A Double Knot Part 15

"I am here too, dear uncle," said Renee.

"Hah! I am glad to hear you, my children--glad to hear you. How is my brother?"

"Papa is not very well, uncle," said Gertrude. "Poor dear, his cough is very troublesome."

"Poor Humphrey! he is so weak," said the voice, in the same cold, monotonous way that was almost repulsive in its chilling tone. "Tell him, when he is well enough, he can come and talk to me for half an hour. I cannot bear more."

"Yes, dear uncle, I will tell him," said Renee.

Then there was another pause, and at last the thin white hand stole cautiously forth, half covered with a lace frill, and the cold voice said:

"Renee!"

The young wife left her seat, went forward, took it in her ungloved hand, and kissed it. Then she returned to her place, and the voice said:

"Gertrude!"

The young girl went through the same performance, and as she loosed it, the hand was pa.s.sed gently over both her cheeks, and then withdrawn, when Gertrude returned to her seat, and there was again silence.

"You are not happy, Renee," said the voice at last, in its cold measured accents; "there was a tear on my hand."

Renee sighed, but made no reply.

"Gertrude, child, I like duty towards parents; but I think a daughter goes too far when, at their wish, she marries a man she does not love."

"Oh, uncle dear," cried Gertrude hysterically, "pray, pray, do not talk like this!"

She made a brave effort to keep back her tears, and partially succeeded, for Renee softly knelt down by her side and drew her head close to her breast.

"Poor children!" said the voice again. "I am sorry, but I cannot help you. You must help yourselves."

There was a nervous, querulous tone in the voice now, as if the suppressed sobs that faintly rose troubled the speaker, but it had pa.s.sed when the voice was heard once more in a quiet way, more like an appeal than a command:

"Sing to me."

The sisters rose and went to a very old-fas.h.i.+oned grand piano, opened it, and Gertrude's fingers swept the wiry jangling chords which sounded quite in keeping with the room; then, subduing the music as much as possible, so that their fresh young voices dominated, rising and falling in a rich harmony that floated through the room, they sang the old, old duet, "Flow on, thou s.h.i.+ning river." Every note seemed to have in it the sadness of age, the mournful blending of the bygone when hope was young and disappointment and care had not crushed with a load of misery a heart once fresh as those of the singers.

A deep sigh came from the little panel, unheard, though, by the two girls, and the hand appeared once more for the thin white fingers to tap the wood gently in unison with the music, which was inexpressibly sweet, though sad.

For how is it that those melodies of the past, even though major, seemed to acquire a mournful tone that is not minor, but has all its sad sweetness? Take what pathetic air you will of a generation or two back, and see if it has not acquired within your knowledge a power of drawing tears that it had not in the days of old.

From the simple duet, first one and then the other glided to the old-fas.h.i.+oned ditties popular thirty or forty years before. "Those evening bells," "Waters of Elle," and the like, till, without thinking, Gertrude began "Love not," her sweet young voice sounding intensely pathetic as she went on, gradually gathering inspiration from the words, till in the midst of the sweetest, most appealing strain, she uttered a cry of misery, and threw herself sobbing into her sister's arms.

"Oh, Gerty, darling, why did you sing that?" whispered Renee, trying to soothe her, as her own tears fell fast, but for a few minutes in vain, till by a brave effort Gertrude got the better of her hysterical feelings, and, hastily wiping her eyes, glanced towards the panel, where the bowl of water stood upon the bracket, but the opening was closed.

The sisters looked piteously at one another, and Renee whispered:

"Speak to him. Tell him you did not wish to make him angry."

Gertrude glided to the panel, and, stifling a sob, she said softly:

"Uncle, dear uncle, do not be cross with me--I am very sorry. I was so miserable."

There was no reply--no sound to indicate that the words had been heard; and after waiting for about a quarter of an hour the two girls crossed to the door, went slowly out, and found that they had had an audience in the shape of Valentine Vidler and his wife, who had been seated upon the stairs.

"Thank you, my dears," said Salome, nodding and smiling. "We like to hear you sing. You have made a very long stay to-day, and his lunch is quite ready."

The sisters were too heartsore to trust themselves to say much, and Vidler opened the door for them, admitting as little light as he could by closing it directly and going to a.s.sist his wife.

"Renee," said Gertrude as they reached the square, "do you remember what Uncle Robert said?"

"Yes. He could not help us--we must help ourselves."

"Then"--There was a pause.

"Yes, dear, what?"

"I'm sure mamma is planning for me to marry Lord Henry Moorpark."

"I'm afraid so."

"And I'm sure, Ren dear, he's a dear, amiable, nice old man; but if he proposes I never will say 'Yes'."

There was another pause, and then Renee smiled, pa.s.sed her arm round her handsome sister's neck, and kissed her lovingly.

"Have you got John Huish very bad?" she whispered.

Gertrude's cheeks were crimson, and the colour flushed into her neck as she flung her arms round her sister and hid her face on her breast.

Volume 1, Chapter V.

DR STONOR'S PATIENT.

"The doctor at home?"

This to a quiet, sedate-looking man in livery, who opened the door of one of the serious-looking houses in Finsbury Circus, where, upon a very s.h.i.+ny bra.s.s plate, were in Roman letters the words "Dr Stonor." There was not much in those few black letters, but many a visitor had gone up the carefully-whitened steps, gazed at them, stepped down again with a curious palpitation of the heart, and walked right round the Circus two or three times to gain composure enough before once more ascending the steps and knocking at the door.

There had been cases--not a few--where visitors had spent weeks in making up their minds to go to Dr Stonor, and had reached his doorstep only to hurry back home quite unable to face him, and then suffer in secret perhaps for months to come.

For what would that interview reveal? That the peculiar sensations or pains were due to some trifling disorganisation that a guinea and a prescription would set right, or that the seeds of some fatal disease had begun to shoot?

Daniel, factotum to Dr Stonor, had been standing like a spider watching at the slip of a window beside the door waiting for sick flies to come into the doctor's net.

"Old game!" said Daniel to himself, as he drew back from the window to observe unseen, and without moving a muscle in his face. For it was Daniel's peculiarity that he never did move the muscles of his face. He would hold a patient for his master during a painful operation, be scolded, badgered, see harrowing scenes, receive vails, hear praise or abuse of the doctor--for these are both applied to medicine men--and all without making a sign, losing his nerve, or being elated. Daniel was always the same--clean, quiet, self-possessed; and he had seen handsome fair-bearded John Huish descend from a cab, walk up to the door, pa.s.s by and go slowly and thoughtfully on, pa.s.sing his hand over his thick golden beard, looking very tall, manly, and unpatientlike, as he pa.s.sed on round the Circus.

"He'll be back in ten minutes," said Daniel to himself, as he admitted a regular patient and once more closed the door. It was a quarter of an hour, though, before John Huish came to the house, asked if the doctor was at home, was shown into the waiting-room, and in due course came face to face with the keen, grey, big-headed, clever-looking little pract.i.tioner.

"Ah, Huish, my dear boy! Glad to see you, John. Sit down. This is kind of you, to look me up. I've only just come back from a fis.h.i.+ng trip--trouting. Old habit. Down this way?"