Duty! That constituted the foundation of the plea of Clare for the delivery of his lecture before the Royal Geographical Society. Her eyes sparkled as she talked at lunch, urging Claude Westwood to abandon his resolution to keep a secret the story of his adventures, of his discoveries.
“My dear Agnes,” she cried at last, “will you not join with me in telling him all that is his duty?” Agnes shook her head.
“All? Did you say 'all'?” she said. “All his duty? Why, my dear, such a task would be akin to Mr. Westwood's description of his travels. The language does not contain sufficient words to tell a man all that is his duty. But so far as the lecture before the Geographical Society is concerned I don't think that he need say very much. Surely they are entitled at least to a paper in exchange for their gold medal. Anything less would be shabby.”
“That should settle the question,” said Clare, looking with a triumphant smile at Claude.
“I suppose—yes, I am sure that it should,” said he. “Only—well, I hardly know where to begin in giving an account of some of the things I saw during my years of captivity. You have heard of the devil-worship of some parts of Central Africa; but all that you have heard has been a faint, a far-off rumour of what that worship means. I have seen—oh, I tell you there are mysteries—magic—in the heart of that awful Continent that cannot be spoken of.”
“But there is much that you can talk about—there's the country, the climate, the products,” said Clare. “Don't you remember the hints that Mr. Paddleford used to give you aboard theAndalusian?Mr. Paddleford was a—a—gentleman—I suppose he would be called a gentleman in England.”
“Though he was not so called aboard the steamer?” said Agnes.
“Exactly. He was fond of opening up new countries.”
“Through the medium of the Limited Liability Companies Act—occasionally going a little further than the Act was ever meant to go,” said Claude.
“At any rate he used to say that the man who found a new market for Manchester or Birmingham was the true patriot. But still you did not rise to the bait—you did not make any attempt to prove the extent of your patriotism. But perhaps you might be able to show the geographical people that Manchester or Birmingham might have what Mr. Paddleford called a 'look in' so far as Central Africa is concerned.”
He glanced at Clare after she had spoken.
“Birmingham might certainly have a 'look in' at some of the tribes; it might contract for the constant supply of brass gods for them,” said Claude. “They worship brass out there with nearly as much devotion as people here worship gold. As for Manchester—well, I've been in a valley where Manchester could find a hint or two. The sides of the valley are covered with a plant—a weed which, it it became known, would make cotton valueless. It requires neither to be spun nor woven.”
“And you have discovered that miracle, for which the world has been wanting since the days of Adam?” cried Clare, laying down her life and fork, and staring at him. “You have discovered this, and yet you could send that poor publisher empty away, although he had come out from England to meet you and make arrangements for the publication of your book!”
“Manchester should be ruined in order that Mr.—Mr.—was his name—Paddleford?—yes, that Mr. Faddleford might float a company,” said Agnes.
“Not merely Manchester, but all the cotton-growing states of America would be brought to the verge of ruin,” said he. “The growth of that weed upon the sides of the valley I speak of far exceeds the growth of all the cotton in the world. We travelled for four months through that valley without once losing sight of that weed. Things are done on a large scale in Central Africa. The ground rents there are somewhat less than they are in Middlesex. Can you fancy a valley running from John o'Groat's to Land's End with its sides covered thickly with one weed—say with thistles only?”
“And you can tell the world of that valley—of that plant for which the world has been waiting for thousands of years, and yet there is still a doubt in your mind as to whether you should spend an hour talking about it or not!” cried Clare. “Look here, Mr. Westwood; you send a telegram to the President of the Geographical Society appointing a day to reveal to him and his friends—to all the world—the world that has been waiting for certainly six thousand years—some people say six million—for the discovery of that plant—telegraph that, or I shall do it; and when you are at the bureau of telegraphs, just send another message to the publisher who hunted for you, telling him that you accept his offer of twenty-five thousand pounds. He confided in me aboard the steamer with tears in his eyes, that this was the exact sum that he had offered to you for the making of two thick volumes on your adventures, to be ready in four months from to-day.”
“Heavens above! this is carrying things with a high hand!” cried Claude. “Perhaps you would not think it too much trouble to suggest a title for the book—that, I understand, is always a difficult business.”
