"Cujus animam gementemContristantur et dolentemPertransivit gladius."
The voice of the singer seemed to float high in the air like that of some unseen angel hidden in the golden clouds, while far below the roll and thunder of the organ seemed to rise and fall like sullen surges beating upon a lonely shore. Una closed her eyes as that superb voice with its penetrating sweetness rang out the mournful words with an intensity of dramatic feeling which went to her very soul with its strong religious fervour. As the last note died away Una heard a voice behind her say "Bravo," and on turning her head saw Dr. Nestley standing close to her accompanied by a tall dark man whom she recognized at once as Basil Beaumont.
To rule mankind is all I craveAnd at my feet to see them curled,For if you make the world your slaveYou'll ne'er be slave unto the world.
To rule mankind is all I crave
And at my feet to see them curled,
For if you make the world your slave
You'll ne'er be slave unto the world.
Evidently Dr. Nestley had become friendly with his quondam enemy, for both gentlemen now seemed to be on the best of terms with one another. Either the doctor had succumbed to the wonderful personal fascinations of Beaumont, or the artist had convinced Nestley that he was wrong in regarding him in a hostile manner.
On recognizing Miss Challoner, the young physician came forward to greet her, while Beaumont remained in the background lost in admiration at the wonderful beauty of her face, which appealed strongly to his artistic nature.
"I didn't expect to find you here, Miss Challoner," said Nestley eagerly; "my friend and I heard the singing and came in to listen; by the way, will you permit me to introduce Mr. Beaumont?"
Una bowed a little coldly, for she remembered what Reginald had said about the artist, but, hearing his name mentioned, Beaumont came forward and was formally presented. In spite of her distrust, Una could not but admire the handsome, tired-looking face she beheld and was still further impressed by the peculiartimbreof his voice when he began to talk. Beaumont certainly possessed in no small degree that wonderful fascination of manner attributed to the ill-fated Stewarts of Scotland which atoned so much for their fickleness, treachery and ingratitude.
"It is Mr. Blake who is singing, I think," observed Basil idly, "he has a wonderful voice."
"Yes," answered Una with a pleased smile. "I have never heard a finer--not even in Germany."
"Ah! you have been in Germany, Miss Challoner?"
"For some years--I stayed at Munich."
"A charming city which affords great opportunities for studying art both in music and painting."
"Did you study either, Miss Challoner?" asked Nestley, who seemed rather annoyed at the impression Beaumont had made.
"A little of both," she answered. "I was educated in Munich, but I'm afraid my learning was rather desultory--I sing a little--paint a little--and do both badly."
"That would be impossible," said Nestley desirous of paying a compliment, but Una frowned at the remark.
"Don't, please," she said coldly, "I dislike insincerity."
Nestley reddened a little at the tone of her voice and the obvious rebuke, on seeing which Una held out her hand to him with a charming smile.
"You must not mind what I say, Dr. Nestley," she observed, bending forward, "I'm afraid I'm dreadfully rude."
"And wonderfully charming," thought Beaumont, who, however, kept his opinion to himself, warned by the fate of his friend.
The young doctor, meanwhile, had hastily assured Una that he did not mind her severity, in fact rather liked it, and would doubtless in all sincerity have committed himself again only that Blake commenced to sing "Come, Marguerite come," from Sullivan's "Martyr of Antioch," and they all listened attentively.
Cecilia played the graceful accompaniment ofarpeggilightly, while above this constant sweep of dissevered chords, rising and falling with the voice, the high, penetrating notes of the singer flowed smoothly onward and, as the organist played softly, the full purity of the voice could be heard with marvellous effect. Owing to want of training, Blake's voice lacked in a great measure the power to give a perfect rendering to the melody, but the richness and mellowness of his notes were undeniable.
When he had finished Beaumont's face betrayed the pleasure he felt, and Una, who was watching him closely, asked his opinion.
"A wonderful voice," he said critically, as the three walked up the aisle, "but of course it requires a great deal of cultivation."
"I think it's charming," interposed Nestley, eager to curry favour with Una by praising one whom she evidently regarded as a brother.
"Of course you would think so," replied Beaumont a little contemptuously, "because you know nothing about the subject; to an uncultivated ear Blake's voice sounds well because he has a wonderfully fine organ, but to a musician there is a crudeness of style, a want of colouring, and a lack of refinement which makes him regret that such a great natural gift is not trained to its full capabilities."
"But you're not a musician?" said Nestley, nettled at the superior tone adopted by his friend.
"No," answered Basil complacently, "but I have heard a great deal, and as most of my life has been passed among musicians I have picked up a general knowledge of the technicality of the art. Shakespeare never committed a murder, yet he wrote Macbeth and Hamlet. Balzac did not fall in love till somewhere about the forties, but, he wrote 'Modeste Mignon,' and 'La Lys dans la vallee,' before that age--one does not need to be an artist to possess the critical faculty."
By this time they had arrived at the chancel, and Reginald came forward to meet them, blushing a little with modesty on discovering three listeners instead of one.
"I must congratulate you on your voice once more," said Beaumont looking at him, "my advice is to go to London at once and study."
"London!" echoed Blake disbelievingly, "why not Italy?"
"A tradition only," replied the artist calmly, "because Italy is the land of song every singer thinks he or she must study there, but I assure you it's a mistake--London and Paris have as good teachers as Milan and Rome--I may say better, for everyone goes to the place where the largest income is to be made."
