"THREE SHADOWS"
That night the piano-tuner came out in quite a new character, and with
immediate success. He began repeating poetry in the moonlit veranda, and
Naomi let him go on for an hour and a half; indeed, she made him; for
she was in secret tribulation over one or two things that had happened
during the day, and only too thankful, therefore, to be taken out of
herself and made to think on other matters. Engelhardt did all this for
her, and in so doing furthered his own advantage, too, almost as much as
his own pleasure. At all events, Naomi took to her room a livelier
interest in the piano-tuner than she had felt hitherto, while her own
troubles were left, with her boots, outside the door.
It was true she had been interested in him from the beginning. He had so
very soon revealed to her what she had never come in contact with
before--a highly sensitized specimen of the artistic temperament. She
did not know it by this name, or by any name at all; but she was not the
less alive to his little group of interesting peculiarities, because of
her inability to label the lot with one phrase. They interested her the
more for that very reason; just as her instinct as to the possibilities
that were in him was all the stronger for her incapacity to reason out
her conviction in a satisfactory manner. Her intellectual experience was
limited to a degree; but she had seen success in his face; and she now
heard it in his voice when he quoted verses to her, so beautifully that
she was delighted to listen whether she followed him or not. Her faith
in him was sweetly unreasonable, but it was immensely strong. She was
ready and even eager to back him heavily; and there are those who would
rather have one brave girl do that on instinct, than win the votes of a
hundred clear heads, basing their support upon a logical calculation.
For reasons of her own, however, Naomi decided overnight to take her
visitor a little less seriously to his face. She had been too
confidential with him concerning station affairs past and present; that
she must drop, and at the same time discourage him from opening his
heart to her, as he was beginning to do, on the slightest provocation.
These resolutions would impose a taboo on nearly all the subjects they
had found in common. She quite saw that, and she thought it just as
well. Too much sympathy with this young man might be bad for him. Naomi
realized this somewhat suddenly in the night, and it kept her awake
rather longer than she liked. But she rose next morning fully resolved
to eschew conversation of too sympathetic a character, and to encourage
her young friend in quotations from the poets instead. Obviously this
was quite as great a pleasure to him, while it was a much safer one--or
so Naomi thought in her innocence. But then it was a very genuine
pleasure to her, too, because the poetry was entirely new to her, and
her many-sided young man knew so much and repeated it so charmingly.
It was incredible, indeed, what a number of the poets of all ages he had
at his finger-ends, and how justly he rendered their choicest numbers.
Their very names were mostly new to Naomi. There was consequently an
aboriginal barbarity about many of her comments and criticisms, and more
than once the piano-tuner found it impossible to sit still and hear her
out. This was notably the case at their second poetical séance, when
Naomi had got over her private depression on the one hand, and was full
of her new intentions toward the piano-tuner on the other. He would jump
out of his chair, and fume up and down the veranda, running his five
available fingers through his hair until the black shock stood on end.
It was at these moments that Naomi liked him best.
He had been giving her "Tears, idle tears" (because she had "heard of
Tennyson," she said) on the Wednesday morning in the veranda facing the
station-yard. He had recited the great verses with a force and feeling
all his own. Over one of them in particular his voice had quivered with
emotion. It was the dear emotion of an æsthetic soul touched to the
quick by the sheer beauty of the idea and its words. And Naomi said:
"That's jolly; but you don't call it poetry, do you?"
His eyes dried in an instant. Then they opened as wide as they would go.
He was speechless.
"It doesn't rhyme, you know," Naomi explained, cheerfully.
"No," said Engelhardt, gazing at her severely. "It isn't meant to; it's
blank verse."
"It's blank _bad_ verse, if you ask me," said Naomi Pryse, with a nod
that was meant to finish him; but it only lifted him out of his chair.
"Well, upon my word," said the piano-tuner, striding noisily up and
down, as Naomi laughed. "Upon my word!"
"Please make me understand," pleaded the girl, with a humility that
meant mischief, if he had only been listening; but he was still
wrestling with his exasperation. "I can't help being ignorant, you
know," she added, as though hurt.
