Although the immediate result of Lavirotte's first engagement in London was so modest, still he had gained a start, and that, in his profession, was a great deal. O'Donnell was not impatient. His position was grave, even serious. But still he did not give way. Like Lavirotte, he had now abandoned all extravagant pretensions, and would have been very glad to take the most modest salary. Neither he nor Lavirotte would even yet accept any subsidiary part. Either would have gladly gone to the provinces for six guineas a week, but neither would take second part. Lavirotte was offered the leadership of the tenors in a chorus. This he flatly refused, and with heat. He came to Eugene and told him what he had been offered, and Eugene agreed with him in thinking there was more affront than flattery in the offer. "Let them," cried Eugene, indignantly, "keep their five guineas a week. I'd rather see you, Dominique, back at the old work again than degrade yourself by accepting such a position." From time to time Eugene received small sums from Glengowra. Lavirotte had no such resources, and one day he came in to Eugene and said: "I am paying eight shillings a week for my room, and there's St. Prisca's Tower idle all this time. I am not, you know, as rich as Rothschild, and what is the good of throwing away money! I'm going to live in the tower again." "For heaven's sake, don't do anything of the kind!" said Eugene. "Why not?" asked Lavirotte. "Because the place is haunted," said O'Donnell, with a shudder. "You are not such a fool," said Lavirotte, "as to believe anything so superstitious." "I don't mean what I say literally, but poor Mr. Crawford lost his life there. You were very near losing your life there, and upon the sad occasion of your last visit to London you put up there. To say the least of it, that tower must have a very gloomy aspect in your mind." "Gloom or no gloom," said Lavirotte bitterly, "eight shillings a week are eight shillings a week. Besides," he added, changing his tone and adopting a lighter manner, "I know they don't care for my caterwauling in the house I'm living in now, and St. Prisca's Tower is a splendid place for practising in. You might shout your voice away there, and not a soul would hear you. Eugene, you must come and practise with me there. I haven't got a piano, that's true, and the way up is a very rough-and-ready one. But anyway you'll know you're welcome, and we can puzzle along with a fork." He took the fork out of his waistcoat pocket, struck it, sang the note, and then took the octave above. "True, isn't it, Eugene?" he cried, laughingly. "As the tone of the steel itself," cried Eugene. "Let us try the garden bit in unison. Here's 'Faust.'" "Damn 'Faust'!" said Lavirotte. "Come on, I'll set you going:

"The bright stars fade, the morn is breaking,
The dew-drops pearl each bud and leaf,
When I of thee my leave am taking,
With bliss too brief."

"No," said Eugene. "Not that. I remember-" "And do you think I forget?"

