Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume I). Black William
any one; he was invading no privacy; he was demanding no concession of friendship or even acquaintance. But at least the dreadful gulf of silence would be bridged over by this mystic means.
It was nearly six o'clock; London was busy when he went out on this hot evening. He walked along to a music-publisher's place in Regent-street; and hired a piano on the express stipulation that it was to be in his rooms within one hour. Then, as he had only had a biscuit for lunch, and wished to leave himself untrammelled later on, he turned into a restaurant, and dined there, simply enough, and had a cigarette and a look at the evening papers. Thereafter he strolled back to his lodgings, and took to his book, though his thoughts were inclined to wander now and again.
Twilight had fallen; but he did not light the gas. Once, for a brief second or two, he had quietly run his fingers over the keys of the piano, to learn if it was tolerably in tune; then the room relapsed into silence again. And was there to be silence on the other side as well? He waited and listened, and waited and listened, in vain. Perhaps, while he was idling away his time in the Regent-street restaurant, they had come out from the house and gone off to some theatre. The street was so still now that he could almost have heard any one speaking in that room on the other side; but there was no sound.
Then his heart leapt and his brain grew giddy. Here was that low-breathing and vibrating wail again: – and was she alone now? – in the gathering darkness? He recognised the air; it was "Auld Robin Gray;" but never before had he known that it was so beautiful and so ineffably sad as well. Slowly she played and simply; it was almost like a human voice; only that the trembling strings had a penetrating note of their own. And when she ceased, it seemed to him that it would be profanation to break in upon the hushed and sacred stillness.
And yet was he not to answer her, in the only speech that could not offend? Was he to act the coward, when there offered a chance of his establishing some subtle link with, her, of sending a message, of declaring his presence in this surely unobtrusive fashion? Quickly he sat down to the piano; and, in rather a nervous and anxious fashion, began. He was not a brilliant performer – anything but that; but he had a light touch and a sensitive ear; and he played with feeling and grace. It was "Kathleen Mavourneen" – and a sort of appeal in its way, did she but remember the words. He played the melody over only once, slowly and as sympathetically as he could; then he rose and retired from the piano; and stood in the darkness, listening.
Alas! there was no response. What had he done? He waited, wondering; but all was still in the little street. It was as if some bird, some mellow-throated thrush or nightingale, had been warbling to itself in the dim security of the leaves, and been suddenly startled and silenced by an alien sound, not knowing what that might portend.
CHAPTER III.
AN APPROACH
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in!" called out old George Bethune.
There appeared a middle-aged man, of medium height, who looked like a butler out of employment; he was pale and flabby of face, with nervous eyes expressive of a sort of imbecile amiability.
"Ah, Hobson!" said Mr. Bethune, in his lofty manner. "Well?"
The landlady's husband came forward in the humblest possible fashion; and his big, prominent, vacuous eyes seemed to be asking for a little consideration and goodwill.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said he, in the most deplorable of Cockney accents, "I 'umbly beg your pardon for making so bold; but knowing as you was so fond of everything Scotch, I took the liberty of bringing you a sample of something very special – a friend of mine, sir, recommended it – and then says I to him, 'Lor bless ye, I don't know nothing about Highland whiskey; but there's a gentleman in our 'ouse who is sure to be a judge, and if I can persuade him to try it, he'll be able to say if it's the real sort.'"
"All right, Hobson," said George Bethune, in his grand way. "Some other time I will see what it is like."
"Thank you, sir, thank you!" said the ex-butler, with earnest gratitude; and he went and placed the bottle on the sideboard. Then he came back, and hesitatingly took out an envelope from his pocket. "And if I might ask another favour, sir. You see, sir, in this 'ot weather people won't go to the theatres; and they're not doing much; and my brother-in-law, the theatrical agent, he's glad to get the places filled up, to make a show, sir, as you might say. And I've got two dress-circle seats, if you and the young lady was thinking of going to the theatre to-morrow night. It's a great favour, sir, as my brother-in-law said to me as he was a-giving me the tickets and arsking me to get 'em used."
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