“Ah, the representative of Messrs. Shekels & Shackles, the publishers, confided to me his designs in regard to that point also,” said Clare triumphantly. “The poor man had passed days and nights in the Mediterranean thinking over the best title for your book; but only when he got through the Red Sea did the inspiration come to him. I agreed with him that it would be too bad if all his trouble were to no purpose. I agree with him still.”
“He went a long way—so did you,” said Claude. “And the title—are you at liberty to divulge it to the author of the book yet unborn?”
“The name of the book is to be 'Homeless in Hades,'” laughed Clare. “So much the agent confided in me. He thought that by that title the readers would be prepared for the worst you had to tell them.”
“And so they would. I'm sure,” said he. “But I had no idea that the names of books were settled by the publishers.”
“Oh, they're not as a rule—he explained that to me; he said that only in your case Messrs. Shekels & Shackles were under the impression that you should know just what the public expected from you.”
“And their idea is that the writer of a book of travels should make it his business to provide the public with precisely what they expect? Well, I can't say that the notion is an extravagant one. Most of the volumes of travel which have been written, from the days of Sir John Mandeville, down, have shown a desire on the part of the authors to accommodate themselves to the views of the publishers and the public. I'm not so sure, however, about 'Homeless in Hades.'”
“Then you will write the book?” cried Clare, her eyes sparkling. “Oh yes; when you begin by quarrelling with the title you are bound to write the book.”
“I don't consider myself in the least compromised in the matter,” said he. “One may surely object to a title without being forced to write the book. The fact is that, since I started for the Zambesi, the public taste has been revolutionised by dry plates. An explorer without a camera is, In the eyes of the public, like—now, what is he like?—a mouse-trap without a bait—a bell without its hammer. Now I did not travel with a camera. My long journey alone through the forests was made with only the smallest amount of personal luggage. All I was able to carry with me will not make an imposing list. Item—one knife; item—one native bow and six poisoned arrows; item—six seeds of the linen plant.”
“What, you succeeded in bringing home the seeds of that wonderful plant?”
“I made up my mind to accomplish that at all hazards. The seeds are a good deal less interesting to look at than the native weapons. I have got a glass case made for the arrows. They are not the things that should be left lying about.”
“I have heard of poisoned arrows. Terrible, are they not? And the poison is still in those you have?”
“It is the deadliest poison on earth; and its effect remains even in the ashes of the iron-weed which forms the barb of the arrow. The slightest scratch with the point of the weapon is fatal.”
Clare listened breathlessly. It was in a low voice that she asked:
“How many of these arrows had you when you contrived to escape?”
“I had sixteen,” he replied. “I can account satisfactorily for the ten that are not forthcoming. I got to be a fairly good hand with the bow and arrows before I had been in captivity for more than a year. I saw that my only chance of successfully escaping lay in my acquiring a thorough knowledge of the native weapons. I made a collection of arrows which I secreted at intervals, but when I thought my chance had arrived. I only recovered the sixteen I have told you about. I saved my life ten times with arrows and nine times with my knife.”
“That will be your book,” said Clare; “how you used those ten arrows will be your book. It must be called 'The Arrows and the Knife.'”
“That title is certainly better than 'Homeless in Hades,' although I admit that I was homeless and that the country was the worst Hades that could be imagined.”
“But you will write the book—oh, you must promise us to write the book. If we get him to promise we shall be all right, Agnes; he is not the sort of man who would ever break his promise!”
“Oh, no, no; a promise with him would ever be held sacred,” said Agnes.
“Promise—promise,” cried Clare, going in front of him with clasped hands, in the prettiest possible attitude of humorous imploration.
“A book of travel would be of no value without illustrations—so much I clearly perceive,” said he. “I wonder if you can draw.'
“Oh yes; I can draw in a sort of way,” she replied. “I did nothing else but draw for some years.”
“That is a solution of the problem,” he said, putting out his hand to her. “I will write the book if you do the drawings for it.”
She shrank back for a moment and her face became rosy.
“Oh, I don't think that I could draw well enough to illustrate your book,” she cried.
“Ah, have you seen the illustrations to any book of travel recently published?” he asked. “No, I thought you had not or you wouldn't say that your capacity fell short of so humble a standard as is required for such a purpose. My dear Clare, cannot you see that the plan which I have suggested is the only one possible for such a work as mine? I must have an artist beside me who will be able to draw everything from my instructions. Nothing must be left to the imagination. An error in any point of detail would make the illustration worthless. Ah, now you see it is not on me but on you that the production of the great work depends, and yet you hold back. It is now my turn for bullying you as you bullied me. It rests with you to say whether the book will appear or not.”
