[COPYRIGHT STORY.] A SEASIDE SINGER

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 21, 25 May 1907, Page 28

[COPYRIGHT STORY.] A SEASIDE SINGER

By

E. R. PUNSHON,

Author of " The Mystery of Lady Isohel," Etc.

IT was the soft influence of the exquisite night first drew her feelings from her in a low-voiced, halfcrooned. half-sung melody. The

evening air was mild and fragrant; the tiny waves lapping on the sand made a harmonious whispering; over the sea the bright path of the moon lay like a silver way leading to unkown isles of bliss: all was serene, peaceful, full of vague yet deep appeal. Louder she sang and louder, forgetting herself as her emotions found vent in the thrilling melody of her song. All the wonder and witch-

ery of that, perfect evening she expressed in the flooding musie that came from her so spontaneously, like the song of the thrush that sings because itmust. Then she eeased as suddenly as she had begun, and from near by a voice breathed “o m ,.thing between a sigh anil a son. V ery much startled—for this was a lonely spot, she having wandered far from the crowded promenade, and the garish Ji<dit of the gas lamp she jumped up hastily, and a man's voice said nt once: -Oh 1 b<‘g vour pardon—oh, please don't go-1 am' so sorry if I startled there was something in the tones of this voice that at onee dispelled her fear® Somehow it impressed her—and she had rather a triek of judging people by their voices—as frank and manly, and she pause! in the flight she had m. .Stated. The voice continued, and now she saw it came from a dark figure which had been recumbent on the sand close bv. -Don't let me repay the pleasure you have given me by disturbing you. How wonderfully you sang—wonderfully! it ’ siw could not help being pleased, for it was plain this stranger spoke from the denth of his heart. -r n:n so glad you liked it,” she said softly. ~, , "Liked it, is not the word, he answered, almost gravely. lip had raised himself now from where he had been sitting, and be came a step or two nearer to her. The evening was not dark, and she made out that he was a tail, handsome young fellow; probably, she decided at onee, some young clerk from Loudon, enjoying his annual holiday at this little seaside place, which was just beginning to attract visitors. And he on bis part made out a rather plain-featured, insignificant young girl, ■with a pleasing expression, a big and not very prettily shaped mouth, on which, however there was generally a smile so chaiiuing that one forgot all about the shape. and two deep and clear brown ev. s in whose vivid brightness alone lay some hint to betray to careful observer the strength and pa-sion of the soul this Tather ordinary looting face and form concealed. She was dressed very simply in a plain muslin frock, without any jewellery or ornament of any kind whatever, and he wondered If she were poor. The influence of tho song was still upon him, ami he was again lost in the profound yet gentle emotions it had raised in him. She found the silence a trifle embarrassing, ami did not like to move away too abruptly for fear he might think she was offended. She observed casually: •• You are staying here for a holiday, J suppose, are you?” “ Yes,’’ he replied. “ You will be staying here, then? ” "No,” she replied, "not exactly. I

am here on an engagement—l am a professional singer.” “ Oh, indeed,” he said, rather staggered, for what possible engagement any professional singer could have in a place like this he could not imagine. “ Why, I did not think there was anything in tha shape of a concert hall or theatre here.” “ I don’t think there is,” she answered, appearing rather embarrassed; " it is not quite that sort of engagement I mean.” “ Oh,” he said, and thought he understood. There were two parties of singers in the town, giving outdoor performances on the sands, and no doubt, she belonged to one of them. He felt very sorry for her, and his voice was gentle as he said, “ Well, then, that is a waste of one of the most exquisite voices I ever heard.” “But why a waste?” she asked. “ What do these people know of a first-class voice?” he returned. “ Well, not much,” she admitted. “Anyone would do as well for them,” he declared, hotly; “your voice ought; to be heard in proper surroundings. Do you never try to get a better engagement? It might be difficult at first, but I am sure you only need a fair trial to secure an immediate success.” “ Thank you, very much,” she said, looking slightly puzzled, “ but one has ones’ living to make.” “ Well,” he declared, “it is a shame to waste such a voice on a holiday crowd, who probably would be just as pleased if I got up and sung them a comic song.” “You sing, then?” she inquired, as if she thought the conversation had centred on herself long enough. “ Oh, just to amuse myself,” he answered. “ 1 am in an office in London, you know.” “ I see,” she said, nodding her head at this confirmation of her first idea, “ but if you are in London you must often have opportunities of hearing first-class singers.” “ I never heard one to equal you in my life,” he answered so simply that she could only accept the compliment in the spirit in which it was uttered. “ But, still, I have only been back in England a short time. I have been away for our people in Germany a couple of years, till I got myself into trouble,” he explained with a boyish frankness that greatly appealed to her, “and so they gave me a wigging and packed me home. I’m rather expecting I shall lose my job over the business yet.” “ I hope not,” she exclaimed. “I hope not. too,” he agreed, smiling at her, “but 1 have not had much time to go anywhere since my return. There is a new singer, a Miss Hillyer, al) London is raving about. I had meant to hear her; have you at all?” ‘ Yes,” she answered, but she is a good deal over-rated, 1 think.” lie gave her a quick glance, half wondering for the moment if she were jealous of Miss Hillyer, yet he dismissed the idea as absurd since what rivalry could there be between a poor seaside performer and such a queen of song as Miss Hillyer? “ I had a ehance to meet her once,” he remarked, “ but I didn’t take it. I should like to hear her sing, but not to meet her. I expect she is fat and vulgar. Swell singers always are.” “ Not always, surely.” she protested. “ Well, a woman like that, praised