"You can help it--that's just it!" he answered, bitterly. "I've been
telling you one of the most beautiful things that Tennyson himself ever
wrote, and you say it isn't verse. Verse, forsooth! It's poetry--it's
gorgeous poetry!"
"It may be gorgeous, but I don't call it poetry unless it rhymes," said
Naomi, stoutly. "Gordon always does."
Gordon, the Australian poet, she was forever throwing at his head, as
the equal of any of his English bards. They had already had a heated
argument about Gordon. Therefore Engelhardt said merely:
"You're joking, of course?"
"I am doing nothing of the sort."
"Then pray what do you call Shakespeare"--pausing in front of her with
his hand in his pocket--"poetry or prose?"
"Prose, of course."
"Because it doesn't rhyme?"
"Exactly."
"And why do you suppose it's chopped up into lines?"
"Oh, _I_ don't know--to moisten it perhaps."
"I beg your pardon?"
"To make it less dry."
"Ah! Then it doesn't occur to you that there might be some law which
decreed the end of a line after a certain number of beats, or
notes--exactly like the end of a bar of music, in fact?"
"Certainly not," said Naomi. There was a touch of indignation in this
denial. He shrugged his shoulders and then turned them upon the girl,
and stood glowering out upon the yard. Behind his back Naomi went into
fits of silent laughter, which luckily she had overcome before he
wheeled round suddenly with a face full of eager determination. His
heart now appeared set upon convincing her that verse might be blank.
And for half an hour he stood beating his left hand in the air, and
declaiming, in feet, certain orations of Hamlet, until Mrs. Potter, the
cook-laundress, came out of the kitchen to protect her young mistress if
necessary. It was not necessary. The broken-armed gentleman was standing
over her, shaking his fist and talking at the top of his voice; but Miss
Pryse was all smiles and apparent contentment; and, indeed, she behaved
much better for awhile, and did her best to understand. But presently
she began to complain of the "quotations" (for he was operating on the
famous soliloquy), and to profane the whole subject. And the question of
blank verse was discussed between them no more.
She could be so good, too, when she liked, so appreciative, so
sympathetic, so understanding. But she never liked very long. He had a
tendency to run to love-poems, and after listening to five or six with
every sign of approval and delight, Naomi would suddenly become flippant
at the sixth or seventh. On one occasion, when she had turned him on by
her own act aforethought, and been given a taste of several past-masters
of the lyric, from Waller to Locker, and including a poem of Browning's
which she allowed herself to be made to understand, she inquired of
Engelhardt whether he had ever read anything by "a man called Swinton."
"Swinburne," suggested Engelhardt.
"Are you sure?" said Naomi, jealously. "I believe it's Swinton. I'm
prepared to bet you that it is!"
"Where have you come across his name?" the piano-tuner said, smiling as
he shook his head.
"In the preface to Gordon's poems."
Engelhardt groaned.
"It mentions Swinton--what are you laughing at? All right! I'll get the
book and settle it!"
She came back laughing herself.
"Well?" said Engelhardt.
"You know too much! Not that I should accept anything that preface says
as conclusive. It has the cheek to say that Gordon was under his
influence. You give me something of his, and we'll soon see."
"Something of Swinburne's?"
"Oh, you needn't put on side because you happen to be right according to
a preface. I'll write and ask _The Australasian_! Yes, of course I mean
something of his."
Engelhardt reflected. "There's a poem called 'A Leave-taking,'" said he,
tentatively, at length.
"Then trot it out," said Naomi; and she set herself to listen with so
unsympathetic an expression on her pretty face, that he was obliged to
look the other way before he could begin. The contrary was usually the
case. However, he managed to get under way:
"Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear.
Let us go hence together without fear;
Keep silence now, for singing-time is over,
And over all old things and all things dear.
She loves not you nor me as all we love her.
Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear,
She would not hear.
"Let us rise up and part; she will not know.
Let us go seaward as the great winds go,
Full of blown sand and foam; what help is there?
There is no help, for all these things are so,
And all the world is bitter as a tear.
And how these things are, though ye strove to show
She would not know.
