(Conversation overheard in a railway carriage.) How I came to eavesdrop or drop-eaves, as the expression may be, is wholly immaterial to this story. I need only say that there are great facilities for observation in an adjoining compartment of a first class railway carriage.
The train was not an express. Indeed, it stopped at every station: that is perhaps why I, being weary of the journey, took to observing my fellow-travellers. But, as I have already said, my personality has no connection with the story. I will proceed at once to describe the occupants of the next compartment.
On the left was seated (back to the engine) a man I suppose quite thirty, but one who would like to look younger. How shall I describe his physiognomy? It was certainly of what is generally called the aristocratic type, but there I am rather doing him an injustice, as the so called aristocratic type is not beautiful: steel grey, hawklike eyes, finely chiselled features, a face that must have been charming in youth; it was not perceptibly modified by wrinkles that looked premature.—I omitted to mention the time was 7 a.m. and it was a slow train on a Belgian railway, which terminated at Brussels.—He was clean shaven, the mouth had, or had developed—I should say had developed—a certain cynical expression particularly disagreeable, yet there was some blue left in the steel grey eyes that showed, if they lighted up, there might still be something of the candour of youth about them. He was reading a local paper called the Ostraekse Antieken, also called Journal de Croix des Petits Champs, written in a mixture of French and Flemish as some Belgian local journals are. He was evidently amused at the advertisements in two languages, obviously understanding the French and making out, from his knowledge of German and kindred tongues, the Flemish.
On the other side of the carriage (forwards to the engine) was seated a lady, so muffled up in furs and a thick veil as to be quite invisible: she was still asleep.
At last he came to read this advertisement, put among the theatrical advertisements, as ecclesiastical ones in Belgium usually are; it read something like this:—
—de 31e Augustus in de Kerk van Onze Lieve Vrouw—
—Solemnele Hoogmis met uitmuntende muziek voor de ziel van Lord Kilcoran.
—demain matin à onze heures aura lieu le Requiem solonnel pour l’anniversaire de la mort tant regrettée du Lord Kilcoran.
—Sans doute plusieurs de nos concitoyens y assisteront, si non pour memoire du trépassé, au moins pour avoir encore l’occasion d’entendre le célebré Requiem de notre compatriote Sybrandt von den Velden, exécuté par l’orchestre excellente de notre ville.
‘By Jove!’ he said aloud, ‘this is the anniversary of Henry's death: and I actually forgot it, passing by the place.’
The woman suddenly unmuffled herself, startled as one hearing a familiar voice: she drew up her veil and dismantled herself somewhat of her sables. She was dressed in deep mourning, very elegant nevertheless, a decidedly good looking, refined woman of about thirty, chiefly remarkable for her really golden hair, and eyes that were a distinct blue.
He said, ‘Margaret!’—I forget which spoke first. Then she said, ‘Have you really forgotten that it was the anniversary of Henry's death? Then, why are you here?’
He answered, ‘Yes, my dear, I am ashamed to say I had actually forgotten it, only this wretched paper reminded me of it.’
Then she said, ‘How is it you are in this train going to Ostraeke?’
‘Well, my dear, I think you might remember we were going to meet at Brussels,’ and he smiled somewhat cynically and disagreeably, ‘where, if my memory does not fail me, we had the laudable intention of being married. I came by this train to Brussels, with the expectation of finding you there.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I am on my way to Brussels too.’ Here she also tried to smile cynically, but failed in the attempt; her whole face wore an expression of pain, but she tried nevertheless to say in a frivolous manner, ‘in common decency it is at least incumbent on me to visit Henry's grave.’
‘You appear to treat the matter as a mere accessory to the elegance of your toilet, as even now on the eve of our nuptials you are dressed in very superior deep mourning.’ This he said with some bitterness, but nevertheless there was an expression of real sorrow on his face.
‘Good heavens! Alfred, what do you mean? Do you think I did not love Henry?’
‘No. I had better tell you frankly at once, I never loved anyone but Henry, my husband, and—’ this she said almost solemnly—‘I have come to see my child.’
Then he said, with a kindly expression which from first sight of his face I should have hardly expected, ‘Yes, of course,—little Siboo; he must come and live with us when we are married. He can't be left any longer with Elizabeth.’
Then there came to her face an expression almost of agony. She took from her neck a locket, in which there was a lock of golden hair, finer and more beautiful than her own; she kissed it, and said,
‘No, what?’ Then, looking disagreeably cynical again, he continued, ‘As you loved your husband I suppose you will naturally love your child also. You are indeed the typical British matron.’
But from the entirely different and almost tender expression of his face, it was not difficult to see that he regretted what he had said. Then he continued in a very soft voice.
‘At least Siboo did not care very much for either of us. He only loved his father.’
Then she said, almost in monotone: ‘Then you did not know,’ (here she smiled somewhat faintly) ‘and how should you, seeing the few letters I have written to you have been nearly all about absolutely common-place matters?’ and then in the same monotonous voice she said, ‘Siboo has become idiotic, ever since the day of Henry's funeral.’
‘Idiotic!’ he said, ‘he was always such a bright little chap. But all the same, that is no reason to neglect him; rather the reverse. I think we should take him out of this Belgian fog to Kilcoran, where he certainly ought to live in any case, since the place is his own.’ His face then looked simply British and commonplace; she said bitterly—with a kind of quinine-like bitterness, I might say—and also very softly, ‘Of course, that is also a thing you do not know.’
‘Really, Margaret, you are too intolerable! What on earth do you mean? Surely it is degrading enough that I, who have so much less riches than you, should be married to you. Do you suppose I wish to cheat the child out of his inheritance? Anyhow,’ he added laughing, ‘I could not if I would, since there can be no doubt Kilcoran belongs to him.’
‘Kilcoran,’ she said in the same monotone, ‘neither belongs to him nor to me; more indeed to me than to him.’
‘What are you talking about? To whom does it belong I should like to know?’ He had then that brutally fierce expression, which men have so frequently towards women, with whom they are familiar. I disliked him again.
But she continued, ‘I suppose we are sort of going to be married, indeed legally married?’
She laughed rather nastily as she said this.
‘I might as well tell you Siboo is not Kilcoran's son.’
‘Not Kilcoran's son? Then whose son is he?’
Certainly, in this case, his face expressed genuine amazement.
‘Again, what do you mean? Henry was devoted to the child, and the child adored Henry, and as you say became idiotic at his funeral. Again I must ask you what the blazes you mean?’
Then she answered quietly with intense bitterness, ‘Do you suppose you have the monopoly of adultery?’
There followed a long silence between them.
At length he said, ‘I will get out at Ostraeke too.’
Just then the train drew up at Ostraeke. He silently helped her out of the carriage. On the platform he said, ‘One thing at least you must tell me. Did Henry know?’
She answered, with still more intense bitterness, ‘Yes.’
The grandfather of the late Earl Kilcoran left two sons, Michael and Patrick. This was at the time when the penal laws were still in vogue.
The younger brother, Patrick, declaring himself a Protestant, laid claim to the Kilcoran estate.—But there was found a document written in parchment at the time of Queen Elizabeth, to the effect that, as a reward for the Kilcorans having sheltered some Protestant refugees, thenceforward no member of the family by declaring himself a Protestant could claim succession. Naturally there ensued a breach between the two brothers. Michael remained at Kilcoran; and Patrick settled in Ulster, married somewhat late in life, and had one daughter, Elizabeth, who was afterwards married to that well known physician, Sir Joseph Randall, and had one daughter, Dorothy.