CHAPTER XXI

This was the first note of discord which had been struck between the two since the memorable night of the encounter near the cove. It was struck deliberately by Lavirotte; O'Donnell could not guess why. "I will not sing," said Eugene. "What is the matter with you, Dominique? You seem to be in rather a brimstone humour to-day." "Ah," said Lavirotte, shaking his head grimly, "the treacle period has passed." "Nonsense," said Eugene, "a young man like you! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. A young man like you ought to be ashamed to give way to such gloomy fancies. Look at me. I have not got even one chance yet, and I have a wife and child depending on me." "Ay," said Lavirotte, "a wife and a child! And I have no wife, no child. I have earned a guinea, it is true, and you have earned nothing, since we came to London. It doesn't make much difference whether I ever earn another sovereign or not. What have I to live for? What do a hundred days mean to me? In a hundred days, even if I go and live at the tower, I shall be penniless." "And I," said O'Donnell, "long before a hundred days, shall be a pauper with my wife and child looking to me in vain for food. What would you do, Dominique, if you found yourself without money, and a wife and child asking you for bread?" "Cut my throat." "What? And leave them to starve?" "Well, cut their throats, and hang for them." "Men who talk about cutting their throats never do it." "I own I don't think it's worth doing in my case. When a man has no other way of making a stir in the world, he may get his name prominently before the public by committing a great crime against his neighbour, or a folly against himself. Eugene, I candidly own to you I am no hero. I am, in fact, a bit of a coward, as you may know; for, once upon a time, I did an unpardonably cowardly thing by you." "Hush, man!" cried Eugene, "have we not agreed to banish that subject for ever?" "To banish it from our talk, ay. To banish it from our minds, never." "I swear to you I never think of it, and it is ungenerous of you to assume I ever think of it. Let us get away from these subjects, which are even more gloomy than St. Prisca's Tower. Life is too short, and the destroying influences of time too great, for such criminal amusements as you are giving way to, Dominique. As sure as you go back to that hideous tower you will fall into a melancholy. My dear old friend, I can't afford to have you ill-" "My dear old friend, you must afford to have me die." "Upon my word, Dominique, you are intolerable. I will have no more of your nonsense. When a man is in such infamous humour as you are now, there is nothing so good for him as the sight of youth and beauty." Eugene arose, opened the door, and called, "Nellie, bring the boy. Here is Dominique in the blues." In a minute in came the young mother, carrying the boy in her arms. "Dominique in the blues!" she cried, laughing and shaking her rich hair about her shoulders. "Do you hear that?" she said to her child. "Uncle Dominique in a bad temper, Mark. What do you think of that?" she said, as she handed the blue-eyed, curly-haired, sturdy child to the Frenchman. "It is a bad example for a godfather to give his godson. What! In the blues, Dominique! Must I go back and tidy my hair? Eugene, how could you be so inconsiderate? You forget that when a mother is engaged in minding a great big child like Mark, she can't be as tidy as she would wish to be." The boy went freely to Lavirotte, and put his arms round him and clung to him, and called him "Dom," and told him his mother was very naughty since she would not give him sweeties. "Eugene," said Lavirotte, suddenly, "I once knew a man who had a child about the age of this boy in my arms, and he was playing with the child in a perfectly friendly way, as I am now playing with your boy, and owing, mind you, to mere awkwardness, he let the child's back-just here, the small of his back-somewhat rudely touch the edge of a table, and the child lost the use of his lower limbs, and in time, a hunch appeared upon his back. Amiable as you are, Eugene, I wonder what you would say to me if, by accident, I hurt your boy so?" "Dominique," cried the mother, hastily snatching her child from his arms, "what do you mean? There is something queer about you. Your eyes are too quiet for your words." Lavirotte laughed. "My eyes are too quiet for my words," he said "There is a good deal in that, and my mind may be too quiet for my eyes or-the other way." Again he laughed. "I cannot make you out to-day," said Eugene. "Nor can I," said Mrs. O'Donnell. "Mark, what is the matter with godfather?" The child had but one thought. His godfather was ill. He stretched out his hands to go to him. Lavirotte shook his head sadly, and said: "You are safer where you are." Within a week Lavirotte once more took up his residence in St. Prisca's Tower. For some days Eugene thought that the change had been absolutely beneficial to his friend. Lavirotte's spirits seemed more equable; he made no further allusion to the gloomy subjects which had, for some time previous, haunted him. He told Eugene that he had no notion how much more comfortable it was to practise alone, and in the tower, than in the old Percy Street lodgings. "In the first place," he said, "there is one of the lofts with nothing on it, and you can hear much better in an empty room all that is undesirable. I do four to six hours a day. Come and visit me in my new diggings. You must come. Of course, it's out of the way. No one but carters and fish-salesmen ever trouble Porter Street. But all so much the better. You might shout loud enough to stop a clock, and not a soul would hear. Come, you will come; you must come." "I can't, go very well," said Eugene. "Nellie is out, and has left me in charge of the boy." "Let us take Mark with us," said Lavirotte. "We can get an omnibus at the end of the street. It will amuse the child. Mark, wouldn't you like to come in an omnibus?" "Yes," cried the boy. "There you are, Eugene. Just leave a line or word with the landlady, and let us take the boy with us. He will be no trouble, and it is sure to amuse him. An hour's practice with me will do you no harm, and you have never yet been in my tower." Eugene was persuaded, and went. The inside of St. Prisca's was in exactly the same condition as when Lavirotte had last lived there. In order to get from the ground floor to the second loft it was still necessary to ascend by means of the slater's ladder. "I know the place better than you," said Lavirotte. "I'll carry the child and lead the way." When he was about to step from the ladder to the floor of the second loft, he said, with a strange laugh: "It's upwards of thirty feet from this to the top of the vault below. An awkward fall that would be. It would be worse for Mark than even striking his back against the edge of a table. Eh, Eugene?" "In heaven's name, Dominique, what's the matter with you? This place must have an unwholesome influence on you." "Doubtless it has," laughed Lavirotte, "but we're up safe at last, Mark." "Yes, Uncle Dom," said the child. And that was his first experience of St. Prisca's Tower.

