From the day of that dinner forward, Lavirotte seemed anxious to make
up for what he then spoke of as the neglect of his little godson. One
day he came and brought the mug with the boy's name and the date of
his birth on it. Another day he brought a spoon, a knife and fork.
"You know, Dominique," said Eugene, "this is too much. We are not rich
enough to take such presents."
"Ah!" said Lavirotte. "You mean also that I am not rich enough to make
them. But you see I was not quite at the end of my resources when this
engagement turned up, and I shall be in receipt of what I must
consider a handsome salary in a couple of weeks."
"By Jove, yes," said Eugene. "I do not object to your being guilty of
this extravagance if it does not inconvenience you at the moment. I
know you will be comparatively well off. I am delighted you are in
such good health."
At this Lavirotte looked strangely at his friend. "Yes," he said, "I
am all right now. But will it last? Has Fraser said anything to you
about it?"
"He has said to me, simply, what we all know--that a tenor, and
particularly a tenor in this climate, is liable to be knocked up at
any minute. Beyond that he said nothing, I think, and all you have to
do is to be careful of yourself, and see that you don't take cold. If
you keep in only your present form, you are bound to make a great
hit."
"Well, Eugene, at least you are encouraging. My notion is, Fraser
thinks I shall never sing the part. But I will, if I died for it. My
heart is set on it, and I would rather die than not go on."
"Nonsense!" said Eugene. "You're talking in an exaggerated way. You
will sing, and sing admirably. The audience will rise to you as one
man, and next morning the newspapers won't know where to get words of
praise for your performance."
Again a queer look came into Lavirotte's eye. "I think, Eugene, you
are a very simple man."
"I see no need for anything but simplicity in this matter. You know,
Dominique, I shall be greatly delighted to be understudy when the
opera is started. Of course, I'd rather have anything to do than look
on, but there's no help for that."
"No," said Lavirotte, with an uncomfortable laugh, "there's no help
for it unless fate steps in."
"Oh, confound it, Dominique! Give up your 'ifs.' I'm tired of them.
Here are Nellie and the boy. Let us drop shop."
Lavirotte rose quickly, went to Mrs. O'Donnell, took her hand and
shook it tenderly. Then, having lifted the boy in his arms, he kissed
him and pressed him to his breast, and carried him about the room'
saying: "You will grow to be a fine generous fellow, Mark, like your
father; and you will always be as good and gentle as your mother,
although you never can be as beautiful. Mark, dear, kiss your
godfather, who has no wife, no son of his own. You'll always be fond
of Dominique, won't you, boy?"
"Of course he will," said Eugene, taking the boy out of Lavirotte's
arms and fondling him tenderly.
Ever since the boy had come to Eugene until now, there had always hung
over the father's mind a certain cloud of gloom. For while he said to
himself that Nellie had come to him in the full light of her reason,
and with the knowledge that his house had suffered great commercial
disaster, between her coming and the birth of the boy greater disaster
still had fallen upon them--ruin in fact--and when the boy was born he
seemed to be the despairing leader of a forlorn hope.
He had often looked at that boy, and wondered whether or not he should
be able to find bread for him. The love he had for Nellie was of a
different character. It was more robust and less intimate. Supposing
his supplies failed absolutely, he could tell her there was no bread,
and she would understand. But the little fellow could not understand.
He would think that bread came, like the daylight, to all living
things alike. He would simply know that he was hungry, and that
heretofore when he was hungry he got food. And being hungry again, he
would ask for food, and expect it. And if he (the father) had to tell
him there was no food, had to try to quiet him with mere words and
caresses, how should he, Eugene, feel?
And then, although the little fellow might be quieted for a while, he
could not be for long, and he would cry piteously for food. And there
would be none to give him.
The boy would gradually weaken from hour to hour, until he ceased to
cry, until he had no strength to cry. Gradually the weakness would
increase. His face would become pallid. His rounded pink limbs wasted.
His breath short and faint. He would lie exactly as placed, without
power to move his body, without power to move his limbs. The little
eyes would remain half open. The little fingers could no longer close
around the finger of father or mother. The pale lips, parted, would no
longer have strength to close at the familiar kiss.
Then would come a moment when the eyes would open, the little nose
become pinched, the little face haggard, and----
It was too horrible to think of. God in his mercy had spared him that
sight, and given him instead a comfortable, if small, home, sufficient
simple food, and the assurance of the continuance of all these.
Now, more than ever, Eugene's heart went forth to his wife and child.
They were no longer threatened by want. They should now lack nothing
needful for comfort. The little fellow was sturdy and able to walk,
and it was the father's delight to go out with Nellie and him, and
walk along the streets of shops and see his wife buy the things
needful for their small household, and some cheap luxury or toy for
their child.
It was to him a sensation of great delight that he might spend a few
pence, ay, even a few shillings, without mortgaging the future
heavily. He seemed suddenly to have shaken off a whole inheritance of
care. He laughed frequently, and made light-hearted jokes. He sang to
Nellie and his boy for mere amusement, and he made humorously
extravagant promises of what he should do for both when the full tide
of his good fortune set in.
"Dominique and I," said he, "shall draw a line on the map, from London
to Constantinople, and we will toss as to who shall go east and who
west, and thus we shall take the capitals of Europe by storm.
Whichever goes east the first year, goes west the second. This will be
fair, and thus we shall never clash. And you shall see all the
capitals of Europe, Nellie, and the boy shall be poisoned with every
possible sweetmeat that Europe can devise. And I shall get awfully
vain of my success, and wear the most extraordinary clothes tailors
can invent. And like Napoleon crossing the Alps, in the peepshows, I
shall always ride a white horse. And when I go into a new town all the
people shall come out and do me homage, and we'll put up at the best
hotels. And they will never ask me to pay a bill. I shall simply sing
a song in the morning, and kiss my hand and go. A fine life ours will
be. And there you are now, Mark. There's a first-class chance for your
getting a Bath bun with the legal allowance of clinker in it."
Almost every evening now, Lavirotte came. He said one evening: "I am
thinking of taking a house in this neighbourhood, and I like yours
very well."
"You will be a richer man than I am," said Eugene. "If you follow my
advice you won't take a house in this street. They are all wretchedly
built. Look here," he said. "None of the doors fit. Few of the latches
shoot into the jambs or hasps."
"That must be a great nuisance," said Lavirotte. "And how about the
locks and bolts?"
"Most of the locks and bolts are all right. But I am often uneasy when
there is no one in the kitchen, and the bolts are not shot; for the
spring-lock there enters the hasp so slightly that a good push would
send the door in."
"That is a pity," said Lavirotte. "But, I suppose, you are not afraid
of burglars here."
"Burglars! Not I! It would not be worth the while of any burglar to
make a set on a house such as this. But a petty thief, a hearth-stone
boy, or a degraded old clothes-man might make a raid, and carry off a
few shillings' worth."
"Quite true," said Lavirotte. "But I think the danger is slight.
By-the-way, Eugene, I shall know the day after to-morrow something of
the greatest importance, but which I may not now reveal. Something in
connection with the first night at the Oberon. You will be there, of
course, Mrs. O'Donnell?"
"Certainly. I am most anxious to witness your _d├ębut_."
"I suppose you won't take Mark?'
"Oh, dear, no!" she said. "Mark is always in bed at six o'clock."
"That's right," he said. "All children should be in bed early."