And then, and then, amid deafening salvos a dazzling vision appeared upon the platform, came forward with the carriage of a conscious queen, stood bowing and beaming in the gloss and glitter of fabric and of gem that were yet less radiant than herself. Stingaree stood inanimate between stamping feet and clapping hands. No; he would never have connected this magnificent woman with the simple bush girl in the unpretentious frocks that he recalled as clearly as her former self. He had looked for less finery, less physical development, less, indeed, of the grand operatic tout-ensemble. But acting ended with her smile, and much of the old innocent simplicity came back as the lips parted in song. And her song had not been spoilt by riches and adulation; her song had not sacrificed sweetness to artifice; there was even more than the old magic in her song.
“Is this a dream?
Then waking would be pain!
Oh! do not wake me;
Let me dream again.”
It was no new number even then; even Stingaree had often heard it, and heard great singers go the least degree flat upon the first “dream.” He listened critically. Hilda Bouverie was not one of the delinquents. Her intonation was as perfect as that of the great violinists, her high notes had the rarefied quality of the E string finely touched. It was a flawless, if a purely popular, performance; and the musical heart of one listener in that crowded room was too full for mere applause. But he waited with patient curiosity for the encore, waited while courtesy after courtesy was given in vain. She had to yield; she yielded with a winning grace. And the first bars of the new song set one full heart beating, so that the earlier words were lost upon his brain.
“She ran before me in the meads;
And down this world-worn track
She leads me on; but while she leads
She never gazes back.
“And yet her voice is in my dreams,
To witch me more and more;
That wooing voice! Ah me, it seems
Less near me than of yore.
“Lightly I sped when hope was high,
And youth beguiled the chase;
I follow—follow still; but I
Shall never see her Face.”
So the song ended; and in the ultimate quiet the need of speech came over Stingaree.
“‘The Unrealized Ideal,’” he informed a neighbor.
“Rather!” rejoined the man, treating the stale news as a mere remark. “We never let her off without that.”
“I suppose not,” said Stingaree.
“It’s the song the bushranger forced her to sing at the back-block concert, and it made her fortune! Good old Stingaree! By the way, I heard somebody behind me say he had escaped. That can’t be true?”
“The newsboys were yelling it as I came along late.”
“Well,” said Stingaree’s neighbor, “if he has escaped, and I for one don’t hope he hasn’t, this is where he ought to be. Just the sort of thing he’d do, too. Good old sportsman, Stingaree!”
It was an embarrassing compliment, eye to eye and foot to foot, wedged in a crowd. The bushranger did not fish for any more; neither did he wait to hear Hilda Bouverie sing again, though this cost him much. But he had one more word with his neighbor before he went.
“You don’t happen to know where she’s staying, I suppose? I’ve met her once or twice, and I might call.”
The other smiled as on some suicidal moth.
“There’s only one place good enough for a star like her in Sydney.”
“And that is?”
“Government House.”
II
His Excellency of the moment was a young nobleman of sporting proclivities and your true sportsman’s breadth of mind. He was immensely popular with all sects and sections but the aggressively puritanical and the narrowly austere. He graced the theatre with his constant presence, the Turf with his own horses. His entertainment was lavish, and in quality far above the gubernatorial average. Late life and soul of exalted circle, he was hide-bound by few of the conventional trammels that distinguished the older type of peer to which the Colonies had been accustomed. It was the obvious course for such a Governor and his kindred lady to insist upon making the great Miss Bouverie their guest for the period of her professional sojourn in the capital; and a semi-Bohemian supper at the Government House was but a characteristic finale to her first great concert.
The prima donna sat on the Governor’s right, and at the proper point his Excellency sang her praises in a charmingly informal speech, which delighted and amused the press men, actors and actresses whom he had collected for the occasion. Only the guest of honor looked a little weary and condescending; she had a sufficient experience of such entertainments in London, where the actors were all London actors, the authors and journalists men whose names one knew. Mere peers were no great treat either; in a word, Hilda Bouverie was not a little spoilt. She had lost the girl’s glad outlook on the world, which some women keep until old age. There were stories about her which would have accounted for a deeper deterioration. Yet she was the Governor’s guest, and her behavior not unworthy of the honor. On him at least she smiled, and her real smile, less expansive than the platform counterfeit, had still its genuine sweetness, its winning flashes; and, at its worst, it was more sad than bitter.
Tonight the woman was an exhausted artist—unnerved, unstrung, unfitted for the world, yet only showing it in a languid appreciation which her host and hostess were the first to understand. Indeed, it was the great lady who carried her off, bowing with her platform bow, and smiling that smile, before the banquet was at an end.
A charming suite of rooms had been placed at the disposal of the prima donna; the boudoir was like a hot-house with the floral offerings of the evening, already tastefully arranged by madame’s own Swiss maid. But the weary lady walked straight through to her bedroom, and sank with a sigh into the arm-chair before the glass.
“Who brought this?” she asked, peevishly picking a twisted note from amid the golden furniture of her toilet-table.
