THE SINGER
IT was dark when Meg first caught sight of the lights of Minton. The
fact that she was free had so buoyed her up, that till she looked on
the distant town she had not realized her hunger or weariness. But now
that she knew she was within a mile or two of her destination she felt
as if she could walk no further; and sinking down on the grass that
edged the roadside she fell asleep.
She was well used to sleeping under the stars, but on awaking at the
sound of a passing cart, she sat up suddenly, and experienced for
almost the first time in her life a sensation of fear. She had dreamt
that she heard the tap—tap—of the wooden leg of the man who for years
she had supposed to be her father—and that she was hiding in the dark
ditch to escape him. She longed now for Jem's protecting presence. A
terrible sense of loneliness oppressed her, due no doubt to her tired
and hungry condition. Then she realized that it was imperative for her
to get some money before she could either satisfy her hunger or procure
a night's lodging.
Jem's hat had fallen off her head and it took some little time to
find it in the dark; but she would not on any account have left it
behind her, and when she found it she held it tight, feeling it almost
a protection. Anyhow it filled her with comforting thoughts as she
trudged along towards Minton. She was sure that Jem would not forget
her and would somehow or other find out where she was. She had a
strange kind of feeling about him. So long as he was in the world she
felt she could not come to much harm without his knowing it and coming
to her help.
About a mile from Minton Meg found she was passing some large white
gates. They were open, and looking up the avenue she caught sight of a
brightly lighted house. This might be her chance of earning money, she
thought, so made her way towards it.
The blinds were not drawn, and the girl stood fascinated with what she
saw.
A dinner party was in progress, Meg leaned against a tree watching
eagerly all that went on.
The table was lighted by shaded candles, which cast a soft glow over
the white cloth and gleaming silver and glass. Silver dishes were being
handed round, and Meg, hungry and tired, could have wept with longing
and weariness as she compared her lot, out in the dark, with that of
the guests who apparently had more than enough of this world's good
things. But she knew she must not give way to tears or her chance of
earning food would be diminished.
The conversation round the dinner table suddenly stopped, as there
floated into the room the air of "The Last Rose of Summer," sung in a
rich contralto voice.
"What's that?" asked the host in a very vexed tone of voice. "Some
beggar no doubt." Then turning to the butler he added, "Send her away,
we don't want vagabonds about the premises."
"Oh don't," cried a girl, leaning forward to try to get a glimpse of
the singer, "she has the most lovely voice. I thought you had arranged
it on purpose to give us a treat."
"It's a rich contralto," said one of the guests. "She ought to be given
a chance of being trained."
The host beckoned the butler to his side, while his guests were
commenting one to another about the singer.
"Give her two shillings and send her away," he said in a low voice.
Dessert being now on the table, Dent, the butler, went to follow out
his master's injunctions, but being a musical man, he was bent on
hearing more of that wonderful voice that he had listened to as he had
handed round the fruit.
He soon discovered the girl in the dark.
"The master he don't like no beggars about," he said in not too gentle
a voice, "so I advise you to be off my girl. Come now are you one of a
clan?"
"No, I'm by myself," answered Meg. "But if you'd be so good as to give
me a glass of milk I'd pay you right well. I'll sing six songs straight
off and you'd be lucky to hear 'em," she added with spirit, "I wouldn't
do it if it wasn't that I'm just beat with tiredness and hunger."
Meg was looking up at Dent with a pair of eyes that made him feel, he
told the servants afterwards, and that, together with her promise of
singing and her very evident sincerity, worked on his feelings to such
an extent, that he slipped his master's Florin into his pocket and led
the way round to the back of the house. Then opening the kitchen door
he introduced the girl with a flourish.
"This young lady wants some milk, and you'll be pleased to give it to
her post haste, Mrs. Brown, or you'll lose the chance of your life."
The cook looked round quickly.
"Come now what are you up to with your tricks," she said sharply,
"we don't want no beggars here. Look out, girl," she added, as Meg
bewildered, was on the point of obeying Dent's invitation to enter,
"you'll bring a lot of mud in I'll be bound; a pretty muddle I'll be in
to-morrow. And to choose to-night of all nights when I'm so busy and
don't know which way to turn."
But Dent would not be denied. He knew Mrs. Brown, and was in no way
abashed by her protest.
"Sit down, my girl," he said pointing to a chair by the door, "and," he
added turning to the cook, "if you've got a mother's heart you'll give
her something to eat and drink, she's fit to drop."