Michael also married somewhat late in life, and had one son, Henry; who married Lady Margaret Tremaine, and left one son behind him, named Sybrandt.
(A little more than one year previously)
I must begin this narrative by introducing myself. I am a woman; my exact age does not concern the public. It suffices to say that I have a daughter aged about 18, and I was married very early: I am what would be called comely, and also, tho’ it does not concern this story very much, I am the widow of that somewhat famous doctor, Sir Joseph Randall. My name is Elizabeth, as anyone who saw me would guess.—But to begin:
I was staying with my daughter, who was in delicate health at an Hotel in Ostraeke (of all places): first of all because we wanted particularly a quiet place—though I cannot call Ostraeke exactly quiet, as one child in sabots makes more noise than a dozen omnibuses in one town—and secondly because the Hotel was specially recommended to us, and not on the whole undeservedly, I must say, (my allusion to my husband was not wholly irrelevant, as it was from him I acquired habits of observation: indeed I myself am of a very inquisitive turn of mind.) But in this small place there was nothing interesting at all. Yes, the Hotel was certainly good: the table d’hôte was excellent: but we were the table d’hôte—the only people there; with the exception of one other person who never appeared at meals. Consequently my interest was focussed on that particular person: a strange pale faced man, with a settled look of melancholy on his face, whom we frequently saw going out and in. Dorothy—that by the way is my daughter's name—suggested that we might look in the stranger's book to find out who he was; but I thought that sort of thing unfair, tho’ wholly tempted to do so myself. So I severely reprimanded my daughter for her inordinate curiosity. Imagine what a surprise and delight to us to see the person in question at the table d’hôte.
I have already said there was something of strangeness about him. His features bore the traces of his having been extremely handsome at some time. What his age was I could not tell: he might have perhaps been forty, but rather had the look of one prematurely aged; and he possibly might have been less. (Of course I am recording my initial impressions, since I know all about him now, or quite enough.) But to continue.
He was seated at the table d’hôte, where three places were laid: instead of the settled melancholy usual to him his eyes had a look of eager expectation. He was evidently waiting for someone. Just then there entered a woman and a man. How shall I describe them? The woman was, to begin with, dressed in a light blue dress, very well made—for these things a woman always regards first. She was certainly pretty—by saying pretty I mean more than that; the grace of her form and movement struck me at once. But that which sautait aux yeux, as the French say, about her was that she had really golden hair, bound in thick tresses of rather a peculiar fashion. The man was tall, and certainly good looking. She came to him, I mean the man I was talking about in my last remark but one: in fact, to avoid all confusion, the melancholy man. She kissed him, and he clapped him on the shoulder amicably, I might almost say tenderly, and made the somewhat common-place remark, ‘How are you, old chap?’
But his only reply was, ‘Where is Siboo?’
And she said, ‘Siboo is upstairs, of course with the nurse.’
Then there was an expression of excessive anxiety on his face: and they took their places at the table d’hôte, and soup was served. I became now still more inquisitive and interested in him than I was before.
Suddenly, the face changed: the face, which I have said had traces of once being handsome, became now almost beautiful; and a child rushed into the room: a child of about 8 or 9 years old. I must attempt to describe him to make my narrative clear; although at first I had hardly the opportunity of seeing his face. A vision of absolute loveliness. I can hardly do justice to him: he had long golden hair (from which I concluded the woman was probably his mother) though the peculiar spun silk texture of his hair was lovelier by far than that of her golden tresses. His eyes were, strange to say, actually violet, with very long curled lashes: with the expression of an adoring angel by Luini. But, as I was saying, he rushed into the room: and I had no time for observation just then. At least I observed that he flew or skated through the room rather than ran, and with one exclamation—‘Papa!’—he threw himself passionately into the arms of the aforesaid melancholy man.
The woman said, ‘You know, Siboo, I told you not to come downstairs: Papa will see you presently.’
The child said, with a voice which curiously enough gave the effect of the vox humana stop on the organ, ‘Oh Papa, mayn't I stay with you now? I will be very good and not speak at all.’
‘I am not sure,’ the father said. Anyhow the child stayed there, seated on a stool close to his father.
The table d’hôte dinner went on in the usual way. The soup was followed by fish, and, strange to say, we had something which was called ‘roast beef’, and likewise chicken, which this day had altered its nomenclature to ‘Poularde au cresson’. They talked together livelily; indeed, I was rather surprised to hear our melancholy friend make several humorous remarks.
Nevertheless, I was puzzled in my head what relations these people were to each other. The odd thing was the child had little or indeed no resemblance to his father; he had some resemblance in physiognomy to the woman, he certainly had also golden hair; nevertheless the general effect was rather that of a relation to the child, the expression was totally different from hers. Then again, (for of course, he violated his promise by speaking at least a little) the child addressed the woman as mother, not as mamma: whereas he always called the melancholy man papa. The other man he addressed as Uncle Alfred. But he had no resemblance to either of them: was he her brother or his brother? Or neither? Anyhow, they spoke English: and about the period of the ‘Bavarois de chocolat à la crème’ we fell into conversation together, as people generally do in small places at the table d’hôte, and by the time that coffee arrived, or rather did not arrive (I think I omitted to mention I am of Irish extraction), we arranged to take coffee together in what they called the ‘Salon of conversation’. There was a piano there: the child rushed at the piano: and said, ‘Oh Papa, I haven't seen a piano for four whole days: mayn't I play a little—only a little?’
The father looked somewhat embarrassed, and said, ‘Perhaps the ladies might not like it.’ Of course we said we had no objection, somewhat faint-heartedly, I fear. Then the man addressed as Alfred said, ‘Oh, it's not as bad as you think. He won't play “Rousseau's Dream” or even “The Battle of Prague.” Indeed, he plays the piano quite nicely.’
Quite nicely indeed! The child sat down to the instrument and began to play. As he played his eyes acquired a look of inspiration: a Divine violet flash seemed to shoot forth from them. He looked less then like an adoring angel than a glorified seraph in Heaven: and that which he played! Some strange improvisation, some intercomplicated variation of variations of a melody, which seemed somehow to be familiar to me. Suddenly my daughter said to me: ‘Do you know mother, where we heard that tune before? How very odd. Do you remember the concert we went to here in Belgium, when Sybrandt von den Velden played, what he calls in the programme “Improvised Variation of his own Theme”? But how on earth did the child pick that up? It was ever such a long time ago we heard him: why it must have been before this child was born.’
Then I remembered that about ten years before there was a young musician, of the name of Sybrandt von den Velden, very popular in his time. I was so surprised that Dorothy, whom, being my daughter, I did not credit with being clever (she certainly is, by the bye, all the same), should remember a thing she had heard when she was hardly older than the child who was playing.
Certainly, we raised no objection.
The father had a mingled expression on his face: ecstatic delight, but not that of pride of hearing his son play so well on the piano. Also, (as I said before my late husband taught me to observe things), the expression suggested painful reminiscence.
The mother then said, ‘Really, Siboo, it's about time you were in bed.’
The child did not say ‘Good-night’ to his mother, or to the man he called Uncle Alfred: but only to his father, whom he kissed fervently.
