NIGHT IN THE CITY
Oh, the world is wondrous fair
When the tide of life’s at flood!
There is music in the air,
There is music in the blood.
And a glamour draws us on,
To the distance, rainbow-spanned.
And the road we tread upon
Is the track to Fairyland.
—_V. J. Daley._
“JEAN, can you button me up?”
“Half a minute till I get this ribbon tied,” said the lady addressed,
wrestling urgently with an obstinate bow. “There—that’s got to do! Turn
round, old girl—I can’t see. There you are.”
“Thanks,” said Norah, shaking out her skirt. “Is my hair decent?”
“Yes, it’s all right. Curly-haired people like you always look right.”
“Wish I thought so,” said the owner of the curls. “Dreadful mop, I
think. Will I do, Jean?”
“Do?” said Jean, in some bewilderment. “Why, of course—you look all
right. Why are you worrying?”
Norah reddened slightly.
“Well—I never had dinner in a big hotel like this before,” she said.
“Melbourne hotels are a bit different to the Cunjee one, I guess. And I
don’t want Dad and Jim to be ashamed of me.”
“I don’t think you need bother your head,” said the more travelled Jean.
“You look nice, truly. And I shouldn’t think your father and Jim were
very hard to please.”
“Oh, they never would say anything. But they might think—and be
disappointed if I weren’t all right. You see, it never seemed to matter
when I was only at Billabong. But after all this time at school they’ll
naturally expect me to be different.”
“And do you think you are?” queried Jean, anxiously.
“I don’t think I am, a bit!” Norah answered. “That’s what’s worrying me.
It won’t bother me when I get home, I expect, but this big place seems
different.” She glanced round the hotel bedroom with a quaint air of
anxiety. “I feel just exactly the same as if I’d never been at school at
all.”
“Well, I believe that’s how your father’ll like you,” said Jean,
sapiently.
“And——” Norah flushed more redly, and paused.
“What?”
“Will dinner be—difficult? You know I haven’t been anywhere like this,”
said poor Norah. “Will there be lots of knives and forks and glasses I
don’t know anything about? I don’t want to make an ass of myself, you
know!”
Jean nodded comprehendingly.
“Don’t you worry,” she said. “It’s all quite easy. I stayed here with
father when he brought me over from Christchurch, you know. He helped me
a bit over ordering when the waiter came round—the menu is rather mixed
until you get used to it. You tell your father to do the same. And I
really won’t know a bit more than you, so if we make mistakes we’ll make
them together, and it won’t matter!”
“You’re a dear,” said Norah, gratefully. “I say, would you mind if I go
and find Dad now, and have a little talk to him? His room is quite
near.”
“Of course I won’t,” said her friend. “Hurry up—it’s nearly dinner
time.”
“I’ll come back for you,” Norah called, disappearing into the corridor.
She hesitated a moment in the unfamiliar place—all the doors looked so
exactly alike. Then from behind one came a line of a song, in Jim’s deep
voice, and Wally joined in:—
“So we went strolling, down by the rolling—
Down by the rolling sea!”
It made the corridor seem suddenly homelike, and Norah broke into
smiles. Beyond, her father’s number caught her eye, and she tapped at
the door.
“May I come in, Daddy?”
“Certainly you may!” said David Linton, with somewhat startling
emphasis, mingled with relief. “And tie this blessed evening tie!” He
submitted meekly to his daughter’s ministrations. “Ridiculous!—I’m far
too old to get into these clothes!”
“You look beautiful,” said his daughter, fervently. “Daddy, will I do?”
“Do? I should say so. That white thing looks very fine as far as I’m a
judge.”
“Then that’s all right. And, Dad——”
“Yes, my girl?”
“I’m awfully scared of dinner!” Norah confessed. “Will you keep fierce
waiters off me, Daddy? And tell me what to say I’ll have?”
David Linton looked at her and smiled with something like relief. He sat
down and drew her towards him.
“Do you know,” he said, “you’ve looked so fine a young lady to-day that
I almost feared I’d lost my little Bush mate. I suppose it’s the
clothes!”
“Daddy!”
“But I fancy I haven’t,” said her father twinkling. “Don’t bother your
little head about dinner—we’ll see you through. I don’t quite know how
I’d have liked it if you had been self-possessed about it.”
“Self-possessed!” uttered Norah. “Why, I’m scared to my bones! And as
for the clothes—if you’ll wait until to-morrow and let me get into a
linen collar again——!”