"I'll pay you right well by singing to you," said Meg as she dropped
into a chair, "only I can't do nothin' till I have a drink and food,
I'm fairly beat."
"Where have you come from?" inquired Mrs. Brown, in a softened tone of
voice.
"All the way from Boxley Common," she said, "and I haven't had a mite
of food since the sun rose this mornin'."
"Poor dear," said the cook, her pity aroused, "I'll give you a bowl of
soup; that's what I'll do."
Meg rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes. The warmth of
the kitchen and the smell of the cooking was almost too much for her,
but she revived on drinking the hot soup and looked up smiling at Mrs.
Brown.
"I'll pay well for this," she said.
"Tut, tut, my dear. We don't want payment. You ain't fit to sing."
"Yes, I shall be all right in a moment, and when he comes back,"
nodding her head towards the inner door through which the butler had
vanished, "I'll begin."
"Dent's gone with the coffee," said the cook, "and won't be here for a
few minutes."
"I feel a lot better," said Meg, "and shall be able to sing fine. I'm
making my way towards London to see Bostock," she added.
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, leaning both hands on the
kitchen table, and surveying the girl with amazement. "What do your
father and mother say to that I should like to know?"
"They don't say nothin' for I've got none."
Mrs. Brown had a kind heart within her somewhat portly body, and looked
with concern at her picturesque visitor.
"Come now, my dear," she said, "take my advice and don't do any such
thing. London isn't the place for such as you. I'll speak to the
mistress about you if you like and see if she can't do ought to help
you."
Meg sprang up from her seat, snatching up Jem's hat which had fallen on
the floor by her side.
"You'll do no such thing," she said quickly, "if you do I guess I'll
have to leave you without payin' you for my food, though it would go
against me after your kindness. But I won't have the help of anybody. I
ain't bound to a single soul."
Mrs. Brown, taken aback by the excitability of her guest, tried to
soothe her, promising to do nothing without her leave, and at last on
the entrance of the other servants, who had been told by Dent that if
they wanted to have a treat he advised them to go without fail to the
kitchen, she sat down again and looked with interest at those who were
to form her audience.
Dent, who took the credit to himself of giving his fellow servants this
treat, placed chairs in a row, and acted as Master of the Ceremonies.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," he began, looking from the row of maids to
the young footman who stood by the door, "we are now about to listen
to the finest voice that I've heard for a long time; and as I reckon
myself to be a good judge of music and to know a fine voice when I hear
it, having for years sung in the cathedral choir at Chichester, I can
guarantee that a treat lies before you. This young lady will now be
good enough to perform."
Meg rose, a smile lighting up her face as she looked around on her
audience. She did not know what shyness was, and was so used to
having her voice praised that she was not afraid of her hearers being
disappointed.
"I'll sing fine," she said, "and will do what I can to pay for my
good food; and I'm mighty thankful to Mr. Dent and Mrs. Brown for
their kindness to me. I'll begin I think with a comic song to make
you laugh." And in a moment the girl had sprung up on to the chair
behind her and with a great deal of action sang through several songs,
eliciting shouts of laughter from her audience.
Dent alone was disappointed. He was listening impatiently for the
wonderful music that he had heard in her voice as she had sung in the
dark of the garden. But he had not to wait long; the laughter had
scarcely died away before the girl's whole expression of face changed,
as she broke into the plaintive air of "Auld Robin Gray."
The pathos in the voice enchained the audience. They sat listening with
rapt attention, and when the last verse was arrived at Mrs. Brown could
bear it no longer but boldly took out her handkerchief and wiped her
tears away.
At the close Dent looked round at the audience with a triumphant smile
on his lips. He had not been wrong in his estimation of the fine
quality of his protégé's voice; she had reduced Mrs. Brown to tears;
that was a conquest in itself.
Meg left no time for an encore, but at once began, "The Last Rose
of Summer." When this was finished the servants' delight could be
contained no longer, they begged for it once more, and when the girl
had stepped off her improvised platform, Dent rose to formally propose
a vote of thanks.
Meanwhile Meg was quite unconscious of sundry winks and signs from
Mrs. Brown, as one of the younger servants, after leaving the kitchen,
returned holding a tidy hat behind her back till she had an opportunity
of changing it with the old battered one that lay on the floor. It
was only as Meg turned round to go that she saw what had happened,
but instead of the delight that the cook and her fellow servant had
been anticipating, the angry colour rushed into the girl's face as she
exclaimed—
"Where's my hat?"
