I love you, Mr. Vi lett 
 Maule? If I ad, I d ave married you, wouldn t 
 I?" 
 
 But coquetry was a weapon powerless against 
 the boy. He looked at her earnestly for a mo 
 ment. 
 
 "Minnie, where is your mother?" 
 
 "Ma? Oh, she s all right. She lives in Liver 
 pool with er brother, since pa died." 
 
 "Where is Mr. d Orsay?" 
 
 "Mr. d Orsay is in Eotherhithe. E went off 
 with Maud Courtenay. You," she continued, with 
 a sudden access of bitterness, "you need n t ave 
 been so careful of is feelings." 
 
 The big clock struck one as Violett, turning, 
 made his declaration of faith. 
 
 "I wasn t, Minnie. I did not care about his 
 feelings ; it was ours." 
 
 She paused for a moment, irritated by the pre-
 
 VIOLETT 261 
 
 sence of something that she did not understand. 
 Then she said suddenly, 
 
 "I nearly jumped into the river to-night. I am 
 tired of life." 
 
 "So am I." 
 
 Again the vast difference between his feelings 
 and hers half angered her. 
 
 "Let s jump in," she suggested. 
 
 Violett leaned over the stone coping of the bridge 
 and gazed at the water. 
 
 "No," he said quietly; "it s too dirty." 
 
 "You don t think it s wrong, then? " 
 
 And knowing great passages of the Bible by 
 heart as he did, having been brought up by the 
 simply pious Agnes, having lived in daily com 
 munion with the greatest of nature s voices, the 
 sea, being what he was, a pure-hearted grown 
 child, he answered from the depths of his heart, 
 "JVb." 
 
 He could see no wrong in ending his life, if 
 that life grew to be unbearable. And the thought 
 of the smooth, cool water, so familiar to him all 
 his days, was pleasant. 
 
 But he was not hysterical. 
 
 "No. Why should we?" 
 
 Ready tears sprang to her eyes. 
 
 "You do not love me; you are a heartless 
 thing!"
 
 262 VIOLETT 
 
 He paled a little. 
 
 " If you loved me as I do you you would 
 take me away somewhere Violett." 
 
 Her hand seemed to burn his arm. 
 
 "Minnie," he stammered with stiff lips, "I 
 we mustn t think of that." 
 
 "Violett he as left me, and I have no money 
 I am hungry ! " 
 
 It was a touch prompted by her dramatic in 
 stinct, and it quivered through him like an electric 
 shock. 
 
 "Hungry!" 
 
 "Yes. And so lonely! And people say 
 things to me. Violett, I I love you." 
 
 The fog had fallen close around them, and in 
 its folds she leaned heavily against him. He stood 
 like a stone pillar. 
 
 The great clock struck again. 
 
 And it was months since he had seen her; and 
 he had what is called the artistic temperament. 
 
 Minnie s cold little hands stealing up his sleeves 
 were like the hands of the Fog-Spirit. 
 
 "Fiofott/" 
 
 The hands were about his neck now, and gently 
 pulling his head down. 
 
 The " Song of the Sea " pulsed suddenly in his 
 ears; he saw the sunny sea, the whirl of white 
 birds against the blue water.
 
 VIOLETT 263 
 
 His eyes closed as the girl s cheek touched his. 
 "VioUU/" 
 
 With a little cry he broke away and rushed into 
 the gray darkness.
 
 PART V
 
 "MONSIEUR Violette, attention!" 
 
 Marie Varsky, at the far end of the dusky room, 
 swept a sudden curtsy, laughing out of the billow 
 of her creamy skirts with merry eyes. 
 
 "Zat," she said, carefully exaggerating her 
 charming accent, " is ze poetry of motion. Now 
 play me somesing of a wildness ! " 
 
 It was a June evening, and the lamps not yet 
 being brought in, the long room, with its polished 
 floor, was almost dark, save for the splashes of 
 yellow that came in from the electric lights on the 
 pier, and the faint sunset glow from the opposite 
 windows. 
 
 Violett, at the piano, played something with ab 
 sent-minded fingers. 
 