The father again, with a face for that moment becoming beautiful, made the sign of the Cross on the child's forehead. The child glided out so silently that we did not for a moment notice that he had gone.
The woman said, ‘I and Alfred are going to take a walk round the town. Will you come too?’
He said, ‘I've seen the town already: so I had better leave you two children to yourselves.’ This he said good-humouredly. Nevertheless, I could not get rid of the impression that there was something rather odd about it altogether. The melancholy man asked permission to smoke a cigarette; which I accorded: and told my daughter that she really ought to be thinking about going to bed. So I was left with him alone as I had intended all along, to satisfy my curiosity at last, and find out who he was.
‘Well,’ I ventured to say, as from subsequent acquaintance he appeared to be a far less inaccessible person than I had originally supposed him to be, ‘may I ask you a rather impertinent question, namely:—How on earth did you get here? I always thought it was ourselves that had discovered Ostraeke. Never has a word of English been heard here before: when one has discovered a pet place one of course resents any intrusion.’
He answered pleasantly, ‘I don't know when you discovered Ostraeke, but I think I discovered it before you did, a long time ago and, quite by chance; in fact I used to know someone here.’ At this point his face again assumed that painful expression I had observed previously: then changing to a smile, which was really attractive (from my first impressions of him I should not have supposed he would ever smile) he continued, ‘it was certainly very unfair of me to drag my wife here: it was certainly not the sort of place she would like:’ then he continued somewhat meditatively, ‘how should I have got on without my child?’ I had always thought him excessively reserved but here he was inclined to be confidential. I believe I am one of those persons who inspires confidences—at least some people have said so. But I said, ‘How beautifully your little boy plays!’
‘Oh yes, he really has a genius for music.’
‘So young a child! by whom has he been taught, if I might ask?’
He answered, ‘No, that is the most extraordinary thing about it. He has had no instruction whatsoever, and cannot read one note of music; and could not even puzzle out the “Cottage by the Wood”. Yet, as one must admit, he does not play badly.’
‘Play badly indeed!’ said I, ‘his playing is simply marvellous. He seems to play almost by inspiration.’
‘Yes, inspiration,’ he answered, ‘but what idea do you attach to inspiration? You will not think as I do, and probably do not conceive the supernatural, or preternatural.’ (How did he find that out: did he guess that I was the wife of a doctor?) He continued: ‘To me it seems, he is possessed by some extraneous influence, to play as he does.’
‘But really,’ I said, ‘having such an extraordinary talent, you at least ought to place him under the best masters: with instruction in technique, or indeed instruction generally, since you say he knows nothing about music whatsoever; he might develop into something wonderful.’
‘No, I don't want my child to be an infant phenomenon. Any connection with that sort of thing would only make him vain and selfconscious, which he is not now, “Deo gratias”.’
I was struck just then by the single fact that he should have used that familiar phrase of the Roman Catholic Church, tho’ it made no particular impression at the time: anyhow, I labelled him in my mental note book as a Roman Catholic. Still, my object was to find out who he was. So, after short reflection, I hit upon a way of ascertaining this.
‘It is a dreadful lonely place, Ostraeke; my daughter and I have no society at all.’ I wished I had not expressed it exactly like that: however, it was no harm. ‘We've got the big salon on the first floor, and it really seems too selfish to have it all to ourselves. Would not you and your wife perhaps sometimes come and take tea with us. We have it at 5 o’clock, according to the excellent English custom. Tea is a thing absolutely unknown here. But we have some of our own, and actually a real Russian samovar. So I think on the whole you would find our tea rather nice.’
He said, ‘Certainly, my wife and I would be only too glad. It is true that I, like you, hardly expected to find English people at Ostraeke.’
‘As we are stranded on this desert island, at least comparatively desert—one could hardly call it an island, I may hope to see you tomorrow. Perhaps I had better give you my card,’ which I handed to him.
He looked at the card with an expression of surprise, but why I could not think, seeing there was nothing particularly startling in my invitation.
Then he handed me his card: and my surprise was certainly greater than his. On it was written, ‘The Earl of Kilcoran.’ My very own first cousin! and met in this out of the way place: and one who for family reasons I should not suppose would be particularly well inclined towards me. I determined to set a bold face on the matter. So I said: ‘I see you are a near relative of mine: but nevertheless on that account there is no reason why we should not be good friends.’
‘No reason at all,’ he answered, smiling with real affability.
‘Then mind,’ I went on, ‘I shall expect you tomorrow at five o’clock, room No: 17. Both you, and wife and child, and—’ (here I hesitated, but hazarded) ‘your brother in law.’
‘Brother in law?’ he said interrogatively; ‘I suppose you mean Alfred. He is no relation of mine, or indeed of yours. We might perhaps seem to be relations. But you must know the family. He is Alfred Athenry: son of Lord Dungorey. You know they live in County Galway.’
Of course I knew of them. We first of all had one point in common, we were not English: now it turned out we were both Irish—still further point. And not only that but nearly related. ‘But still you will excuse me:’ I said. ‘I must see my daughter. So, à demain.’
Next morning I looked our of the window and saw that divine child holding on to the hand of his father going into that beautiful large church just opposite, which by the bye is always mentioned in the Guide Books as a Cathedral—although it is not. This seems a trivial incident, but still it gave me a multiplicity of impressions; or rather, I should say, the impression of two ideas, which I myself had before neither felt nor realised. What is the sentiment of paternity? What is the meaning of that mysterious religion which I was brought up to dislike and despise? I did not love my mother or my father. My mother died when I was still a child. I have a vague remembrance of her: she was strict and rigid and wore cork-screw curls. My father had always something about him which inspired me with distrust. He was never really interesting except on his death bed, which was frightening. I was present all the time at his last delirious ravings. He kept on screaming, ‘O Elizabeth, send for a priest, for God's sake, as you would save your soul. A priest, I mean a real priest, a Catholic priest.’ Then he became delirious again, and repeated over and over again, ‘Sancta Maria mater Dei ora pro nobis peccatoribus nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.’ Then he went on saying ‘in hora mortis!’; then trying to rise from the bed, a wild terrible look in his eyes, cried shrilly ‘memorare O pissima neminam ad tuam damn it! I've forgotten that prayer.’ Then lying back, ‘esse derelictum?’ The priest was sent for, which was indeed a surprise to me, as we were generally supposed to be what in Ireland were called Black Protestants. He was not at home. We were in the country in a somewhat desolate district. The priest had gone to give the last sacraments to an old woman particularly noted for her piety in our district, who certainly did not need such consolations as religion might afford so much as my father. I afterwards married a doctor, who, as doctors not rarely are, was an atheist. Yet still this has ever haunted me, what mysterious power that religion might have which induced my father to cry for its consolations at the last after he had long renounced it and through life had spoken bitterly against it. But this is merely by the way. Despite the estrangement of the two families, there was no reason why I should not be decently amiable to Kilcoran, who after all was my first cousin; whom I certainly had no reason to dislike; and seeing moreover that I have not the prejudices which my father had, or rather had not, at the last.
Well, that afternoon they did come to tea, and so an acquaintance ripened. We invited one another mutually to tea, went with one another to the theatre—for Ostraeke does boast of a theatre, and not at all a bad one, all things considered, and also to concerts and to excursions in the neighbourhood. Since Kilcoran was my cousin we got to call one another by our Christian names. The more I saw of him the more I grew to like my cousin. But I did not quite like Margaret, though she was indeed sometimes very charming, and I certainly did not like Alfred, though he was undeniably clever and amusing. There was something about the relations between Margaret and Alfred which puzzled me completely, for why did Kilcoran, who was by no means an unobservant man, take no notice of many things, which I noticed very quickly? He seemed to regard everything in their case with complete indifference. Yet in other matters he noticed minutely the most trivial things.
As to the child, have I not already said that my heart went out to him from the first?—the more I saw of him the more I loved him. It is difficult to describe him, as I knew him by further acquaintance. He was not exactly what one may call clever; nevertheless he was intelligent and bright, and he had not that odious precocity, which is the common fault of exceptional children. His only precocity was in music, where he was precocious indeed; without being stupidly shy he was yet singularly silent, and literally fulfilled the precept, that little boys should be seen and not heard. He only became animated when his father was present; otherwise he only spoke if he had been first addressed.
One day we had a concert in Ostraeke; an exceptionally grand concert—though our concerts usually were not bad on the whole—at which there were going to play a well known violinist, a well known pianist, and several other performers, whose names have either escaped me, or would be superfluous to mention, as they have no connection with the present narrative. We had not procured a programme beforehand, and of course we all went. When we got to the concert, I began looking through the programme. That which rather struck my eyes first, just on account of what my daughter had said to me, was a Romance for the violin by Sybrandt von den Velden. I really forget now what mental connection I made between the name of Sybrandt von den Velden and the people who were with me. Yet I somehow thought it would interest them. And it did, in a way that was quite unexpected. I was speaking before of having heard Sybrandt von den Velden play the piano, somewhere in Belgium about ten years or so ago. I remember him vividly; especially as being the only person I have ever heard, not excepting the most well known pianists, who could give the true rendering and accentuation of Chopin. He was a great success in his day. His compositions, all very remarkable and original, were but little known outside Belgium, his native country, and naturally he is the glory of Ostraeke, his native town, which never produced anyone of importance before.
Margaret was always pale; not that chalk white lymphatic pallor, but a fine ivory pallor, suited so well to her golden hair; in fact I came to call her Chryselephantine. But when the Romance for the violin commenced, (she had not, by the bye, previously looked at the programme; I had the only one, and told all the other people what was coming next) her pallor became almost ghastly. I thought she was going to faint, and was ready to render her assistance. But nothing of the kind! Her blue eyes, fixed on her husband, seemed to emit sparks, first with the expression of frozen hatred, then of reproach; then of great tenderness. Yes, she certainly loved him, which I hardly suspected from her general demeanour, though they appeared to get on well enough together. But in this case there was no mistake. If woman's eyes ever expressed real love, that was the expression of hers. Next her face assumed a pained expression, which curiously enough reminded me of the husband's expression on the first day of our meeting, when the child played on the piano. He was sitting at the back of the box, in the shadow, which he appeared to have selected for himself on purpose. Alfred was altogether indifferent, and looked on the whole rather bored. The child's face lit up, as though a light from Heaven was cast upon it. His eyes dilated, and glimmered like amethysts seen through fire, while his subtle exquisite form quivered in a kind of ecstasy.
Now, why on earth were these three people making all that fuss in a quiet way about that piece of music, which I admit was certainly very remarkable, but not sufficient to produce these particular manifestations of emotion? I could quite understand the child's emotion, for he was always exceedingly impressionable to musical effects; but still, never so much as on this particular occasion.
The concert was drawing to an end. There were only two more pieces, and by good luck Dorothy said ‘Well, mamma after that, really one could not stand that wretched song from the “Traviata”. Hadn't we better go?’ Kilcoran said with some trembling in his voice, ‘Yes, I quite agree with you.’ But coming out from the shade and into the light he continued smilingly, ‘It is always a pity to spoil one's finest impressions.’ The lips smiled, the eyes did not. Margaret growled, with rather a graceful growl. ‘Yes, I think it is about time for us to go.’ And Alfred said, ‘Yes, how awfully hot it is in here.’
That evening as we were in the ‘Salon of Conversation,’ Alfred said, ‘Siboo, won't you play us a tune to-night?’ The child answered almost sulkily—I had never seen him sulky before; he was always amiable—‘Well, what do you want me to play?’ Alfred, who was always kind to the child—that indeed seemed to me the best trait about him—said amiably, ‘Well don't you remember anything of the concert this afternoon?’
The child had not spoken one word during dinner or afterwards. He was sitting on the sofa, leaning on his father's shoulder, with a dull look. At Alfred's last remark his face suddenly became animated. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, with a smile, which was the only thing in which one could trace any resemblance to his father, ‘I do remember that!’ Then, in spite of some slight resistance on the part of his father, he darted, like an arrow from a bow, to the piano, and began to play. I have already said he played divinely; so what am I to say now? None of his former playing could equal or be compared to this.
I was certainly impressed by the Romance for the violin by Sybrandt von den Velden; but, not so particularly as to render me oblivious to anything else. The child rendered the whole piece in a totally different way from that in which the celebrated violinist had rendered it. That small child on that by no means particularly good piano, playing and half singing to himself in a curiously violin like tone of voice, gave what I am sure was the impression the author meant to convey with the violin and full orchestra. Then I realized it was indeed a work of genius. In fact I was so absorbed in it that I did not notice Kilcoran, who suddenly rose from his seat, and said, in a voice literally agonizing, ‘Sybrandt’. The child was always called Siboo; now of course I remembered that his real name was Sybrandt; and it was from that interconnection of reminiscence that I came to think that the piece by von den Velden would be a subject of interest to the Kilcorans. But why did he suddenly call his child Sybrandt? The boy, however, paid no attention to this appellation, and went on playing. And yet, as I had already seen, he invariably obeyed the slightest inflection of his father's voice. He went on playing, absolutely absorbed, some strange variation of the same melody. Kilcoran stretched out his arms, and walked, or rather staggered, to the middle of the room just behind the piano; then fell down on the floor. It was a strange scene. In the ordinary course of things, anyone would naturally suppose he had fainted. I knew, half intuitively, half by the fact of having been the wife of a physician, that he was dead.
Then what followed was simply terrible. The utter absolute silence! All seemed to have received the same impression as I. Margaret rose from her chair, and stood rigid and erect. Alfred went to fetch a doctor. He did not say so, but I am sure he was going to do so. Only the child went on playing. Then we waited there: no one even tried to render assistance to the man who seemed, on the face of it, to have ordinarily fainted. The child played on. He seemed entirely oblivious and unconscious.
At last Alfred came in with the doctor: the doctor felt his heart, and—well, he had little need to say what we all knew already. His sentence ended with the word ‘mort’.
The child, who was still variating on the same theme, had arrived at an allegretto movement. I suppose, on hearing the doctor's last word, he struck a discord on the piano, which I remember distinctly (how one does remember these small things!). It was nevertheless beautifully harmonious; he could not strike wrongly. Then he turned round from his seat, and saw. He simply said the one word ‘Papa!’ in a voice like that of the high string of the violin, breaking after being tried overmuch.
Then, I will not say he embraced his father's body; he simply clung to it; like a snail on the wall, or a leech on a wound.
