“So it seems,” returned Sara. “By the way, who is the violinist at Far End? Is it the 'Hermit' himself?”
“It's rumoured that he does play,” said Molly. “But no one has ever been privileged to hear him.”
“Their loss, then,” commented Sara shortly. “I should say he is a magnificent performer.”
Molly nodded, an expression of impish amusement in her eyes.
“On the sole occasion I met him, I asked him why no one was ever allowed to hear him play,” she said, chuckling. “I even suggested that he might contribute a solo to the charity concert we were getting up at the time!”
“And what did he say?” asked Sara, smiling.
“Told me that there was no need for a man to exhibit his soul to the public! So I asked him what he meant, and he said that if I understood anything about music I would know, and that if I didn't, it was a waste of his time trying to explain. Do you know what he meant?”
“Yes,” said Sara slowly, “I think I do.” And recalling the passionate appeal and sadness of the music she had heard that afternoon, she was conscious of a sudden quick sense of pity for the solitary hermit of Far End. He was afraid—afraid to play to any one, lest he should reveal some inward bitterness of his soul to those who listened!
The following day, Molly carried Sara off to Rose Cottage to make the acquaintance of “the Lavender Lady” and her nephew.
Miss Herrick—or Miss Lavinia, as she was invariably addressed—looked exactly as though she had just stepped out of the early part of last century. She wore a gown of some soft, silky material, sprigged with heliotrope, and round her neck a fichu of cobwebby lace, fastened at the breast with a cameo brooch of old Italian workmanship. A coquettish little lace cap adorned the silver-grey hair, and the face beneath the cap was just what you would have expected to find it—soft and very gentle, its porcelain pink and white a little faded, the pretty old eyes a misty, lavender blue.