 The girl, poised to dance, laughed. 
 
 " Ah la, la, wake up, boy ! Who could dance to 
 such a music ! What is it, then, my hair? " 
 
 Her hair, a wonderful red-gold fleece, hung loose, 
 almost to her feet; and as she danced, she wove it 
 in and out, twisting it around her supple arms, 
 smiling through its strands, waving it like a 
 banner. 
 
 "Your hair? No. I was thinking." 
 
 A pout came to her pale, flat lips.
 
 268 VIOLETT 
 
 "Thinking! It is to lose time, to think, boy. 
 Faire, jamais penser, that is my motto. And 
 yours is Penser, jamais faire." 
 
 He was not sufficiently interested to ask her 
 to translate. He was trying to decide how to tell 
 her the result of his last talk with Sonnenthal. 
 
 Three months had passed since Kose s death, 
 and for over six weeks the three, chaperoned by a 
 very sleepy aunt of Marie s, had been living at 
 Littlebay. 
 
 Violett had been taken because Rose Sonnen 
 thal s last request to her husband had been to that 
 effect. And the Master, in spite of his overwhelm 
 ing love for the young Pole, was forced by his artis 
 tic side to take up his old interest for the boy where 
 he had dropped it. 
 
 Marie Varski was a musical freak; Violett was 
 a genius. The girl, trained like a race-horse from 
 her earliest childhood, played amazingly; Violett 
 played hardly at all; Sonnenthal was in love with 
 the girl ; the boy he had first disliked, then loved 
 for his talent, and then brought with him as a sort 
 of post mortem favor to his wife. 
 
 Yet Marie s musical gymnastics bored him un 
 utterably, and Violett s half -inarticulate efforts at 
 composition filled the best of him with delight. 
 
 Madame Ranoffsky, the sleepy aunt, was a 
 nullity; Marie, with her plain white face and won-
 
 VIOLETT 269 
 
 derful hair, the greatest torment ever sent to a 
 middle-aged viveur to love, for his sins. 
 
 And Violett, half dazed between the possession 
 of a piano and the responsibilities of match-mak 
 ing, lived in a sort of shifting dream. 
 
 "Marie! " The young girl, who had plaited her 
 hair into a long tail and was pretending to skip 
 rope with it, turned quickly. 
 
 "Marie, the Master is going to marry you." 
 
 She burst out laughing. 
 
 "Tiens! Is he, indeed?" 
 
 " Yes. Are n t you glad ? " 
 
 "Glad? Oh, boy, boy! Why should I marry? 
 I know men too well." 
 
 "All men are not alike." 
 
 "No. But all husbands are." 
 
 She had loosened her hair again, and, coming 
 up behind him, twisted a long strand around his 
 neck. 
 
 "I will not marry him." 
 
 "But he will be unhappy without you." 
 
 "I am here!" 
 
 "But you love him." 
 
 She flushed and scampered back into the gloom. 
 
 "Do I? How know you, oh, boy?" 
 
 "I know. Don t you?" 
 
 "You know. Yet you ask." 
 
 "Please tell me."
 
 270 VIOLETT 
 
 "Eh bien. Well, then yes. I love him. 
 Who could help it?" 
 
 He started at the fierceness in her voice. 
 
 "Then you will marry him." 
 
 She came back and stood by him. 
 
 "No. I love him now. I should as a husband 
 hate him. I knew her." 
 
 It was too great a puzzle for the boy. His na 
 ture was too passive to be able to cope with prob 
 lems like this. He rose. 
 
 "I am going out now, Marie. I am tired. But 
 you must marry him." 
 
 She watched him with wonder in her eyes as he 
 crossed the little garden and went down to the 
 edge of the waves.
 
 II 
 
 "ViOLETr!" Sonnenthal laid his hand on the 
 boy s arm. "She has refused me." Wondering 
 amusement, mixed with triumph, was in the Mas 
 ter s eyes and voice. "She will not marry me." 
 
 "I know. She does not like husbands." 
 