Dorothy was not there, very fortunately. Alfred took the hand of the corpse, and looked straight into its eyes, affectionately. Then he shuddered, looked at Margaret cursively, and passed out in silence. Margaret had all this time stood rigid and erect; a living statue. Indeed she appeared hardly to be living. Then calmly, as a statue might move, she went to the corpse of her husband, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and his shirt. She was dreadful then; she looked like what my conception would be of a Medusa. Her golden hair even seemed to take the form of intertwining serpents. She spoke no word. Then she stood, rigid and erect as ever, for a slight space by her husband's side. During that little time I had the opportunity to observe a large medallion hanging round his neck, by a golden chain. The medallion contained a miniature portrait of a young man of singular beauty. The eyes were violet; rather exaggeratedly so, in the picture. I seemed to have seen the face somewhere before. But I had no time for reflection; for suddenly Margaret changed from a statue to a serpent, and tore the medallion from the neck; she threw it into the corner of the room, and then went over and stamped upon it and stamped and stamped.
Then she came back, her face utterly changed, knelt beside her husband's corpse, took her handkerchief from her pocket, and wiped, as if to remove the very traces, the place where the medallion had been. Then she kissed, with a passion of which I should not have thought her capable, the intersection of the chest and throat. Then she got up and said quite calmly, ‘Good-night, Elizabeth. I am afraid we shan't be able to come to tea to-morrow,’ Then she said, ‘Siboo, it's time for you to go to bed now.’ The child was still clinging to the corpse; there was no answer. She said again, ‘Siboo, Papa is very ill; won't you come to bed?’ The child answered, abruptly and definitely, simply ‘No,’ in a tone like the lowest string of a bass viol.
I seemed to understand Margaret then; and she me. At least there was no need of interchange of words between us. I divined from her looks what she felt, in this particular case. There was certainly some telepathic communication between us; because after she had gone out of the room without speaking a word, I was not at all surprised at the appearance of the hotel-keeper, saying that he would be only too glad to convert the ‘Salon of Conversation’ into a mortuary chamber, or as he said, ‘chapelle ardente’, for the convenience of Monsieur and Madame. There was I alone with the corpse, and the speechless child. However, Margaret came back again this time accompanied by Alfred. In spite of all their persuasions and dissuasions, the child could not be torn away from his father's dead body. The only answer he gave was, ‘No, No, No, No!’ They went away. So did I; leaving the two together.
Well, the ‘Salon of Conversation’ was converted into a chapelle ardente and Henry's body was laid in a handsomely draped Catafalque, flanked by six large burning candles of unbleached wax. Nothing could induce the child to leave his father's body. He would sleep flat on the floor, took very little to eat, and of what he did left exactly half, by the side of the Catafalque. Sometimes he would prattle to the corpse, and sometimes would play on the piano very softly such things as his father liked best.
One day Alfred somehow persuaded him to go out into the open air; giving him 20 francs, he returned with a wreath of the most beautiful orchids. Surely they must have cost a great deal more than 20 francs. But then who could have refused that child anything. Besides Kilcoran was well known in Ostraeke: and among the trades-people very popular. Was the child losing his reason? I thought so; when he sat by his dead father's side and talked; he spoke just as if the corpse were alive: so softly that one could not hear a word he said: when he played one of his father's favourite pieces on the piano, he would look round with a look of appeal which was more than heart rending. He did not cry; or give way to any loud demonstration of grief.
I have been boasting of my power of observation. But I certainly must admit that Margaret was more than an enigma to me. Sometimes she would sit for a long time beside the Catafalque reciting prayers from a book. She had certainly not given me the impression of being particularly religious. Her religion consisted of going with Alfred on Sundays to the Messe des Paresseux, for which, although the Church was just over the way they invariably arrived late, whereas Henry always took Siboo to Church with him at a much earlier hour every day. After that one demonstration of emotion, she remained glacially calm. But what I especially could not understand was this; from what I had recently seen, I could not doubt that she really loved her husband. Then why did she rather seek the society of Alfred? She and her husband were friendly enough towards each other in a general way. But then, what was her sentiment towards Alfred? She did not seem to, what I should call, love him; she was merely unduly familiar with him. I had frequently seen her, in disregard of all ‘convenances’, go of a morning into Alfred's room, very loosely clad in nightgown and dressing gown, which was decidedly odd in one who set so much value on appearances as she did. Never did I see her enter Kilcoran's room, where the child also slept, for the superfluous nurse was now discarded. Then again, she and Alfred often went out together at this time. They appeared to have arranged all particulars about the funeral; the solemn obsequies were to take place on the ensuing Thursday. The day before, coming into the room to look after the child, I overheard Alfred say to her, ‘So at last it is settled; we are to meet in a year's time in Brussels; and are really to be married.’ She made the curious response; ‘Yes, I think Henry would like that.’
But I had more to hear that day.
That night Margaret came to my room. She had in her hand a letter, sealed; it was addressed, ‘To Elizabeth, in case of my death.’ Then she said: ‘Wait one instant, Elizabeth, and listen to what I have to say. This is a letter from my husband to you: but I think I can guess the nature of its contents. For God's sake, listen to my story first.’
I wondered at that: she seemed to me by nature far from confidential. She continued: ‘I must tell you the whole truth. Perhaps you will pity me. Perhaps you will execrate and despise me. More probably the latter.’
I said, ‘I don't know why: I think it more probable I shall pity you. At any rate it is as well that you should tell me.’
Then she said: ‘Before beginning, may I ask you one question?’
‘By all means,’ I said, ‘as many questions as you like.’
‘Well, the question is—you have been a married woman—did you love your husband?’
I answered: ‘No, in the sense that you mean, I did not. I certainly got to like him very much. You see, I was very young and stranded in the world and left under the care of an intolerable old aunt; and was only too glad to accept the hand of the first man that proposed to me, to be rid of my bondage. It did not turn out as badly as I might have expected. But still, about my marriage there was no element of passion at all, if that is what you wanted to know.’
‘Well!’ she said, ‘in mine there was. So you will not be able to understand how I loved Henry.’
I said: ‘It is possible to understand what one has not felt.’
Her eyes, which had always given me the effect of hard sapphires, became liquid with a colour which one sometimes sees on the Adriatic Sea, and only there, I think.
She went on: ‘The old expression “I worshipped the very ground he trod on” was literally true in my case. Everything he had touched became to me as a sacred relic. I was jealous of the dog and the cat—even of a chair.’ And here she tried to laugh; and her eyes at last filled with tears—‘But to cut a long story short,’ she went on, rather more quickly, recovering herself, ‘once Henry had to go to Belgium to see about some business of mine: and came to this very place Ostraeke. He came back accompanied by a youth, called Sybrandt von den Velden. Of course you must know him by name,’ she said very quickly. Then with an air of affected indifference she continued: ‘He was rather remarkable in the music line, and then was commencing what most probably would have turned out a very successful career.’ Here she laughed not loudly but harshly and horribly; her eyes had become quite dry again. She looked then almost hideous. But recovering her usual appearance, continued her story. ‘Henry said he was overworking himself at his musical studies; and had therefore asked him to come and stay at Kilcoran. I must say at first I rather liked him. He played very well, was clever and by no means unattractive in appearance. But then as I already told you, my jealousy for Henry was intense. If I could not bear Henry to touch the cat or the dog, you must imagine what must have been my feelings when this wretched boy seemed to absorb Henry's entire attention. I began to hate him with that hatred in whose silent moments Satan speaks. I would have my revenge.’
