The Daughters of a Genius Part 4

CHAPTER SIX.

HOPE'S FIRST VENTURE.

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 embarra.s.sing; she evidently mistook them for old friends.

Hope cleared her throat and began the rehea.r.s.ed 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 pa.s.sage, 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.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

A PRIVATE READING.

Theo was pressed into the service to write the words of the song for Miss Caldecott, and composed a graceful little ditty which was sufficiently touching even to the spinster mind, and might safely be trusted to melt the hearts of parents "in the front rows." The task kept her happy and occupied while waiting for the answer to her letter, and Mr Hammond was both prompt and kind in his reply.

"I shall be happy to give what help I can to your father's daughter," he wrote. "He always appeared to me to have a very special gift, and I regretted that he did not cultivate it to the full. I hope that you have inherited his powers, but at the same time I feel it my duty to beg you to earnestly consider the matter before deciding on your life's work. Many young people seem to imagine that they can 'take up literature' as they would typewriting or clerical work, which is a vast mistake, and it would be cruel to encourage you unless you possess the inherent qualifications. Would it not be better for the aiding of my judgment if, before coming to see me, you forwarded some _short_ MS for my perusal? The time at my disposal is limited, but I will contrive to read anything you send before, say, Monday next, when I shall be pleased to see you at any time that may be convenient between eleven and one."

The letter was read aloud at the breakfast-table, and the audience commented on it with the candour which distinguishes family conclaves.