"How cynical," said Una playfully.
"And how true--this is not the golden age, Miss Challoner, but the age of gold--there is a vast difference between Arcady and Philistia, I assure you."
"I think I'll take your advice," observed Blake gaily, "perhaps I've got a fortune in my throat, who knows?"
"Who, indeed?" said the artist gravely, "they pay nightingales well now-a-days."
"All the better for Mr. Blake," said Una lightly, "but how rude I am, I must introduce you two gentlemen to the organist--Miss Mosser--Dr. Nestley and Mr. Beaumont."
Beaumont, not knowing Cecilia was blind, merely bowed, but Nestley took the fragile hand of the girl and grasped it warmly.
"I enjoyed your playing so much," he said heartily, "where did you learn?"
On hearing his voice the pale face of the blind girl coloured, and a painfully eager look crossed her features, as if she were trying to see the speaker's countenance in spite of her infirmity.
"What a beautiful voice," she murmured softly, and Nestley had to repeat his question before she answered:
"At the school for the blind at Hampstead," she said turning towards him, which reply gave Nestley a painful shock as he realized her misfortune. With delicate tact, however, he passed the answer off lightly in a conversational manner.
"I don't know much about music myself," he said easily, "it seems such a complicated affair--are you fond of it?"
"Very," answered the blind girl quickly. "You see it is the only pleasure I have. When I go out on to the common and feel the fresh wind and smell the perfume of the gorse, I come back here and try and put it all into music. I often thank God for being able to play the organ."
It was deeply pathetic to hear her talk in this strain; shut out by her affliction from all the beauties of Nature, she could yet thank God for the one gift which enabled her in some measure to understand and appreciate what she had never beheld. Doctors, as a rule, are not very soft-hearted, but Nestley could hardly help feeling moved at the thrill of sadness which ran through her speech. This she perceived, and with a light laugh, hastened to dispel the illusion she had created.
"You must not think I am sad," she said cheerfully, "on the contrary, I never was so happy in my life as I am here. I was brought up all my life in London, and when I was appointed organist here, you can have no idea of the pleasure I felt. I have the common and the organ, while everyone is kind to me, so what have I to wish for? Now, Doctor Nestley, I must ask you to go, as I am about to practise. I think Miss Challoner and your friends have gone."
They were waiting for the doctor at the lower end of the church, so after saying good-bye to Cecilia, he hurried away into the dusky atmosphere, and as he reached Beaumont, the organ rolled out the opening chords of a mass by Pergolesi. Reginald went outside with Nestley as he wished to speak to him about the Squire, and Una was left standing with Beaumont in the grey old church. They listened in silence to the deep thunder of the bass notes echoing in the high roof, when suddenly in the middle of a crashing chord the sonorous tones died away and a sweet, pure melody thrilled through the silence, which seemed almost oppressive after the tempest of sound.
"After the fire there came a still small voice," quoted Basil dreamily. "Do you remember how perfectly Mendelssohn has expressed that idea in music?"
"Yes, I heard the Elijah at the Albert Hall," replied Una in a matter-of-fact way, being a healthy English girl and not moved by the subtle meaning of the sacred music which touched so quickly the highly-strung nerves of this man.
"The Albert Hall," he repeated with a shrug. "Oh yes, very fine I've no doubt, but to my mind it secularizes sacred music to hear it there--one hears a volume of sound--an immense number of voices in chorus and solos by the best artistes; but where is the soul of the work? one only finds that in a church. The Messiah was first heard in England in Westminster Abbey, and it was there, following the example set by the king, that the whole audience arose at the Hallelujah Chorus, but it was not the music alone, grand as it is, that produced this sudden burst of emotion, it was the august fane grey with centuries of tradition, the presence of the mighty dead sleeping around, and to crown all the dramatic grandeur of the chorus. All these together wrought on the feelings of those present and they did homage to the sublimity of the music--such a thing would be impossible in the Albert Hall."
"Don't you think you're giving all the praise to the surroundings and nothing to the musician," said Una quickly; "a true composer could impress his ideas on his hearers without any other aid."
"I've no doubt he could," replied Beaumont carelessly, "and no doubt plenty of people have felt emotion at Handel's music in the Albert Hall, but even Handel's genius would never have created such an effect as I have described anywhere but in a church; of course I haven't mentioned the memorable shaft of sunlight which deserves praise for its share in the affair."
Something in the flippancy of this remark jarred upon Una's feelings, so she made no reply but walked outside into the cool fresh air, followed by Beaumont.
He accompanied her as far as the lichgate and then raised his hat.
"I won't go any further, Miss Challoner," he said. "I'm in a meditative mood and will take a look round this old place. I hope to see you again soon at the Grange."
"The Grange?" she questioned, looking at him inquiringly.
"Yes, I'm coming to see the Squire about painting his portrait you know."
"Of course," she replied quickly. "I remember Patience told me."
"Patience," he asked in a startled tone, "did you say Patience?"
"Yes, Patience Allerby, the housekeeper," said Una gaily. "How pale you look, just as if you had seen a ghost--I dare say it's the effect of the church and music; good-bye, at present," and she walked quickly away.
He raised his hat mechanically and stood staring at the ground, looking pale and haggard.
"Patience Allerby," he said in a low voice. "After all these years--Patience Allerby."
Is this the face I loved of yore,Ere years had run;Alas! I care for it no moreOld love is done;We soon forget what we adoreAt twenty-one.