“What am I to say, Agnes?” cried the girl. She had become quite excited at the new complexion that had been assumed by the question of publishing the book. “What am I to say? I am afraid of my own shortcomings.”
“If Mr. Westwood is not afraid of them, you certainly need not be,” said Agnes. “For my own part I quite see how much better it would be for him to have an artist working by his side and in accordance with his own instructions, than it would be to have the most accomplished of draughtsmen working at a distance.”
“I'm fearfully afraid, but I would do anything for the sake of seeing the book published,” said Clare.
“Then the compact is made,” cried Claude. “Give me your hand, Clare, Now, Agnes, you are witness to the compact.”
“Yes, I am a witness to this compact—the second one made in this room,” said Agnes quietly. They had by this time left the dining-room and were standing round the fire in the drawing-room.
“The second compact—the second?” said he, as though he were trying to recall the previous compact.
“Agnes alludes to the compact she and I made in this room yesterday,” said Clare. “We agreed that if we did not become friends we should part without ceremony before we got to hate each other—it was something like that, was it not, Agnes?”
“Yes, I think that is an excellent definition of the compact made between you and me—not in the presence of witnesses,” said Agnes.
“A very sensible compact, too, if I know anything about women,” said Claude.
“And you do know something about women, do you not?” said Agnes.
“I am learning something daily—I may say hourly,” he replied. “I have learned lately how generous, how noble, how sympathetic a woman may be.”
He looked at Agnes as he spoke, and sincerity was in every note of his voice.
Agnes smiled faintly. She wondered if he was thinking of the day when he had said good-bye to her in that room. Was his allusion made to her generosity in permitting him to assume that there was a statute of limitation in love—an unwritten law by which the validity of a lover's vows ceased?
At this point a fresh visitor was admitted—Sir Percival Hope. He said he was very glad to meet Mr. Westwood that afternoon, the fact being that he had just been at the Court to see Mr. Westwood in order to inquire about his gamekeeper, Ralph Dangan, who had applied to him, Sir Percival, for a situation. He wondered why the man was leaving the Court preserves.
“The man seems to me to be a very foolish fellow,” said Claude. “He came to me a couple of days ago to discharge himself, his plea being that he did not suppose that I meant to preserve as my poor brother had done. I asked him if he didn't think it possible that he might be mistaken in his supposition, and suggested that he would have done well to come to me in the first instance to learn what my intentions were in regard to the preserves. He seemed to decline to enter into any discussion WIth me on the subject, but quite respectfully gave me his notice to leave. I tried to bring him to a sense of his foolishness in throwing up a good place on so ridiculous a pretext, but all the reply he gave was, 'I have made up my mind to go, sir, and must go. I can't stay where I am any longer.'”
“The poor man has had trouble—great trouble, during the past few months,” said Agnes. “He should be pardoned if he finds it intolerable to continue living in the place where he was once so happy.”
“He did not say anything about that to me,” said Claude. “Only to-day my steward mentioned about the man's daughter. Poor girl! I recollect her years ago—a pretty little girl of nine or ten. And then his son enlisted. I daresay the view you take of the matter is the right one, Agnes. I suppose such men as Dangan have their own private feelings like the rest of us.”
“He did not seem inclined to explain to me anything of that,” said Sir Percival. “When I asked if he did not think he was behaving foolishly in leaving a situation in which he had been for over thirty years, he merely said he had made up his mind to leave it.”
“I would advise you to give him a trial,” said Claude. “He is a scrupulously honest man.”
“I feel greatly inclined to take your advice,” said Sir Percival.
He remained to drink tea with Agnes, and at the end of an hour both men left together.
Clare was greatly excited. She regarded it as a great triumph that she had prevailed upon Mr. Westwood to write the book which was to give an account of his captivity in Central Africa, his explorations—some of them involuntary—for the people among whom he dwelt as a prisoner and an object of worship, carried him about with them on their raids—and his discoveries. She was, however, in great dread lest her part in the compact should be indifferently performed.
