The Last Call: A Romance (Vol. 3 of 3)

CHAPTER XXIX

Meanwhile the inspector had taken the nurse aside, and said to her: "This is a dreadful thing, that a man's house and his child should be burned." The woman was weeping and wailing bitterly. "I was deceived!" she said. "I was cruelly deceived. I don't know why they deceived me. I don't know why that woman deceived me. My beautiful boy! My beautiful child! It will kill his mother, and his father will never look at me again." "I don't ask you to tell me," said the inspector, "anything you don't like. Don't tell me anything that's against yourself. If you get into any trouble over this matter I might find it my duty to tell all you told me. But if you like I will listen to anything you have to say." "I'll tell you all I know about the matter, and you may do what you like with me. You couldn't do anything to me I don't deserve. I should never have left the house. I would never have left the house only for the lie that was told me." "Well, I will listen to what you have to say now, if you wish," said the inspector. The following is the story told by Bridget, the nurse: "My master and mistress left the house early to-day, between ten and eleven o'clock. They said they would not be back till after the play was over. They left me everything the boy and myself should want, and told me I was to get his dinner and my own at the usual time, and his supper between five and six, and that I was to put him to bed at six, as usual. I am an old servant in the O'Donnell family. I brought up Mr. Eugene himself, and they knew they could trust me. "I did everything they told me. I had nothing else to do all day but look after the boy, and get his dinner and my own, and his supper and my tea. I got his dinner and my own between one and two, and then he was with me about the house when I was tidying up, until it was time to get his supper and my tea, between five and six. "I hadn't much to do. There was no knock at the front door, and only a few at the side door, and no one was in the house from the time the master and mistress left, until that ragged boy called in the evening. "I had given the child his supper and put him to bed a little while, and was taking my tea in the kitchen, when there was a single knock at the side door. "I was just done my tea, so I let the knock wait for a minute or so, while I was finishing. Then I got up and opened the side door, and I saw standing there, in the passage, a dirty, ragged boy, of about fourteen or fifteen years of age. "I did not like the look of him at all, and I asked him what he wanted. He said he wanted Mr. O'Donnell's house. "I told him this was it, and asked him what he wanted at Mr. O'Donnell's house. "He said he wanted to see Mr. O'Donnell's nurse, he had a message for her. "I said I was Mr. O'Donnell's nurse, and asked him what his business with me was. "He said he had a private message for me, that he was to give to nobody else. "I could make nothing of him. I didn't expect a message from anyone. He looked a bad boy, a common street boy that had no good bringing up. I did not ask him across the threshold. I said to him: 'Well, if you have any message for Mr. O'Donnell's nurse, give it to me. There is no one near to hear.' "'Are you the nurse?' said the boy, – after my telling him twice I was. "'Yes,' said I, 'I am Mr. O'Donnell's nurse.' "'Then,' said he, 'a woman told me to come and fetch you.' "'What woman, and where does she want me to go to?' I asked. "'Oh, she's a most respectable woman; and she said she'd tell you her business when she saw you, and that she would not tell it to anyone but yourself.' "I thought all this very queer. He wouldn't tell anyone but me what his message was, and when I came to hear what it was, there was nothing in it he mightn't tell anyone. For what harm could there be in my going to see a woman, or in his asking me to go to see her? Then I thought to myself, I won't stir a step with this bad-looking boy, and I said: 'Tell the woman that sent you I don't know her. If she knew me she'd have told you her name, and why couldn't she have come herself?' "'I don't know any of these things. She certainly did tell me one thing that I forgot, and it was that if you came and heard what she had to say, it would do a whole lot of good to your master and mistress.' "When he said this I began to think: 'Maybe 'tis some secret about the bank my old master lost all his money in, and no matter how ragged or dirty the boy may be, it is not my place to throw away any chance there may be of my master or his son getting back some of their money.' "So I said to the boy: 'Wait here till I get my bonnet and shawl,' and with that I went upstairs to the room in which the child lay. He was wide awake. He would always go to sleep by himself, but never in the dark. So when I came down to my tea I left the lamp alight on the table. "I told the child I was going out, and if he'd be a good boy and promise not to get out of bed or go near the lamp, I'd turn it up higher. He promised not to stir. I took my shawl and bonnet, and came down. "When I got to the kitchen the ragged boy was sitting on one of the chairs, although I had told him to stay where he was. "I turned down the kitchen lamp, took the key out of the door, and pulled the door after me. The door shuts with a spring-latch, and there was no occasion to lock it. "The woman's messenger brought me along some streets I was never in before, until he came to a cross-road where there was a great deal of light and a lot of public-houses. "He pointed out one, and