When the wandering minstrel, with his violin under his arm, left the
neighborhood of Park-lane, he walked with a somewhat feeble and
faltering step through Grosvenor-square and into Bond-street. A few
people looked at him as he passed, and a hungry-looking girl who was
leaning against a wall suddenly asked him to play for her. He stopped
at the sound of her voice and said a word or two.
"I am sorry my violin only knows one air, and I have played it."
"Can you not play it again?"
"It is not meant for you, poor girl. Good-night."
"Good-night, kind sir. I'll say a prayer for you if you like; you look
miserable enough."
The minstrel removed his soft hat, made a gesture of thanks, and
hurried on. He was going to Queen's Gate. The walk was long, and he was
very feeble. He had a few coins in his pocket from the change of
Esther's sovereigns; he determined to ride, and mounted on the roof of
a Hammersmith omnibus in Piccadilly.
By-and-bye he reached his destination, and found himself in familiar
ground. He walked slowly now, hesitating--sometimes inclined to turn
back. Presently he reached a house; he went up the steps, and took
shelter for a moment from the biting east winds under the portico. It
was late, but the lights were still shining in the great mansion.
He was glad of this; he could not have done what he meant to do except
under strong excitement, and sheltered by the friendly gas light. He
turned and gave the visitor's bell a full peal. The door was opened
almost instantly by a liveried footman.
"Is Mr. Paget within?"
The man stared. The voice was not only refined, but to a certain extent
familiar. The voice, oh, yes; but then the figure, the thin, long
reed-like figure, slouching forward with weakness, buttoned up tight in
the seedy frock coat whose better days must have been a matter of the
very distant past.
"Is Mr. Paget within?"
The tone was so assured and even peremptory that the servant, in spite
of himself, was overawed.
"I believe so, sir," he said.
"Ask if I can see him."
"Mr. Paget is not very well, sir, and it is late."
"Ask if I can see him."
The footman turned a little surly.
"I'll inquire," he said; "he's sure to say no, but I'll inquire. Your
name, if you please. My master will require to know your name."
"I am known as Brother Jerome. Tell your master that my business is
urgent. Go; I am in a hurry."
"Rum party, that," murmured the servant. "Don't understand him; don't
like him. All the same, I can't shut the door in his face. He's the
sort of party as has seen better days; 'ope as the umbrellas is safe."
Then he walked across the hall and entered his master's study.
The room, with its old oak and painted glass, and electric light,
looked the perfection of comfort. The tall, white-headed man who sat
crushed up in the big armchair was the envied of many.
"If you please, sir," said the servant.
"Yes; don't leave the door open. Who were you chatting to in the
hall?"
"A man who has called, and wants to see you very particular, sir."
"I can't see him."
"He says his name is Brother Jerome."
"I can't see him. Go away, and shut the door."
"I knew it would be no use," muttered the footman. "Only he seems a
sort of a gentleman, sir, and in trouble like."
"I can't see him. Shut the door and go away!"
"Yes, you can see me," said a voice.
The minstrel walked into the room.
"Good heavens!"