An Opera and Lady Grasmere/Book 1/Chapter 7
CHAPTER VII.
MERCERON GOES TO BED.
WE left Merceron staring blankly into the empty cabinet, at its broken lock and damaged door.
As the situation opened to him, as he realised that Isabella had escaped him, he burst out laughing. "Saved me the trouble, whoever you are!" he cried, throwing the box of matches on to a near table. "Saved me the trouble—dashed silly thing to steal, though!" he protested.
Despite these unconcerned exclamations, the thought of ringing up and interrogating his man occurred to him as he turned away, still laughing; but it was too early in the morning for Hancock to be astir, and he wasn't "going to wake the beggar; hardly worth while, hanged if it is!" he repeated mirthfully, addressing the violated piece of furniture, that still yawned painfully in the background. Harvey went back and closed its open door. "Rather a pull up, wasn't it?" said he; "quite the 'hand of Fate' we hear so much about!"
"Funny notion, though, coming up here and taking Isabella, and leaving the other things," he mused, resuming his seat before the fire-place; "I wonder what they want it for?"
Some faint regrets had mingled with his mirth: for, after all, was not Isabella a witness to years of industry and aspiration; as a souvenir alone, had merited preservation? And then he might have shown her to the yellow domino; perhaps she would have been interested.... Bah, he was no longer a musician, but a man, merely a man! This afternoon there would be greater music than any he might ever compose! It was well that Isabella had passed out of his life; she had no place in the new existence that spread before him. He was going to listen now! Other men could spend their lives over Isabellas; as for him, he was going to sit in his stall and enjoy. The clock on the mantelpiece caught his eye, interrupted his reflections. It was close on seven—had he not better go to bed for a few hours? It would be absurd for him to resume in the afternoon, tired-out and yawning. And he must also look in at his tailor's, for he had hardly a decent coat in his wardrobe. Clothes had troubled him very little of late.
Merceron retired to his bedroom and went to sleep. At eleven he awoke, feeling rather clammy and dissipated. A bath revived him. As he dressed, he recollected that he had asked Sopwith to look in the night before and talk Francesca over with him, and that he had gone out with Hutchinson, completely forgetful of this prior engagement. He was meditating an apology, when a connection between the sudden disappearance of Isabella, and Sopwith's call appeared to him as in some measure possible.
"No, Sopwith isn't that sort!" exclaimed Merceron, scouting the idea—it was too unpalatable; "and, besides, he's pegging away at one of his own—at Francesca!"
"And yet," persisted reason, "who else would take a pile of music; and hardly anyone but Sopwith knows I 've done it? I'd have given it to him for the asking... perhaps he only..."
Here Merceron turned aside, deferring other speculations, hoping against hope. He rang, instead, for shaving-water and breakfast.
"By-the-by, Hancock," he carelessly inquired, as the man returned, "were you in last night?"
"Yes, sir."
Harvey's eyes were on his servant's face; here surely was no stealer of operas—absurd!
"Did anybody call after I went out?" he continued, selecting a razor.
"A gentleman, sir; he wouldn't leave his name or any message. He said he'd wait a little as you were out, sir; and, as he was a gentleman, I showed him into the sitting-room."
Merceron was puzzled, but suppressed his interest, asking only in the same indifferent tone:
"Did he stay long?"
"About half an hour, sir; I thought"
"Mr. Sopwith didn't look in?" interrupted Harvey.
"No, sir."
Merceron was pleased; relieved as well.
"All right," he said, closing the interview.
What was the use of following up the matter? As for his mysterious visitor, he would leave him to his defective conscience, and the critics. He was glad, more than glad, that his doubts regarding Sopwith had been so promptly dispelled. A note from that suspect, lying beside the breakfast things, banished the last of these unwelcome fears. Yesterday's date headed it.
"Dear old chap," it ran, "I was up the river all day, and got back to town too late to come in this evening. Sorry to disappoint you; write and fix another day. Friday or sometime next week will do."
"What a cad I was to think poor old Sop bad taken the thing!" exclaimed Merceron over this message. "I must write to him." And he did so as soon as he had breakfasted.
"Come in again," he wrote. "Give me a clear day's notice first though, as I have taken your advice and am going out to see the world. What do you think has become of Isabella? You won't believe it; but some idiot seems to have walked in last night and made off with her. It seems the funnier, because I 've given up work for good, and wouldn't quite have known what to do with Isabella had the idiot stayed at home. I'm going to listen to you other fellows in future; so mind you hurry up with Francesca, and make her worth listening to."
"Hang it all, I'm forgetting all about this afternoon!" cried Harvey, as he closed the envelope that covered this note. Whereupon, he arose and went to the window.
"HOPE IT'LL TURN FINE AGAIN!"—Page 91.
"Looks like rain," as he inspected the fragment of heavy sky visible above the opposite side of Down Street. "Hope it 'll turn fine again!"
He had forgotten all about Sopwith and Isabella; stood once more upon that balcony overlooking the Green Park and Piccadilly.