Then smiling slightly, but disagreeably, ‘I had it.—Did I, or did I not have it?’ she continued meditatively. ‘It is said that revenge is sweet. The consequences of my revenge were hardly sweet.’ She laughed bitterly. Then, after an excessive effort to recover herself, she continued in a hard dry voice: ‘You know what a woman may do with a very young man, of impressionable nature. And indeed at that time I myself was by no means without attractions.’—no, she certainly at this time was ‘by no means without attractions’; I can well imagine what she must have been then. Her voice became still harder and drier: ‘My object was that Henry should discover the treachery of his friend. Then perhaps he would kill him. He might then kill me too for all I cared. I desired to be caught in flagrante delicto, and that desire at least was accomplished.’
‘Henry said,’ she continued in a kind of dull monotone, ‘“Well, my dear Margaret, you are at liberty to do what you like. But Sybrandt, would you mind when you are ready, just coming in to see me in my study?” I thought then my revenge was complete: what was my surprise at finding Sybrandt seated at the dinner table as though nothing had happened. Indeed, Henry was, if anything, more affectionate towards him than before. Was that his revenge—devised by his curiously subtle mind—to inflict on me the sight of my sin? Surely he must have known that I loved him and him alone. I never knew, and do not know to this day. Anyhow, my revenge went still further. Sybrandt suffered from a heart complaint.’ Here I was surprised to see an actual blush on her face, invariably of an ivory pallor. ‘You are the wife of a doctor,’ she continued hesitatingly, ‘so you must know that certain exertions may have fatal consequences. Anyhow,’ she said with a ghastly hysterical shrieking laugh, ‘Sybrandt is dead!’ I expected she would have a fit of hysteria—and prepared, as my medical knowledge sufficed me, to render her assistance; and indeed such a thing would not have been unnatural under the circumstances. But no, she continued quite calmly with a slight laugh, ‘I suppose you don't see why I am relating to you this story. It is certainly far from a nice one. But I am morally certain that Henry's letter to you is to say that Siboo is not his child, and that you are the heir to the Kilcoran property. I don't know what he may have said about me. I feel sure he will have spared me as much as possible: but still I thought you ought to know the truth from me first. Bear with me a little, and let me just end my story. Henry and I lived together. He treated me always kindly and made no allusion to the subject whatsoever. But we lived no longer together as husband and wife. I was left entirely to myself to do whatever I chose.—Well, you see he had no objection to my having a lover like Alfred.’ She laughed again in the same horrible way: and then changing her expression entirely stretched out her arms and cried, with an exceeding bitter cry, ‘O, Henry!’
This was too much even for her stony nerves: she fell down flat on the floor in a dead faint.
When I read Kilcoran's letter, it was worded thus:
There is one thing I have to tell you, but never had the courage. I know you do not believe in the supernatural, but I have a certain premonition that I shall die soon, very soon. Only yesterday you spoke of Siboo as the little viscount. Well, that is the reason why I am writing this. I may not die; but still, in common honesty, I must tell you one thing—he is not my son at all. It is you who are the heir to all I possess. At least in charity, I beg of you to be kind to the child. But I have to say something more, as you must see being certainly observant, he is Margaret's child. This has no style at all, but what does it matter about style? I remember the other day arguing that matter was of no importance and style was everything. Here the style is of no importance and the matter is everything—to me and you.
Let me tell you at once with no further preamble. You are my friend—and in simple justice I must tell you more about this matter: lest you should blame Margaret, who herein was far less to blame than I. I must make a shameful confession, but as I have already said, you are my friend, and will not judge me hardly, at least, not very hardly. My fear is that you might lay the blame on Margaret. What am I writing? No, I cannot write it all over again. I will leave it as it is. So I will continue as I left off. Do not blame her at all. I am trying to write, but how can I?
I had better tell you a succinct story. For, as I said before, you are my friend and cousin. It was this way: I came to Belgium for business connected with my wife, and here in this place, Ostraeke, I met Sybrandt von den Velden, a name not unknown to you, as you were speaking about him only the other day. Well, now I come to the point, which no woman will ever understand; at least, when I say no woman, I mean you will not. I am making an awful hash of this letter. But take it with the motto of Pontius Pilate: “what I have written I have written”. At least (I think I have repeated these two words several times already) I will try to go on and tell you directly the whole story. Yet even now I must begin with some digression. I said no woman would ever understand, at least (I must repeat the same expression), seeing that you have heard his music—his divine music—what fascination it had upon me. But what you will not understand is the fascination his singular personal beauty had upon me. His hair was like vine tendrils, and his eyes violet, really violet—but my good God! why should I trouble you with a description of his person. I am going to write a proper letter to-morrow. These are merely notes for the letter I was going to write. But anyhow (no, I had better leave the thing as it is)—I took Sybrandt with me to Kilcoran Castle, which place you have heard of but not seen, though I hope you will.
An attachment seemed to grow up between him and my wife. And here comes the most shameful part of my story.
So far from resenting, I did my best to encourage it. I had no child and longed to have one. Sybrandt was subject to that heart complaint which might cause a man to die at any moment.
I loved Sybrandt, more than my life, or indeed his life, as I shall try to explain to you. No one on earth I loved more than Sybrandt. I was perpetually tortured by the thought that Margaret might even be jealous of him, and therefore was glad that they appeared to be attached to one another. Then a depraved notion occurred to me.
I think I said I had no child. Sybrandt might die at any moment. Why should he not beget me a child after his own image?
I cannot blame Margaret. It was but natural that she should be attracted by Sybrandt, as everyone in the world would be. Let me tell you again, Margaret's temptation was too great. I do not wonder at it.
My child! Yes! my child! of my soul, if not of my body. He has the likeness of Sybrandt, and his mother's lovely golden hair. Sybrandt's hair was bronze coloured.
But I know I am going to die, and that is the reason why I am telling you all this.
Pardon me for talking so much nonsense. I was going to tear up this letter. But then, what am I to write? I shall probably make the same stupid mistakes over again, and I must write this letter, because I know in spite of all you say about premonitions, that I shall die either to-morrow or the day after.
O Elizabeth, be kind to poor little Siboo. Do not cast him out utterly, although he is an outcast. At least, it is not his fault. You have been kind to him so far, and I trust you. Let my child—I repeat—my child—be under your care; I repeat, my child, my only one—be guarded from all ill.
You are not familiar with Catholic prayers, but perhaps, in your own service, you know the verse in the psalm, “Deliver my soul from the sword and my darling from the power of the dog.”
Of course you will not pray for me when I am dead. Your religion does not believe in prayers for the dead. Perhaps Margaret will.I have said what I had to say to you.
I was by this time disgusted at these disgraceful confessions. And these were the people with whom I had been living so long, in constant amicability. My first thought was to look after the child, whom I regarded as more or less my own property now. He was lying on the floor asleep, his hand hanging on to that of his father's corpse (when I say his father, I knew only too well, he was not his father: anyhow, he did not think so, and why should he be disillusioned from his innocent opinion?).
There he lay, his lovely long eyelashes throwing shadows on his cheeks, by the light of the candles about the Catafalque.