 "So poor Rose and you have failed. Now tell 
 me why did you try? What difference did it 
 make to you? " 
 
 "She wanted you to marry her." 
 
 "She didn t like Marie, poor thing." 
 
 Sonnenthal sent a flat stone skimming over the 
 quiet water, and watched it thoughtfully. 
 
 "I m not blaming her for not liking Marie, 
 God knows; but there is the fact, and I don t 
 understand her trying to help the girl." 
 
 Violett turned. "It wasn t on her account," he 
 answered. "It was on yours." 
 
 "Mine? My account?" 
 
 "Yes. She thought that it would be bad for 
 your music if you did anything wrong." 
 
 The sound of the man s jarring laugh broke the 
 evening quiet. 
 
 " If I did anything wrong ! I ! Why, my dear 
 boy, I never did anything right in my life ! She 
 knew that. And my music hasn t suffered. Do
 
 272 VIOLETT 
 
 you think it has? " he added sharply, as Violett 
 did not speak. 
 
 "I think that everything is better if it is 
 done by a good person." 
 
 "You are a confounded prig, my dear. What 
 about Chopin? Was he a good person? You re 
 member his Life that I gave you? " 
 
 "He was not good." 
 
 " Well and his music ? " 
 
 Violett hesitated. 
 
 "It is beautiful music, but it is not good. It 
 reminds me "- But he could not say that it re 
 called to him the scene in the park that morning 
 when he had kissed Minnie. 
 
 "It is not good," he concluded, with an air of 
 finality. 
 
 But Sonnenthal was in too good a humor to be 
 annoyed. 
 
 "Well, you have done your best, my dear boy, 
 and failed. Now listen. I am going to Normandy 
 the day after to-morrow. Where will you go? " 
 
 "I shall go home." 
 
 "Very well. I am sending you my wife s piano. 
 Put newspapers inside it, over the strings, every 
 night, to keep out the damp." 
 
 Then he went back to the house, and Violett sat 
 down by the waves to try to realize his great hap 
 piness. He had done his best. He had tried to
 
 VIOLETT 273 
 
 make Sonnenthal marry Marie; that he had ut 
 terly failed did not in the least disturb him. 
 
 His world was in tune. In a minor key his life 
 melody was set, but it was harmonically perfect, 
 and the sea at his feet loved him. 
 
 The tragedy of his wasted genius did not appeal 
 to him; he was too old to learn to be a great 
 pianist, and Sonnenthal, with a kindly gift, had 
 now definitely turned his back on him. He would 
 never learn to express to others the great ideas 
 that came to him, but these things brought no 
 twinge of self-pity to his simple heart. He had 
 never known ambition, and hence was spared the 
 bitterest pain in the world, that of feeling his 
 talent wasted without recognition. He would go 
 back to the island ; to the peace that he loved ; to 
 old Agnes who loved him; to the rocks and the 
 sand and the sea ; to his few books ; to his inno 
 cent memories of Minnie; and added to these dear 
 things, he would have a piano. 
 
 He remembered the Adamses ; the caress of wet 
 sand to bare feet; Bob Venn and his boat; the 
 quiet afternoons in the old kitchen, with the gen 
 tle ticking of the clock and the square of sunlight 
 on the floor. 
 
 He would put the piano in the little parlor, and 
 there where his mother had loved to sit, he would 
 play.
 
 Ill 
 
 WITH a sort of superstition about leaving the sea 
 even for a time, on his way to what seemed more 
 the sea than any other bit of it, Violett took a boat 
 from Littlebay to Eastborough, whence Bob Venn 
 was to take him home in the old sailboat. 
 
 The Queen Anne, full of noisy excursionists, 
 reached Eastborough at about six in the evening, 
 and Bob not being due until the following morn 
 ing, the boy put up at an inn, had some sup 
 per, and then went out for a walk. The moon 
 had come up, and the wide water, silvered like 
 a mirror, stretched wonderfully quiet under his 
 eyes. 
 
