I cannot blame Margaret. It was but natural that she should be attracted by Sybrandt, as everyone in the world would be. Let me tell you again, Margaret's temptation was too great. I do not wonder at it.
Anyhow you see the result.
My child! Yes! my child! of my soul, if not of my body. He has the likeness of Sybrandt, and his mother's lovely golden hair. Sybrandt's hair was bronze coloured.
But I know I am going to die, and that is the reason why I am telling you all this.
Pardon me for talking so much nonsense. I was going to tear up this letter. But then, what am I to write? I shall probably make the same stupid mistakes over again, and I must write this letter, because I know in spite of all you say about premonitions, that I shall die either to-morrow or the day after.
O Elizabeth, be kind to poor little Siboo. Do not cast him out utterly, although he is an outcast. At least, it is not his fault. You have been kind to him so far, and I trust you. Let my child—I repeat—my child—be under your care; I repeat, my child, my only one—be guarded from all ill.
You are not familiar with Catholic prayers, but perhaps, in your own service, you know the verse in the psalm, “Deliver my soul from the sword and my darling from the power of the dog.”
Elizabeth!
Of course you will not pray for me when I am dead. Your religion does not believe in prayers for the dead. Perhaps Margaret will.I have said what I had to say to you.
(Signed)
KILCORAN.’
I was by this time disgusted at these disgraceful confessions. And these were the people with whom I had been living so long, in constant amicability. My first thought was to look after the child, whom I regarded as more or less my own property now. He was lying on the floor asleep, his hand hanging on to that of his father's corpse (when I say his father, I knew only too well, he was not his father: anyhow, he did not think so, and why should he be disillusioned from his innocent opinion?).
There he lay, his lovely long eyelashes throwing shadows on his cheeks, by the light of the candles about the Catafalque.
I am Protestant and practical: practical in as far as to have remembered that he might have very easily knocked one of the candlesticks over and set fire to the whole hotel. Anyhow, he had not, and it was only a momentary thought. Surely a painter, seeking a model for the sleeping Jesus, could have found none better. This child then I was to deprive of his inheritance.
No, never!
There was no reason why he should know what I probably alone knew.
Still, I would rather not entrust him to the care of a woman like Margaret. Surely Kilcoran's letter authorised me thus far.
Chapter X
The next day was the funeral.
I happened by way of distraction to take up a local journal. Of course the first thing that caught my eye was a notice of Kilcoran's death, and a sort of absurd panegyric of Kilcoran's virtues generally, and what he had done for that large and important town Ostraeke. My mood was then serious and not satirical, or rather my satire embittered itself with sarcasm. The article proceeded with these words:—
‘The solemn obsequies of the “trépassé” will be held tomorrow at the church of Nôtre Dame: we have private reasons to know that the Requiem by our illustrious compatriot’ (or rather the word was “citoyen”—I am translating loosely), ‘Sybrandt von den Velden, will be rendered with full orchestra. Signor Sarini (I think that was the name) is taking the part of the first violin. So we may recommend to our readers, who are lovers of music, though they may not be personal friends of the deceased, that there will be a treat in store for them. The hour will be a quarter past eleven.’
By what coincidence was Sybrandt von den Velden again dragged into this connection? He was the cause of enough unhappiness to them in life. Why should he thus force himself on Kilcoran's memory after death?
The croquemorts arrived. The child was still clinging to the corpse. Alfred said, laying his hand on the child's shoulder, kindly and even tenderly, yet not without that soupçon of cynicism which I always detested in his way of speaking: ‘You see they are going to take Papa away, little one, I'll have to be your papa now.’
The child said only, ‘No, no, no, no,’ clinging passionately to the corpse.
Then Margaret, who was extraordinarily calm, considering the emotion of last night, said, ‘You know, Siboo dear, Papa is going to be buried and we are going back to Ireland.’ Suddenly the child sprang from what I may still call his dead father, threw his arms around me, and said in a voice full of agony, ‘O Aunt Elizabeth, you won't let me go away, will you? You will take care of me?’
I have to say I do not believe in the supernatural, or that sort of thing, but could not help being struck by the coincidence with Kilcoran's last request, which I had read yesterday night. ‘Yes,’ I answered with fervour, ‘my darling, I will take care of you.’ Then I looked at Margaret, who said in a dull monotone, ‘Yes, Elizabeth, if you do not mind, I think that would be the best just now.’
I said I had feared for the child's reason. He was perfectly intelligent now, and comprehended well the whole situation.
The croquemorts removed the body and we went to the church, the child holding me by the hand. Margaret seemed an inverse Galatea; she was as it were frozen into a statue. The pallor of her skin against the deep black of her dress gave her almost the appearance of marble.
Then came the Requiem.
The ceremonial, doubtlessly impressive for those who could understand it, conveyed no meaning to me: but the music—certainly I had done Sybrandt von den Velden an injustice to say he was merely good—his work was wonderful. A revelation! What a genius he must have been, and might be still if—no, it makes my blood boil to think that one with such glorious capabilities, would have been merely the Paris of that wretched woman, the Antinous of that wretched man.
