MYSTIC MUSIC.
It was now nearly dark, and Lucius was anxious to obtain a speedy
release from the sick room, lest the time should creep on towards the
hour at which Mr. Otranto’s minions were to seek for admittance at the
little back door. He made some excuse therefore for bidding his patient
‘good-night’ soon after this. There would be time for him to see that
the coast was clear, and to keep watch for the coming of the two men.
He met Lucille in the corridor, coming up-stairs for the night, at
least two hours earlier than usual—a most opportune retirement.
She gave a little start at meeting him, and her look was more of
surprise than pleasure.
‘You here, Lucius!’ she exclaimed.
‘Yes, dear; I have been with your grandfather. I heard you were lying
down, and would not disturb you. I hope you feel refreshed by that long
rest.’
‘As much refreshed as I can be while I have such cause for anxiety. I
am going to my room early, so as to be near my grandfather.’
‘That is wise; only remember you must try to sleep. You must not be
watching and listening all night. If Mr. Sivewright wants anything he
will call you. Good-night, my dearest.’
He folded her in his arms, and pressed a tender kiss upon the sad
lips; but her only response to his caress was a weary sigh. There was
something amiss here; what, he knew not; but he felt she had some
sorrow which she refused to share with him, and the thought wounded him
to the quick. He left her perplexed and unhappy.
The old clock on the staircase struck eight as Lucius passed it. He
had an hour to wait before the arrival of the detectives. What to do
with himself during that time, he knew not. The lower part of the house
was wrapped in darkness, save for the feeble glimmer of a candle in
the great kitchen, where Mr. and Mrs. Wincher were seated at their
frugal supper. Lucius looked and beheld them regaling themselves on
a stony-looking Dutch cheese and an overgrown lettuce—a gigantic
vegetable, which they liberally soused with vinegar.
From Mrs. Wincher, Lucius obtained a candle, which he carried to the
parlour—a room that looked empty and desolate without Lucille. There
was the sofa upon which she had rested; there her book; there her
work-basket.
He sat down amidst these tokens of her presence, and stared at the
flame of the candle, sorely troubled in mind. What was this gulf
between them, this feeling of severance that was so strange to his
heart? Why was it that there returned to him ever and anon a suspicion
formless, inexplicable, but which troubled him beyond measure? He
strove to escape from gloomy thoughts by the aid of an old enchanter.
He took his violin from its hiding-place, and began to play a tender
_sotto-voce_ strain, which soothed his troubled mind. His thoughts
drifted into a smoother channel. He thought of that grand discovery
made to-night—a discovery which, at another time, he would have deemed
all-sufficient for happiness: Lucille was not the child of the wretch
his hand had slain. The comfort of that thought was measureless.
Could he do wrong in accepting the evidence of those letters—in giving
them this interpretation? Surely not. They seemed to point but to one
conclusion. They told a story in which there were few missing links. It
remained for him to trace the father who had thus abandoned his child.
It would be a more pleasing task than that which Lucille had imposed
upon him when she bade him seek for Ferdinand Sivewright.
But why had this father—who from the tone of his letters seemed to have
been fond of his child—abandoned her entirely to her fate, and made no
effort to reclaim her in after years? That question might be answered
in two ways. The father might have died years ago, carrying his secret
with him to the grave. Or it is just possible that this man, in whom
weakness might be near akin to wickedness, had made some advantageous
alliance after the death of Lucille’s mother, and had deemed it wise to
be silent as to his first marriage, even at the cost of his daughter’s
love.
Thus reasoned Lucius as he played a slow pensive melody, always _sotto
voce_.
Thought and music together had beguiled him into forgetfulness of time.
The clock struck nine while he was still playing.
He put down his violin immediately, left the lighted candle on the
table, and went out to the back door. Mr. Wincher was there before him,
the door open, and two men standing on the threshold.
‘We’ve got our orders from Mr. Otranto, sir,’ said the elder of the
two. ‘I’m to stop all night in the room that contains the vallibles,
and my mate is to be in and out and keep a hi upon the back premises.