CHAPTER XXII

About this time Lavirotte made the acquaintance of Edward Fraser, a composer of music. Fraser took a great liking to the volatile Frenchman. He had him at his house frequently, and introduced him to many professional musicians. "You know," said he to Lavirotte, "I'd be delighted to do anything I could for you; but the fact is, all engagements are made, and beyond a few concerts I don't think I can help you much. You see, you want leading business, and that's not easy to be got, at the best of times. I don't exactly know what I'm going to do with my opera yet. But if I decide to produce it this season, I'll certainly give you the refusal of the tenor part." This was a great hope for Lavirotte. He hastened with it to Eugene. Eugene shook his hand, and congratulated him upon even a remote chance of such good luck. "It's a long way off, you know, even if it ever comes to anything. I wish to goodness, Eugene, you had something of the kind to look forward to." "I wish to goodness I had," said the other. "But one must learn to wait patiently. I suppose I shall get a turn sometime." "I wish there was room for two of us in the new opera," said Lavirotte dubiously. "You see, Eugene, as Fraser said, it's not easy to pick up leading business, and of course, nothing else would suit you." O'Donnell shook his head and laughed. "Beggars can't be choosers," he said gaily. "We wanted a hundred a night, you know, before we started from Milan; and now I'd be glad to go on at a pound a night. I would not then have thought of taking anything less than the first part. I would not now care to be tempted very much with an offer of a second part, supposing the part was any good. What is the second part in the new opera like?" "From what I heard of it," said Lavirotte, "it's the very thing for you, if you would take it-in fact, they are two excellent parts. I heard two very taking solos and a lot of the concerted parts. If you would entertain the notion, I'd speak to Fraser and introduce you. "To tell you the truth, Dominique, I'd be glad to get anything to do now. It's disgraceful that a fellow of my years should be taking money out of my father's very narrow means. "I'd be glad to earn four or five pounds a week anyway now. I suppose Fraser would give as much as that." "I'm sure he would," said Lavirotte. "More, I think. I have a notion he'd give his leading man ten pounds a week, and his second, six." "Well, if you could get me six, Dominique, I'd be delighted to take it." "I'll go back to him at once," said the Frenchman. "I won't lose a moment, Eugene. Come, put on your hat. We may as well go together. Chances like this don't grow on the hedge bushes. Between you and me, I think Fraser would hurry his share of the work if he were satisfied of being able to get good voices at this awkward time of the year. He tells me he knows where to get an excellent soprano, but that until he met me he was in despair about a tenor. A good contralto is, of course, not to be hoped for, and a sufficiently good baritone and bass will turn up, as a matter of course." By this time the two friends were in the street, hurrying off towards Fraser's house. They found the composer at home. "This is my friend O'Donnell, Fraser. You have often heard me speak of him. We were rival tenors in Glengowra and Rathclare. We were fellow-students at the Scala, and now we're going to be rival tenors in your opera, 'The Maid of Athens.'" Fraser laughed good-humouredly, and said: "All right. If, Mr. O'Donnell, you sing as well as our friend Lavirotte, we shall be very lucky in our tenors." "He sings better," said Lavirotte, with a slight darkening of the face. "There is one thing I cannot rival him in, certainly," said O'Donnell, "and that is generosity. I have no desire to compete with my dear friend as a tenor. He said there was a second part in your opera which I might suit. I haven't an engagement of any kind, and I am most anxious to get something to do. I'd rather lead the chorus than do nothing." "Oh," said Fraser, "if you sing anything like as well as Lavirotte, you must not think of leading a chorus." "Sing him something, Eugene, and then he'll be able to tell whether you sing better than I or not." "I won't sing if you put it that way, Dominique," said O'Donnell, colouring slightly. "You know very well I do not want to go into rivalry with you." "There is no rivalry at all, Mr. O'Donnell. Lavirotte is in one of his perverse moods. If I produce my opera this season, he shall have the refusal of the leading part. I have no one in my mind as the second tenor. Now, if you'll sing me something, please, I shall be able to tell you whether I think the music would suit you." "What would you like," asked Eugene, standing up to the piano. Fraser was sitting in front of it, running his fingers over the keys. "Whatever you think best. Whatever suits you best." "What shall I sing, Dominique?" "Oh, a ballad," said Lavirotte. "Shall I start you?" "Ay, give him a lead," said Fraser.