“I’ll know you thoroughly when I have you back at Billabong in your
riding habit,” said her father. “But these clothes are nice, too. I’m
not quarrelling with them. You’re not sorry to come back to your old
Dad?” He paused, watching her.
“Sorry!” said Norah. “Sorry!” And then her tongue suddenly refused to do
its duty. She put her head down on his shoulder, and drew a deep breath.
His arms tightened round her. They were silent for a minute.
“Jim is a good mate,” said David Linton, “none better. But my little
mate’s place has always been empty. It’s been a long time, my girl.”
“Long—to you, Daddy?”
“One of the longest I remember. You see, I never bargained for your
spending midwinter having measles.”
“Neither did I,” said Norah, ruefully. The memory of that inconsiderate
ailment was still a sore thing; at the time it had been almost too sore
to be borne. “It seems just ages since I saw home. Is it just the same,
Dad?”
“I don’t think there’s any difference. Everyone has been busy putting on
a bit of extra polish for the last week; and Brownie says she’s half a
stone lighter—but she doesn’t look it; and there’s a new inmate in the
little paddock near the house calling for your immediate inspection!”
“A new inmate?” Norah echoed.
Jim had come in, unnoticed. He grinned down at her from the hearthrug.
“A rather swagger inmate,” he said, nodding. “Seeing how out of form you
must be, I don’t think it will be wise to let you try him—we’ll put you
up on an old stock horse for a week or so!”
“Will you, indeed?” said Norah, with some heat, yet laughing. “You’re
going to lend me Garryowen—you said so!”
“Garryowen!” said the owner of that proud steed mournfully. “Poor old
Garryowen’s tail will be hopelessly out of joint. One thing, I’ll be
able to ride him myself—being of a meek disposition!” His eyes
twinkled.
Two red spots suddenly flamed into Norah’s face.
“Dad! You don’t mean——” She stopped, looking at him uncertainly.
“There’s something of a pony there,” said Mr. Linton, his keen eyes
watching her through his smile. “An ownerless one—wi’ a long pedigree!
I looked eight months before I found him. His name’s Bosun, Norah, and
he wants an owner.”
There was a mist before Norah’s eyes. She tried to speak, but her head
went down again upon the broad shoulder near her. A muffled word escaped
her, which sounded like, “Bricks!” Norah was least eloquent when most
moved.
Jim patted her shoulder hard, and said, “Buck up, old chap!” being also
a person of few words. For there had been another pony of Norah’s—a
most dear pony, who now slept very quietly under a cairn of stones on a
rough hillside. Not one of those three, who were mates, could forget.
From the corridor Wally’s voice came, gently consolatory.
“I think they’ve all been kidnapped,” he was explaining. “Many a little
hungry kidnapper would think Jim quite a treat! You and I seem left
alone in this pathless forest, and probably the birds will find us, and
cover us with leaves. Don’t let it worry you—I believe the leaves are
quite comfortable!”
“Come in, Wally, you ass!” said Jim, laughing. “He may come in,
Dad——?”
“Apparently he’s in,” said Mr. Linton, resignedly, getting up. “Come on,
Wally—and Jean, too.”
“We’ve been lost—at least, we were until we found each other,” said
Wally. “We came to the conclusion that none of you Billabong people were
left in this little inn. Jean would probably have cried if I hadn’t been
crying—as it was, she felt she couldn’t, which was very rough on her.
Mr. Linton, do I know you well enough——”
“For most things,” said the squatter, laughing!
“——To mention that I am hungry?” finished Wally, unmoved. “My last
nourishment was at twelve o’clock, and it’s nearly seven now; and
theatres in this benighted district begin before eight when they’re
pantomimes!”
Mr. Linton uttered an exclamation.
“I declare, I’d forgotten all about either dinner or pantomime!” he
said. “Thank you, Wally—I’m obliged to you. Where’s my coat? I hope all
the rest of you are ready.”
“Are we going to the pantomime, Dad?” Norah’s eyes were dancing.
“Jim says so,” said her father, laughing. “I’m in his hands.” He caught
up his coat, while Jean and Norah hugged each other in silent ecstasy.
“Now, hurry up, all of you!”
Downstairs, the big dining-room brought back Norah’s shyness anew. She
felt suddenly very young—infinitely younger than Jim and Wally, tall
and immaculate in their evening clothes, although, as a rule, they
seemed no older than herself. She kept close to her father’s wing,
greatly envying Jean’s apparent calm.