I am Protestant and practical: practical in as far as to have remembered that he might have very easily knocked one of the candlesticks over and set fire to the whole hotel. Anyhow, he had not, and it was only a momentary thought. Surely a painter, seeking a model for the sleeping Jesus, could have found none better. This child then I was to deprive of his inheritance.
There was no reason why he should know what I probably alone knew.
Still, I would rather not entrust him to the care of a woman like Margaret. Surely Kilcoran's letter authorised me thus far.
I happened by way of distraction to take up a local journal. Of course the first thing that caught my eye was a notice of Kilcoran's death, and a sort of absurd panegyric of Kilcoran's virtues generally, and what he had done for that large and important town Ostraeke. My mood was then serious and not satirical, or rather my satire embittered itself with sarcasm. The article proceeded with these words:—
‘The solemn obsequies of the “trépassé” will be held tomorrow at the church of Nôtre Dame: we have private reasons to know that the Requiem by our illustrious compatriot’ (or rather the word was “citoyen”—I am translating loosely), ‘Sybrandt von den Velden, will be rendered with full orchestra. Signor Sarini (I think that was the name) is taking the part of the first violin. So we may recommend to our readers, who are lovers of music, though they may not be personal friends of the deceased, that there will be a treat in store for them. The hour will be a quarter past eleven.’
By what coincidence was Sybrandt von den Velden again dragged into this connection? He was the cause of enough unhappiness to them in life. Why should he thus force himself on Kilcoran's memory after death?
The croquemorts arrived. The child was still clinging to the corpse. Alfred said, laying his hand on the child's shoulder, kindly and even tenderly, yet not without that soupçon of cynicism which I always detested in his way of speaking: ‘You see they are going to take Papa away, little one, I'll have to be your papa now.’
The child said only, ‘No, no, no, no,’ clinging passionately to the corpse.
Then Margaret, who was extraordinarily calm, considering the emotion of last night, said, ‘You know, Siboo dear, Papa is going to be buried and we are going back to Ireland.’ Suddenly the child sprang from what I may still call his dead father, threw his arms around me, and said in a voice full of agony, ‘O Aunt Elizabeth, you won't let me go away, will you? You will take care of me?’
I have to say I do not believe in the supernatural, or that sort of thing, but could not help being struck by the coincidence with Kilcoran's last request, which I had read yesterday night. ‘Yes,’ I answered with fervour, ‘my darling, I will take care of you.’ Then I looked at Margaret, who said in a dull monotone, ‘Yes, Elizabeth, if you do not mind, I think that would be the best just now.’
I said I had feared for the child's reason. He was perfectly intelligent now, and comprehended well the whole situation.
The croquemorts removed the body and we went to the church, the child holding me by the hand. Margaret seemed an inverse Galatea; she was as it were frozen into a statue. The pallor of her skin against the deep black of her dress gave her almost the appearance of marble.
The ceremonial, doubtlessly impressive for those who could understand it, conveyed no meaning to me: but the music—certainly I had done Sybrandt von den Velden an injustice to say he was merely good—his work was wonderful. A revelation! What a genius he must have been, and might be still if—no, it makes my blood boil to think that one with such glorious capabilities, would have been merely the Paris of that wretched woman, the Antinous of that wretched man.
The music seemed to affect the child very deeply, at least at the beginning. His eyes lit up extraordinarily at what I suppose must have been the Offertory. I remember in particular the words ‘Libera me de ore leonis’ sung by a high beautiful treble in an agonized cadence, accompanied by a series of descending chromatic scales, ending in, as I thought, one long, low, thrilling note from the bass viol, though in reality a kind of wail on the first violin. It is impossible to describe—for music cannot be translated into words, how it gave me the effect of a serpentine intertwinement of the chromatic scale in the form of a monogram; why this impression I cannot say. But such impressions are worth recording, as by such means speech might be brought to admit one art communicating its secret to another. And, O, the solemnity of those choral silver trumpets. Indeed I was so struck by the music that I did not notice at the time that the child seemed to have lost all interest in it. He had a dull vague expression on his face, and afterwards, when we followed the funeral cortège, his demeanour was that of absolute apathy; whereas I had expected, and feared, some violent demonstration of grief. He simply allowed himself to be led by the hand, saying nothing, and afterwards be led back to the Hotel. He sat down wearily on a chair and did nothing. Margaret and Alfred seemed to have disappeared suddenly. I thought, of course, they were walking behind us the whole time. I was so absorbed in the child's unusual demeanour as to be wholly oblivious to their presence or absence.
There was no trace of them. I thought at least she would come to look after her child. Of course I was not surprised that she did not appear at the table d’hôte.
Her grief had been too great for her, I supposed. And after much hesitation I thought I would go to her room, to see what I could do for her. Although her confession of last night caused me to execrate her, as she herself said it would, at the same time I was filled with great pity towards her. I had had time for reflection.
I went to her room and knocked gently; then louder, then opened the door. The room was dark, and there was no one there. Just then the maid came up the corridor, and said, ‘O, madame packed her things and went by the four o’ clock train to Brussels, and monsieur went by the half past two train in the other direction, I don't know where to. O, but,’ suddenly recollecting herself and taking a letter out of her apron pocket, ‘Madame la Comtesse requested me to give this to you.’
After what has passed between us, you will understand why I have avoided any oral explanation.
You promised to take care of my child, and I know you are as good as your word. I am going straight to Ireland to arrange my husband's affairs. Till they are settled I cannot tell you exactly how much property will be yours. Meanwhile I will remit to you £200 a month, and beg of you in return to send me at least a brief postcard as to the health and general well-being of my child. Perhaps even you would not mind writing me now and then a letter.
P.S. Of course address to, Kilcoran Castle, Co. Galway, Ireland.
Well, after all that had happened, what was I to say to a letter like that? I wrote my reply twice, beginning without a title—
‘Do you suppose I would touch a farthing of your money? I am not indigent, and there is no reason whatever why the child should know the fact, which does not concern me, of his not being the real heir to the Kilcoran estates.
I presuppose you have not communicated your shameful secret to anyone else. However, I will let you know every week how your child is getting on. Just now, I am sorry to say, he seems to me anything but well. I trust to be able to give you a more favourable account next time I write.
Gradually the awful truth dawned on me, that the child was an idiot. Suddenly—I suppose some time during the Requiem—all reason had gone from him. He was tractable and well-behaved, but absolutely apathetic. His lovely eyes had lost all their lustre. He never spoke except occasionally to murmur to himself; and only with the greatest difficulty could he be induced to eat.
O, how my heart went out to that child then! To think that in the ark of this beautiful body there was no longer any soul! At least, so it seemed. Sometimes he was responsive to caresses; especially if one stroked his beautiful golden hair, gold suffused with a shadow of silver, waving and curled at the ends, so soft in texture, the loveliest hair I have ever seen or felt.
He would now and then smile a little with a certain satisfaction, and give a soft murmuring noise, very like that which doves give forth when they are asleep. Kilcoran used to caress him in this way. Perhaps he thought of him. But I never could be certain that he thought of anything. Still, he had the intelligence to behave properly in the ordinary things of life, and also could find his way about. He never by any chance went into a wrong room. He was simply languid; he would sit still by himself for hours together. But would allow himself to be led about the town, or indeed, for long walks in the country; walking perfectly erect and well, yet taking no interest in anything whatsoever. Indeed, it needed our greatest care to prevent his being run over. One day he very nearly was. My daughter had let go of his hand for an instant, and he did not seem to notice a cab coming full tilt against him.
