“Indeed, no! I thought I had the station to myself.”
“So you had — I have not seen a soul.”
Miss Bouverie instantly perceived that honors were due from her.
“I am so sorry! You’ve come to see Mr. and Mrs. Clarkson?” she cried. “Mrs. Clarkson has just left for Melbourne with her maid, and Mr. Clarkson has gone mustering with all his men. But the Indian cook is about somewhere. I’ll find him, and he shall make some tea.”
The visitor planted himself with much gallantry in the doorway; he was a man still young, with a single eye-glass and a martial mustache, which combined to give distinction to a somewhat swarthy countenance. At the moment he had also an engaging smile.
“I didn’t come to see either Mr. or Mrs. Clarkson,” said he; “in fact, I never heard their name before. I was passing the station, and I simply came to see who it was who could sing like that — to believe my own ears!”
Miss Bouverie was thrilled. The stranger spoke with an authority that she divined, a sincerity which she instinctively took on trust. Her breath came quickly; she was a little nervous now.
“If you won’t sing to my face,” he went on, “I must go back to where I hung up my horse, and pray that you will at least send me on my way rejoicing. You will do that in any case. I didn’t know there was such a voice in these parts. You sing a good deal, of course?”
“I haven’t sung for months.”
He was now in the room; there was no longer any necessity to bar the doorway, and the light coming through fell full on his amazement. The girl stood before him with a calm face, more wistful than ironic, yet with hints of humor in the dark blue eyes. Her companion put up the eye-glass which he had dropped at her reply.
“May I ask what you are doing in these wilds?”
“Certainly. I am Mrs. Clarkson’s companion.”
“And you sing, for the first time in months, the minute her back is turned: has the lady no soul for music?”
“You had better ask the lady.”
And her visible humor reached the corners of Miss Bouverie’s mouth.
“She sings herself, perhaps?”
“And I am here to play her accompaniments!”
The eye-glass focussed the great, smiling girl.
“Can she sing?”
“She has a voice.”
“But have you never let her hear yours?”
“Once. I had not been here long enough to know better. And I made my usual mistake.”
“What is that?”
“I thought I had the station to myself.”
The questioner bowed to his rebuke. “Well?” he persisted none the less.
“I was told exactly what my voice was like, and fit for.”
The gentleman turned on his heel, as though her appreciation of the humor of her position were an annoyance to him. His movement brought him face to face with a photographic galaxy of ladies in varying styles of evening dress, with an equal variety in coiffures, but a certain family likeness running through the series.
“Are any of these Mrs. Clarkson?”
“All of them.”
He muttered something in his mustache. “And what’s this?” he asked of a sudden.
The young man (for as such Miss Bouverie was beginning to regard him) was standing under the flaming bill of a grand concert to be given in the township of Yallarook for the benefit of local charities.
“Oh, that’s Mrs. Clarkson’s concert,” he was informed. “She has been getting it up, and that’s why she’s had to go to Melbourne — about her dress, you know.”
He smiled sardonically through mustache and monocle.
“Her charity begins near home!”
“It need not necessarily end there.”
“Yet she sings five times herself.”
“True — without the encores.”
“And you don’t sing at all.”
“But I accompany.”
“A bitter irony! But, I say, what’s this? ‘Under the distinguished patronage of Sir Julian Crum, Mus. Doc., D.C.L.’ Who may he be?”
“Director of the Royal College of Music, in the old country,” the girl answered with a sigh.
“Royal College of Music? That’s something new, since my time,” said the visitor, sighing also. “But what’s a man like that doing out here?”
“He has a brother a squatter, the next station but one. Sir Julian’s spending the English winter with him on account of his health.”
“So you’ve seen something of him?”
“I wish we had.”
“But Mrs. Clarkson has?”
“No — not yet.”
“I see!” and an enlightened gleam shot through the eye-glass. “So this is her way of getting to know a poor overworked wreck who came out to patch his lungs in peace and quiet! And she’s going to sing him one of his own songs; she’s gone to Melbourne to dress the part; and you’re not going to sing anything at all!”
