I
"La parlate d'amor,
O cari fior,
Recate i miei sospiri,
Narrate i miei matiri,
Ditele o cari fior----"
Miss Bouverie ceased on the high note, as abruptly as string that snaps
beneath the bow, and revolved with the music-stool, to catch but her
echoes in the empty room. None had entered behind her back; there was
neither sound nor shadow in the deep veranda through the open door. But
for the startled girl at the open piano, Mrs. Clarkson's sanctum was
precisely as Mrs. Clarkson had left it an hour before; her own
photograph, in as many modes, beamed from the usual number of ornamental
frames; there was nothing whatever to confirm a wild suspicion of the
living lady's untimely return. And yet either guilty consciences, or an
ear as sensitive as it was true, had heard an unmistakable step outside.
Hilda Bouverie lived to look magnificent when she sang, her fine frame
drawn up to its last inch, her throat a pillar of pale coral, her mouth
the perfect round, her teeth a noble relic of barbarism; but sweeter she
never was than in these days, or at this moment of them, as she sat with
lips just parted and teeth just showing, in a simple summer frock of her
own unaided making. Her eyes, of the one deep Tasmanian blue, were still
open very wide, but no longer with the same apprehension; for a step
there was, but a step that jingled; nor did they recognize the
silhouette in top-boots which at length stood bowing on the threshold.
"Please finish it!" prayed a voice that Miss Bouverie liked in her turn;
but it was too much at ease for one entirely strange to her, and she
rose with little embarrassment and no hesitation at all.
"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.