and flattered everywhere, is simply bound to lose her head. She cant’ help it.” “ Perhap not,” the girl admitted, “ though she may try. And now I must go in.”

He begged leave to accompany her, and she permitted him. They chatted in a very friendly way as they strolled along. His deep sense of pity for this poor girl who had to earn her precarious and scanty living in such a way lent a note of gentle protection and care to his voice, that to his companion was as novel as it was delightful. “I’ll get her a better engagement somehow,” he muttered to himself. “Poor boy,” she was thinking, “it may be very serious for him if he loses his place, as he seems to expect be will. I wonder if I could help him. He would laugh at the idea but 1 might do something.” When they drew near the promenade she turned off into the poor p irt of the town that lay behind, chiefly inhabited by the fishermen and boatmen. In a rather squalid looking street she insisted on saying good-night to him, and guessing that she did not wish him to see how poor her lodging was he walked away quickly, without once looking back. The next day he hardly left the promenade, and every sound of song or musie that he heard drew him instantly as with bands of iron. Yet nowhere did he see any sign of his little acquaintance of the preceding night, or hear anything like the superb melody of her voice. But the mystery was solved when evening came. He went where he had met her before, and sat waiting, and the moment she approached he heal'd her cough. "Oh, have you got cold?” he asked abruptly. She gave a quick start. “Oh, is that you?” she exclaimed. “Didn’t you expect me?” he asked, with so much of frankness as well as of disappointment in his tones that she hardly knew how to answer. “Well, perhaps I did,” she admitted; “yes, I am afraid I have caught a slight cold.” “I wondered why I did not hear you,” he remarked. “I have been listening all day in the hope of hearing you somewhere.” She said she was sorry for his disappointment, but she did not seem much in the mood for talking. They were rather a silent couple that evening, and yet somehow their silence seemed to draw them nearer, one to the other, than their chat of the night before had done. She asked him his name once, and learned that it was Harry Vaughan, but told him little about herself, save indeed that her father had been a clergyman, who dying suddenly, bad not left her a penny, so that she had been forced at once to go out to earn her living. “It must have been dreadful you you,” he said. "Ah, such things as I have been through,’’ she murmured. “I wish—ho began, and then he turned abruptly to her. “I ” he said in tones so strange and thrilling that a new and wonderful fear came upon her. She cried out in her sudden panic at she knew not what, and he checked himself abruptly. “I was going to ask you,” he said, "if you could meet me hero earlier tomorrow.” "In the afternoon,” she said promptly, "at three o’clock;” but though she

agreed thus readily, she knew very well that that had not been what first he had intended to say. There was even a slight constraint between them, as they parted in the same rather squalid street, where Hany had left her before. He waa a trifle depressed as lie walked away. I am afraid I offended her somehow,” he muttered to himself, "but. I could not help it. It would not be fair to speak to her first.” And she as she went her way was saying softly—“Poor* boy—poor dear lad, if he only knew. Well, Coronao shall do something whether he likes it or no. But I wonder -—I wonder ” and she became lost in dreamy thoughts of what that might have been young Harry Vaughan had so nearly spoken, and of what she would have answered if he had. “But this is absurd,” she checked herself abruptly, “this is quite absurd.” Harry lingered so long on the way home that it was quite late before he reached his hotel, but one of the waiters told him that a foreign-looking gentleman was waiting for him in the smokingroom. Harry went in immediately, and the moment he saw who it was exclaimed delightedly—“My dear fellow, I am eternally obliged to you for coming so soon.” “My dear Vaughan,” returned the other, “I shall be eternally obliged io yon if this girl you have discovered can sing just one-half as weh as you say.” “One-half as well!” cried Hany indignantly. “She sings ever so mu<K better than I told you. She is a wonder —a paragon. She is——” “Oh, spare me your raptures,” said the other laughing, “but yon know people discover a fresh genius for us every six months or so—only, when one goes to them, well the speaker finished with’ an expressive shrug of the shoulders. “Oh, I have brought you down here, on no fool’s errand,” said Harry, confidently. “Well, I confess,” returned the other, “that lam sceptical. Indeed, I should have been less willing to come, but that other business called me here—-a command from a lady whose slightest word is law.” “Oh, indeed,” said Harry, not much’ interested, and launched into a further description of the beauties of the voice of this seaside singer whom he had discovered. He would have gone on talking half the night, but his friend announced, his desire to go to bed, and Harry hikl perforce to release him. “At three o’clock to-morrow afternoon at the end of the promenade,” he said, “you will meet me there, then?” But his friend simply stared at him* open-mouthed. “Whatever is the matter?” asked Harry, irritably. “Oh, nothing,” the other answered, “only an amazing coincidence—but it can mean nothing. Good night.” He went off, and Harry presently retired also. The next morning seemed interminable. He insisted on lunching at half-past twelve, and the interval between that hour and three, he grew id believe, would never come to an end. But at last it was time to set out, and then after another interminable Interval, he saw his sweet singer approaching him. Ho went towards her quick?