Miss Bouverie refrained alike from comment and confirmation; but her silence was the less creditable in that her companion was now communing chiefly with himself. She felt, indeed, that she had already been guilty of a certain disloyalty to one to whom she owed some manner of allegiance; but that was the extent of Miss Bouverie’s indiscretion in her own eyes. It caused her no qualms to entertain an anonymous gentleman whom she had never seen before. A colder course had commended itself to the young lady fresh from London; but to a Colonial girl, on a station where special provision was made for the entertaining of strange travellers, the situation was simply conventional. It might have been less onerous with host or hostess on the spot; but then the visitor would not have heard her sing, and he seemed to know what singing was.
Miss Bouverie watched him as he leant over the piano, looking through the songs which she had dared once more to bring forth from her room. She might well have taken a romantic interest in the dark and dapper man, with the military eye-glass and mustache, the spruce duck jacket and the spurred top-boots. It was her first meeting with such a type in the back-blocks of New South Wales. The gallant ease, the natural gayety, the charming manners that charmed no less for a clear trace of mannerism, were a peculiar refreshment after society racier of Riverina soil. Yet it was none of these things which attracted this woman to this man; for the susceptible girl was dead in her for the time being; but the desperate artist was alive again after many weeks, was panting for fresh life, was catching at a straw. He had heard her sing. It had brought him galloping off the track. He praised her voice; and he knew — he knew what singing was.
Who could he be? Not . . . could that be possible?
“Sing me this,” he said, suddenly, and, seating himself at the piano, played the opening bars of a vocal adaptation of Handel’s Largo with a just, though unpractised, touch.
Nothing could have afforded a finer hearing of the quality and the compass of her voice, and she knew of old how well it suited her; yet at the outset, from the sheer excitement of her suspicion, Hilda Bouverie was shaky to the point of a pronounced tremolo. It wore off with the lengthening cadences, and in a minute the little building was bursting with her voice, while the pianist swayed and bent upon his stool with the exuberant sympathy of a brother in art. And when the last rich note had died away he wheeled about, and so sat silent for many moments, looking curiously on her flushed face and panting bosom.
“I can’t place your voice,” he said, at last. “It’s both voices — the most wonderful compass in the world — and the world will tell you so, when you go back to it, as go back you must and shall. May I ask the name of your master?”
“My own name — Bouverie. It was my father. He is dead.”
Her eyes glistened.
“You did not go to another?”
“I had no money. Besides, he had lived for what you say; when he died with his dream still a dream, I said I would do the same, and I came up here.”
She had turned away. A less tactful interlocutor had sought plainer
repudiation of the rash resolve; this one rose and buried himself in more songs.
“I have heard you in Grand Opera, and in something really grand,” he said. “Now I want a song, the simpler the better.”
Behind his back a daring light came into the moist eyes.
“There is one of Mrs. Clarkson’s,” she said. “She would never forgive me for singing it, but I have heard it from her so often, I know so well how it ought to go.”
And, fetching the song from a cabinet, she thrust it boldly under his nose. It was called “The Unrealized Ideal,” and was a setting of some words by a real poet then living, whose name caused this reader to murmur, “London Lyrics!” The composer was Sir Julian Crum. But his name was read without a word, or a movement of the strong shoulders and the tanned neck on which Miss Bouverie’s eyes were fixed.
“You had better play this yourself,” said he, after peering at the music through his glass. “It is rather too many for me.”
And, strangely crestfallen, Miss Bouverie took his place.
“My only love is always near, — In country or in town I see her twinkling feet, I hear The whisper of her gown.
“She foots it, ever fair and young, Her locks are tied in haste, And one is o’er her shoulder flung And hangs below her waist.”
For that was the immortal trifle. How much of its immortality it will owe to the setting of Sir Julian Crum is a matter of opinion, but here is an anonymous view.