The huge room was crowded. It was full of tables of varying sizes, not
one of which seemed unoccupied—until a waiter, catching Mr. Linton’s
eye, hurried up and led them to a corner, where a round table was
reserved for them. It commanded an excellent view of the room, and the
sight was a little bewildering to the two schoolgirls.
Every one seemed in evening dress—and even Norah knew she had seen no
dresses like those the women wore—rich, clinging things, in soft and
delicate colours like the inner side of flower petals. The masses of
electric light took up the leaping light of jewels on their necks and in
their hair; all up and down the room the eye caught the many-coloured
gleam, twinkling and sparkling like rainbow stars. Everywhere was
laughter and chatter and the chink of plates and glasses; and somewhere,
unseen, a string band was playing softly a waltz tune with a lilt in it
like a bird’s note. Norah forgot all about being nervous. Indeed, she
remembered nothing, being deeply occupied with gazing, until she found a
deft waiter putting soup before her.
“That’s my order,” said her father, and smiled. “You and Jean have had
an exciting day, and you’re to eat just what I tell you.”
By these wily means any difficulties the menu might have suggested
disappeared. Moreover, the waiter was a man of tact, and seemed to
regard it as only ordinary if his clients kept him waiting while they
put their heads together over the merits of various items with very fine
French names.
“Experience in these things is everything,” said Jim, surveying a
peculiar substance on his plate. “I ordered something that read like a
poem, and it turns out a sort of half-bred hash! Thanks, I’ll have
beef!” So they all had beef, and finished up rather hurriedly with
jelly, which, as Wally said, could be demolished quickly; for the hands
of the clock were slipping round, and a pantomime was not a thing to be
kept waiting—especially as there was no likelihood that it would
wait!—a reflection that made the situation far more serious. Jim raced
up for coats for the girls, and they all hastened out.
In the street the lights of Melbourne lit the sky. Far as the eye could
reach the yellow glow shone against the star-gemmed blackness. Here and
there a point of special brilliance twinkled—it was hard to tell
whether it was a tall arc light reaching up into the very heavens, or a
lonely star that had leaned down towards the friendly earth. Up and down
the Bourke Street hills the lamps formed a linked chain of diamonds on
either side, while in their midst the low gliding tram-lights were
rubies and sapphires. The big head-lights of motors made gleaming
flashes as they turned, or shot straight up the wide street, twin eyes
of a dazzling radiance—so bright that when they flashed past darkness
seemed to fall doubly dark behind them. And there were creeping bicycle
lights, and streaks of white fire, that were the lamps of motor cycles;
and red and white lights that went by in silent rubber-tyred hansoms,
noiseless save for the jingling bit and the “klop-klop” of the horse’s
hoofs upon the wooden blocks. Advertisement signs in huge electric
letters flickered into sight and disappeared again—one moment dazzling,
the next velvet black; and over picture theatres and other places of
amusement were gleaming signs of fire. And up from the city below came
the deep hum of the people that only ceases for a little when the lights
go out—that wakes again even before the pencils of Dawn come to streak
the eastern sky.
Then a tram came by, took them on board, and in a moment they were
slipping down the hill towards a busy intersection where the post office
stood, a mighty block of buildings, with its tall clock just chiming the
quarter-hour above them. On again, through the wide, busy street, full
of hurrying theatre crowds. Barefooted newsboys ran beside the car
whenever it stopped, calling out harrowing details from the evening
papers. They passed cabs, climbing the further hill; and swift motors
slipped by them—in each Norah and Jean caught glimpses of women in
evening dress, with scarfs like trails of coloured mist. Everywhere the
shop windows were brilliantly lighted, although it was long after
closing time; and scores of people were staring through the glass at the
gorgeous displays within.
Norah gasped at it all. It was her first experience of the City by
night, and she found it rather bewildering.
“Does Melbourne ever stop being busy?” she uttered.
Mr. Linton laughed.
“Not often,” he said—“and not for long. Personally, I prefer old
Billabong. But this is all very well for a little while.”