She daily expressed her doubts to Agnes, bewailing the fact that she had been too easily persuaded by the maestro to abandon her study of the art of painting for the art of vocalism. If she had only devoted to the former the time she had spent upon the latter, she would have been a good artist, she declared. Of what value had her singing been to her, she inquired in doleful tones. It had been of no use to her, but if she had continued her study of drawing, she should not now be on the fair way to humiliation.
Agnes did her best to reassure her, when she had seen her portfolio of water colour sketches—some of them charming open-air studies and others of the picturesque peasantry of the Biscayan provinces. She felt sure, she said, that if her drawings done by the direction of Mr. Westwood, were of the same quality as those in the portfolio, the publishers would be quite satisfied with them. Clare kissed her friend a dozen times in acknowledgment of her kind encouragement, but afterwards she shook her head despondently.
“It is one thing to draw for my own amusement—to make these simple records of the places which I have visited and the people I hove seen, but quite another thing to illustrate a serious book—a book that is worth twenty-five thousand pounds. Just think of it! My drawings in a book that is worth such a sum—a book that will be in everybody's hands in the course of a month or two!” she cried, as she paced the room excitedly. “Oh yes; I know what every one will say: It would be far better if so valuable a book had not had its pages disfigured by such amateurish efforts! Oh yes; I have seen the criticisms in the English papers. I know what they will say. Oh, what a fool I was to agree to do the drawings!”
“I don't think that you need be at all afraid to face such a task,” said Agnes. “But if you are, why not write to Mr. Westwood, telling him that you repent?”
“Oh, I would be far more afraid to face him after that than to face the drawings,” cried the girl.
“What would Mr. Westwood think of any one who would break a compact?”
Agnes looked at her in silence for a few moments. She was tempted to tell Clare the full story of the compact which she had once made with that man, and the way in which he had broken it, ignoring the fact that it had ever been entered into by either of them. She felt tempted to ask her if the susceptibilities of such a man on the subject of compacts—especially those made with women—were to be greatly respected; but she controlled herself, and when Clare sat down with tearful eyes, she did her best to comfort her.
Then Claude went to London and had an interview of a very satisfactory character with Messrs. Shekels & Shackles. All that they stipulated was that he should not give himself away—the phrase was Mr. Shekels'—at the Royal Geographical Society. The papers read by distinguished—travellers—and some who were not quite so distinguished—at the big meetings of the Society, were only designed to stimulate the imagination of the public and prepare the way for the forthcoming book. A paper that discounted any portion of the forthcoming book—Mr. Shekels took it for granted that the book was always forthcoming—was worse than futile for advertising purposes He urged upon Mr. Westwood the advisability of putting nothing into his Geographical Society lecture that the newspapers could not lay hold of for the purposes of leading articles. The newspapers did not want pathological erudition. They wanted something that all their readers could understand—something about cannibalism, for example; cannibalism as a topic never failed to attract general readers. He hoped that Mr. Westwood would see his way to talk about the cannibals of Central Africa in his paper. That would tickle the palates of the general public, causing them to look forward to the book, which need not necessarily contain a single allusion to cannibalism. In one word, Mr. Shekels explained that the lecture should be a kind ofhors d'ouvreto the literary banquet which was to follow.
All this he explained to Mr. Westwood, very tenderly, of course, for Mr. Westwood was (unfortunately, Messrs. Shekels & Shackles thought) not like the majority of distinguished explorers, anxious that the sale of his book should be enormous, being (unfortunately, again,) independent of book-writing for his living. If they were to say anything to hurt his feelings, he might take his book, when he had it written, to another publishing house, who then would have the privilege, so earnestly sought after by Messrs. Shekles & Shackles, of losing a considerable sum by its publication.
On the subject of the illustrating of the book Mr. Shackles—he was the artistic, not the business partner—had a good deal to say. He did not smile when Mr. Westwood mentioned that there was a lady of his acquaintance who would execute the drawings under his own supervision. No, Mr. Westwood was well out of the front door before he had a laugh with his partner, who did not laugh but only winked at the notion of Mr. Westwood's lady friend. But while Mr. Westwood was in his room Mr. Shackles explained quite courteously that he should like to see some of the lady's work, so that he should be in a position to judge as to whether or not it lent itself well to the processes of reproduction. That was how Mr. Shackles gave expression, when face to face with Mr. Westwood, of the doubts which he afterwards formulated in a few well-chosen phrases to his partner as to the artistic—the saleably artistic—possibilities of the unnamed lady's work.