“I never saw it until this minute, madame!” the Swiss maid answered, in dismay. “It was not there ten minutes ago, I am sure, madame!”
“Where have you been since?”
“Down to the servants’ hall, for one minute, madame.”
Miss Bouverie read the note, and was an animated being in three seconds. She looked in the glass, the flush became her, and even as she looked all horror died in her dark-blue eyes. Instead there came a glitter that warned the maid.
“I am tired of you, Lea,” cried madame. “You let people bring notes into my room, and you say you were only out of it a minute. Be good enough to leave me for the night. I can look after myself, for once!”
The maid protested, wept, but was expelled, and a key turned between them; then Hilda Bouverie read her note again:
“Escaped this afternoon. Came to your concert. Hiding in boudoir. Give me five minutes, or raise alarm, which you please.—STINGAREE.”
So ran his words in pencil on her own paper, and they were true; she had heard at supper of the escape. Once more she looked in the glass. And to her own eyes in these minutes she looked years younger—there was a new sensation left in life!
A touch to her hair, a glance in the pier-glass, and all for a notorious convict broken prison! So into the boudoir with her grandest air; but again she locked the door behind her, and, sweeping round, beheld a bald man bowing to her in immaculate evening clothes.
“Are you the writer of a note found on my dressing-table?” she demanded, every syllable off the ice.
“I am.”
“Then who are you, besides being an impudent forger?”
“You name the one crime I never committed,” said he. “I am Stingaree.”
And they gazed into each other’s eyes; but not yet were hers to be believed.
“He only escaped this afternoon!”
“I am he.”
“With a bald head?”
“Thanks to a razor.”
“And in those clothes?”
“I found them where I found the razor. Look; they don’t fit me as well as they might.”
And he drew nearer, flinging out an abbreviated sleeve; but she looked all the harder in his face.
“Yes. I begin to remember your face; but it has changed.”
“It has gazed on prison walls for many years.”
“I heard…I was grieved…but it was bound to come.”
“It may come again. I care very little, after this!”
And his dark eyes shone, his deep voice vibrated; then he glanced over a shrugged shoulder toward the outer door, and Hilda darted as if to turn that key too, but there was none to turn.
“It ought to happen at once,” she said, “and through me.”
“But it will not.”
His assurance annoyed her; she preferred his homage.
“I know what you mean,” she cried. “You did me a service years ago. I am not to forget it!”
“It is not I who have kept it before your mind.”
“Perhaps not; but that’s why you come to me tonight.”
Stingaree looked upon the spirited, spoilt beauty in her satin and diamonds and pearls; villain as he was, he held himself at her mercy, but he was not going to kneel to her for that. He saw a woman who had heard the truth from very few men, a nature grown in mastery as his own had inevitably shrunk: it was worth being at large to pit the old Adam still remaining to him against the old Eve in this petted darling of the world. But false protestations were no counters in his game.
“Miss Bouverie,” said Stingaree, “you may well suppose that I have borne you in mind all these years. As a matter of honest fact, when I first heard your name this evening, I was slow to connect it with any human being. You look angry. I intend no insult. If you have not forgotten the life I was leading before, you would very readily understand that I have never heard your name from those days to this. That is my misfortune, if also my own fault. It should suffice that, when I did remember, I came at my peril to hear you sing, and that before I dreamt of coming an inch further. But I heard them say, both in the hall and outside, that you owed your start to me; now one thinks of it, it must have been a rather striking advertisement; and I reflected that not another soul in Sydney can possibly owe me anything at all. So I came straight to you, without thinking twice about it. Criminal as I have been, and am, my one thought was and is that I deserve some little consideration at your hands.”
“You mean money?”
“I have not a penny. It would make all the difference to me. And I give you my word, if that is any satisfaction to you, I would be an honest man from this time forth!”
“You actually ask me to assist a criminal and escaped convict—me, Hilda Bouverie, at my own absolute risk!”
“I took a risk for you nine years ago, Miss Bouverie; it was all I did take,” said Stingaree, “at the concert that made your name.”
“And you rub it in,” she told him. “You rub it in!”
“I am running for my life!” he exclaimed, in answer. “It wouldn’t have been necessary—that would have been enough for the Miss Bouverie I knew then. But you are different; you are another being, you are a woman of the world; your heart, your heart is dead and gone!”
He cut her to it, none the less; he could not have inflicted a deeper wound. The blood leapt to her face and neck; she cried out at the insult, the indignity, the outrage of it all; and crying she darted to the door.
It was locked.
She turned on Stingaree.
“You dared to lock the door—you dared! Give me the key this instant.”
“I refuse.”
“Very well! You have heard my voice; you shall hear it again!”
Her pale lips made the perfect round, her grand teeth gleamed in the electric light.
He arrested her, not with violence, but a shrug.
“I shall jump out of the window and break my neck. They don’t take me twice—alive.”
