Part 15 (1/2)
”I am here too, dear uncle,” said Renee.
”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 Renee.
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:
”Renee!”
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went through the same performance, and as she loosed it, the hand was pa.s.sed gently over both her cheeks, and then withdrawn, when Gertrude returned to her seat, and there was again silence.
”You are not happy, Renee,” said the voice at last, in its cold measured accents; ”there was a tear on my hand.”
Renee 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 Renee 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 pa.s.sed 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 s.h.i.+ning 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 Renee, 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 Renee 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: