Mr D. Wragg rented the whole of the house in Brownjohn Street, and his
lodgers were confined to Mrs Winks and the little Frenchman, the attics
being used for store purposes--old cages, birdseed, bundles of herbs,
bags of feathers, cobwebs, and dust.
These attics formed a part of the house rigidly tabooed by the dealer,
who only gave a comical twitch to his countenance, and jerked his body
from head to heel when Mrs Winks complained that she had not had a bit
of sleep for the howlings of some dreadful dog there confined.
Patty did not return into the shop, but began slowly to ascend the
stairs, pausing at the first landing to fall into an attitude of
attention, holding the balustrade and listening eagerly, as from below
came the twittering of birds, and from above--in long-drawn,
nerve-thrilling tones--sounds that seemed to have a strange effect upon
the girl, as she stood in the full light of the landing-window, her eyes
half-closed, her face upturned, and her lips parted, as though to give
passage to a sigh.
But there was no sigh, no utterance, no motion; only the same strained
aspect of attention, as still, from above stairs, came the sounds--now
low, almost to fading away, now powerful and loud--but always with the
same effect, that of chaining Patty to where she stood.
She might well listen as if entranced, for from above, with every note
given with a feeling that seemed to find its echo in the listener's
ears, came floating softly down, the melody of "Ah, non giunge!"
evidently played upon a violin of fine and sonorous tone, every bar
sweet, pure, and clear, and softened by the distance into a strain which
seemed to have floated into the dingy house from some brighter region.
Then, after a pause of a few moments, there was a change, the player
turning off into a wild and eccentric variation upon the theme, now loud
and sparkling in the major key--now plaintive and thrilling in the
minor.
But this lasted only a short time, for as Patty once more began to
ascend the stairs, the violinist dashed off into a French mazurka, with
such spirit and brilliancy, that the notes seemed to be trilling out in
joyous laughter, setting Patty's head nodding to the gay refrain.
The next minute she had opened a door and stood in the presence of the
player, who put down her instrument upon the table, and moved slowly
across the room to catch the young girl's extended hands, and apologise
for not coming down again.
Canau's room was bare and cheerless; a table, a few chairs, a couple of
roughly-made music-stands, and a pile of torn, stained, yellow-leaved,
printed, and manuscript music, were the principal objects that met the
gaze; but Patty--whose presence lent a brightness to the blank place--
seemed to have no eye for aught but the swarthy, deformed girl, whom she
kissed affectionately.
Perhaps no greater contrast could have been seen than the sweet happy
face of Patty, with her bright brown hair and peachy complexion--peachy
with its soft down, and contrasts of creamy white and delicate pink; and
that of Janet--she was known by no other name--the dark, deformed girl,
who had been brought up by Monsieur Canau, the little French musician,
now taking his morning promenade and indulging in his only
extravagance--his second cigarette--a pinch of the commonest tobacco,
rolled in one of the gummed squares of tissue-paper prepared for him by
the girl who shared his poverty and had been taught his art.
The vital spark of life was bright and vivid, shooting keenly now from
two dark eyes; but as for the fleshly case that held this vital spark,
the wonder was that it should possess any shape at all, so fearful a
moulding must it have received in its early plastic days, and not that
the poor girl's head should be close down between her shoulders, and
that in form she should be diminutive and shrunken.
"I was tired of waiting, and had been listening ever so long," said
Patty, drawing a little white finger across the violin-strings. "I wish
I were clever, too, and could play."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed the other, harshly. "I'm ashamed of it sometimes.
It isn't a woman's instrument; but it pleases him for me to play, and I
get to like it now; one seems almost able to make it speak and tell
one's feelings--sending them floating away into the air," she continued,
dreamily gazing before her. "It makes one think and think, and seem to
be living another kind of life; and I am far away from here, Patty,
sometimes when I am playing,--perhaps along with you and the little
innocent children, and your father and mother,--perhaps far away in the
country, amongst the flowers, where there's no noise in the streets, no
shouting, shrieks, oaths, nor misery, nor dirt. There!" she said,
suddenly, as if she had been brought back to the present, "I know what
you are thinking."
"Indeed!" laughed Patty.
"Yes; you think I'm odd and strange in my way. Ah! I wish I were like
you."
"And sometimes," rejoined Patty softly, turning very serious, and
stooping to pass one arm round the deformed girl, and bending so that
her cheek touched the other's dark sallow face,--"sometimes, Jenny, I
wish that I were like you--oh! yes--so much--so much; for I'm not happy,
Jenny--not happy!"
She repeated these words in a quiet thoughtful way, sinking at last upon
her knees by the other's side, when, laying her hand, long and bony of
finger, upon the bonny little head, Janet pressed it closely to her
misshapen breast, from which burst sigh after sigh, till, waking as it
were from her dreamy thoughts, Patty forced a smile, and springing up,
kissed Janet again and again.
"There! what nonsense!" she cried, lightly. "I'm crying too, and pray
what about? Let's see how these goldfish are. Why, quite lively," she
exclaimed, drawing her friend to the window, where, half-screened by a
faded curtain, the gorgeous little pets sailed round and round in their
crystal prison.
"Do you ever think it childish of me, liking to keep them?" said Janet,
after a pause, during which, as they clung together, the two girls had
been watching the fish, one of which rose to the surface, and, with its
little gasping lips touched lightly the pinky finger-tip Patty placed
beneath the water.
"Sometimes," continued Janet, "it is so dull, so lonesome, in spite of
the busy noises coming from the street. Wragg is kind, and so is poor
old Mrs Winks; but--but," hesitated the girl, "there are times when I
don't wish to be with them. He is often away for hours together, and
one cannot always be at music; and then it is that I like to go
down-stairs, and be with the little prisoned birds and things. And
somehow they seem to know me, and flutter and leap to welcome me when I
come. But you don't think it childish?"
"Childish? No!" was the reply, as Patty again dipped a finger to have
it saluted by the fish. "I love to come and feed the birds myself; but
I would take them, if I could, all far away into the bright happy
country, and then open the cage-doors and set them free one by one--one
by one. How they would leap, and dart, and flutter as they felt the
soft air waiting for them! I think it would be real happiness to see
the little things leave off beating their breasts as they tried to get
out; and then to listen to them singing from some tree!"
"Or else see some cruel hawk come and seize one," said Janet, bitterly.
"Heigho! perhaps yes," sighed Patty; "there's always something to make
life unhappy."
"I like the goldfish," said Janet, without seeming to heed the sigh.
"They always put me in mind of lying there--just there!" and she pointed
to a corner by the window, "when I was little and could not walk, but
only lay there all day with my back aching, as I stretched out my hands
to touch one of the little bright things as they sailed so easily round
and round. I must have been very very little when he bought the first
to please me. But Patty, Patty!" she exclaimed, as she peered in the
other's eyes, "what made you sigh, and say that there was always
something to make you unhappy?"
Patty was silent, and gazed thoughtfully at the fish, as another,
seeking the food so often given, rose and touched her finger.
"What did you mean?" said Janet again, bending forward to gaze in the
soft grey eyes. "It was not because I spoke of the hawk?"
Patty shook her head.
"Well, perhaps not altogether--I mean, I don't know," she said, in a
slow hesitating way. "But really I must go home now; I promised not to
be very long."
Janet watched her eagerly, then, as if to change the subject, kissed her
affectionately, and thanked her for what she had done below, ending, at
Patty's wish, by putting on her bonnet and accompanying her friend back
to Duplex Street, D. Wragg being charged with a message for Monsieur
Canau, who, according to custom on such occasions, came for his adopted
daughter in the evening.
Volume 1, Chapter XV.