There was one strange thing, that although absolutely apathetic in other respects, neither resisting nor showing any will of his own, every time he went out he dragged me, as we passed, into the Church, where he took holy water automatically and never forgot to genuflect to the altar. He would sometimes sit, sometimes kneel, in an absolutely listless way. He would have gone on staying there for ever, I suppose, and was as impassive as ever.
I had one hope, after having consulted the most celebrated doctor in Belgium, that the sound of music might possibly effect some awakening of intelligence in him. So I took him to the church during the times of service, especially on Sunday afternoons when the music was really very fine. But his sense for music had absolutely gone. Still, I did not actually lose all hope, for one time when a piece on the violin was being played as an interlude during ‘Salut’, or ‘Benediction’ as it is called in England and Ireland, a faint flicker of a smile did glimmer over his face.
The effect, however, was only temporary.
It appears Margaret had arranged that a solemn Requiem should take place on the anniversary of Kilcoran's death. She did not say in any letter to me (I did keep up a somewhat curt correspondence with her) whether she was going to be present or not. But a thought struck me: supposing I took the child to Kilcoran's Requiem, might not the repetition of effects restore him to intelligence again? especially as I saw the announcement in the papers that the same Mass by Sybrandt von den Velden would be performed on this occasion, giving a like exordium to a possible audience, as on this last occasion. But this time the notice was inserted among the theatrical notices.
So I went to it, taking Siboo with me.
The child was apathetic as usual at first; then came that peculiar motive in the Offertory, which I previously described, this time played very badly: a kind of shudder convulsed his delicate frame. He knelt with eyes intent, but I feared from their fixed expression that the effect was merely temporary.
When the Requiem was over, I took him by the hand as usual to lead him out of the church. I was greatly surprised that his hand responded with a certain grasp. Still greater was my surprise, on the way back, when he began laughing and talking as if nothing had happened. He was indeed like one dead having come to life again.
When we got back to the hotel, he rushed into the Conversation Room, and opened the piano which had not been played upon for a year—I may here state that though both my daughter and myself are by way of being pianists, yet somehow from the horrible circumstances connected with it, we neither of us dared to touch the piano; although I often thought that to play this piano to him might arouse Siboo from his terrible lethargy. I said the child opened the piano, and began to play, not only to play but to sing, in the most divine treble voice it is possible to conceive. Somehow, I never really heard him sing before.
Good God! what he played and sang!
‘Libera me de ore leonis’ from the Requiem. He seemed on that wretched instrument, now doubtless out of tune, to render the effect of the full orchestra. You could actually hear the bass viola and the silver trumpets!
And how he sang! He came to that cadence—the words I only too definitely remember, ‘Fac eas, Domine, de morte transire ad vitam.’ There was a strange low tremolo at the word ‘morte’, ending, after a strange chromatic movement at the word ‘transire’—(yes, it is curious how minutely one remembers these details which concern anything which has affected one deeply). How on earth could that child sing in this manner? I never knew he could sing at all, except that I had heard him hum or sing to himself occasionally. But this must have been one of the most difficult of pieces. I remember thinking, trivially, what training the chorister must have gone through, to render this strange inflection. Here this child sang it all at once, and how far more beautifully! and that after one, or perhaps two hearings. These were the reflections which occurred to me then, for I had little time for reflection immediately afterwards.
The motif ends at the word ‘vitam’, long sustained on the high B. How shall I describe the exquisite intonation he gave to that note, which is usually shrieked? The note seemed too prolonged; there was a slight quivering about the voice: then suddenly there was an awful sound like a rattle.
Siboo fell from the stool to the ground.
Yes, I guessed: I did not require a doctor to explain to me this was ‘a sudden failure of the heart's action.’
The door opened and who should walk in but Margaret?
Let it suffice that this day, this precise day, exactly as it had been last year, the ‘salon de conversation’ was converted into a chapelle ardente.
Alfred was also there with Margaret. On the third day the croquemorts came again to fetch away another corpse. But just before they came, Alfred and Margaret stood either side of the body of this lovely child, who seemed rather to be sleeping and dreaming of paradise than dead. They stretched out their hands one to the other across the child's body; holding each other by the hand, they merely looked at each other, not speaking any word.
He went away. I did not see him again, and she said very little, only that which was necessary. And we parted, in silence.
One day several years afterwards, when we were in London, Dorothy said to me: ‘Camilla told me,’—Camilla was some friend of hers—‘they are going to give the Romance for the violin by Sybrandt von den Velden at the ——— Church, this afternoon. Don't you remember, mamma, we heard that at that funny little place, Ostraeke, at a concert? Of course you must remember it?’
Yes, I certainly did remember it!
‘Let's go and hear it,’ she continued, and I thought ‘Why not?’ though it would not awake in me altogether pleasant reminiscences.
Coincidences are much more frequent than is generally supposed. The twofold coincidence is really quite common, so common that it is only noticed when it excites a particular reminiscence.
A threefold coincidence is of course less common. Still, according to the doctrine of chances, by no means so impossible as is supposed.
Anyhow, that is the way I tried to account for what followed. I was thinking at the time of my many arguments with Kilcoran; the influences of the preternatural in life. He always insisted on it, and I persistently denied it.
The church in question was a Catholic church, connected with some religious order, which moreover had a certain reputation for its rather operatic music. Well, we went there.
There actually was an advertisement at the door, that Signor Something-or-other was going to play the violin that day; also a long rigmarole about something which I think was called St. Pelagia's Homes, with a notice that the Offertory would be devoted to that charity.
When we came in, Vespers were going on. It was all plainchant, with the accompaniment only of the organ. I, of course not understanding what was taking place, began to think we had come too late to hear the doubtless justly celebrated Signor play Sybrandt von den Velden's Romance on the violin. My daughter, who knows more about such things than I (indeed, I have always suspected her of a hankering towards Catholicism, to which I have personally no objection), said—
‘Wait, mamma, we have really come too early, I was afraid we should be too late.’ After Vespers and a strangely monotonous Litany, a monk got up into the pulpit. He took for his text ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’ He preached on behalf of St. Pelagia's Homes; at least his sermon was mainly devoted to that subject. The voice excited some half reminiscence in my mind. I had certainly heard it before, but not in that tone.
Yes, could it be? that attenuated aesthetic face, Alfred Athenry? The more I looked, the more I was convinced. The same clean-cut features, which had an individual characteristic. I was not quite certain, until, speaking in satire of modern thought, he had on his face that same cynical smile which I so disliked long ago. After the sermon, by way of an interlude, before Benediction—as my daughter carefully explained to me—the sisters of St. Pelagia's came round with their collection plates, in their extremely becoming red lined costumes. There was some little hitch when the collection plate was being passed from one pew to another; I had not noticed at first; my attention was absorbed naturally by hearing the Romance for the violin by Sybrandt von den Velden. The sister who handed the plate appeared to be very nervous. Her hand trembled. Just as I was putting in some coin, I caught sight of her face—and, it was Margaret!
The impressive rite of Benediction followed, then there were some English prayers, and the last words that the priest said were:
‘May the souls of the faithful departed
By the mercy of God rest in peace.’