strolling off to some of his usual haunts. Not so poor Crowe; he felt the disappointment keenly. He remained at the musician’s desk, copying the musical task allotted to him, but the pen often dropped from his fingers, and the pale face had even a deeper air of dejection than usual, as it looked up occasionally from the confusion of heads and tails which represented one of Smith’s fantasias. Suddenly a slight tap at the door startled him; it opened cautiously, and there walked in a large bundle of clothing, which shelled gradually—cloak, paletôt, overcoat, shawl, whilst a voice from within explained in a weak voice, “Excuse me, sir, I begged the servant not to announce me, so much prudence is necessary in my peculiar position. I overheard you this morning telling my—but dear me! I’ve made some mistake, you are surely not the same gentleman. Can your name be Smith?”
Meanwhile Crowe’s eyes were brightening as the process of unmuffling revealed the figure of a feeble old gentleman in his dinner-dress; and in reply to the visitor’s question, he put another.
“Are you not Sir John Beauchamp?”
“I am. How can you know me?”
“Oh, sir, do not be alarmed, you may safely trust me; though only the humble secretary of the musician Smith, whom you this morning saw, it was at my suggestion that he visited your house. I know Mrs. Neville, and it was to me that her artless boy revealed her relationship to you.”
“Her boy! Then her son still lives?”
“Lives? yes, indeed, he is full of life! a fine healthy fellow of ten years old.”
“Yes, ten years—ten long years! And he is a beautiful boy, is he? Alas! and I have no heir—no child!”
“He is a princely fellow, sir, worthy to inherit a dukedom.”
“And the mother? Was all that true about her? Did I hear aright? Driven to the stage by poverty? Ill, her mind affected? Can my daughter have suffered so much, and I in ignorance of it?”
“Come and judge for yourself. I will take you to her this very hour, if you will. Your presence might cure her: who knows?”
“But is not her husband there?” asked the old man, slowly, as if each word cost him a pang of pain. “I cannot see him; I cannot, indeed—the brute!”
“You will not. I know nothing of him; but he is never there. He went to Australia years ago. They suppose he must be dead, I believe. But Mrs. Neville—come to her, so sweet a lady! and such a voice: Shall we go at once?”
“I dare not, to-night; there is not time; Lady Beauchamp returns at nine, and she must know nothing. But to-morrow I will. Tell me, can she recognise people? Will she know me? Is she sensible?”
“Oh yes: her memory fails, her mind wanders at times, and she can attend to nothing for long, but she is quite sensible, and she sings more exquisitely than ever. Why, even now, she supports her three children by teaching—by teaching butchers, bakers, grocers. It is a shame! a burning shame!”
The old man could not speak; his head drooped on his breast, and the tears shone on his black coat.
“I must return now,” he said, with a start; “but to-morrow, O, good young man! lead me to her to-morrow. Come to my house: I will thank you—reward you! Wait near my house to-morrow evening at seven; you will see her start for chapel (Lady Beauchamp, I mean). When you see the carriage drive off, come within the shadow of the portico, and I will join you instantly. Will you promise?”
“Most willingly. I will not fail!”
The old man hurriedly resumed all the garments which greatly disguised him, and almost ran away. Crowe heard the sound of cab-wheels driving rapidly away, and prayed that the old gentleman might regain his home before the wife he so evidently dreaded. He endeavoured to resume his task, but it was harder than ever now: he blackened the heads of his minims, gave double tails to his quavers, and the whole manuscript became such a mass of hopeless confusion, that when Smith returned, with his accustomed used-up air, he exclaimed, “Why, you’ve been writing in your sleep, Crowe!”
“No, sir; but he has been here.” And then followed a long account of the interview.
Smith was somewhat jealous that he had had only the unsuccessful part of the interference, whilst Crowe seemed likely to bring it to a fair issue; but his natural idleness consoled him by the thought that he would at least have no further trouble.
CHAPTER IV. HOPE ONCE MORE.
Smith and Crowe were still discussing the various details of the poor prima donna’s story, when another sharp rap at the door was heard simultaneously with a well-known voice.
“I say, Smith, old boy, can you give a fellow a night’s lodging? They can’t take me in till the morning at my old den in Charles Street.”
There was no mistaking the short portly form which rolled in, draped in a handsome travelling cloak, and Turkish cap with immense tassel:—none of your common straw hats or felt wideawakes for the elegant Giacomo Rossi.
“You are welcome, Rossi. Where do you spring from?”
“From Dublin, last, and you shall taste the only good thing that country produces.” And he drew from his pocket a silver-mounted travelling-flask full of whiskey. “No; no supper, Smith, thank you; have not yet digested my dinner; just a biscuit and a taste of the cratur! That’s right, Crowe, hand the glasses. Bless me, Crowe, how fast you look. I declare you grow quite handsome. There, taste that, Smith.”
“Excellent and as soft as milk.”
It may have been very mild, but certainly the appearance of the gentlemen’s eyes would not have led you to imagine that milk was the beverage they had been quaffing. Of course the manager was not long before he made inquiries concerning his lost prima-donna, and great was the interest he evinced in the story they related to him. But when the name of Beauchamp was pronounced, he