Miss Caldecott was tall and stout, had wavy hair and arched eyebrows,
and wore a slightly _decollete_ gown of blue silk, a trifle soiled if
you looked at it in a critical spirit, but wonderfully elaborate and
becoming. The broad, beaming face was young, and but for its undue size
would have been strikingly pretty. She looked at the sisters, showing
her straight, white teeth in the most friendly of smiles, and squeezed
Hope's hand until she winced with the pain.
"How do you do, dear?" she said. "How d'do, dear?" to Philippa.
"Wretched day, isn't it? So good of you to come! Sit down and rest. I
always flop on the sofa the moment I come in. So tiring dragging about,
isn't it? But you are thin. Wait until you get fat like me."
Her shoulders shook; her eyes danced; the dimples dipped in her round,
pink cheeks. Philippa and Hope were obliged to laugh in sympathy, but
it was very embarrassing; she evidently mistook them for old friends.
Hope cleared her throat and began the rehearsed explanation.
"I am Hope Charrington, and this is my sister. You knew my father--by
name at least. You used to sing some of his songs."
Miss Caldecott looked blank; then she began to laugh. It appeared that
she was always laughing.
"Then I didn't know you after all! Heaps of people come to see me, and
I've the silliest memory--always forget what I ought to remember.
Doesn't make much difference, does it? I know you _now_. Sung your
father's songs, did I? Charrington! Charrington! Don't remember.
What were they called, do you know?"
Hope's heart sank. She had expected the name to act as an open-sesame,
and it was not even recognised.
"One was `A Song of Summer,'" she said slowly, "and another `Into the
Night.'"
"La-la-la-La! Ta-ta-ta-Ta! Refrain went like that, didn't it? I
remember. Pretty change in the second verse. High G sustained in the
last bar. I used to bless him when I came to that note. And he is
dead, you say? What a pity. So clever, too! Do you compose? You have
a musical face."
Here was a lead, indeed! Hope flushed with eagerness, and her voice
broke with a little nervous tremor. Miss Caldecott was so friendly, so
open, so far removed from being formidable that it was impossible to
believe that she could refuse her request.
"Oh yes, I do. That's what I came to speak to you about to-day. We
have come up to London to try to find work, for we are very poor. As
you had liked father's songs, I was going to ask if you would be so
very, very kind as to try one of mine. I have it with me now. Messrs
Holding and Co. published one for me before, and if you liked this, and
would promise to sing it, they would be so much more willing to accept
it. It is very bold of me to ask. I am horribly nervous, but you are
so kind."
Miss Caldecott laughed and shook her head.
"Not in business matters, dear," she said. "I have to keep my wits
about me in business. If you knew the shoals of things I have sent to
me! But I hate to say no. Got the song with you, do you say? Strum it
over, like a dear, and let me hear how it goes. Sing it too, if you
can. I've got a horrid cold."
Hope rose eagerly. She had been prepared for this, and was less nervous
in playing than in speaking. The piano was delightful; she was tingling
to make the most of her opportunity, and played the introductory bars
with a dainty finish which brought Miss Caldecott's eyes upon her with
an appreciatory flash. She listened in silence to the first verse,
nodding her head to and fro, then turned to Philippa with another
beaming smile.
"Nice little pipe, hasn't she? Sweet and simple like herself. I say!
it wouldn't go far in the Albert Hall, would it? Let me try a verse."
She put down her hands on either side, lifted herself from her low
chair, and went over to the piano. "What are the words? Oh, I can see.
Fire away, then, and I'll see what I can make of it.
"Pack clouds away, and welcome day--
With night we'll banish sorrow.
"Funny words, dear! Where did you get hold of them? It's not bad, you
know--not half bad--what I call graceful. Let's try again, and go on to
the next verse."
This time she drew herself up and sang with careful attention. The
full, rich tones of her voice flooded the room, and Hope thrilled with
delight at the sound of her own creation. Never--no, never--had she
imagined that it could be so charming; and the last verse was the
prettiest of all. Surely if Miss Caldecott liked the beginning, she
would be enraptured with the end!
But, alas! at the conclusion of the second verse Miss Caldecott crossed
the room and threw herself on the sofa, with a resounding yawn.
"Thanks awfully, dear. How clever of you! It really is sweet. Doesn't
quite suit my voice, though, does it? And I don't like those
accidentals. They are tricky, and I'm such a careless creature. Where
did you pick up the words? I don't know the author, but you can tell
him from me that he can't write songs. Not at all catchy words. He'll
have to do better than that. Don't sit perched up there any more, dear;
you look so uncomfortable. There'll be some other people coming
presently, and we'll have tea. I bought some lovely cakes from
Buzzard's. Always make a bit of a splash on my at-home afternoons, you
know, for it's the only entertaining I do. I'm in digs here, and very
bad they are, too. But what can one do? They don't send for me at the
Albert Hall, dear. It's a shame, for I could do ever so much better
than some of those old, worn-out things who only trade on a name. My
voice is fresh, and a jolly good one, too, though I say it myself.
Where are _you_ living, dear? In this neighbourhood?"
