"In that case I am to beg you for 'Waft her, Angels.' Angelica ventures to make the request. Good-night!"
The words were scarcely spoken, and his flying footsteps were still audible as he ran lightly up the Close, when the cathedral clock began to strike. There was only one emphatic throb of the iron tongue, followed by a long reverberation, and then came the chime.
The Tenor, who had risen, stood listening, with upturned face, until the end.
But the chime failed of its effect for once. There was something weary and enigmatical in the old worn strain. Hitherto, it had always been a comfort and an assurance to him, but to-night, for the first time, it was fraught with some portentous meaning. Was there any cause for alarm in what was happening? any reason for fear that should make it merciful to prepare him with migivings? It was no new thing for the Tenor to be asked to sing something special, and he tried to think such a request, although it came from Angelica—if indeed it came from her, and was not a fabrication of the Boy's—was a whim as trifling as the rest. But even if it were, trifles, as all the world knows, are not to be despised. Someone has said already that they made up the sum of life, and it may also be observed that the hand of death is weighted by them.
CHAPTER XII.
The Tenor happened to be entering the cathedral next day for the afternoon service just as Angelica was being handed from a carriage by a singular looking man who wore pince-nez, was clean shaven, and had an immense head of hair. Angelica very evidently called the attention of this gentleman to the Tenor as he passed, and the latter heard the "Ach!" of satisfaction to which the stranger gave utterance when he had adjusted his pince-nez with undisguised interest, and taken the Tenor in.
The latter felt that he had seen the man before, and while he was putting on his surplice he remembered who he was, an impresario, well-known by sight to regular opera goers and musicians generally. Having established his identity, the reason of his presence there that afternoon was at once apparent. The Tenor had been requested to sing a solo which was admirably calculated to display the range and flexibility of his voice to the best advantage, and the impresario had been brought to hear him. The mountain had come to Mahomet.
The Tenor never sang better than upon that occasion, and he had scarcely reached his cottage after the service was over, when the impresario burst in upon him, having, in his eagerness, omitted the ceremony of knocking. He seized the Tenor's hand, exclaiming in broken English:—"Oh, my tear froind, you are an ideal!" Then he flung his hat on the floor, and curvetted about the room, alternately rubbing his hands and running his fingers upward through his luxuriant hair till it stood on end all over his head. "And have I found you?" he cried sentimentally, apostrophising the ceiling. "Oh, have I found you? What a Lohengrin! Ach Gott! it is the prince himself. Boat"—and he stopped prancing in order to point his long forefinger at the Tenor's chest—"boat you are an actor born, my froind! You was the Prince of Devotion himself jus' now. You do that part as if you feel him too! Why"—jerking his head towards the cathedral with a gesture which signified that if he had not seen the thing himself he never could have believed it—"why, you loose yourself in there kompletely!" Then he asked the Tenor to sing again, which the Tenor did, being careful, however, not to give his excitable visitor too much lest the intoxicating draught should bring on a fit.
The music-mad-one had come to make the Tenor golden offers, and he did not leave him now until the Tenor had agreed to accept them.
The dean came in by chance in time to witness the conclusion of the bargain, adding by his congratulations and good wishes to the Tenor's own belief that such an opportunity was not to be lost. The drawings the Tenor had been doing for the dean were all but finished now, and it was arranged that the Tenor should enter upon his new engagement in one month's time.