 The beach was almost deserted to the north of 
 the town, for a fair was being held in the town. 
 Violett strolled along, his hands in his pockets, 
 his eyes quietly alert. He saw much more in the 
 simple scene than would have an ordinary ob 
 server. He noted the tiny footprints of water-fowl 
 on the firm sand, a faint dark stain against the 
 horizon that meant a France-bound steamer; not 
 a bit of seaweed escaped him ; not a pale star be 
 yond the moonlight. 
 
 And the "Song of the Sea," softer, less decided 
 than of old, but tenderer and more consoling, with-
 
 VIOLETT 275 
 
 out lack of rhythm, told him a wonderful story of 
 future happiness. 
 
 Minnie had disappeared from his thoughts ; her 
 great rival, Harmony, had vanquished her. The 
 only Minnie left was a little child, his thoughts 
 of whom, interwoven with the songs of Nature, 
 enhanced and did not jar on the beauties of its 
 music. 
 
 A small boat came around a spit of sand ahead. 
 Black, flat against the gleaming water, its two oc 
 cupants stood out like silhouettes. Violett watched 
 them. 
 
 Suddenly the little craft began to rock rapidly. 
 It was a foolhardy trick. Then came a short 
 scream, and the woman, reaching frantically for 
 an unshipped oar, nearly went headlong into the 
 water. A peal of foolish laughter followed, and 
 the boat rocked again. 
 
 The oar, a black streak on the water, was now 
 out of reach. They could not row with two; what 
 can they do with one? 
 
 Violett took off his boots and his coat, and wad 
 ing in up to his waist, struck out for the oar. 
 
 He caught it without difficulty, and then swim 
 ming after the boat called that he was bringing 
 the oar. 
 
 " Your oar is safe I m coming but stop 
 rocking the boat."
 
 276 VIOLETT 
 
 As he put his hand on the gunwale the woman 
 turned and looked down into his wet face. 
 
 It was Minnie. 
 
 And the second that they gazed into each other s 
 eyes was an eternity. 
 
 "Violett!" 
 
 "Minnie!" 
 
 Their lips moved, but only their eyes uttered the 
 words. 
 
 The foolish laugh startled them. 
 
 "Get in come long, Adams. We re old 
 friends, bygones be bygones." D Orsay held 
 out his hand. 
 
 "I have brought your oar." 
 
 "Thanks. Better get in and use it I m 
 tired." 
 
 "Yes, Violett I m afraid," added Minnie. 
 " You see" - 
 
 Violett got into the boat and took the oars. 
 
 "You ought not to be out alone; there are rocks 
 here; shall I take you to Eastborough ? " 
 
 "No, no; we are at Axby, over there. He 
 lms an engagement there." 
 
 D Orsay, who had climbed to the stern and sat 
 by his wife, nodded. "Damn bad pay; rotten en 
 gagement; what you been doing, you Lorathio 
 Lothario " 
 
 "Sam! please"
 
 VIOLETT 277 
 
 Minnie was very thin, and Violett saw with 
 fierce resentment that she was afraid of her hus 
 band. 
 
 " Sam ! please - -Min, my dearest, my d-ducky 
 look at your old adorer. Pretty wet, is n t e? " 
 
 Violett rowed steadily, his eyes fixed on the sky 
 line beyond the two heads. 
 
 "I s pose," d Orsay went on, suddenly dropping 
 his facetious tone and speaking half threateningly, 
 "I you thought Min was in love with you, Mr. 
 Whatshername ? Well, she wasn t, you see. Ere 
 we are, aving our second oneymoon at the sea 
 shore like two damned thingummies love-birds." 
 
 Minnie s lips shook and her eyes glistened with 
 tears. Violett did not speak, even when d Orsay 
 offered him some brandy and then took a long 
 pull at the flask himself. 
 
 The moon smiled as she had smiled half an 
 hour before, but where was the beauty of the 
 world ? Where was the peace that had been then ? 
 Where was the exquisite harmony? 
 
 Beyond the spit of sand, back about a mile, the 
 lights of a small town glimmered amid the dark 
 ness of trees. The jetty stretching out towards the 
 boat showed the course to be taken. 
 