But if you have anything you’d like to suggest, sir, we’re at your
service.’
‘No,’ said Lucius; ‘I’ve no doubt Mr. Otranto knows his business a
great deal better than I do. Come with me, Mr.—’
‘Simcox, sir. My mate is Joe Cleaver.’
‘Come with me then, Mr. Simcox, and I’ll show you the room that needs
watching. Mr. Cleaver can stay in the kitchen. I daresay he can make
himself comfortable there.’
‘Purvided he isn’t timid of beadles,’ interjected Mrs. Wincher; ‘which
the crickets are that tame they plays about the table while we’re at
supper.’
Mr. Cleaver pronounced himself indifferent as to beetles or crickets.
‘They won’t hurt me,’ he said; ‘I’ve had to deal with worse than
black-beadles in my time.’
Mr. Simcox followed Lucius to the room that contained the Sivewright
collection—that curious chaos of relics and fragments which represented
the knowledge and labour of a lifetime. The detective surveyed these
works of art with a disparaging eye.
‘There doesn’t seem to be much for the melting-pot here!’ he exclaimed;
‘or much portable property of any kind.’
‘There’s a good deal of curious old china,’ answered Lucius, ‘which is,
I believe, more valuable than silver. The thief who stole the old plate
might return for that.’
‘He might,’ answered Mr. Simcox with a sceptical air; ‘but he must be a
cut above the common run of thieves if he knows much about old chaney;
the sterling metal is what most of ’em go in for. However, here I am,
sir, and I know my duty. I’m ready to watch as many nights as you
please.’
‘Very good,’ said Lucius; ‘then I’ll wish you good-night, Mr. Simcox;
and if you want a mattress and a blanket, I daresay Mr. Wincher—the old
man who opened the door to you—will give you them. I don’t live in the
house, but I shall be here early to-morrow morning to learn the result
of your watch. Good-night.’
He had his hand upon the door, when a sound from the other side of the
hall—low, but still sufficiently audible—startled him as if it had been
the fall of a thunderbolt. It was his own violin, played softly—a wild
minor strain, dirge-like and unearthly. Scarcely had he heard the notes
when they died away. It was almost as if he had dreamed them. There was
not time for him to utter an exclamation before all was dumb. Then came
a muffled sound, like the cautious closing of a heavy door; but that
strange strain of melody possessed the soul and ears of Lucius, and he
did not hear that stealthy closing of the hall-door.
‘Did you hear that?’ he asked the detective eagerly.
‘Hear what, sir?’
‘A violin played in the opposite room.’
‘Well, no, sir, I can’t say as I did. Yet I fancy I did hear somethink
in the way of music—a barrel-organ, perhaps, outside.’
‘Strange!’ muttered Lucius; ‘my senses must be growing confused. I have
been too long without sleep, or I have thought too much. My brain has
been unceasingly on the rack; no wonder it should fail. Yet I could
have sworn I heard a wild unearthly strain—like—like other music I
heard once.’
It was a foolish thing, he felt, to be disturbed by such a trifle. A
mere fancy, doubtless, but he was disturbed by it nevertheless. He
hurried across to the parlour where he had left his violin. There it
lay, just as he had put it down. The room was empty.
‘What if my violin were enchanted now, and could play of itself?’ he
thought idly. ‘Or what if the furies who torment me with the slow
tortures of remorse had invented a new agony, that I should hear
ghostly strains—mere phantasmal sounds—reminding me of the music I
heard in the American forest?’
He put the violin back into its case, locked it, and put the key in his
waistcoat-pocket. The lock was a Chubb.
‘Neither mortals nor fiends shall play upon you any more to-night, my
little Amati,’ he said.
He was glad to escape from the house presently, having no further
business there. He felt that Lucille and the old man were securely
guarded for that night at least. To-morrow might furnish a clue to the
mystery—to-morrow might reveal the thief.
The thought set his brain on fire. Who opened that door? Who admitted
the midnight plunderer? Would to-morrow’s light bring with it the
answer to that question?