Then Mr. Westwood had an interview with the executive of the Royal Geographical Society on the subject of his lecture; and the next day every newspaper in the kingdom contained a paragraph announcing this fact, and most of them had half-column leading articles commenting upon the decision come to by the explorer, and pointing out that, owing to the extraordinary circumstances connected with his involuntary stay in the interior of the Dark Continent, the paper which he had so courteously placed at the disposal of the Society could scarcely fail to be the most interesting, as well as the most important, given to the world through the same body for many years.
It was with great trepidation that Clare submitted her sketches to Mr. Westwood. He had, of course, to pay another visit to The Knoll in order to make a choice of the works to be sent to Mr. Shackles as specimens; and even when Claude had expressed himself confident that Mr. Shackles would be surprised at the high quality of the technique in those he selected, the girl was not reassured. It was not till Claude had shown her the publishers' letter regarding the drawings—another visit had to be paid to The Knoll in order to show her this letter—that she began to regain confidence in herself. Her face was rosy with pleasure before Claude had finished reading the letter.
The fact was that Messrs. Shekels & Shackles had come to the decision that they would be acting wisely in humouring Mr. Westwood in this matter of illustrations; and seeing that the specimens of Miss Tristram's work were susceptible of being improved by a judicious artist accustomed to manipulate such work as was to be reproduced by certain processes, the letter on the subject had been as nearly enthusiastic as Messrs. Shekels & Shackles ever allowed themselves to become in the presence of their typewriter. They had meant to gratify Mr. Westwood, and the reply which they got from him convinced them that their object was achieved.
For the next week Clare spent her days in the greenhouse, making sketches of all the tropical plants in Agnes's collection. From studying the general character ol the illustrations in several volumes of African travel—Agnes had on her shelves every volume of exploration in the Continent—the girl became aware of the fact that the public will not believe that any drawing is offered to them in good faith unless it contains at least one tropical plant with which they are familiar. She made up her mind that the vegetation in her pictures should be plentiful, however far short it might fall in artistic qualities. This was the week during which Claude was occupied in the preparation of his paper for the Geographical Society; but in spite of his being so busy, he found time to pay more than one visit to The Kroll. His were business visits, he was careful to explain. Yes, it was necessary for him to see that the backgrounds sketched by Clare at least suggested the tropics.
Agnes stood by while he made his suggestions at these times, and when, now and again, she was applied to for an opinion on some point on which the others could not make up their mind, she gave her opinion—that was all the part she took in the transaction. She was beginning to be weary of the vegetation of the tropics and its adaptability to pictorial treatment, though for some years of her life she had passed no day without reading a page or two that had some bearing upon Central Africa. She was startled as she reflected upon the change that had taken place in her views during a fortnight. She never wished to see another book on Central Africa. She could not even do more than pretend to take an interest in the book which Claude was about to write and Clare to illustrate.
Once as she heard him describe to the girl a scene which he thought she should be prepared to deal with in a picture, her mind went back to the nights when she had awaked shrieking from a dream in which she had seen him lying dead in the midst of the savages who had massacred him and his companions. She had had such dreams frequently during the months when the newspapers were writing their comments upon the disappearance of Westwood and his expedition. How feeble and colourless would be the most spirited of Clare's illustrations compared to those dreams! She smiled as she recalled some of them. She wondered how it was possible for her ever to have taken so much interest in African exploration It was certainly not a subject that many girls would pass several years of their life trying to master.
Often when she glanced across the room and saw Claude there she asked herself if it was possible that she still loved him.
She could not answer the question. Her love for him had become so much a part of her life she could not imagine living without it. She wondered if women could continue loving men who had treated them as he had treated her. When she thought over his treatment of her she wondered how it was that she did not hate him. She had heard of love turning to hatred—hatred as immortal as love—and yet it did not appear to her that she had such a feeling in regard to him. She seemed to have settled down into her life under its altered conditions as easily and as uncomplainingly as it she had always looked forward to life under such conditions.
It was on the eve of Claude Westwood's departure for London to appear before the Geographical Society, that Clare sat down to the piano. She had latterly neglected her singing in favour of her drawing, and now only opened the piano at the request of Agnes.
“What shall I sing?” she cried. “I feel just now as if I could make a great success at La Scala—I feel that my nerves are strung to the highest pitch possible, though why I should be so is a mystery to me. It is not I who have to appear in that big hall to-morrow evening, and yet I feel as if I were about to make mydébut.”