"The bright stars fade, the morn is breaking!"

"Damn it, Lavirotte, are you mad or possessed by devils!" Fraser had begun the accompaniment. He turned round in astonishment. "What on earth is the matter?" he said. "It's a good song, Mr. O'Donnell." Lavirotte was laughing slyly, stealthily, behind his hand. O'Donnell looked furiously at Lavirotte. He was thoroughly roused. He pointed at Lavirotte, and said: "He knows I do not sing that song. He knows it puts me out to speak of that song." The composer looked in amazement from one to the other. "Perhaps," he said, "you will sing something else, Mr. O'Donnell? If you had a breakdown on it once I don't think it kind of Lavirotte to remind you of it." "I never had a breakdown on it, Mr. Fraser," said Eugene, taking his eyes off Lavirotte, and fixing them on the composer. Then he spoke with enormous distinctness, "But, Mr. Fraser, whenever I hear that song it pains me cruelly. It pains me as though you thrust a knife into me." Lavirotte ceased to laugh. His hand fell from before his face. He turned ashy pale. "Eugene!" he cried, "you hit below the belt." "No, sir, I did not," said Eugene, indignantly. "You hit me unawares." "Gentlemen," said Fraser, "I am sure I am sorry any unpleasantness has arisen." "I beg your pardon, Mr. Fraser," said O'Donnell, "I forgot myself for a moment. I forgot where I was. Try to forgive me if you can, and to show you I have dismissed the thing from my mind, Dominique, will you forget and forgive?" he held out his hand to the Frenchman. Lavirotte took the hand slowly, pressed it between both his, kissed it, and said: "Eugene, I was wrong, you were right. That blow was delivered unawares, as another blow you remember." "That's right!" cried Fraser heartily. "That's right, men! Sit down, O'Donnell, you're not fit to sing for a while. Stop, I'll play you the overture to 'The Maid of Athens.' I have arranged it for the piano… Well, what do you think of it?" he cried when he had finished. "I fancy I can hear some of the melodies on the street organs, and to get my stuff on the street organs is the height of my ambition. That is fame. That is glory. Now, O'Donnell, what will you sing?" "'My pretty Jane,'" said Lavirotte. "Sing 'My pretty Jane,' Eugene." "All right," said Eugene. And Fraser played the introduction. When O'Donnell had ceased to sing, Fraser turned round, caught him enthusiastically by the hand, and said: "Positively lovely, my dear fellow! The quality is perfection. Have you much of it? Enough for the Grand?" "I'm afraid not," said O'Donnell, shaking his head. "I could manage in a small house very well. I haven't as much, you know, as Dominique here." "But the quality, my dear fellow, the quality is exquisite. It's a bit of Guiglini." O'Donnell coloured with pleasure. Lavirotte said: "You never sang that song better, Eugene." "It couldn't be sung better. Sims Reeves himself might be proud of such an art. Tenors are hard enough to get, but to get a tenor with brains and a heart is about the rarest thing in the world. You have brains, and a heart, O'Donnell, and of course I needn't say that I'd rather have a song delivered as you sang now than the biggest shout of a forty-six-inch chested Italian robusto." Lavirotte put his hand quickly up to his left breast. Again he turned ashy white. He seemed to gasp for breath. "Are you not well, Dominique?" cried Eugene, placing his hand on him. "Ah!" sighed Lavirotte, "it's gone. For an instant the pain was great, and I thought I should suffocate. It is gone now. Let us think no more of it. You are in splendid voice to-day, Eugene. It was stupid of me to get ill just at that moment when I should have been applauding your success. Fraser, I told you he could sing." "Sing! I should think he can. Try something else, O'Donnell; something a little stronger." "Very well," said O'Donnell, "I'll give you one of the melodies, 'The Bard's Legacy.'" Lavirotte shuddered. "I don't know it," said Fraser. "Hum it for me." Then O'Donnell began.