She glared at him in anger and contempt. He meant it. Then let him do it. Her eyes told him all that; but as they flashed, stabbing him, their expression altered, and in a trice her ear was to the keyhole.
“Something has happened,” she whispered, turning a scared face up to him. “I hear your name. They have traced you here. They are coming! Oh! what are we to do?”
He strode over to the door.
“If you fear a scandal I can give myself up this moment and explain all.”
He spoke eagerly. The thought was sudden. She rose up, looking in his eyes.
“No, you shall not,” she said. Her hand flew out behind her, and in two seconds the brilliant room had click-clicked into a velvet darkness.
“Stand like a mouse,” she whispered, and he heard her reach the inner door, where she stood like another.
Steps and voices came along the landing at a quick crescendo.
“Miss Bouverie! Miss Bouverie! Miss Bouverie!”
It was his Excellency’s own gay voice. And it continued until with much noise Miss Bouverie flung her bedroom door wide open, put on the light within, ran across the boudoir, put on the boudoir light, and stooped to parley through the keyhole.
“The bushranger Stingaree has been traced to Government House.”
“Good heavens!”
“One of your windows was seen open.”
“He had not come in through it.”
“Then you were heard raising your voice.”
“That was to my maid. This is all through her. I don’t know how to tell you, but she leaves me in the morning. Yes, yes, there was a man, but it was not Stingaree. I saw him myself through coming up early, but I let him go as he had come, to save a fuss.”
“Through the window?”
“I am so ashamed!”
“Not a bit, Miss Bouverie. I am ashamed of bothering you. Confound the police!”
When the voices and steps had died away, Hilda Bouverie turned to Stingaree, her whole face shining, her deep blue eyes alight.
“There!” said she. “Could you have done that better yourself?”
“Not half so well.”
“And you thought I could forget!”
“I thought nothing. I only came to you in my scrape.”
After years of imprisonment he could speak of this life-and-death hazard as a scrape! She looked at him with admiring eyes; her personal triumph had put an end to her indignation.
“My poor Lea! I wonder how much she has heard? I shall have to tell her nearly all; she can wait for me at Melbourne or Adelaide, and I can pick her up on my voyage home. It will be no joke without her until then. I give her up for your sake!”
Stingaree hung his head. He was a changed man.
“And I,” he said grimly—not pathetically—“and I am a convict who escaped by violence this afternoon.”
Hilda smiled.
“I met Mr. Brady the other day,” she said, “and I heard of him tonight. He is not going to die!”
He stared at her unscrupulous radiance.
“Do you wonder at me?” she said. “Did you never hear that musical people had no morals?”
And her smile bewitched him more and more.
“It explains us both!” declared Miss Bouverie. “But do you know what I have kept all these years?” she went on. “Do you know what has been my mascot, what I have had about me whenever I have sung in public, since and including that time at Yallarook? Can’t you guess?”
He could not. She turned her back, he heard some gussets give, and the next moment she was holding a strange trophy in both hands.
It was a tiny silken bandolier, containing six revolver cartridges, with bullet and cap intact.
“Can’t you guess now?” she gloried.
“No. I never missed them; they are not like any I ever had.”
“Don’t you remember the man who chased you out and misfired at you six times? He was the overseer on the station; his name may come back to me, but his face I s
hall never forget. He had a revolver in his pocket, but he dared not lower a hand. I took it out of his pocket and was to hand it up to him when I got the chance. Until then I was to keep it under my shawl. That was when I managed to unload every chamber. These are the cartridges I took out, and they have been my mascot ever since.”
She looked years younger than she had seemed even singing in the Town Hall; but the lines deepened on the bushranger’s face, and he stepped back from her a pace.
“So you saved my life,” he said. “You had saved my life all the time. And yet I came to ask you to do as much for me as I had done for you!”
He turned away; his hands were clenched behind his back.
“I will do more,” she cried, “if more could be done by one person for another. Here are jewels.” She stripped her neck of its rope of pearls. “And here are notes.” She dived into a bureau and thrust a handful upon him. “With these alone you should be able to get to England or America; and if you want more when you get there, write to Hilda Bouverie! As long as she has any, there will be some for you!”
Tears filled her eyes. The simplicity of her girlhood had come back to the seasoned woman of the world, at once spoiled and satiated with success. This was the other side of the artistic temperament which had enslaved her soul. She would swing from one extreme of wounded and vindictive vanity to this length of lawless nobility; now she could think of none but self, and now not of herself at all. Stingaree glanced toward the window.
“I can’t go yet, I’m afraid.”
“You sha’n’t! Why should you?”
“But I still fear they may not be satisfied downstairs. I am ashamed to ask it—but will you do one little thing more for me?”
“Name it!”
“It is only to make assurance doubly sure. Go downstairs and let them see you; tell them more details, if you like. Go down as you are, and say that without your maid you could not find anything else to put on. I promise not to vanish with everything in your absence.”
“You do promise?”
“On my—liberty!”
She looked in his face with a very wistful sweetness.
The Raffles Megapack Page 87