She ran her fingers up and down the keys, improvising a succession of chords that sounded like a march of triumph.
“I want to sing something like that—something with trumpets in it,” she said, with a laugh. “I feel in a mood for trumpets and drums. You heard what Mr. Westwood said about the musical instruments of the Gakennas—that awful drum made of rhinoceros hide pared down and stretched between two branches? What an awful instrument of torture!”
“Shocking, indeed—nearly as bad as a pianoforte under incompetent hands—probably worse than a brass orchestra made in Germany,” said Agnes. “Don't let your song be dominated by any influence less cultured than Chopin.”
Clare went on improvising, but gradually the notes of triumph became less pronounced, and the modulation was in a minor key. In a short time the random fancies assumed a definite form; but it was probably the chance playing of a few notes that suggested to her the exquisite “Nightingale” theme, so splendidly worked out by her master—the greatest of all Italians.
“You and I, you and I,
Sisters are we, O nightingale.
On the wings of song we fly—
On the wings of song we sail;
When our feathered pinions fail,
Floats a feather of song on high
Light as thistledown in a gale.
You and I the heaven will scale;
For only song can reach the sky.
Only the song of the nightingale;
And we are sisters, you and I.”
She fled away on the wings of the exquisite song, startling Agnes with the passion which she imparted to every note—a passion that waxed greater with every phrase until at the close of the stanza it became overwhelming. The music of the moon is embodied in every note, though the master was too artistic to make any attempt to reproduce the nightingale's song. He knew that no such attempt could ever approach success; but he knew that it was within the scope of his art to produce upon the mind the same effect as is produced by the song of the nightingale, and this effect he achieved.
Agnes listened with surprise at first, for the girl had never sung with suchabandonbefore; but at the plaintive second stanza—the music illustrated another effect of the bird's singing—she half-closed her eyes, and gave herself up to the delight of listening. At the third stanza—Love Triumphant, the composer had called it—she became more amazed than before. The theme takes the form of a duet, as the scena was originally arranged by the composer, and now it actually appeared to Agnes as if the tenor part was being sung as well as the soprano, in the room—no, not in the room, but in the distance—outside the house.
She raised her head and listened eagerly. There could be no doubt about it—some one was singing at the window the tenor part of the duet.
CLARE was absorbed in her singing—she seemed to be quite unaware of the fact that there was anything unusual in the introduction of the second voice—indeed she appeared to be unconscious of everything but the realisation of the aims of the composer.
Agnes did not make any attempt to interrupt her, and the duet went on to its passionate close. But so soon as the last notes had died away, the phrase was repeated, after a little pause, by the singer outside.
“Beating against dawn's silver door,
The song has fled over sea, over sea;
Morn's music to thee is for evermore—
But what is for me, love, what is for me?”
The passionate cry was repeated with startling effect. But not until the last note had sounded did Clare spring from her seat at the piano. She stood in the centre of the room in the attitude of an eager listener. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were still tremulous with the tears that evermore rushed to them when singing that song. She listened, but no further note came from that mysterious voice. The night was silent.
The girl turned to Agnes; a little frown was on her face, but still it was roseate, and she gave a laugh.
“I did not think that he could possibly be so great a fool,” she said, as if communing with herself.
“A fool!” cried Agnes. “Is it possible that you know who it is that sang? I thought that I was dreaming when I first heard that voice; and then—but you know who it is?”
“He said he would follow me to England—to the world's end,” laughed Clare. “Oh, these Italians have got no idea of things—the serenade needs an Italian sky—warmth and moonlight and the scent of orange blossoms, and the nightingale among the pomegranates. The serenade is natural with such surroundings; but in England, toward the end of November—oh, the notion is only ridiculous! He will have a cold to-morrow that may ruin his career. His tenor is of an exceptional quality, the maestro said: it cannot stand any strain, to say nothing of the open-air on a November night. What a fool he is!”
“You have not yet told me what his name is,” said Agnes.
“What? Surely I told you all about Ciro Rodani?”
“Some weeks ago you mentioned the fact that you had a friend of that name, and that he had taken a part in an opera produced some time ago, and sent you a newspaper with an account of—of his success. You did not say that he was still in England.”