"When in death I shall calm recline,
Oh, hear my heart to its mistress dear."

"Don't sing it, Eugene," said Lavirotte. "It's a gloomy beast of a song. When a fellow has just recovered from suffocation, it's not a good way to cheer him to shake shrouds before his eyes. Sing 'La donna e mobile.'" O'Donnell lifted his eyes slowly, and stared in a puzzled way at Lavirotte. "Are you ill still," he said, "or are you peculiarly dull to-day?" For the third time Lavirotte's face paled. "This time, I swear to you, Eugene, I am only dull. 'Pon my soul, I am only dull."

CHAPTER XXIII

"Mr. O'Donnell," said Fraser, "I hope you will not forget us now that you have once come. My wife is out, but I am sure she will be delighted to meet Mrs. O'Donnell. Remember, you are to bring your wife with you, too, when you come next time." These were the composer's last words as he stood at the hall door, bidding good-bye to Lavirotte and Eugene. When Mrs. Fraser returned, he said to her in his enthusiastic way: "My dear Harriet, you have missed a treat. Lavirotte's friend, O'Donnell, has been here. He has got a lovely voice, and sings exquisitely. He came to know if I would give him the second tenor part. I promised before I heard him sing, and now, by gad, Harriet, I'm in a deuce of a mess." "Why? You say he has a good voice, and sings well." "Yes, yes. But, you see, I have promised the leading part to Lavirotte. Now Lavirotte's voice is not to be compared with O'Donnell's, and, by gad, I don't know how to get out of the fix." "If," said Mrs. Fraser, "this new man is better for the part, why not give him the part?" "But you see, they are bosom friends. They have been friends for years, been at the Scala together, and so on. Why, while they were here there was very near being a scene between them. In fact there was a scene, in which Lavirotte did something that enraged O'Donnell, and O'Donnell said something that made Lavirotte grovel. I don't know what it was about, of course, but it looked very ugly while it lasted. I should not be at all surprised if Lavirotte is a bit jealous of O'Donnell's voice. I'm sure I don't know what to do. It would be a pity to throw away a voice like O'Donnell's in the second part; and how am I to get rid of Lavirotte?" "Then you are resolved to produce the opera soon?" "Oh, yes, if I can put O'Donnell in the leading part. You see, I was only half satisfied with Lavirotte. He is so hard, unsympathetic, metallic. I don't know how to manage it at all. You see, Harriet, I want to make a success with this 'Maid of Athens.' I am sure if O'Donnell sang it would be a success." "But can he not make a success in the second part?" "No, no," cried Fraser, excitedly "That would be impossible. Besides, the public would not stand it. They would guy the thing if they found the better man in the inferior part. Oh, what a misfortune I ever promised Lavirotte!" "Surely there is some way or other out of it," said Mrs. Fraser. "I can't see it, Harriet. I am in despair. It is the best chance there has been in London for years. At least I think so. Of course you can never tell really until you have tested the thing practically in the theatre, with the lights up and your audience in front. But I'm game to put down the last penny I have in the world, and my reputation, that O'Donnell could do the trick." "I cannot believe, Edward," said Mrs. Fraser hopefully, "that there is not some way of managing the matter. Could not Mr. Lavirotte understudy the leading part?" "Eh? Say that again, little woman," said the composer, sitting down to the piano and improvising a fantasia. He always quieted his mind in this way. "There may be something in what you say, Harriet. An understudy! But would Lavirotte consent? You know we couldn't ask him to sing in any other but the leading part, once it was offered to him. And then, to take a practical view of it, even if he would consent to understudy, he would be eating his head off the whole time. The management wouldn't get the least value for their money. In any case, I don't think Lavirotte would consent. You know, those new men are always dying to get an 'appearance,' and I'm sure Lavirotte would rather take a situation down a coal mine than cool his heels in the wings, while O'Donnell had the boards." "Well, but if you say there is a great chance of O'Donnell making a success of the opera, it would be a thousand pities you lost that chance because of any hasty promise you made to Lavirotte." "I don't think Lavirotte has a particularly sweet temper; and, to tell you the truth, there is something in the man's eye which I do not like-something which makes me distrust him. I asked him to-day to give O'Donnell a lead, and he started 'Good-bye, Sweetheart,' and, by gad, I thought for a minute that O'Donnell would throttle him." "It seems to me," said the little woman, "that you are somewhat unfortunate in having come across this pair. A moment ago you appeared