Philippa replied. Hope was too disappointed, too cast down, to be able
to speak. Miss Caldecott had seemed so pleased; the song had sounded so
charming from her lips. At one minute acceptance had seemed certain; at
the next the subject was waved aside, and apparently dismissed from
consideration. She pressed her lips together and stared at the
mantelpiece, with its bank of chrysanthemums in cream-jars, its
photographs of becurled beauties. Philippa was talking about the flat,
and removal expenses generally, and Miss Caldecott was lavishing floods
of sympathy upon her, and abuse upon those who had disappointed or
thwarted her plans.
"Wretched, good-for-nothing things, the pack of them! But you are so
near Maple's. Why don't you go to Maple and let him do the whole thing?
Expense! Bills! Oh, bother bills! You can let them run, you know.
_I_ do! If I want a thing I get it, and think about the bill
afterwards. Do you like this tea-gown? I bought it at the autumn
sales. Such a bargain! I have to spend a fortune in clothes. What
would you advise me to get for this winter, for really swell affairs,
you know? I go to a good many private receptions. I got some patterns
this morning. I look so huge in white! What would you think of
yellow--eh? Blue is so ordinary."
"Really, I--really, I don't know." Philippa thought it was better to
laugh outright than in a covert manner, so she laughed as she spoke, and
Miss Caldecott joined in the strain with the greatest good-humour.
"I'm sure you have good taste, dear; you look so stylish. I never wear
black myself; it makes me doleful. I do get doleful sometimes, though
you wouldn't think it. I live all alone, and sometimes business gets so
slack. I get plenty of suburban work, but I don't come to the front
somehow. Can't think why. My voice is far better than that Marah
Bryce's, whom they all rave about nowadays. Have you heard her lately?"
Philippa felt relieved to be able to reply in the negative, and Miss
Caldecott enlarged at great length on the personal deformities, mental
blemishes, and vocal limitations of her rival, even condescending to
imitate her rendering of a favourite song.
"High-flown rubbish, I call it! Something like that song of yours," she
said blandly, turning to Hope. "You might offer it to her. Far more
her style than mine. Don't you say I sent you, though."
"Thank you," said Hope softly. "I think I should hardly like to
venture. I don't know her at all, so it's quite different. You knew
our name at least, and I thought--I hoped--"
Despite herself, Hope's voice broke with a little quiver of
disappointment, for she had counted so much on this woman's help; and if
she refused, what could be expected from a stranger on whom she had no
possible claim for sympathy? Her face looked so drawn and pale that
Miss Caldecott's good-nature could not look at it unmoved.
"What's the matter, dear? Disappointed! Hateful of me, isn't it? But
I couldn't sing that song even to please you. I'll tell you what we
will do, though; you shall write another especially for me.
Mezzo-soprano, you know; I don't mind a G now and then, but don't let me
have them too often. And be sure to give me a catchy refrain--something
the people want to move their feet to at the end of the second verse--
see? Then the words must be domestic. I want a song badly, to sing
down Clapham way and places like that, for charities and subscription
concerts. Let me see--something about children, I think. Nothing
fetches them like children! First verses, major, `Happily homeward the
children go;' and about their little troubles, you know, and their
little fears, little smiles, and little tears. There! that's rhyme. I
believe I could write it myself. Then comes the refrain--a little swing
to it, a little lilt--the same words for the first two verses. Oh, you
know the kind of thing! Something to make the mothers cry, and the
papas rush off to buy the song next morning. Nothing draws so well as
children. And you might change to the minor key at the third verse, and
point a moral: we are all children, life's a journey, and we shall grow
tired, too, and fall asleep at the end of our day. There! Never say I
didn't give you an idea. You write that for me, and we'll make a
fortune out of it."
"Thank you. Oh, how kind you are! I see it exactly. I'll try my very
beat. It is so very, very good of you to give me the chance!"
Miss Caldecott yawned wearily. "So close, isn't it?" she said. "I hate
this muggy weather. Some people say it's good for the complexion, but I
don't believe it. I use that new American powder. Have you tried it?
There's the bell! I expect it is the Elliotts. They said they were
coming."
"Then perhaps we ought to--We have stayed a long time already," said
Philippa, rising. "Thank you so very much for seeing us at all."
"Oh, won't you wait for tea? Good-bye, dear," cried Miss Caldecott all
in one breath, and without waiting for a reply to her question; and the
sisters went out into the narrow passage, to squeeze their way post
three tall, smartly dressed girls who were engaged in arranging their
veils and pulling out their fringes before the little strip of mirror in
the hat-stand. They walked down the street in silence, turned the
corner, and exchanged bright, amused glances.
"Our first introduction into professional circles! How very, very funny
she was! How many times did she call us `dear,' I wonder? Not very
formidable, was she?"
"But, oh, what a lovely voice! So rich and full! I suppose it is
because she has not had a thorough musical education that she hasn't
come to the front, and because she isn't quite--quite--But it is a shame
to criticise," cried loyal Hope. "How kind she was! How perfectly
sweet of her to ask me to write that song! Phil, Phil, don't you think
I am fortunate! Don't you think it's a good beginning? I have an idea
for the song already, and she is almost sure to take it; it is as good
as a commission."
Philippa looked at the shining eyes, and could not endure to breathe
discouragement; but in her heart of hearts she reflected that she should
be sorry indeed to place any reliance upon the promises of Miss Minnie
Caldecott.