“He didn't remain in England. He was in Paris when I last heard of him. He must have learned from Signor Marini that I was here. The maestro is the only one who knows my address. Oh, how silly he has been!”
Agnes threw herself back in her chair and laughed. But Clare did not laugh—at first. On the contrary, she flushed and frowned, standing in the middle of the room. At last she laughed in unison with Agnes, as the latter said:
“What a pretty little romance I have come upon all at once! Ah, my dear, I wondered how it was possible for you to remain in Italy so long without making victims of some of that susceptible nation. Poor Signor Rodani! But it was only natural. You studied together the most alluring of the arts—he a tenor, you a soprano. That is how the operas are cast, is it not? The tenor is invariably paired off with the soprano. But alas, he is not always such a marvel of fidelity as your friend outside. By the way, I hope he is not still in the garden. He will not form any exaggerated idea of English hospitality if we allow him to remain outside on so cold a night; but still, it is very late—too late for a couple of lone women to entertain a visitor, especially when that visitor is an operatic tenor.”
“Oh, he has gone away, you may be sure,” said Clare. “Besides, he should know that houses in this country have knockers and bells. Why shouldn't he behave like a civilised person though he is a tenor?”
“I'm afraid that you've become sadly prosaic since you arrived in England,” said Agnes. “Where is the romance in behaving like ordinary people? Knockers and bells are for prosaic people; the serenade and the guitar are for operatic tenors. I shouldn't wonder if your friend did a little in the guitar line also.”
“He does a great deal in it,” laughed the girl. “Thank goodness he spared us the guitar.”
“The thought of a young man going out in cold blood to serenade a young woman on a November night is too terrible. I only hope he does not travel with one of those wonderful silk rope ladders which play so important a part in the lyric stage.”
“Goodness only knows,” said Clare, shaking her head despondently. “When there's a romantic man at large nobody can tell what may happen.”
“Is it possible that you do not respond with the least feeling of tenderness to such devotion?” said Agnes. “Is it possible that you have the courage to run counter to the best established traditions in this affair? Think of your duty as a soprano.”
“I thought that I had given him a sufficient answer long ago,” said Clare, frowning. “He has fancied himself in love with a score of the girls who sang duets with him. Girls, did I say? Why, I heard that he was continually at the feet of Madame Scherzo before he saw me, and the Scherzo has sons older than he is, and besides—well, she isn't any longer what you'd call slim.”
“No, she wasn't even slim when I was a girl,” said Agnes. “But, my dear, you must remember that a tenor is a tenor.”
“Somebody once said that a tenor was a malady,” said Clare. “I do wish that this particular complaint had remained in Milan. Heavens! Why should I be troubled with him just when I need to give all my thoughts to my work? He is sure to come back to-morrow, and this time he will ring the bell.”
“You can scarcely refuse to see him,” said Agnes. “But are you really certain of yourself? Are you sure that you have no tender regard for him?”
“I think I am pretty sure,” replied the girl. “I never was in the least moved by his sighs and his prayers—I was only moved to laughter—when he wasn't near, of course. If I had laughed when he was present he would have killed either me or himself.”
“The only way by which a girl can be certain that she does not love one man is to be certain that she loves another,” said Agnes. “I wonder if Signor Rodani has a rival?”
She glanced at Clare's face: it was blazing. The laugh she gave was a very uneasy one. Agnes became interested. Seeing these signs she rose from her chair, and went across the room to the girl, laying her hands on her shoulders, and looking searchingly down into her face. Clare, however, declined to meet her gaze. She only glanced up for a second. Then she turned to one side and laid a hand on the keys of the piano, pressing them down so gently as to produce no sound.
Agnes laughed as she raised her hands from the girl's shoulders.
“I am answered,” she said. “You have told me all that your heart has to tell. I will ask you nothing more. Oh, I wondered how it was possible for so sweet a girl as you to escape.”
Clare sprang to her feet and threw her arms about the neck of her friend, hiding her roseate face on her shoulder.
“I'm afraid that you have guessed too much,” she whispered. “I did not mean to confess anything—I have not even confessed to myself; but you took me so by surprise. Please do not say anything about my foolishness—it really is foolishness. You will let my secret remain a secret—oh, you must, my dear Agnes; I tell you truly when I say that it was a secret even to myself, until your question surprised me, so that I could not help—But I have told you nothing—you will assume that I have told you nothing?”
