A melody was singing in his mind; becoming conscious of it, he remembered that it was the air to which his friend Moncharmont had set the little song of Alfred de Musset. At Odessa he had been wont to sing it—in a voice which Moncharmont declared to have the quality of a very fair tenor, and only to need training.
"Quand on perd, par triste occurrence,
Son esperance
Et sa gaité,
Le remède au mélancolique
C'est la musique
Et la beauté.
Plus oblige et peut davantage
Un beau visage
Qu'un homme armé,
Et rien n'est meilleur que d'entendre
Air doux et tendre
Jadis aimé!"
It haunted him after he had gone to rest, and for once he did not mind wakefulness.
A week passed. On Friday, Piers said to himself that to-morrow he would go in the afternoon to Campden Hill, on the chance of finding his friends at home. On Saturday morning the post brought him a letter which he saw to be from Mrs. Hannaford, and he opened it with pleasant anticipation; but instead of the friendly lines he expected he found a note of agitated appeal. The writer entreated him to come and see her exactly at three o'clock; she was in very grave trouble, had the most urgent need of him. Three o'clock; neither sooner or later; if he could possibly find time. If he could not come, would he telegraph an appointment for her at his office?
With perfect punctuality, he arrived at the house, and in the drawing-room found Mrs. Hannaford awaiting him. She came forward with both her hands held out; in her eyes a look almost of terror. Her voice, at first, was in choking whispers, and the words so confusedly hurried as to be barely intelligible.
"I have sent Olga away—I daren't let her know—she will be away for several hours, so we can talk—oh, you will help me—you will do your best——"
Perplexed and alarmed, Piers held her hand as he tried to calm her. She seemed incapable of telling him what had happened, but kept her eyes fixed upon him in a wild entreaty, and uttered broken phrases which conveyed nothing to him; he gathered at length that she was in fear of some person.
"Sit down and let me hear all about it," he urged.
"Yes, yes—but I'm so ashamed to speak to you about such things. I don't know whether you'll believe me. Oh, the shame—the dreadful shame! It's only because there seems just this hope. How shall I bring myself to tell you?"