The car stopped at a point where an electric theatre sign blazed right
across the footpath; and they hurried down a side-street. A string of
motors and cabs had drawn up by the kerb and passengers were hastily
disembarking before a glittering theatre, with uniformed commissionaires
holding the doors open. Norah and Jean had no time to look about them;
they were hurried up a wide flight of marble stairs, and in a moment
were following Mr. Linton into darkness, for already the lights had been
turned off in the theatre, and only a dun green ray filtered from the
stage, where an old man of the sea was engaged in making unpleasant
remarks to a fairy. The orchestra was playing softly—weird music which,
Wally whispered, gave you chills up the backbone. They stumbled down
some steps to seats in the front row, and as they thankfully subsided
into them, the green sea-caves and the fierce old man suddenly vanished
in a whirl of light and a blare of joyful music; and Norah was whisked
straight into fairyland.
In these advanced days of ours, pantomimes come very early into the
scheme of our existence. Most of us have seen one by the time we are
six; at nine we have become critical, and at twelve, bored. After that,
the pantomime may consider itself lucky if we do not term it a “pretty
rotten show.” This painful phase lasts until we are quite old—perhaps
eight and twenty. Then we begin to see fresh joys in it, and if we are
lucky, to work up quite a comforting degree of enthusiasm. At this stage
the companion we like to select must not number more years than six.
Then we feel sure of a comprehending fellow-spectator—one who will not
wither us with a bland stare when we are consumed with helpless laughter
at Harlequin, or rent with anxiety by the perils of the “principal boy.”
But it happened that none of our party had ever been spoilt by over-much
pantomime. It was, indeed, Norah’s first experience of a theatre. Jean
had seen but little more, and Jim and Wally, big fellows as they were,
had worked and played far too hard at school to be much concerned with
going out. None of them was at all brilliant; theirs were the cheerful,
simple hearts that take work and pleasure as they come, and do not
trouble to develop either the critical or the grumbling faculty—which
are, in truth, closely related. If the boys had not the ecstatic
anticipation that seethed in Jean and Norah, at least they were prepared
to enjoy themselves very solidly.
To Norah, it was all absolutely real, and therefore wonderful past
belief. The evening to her was, as she remarked afterwards, “one gasp.”
The hero puzzled her, since it was evident that he was not a “truly”
boy; but the heroine claimed her heart from the first, and the funny men
were droll beyond compare. Indeed, from Mr. Linton downwards, the
Billabong party succumbed to the funny men, and laughed until they ached
at their antics. The fairies were certainly a trifle buxom, compared to
the sprites of Norah’s dreams; but the Old Man of the Sea was
fascinatingly life-like and evil, and caused delightful thrills of
horror to run up and down one’s spine. And then, the gorgeousness of the
whole—the flower and bird ballets, the mysterious dances, the marches,
splendid and stately, the glitter and colour and light! And through all,
over all, the music!—swaying, rippling; low and soft one moment, with
the violins wailing and the harp strings plucked in a chord of poignant
sweetness—the next, swelling out triumphantly, wind instruments in a
blare of vivid sound, and drums and cymbals clashing wild and stately
measures. Afterwards the wonder of the night merged in Norah’s brain to
a kind of kaleidoscopic picture, swiftly changing in colour and
magnificence; but always clear was the memory of the orchestra, weaving
magic spells of music that caught her heart in their meshes.
She was a little breathless when the curtain fell on the first act, and
the lights flashed out over the body of the theatre. Instinctively her
hand sought her father’s.
“Is it all over, Dad?”
“Not much!” said Mr. Linton. “This is half-time. What do you think of
it?”
“Oh—it’s lovely!” breathed his daughter. “Isn’t it, Jean?”
“I should just think so!” Jean said. “Will there be more like it?”
“Very much the same, I expect,” said the squatter, laughing. “And what
do you think of this part of the house?”
It was not the least interesting part. The closing of the city schools
had set free hosts of pilgrims on the ways of knowledge, debarred, as a
rule, by stern necessity from such relaxations as pantomimes. Now it
seemed that parents in general had risen to a sense of their duty, for
it was clearly a “young” night. There were girls and boys in every part
of the theatre—in big parties, in twos and threes, or even singly,
accompanied by a cheery father and mother, in many cases keener to enjoy
than their charges. Everywhere were fresh young faces—girls with bright
hair and glowing cheeks, and sunburnt boys with shining collars: and
everywhere was a babel and buzz of talk and laughter as the young voices
broke loose. A procession—chiefly men—left their seats and filed out;
a proceeding which puzzled and pained Norah, who was heard to regret
audibly that they were making the mistake of thinking the theatre was
over. Wally laid a big box of chocolates on her knee, remarking that she
looked hungry—an insult received by the maligned one with fitting
scorn. At the moment Norah could scarcely have noticed the difference
between chocolates and corned beef!