“I will assume anything you please, my dearest child,” said Agnes. “You may trust to me to keep your secret; I will not refer to it, even to yourself. But what about the unhappy Signor Rodani? Is he to return to Italy without seeing you?”
“Oh, I will see him at any time,” cried Clare, making a gesture of indifference which she had acquired in Italy. “I do not mind in the least seeing him face to face. What have I to fear from him? There never was any one so foolish as he is.”
“I hope he will find his way to the bell-pull,” said Agnes; “although I frankly admit that there is much more romance in approaching the object of one's adoration by a serenade than by a bell-pull, still—I suppose he would be shocked if I were to ask him to dine with us.”
“Why should you ask him to dine with us?” said Clare.
“Well, when a distinguished stranger comes to our neighbourhood”—
“He would only fancy if he were asked to dinner that I had not made up my mind. He would think that I was merely coquetting with him—that I was anxious to have him still hanging about; and that might spoil his career in addition to its being very unpleasant to myself. No, let him come: I will put him out of pain at once. I am sure that is the most merciful course to pursue in regard to sentimental lovers who are gifted with supersensitive tenor organs. If poor Ciro does not suffer from his escapade to-night he may be tempted to come again upon a rainy night—and where would he be then?”
“I am sure that you take the most merciful view of the case,” said Agnes. “Alas! that one should be compelled to talk of the dismissal of a lover as one talks about the lethal chamber!”
“Oh, my dear Agnes,” cried Clare, “if you had ever been one of a class of vocalists in Italy you would not talk about a little incident such as this is, as an equivalent to the lethal chamber. I wonder if there are any other employments that have such an effect upon the—the—well, let us say the nerves, as the art of singing. My experience is that a singing class is a forcing house of the affections. I only found out after I had been with the maestro for two years, that it was his fun to throw all of us together so that our wits might be sharpened—that was how he put it. What he meant was that we all sang best when we were in love with one another. Heaven! the scenes that I have witnessed! Atenore robustoused to sharpen his knife on the stone steps so as to be ready to cut the heart out of thebasso profundo, who was unfortunate enough to fancy himself in love with themezzo-soprano.”
“What an interesting experience! But what a shocking old man your master must have been!” laughed Agnes.
“Oh, he cared about nothing but to advance us in our knowledge of the art of expressing the emotions by singing. How could we know how to interpret a passion which we had never felt, he used to ask.”
“So he encouraged the tenor to put a fine edge on his knife, hoping that he would have a better idea of interpreting his revenge when he had cut the heart out of the bosom of his brother artist? Yes, I'm afraid that though an estimable exponent of the art of vocalism, your maestro was lacking in some of the finer principles of the moralist.”
“He took nothing into consideration except his art,” said Clare. “He admitted to me that he liked to see his pupils miserable, for only then could they be depended on to do justice to themselves. He made mischief between young people only that he might study them when blazing with revenge. He has reproduced for me an entire scena founded on a lover's quarrel that he himself brought about.”
“So cold-blooded an old wretch could not be imagined!” cried Agnes. “And yet he could compose so transcendent a theme as the 'Nightingale'! Oh, my dear Clare, one feels that this art is a terrible thing after all.”
“I feel that I have wasted my time with Signor Marini,” said Clare. “What would I not give now to have studied drawing as I studied singing!”
“You are still afraid of attacking those illustrations? I wonder how the maestro would treat your mood in his music?”
“My mood has been dealt with long ago,” cried Clare. “It is in the opera of 'Orféo'—the despair of Orpheus when he was longing for the unattainable. Oh, I would make a splendid Orpheus at the present moment.” She almost flung herself down on the piano seat and struck a chord; but she only sang a phrase or two of the marvellous lament “Che farô senz' Eurydice?” Her voice was choked. She sprang from her seat and threw herself into the sympathetic arms of her friend. Only for an instant did she remain there. With a long kiss and a rapid “Good-night” she harried from the room.
Agnes was left alone to try to put a coherent interpretation upon her mood. She commenced her task with smiles, thinking of the sentimental young Italian who had not shrunk from the attempt to adapt a serenade to an English November; but before long her smiles had vanished. She sat thinking for a long time; and yet the whole sum of her thoughts found no wider expression than the sigh which came from her as she said:
“Poor child! poor child! May she never know the truth! That is my prayer for her to-night.”