said it was there the woman was. I said I wouldn't go in, that I did not go into public-houses, and he said: 'Well, wait a minute, and I'll tell her you're here.' "He ran in, and in a moment came out with a woman as dirty and as ill-looking as himself, and she said: 'Why, Bridget, won't you come in and have a glass?' "I said: 'No, I won't; I never go into such places.' I did not know her voice or her looks. And I didn't like her voice or her looks, and I wanted to have nothing to do with her. But when I heard her call me Bridget as if she knew me all her life, and when I thought of the master and the mistress and their money that was lost, I felt I must anyway listen to what she had to say. I saw her give the boy some money. Then he ran away. "Then she asked me if I'd walk down a bit of the street with her, and I said I would, but that she must be quick in saying all she had to say to me. "By this time we had got out of the broad road and were in a kind of lane, with walls, and trees growing over the walls on each side. "She said she heard I was in a good situation, and that my old master had been very kind to me and had given me many presents. And with that we came under a lamp, and she said: 'I know you're in a hurry back. What I have to say to you won't take a minute, and I'll show you a short cut home. But while we're near the light, would you mind telling me the time?' "I took out my watch, which was one of the presents the old master had given me, and looked at it. There were two lanes crossing here. When I looked at my watch it was a quarter past seven. I got a great start to think I was out so long. I told her the hour, and said: 'Show me the short cut, and tell me what you have to say at once.' "'That's the short cut,' said she, pointing straight on, and before I knew what was happening, she made a snatch at my watch, and ran down the cross lane as fast as she could. "The chain did not break. She was a younger and lighter woman than I am, and I knew I could not overtake her if I tried, and before I could think of anything, I lost sight of her in the darkness. "When I got back, which wasn't for more than an hour, I saw the house was on fire, and remembering all about the lamp and the child, I thought he must have turned it over, and set fire to the place. I hadn't the courage to stay, knowing what I had done. So I went away as fast as I could, and stopped away until now." When the nurse had ceased speaking, the inspector said nothing beyond: "The whole thing seems to have been a clumsy dodge to steal your watch." This explanation did not fully satisfy the inspector's mind, and he resolved to put the woman's story aside until he had more opportunity of thinking over it. O'Donnell was once more pacing up and down. The flames were almost subdued. It was now past midnight, and the crowd, which had collected to see the fire, had gradually melted away. O'Donnell, seeing that the inspector had turned from the nurse, approached him, and said: "There can no longer be the faintest hope. There can no longer be an excuse for hope. Do you not think so?" "In all cases of the kind," said the inspector, softly and sadly, "it is impossible to be sure until we have positive evidence. The nurse has told me her story, and if it is true, I am afraid we must be prepared for the worst." "Then my boy is dead!" cried O'Donnell, in anguish. "For I am sure old Bridget would not tell a lie to save her life. My boy! My little boy! This will kill his mother! My only fear is that it will not kill me." At that moment a man stepped quickly through the line of policemen, which was no longer very strictly kept. He put his hand on O'Donnell's shoulder and said softly: "I recognised your voice, Eugene. I heard what you said." "Fraser, this is awful!" "It is a dreadful blow, my dear fellow, a dreadful blow! I went home. I have been greatly excited since, and in my excitement, I am ashamed to say I forgot you for a moment, and told the man to drive me home. My wife was not at the theatre; and, until she said something to me about you, I did not realise the fact that you might have worse news than the burning down of your house." "Ay, I have the worst that we could have expected from the news Lavirotte brought." "Has anyone been here from the theatre?" "No. I have seen no one I knew since I left." "Then you have not heard what has happened?" "No." "In the second act Lavirotte fell insensible on the stage, and we had to drop the curtain and stop the piece." "Good heavens! What a night of disasters! How is he?" "He recovered in a short time, and in spite of all we could do, and all the doctor could say to the contrary, insisted on being driven to Porter Street. He would allow no one of the company but Jephson to go with him. As you say, it was a night of disasters; but, my dear Eugene, yours is far the worst." "Mr. Fraser," said a new voice, "do you know anything of O'Donnell?" "Yes, Jephson. He is here." "Where?" said Jephson. "Here," repeated Fraser, putting his hand on O'Donnell. "I did not recognise you. I suppose you have told him what has happened, Fraser?" "Yes," said O'Donnell. "How is Lavirotte?" "Dying," answered Jephson. "He cannot last till daylight, and he says he cannot die without seeing you. Can you come with me to him?" O'Donnell moved over to the inspector, and asked: "When can we be quite certain of the worst?" "Not until after daylight," answered the inspector. "Then I will go with you, Jephson. He is the dearest friend I have in the world, and I will not see my wife again until the evidence is complete."