Is this the face I loved of yore,
Ere years had run;
Alas! I care for it no more
Old love is done;
We soon forget what we adore
At twenty-one.
It was now about four o'clock in the afternoon and the short autumnal day was rapidly closing in, the grey veil of the sky was rent here and there showing a patch of pale cold blue, while the setting sun was tinting the ragged clouds in the west with iridescent hues.
Beaumont stood in the long, rank grass of the graveyard, thinking deeply, his eyes fixed dreamily on the ancient tombstones around with their half-obliterated inscriptions and weed-grown mounds of earth. Behind him was the old church, its grey walls covered with close-clinging ivy from out which peered the grotesque faces of the gargoyles, leering demoniacally at the silent figure. The great square tower, built of rough stone, stood out massively against the dull grey sky, and round it every now and then flashed the pigeons who lived therein, gleaming white in the faint light of the sun. He could hear the hoarse murmur of the river flowing past, the shrill voices of the children in the street, and at intervals the rising and falling of the organ music within. All this touched his artistic sensibilities and he fell into a strain of half-melancholy, half regretful reflection which, for the moment, gave him a better nature than the bitter cynicism of his usual thoughts.
This man was not altogether bad; he had originally started in life with the best intentions, but his nature had been warped and twisted by misfortunes and temptations into its present state. It was true that he was to all appearances thoroughly bad, and that many had cause to regret his friendship, yet occasionally he would do a kind action or help a poor struggler, which showed that some of his early belief in humanity yet remained in his world-worn heart.
He was thinking now,--thinking of a woman--a woman he had loved and left many years before, and the thoughts evoked were anything but pleasant. With an involuntary sigh he walked down to the Gar and, seating himself on a flat tombstone which set forth the virtues of Susan Peller, deceased, he let his chin sink on his hand, and gave himself up to dead memories--the memories of youth, of love, and of disappointment.
A sudden flash of the dying sunlight gleamed over the river, turning its sullen, grey waters to a sheet of gold, and the sight brought back to his mind an hour when he was young, and he leaned over the parapet of a balcony, with a woman by his side, both looking at the shimmering Thames, golden in the sunset. He could recall it vividly, even after the lapse of these many years--the shining river, the confused mass of houses huddled under the dusky cloud of London smoke, and far away the swelling dome of St. Paul's looking aerial and fairy-like against the twilight sky, while above the great mass gleamed the golden cross shining in the firmament like the visionary symbol of Constantine. They were poor, not very well housed or fed, but the glamour of youth and hope was about them, and they saw in the shining river sweeping under the golden cross an omen of a happy future. Then the dream-picture grew faint and blurred, clouds swept across the golden heavens, and from amid the sombre gloom there looked forth a tearful woman's face with pitiful, appealing eyes.
With an impatient sigh Beaumont roused himself from his day dream to find himself seated on a cold stone under a sky from whence the glory of the sunset had departed; and beside him silently stood a veiled woman. He jumped to his feet in surprise, feeling somewhat cramped, and was about to speak when the woman threw back her heavy veil, showing him the pitiful face of his dream.
"Patience Allerby!" he gasped, recoiling a step.
"Patience Allerby," she replied, sternly, folding her hands in front of her black dress, "the very woman, Basil Beaumont, whom you loved, ruined and deserted in London more than twenty years ago."
Beaumont, with an effort, threw off the glamour of past thoughts which had haunted him all the afternoon, and, with a sneering laugh, relapsed once more into the bitter-tongued, cynical man of the world. He rapidly rolled a cigarette and, having lighted it, began to smoke, gazing critically meanwhile at the stern white face looking at him from out the shadowy twilight.
"More than twenty years ago!" he repeated, thoughtfully. "Humph! it's a long time--and now we meet again! You've altered, Patience--yes, altered a great deal--for the worse."
She laughed bitterly.
"I hardly think the life I have led since you left me was the kind to enable me to retain my good looks."
"No?" he said, interrogatively, "and why not? you are housekeeper to Squire Garsworth, I understand--not a very wearying position! Trouble tells more on woman's beauty than years; so, as you have had no trouble----"
"Had no trouble!" echoed Patience, in a low, harsh voice. "Man, man! do you think one needs to live in the world to know what trouble is? You are wrong. Down in this secluded village I have passed many a bitter hour thinking of you."
"And why?" he asked, cynically.
"I think you can guess the reason. When I left Garsworth to go to service in London you said you loved me, and I thought the son of a gentleman was to be my husband."
"You always did expect too much."
"You came to London shortly afterwards and met me there by appointment. I left my situation and lived with you."
"As my mistress, yes; not my wife."
"No! You were too cowardly to do justice to the woman you ruined. A child was born--a boy whom I idolized. But, instead of that being a bond to draw us closer together, you left me--left me to starve with my child in the streets of London."
"I left you because I saw a chance of making money," he said, complacently. "You were a drag on me, and I could not endure poverty, even with you, my dear. As to starving, I left you what money I could spare."
"Five pounds!" she said, coldly. "The price of a woman's heart, according to your calculation; it enabled me to pay the landlady and bring myself and the child to Garsworth."
"Why did you not stay in London?"
"Because I did not want to sink deeper than I had done. I was brought up by pious parents, Basil Beaumont, and the sin I committed with you seemed to cut me off for ever from all hope of mercy. I resolved to sin no more--to expiate, if I could, by prayer and charity the evil life I had led in London. When I came down here, my parents were dead, and I was alone in the world."