to think there was something dangerous about Lavirotte, and now you say that O'Donnell looked as if he wanted to do something dreadful to the other." "Throttle him, my dear. Throttle him was the word I used. A capital word, but not a woman's word, I own." "But surely it would be no harm for you to try if Lavirotte would consent to understudy, if you are certain that the difference between the two men is so great. Aren't they both very anxious to get engagements? and don't both want to earn money?" "Yes, but everyone wants to earn money, and I have no doubt that Lavirotte would rather take two guineas a week and sing the part than ten for walking about. Stop," cried the composer. "Something might be done with that." "Pray, what is that? I have not the gift of second sight." The composer rose from the piano, approached his wife, put his arm round her, kissed her, and said: "You're not half as stupid as you look, Harriet. You sometimes get hold of a capital idea. But you require the great male intellect" – tapping his forehead-"to shape it for you. Lavirotte, when he was here, nearly fainted. I have heard him complain before of certain attacks of this kind which he is subject to. You see, it would never do to have a man in such a position as first tenor, if that man were liable to faint. Why, the very excitement of a first night sometimes knocks over strong men who have had years of experience. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll throw myself on Lavirotte's generosity, and say that what I saw here to-day has so disquieted me that, etc. You understand. I'll put it as nicely as I can. It isn't very easy to put such a thing nicely, but I shall do my best." Here the matter dropped between husband and wife. That evening Fraser wrote a note to Lavirotte, asking him to call next day. In the gentlest and most considerate way, Fraser explained to Lavirotte that a first night of a new piece was most trying on the singers, and that to ensure success, it was essential all taking prominent parts in it should be, as near as possible, in perfect health. "I noticed here yesterday," said the composer, "that you almost fainted under the excitement of something which occurred between you and O'Donnell. I think, too, I heard you say before you have now and then been seized with physical weakness. We have not spoken of business terms in connection with the opera. Of course you know I am not finding the money. But I shall make all the engagements. Now, if you like I'll give you your engagement at once, ten pounds a week for the run, on one condition." "What is that?" cried Lavirotte eagerly. "That you allow some other man to create the part and sing until you have become so accustomed to it that there will be no fear of your suffering from this little ailment, whatever it is." Lavirotte's lips got suddenly dry. He drew them backward over his teeth, and breathed a few hard breaths. "You mean," said he, in a low voice, "to let O'Donnell create the part?" "I have said nothing to him about it, as yet, nor should I say anything to him without first speaking to you. I gave you my word you were to create the part if the opera was produced. After seeing what occurred yesterday, and knowing the great excitement of a first night, I would rather have the opera in that drawer than risk it if there were the least chance of a breakdown." "And you think," said Lavirotte, "that I could consent to take the money, when my health did not allow me to earn it?" "Now, my dear Lavirotte, you must not be offended where no offence is meant. The first night is what I dread. You shall understudy the part, or, rather, the part shall be yours, and O'Donnell, the understudy, run on at the last moment. Stop, I have it. I shall engage you to create the part. I shall engage O'Donnell if he will consent to understudy the part. We shall go on rehearsing on these lines, and if, three days before the first night, a first-class medical man says you are fit to go on, you shall go on. This need not be embodied in the agreement. We can keep our words, as men of honour, and we can keep this arrangement secret. Even O'Donnell shall not know; and his salary shall be six guineas a week, whether he sings or not. Come, you can't ask me to do more than that. O'Donnell has a wife and child to keep." "Damn his wife and child," thought Lavirotte. Fraser was firm, and although it took an hour to get Lavirotte to consent, he at length consented. And there and then the agreement was drawn up and signed. "Now," thought Fraser, "it's neck or nothing with me. I am sure it would be dangerous to let him go on the first night, and if I can only secure O'Donnell, 'The Maid of Athens' will be the foundation of my fortune." When Lavirotte got back to the tower, he threw himself, in a rage, on his bed. "This thing may kill me," he said, "but I'll sing the part as sure as heaven is above and hell beneath. Damn O'Donnell, his wife, and child."