CHAPTER XXX

When Jephson and O'Donnell were in the cab, the latter said: "Dying! dying! Dominique dying! And Mark dead! My little Mark dead! Good God, what a night! Today, Jephson, this morning when I set out for the theatre there was no thought of grief in my mind, no forethought of misfortune. And now, here are misfortunes so thick upon us, that one cannot see them altogether. I suppose Fraser is ruined? I thought of that at the time I was speaking to him. But it seemed to me it would be no kindness to mention the matter to him just then." "I don't think, O'Donnell, to-night's misfortunes at the theatre will seriously hurt Fraser. Of course, under the circumstances of you and Lavirotte being disqualified, the opera must be postponed for some time, until you, at all events, have recovered to-night's shock sufficiently to sing the part." "I shall never sing the part," said O'Donnell, "that cost me my little child." Then the two men were silent for a long time, until they reached Porter Street. Here Jephson said: "It is as well you should be prepared for a great change in Lavirotte. You will hardly know him. I never saw such a change come over a man in a few hours. At the theatre he went through what he did of the part with the greatest dash and go. He never sang better; he never acted better at any rehearsal. The whole thing was going capitally. We were in the highest spirits. The audience were enthusiastic. Everyone was called after the first act. If Lavirotte had only got through that heavy scene in the second act, I do not believe he would have broken down. But it was too much for him. When he came back to consciousness he behaved like a lunatic. When he was told that the audience had to be dismissed he tore his hair, and swore and stamped like a man possessed. He would not go to any place but that hideous old tower of his. He would not let anyone go with him but me, not even the doctor, who said he was in an exceedingly dangerous condition. "When we got to the tower, he had to rest twenty times in getting to the horrible place where he sleeps. And when at last we reached the loft, he fainted again; and when he came quickly back to consciousness he would not let me put him to bed, but threw himself in his stage dress on the couch, and seemed to concentrate all his attention on listening. He was very quiet now, but still I think his reason is gone, for although there was not a sound, he kept leaning up on his elbow now and then, asking me: 'Did you hear the boy's voice? Did you hear him call?' "He meant, you see, the call-boy's voice. I tried to soothe him, and told him that we were no longer at the theatre, and not to worry himself with thinking of the call-boy's voice. At this he smiled, but said nothing. He did this five or six times. Then, when after a long time he asked me to go for you, I reminded him that you were in great trouble, that your house was on fire, and that the last we knew of you was what he himself told us, of the possible loss or danger of your boy. "Then again he asked me: 'Did you hear the boy call?' And I said: 'No. You will not hear the boy call again to-night.' At this he not only smiled, but laughed, and said: 'You will go for Eugene at once. He will not think me mad. He is my dearest friend.'" "My poor, poor Dominique!" cried Eugene. "He was godfather to my little boy that's gone." "I was afraid to leave him alone, but there was something in his manner I could not resist. This is the tower. I have taken the key with me. There is a lantern alight inside. Get in. Mind yourself there. Wait till I lock the door on the inside. Let me go first. There. Can you see the rungs? Stop, you will never be able to get up the ladder in that overcoat. Take it off, and put it down on those boards." "But I, too, have my stage dress on." "Never mind. So has he. Take off the overcoat. There, that is better. This is the loft. Lavirotte, are you awake?" "Yes, more wakeful than I have been for many a day. God bless you, Eugene, for coming. I have not much time now. I am waiting for the call. Eugene, do you hear the boy call?" "No, no, Dominique, my dear friend. Keep yourself quiet, and you will hear the boy call when you have had a few days' rest, when you come back from the sea." Eugene, in his stage costume, crossed the floor, and bending over his old friend, who lay pallid on the couch, in his stage costume, sat by his side and took Dominique's hand in his. "I