“I like the words, Miss Bouverie, but the setting doesn’t take me. It might with repetition. It seems lacking in go and simplicity; technically, I should say, a gem. But there can be no two opinions of your singing of such a song; that’s the sort of arrow to go straight to the heart of the public — a world-wide public — and if I am the first to say it to you, I hope you will one day remember it in my favor. Meanwhile it is for me to thank you — from my heart — and to say good-by!”
He was holding out a sunburnt hand.
“Must you go?” she asked, withholding her own in frank disappointment.
“Unfortunately, yes; my man is waiting for me with both horses in the scrub. But before I go I want to ask a great favor of you. It is — not to tell a soul I have been here.”
For a singer and a woman of temperament, Hilda Bouverie had a wonderfully level head. She inquired his reason in no promising tone.
“You will see at Mrs. Clarkson’s concert.”
Hilda started.
“You are coming to that?”
“Without fail — to hear Mrs. Clarkson sing five songs — your song among them!”
“But it’s hers; it has been the other way about.”
The gay smile broadened on the swarthy face; a very bright eye twinkled through the monocle into those of Miss Bouverie.
“Well, will you promise to say nothing about me? I have a reason which you will be the first to appreciate in due season.”
Hilda hesitated, reasoned with herself, and finally gave her word. Their hands were joined an instant, as he thanked her with gallant smile and bow. Then he was gone. And as his spurs ceased jingling on the veranda outside, Hilda Bouverie glanced again at the song on the piano and clapped her hands with unreasonable pride.
“I do believe that I was right after all!” said she.
II
Mr. Clarkson and his young men sat at meat that evening with a Miss Bouverie hard to recognize as the apparently austere spinster who had hitherto been something of a skeleton at their board. Coldly handsome at her worst, a single day had brought her forth a radiant beauty wreathed in human smiles. Her clear skin had a tinge which at once suggested and dismissed the thought of rouge; but beyond all doubt she had done her hair with less reserve; and it was coppery hair of a volatile sort, that sprang into natural curls at the first relaxation of an undue discipline. Mr. Clarkson wondered whether his wife’s departure had aught to do with the striking change in her companion; the two young men rested mutually assured that it had.
“The old girl keeps too close an eye on her,” said little Mr. Hack, who kept the books and hailed from Middlesex. “Get her to yourself, Ted, and she’s as larky as they’re made.”
Ted Radford, the station overseer, was a personage not to be dismissed in a relative clause. He was a typical back-blocker, dry and wiry, nasally cocksure, insolently cool, a fearless hand with horse, man, or woman. He was a good friend to Hack when there was no third person of his own kidney to appreciate the overseer’s conception of friendly chaff. They were by themselves now, yet the last speech drew from Radford a sufficiently sardonic grin.
“You see if she is, old man,” said he, “and I’ll stand by to collect your remains. Not but what she hasn’t come off the ice, and looks like thoring if you take her the right way.”
Ted Radford was a confirmed believer in the rightness of his own way with all mankind; his admirable confidence had not been shaken by a long succession of snubs in the quarter under discussion. As for Miss Bouverie, it was her practice to play off one young man against the other by discouraging each in his turn. But this evening she was a different being. She had a vague yet absolute conviction that her fortune was made. She could have sung all her songs to the twain, but for the reflection that Mr. Clarkson himself would hear them too, and report the matter to his wife on her return.
And the next night the male trio were strangely absorbed in some station happening which did not arouse Miss Bouverie’s curiosity in the least. They were excited and yet constrained at dinner, and drew their chairs close together on the veranda afterward. The young lady caught at least one word of which she did not know the meaning. She had the tact to keep out of earshot after that. Nor was she very much more interested when she met the two young men with revolvers in their hands the following day.
“Going to fight a duel?” she inquired, smilingly, for her heart was still singing Grand Opera and Oratorio by turns.
“More or less,” returned the overseer, without his usual pleasantry. “We’re going to have a match at a target behind the pines.”