"You had the child."
"Yes, I had the child--your child and mine--but no one ever knew I was his mother; no, I did not wish our sin to be visited on his head. I did not want him to be pointed at as a nameless outcast."
"Very creditable of you, I'm sure," said Beaumont, with a sneer, "and what did you do?"
"I invented a story that I had been in the service of the child's parents, who had afterwards gone to France and died there. I said I was the child's nurse, and placed him in the care of Doctor Larcher to be brought up. What little money I could spare out of my salary as housekeeper was given to the vicar as money left to the child by his father, and to this day the vicar does not suspect the truth."
"Quite a romance," said Beaumont, lightly. "I had no idea you had such inventive powers. But there is one thing I would like to know--the child's name."
"In order to claim him?" she asked, bitterly.
"My faith! no; I've got enough to do in looking after myself, without troubling about a hulking boy. You need never be afraid of that, Patience. Come, tell me the boy's name."
"Reginald Blake."
The cigarette dropped out of Beaumont's nerveless fingers, and his white face grew a shade whiter.
"Reginald Blake," he whispered under his breath; "the young fellow who sings?"
"The same."
Beaumont remained silent for a few moments, thinking deeply.
"I have certainly no reason to be ashamed of my son," he said, coolly, looking at Patience. "You deserve credit for the way you have brought him up."
"I have done so as some expiation for my sin."
"Bah! Don't be melodramatic!" he said, coarsely. "You brought him up because he was your son--not because of any expiation rubbish!--he doesn't know who he is?"
"No. I have spared him that knowledge of shame; let us bear our sin alone."
"Humbug! our sin, as you call it, doesn't trouble me in the slightest. In fact, I'm rather pleased than otherwise."
"What do you mean?" she asked in alarm.
"Mean--that he's got an uncommonly fine tenor voice, and I don't see why money shouldn't be made out of it."
Patience sprang towards him like an enraged tigress, her eyes flashing fire.
"Not by you," she hissed, with her mouth so close to his face that he could feel her hot breath upon his cheek. "Not by you--I've brought him up all these years by myself without troubling you for money--he thinks his birth is honourable and has every chance of making a career for himself, so you are not going to mar it for your own vile ends."
"Don't lose your temper," he said coolly, "I'll do what I please."
"I have your promise not to claim him," she panted with a look of despair in her eyes, "your sacred promise."
The artist laughed in a gibing manner.
"Bah! That for my promise," he said, snapping his fingers in the air. "I'm not going to lose the chance of making money out of him for any sentimental rubbish."
"You will tell him you are his father?"
"I will."
"And that you deserted us both in London?"
Beaumont winced at the sting of her words.
"I'll tell him what I think fit," he said angrily, "and make him do what I please. I am his father."
"Will you, indeed?" she observed jeeringly, though her face worked in convulsive rage. "You are the father who deserted him when a child and now want to make money out him; you would disgrace him in his own eyes by telling him the real story of his birth. I tell you no, Basil Beaumont, you'll do no such thing."
"Who will stop me?"
"I will."
"A very laudable intention, but how do you propose to carry it out?"
"I will tell him the whole story of my sin," she said deliberately. "How I loved you and was betrayed, how you left both him and me to starve in the streets of London and only claim him as a son to make money out of his one gift. I'll tell him all this, and then we'll see if he respects and obeys you."
"He is my son."
"Over whom you have no authority; he is of age and you cannot make him your slave. As to the rest, I'll take care that everyone in the village knows the story and you'll be drummed out of the place as the scoundrel you are."
Clever as he was, Beaumont saw Patience held the trump card, so suddenly forsook his dictatorial manner and spoke blandly.
"Very well, I'll say nothing to him at all just now."
"You'll never say anything to him," she said sternly. "Stay in this village if you like, but do not dare to reveal my secret to Reginald Blake--if you do it will be the worse for you; I'm not going to have him ruined for life by your treachery."
"But, Patience--my own son."
"Bah!" she snarled, turning on him viciously, "don't talk like that to me--a scoundrel you were and a scoundrel you are--don't touch me, don't come near me, but breathe one word of my secret and as sure as there's a God above us I'll do what I say."
Beaumont made a step forward as if to seize her, but with a gesture of loathing she drew her dress around her and fled away into the darkness leaving him standing alone by the river. He remained silent for a few moments then his brow cleared and he resumed his nonchalant manner, though his face still remained pale and haggard.
"My son Reginald," he said, lightly rolling a cigarette, "I had no idea of such luck. Ah, you she cat, I'll cut your claws yet; I'll make money out of the voice yet, in spite of your threats my fine madame."
Suddenly a thought struck him as he lighted his cigarette and he laughed softly.
"Good heavens!" he said with a shrug. "I admire Miss Challoner, so does he--it appears," continued Mr. Beaumont sauntering away; "then I'm the rival of my own son."
When one is playing in the game of life'Tis wrong to throw away a single card,Lest by some odd mistake of circumstanceThe card despised--if played with dext'rous hand--Should gain an unexpected victory.
When one is playing in the game of life'Tis wrong to throw away a single card,Lest by some odd mistake of circumstanceThe card despised--if played with dext'rous hand--Should gain an unexpected victory.
