The undisguised yawn with which Miss Caldecott greeted this announcement was the reverse of encouraging; but she read the circular with increasing interest, pronounced the idea to be “rattling good,” and wanted to know who was responsible for the design. “I’ll have a programme got up like that some day,” she declared; but she yawned again when the girls expatiated on the skill of their artist-sister, and interrupted with another question:
“Have you written any more songs lately?”
Hope looked at her gravely, and found it impossible to keep a tinge of reproach out of her voice as she replied, “Why, of course! You know I have. I have been waiting for weeks to hear what you thought of the one I wrote especially for you.”
“Gracious!” ejaculated Miss Caldecott; “I never got it. I remember now that you did write to me about it, but I get so many letters that I forget half what’s in them. I’ve never seen it, anyway. Perhaps it is in that cupboard with the newspapers. That is my bogy-hole, and if I haven’t time to open things I stick them in there, and forget all about them. You can look if you like, dear; I’m too lazy.”
There was an air of dignified displeasure in the manner in which Hope crossed the room to avail herself of this permission; but Miss Caldecott drank her tea in blissful unconsciousness, and when the MS was discovered, wrapped in an unopened covering, exclaimed cheerily:
“Think of that now! It would have lain there till doomsday if you hadn’t looked. Do you want me to hear it? Strum it over, then, my dear; but I give you notice that I’m full up for this season.”
“But—but it was a commission! You asked me to write it,” cried Hope, stung into retort by the keenness of her disappointment. “Don’t you remember saying you wanted a domestic song about children, to make the mothers cry? You suggested the words yourself, and we carried out your idea.”
“I suggested it, did I? How clever of me! I suppose I saw you were disappointed, dear, and wanted to let you down easily. I hate being disagreeable, but I never thought you would take it seriously. Here! let me see it. I can tell in a moment if it is any good.”
She rose, and standing by the piano, glanced over the pages once or twice, then motioned to Hope to play the accompaniment. The next moment the rich, melodious tones filled the room, and Theo held her breath in rapturous enjoyment. What a glorious organ of a voice—how sweet, how full, how true! What a melting tenderness of expression! What skill in seizing on effective phrases and bringing them delicately into prominence! If her eyes had been shut, what a lovely, spirituelle vision she would have pictured as the owner of this wonderful voice! But, alas! there stood Minnie Caldecott, flushed, fat, and tousled, enveloped in the blue silk tea-gown, which was beginning to show decided signs of age—as far removed from spirituality as it was possible for a human creature to be. She sang the song to its last note, and nodded her head approvingly at its conclusion.
“It is not at all bad, dear. Quite a fetching little song! I could make them howl over that, couldn’t I? And it is different from anything I have on hand. I might find room for it sometimes, if we could agree about other things. What was your idea as to terms?”