The music seemed to affect the child very deeply, at least at the beginning. His eyes lit up extraordinarily at what I suppose must have been the Offertory. I remember in particular the words ‘Libera me de ore leonis’ sung by a high beautiful treble in an agonized cadence, accompanied by a series of descending chromatic scales, ending in, as I thought, one long, low, thrilling note from the bass viol, though in reality a kind of wail on the first violin. It is impossible to describe—for music cannot be translated into words, how it gave me the effect of a serpentine intertwinement of the chromatic scale in the form of a monogram; why this impression I cannot say. But such impressions are worth recording, as by such means speech might be brought to admit one art communicating its secret to another. And, O, the solemnity of those choral silver trumpets. Indeed I was so struck by the music that I did not notice at the time that the child seemed to have lost all interest in it. He had a dull vague expression on his face, and afterwards, when we followed the funeral cortège, his demeanour was that of absolute apathy; whereas I had expected, and feared, some violent demonstration of grief. He simply allowed himself to be led by the hand, saying nothing, and afterwards be led back to the Hotel. He sat down wearily on a chair and did nothing. Margaret and Alfred seemed to have disappeared suddenly. I thought, of course, they were walking behind us the whole time. I was so absorbed in the child's unusual demeanour as to be wholly oblivious to their presence or absence.
There was no trace of them. I thought at least she would come to look after her child. Of course I was not surprised that she did not appear at the table d’hôte.
Her grief had been too great for her, I supposed. And after much hesitation I thought I would go to her room, to see what I could do for her. Although her confession of last night caused me to execrate her, as she herself said it would, at the same time I was filled with great pity towards her. I had had time for reflection.
I went to her room and knocked gently; then louder, then opened the door. The room was dark, and there was no one there. Just then the maid came up the corridor, and said, ‘O, madame packed her things and went by the four o’ clock t
rain to Brussels, and monsieur went by the half past two train in the other direction, I don't know where to. O, but,’ suddenly recollecting herself and taking a letter out of her apron pocket, ‘Madame la Comtesse requested me to give this to you.’
Chapter XI
And this was the letter—
‘My dear Elizabeth,—
After what has passed between us, you will understand why I have avoided any oral explanation.
You promised to take care of my child, and I know you are as good as your word. I am going straight to Ireland to arrange my husband's affairs. Till they are settled I cannot tell you exactly how much property will be yours. Meanwhile I will remit to you £200 a month, and beg of you in return to send me at least a brief postcard as to the health and general well-being of my child. Perhaps even you would not mind writing me now and then a letter.
P.S. Of course address to, Kilcoran Castle, Co. Galway, Ireland.
Yours,
Margaret Kilcoran.’
Well, after all that had happened, what was I to say to a letter like that? I wrote my reply twice, beginning without a title—
‘Do you suppose I would touch a farthing of your money? I am not indigent, and there is no reason whatever why the child should know the fact, which does not concern me, of his not being the real heir to the Kilcoran estates.
I presuppose you have not communicated your shameful secret to anyone else. However, I will let you know every week how your child is getting on. Just now, I am sorry to say, he seems to me anything but well. I trust to be able to give you a more favourable account next time I write.
ELIZABETH RANDALL’
Chapter XII
Gradually the awful truth dawned on me, that the child was an idiot. Suddenly—I suppose some time during the Requiem—all reason had gone from him. He was tractable and well-behaved, but absolutely apathetic. His lovely eyes had lost all their lustre. He never spoke except occasionally to murmur to himself; and only with the greatest difficulty could he be induced to eat.
O, how my heart went out to that child then! To think that in the ark of this beautiful body there was no longer any soul! At least, so it seemed. Sometimes he was responsive to caresses; especially if one stroked his beautiful golden hair, gold suffused with a shadow of silver, waving and curled at the ends, so soft in texture, the loveliest hair I have ever seen or felt.
He would now and then smile a little with a certain satisfaction, and give a soft murmuring noise, very like that which doves give forth when they are asleep. Kilcoran used to caress him in this way. Perhaps he thought of him. But I never could be certain that he thought of anything. Still, he had the intelligence to behave properly in the ordinary things of life, and also could find his way about. He never by any chance went into a wrong room. He was simply languid; he would sit still by himself for hours together. But would allow himself to be led about the town, or indeed, for long walks in the country; walking perfectly erect and well, yet taking no interest in anything whatsoever. Indeed, it needed our greatest care to prevent his being run over. One day he very nearly was. My daughter had let go of his hand for an instant, and he did not seem to notice a cab coming full tilt against him.
There was one strange thing, that although absolutely apathetic in other respects, neither resisting nor showing any will of his own, every time he went out he dragged me, as we passed, into the Church, where he took holy water automatically and never forgot to genuflect to the altar. He would sometimes sit, sometimes kneel, in an absolutely listless way. He would have gone on staying there for ever, I suppose, and was as impassive as ever.