am not going to the sea, Eugene. I am going to the Ocean. Bear with me a little while." Jephson drew back, and stood beside the ladder which led to the loft above. "Bear with me, Eugene. I have a confession to make. Do not interrupt me. Excitement gives me pain now. You have come to me in the deepest depth of your own affliction to say a kind word to me in my last moments. You have lost your boy." "All hope is not yet gone." "You have lost your boy, and you have come to touch the hand of Dominique, while yet it can be conscious of that touch. You have come to close my eyes for ever." "My dear, dear Dominique!" "Do not interrupt me. I have a confession to make. I have been jealous of you all my life, ever since I knew you. I need not tell you all that you already know. I have plotted against you with devilish cunning, cunning too deep and despicable for you ever to suspect. I could not bear that you should sing the part. I swore you never should. I took care you should not sing the part. Let me tell you what happened after I left the theatre. I came here. I then looked calm. But I was mad. I had money in my pocket, and I bribed a wretch even almost as vile as myself to decoy the nurse of your child away from your house. "I was close by when this was done. A few minutes after, your house was discovered in flames. I brought you word at the theatre that your house was burning, and nothing was known of your boy." "Oh God! Oh God! Dominique! And while the woman was away the child overturned the lamp, and he is dead!" "Yes, Eugene, I do not wonder at your starting away from me. But hear me out. Hear me to the end. The boy did not overturn the lamp… I overturned the lamp." "You!You! Which of us is mad? If I am sane, why should I not strangle you as you lie?" Eugene was now at the other side of the table, leaning on it, and looking stupidly at the prostrate man. "Because, Eugene, I asked you to hear me out, and the last wish of a dying man is sacred." "Dying man! Dying monster! Dying murderer! Where is my child?" For an instant Lavirotte's hand moved under the couch on which he lay. He suddenly raised it. There was a flash, a loud report, that seemed to shake the walls of the tower. Jephson sprang from where he stood. O'Donnell never moved. The pistol fell from Lavirotte's hand to the ground. He rose quickly from the couch, and, drawing himself up to his full height, stood on the other side of the table, facing Eugene. O'Donnell, too, drew himself up to his full height, and stared across the table at the other. Lavirotte raised his right hand on high, and, pointing with his finger aloft, said: "Did you hear the boy call?" Jephson, who still stood close to the foot of the ladder, whispered in a thick voice: "Don't touch him. He is only mad." Lavirotte still stood, drawn up to his full height, in his stage costume, with his right hand thrust upward, and his forefinger pointing aloft. There was a silence which no mind could measure, and then a sound that made the cold sweat break out on Jephson and O'Donnell. "Did you hear the boy call?" whispered Lavirotte. Suddenly the right arm relaxed and fell to Lavirotte's side. His eyes left O'Donnell's face, and were fixed on a corner of the tower to the left. "Did you hear the boy call?" he repeated. "I would not let you sing that song the other day, Eugene, but you have heard the boy call, and I must answer." Almost imperceptibly he began lifting his left arm towards the left corner of the tower, where his eyes were fixed, and through which the ladder passed into the floor above. "I must answer this call. I must sing. I did not murder your boy. I stole him, that I might have the first call to-night. You heard The Last Call. I must answer the last call." Then in a voice which had never been firmer or truer, he sang the first line and a half of the "Bard's Legacy:"

"When in death I shall calm recline,

Oh, bear my heart-"

He placed his right hand upon his left breast, still keeping his left hand rigid. "I can sing no more. Look." Turning their eyes in the direction he indicated, they saw descending from the loft above the figure of a small child, in white. "The bank is broken," said Lavirotte, "but the treasure has been found here. Take him back to her, Eugene. Close my eyes. This is all I can do towards answering The Last Call." Before he fell, Eugene caught him in his arms, laid him gently on the couch, and closed the eyes.

THE END