A Double Knot - George Manville Fenn

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arm.

      Then the noise ceased, and the little panel, about a foot square, before which the flowers had been placed, was drawn aside, seeming to run into a groove.

      The sisters did not move, but waited, knowing from old experience that at a word or movement on their part the panel would be clapped impatiently to, and that their visit would be a fruitless one.

      A stranger would have thought of rats and the action of one of those rodents in what took place; for now that the panel had been slid back, all remained perfectly still, as if the mover were listening and watching. Then at last a thin, very white hand appeared, lifted the flowers out of the bowl, and they disappeared.

      There was not even a rustling noise heard for a few minutes, during which the sisters sat patiently waiting.

      At last there was a faint sigh; and a cold—so to speak, colourless—voice said:

      “Is Gertrude there?”

      “Yes, dear uncle,” said the young girl eagerly.

      “Anyone else?”

      “I am here too, dear uncle,” said Renée.

      “Hah! I am glad to hear you, my children—glad to hear you. How is my brother?”

      “Papa is not very well, uncle,” said Gertrude. “Poor dear, his cough is very troublesome.”

      “Poor Humphrey! he is so weak,” said the voice, in the same cold, monotonous way that was almost repulsive in its chilling tone. “Tell him, when he is well enough, he can come and talk to me for half an hour. I cannot bear more.”

      “Yes, dear uncle, I will tell him,” said Renée.

      Then there was another pause, and at last the thin white hand stole cautiously forth, half covered with a lace frill, and the cold voice said:

      “Renée!”

      The young wife left her seat, went forward, took it in her ungloved hand, and kissed it. Then she returned to her place, and the voice said:

      “Gertrude!”

      The young girl went through the same performance, and as she loosed it, the hand was passed gently over both her cheeks, and then withdrawn, when Gertrude returned to her seat, and there was again silence.

      “You are not happy, Renée,” said the voice at last, in its cold measured accents; “there was a tear on my hand.”

      Renée sighed, but made no reply.

      “Gertrude, child, I like duty towards parents; but I think a daughter goes too far when, at their wish, she marries a man she does not love.”

      “Oh, uncle dear,” cried Gertrude hysterically, “pray, pray, do not talk like this!”

      She made a brave effort to keep back her tears, and partially succeeded, for Renée softly knelt down by her side and drew her head close to her breast.

      “Poor children!” said the voice again. “I am sorry, but I cannot help you. You must help yourselves.”

      There was a nervous, querulous tone in the voice now, as if the suppressed sobs that faintly rose troubled the speaker, but it had passed when the voice was heard once more in a quiet way, more like an appeal than a command:

      “Sing to me.”

      The sisters rose and went to a very old-fashioned grand piano, opened it, and Gertrude’s fingers swept the wiry jangling chords which sounded quite in keeping with the room; then, subduing the music as much as possible, so that their fresh young voices dominated, rising and falling in a rich harmony that floated through the room, they sang the old, old duet, “Flow on, thou shining river.” Every note seemed to have in it the sadness of age, the mournful blending of the bygone when hope was young and disappointment and care had not crushed with a load of misery a heart once fresh as those of the singers.

      A deep sigh came from the little panel, unheard, though, by the two girls, and the hand appeared once more for the thin white fingers to tap the wood gently in unison with the music, which was inexpressibly sweet, though sad.

      For how is it that those melodies of the past, even though major, seemed to acquire a mournful tone that is not minor, but has all its sad sweetness? Take what pathetic air you will of a generation or two back, and see if it has not acquired within your knowledge a power of drawing tears that it had not in the days of old.

      From the simple duet, first one and then the other glided to the old-fashioned ditties popular thirty or forty years before. “Those evening bells,” “Waters of Elle,” and the like, till, without thinking, Gertrude began “Love not,” her sweet young voice sounding intensely pathetic as she went on, gradually gathering inspiration from the words, till in the midst of the sweetest, most appealing strain, she uttered a cry of misery, and threw herself sobbing into her sister’s arms.

      “Oh, Gerty, darling, why did you sing that?” whispered Renée, trying to soothe her, as her own tears fell fast, but for a few minutes in vain, till by a brave effort Gertrude got the better of her hysterical feelings, and, hastily wiping her eyes, glanced towards the panel, where the bowl of water stood upon the bracket, but the opening was closed.

      The sisters looked piteously at one another, and Renée whispered:

      “Speak to him. Tell him you did not wish to make him angry.”

      Gertrude glided to the panel, and, stifling a sob, she said softly:

      “Uncle, dear uncle, do not be cross with me—I am very sorry. I was so miserable.”

      There was no reply—no sound to indicate that the words had been heard; and after waiting for about a quarter of an hour the two girls crossed to the door, went slowly out, and found that they had had an audience in the shape of Valentine Vidler and his wife, who had been seated upon the stairs.

      “Thank you, my dears,” said Salome, nodding and smiling. “We like to hear you sing. You have made a very long stay to-day, and his lunch is quite ready.”

      The sisters were too heartsore to trust themselves to say much, and Vidler opened the door for them, admitting as little light as he could by closing it directly and going to assist his wife.

      “Renée,” said Gertrude as they reached the square, “do you remember what Uncle Robert said?”

      “Yes. He could not help us—we must help ourselves.”

      “Then”—There was a pause.

      “Yes, dear, what?”

      “I’m sure mamma is planning for me to marry Lord Henry Moorpark.”

      “I’m afraid so.”

      “And I’m sure, Ren dear, he’s a dear, amiable, nice old man; but if he proposes I never will say ‘Yes’.”

      There was another pause, and then Renée smiled, passed her arm round her handsome sister’s neck, and kissed her lovingly.

      “Have you got John Huish very bad?” she whispered.

      Gertrude’s cheeks were crimson, and the colour flushed into her neck as she flung her arms round her sister and hid her face on her breast.

       Table of Contents

      Dr. Stonor’s Patient.

      “The doctor at home?”

      This to a quiet, sedate-looking man in livery, who opened the door of one of the serious-looking houses in Finsbury Circus, where, upon a very shiny brass plate, were in Roman letters the words “Dr. Stonor.” There was not much in those few black letters,

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