When Basil Beaumont came to think over things, it struck him as somewhat strange that Patience should have voluntarily told him a secret, for the concealment of which she had several excellent reasons. Firstly, she must have had a great struggle with her pride before bringing herself to address the man to whom she owed her ruin. Secondly, on informing Beaumont that Reginald was his son, she must have known there were great chances of him revealing the whole story to the young fellow out of sheer devilry; and thirdly, knowing that Reginald was clever, she must have expected his penniless father would try and make money out of his talents.
Beaumont was too astute a reader of character to blind himself to the fact that Patience must have been aware of these three things, hence his wonder at her telling him what she did not want known. But the artist, clever as he was, still lacked discernment to recognise the full subtlety of a woman's instincts, else he would have readily seen that Patience feared his ignorance of the real state of affairs more than his knowledge.
She heard that he was in the village and acquainted with Reginald Blake, and she was also aware that he was coming to the Grange to paint Squire Garsworth's portrait. Had he seen her there he would have made inquiries concerning her position, and among other things would doubtless have ascertained that she was Reginald's nurse. Knowing that she had left London with her own son, such a weak story as she told about Blake's parentage would not have imposed upon him for a moment, and by putting two and two together he would have discovered everything, with the natural result that he would have recognised Blake as his own child, sought him out and told him the whole story of his birth.
In order to avert such a calamity, she determined to boldly take the bull by the horns and tell Beaumont everything, at the same time warning him that she would embitter Reginald's mind against him should he dare to speak out. The result of her interview in the churchyard was as she expected. Beaumont was too cunning to risk the dislike of his own son, and thereby lose any chance of influencing him for his own ends, so he quietly acquiesced in the line of conduct she laid down. Patience returned to the Grange thoroughly satisfied that she had disarmed Beaumont by pointing out how she could turn Reginald against him, so the astute man of the world, abandoning his desire to play the part of a long-lost father, determined to wait for a few weeks and see how things turned out. Then he intended to let his plans be guided to a large extent by circumstances, and had no doubt that he would then be able to out-man[oe]uvre Patience by a little dexterous generalship.
A few days after his curious meeting with Patience in the churchyard, Beaumont set out for a long walk in the morning, as he wanted to think over the aspect of things, and pedestrianism always stimulated his brain. It was a bright, fresh morning, with a deeply blue sky, a cheerful sun shining and a keen, fresh wind blowing across the common on to which he strolled. The gorse was in bloom, and every breath of wind brought the odour of its peach-like scent to his nostrils. How often, in his Bohemian life had that odour recalled the wide, bare common with its miles of gorse-covered ground, and made him long half regretfully for the quiet country village where his youth had been passed.
But now that the common was actually before him, by some curious contradiction of nature he did not feel the least regret or longing for his youth, but on the contrary strolled over the waste ground, hatching all kinds of plots and plans in his busy brain.
All at once, as he stood on the edge of a gentle slope, where the ground was hollowed out like a cup and surrounded by the dark green of the gorse with its golden blossoms, he saw a woman seated on a grassy bank, apparently basking in the sun. Her hands were lying idly in her lap, and with her face turned upward to the bright sunshine, she was drinking in the sweet, keen air which swept over the wild moorland. Beaumont saw that it was Cecilia Mosser who sat there, and for a moment half envied the blind girl in spite of her great sorrow, for her pleasant enjoyment of nature.
"She looks like the Goddess of Desolation," murmured Beaumont, as he descended the slope, "or some eyeless Destiny that sees nothing, yet governs all!"
Lightly as he walked over the soft, green grass, the blind girl heard the sound of his muffled footsteps, and turned her face in the direction from whence she heard them come, with a questioning look on her placid face.
"How do you do, Miss Mosser?" said Beaumont, tranquilly. "I was taking a stroll on the common, and saw you sitting here alone, like the Genius of Solitude."
"I often come here," observed Cecilia, placidly, folding her hands. "This is a favourite spot of mine--I know every inch of the way."
"You are not afraid of losing yourself?"
"I was at first," said the blind girl, with a quiet laugh, "but I soon got to know my way about. I could find my way here on the darkest night."
"Like Bulwer Lytton's Nydia," remarked Beaumont, idly casting himself down on the grass.
"Yes. Like her, it is always darkest night with me," replied Cecilia, with a sigh. "Still, I have my compensations, for I can hear many sounds that very likely escape the notice of you fortunate people who can see."
"What kind of sounds?" asked the artist, more for the sake of making a remark than because he cared to know.
"The flowing of the river, the whispering of the wind, the humming of the bees and the rustle of the gorse--they all seem to me to have human voices and tell me stories. I can well understand those old legends where mortals heard voices everywhere, and understood the sayings of the waves and the melancholy voice of the night winds."
"As Siegfried understood the language of birds," said Beaumont. "You require no dragon's blood to teach you that, I suppose?"
"I don't know what you mean, exactly," replied Cecilia, in a puzzled tone, for she had never heard of the Niebelung's Ring, "but the birds do speak to me--that is, I fancy they do--I love to hear the cuckoo and the throstle, then the lark--ah! the lark is the most charming of all!"
"So the poets think. There is no bird who has inspired more poetry than the lark--from Shakespeare down to Tennyson--and I suppose you put all your fancies into music?"
"Yes, I often try to do so, but I don't think anyone understands the meaning but myself," answered Cecilia, with a faint smile. "You know the English are not a music loving nation."