I had one hope, after having consulted the most celebrated doctor in Belgium, that the sound of music might possibly effect some awakening of intelligence in him. So I took him to the church during the times of service, especially on Sunday afternoons when the music was really very fine. But his sense for music had absolutely gone. Still, I did not actually lose all hope, for one time when a piece on the violin was being played as an interlude during ‘Salut’, or ‘Benediction’ as it is called in England and Ireland, a faint flicker of a smile did glimmer over his face.
The effect, however, was only temporary.
Chapter XIII
But I did not quite despair.
It appears Margaret had arranged that a solemn Requiem should take place on the anniversary of Kilcoran's death. She did not say in any letter to me (I did keep up a somewhat curt correspondence with her) whether she was going to be present or not. But a thought struck me: supposing I took the child to Kilcoran's Requiem, might not the repetition of effects restore him to intelligence again? especially as I saw the announcement in the papers that the same Mass by Sybrandt von den Velden would be performed on this occasion, giving a like exordium to a possible audience, as on this last occasion. But this time the notice was inserted among the theatrical notices.
So I went to it, taking Siboo with me.
The child was apathetic as usual at first; then came that peculiar motive in the Offertory, which I previously described, this time played very badly: a kind of shudder convulsed his delicate frame. He knelt with eyes intent, but I feared from their fixed expression that the effect was merely temporary.
When the Requiem was over, I took him by the hand as usual to lead him out of the church. I was greatly surprised that his hand responded with a certain grasp. Still greater was my surprise, on the way back, when he began laughing and talking as if nothing had happened. He was indeed like one dead having come to life again.
When we got back to the hotel, he rushed into the Conversation Room, and opened the piano which had not been played upon for a year—I may here state that though both my daughter and myself are by way of being pianists, yet somehow from the horrible circumstances connected with it, we neither of us dared to touch the piano; although I often thought that to play this piano to him might arouse Siboo from his terrible lethargy. I said the child opened the piano, and began to play, not only to play but to sing, in the most divine treble voice it is possible to conceive. Somehow, I never really heard him sing before.
Good God! what he played and sang!
‘Libera me de ore leonis’ from the Requiem. He seemed on that wretched instrument, now doubtless out of tune, to render the effect of the full orchestra. You could actually hear the bass viola and the silver trumpets!
And how he sang! He came to that cadence—the words I only too definitely remember, ‘Fac eas, Domine, de morte transire ad vitam.’ There was a strange low tremolo at the word ‘morte’, ending, after a strange chromatic movement at the word ‘transire’—(yes, it is curious how minutely one remembers these details which concern anything which has affected one deeply). How on earth could that child sing in this manner? I never knew he could sing at all, except that I had heard him hum or sing to himself occasionally. But this must have been one of the most difficult of pieces. I remember thinking, trivially, what training the chorister must have gone through, to render this strange inflection. Here this child sang it all at once, and how far more beautifully! and that after one, or perhaps two hearings. These were the reflections which occurred to me then, for I had little time for reflection immediately afterwards.
The motif ends at the word ‘vitam’, long sustained on the high B. How shall I describe the exquisite intonation he gave to that note, which is usually shrieked? The note seemed too prolonged; there was a slight quivering about the voice: then suddenly there was an awful sound like a rattle.
Siboo fell from the stool to the ground.
Yes, I guessed: I did not require a doctor to explain to me this was ‘a sudden failure of the heart's action.’
The door opened and who should walk in but Margaret?
Let it suffice that this day, this precise day, exactly as it had been last year, the ‘salon de conversation’ was converted into a chapelle ardente.
Alfred was also there with Margaret. On the third day the croquemorts came again to fetch a
way another corpse. But just before they came, Alfred and Margaret stood either side of the body of this lovely child, who seemed rather to be sleeping and dreaming of paradise than dead. They stretched out their hands one to the other across the child's body; holding each other by the hand, they merely looked at each other, not speaking any word.
He went away. I did not see him again, and she said very little, only that which was necessary. And we parted, in silence.
EPILOGUE
One day several years afterwards, when we were in London, Dorothy said to me: ‘Camilla told me,’—Camilla was some friend of hers—‘they are going to give the Romance for the violin by Sybrandt von den Velden at the ——— Church, this afternoon. Don't you remember, mamma, we heard that at that funny little place, Ostraeke, at a concert? Of course you must remember it?’
Yes, I certainly did remember it!
‘Let's go and hear it,’ she continued, and I thought ‘Why not?’ though it would not awake in me altogether pleasant reminiscences.
Coincidences are much more frequent than is generally supposed. The twofold coincidence is really quite common, so common that it is only noticed when it excites a particular reminiscence.
A threefold coincidence is of course less common. Still, according to the doctrine of chances, by no means so impossible as is supposed.
Anyhow, that is the way I tried to account for what followed. I was thinking at the time of my many arguments with Kilcoran; the influences of the preternatural in life. He always insisted on it, and I persistently denied it.
The church in question was a Catholic church, connected with some religious order, which moreover had a certain reputation for its rather operatic music. Well, we went there.
There actually was an advertisement at the door, that Signor Something-or-other was going to play the violin that day; also a long rigmarole about something which I think was called St. Pelagia's Homes, with a notice that the Offertory would be devoted to that charity.
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