On the third evening of Hope’s stay at The Shanty the sportsmen came home unusually tired, and for once Truda’s after-dinner tricks failed to entertain. The men had no inclination to exert their minds or their muscles either, and turning to Hope, begged her for “a tune.”
“The worst of Miss Charrington,” sighed Reggie Blake regretfully, “is that she is so painfully classical and superior. She never condescends to play a piece whose composer hasn’t seven syllables to his name and a sneeze in the middle. They are very clever and all that sort of thing, don’t you know, but I always wonder when the tune is going to begin. Squeak, squeak! in the treble; bang, bang! in the bass; a rolling like heavy machinery, and all sorts of jerks and breaks when you are least expecting them: that is what you call a ‘Gigue.’ A bit of a scale repeated over and over again like the tune the old cow died of: that is a ‘Fugue.’ I’ve a musical sister at home, so I know. Now, I don’t pretend to be classical; I like a good, rousing air—something that makes you want to stamp your feet and beat time with your head. Look at Miss Charrington laughing at me! I suppose as a matter of fact you don’t know any airs, Miss Charrington?”
“I have a schoolboy brother,” answered Hope demurely. She wheeled round on the music-stool and looked at him with dancing eyes; and when Hope looked mischievous, it was something very well worth seeing in those days of young womanhood. “I blush to say,” she said slowly—though as a matter of fact she did not blush at all, but looked particularly beaming and complacent—“I blush to say that there is not a single tune at present performed upon the barrel-organs with which I am not intimately acquainted. I shall be happy to accompany you, and to coach you in the words, whenever you feel inclined to perform.”
“Hurrah! Good business! Will you really!” cried Reggie, jumping to his feet and hurrying across to the piano, abeam with delight. “Can you manage ‘Mrs ’Enry ’Awkins’? That is my stock song, and I sing it wherever I go.—Mrs Loftus, you are dying to hear me sing ‘Mrs ’Enry ’Awkins’? I know you are.—Let’s tune up at once, Miss Charrington; and a chorus, mind—a rousing old chorus!”
Every one was laughing, and looking of a sudden bright and animated; no one was sleepy any longer. There was a secondary accompaniment of chuckles as Reggie screwed up his thin, ugly face into the most comical of grimaces and half-sang, half-recited the celebrated coster love-song. Hope’s spirited playing made him sing his best, and her clear voice started the chorus with such spirit that presently every one was taking part, tentatively at first, then with quickly growing ardour, until at last the volume of sound became overpowering. Uncle Loftus bellowed himself hoarse in his corner, and even his wife’s lips moved in sympathetic echo. At the conclusion of the song there was an outburst of applause and laughter which made the performer beside himself with delight.
“To think,” he cried, “that we have wasted our time over Wagner and Grieg, and all those foreign Johnnies, when we might have had music like this! I’ll sing every night; and we must work up some more choruses. Mrs Loftus, have you any Gilbert and Sullivan operas in the house? Couldn’t we have a try at them?”
Why not, indeed? No sooner said than done. Out came the operas from the music cabinet, and as half-a-dozen voices urged the claims of half-a-dozen favourites, there was plainly nothing to be done but take each in turn. The chorus was by way of being a scratch combination—one treble; one alto, who had to accompany as well as sing, and also to put in all the high notes, because the treble declared that she could not possibly “go” above F; two tenors, by no means as correct as they might have been; and an army of heavy, dragging bass—but what was lacking in ability was made up by fervour.
Mr Merrilies did not sing, but he volunteered to turn over the pages, and seating himself by Hope’s side, watched her face for the signal which was to guide his inexperience. At first this signal was a quick glance at his face, but as time went on this was replaced by a nod of the head or an upward jerk of the hand—for there was something in the expression of those watchful eyes which was embarrassing to meet at close quarters. They talked quietly together between the choruses, while the different parts were wrangling loudly, each laying the blame upon the other, and calling attention to his own superior performance: and it was not in girl nature to be ignorant of the fact that Ralph seemed far less concerned about the music than her own comfort. The lamp was moved because it dazzled her eyes; the book was raised to a more convenient angle; a door was closed to avoid a draught; and all in a quiet, unobtrusive manner that made the attention doubly acceptable. Members of large families are not accustomed to have their wishes gratified almost before they are realised, and are all the more ready to appreciate such consideration from a stranger.
Hope played, and sang, and instructed—gave leads, banged insistently upon notes which the singers rendered flat instead of sharp, and even finished a tenor solo which had hopelessly come to grief—until hand and voice and head alike ached with fatigue; but still the insatiable chorus clamoured for more, remembering another and another favourite which it would be a sin to leave untried.
“You are tired,” said a low voice in her ear. “You shall not play any longer;” and before she had time to protest, Ralph Merrilies had risen from his seat and closed the book with a determined hand. “It is nearly eleven o’clock. Do you realise how long you have kept Miss Charrington? She has surely earned a rest. Do come and sit down, Miss Charrington; your back must need support.”