 Violett rowed steadily. At length d Orsay 
 slipped from his seat into the bottom of the boat. 
 
 "He is asleep," said Minnie.
 
 IV 
 
 THEIR eyes met, and the rhythmical beat of the 
 oars ceased. 
 
 "You are ill, Minnie." 
 
 She laughed, an odd little laugh, sad, yet with 
 an undercurrent of satisfied pride in it. 
 
 "Yes. A decline, I think." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "You aven t anything especial, but you just 
 die. I am glad I m going to die, Violett." 
 
 " What does the doctor say? " 
 
 "A warm winter, good food an wine, and 
 appiness. Me appy!" 
 
 The circles that he had always thought beautiful 
 had deepened about her eyes ; her lips were hardly 
 redder than her white cheeks ; her shoulders showed 
 pointed under her pink blouse. 
 
 "You mustn t die, Min." 
 
 He hardly knew his own voice. 
 
 "Yes. You are too good, Violett. If you loved 
 me I could live, but you don t." 
 
 His mute protestation brought a little color to 
 her face. 
 
 "Well then, you see what e is. I it s that 
 that s killing me. He made me come down ere 
 just to show that e was my master, but e ates me. 
 Bah!"
 
 VIOLETT 279 
 
 Gathering her skirts closer, she shrank away 
 from the drunken man who was her master. A 
 boat load of men dressed as nigger minstrels passed 
 to their left ; a sound of music floated out from the 
 receding town ; a scrap of cloud fluttered across the 
 moon s face. Rising, the young woman stepped 
 carefully past her husband, and kneeling in front 
 of the boy laid her hands on his shoulders. 
 
 "Violett, you are too good for me, I know, but 
 I can t stand it any longer. I tried after you 
 went away, that night in London. I went back 
 and forgave him. It was all for you. I know 
 1 m bad to want you to take me, but I love 
 you, and you could make me good." 
 
 His misery had carved such strange lines in his 
 white face that it was like that of a stranger. 
 
 "Dear kiss me." 
 
 The lights receded farther and farther; and the 
 two waking people in the boat noticed it no more 
 than did the sleeper. They were adrift.
 
 THREE minutes after they had passed the boat 
 filled with nigger minstrels, their boat struck the 
 rock for which it was bound. 
 
 There was a crash, a cry, and the little craft, 
 pinned by a sharp point of the rock, settled slowly. 
 
 Minnie, shrieking, clung to Violett, until he 
 pushed her roughly aside and began to bail with 
 his hands, as he called to the men in the other 
 boat, who had put about and were approaching. 
 
 "Come in to the left, there ! Look out for the 
 rock ! You can t see it ! Be quiet, Minnie, you are 
 perfectly safe." 
 
 The moonlight fell on the strange scene, the 
 blackened faces and gaudy costumes of the res 
 cuers; on the hysterical woman and the quietly 
 working boy ; on the sleeper in the stern. 
 
 " We can t come in any farther ! Can t you swim 
 out? Lucky you re only two. We re full now ! " 
 
 Violett turned and glanced sharply at the other 
 boat. It was true, she was already overloaded. 
 
 "There are three of us only three," Minnie 
 called, wringing her hands nervously. 
 
 The men paused for a minute, talking in an 
 undertone. 
 
 "We can t help you unless you promise that
 
 VIOLETT 281 
 
 you won t all get in. Sorry, but we oughtn t to 
 take any of you. We ve got a leak, too. Now 
 then ? " 
 
 The speaker faced them, his painted lips gleam 
 ing scarlet. 
 
 "We 11 take the woman and one of the men 
 where is the other? " 
 
 Minnie pointed to her husband. "He s 
 asleep." 
 
 "Asleep!" 
 
 The spokesman cleared his throat. " Come along, 
 then. You help her out to us. Can you swim ? " 
 Violett laughed. "Yes, I can swim." 
 
 " If you try to overload us we 11 push you into 
 the water. Ready?" 
 
 The grim contrast between the man s looks and 
 his words held Violett s attention for a second. 
 