"That depends on how you define music," said the artist, cynically. "The great B. P. like something with a tune in it, but when they hear anything they can't understand, such as Bach and Spohr, they admire it all the same. I'm afraid the B. P.'s a humbug."
"You are terribly severe," said Cecilia, laughing. "I hope you won't criticise our concert?"
"No. I assure you I am the most lenient of critics; I will come to admire beauties, not to find out faults. Besides, Blake is going to sing--and his voice is charming."
"Yes, it is," replied the blind girl, cordially, "and Miss Challoner sings very well, also. She is going to sing a duet with Mr. Blake, if she can get away for one night from the squire."
"Oh, that will be easily arranged, I've no doubt," said Beaumont, carelessly. "Doctor Nestley will attend to that."
As he uttered this name a vivid flush passed over the pale face of the girl, and Beaumont noticed it with secret amazement.
"Hullo!" he said to himself, "I wonder what this means? I must find out."
It was curious that he should trouble himself about such a trivial matter; but Beaumont was a wise man, who never overlooked the smallest thing he thought might prove useful to him. At present an idea had suddenly shot into his scheming brain--it was only an embryo idea, still it might help him in some way. He was completely in a mist as to what he was going to do, but Cecilia's blush had given him a clue to something tangible, and he immediately began to artfully question the blind girl so as to obtain some possible result.
"You know Doctor Nestley, of course?" he said, looking keenly at her face, from whence the red flush had died away.
"Yes, I met him a few days ago; he was in the church when Mr. Blake was singing," observed Cecilia, in a low tone. "I heard him speak--what a beautiful voice."
"Ah! I know the reason of the blush, now," thought Beaumont; "she loves him. Good Heavens! what a hopeless passion! She loves Nestley, and he loves Una Challoner. How tricky Dan Cupid is, to be sure."
As he had made no answer, the blind girl went on speaking.
"As I cannot see a face, I always guess what it is like by the voice. Doctor Nestley has a beautiful speaking voice--is his face handsome?"
"Rather handsome," said Beaumont, now seized with a cruel desire to fan the flame of hopeless love which burned in this blind woman's heart. "Yes, I suppose a woman would call his face handsome--but it's rather sad."
"Sad!" echoed Cecilia, in a startled tone; "why is his face sad?"
Beaumont shrugged his shoulders.
"Ouf!" he replied, coolly, "how should I know?--because his soul is sad, I presume. The face is the index of the mind, you know. I daresay it runs this way--his face is sad because his soul is sad, and the soul-sadness is caused by a sad life."
"Is he unhappy, then?" asked Cecilia, breathlessly.
"I should say not--now," said Beaumont, with emphasis, "but when I knew him in London a few years ago he had met with many reverses of fortune."
"Poor Doctor Nestley," sighed the blind girl, seized with a sudden desire to comfort this unhappy man, of whom she knew absolutely nothing save that he had a beautiful speaking voice. "Do you know his story."
Whereupon Beaumont, who knew from Shakespeare that "pity is akin to love" set himself to work to awaken Cecilia Mosser's pity, and told a marvellously pathetic story of Nestley's early life in which truth and fiction were so dexterously blended that the hero himself would have been puzzled to say which was real and which false. He attained his object, however, for he saw by the varied emotions that passed over the blind girl's expressive face how moved she was by the story.
"Poor Doctor Nestley," she said again, "poor, poor Doctor Nestley."
"Oh, but all his misery is past now," said Beaumont, lightly, "he has weathered the storm, and will, no doubt, some day marry a woman who will make him happy."
The blind woman laid her hand on her heart, as if she felt there a cruel pain, then spoke to Beaumont in a strangled kind of voice.
"You must think me a curious creature, Mr. Beaumont," she said, rapidly, "to take such an interest in a man of whom I know nothing, but remember I am blind, and be kind to my failing. I can only judge people by their voices, and Doctor Nestley's voice has affected me more than any one else's. Why, I do not know. Of course I am precluded by my misfortune from many things, but--but--you understand--ah, you must understand how difficult it is for me to conceal my feelings. He is a stranger, I am a blind woman, but his voice rouses in me a strange feeling I cannot explain even to myself. I know I am foolish talking like this, so forget what I have said. You will forget, will you not?"
"Miss Mosser," said Beaumont gravely, rising to his feet, "you may be sure I will respect what I have heard as a sacred confidence."
"Thank you, thank you, very much," cried the poor woman, while the tears ran down her cheeks. "I know I am foolish. You must despise me for the way I've spoken. Still, I'm blind--blind."
Beaumont felt a pang of pity in his hard heart at the anguish of this unhappy woman, shut out from all love as between man and woman by her misfortune, and he was about to speak when Cecilia lifted her head.
"Will you go now, Mr. Beaumont?" she said, in a low voice. "Please leave me. I will be all right soon, and can then go home. But you will not forget your promise?"
"My promise is sacred," said the artist slowly, and turning away he left the blind woman seated in the hollow with her hands clasped on her lap, and her sightless eyes looking up to the blue sky.
"Strange," he thought, as he lighted a cigarette, "that girl has fallen in love with a voice, and does not even know she is in love, although she half guesses it. She knows nothing of Nestley and yet she loves him. Why? because he has a charming voice. I suppose we must call it a woman's instinct--ah if she only knew how hopeless her love is--Nestley is too much bewitched by Una to waste a thought on her."
