“Stentoroni?”
“Yes; the newspapers and critics promise wonders.”
“It is nearly two years since I heard him. He was very great, and deserves all they say in ‘Robert le Diable.’ But there his greatness began and ended. The voice, of course, you had, but everything else was defective. It is plain, however, that the man who could make so fine a study of one opera, could with equal labour make as great a success in others. He has not sung in any opera for more than a year and a half, and has been working diligently; and so everyone is in the dark very much, and I am curious to hear the result – and nobody knows more than I have told you. You are sure of a good ‘Robert le Diable,’ but all the rest is speculation.”
“And now, Mr. Longcluse, I shall try your good-nature.”
“How?”
“I am going to make Lady May ask you to sing a song.”
“Pray don't.”
“Why not?”
“I should so much rather you asked me yourself.”
“That's very good of you; then I certainly shall. I do ask you.”
“And I instantly obey. And what shall the song be?” asked he, approaching the piano, to which she also walked.
“Oh, that ghostly one that I liked so much when you sang it here about a week ago,” she answered.
“I know it – yes, with pleasure.” And he sat down at the piano, and in a clear, rich baritone, sang the following odd song: —
“The autumn leaf was falling
At midnight from the tree,
When at her casement calling,
‘I'm here, my love,’ says he.
‘Come down and mount behind me,
And rest your little head,
And in your white arms wind me,
Before that I be dead.
“‘You've stolen my heart by magic,
I've kissed your lips in dreams:
Our wooing wild and tragic
Has been in ghostly scenes.
The wondrous love I bear you
Has made one life of twain,
And it will bless or scare you,
In deathless peace or pain.
“‘Our dreamland shall be glowing,
If you my bride will be;
To darkness both are going,
Unless you come with me.
Come now, and mount behind me,
And rest your little head,
And in your white arms wind me,
Before that I be dead.’”
“Why, dear Alice, will you choose that dismal song, when you know that Mr. Longcluse has so many others that are not only charming, but cheery and natural?”
“It is because it is unnatural that I like that song so much; the air is so ominous and spectral, and yet so passionate. I think the idea is Icelandic – those ghostly lovers that came in the dark to win their beloved maidens, who as yet knew nothing of their having died, to ride with them over the snowy fields and frozen rivers, to join their friends at a merry-making which they were never to see; but there is something more mysterious even in this lover, for his passion has unearthly beginnings that lose themselves in utter darkness. Thank you very much, Mr. Longcluse. It is so very kind of you! And now, Lady May, isn't it your turn to choose? May she choose, Mr. Longcluse?”
“Any one, if you desire it, may choose anything I possess, and have it,” said he, in a low impassioned murmur.
How the young lady would have taken this, I know not, but all were suddenly interrupted. For at this moment a servant entered with a note, which he presented, upon a salver, to Mr. Longcluse.
“Your servant is waiting, Sir, please, for orders in the awl,” murmured the man.
“Oh, yes – thanks,” said Mr. Longcluse, who saw a shabby letter, with the words “Private” and “Immediate” written in a round, vulgar hand over the address.
“Pray read your note, Mr. Longcluse, and don't mind us,” said Lady May.
“Thank you very much. I think I know what this is. I gave some evidence to-day at an inquest,” began Mr. Longcluse.
“That wretched Frenchman,” interposed Lady May, “Monsieur Lebrun or – ”
“Lebas,” said Vivian Darnley.
“Yes, so it was, Lebas; what a frightful thing that was!” continued Lady May, who was always well up in the day's horrors.
“Very melancholy, and very alarming also. It is a selfish way of looking at it, but one can't help thinking it might just as well have happened to any one else who was there. It brings it home to one a little uncomfortably,” said Mr. Longcluse, with an uneasy smile and a shrug.
“And you actually gave evidence, Mr. Longcluse?” said Lady May.
“Yes, a little,” he answered. “It may lead to something. I hope so. As yet it only indicates a line of inquiry. It will be in the papers, I suppose, in the morning. There will be, I daresay, a pretty full report of that inquest.”
“Then you saw something occur that excited your suspicions?” said Lady May.
Mr. Longcluse recounted all he had to tell, and mentioned having made inquiries as to the present abode of the man, Paul Davies, at the police office.
“And this note, I daresay, is the one they promised to send me, telling the result of their inquiries,” he added.
“Pray open it and see,” said Lady May.
He did so. He read it in silence. From his foot to the crown of his head there crept a cold influence as he read. Stream after stream, this aura of fear spread upwards to his brain. Pale Mr. Longcluse shrugged and smiled, and smiled and shrugged, as his dark eye ran down the lines, and with a careless finger he turned the page over. He smiled, as prizefighters smile for the spectators, while every nerve quivered with pain. He looked up, smiling still, and thrust the note into his breast-pocket.
“Well, Mr. Longcluse, a long note it seems to have been,” said Lady May, curiously.
“Not very long, but what is as bad, very illegible,” said Mr. Longcluse gaily.
“And what about the man – the person the police were to have inquired after?” she persisted.
“I find it is no police information, nothing of the kind,” answered Longcluse with the same smile. “It comes by no means from one of that long-headed race of men; on the contrary, poor fellow, I believe he is literally a little mad. I make him a trifling present every Christmas, and that is a very good excuse for his plaguing me all the year round. I was in hopes this letter might turn out an amusing one, but it is not; it is a failure. It is rather sensible, and disgusting.”
“Well, then, I must have my song, Mr. Longcluse,” said Lady May, who, under cover of music, sometimes talked a little, in gentle murmurs, to that person with whom talk was particularly interesting.
But that song was not to be heard in Lady May's drawing-room that night, for a kindred interruption, though much more serious in its effects upon Mr. Longcluse's companions, occurred. A footman entered, and presented on a salver a large brown envelope to Miss Alice Arden.
“Oh, dear! It is a telegram,” exclaimed Miss Arden, who had taken it to the window. Lady May Penrose was beside her by this time. Alice looked on the point of fainting.
“I'm