"My dear," explained the cook, "don't say nothing about it. We don't
want no thanks. I've had that nice hat in my box for a long time to
send to my niece in the shires, but you may have it and welcome."
Dent, who was mysteriously whispering to the servants as he went round
collecting a few coins from them to add to his master's florin, did
not see the distress on the girl's face, but Mrs. Brown did, and was
puzzled.
"What is it, my dear?" she asked. "Don't you like it?"
"It was Jem's hat," murmured Meg. "I'd a deal rather have it than a new
one, though it's mighty kind of you to think of givin' it to me."
"Jem's hat?"
"Yes, my pal Jem. I wouldn't lose it for all the world. You see," she
added looking up at Mrs. Brown with something like tears in her eyes.
"It's just all I've got."
"Is this young man your brother? I thought you was alone in the world?"
said the cook.
"No, he's not my brother. He's my pal," answered the girl.
Mrs. Brown put her hand on Meg's shoulder. "Then take my advice, my
girl, and don't have nought to do with him. I expect he's a worthless
young man, isn't he?"
"He's the best man in the world," said the girl. "If it hadn't been
for Jem I guess I should be dead by this time." Then seeing her
questioner's perplexed face she added, "You don't understand, but it's
all right. Don't you be afeared for me."
When a moment or two afterwards Dent placed five shillings in her hand,
two of which he explained came from his master, Meg coloured.
"I don't think, it fair," she said looking down at the silver. "I've
not sung as well as all that. You've paid me too high."
"Not a bit of it," said Dent. "You ought to make your fortune with that
voice of yours, my girl."
Meg looked up with a laugh.
"It's wonderful kind of you all," she said, "and if ever you come to
London to see Bostock's wild beasts, I'll ask that you shall come in to
see me among the lions without paying a penny."
With a grateful smile she took up the old battered hat which had been
returned to her, and made her way out into the dark garden. She felt
happier for all the kindness that had been shown to her, and decided to
stay somewhere near till the morning. So, hunting about for a place in
which to sleep, she came upon a summer house, in which she lay down.
The hard floor was not comfortable, but Meg was not used to comfort,
and her thoughts so engrossed her that she scarcely noticed the
hardness. She had had an exciting day, and felt encouraged by her
experience in the kitchen of the house close by. Jem had said the world
was a wicked place; but, thought Meg, perhaps he was ignorant of the
fact that there were many kind people in it notwithstanding, and if she
had fared so well the first day why need she fear? With five shillings
in her pocket, which to the girl, who had never possessed a penny of
her own, seemed untold riches, she could face her future.
Then her thoughts Hew to the motherly face of Mrs. Brown, and she
sighed. The care and kindness of the cook had created a longing in
the heart of the singer. What must it be to have a mother! A real
mother! Not like the false one that all these years she had believed
to be hers. Where was her mother? And who was she? Meg's large eyes
stared up into the dark sky which she could see from the summer house,
spangled over with stars, and she sighed again. Her soul was athirst
for something—someone—she knew not what. She was as:—
"An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry."
Meg awoke to find the sun streaming in upon her, and started up,
fearful lest she should be discovered in the summer house. She gained
the road without being seen. She need not have feared. It was only four
o'clock and the world was still asleep.
The sense of freedom seemed to give her wings, and she walked the mile
that lay between her and Minton in so short a time that she arrived
before anyone was astir. It was to walk down the quiet streets and to
see every door closed against her. It struck her as almost a city of
the dead. The delightful sense of freedom died for a time within her,
and she felt desperately lonely. She stood in the middle of the High
Street looking first one way and then another, hesitatingly, and was
almost afraid of the sound of her own footsteps.
Then she turned and fled back the way she had come, not resting till
she had found a gate leading into a field where she could sit and wait
for the sound of human life. She felt happier in the field, and the
birds were amazingly tame. Not accustomed to being disturbed at that
early hour by man, they came close to where she was sitting, and the
girl was thankful for their company.
She decided that as she had enough money to carry her on for some time,
she would only stay to get food at Minton, and then set out for the
next town on the way to London. For the more she thought of Bostock's
wild beasts and his advertisement for girls to train, of which she had
heard in the public house where she had sung, the keener she became to
apply for the post, and the more impatient of any delay.