This discovery, slight as it was, gratified Beaumont's keen sense of intrigue, as it gave him another card to play in the game against Patience. If he could do nothing with Reginald because he was embittered against him by his mother, still he could separate him from Una by circulating a few skilful falsehoods. If Cecilia ever learned that Nestley loved Una, she was too much of a woman to keep silent in the matter, and through her Una would hear of Nestley's infatuation; and, again, to secure Nestley to herself, Cecilia, knowing Reginald adored Una, would tell him of this new complication, with the result that Nestley and Reginald would quarrel over Miss Challoner, and, perhaps, in the end, such a quarrel would part Una and her lover for ever. It was all very vague and intangible as yet, still Beaumont felt in some mysterious way that the knowledge of the blind girl's love for Nestley might prove useful to him in weaving his nets around his son so as to secure him entirely to himself.
"Reginald and Nestley both love Una," he mused, as he sauntered home. "Cecilia Mosser loves Nestley. Yes, the materials for a complication are there. How, I don't see at present--still the more cards I have to play against Patience Allerby the sooner I'll win the game."
"The sower scattereth his seedsIn rich or barren ground,And soon the earth in place of weedsWith golden corn is crowned."
"The sower scattereth his seeds
In rich or barren ground,
And soon the earth in place of weeds
With golden corn is crowned."
Meanwhile the old squire was much better in health, owing to the skill of Dr. Nestley, but dreading a relapse he insisted upon the young doctor staying with him for a time, and, though miserly as a rule, yet paid him a handsome sum for his services, so great was his dread of death. As Nestley's practice was not a very large one he looked upon this whim of the squire's as an unexpected piece of good luck, so made a hurried visit to the country town where he lived and, having arranged with his partner about the carrying on of their joint business, returned to Garsworth and took up his abode at the Grange as the medical attendant of the old man.
The village doctor did not give in to this arrangement without a struggle, but Squire Garsworth, who consulted no man's feelings or interests when they clashed with his own desires, soon reduced the local Sangrado to silence.
Mr. Beaumont came daily to the Grange in order to paint the portrait of its master, and was now deeply interested in the picture, which was beginning to have a wonderful fascination for him. In truth the squire was no commonplace model, for his keen, ascetic face with the burning eyes and his spare figure wrapped in a faded black velvet dressing-gown made a wonderfully picturesque study. Besides, Basil liked to hear the wild extravagant talk of the old man, who talked in a desultory sort of manner, mingling gay stories of his hot youth, with mystical revelations of mediæval alchemists and whimsical theories of spiritual existence. That he was mad, Beaumont never for a moment doubted; nevertheless, his madness was productive of a certain fantasy of thought that proved most alluring to the poetic nature of the artist, weary of the commonplace things of the work-a-day world.
With regard to Reginald the artist treated him in his usual manner, and neither by word nor deed betrayed the relationship which existed between them, but nevertheless used all his powers of fascination to attain a mastery over the young man's mind.
In this he was partially successful, for nothing is so flattering to the vanity of an unformed youth as the notice bestowed upon him by a cultured man of the world. The artist told him stories of London and Parisian life, described the famous men he had met, the beautiful women he had known, and the keen excitements of Bohemian life, thus investing an unknown world with a magic and glamour which could not fail to attract a nature so clever, ardent and impressionable as that of this unsophisticated lad.
Patience Allerby, living in a state of almost monastic seclusion, congratulated herself upon her foresight in defeating Beaumont's possible plans, little dreaming that he was now enmeshing her son in subtle toils which would render him the willing slave of his heartless father. It was true that Una, with a woman's keen instinct, distrusted the brilliant adventurer, and ventured to warn Reginald against him, but the young man received such a warning with somewhat ill grace and talked about the need of experience. Beaumont, with his keen power of penetration, soon discovered that Una distrusted him, and as it was his aim to gain her over to his side he soon hit upon a plan by which he hoped to achieve his end.
One morning, after he had been working at the squire's portrait, he was strolling out on the terrace when he met Una leaning over the balustrade, looking at the still pool of water, encircled by a marble rim, in the centre of which was a group of Naiads and Tritons which should have spouted water in wreaths of foam from their conch shells, but as the source of the fountain was dried up there only remained the stagnant waters in the basin, reflecting their enforced idleness.
Una was thinking about Beaumont when he appeared, and in no very generous strain, as she was afraid of his rapidly increasing influence over the plastic mind of her lover--therefore when the artist paused beside her she was by no means prepared to receive him with that suave courtesy with which she generally greeted everyone.
"I'm glad to see you, Miss Challoner," observed Beaumont lifting his hat, "as I want to speak to you about Blake."
"About Mr. Blake," said Una rather coldly, "yes?"
"Of course you know how I admire his voice," remarked Beaumont leisurely, "and thinking it a pity he should waste its sweetness on the desert air of Garsworth I wrote up to a friend of mine in London."
"That is very kind of you, Mr. Beaumont," said Una in a more cordial tone, "and what does your friend say?"
"He wants Blake to go up to London, and will take him to Marlowe, who is a very celebrated teacher of singing; if Marlowe is satisfied, Blake can study under him, and when he is considered fit can make his appearance."
"It will take a lot of money," observed Una thoughtfully.
"Oh! I've no doubt that can be arranged," said Beaumont quietly. "Blake and myself will come to some agreement about things, but I am anxious that Blake should benefit by his talents."
"What do you mean?" asked Miss Challoner in a puzzled tone, "I do not understand."