“Won’t do,” grinned Jim, watching her dancing eyes. “She’s getting too
excited, Dad—we’d better take her home to bed!”
“I’d like to see you!” said Norah, belligerently. “Oh, my goodness,
Jean, it’s going up again!”
“It”—which was the curtain—flashed up suddenly, as the lights went
out, and straightway Norah forgot everything but the wonderland on the
stage. She leaned forward breathlessly, half afraid of losing even a
glimpse of the marvels that were unfolded with such apparent calm. “As
if,” said Norah later, “it was as ordinary as washing-day!”
Ever since she could remember, she had danced. But the dancing on the
stage was a new thing altogether. It was music put into motion; it was
as though the fairies had caught the spirits of joy and poetry and
youth, and turned them all into a rhythmic harmony. There was gladness
in every swaying movement; gladness and grace and beauty. “They all look
so awfully happy!” breathed Norah. But then—who would not be happy,
dancing in Fairyland?
Only, near the end, come one thing that Norah did not like. A children’s
ballet, dressed as flowers, had just danced its way off the stage,
leaving at one side a tall tiger lily; and from the other corner a tiny
thing toddled out to meet it. A wee baby form, almost ridiculous in the
quaint tights of green that made it an orchid—a little face, peeping
out of the green peaked cap. Very daintily, a little hesitatingly, it
began to dance; the orchestra’s music softened and slackened, as if to
help the little half-afraid feet. The theatre rang with applause and
laughter.
“They shouldn’t let it—it’s a shame!” she uttered very low. “It’s just
a baby—and it ought to be in bed! Jim do they make it do this every
night?”
“I expect so,” Jim answered. “Bless you, old girl, I suppose they pay
the kid!”
“Then they haven’t any business to—I don’t know what its mother’s
thinking about!” whispered Norah. “I’m perfectly certain it’s as scared
as ever it can be! It’s only a frightened little baby—I think it’s mean
to dress it up in those silly clothes and make it come out here in front
of all these people!”
“For all you know, old chap, it likes the game,” Jim said, practically.
“I’m sure it doesn’t—look at its eyes! I never saw anything so—so
anxious. Makes you want to pick it up and nurse it,” said his sister, a
straight young monument of indignation. “Thank goodness, it’s gone!” as
the little orchid danced off with the tiger lily. She subsided, somewhat
to Jim’s relief. He was not sure that he had liked the baby orchid
himself.
Then came the final scene, a vision of Aladdin’s Cave, massed with every
gem known of man, and a great number more known only of the stage; and
all gorgeous and glittering beyond any mortal dreams. Rubies as big as
turkeys’ eggs, and emeralds the size of barrels; and walls and ceiling a
flashing, scintillating mass of diamonds. “Worth while having a vacuum
cleaner there,” Wally commented—“you’d only get diamond dust!” And in
this wondrous setting, a shifting panorama of moving figures, almost as
vivid as the gems themselves; fairies and sprites and marvellous
flowers, and tall, slender soldiers in gleaming coats of silver mail.
And always the music that made the magic by which everything grew real.
Then, suddenly the curtain; and Norah came out of her trance, blinking a
little.
“Is that the end?”
“Quite the end,” said her father. “Come on, my girl; it’s high time you
were in bed.” He put a protecting hand on her shoulder, and piloted her
through the crowd, while Jim and Wally performed a like kind office for
the similarly dazed Jean.
Out in Bourke Street, the cooler air blew gratefully upon Norah’s hot
face. But she was very silent as the tram took them back to the hotel;
and when she said good-night, her father scanned her face keenly.
“Sure you’re not over-tired, Norah?”
“Not me!” said Norah, absent-mindedly and inelegantly. “I’m all right,
Daddy.”
“Then you’re half in the theatre yet,” said he, laughing. “Go to bed.”
Norah went, obediently. Just as Jean was falling asleep, a voice came
from the bed across the room—
“Wonder if any one’s tucked up that poor little orchid!” said Norah.
From Jean’s corner came a sound that might have been termed either a
grunt or a snore, according as the hearer might be more or less kindly
disposed. Norah was pondering the problem when she followed her through
the gate of sleep.
[Illustration: “I almost feared I’d lost my little Bush mate.”]