"Let us go home and hence; she will not weep----"
"Stop a moment," said Naomi, "I'm in a difficulty. I can't go on
listening until I know something."
"Until you know what?" said Engelhardt, who did not like being
interrupted.
"Who it's all about--who _she_ is!" cried Naomi, inquisitively.
"Who--she--is," repeated the piano-tuner, talking aloud to himself.
"Yes, exactly; who _is_ she?"
"As if it mattered!" Engelhardt went on in the same aside. "However, who
do _you_ say she is?"
"I? She may be his grandmother for all I know. I'm asking you."
"I know you are. I was prepared for you to ask me anything else."
"Were you? Then why is she such an obstinate old party, anyway? She
won't hear and she won't know. What will she do? Now it seems that you
can't even make her cry! 'She will not weep' was where you'd got to. As
you seem unable to answer my questions, you'd better go on till she
does."
"I'm so likely to go on," said Engelhardt, getting up.
Naomi relented a little.
"Forgive me, Mr. Engelhardt; I've been behaving horribly. I'm sorry I
spoke at all, only I did so want to know who she was."
"I don't know myself."
"I was sure you didn't!"
"What's more, I don't care. What _has_ it got to do with the merits of
the poem?"
"I won't presume to say. I only know that it makes all the difference to
my interest in the poem."
"But why?"
"Because I want to know what she was like."
"But surely to goodness," cried Engelhardt, "you can imagine her, can't
you? You're meant to fill her in to your own fancy. You pays your money
and you takes your choice."
"I get precious little for my money," remarked Naomi, pertinently, "if I
have to do the filling in for myself!"
Engelhardt had been striding to and fro. Now he stopped pityingly in
front of the chair in which this sweet Philistine was sitting unashamed.
"Do you mean to say that you like to have every little thing told you in
black and white?"
"Of course I do. The more the better."
"And absolutely nothing left to your own imagination?"
"Certainly not. The idea!"
He turned away from her with a shrug of his shoulders, and quickened his
stride up and down the veranda. He was visibly annoyed. She watched him
with eyes full of glee.
"I do love to make you lose your wool!" she informed him in a minute or
two, with a sudden attack of candor. "I like you best when you give me
up and wash your hands of me!"
This cleared his brow instantaneously, and brought him back to her chair
with a smile.
"Why so, Miss Pryse?"
"Must I tell you?"
"Please."
"Then it's because you forget yourself, and me, too, when I rile you;
and you're delightful whenever you do that, Mr. Engelhardt."
Naomi regretted her words next moment; but it was too late to unsay
them. He went on smiling, it is true, but his smile was no longer naïve
and unconsidered; no more were his recitations during the next few
hours. His audience did her worst to provoke him out of himself, but she
could not manage it. Then she tried the other extreme, and became more
enthusiastic than himself over this and that, but he would not be with
her; he had retired into the lair of his own self-consciousness, and
there was no tempting him out any more. When he did come out of
himself, it was neither by his own will nor her management, and the
moment was a startling one for them both.
It was late in the afternoon of that same Wednesday. They were sitting,
as usual, in the veranda which overlooked not the station-yard but the
boundless plains, and they were sitting in silence and wide apart. They
had not quarrelled; but Engelhardt had made up his mind to decamp. He
had reasoned the whole thing out in a spirit of mere common-sense; yet
he was reasoning with himself still, as he sat in the quiet veranda; he
thought it probable that he should go on with his reasoning--with the
same piece of reasoning--until his dying hour. He looked worried. He was
certainly worrying Naomi, and annoying her considerably. She had given
up trying to take him out of himself, but she knew that he liked to hear
himself saying poetry, and she felt perfectly ready to listen if it
would do him any good. Of course she was not herself anxious to hear
him. It was entirely for his sake that she put down the book she was
reading, and broached the subject at last.
"Have you quite exhausted the poetry that you know by heart, Mr.
Engelhardt?"
"Quite, I'm afraid, Miss Pryse; and I'm sure you must be thankful to
hear it."
"Now you're fishing," said Naomi, with a smile (not one of her
sweetest); "we've quarrelled about all your precious poets, it's true,
but that's why I want you to trot out another. I'm dying for another
quarrel, don't you see? Out with somebody fresh, and let me have shies
at him!"