"Of course you do not," answered the artist smoothly. "You do not understand the world--I do--and at the cost of expenditure of money, and sacrifice of illusions. Blake has an exceptionally fine organ and great musical talent; if he went up to London unprovided with money--of which I understand he has not any great store--he would very likely be picked up by some hanger-on of musical circles who would do him more harm than good, perhaps force him to sing before he was matured and thus run the very probable risk of a failure--or if he was taught by a good master and made a great success, unless he was very careful, some impresario would entice him into some agreement to last for years which would be eminently disadvantageous to him in the end."
"But surely no men are so base?"
Beaumont shrugged his shoulders.
"My dear lady, they don't call it baseness but business--the only difference is in the name however--and how would leeches live if there is no one for them to live on? The Genius very often has no business capabilities and no money, the Leech, as a rule, has both, and as poor Genius cannot get himself or his works before the public without the help of Mr. Middleman Leech, of course that gentleman expects to be well-paid for his trouble, and generally pays himself so well that Genius gets the worst of it--the Middleman gets the money, the public get the pleasure, and the Genius--well, he gets next to nothing, except the delightful thought that his works have enriched one man and pleased another. Genius is a fine thing, no doubt, but the capability of being a leech is finer."
"And yet you propose to be the middleman between Mr. Blake and the public," said Una, looking at him keenly.
"Only to save him from others," observed Beaumont quickly. "For all I know, Blake may be an exceedingly clever business man and quite capable of holding his own against the tribe of Leech and Middleman, still he has no money wherewith to bring his voice to that perfection which will make it a saleable article. I can supply that money, and as the labourer is worthy of his hire, I expect a fair remuneration for my trouble, but I will act honestly towards him, and neither force him into singing before he is fit, nor bind him for any term of years; if he makes a financial and artistic success through my help, I am willing to receive what is my just due, but if he goes to London with no influence--no friends--no money--with nothing but that fine voice, well then, unless he is as I said before a clever business man, there will be some fine pickings for Mr. Leech."
"It's a dreadfully wicked world," sighed Una.
"It is as God made it," rejoined Beaumont cynically, "I don't think mankind have improved it much, but I daresay we're no worse now than we ever were, the only change I can see is the art of concealment--it was fashionable to be wicked in Borgian Rome, so accordingly everyone proclaimed his or her darling sins from the housetops, now it is considered the correct thing to be decent, so we sin in private and preach in public; the wickedness is with us all the same, but we hide it carefully and prate about the morality of nineteenth century England compared with sixteenth century Rome."
"You are rather pessimistic."
"My misfortune, not my fault, I assure you," returned the artist carelessly. "Very likely if I had gone through life wrapped up in the cotton wool of position and money I would have found human nature all that is honest and true. Unfortunately Poverty is a deity who takes a pleasure in destroying the illusions of youth, therefore I see the world in a real and not in an ideal sense--it's unpleasant but useful."
"I hope Reginald will never cherish such harsh thoughts," murmured Una.
"That depends upon the great god Circumstance, but if he comes to London I'm afraid he will be disenchanted. Arcady may be found in this isolated village I've no doubt, but London soon disillusionises the most generous and confiding nature, however, let us hope for the best--but what do you say about my offer, Miss Challoner?"
"Well really," said Una with a laugh, "what can I say? it is Mr. Blake's business and not mine."
"Still, you take an interest in him," observed Beaumont keenly.
"As a very clever man I do," replied Una serenely, for she was determined not to betray her love to this cold-eyed man of the world. "I think it is a pity he should be condemned to stay down here."
"I think so also," said Beaumont cordially, for he was too crafty to press a question he saw might prove distasteful to the proud woman before him, "so I'll speak to Blake."
"And how are you getting on with my cousin's picture?" asked Una, dexterously turning the conversation as they walked down the terrace.
"Oh, very well indeed--it will make an excellent picture, and I enjoy talking to the Squire, his ideas are so very strange."
"The effect of solitude I've no doubt," replied Una absently, "a solitary existence generally engenders strange thoughts."
"Exactly. I'd rather talk to a recluse than to a man or woman of the world, for although the ideas of a hermit may be old fashioned they are infinitely fresh."
"Don't you like Society then?"
"Sometimes I do--man is a gregarious animal you know--but Society people as a rule are fearful humbugs. I suppose a certain amount of deception is necessary to make things go smooth. A tells B lies and B knows they are lies, still he believes them, because to preserve a necessary friendship with A it won't do to tell him he's a liar; if all our friends were put in the Palace of Truth it would be a mighty unpleasant world, I assure you."
"But you don't think it is necessary to tell lies to make things go smoothly?" said Una rather shocked.
"I daresay that's the plain, brutal truth," retorted Beaumont coolly; "lies are the oil which diplomacy pours on the troubled waters of Society. Lord, what a world of humbugs we are to be sure."
"Well, good-bye just now," said Una laughing, as she turned away, "don't forget to tell Mr. Blake about London."
"Oh no, I won't forget," replied Beaumont, and taking off his hat, he strolled away down the avenue, very well satisfied with the result of his conversation.
"I think I've succeeded in pacifying her," he murmured to himself, "now she sees how anxious I am to help her lover she won't distrust me any more--it's the parable of the sower over again--a little seed sown in fruitful ground bears a goodly crop--now I am sowing the seed--when I get Reginald in London I will reap the harvest."