Jy, and Ma heart leaped aa he saw the welcoming look in hex eyes. “I have a confession to make,” he said, after they had talked for a few minutes.

“Yes, and what is it?” she asked. “It is—it is,” he said, stammering. She gave him a quick look and it was as though the clear wonder of her eyes piereed his heart. “It is that I love you,” he said, though that had been the test thing he had intended to say. “Oh, hush!” she exclaimed, very pale. “You must listen to me now I have said it,” he told her quietly. “I did Botmeanto say it—not yet—it is not fair —there are certain things you must understand first.” “What things?” she asked, curiously. “First «f all, just this,” he answered, “that you must no longer waste your voice here. It was formed to be tHe. world’s delight—not to waste on seaside audiences.” “But —” she began. “No,” he interrupted, “listen to me. Not only that, but to you it will bring wealth and fame. But for that I woul'l have dared to ask you to be my wife, now it is against my will and resale tion that I tell you I love you. I feit it would not be fair for me to ask yon while you are unknown. I shall perhaps come to you in a year’s time when the world will be at your feet—and then,” he said bitterly, “it may be nothing to you that you have one worshipper the more.” “Oh,” she murmured, apparently quite bewildered, and then she pointed to some one approaching along the sand. “Just look.” she muttered.

“That is Coronao, the opera director,” Harry told her. “I have asked him to come here to hear you sing, and I have told him your voice should be worth £5O a night at the least.” Coronao, the greatest impresario of Hie day, and Harry’s friend of the night before, came up. “This,” said Harry, turning to hire, “is the lady I spoke to you about.” “Oh, Lord!” said Coronao, and sat upon the sand.

“What’s the matter now?” asked Harry, indignantly.

“Nothing,” said Coronao, feebly. Then he looked at the young lady. "And this,” he afiked, “is the out-of-work clerk 1 was to find employment for?”

“Yes,” said the girl, and this time Coronao did not sit on the sand, but fairly rolled on it.

“He must have gone mad," said the girl, apprehensively. “Perhaps it’s the sun,” suggested Harry, almost equally alarmed. Coronao controlled his feelings and sat up.

"My dear Vaughan,” he said, “let mo present you to Miss Hillyer, in my opinion the greatest living singer. Miss Hillyer, may I present you to Harry Vaughan, of the British Diplomatic Service, nephew and heir to the Earl of UllboTougb, and owner in his own right of —which county is it you own, Vaughan? I always forget.” “Shut up,” growled Harry, and Coronao rolled on the sand again. Miss Hillyer was showing signs of departing, and Hany thought it was a jolly good idea. “Come along,” he said, “let’s leave that idiot to laugh himself silly there.” Presently he remarked: “You never told me you were Miss Hillyer.” “Anti you,” she retorted, “never told me you were all those things.” “Anyhow,” he argued, “1 never said I was an out of work elerk.” “And I never said I was a seaside singer,” returned Miss Hillyer. “But you said you were down nere professionally, and there’s nowhere else to sing,” Harry reminded her. “I was singing at the Duke of Mercia’s, where the Prince and Princess have been staying,” said Miss Hillyer meekly; “but you told me you had got into trouble, and had been sent home.” “I was on the staff of the British Embassy at Berlin,” returned Hany; “but one day I said something rude about the Emperor’s telegram so they packed me off home again.” “It seems to me,” began Miss Hillyer.

“It seems to me ” said Harry. “That we have both made pretty considerable sillies of ourselves,” concluded Miss Hillyer. “ —that there is no earthly reason now,” concluded Harry, “why I should not put to you that question 1 thought it fairer to suppress before. Dear one. it was Irani not to tell you how 1 loved you—but now that 1 dare speak, will you listen T" And though she blushed and vou'.J not then, yet sometime later she must have, for it was the same year that the wedding of Harry Vaughan and Mary Hillyer was celebrated; and the lady whom the concert hall has given to the ranks of the peerage has taken her place there like one to the manner born. Now it is only for her husband, or his fireuds, or in the cause of charity that her silver voice is heard, but sometimes she will sing very softly to Harry that old air which first brought them together, when she thought he was an out-of-work clerk, and he thought she was a seaside singer.