The London bookkeeper looked an anxious clerk: the girl was glad when she saw the pair alive at dinner. There seemed to be little doing. Though the summer was already tropical, there had been plenteous rains, and Mr. Clarkson observed in Hilda’s hearing that the recent day’s mustering would be the last for some little time. She was thrown much in his company, and she liked Mr. Clarkson when Mrs. Clarkson was not there. In his wife’s hands the good man was wax; now a mere echo, now a veritable claque in himself, he pandered indefatigably to the multitudinous vanities of a ludicrously vain woman. But it was soon Miss Bouverie’s experience that he could, when he dared, be attentively considerate of lesser ladies. And in many ways these were much the happiest days that she had spent on the station.
They were, however, days of a consuming excitement for the caged and gagged nightingale that Hilda Bouverie now conceived herself to be. She sang not another note aloud. Mr. Clarkson lived in slippers on the veranda, which Hilda now associated chiefly with a stranger’s spurs: for of the booted and spurred stranger she was thinking incessantly, though still without the emotions of an ordinarily romantic temperament. Would he be at the concert, or would he not? Would he turn out to be what she firmly imagined him, or was she to find out her mistake? Might he not in any case have said or written some pregnant word for her? Was it beyond the bounds of possibility that she should be asked to sing after all?
The last question was the only one to be answered before the time, unless a point-blank inquiry of Mrs. Clarkson be included in the category. The lady had returned with a gorgeous gown, only less full of her experiences than of the crowning triumph yet to come. She had bought every song of Sir Julian’s to be had in Melbourne, and his name was always on her lips. In a reckless moment Miss Bouverie had inquired his age.
“I really don’t know,” said Mrs. Clarkson. “What can it matter?”
“I only wondered whether he was a youngish man or not.”
Mrs.
Clarkson had already raised her eyebrows; at this answer they disappeared behind a toupet dating from her late descent upon the Victorian capital.
“Really, Miss Bouverie!” she said, and nothing more in words. But the tone was intolerable, and its accompanying sneer a refinement in vulgarity, which only the really refined would have resented as it deserved. Miss Bouverie got up and left the room without a word. But her flaming face left a misleading tale behind.
She was not introduced to Sir Julian; but that was not her prime disappointment when the great night came. All desire for an introduction, all interest in the concert, died a sudden death in Hilda Bouverie at her first glimpse of the gentleman who was duly presented to Mrs. Clarkson as Sir Julian Crum. He was more than middle-aged; he wore a gray beard, and the air of a somewhat supercilious martyr; his near sight was obviated by double lenses in gold rims. Hilda could have wept before the world. For nearly three weeks she had been bowing in imagination to a very different Sir Julian, bowing as though she had never beheld him in her life before; and yet in three minutes she saw how little real reason she had ever had for the illogical conclusion to which she had jumped. She searched for the sprightly figure she had worn in her mind’s eye; his presence under any other name would still have been welcome enough now. But he was not there at all. In the patchy glare of the kerosene lamps, against the bunting which lined the corrugated walls of Gulland’s new iron store, among flower and weed of township and of station, did Miss Bouverie seek in vain for a single eye-glass and a military mustache.
The concert began. Miss Bouverie opened it herself with the inevitably thankless pianoforte solo, in this case gratuitously meretricious into the bargain, albeit the arbitrary choice of no less a judge than Mrs. Clarkson. It was received with perfunctory applause, through which a dissipated stockman thundered thickly for a song. Miss Bouverie averted her eyes from Sir Julian (ensconced like Royalty in the centre of the first row) as she descended from the platform. She had not the hardihood to glance toward the great man until the indistinct stockman had had his wish, and Mrs. Clarkson, in her fine new raiment, had both sung and acted a coy ditty of the previous decade, wherein every line began with the word “somebody.” It was an immediate success; the obstreperous stockman led the encore; but Miss Bouverie, who duly accompanied, extracted solace from the depressed attitude in which Sir Julian Crum sat looking down his nose.
Complete Works of E W Hornung Page 464