"But I don't know them all off by heart--I'm not a walking Golden
Treasury, you know."
"Think!" commanded Naomi. When she did this there was no disobeying her.
He had found out that already.
"Have you ever heard of Rossetti--Dante Gabriel?"
"Kill whose cat?" cried Naomi.
He repeated the poet's name in full. She shook her head. She was smiling
now, and kindly, for she had got her way.
"There is one little thing of his--but a beauty--that I once learnt,"
Engelhardt said, doubtfully. "Mind, I'm not sure that I can remember it,
and I won't spoil it if I can't; no more must you spoil it, if I can."
"Is there some sacred association, then?"
He laughed. "No, indeed! There's more of a sacrilegious association, for
I once swore that the first song I composed should be a setting for
these words."
"Remember, you've got to dedicate it to me! What's the name of the
thing?"
"'Three Shadows.'"
"Let's have them, then."
"Very well. But I love it! You must promise not to laugh."
"Begin," she said, sternly, and he began:
"I looked and saw your eyes
In the shadow of your hair,
As the traveller sees the stream
In the shadow of the wood;
And I said, 'My faint heart sighs
Ah me! to linger there,
To drink deep and to dream
In that sweet solitude.'"
"Go on," said Naomi, with approval. "I hope you _don't_ see all that;
but please go on."
He had got thus far with his face raised steadfastly to hers, for he had
left his chair and seated himself on the edge of the veranda, at her
feet, before beginning. He went on without wincing or lowering his eyes:
"I looked and saw your heart
In the shadow of your eyes,
As a seeker sees the gold
In the shadow of the stream;
And I said, 'Ah me! what art
Should win the immortal prize,
Whose want must make life cold
And heaven a hollow dream?'"
"Surely not as bad as all that?" said Naomi, laughing. He had never
recited anything so feelingly, so slowly, with such a look in his eyes.
There was occasion to laugh, obviously.
"Am I to go on," said Engelhardt, in desperate earnest, "or am I not?"
"Go on, of course! I am most anxious to know what else you saw."
But the temptation to lower the eyes was now hers; his look was so hard
to face, his voice was grown so soft.
"I looked and saw your love
In the shadow of your heart,
As a diver sees the pearl
In the shadow of the sea;
And I murmured, not above
My breath, but all apart----"
Here he stopped. Her eyes were shining. He could not see this, because
his own were dim.
"Go on," she said, nodding violently, "do go on!"
"That's all I remember."
"Nonsense! What did you murmur?"
"I forget."
"You do no such thing."
"I've said all I mean to say."
"But not all I mean you to. I _will_ have the lot."
And, after all, his were the eyes to fall; but in a moment they had
leapt up again to her face with a sudden reckless flash.
"There are only two more lines," he said; "you had much better not know
them."
"I must," said she. "What are they?"
"Ah! you can love, true girl,
And is your love for me?"
"No, I'm afraid not," said Naomi, at last.
"I thought not."
"Nor for anybody else--nor for anybody else!"
She was leaning over him, and one of her hands had fallen upon his
neck--so kindly--so naturally--like a mother's upon her child.
"Then you are not in love with anybody else!" he cried, joyously. "You
are not engaged!"
"Yes," she answered, sadly. "I am engaged."
Then Naomi learnt how it feels to quench the fire in joyous eyes, and
to wrinkle a hopeful young face with the lines of anguish and despair.
She could not bear it. She took the head of untidy hair between her two
soft hands, and pressed it down upon the open book on her knees until
the haunting eyes looked into hers no more. And as a mother soothes her
child, so she stroked him, and patted him, and murmured over him, until
he could speak to her calmly.
"Who is he?" whispered Engelhardt, drawing away from her at last, and
gazing up into her face with a firm lip. "What is he? Where is he? I
want to know everything!"
"Then look over your shoulder, and you will see him for yourself."
A horseman had indeed ridden round the corner of the house, noiselessly
in the heavy sand. Monty Gilroy sat frowning at them both from his
saddle.