 Then he nodded. "All right. We won t over 
 load you. Come, Minnie." 
 
 She turned to him and he took her hand. 
 
 "Good-by, Min." 
 
 With a wild scream she flung herself into his 
 arms. "No, no! No, no! No, no! You are 
 coming! He must stay! He is asleep; he won t 
 know! Come, come quickly or he might wake 
 up!" 
 
 "Min, we have no time to lose; the boat will 
 go to pieces in a minute. Good-by."
 
 282 VIOLETT 
 
 "You make him come ! I won t let him be 
 drowned. I tell you I won t let him be drowned ! 
 That man is a devil ; I hate him ! no, no, no, 
 
 710 /" 
 
 Violett caught her by the shoulders. "Min, 
 don t you see I must. He let me row; he 
 trusted me; and he is asleep. Hush! " 
 
 The men in the other boat, with their black 
 faces, hideous red lips, and grotesque woolly wigs, 
 were motionless with excitement. 
 
 Violett kissed Minnie, and then, slipping care 
 fully into the quiet water, swam with her to the 
 other boat. Two of the men helped her over the 
 gunwale, and she sat crouched in the stern while 
 he went back. 
 
 "One of you will have to help. He is dead 
 drunk." 
 
 D Orsay, snoring loudly, was with great diffi 
 culty hoisted into the boat, and then Violett laid 
 his hands on the gunwale, which was perilously 
 near the water. 
 
 "Minnie, good-by." 
 
 "Cawn t you hold pn till we get back or send 
 some one? It s only about three miles." The 
 speaker s voice broke. 
 
 "No. I can t swim long get cramp; and the 
 boat will break up in ten minutes." 
 
 His white young face was very beautiful.
 
 VIOLETT 283 
 
 " Minnie, write to Agnes, will you ? And you 
 do love me, even though my father was hanged? " 
 
 Minnie stared vacantly at him. "Stevie dear 
 Stevie," she murmured. 
 
 One of the men burst into loud sobs. 
 
 Violett reached for Minnie s hand, kissed it, and 
 then held his out to the man nearest him. 
 
 "Thank you," he said, "row slowly." 
 
 "God bless you mate," was the answer. 
 
 Then, very slowly, the dangerously laden boat 
 withdrew, and Violett swam back to the little 
 wreck.
 
 VI 
 
 HE looked about him. It was more than three miles 
 to the land, and he had never been able to swim 
 long distances. Cramp was horrible suffering, and 
 this, sitting in the doomed boat, very peaceful. 
 
 Death was coming, and he could wait. Then, 
 too, it was better better for Minnie and better 
 for him. 
 
 The sound of the quiet waves was very beautiful, 
 
 it was harmony. His death was harmony, as 
 the last few minutes before the boat struck had 
 been rapturous discord. 
 
 Minnie ! 
 
 The one perfectly beautiful and perfect person 
 in the world. Of course she had not been able to 
 marry him, whose father 
 
 His father was somewhere. Where? 
 
 Agnes would cry poor blind tears. Bob 
 Venn s mother lay in the sea too. And when 
 storms groaned and threatened, when sweet moon 
 light gleamed on the waves, when the dawn-quiet 
 brooded, there would be no discord. 
 
 He, Violett Maule, in spite of his father s sin, 
 had not brought discord into the eternal harmony. 
 
 The Adamses were swimming in the moonlight, 
 
 Louisa and Henry and the baby and Stephen,
 
 VIOLETT 286 
 
 no, he was Stevie. The se&ora called him Stevie. 
 Bayne knew. He had always known, and he did 
 not mind. Minnie did not mind. 
 
 When the boat broke up Violett found the wa 
 ter warm and pleasant after the coolness of the 
 night air through his wet clothes. And the sound 
 of ii was beautiful. He was of it now, of the 
 water he loved, and of the " Song of the Sea." He 
 was a note in the song, a sad gray note, but he 
 belonged to it. . . . 
 
 There was, of course, a short involuntary strug 
 gle, and then after it the water was quiet again 
 in the moonlight. 
 
 THE END
 
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