THE VOICE OF A SINGING WOMAN

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXIII, Issue 11, 16 March 1905, Page 23

THE VOICE OF A SINGING WOMAN

Laura Birt saw, day by day, in the pretty little home that her sister and sine had shared sinre lrn--, long ago, the figure of a beautiful young woman wuh bright eyes-, rctsy mouth, and auburn hair, glossy and abundant. This beautiful young • woman had a quipk, light s>tep and agile fingers, and, above all, the loveliest voice you ever heard— a clear, rich mezzo-soprano of good compass and pure in tone. She would sing for Laura, her elder sister, evening after evening, somgs that had been in fashion many years before this time , and Laura would listen with all delight. And on Thursday evenings Laura and this beautiful young woman would put on their boots and wraps and go down to the Girls' Club, where Sister Agnos presided. And, after the usual greetings, Clara would go straight to the piano, while Laura would sit in the easychair that Sister Agnes always pulled out some couple of feet from the wall, close against which it usually stoojd, and lisiten to the s«ngs her sister sang. Latterly Sister Agnes had been suggesting that the girls, she thought, would like some lighter nmisic. Might they, now a,nd then, have a comic song ? Laura thought this a little ' infra dig ' ; but no one could be offended with Sister Agnes, and so Clara would sing ' something light.' She had a song in which a grandmamma warned her granddaughter to have nothing to do with young men ; and the granddaughter objected to the prospect before her — ' die an old maid, , die an old maid ' — until her difficulties were smoothed away by the thought that— If all the yomng g'iils of the men were afraid, My grandmother herself would have diod an, old maid, Died an old maid, died an old maid— My grandmother herself would have died an old maid. There was another about a gnl who went to meet her Lubin, and was encountered by a yage, who plied heir with indiscreet questions and knocked her answeis into a cocked hat. More thai* oivfc Sister Agnes 'had asked if Miss Clara would mind playing a little, instead of singing , perhaps the girls would like this, as some of them were tirdd, and might rather not be too clo&ely attentive. And Clara smiled and swept off a few arpeggios, and then— broke into a warble, a girl said, not sentimentally but ironically. After an hour or so, during which she had said, ' Oh, no, not the least ' ' to repeated inquiries as to whether she were not tiled, Clara would rise, and, amid thanks, she and Laura would go home, tired but happy. It will have been guessed that, in Clara Birt, Laura's younger sister to whom she had alwa.vs been as a mother, Sister Agnes arid the girls at the club did not see a beautiful yount, woman, nor hear in her voi'e the melody and sweetness wlvch were there to Ihe ear of undiscerning affection. Sister Agnes did not see with the girls' eyes nor hear with their eais , but she saw and heart* what made her feel, grieved and puzzled. Th< girls saw Clara Birt as one of two old mairis, kind indeed, but silly, or more than silly ; and they blamed Laura as partly the cause of her sister's folly. P( or Miss Laura ! to imagine that am eldcily, wi ink led, faded woman was young and beautiful ! v\nd, above all, to imagine that a voice which often went flat and which craciked, or almost cracked, on certain notes, and which had very little tone indeed on any notes, was sweet and clear and true ' Sisiter Agnes had tiiod to minimise the ridicule mc girls could hardly keep from showing, by asking for comic songs. But, somehow, it did not do And there was gjoing to be a village concert to help the fund for an organ in the church, and Miss Clar a Birt had offered to sing— offered, as a matter of course. Poor Father Lyons had not known what to say, but he begged that Sister Agnes would say something. Would) Clara Birt ever be old in Laura's ryes— eves that were fond as any lover's ; eves that ignored the changes whtich time had not failed to work in her ? Slip was- old. but Clara '' Never, never ! And vet, though Laura looked thus on her sister, and heard sweetness and fulness in the voice thai, so many years ago, she had helped to train, just now and then there stole over her a strange feeling, which she put away almost as if it were a sin ; for did it not seem like unfaithfulness ? Were Sister Agnes and the club girls less kindly disposod than Sister Martha and oilier generations of club girls had been ? Or— or was Clara's voice a little smaller in compass, a little thinner in tone? No, no, of

couise not ! It was the fog, or the remains of a cold ; or— what ? Was Laura's step a little slower ? 'Were her movements less agile ? Was her hearing a little— a \e;y, \ery little— less acute? No, no! It was only fam y , only a sort of reflection of the elder sister's own increasing infirmities. I nhuc liei, data had never donned glasses to read by artificial light— but gradually she had ceased to read at all in the long or lengthening evenings. She liked a chat, or to l;cu.r what L«uiLd. lud found inleie-bling in the paper, or to play and sing from memory. No, if Lama, imU giown old t and beautiiully grown old, with the atmosphere around her of tnat sweetly wise dependen c which gives more help than it receives, Clara, in her eyes, was young and fair and strong, and had much to do w ith that lovely gift — her voice. C'laia wished to sing ' Cleansing Fires ' at the concert. Sue had sung it at the club one evening, and it had sounded funny— so funny that Sister Agnes had felt that to listen to such singing was really growing to be too great a strain on the courtesy of the girls ; and it was, of course, bad for them to turn Miss Clara covertly into ridicule. There had been choking sounds, and eun something like giggling, and a suspicious use of handkerchiefs, when that terrible high note had come— if note it could be called. What wias to be done ? It would give both the sisters yuch pain to suggest that Miss Claia's voice— no, .she could irot say it, could she ? Yet was it fair to the club, to its members, even to the dear old ladies themsel'.os, to allow thus to go on? Not only dud Miss Clara want to sing ' Cleansing Fires,' but she also wished to take the leading part in a can't at a which Sister Agnes had suggested to the girls to get up. It had been in vain that Sister Agnes nad gently remarked that the girls had better do it themselves. She had even gone to the length of saying that the part of a fairy might be most suitable to a young girl— quite a young girl. Rut Laura .had met her Suggestion with, ' Oh, yes ' But you see aLso that everything goes better when a trained singer takes the loading pait.' Both the sisters thought that Clara's singing ' would make all the difference.' 'So it would ! ' thought poor Sister Agnes. The girls made up their minds to take the matter into their own hanTis. The leader of this movement of determinajtuon spol c. ' Sifter, it's this way. If Miss Clara insists on being Fairy Listavorana, the others and I are not going to make sillicfi of ourselves. We mean no disrespect to you, SiMcr , but there's no use in making sillies of ourselves if that old — ' ' Alice ' ' Theie was authority as well as remonstianee in the tone ; and, somehow, the look conveyed the ronicmbra.nco of Miss Clara's real kindheartedness, and the sense of its not being ' nice ' to talk about her as ' that old"— whatever noun the adjective was meant to qualify With some deprecation in her tone, the girl proceeded : ' Well, Sister, what would you have us to do ? Not have the cantata at all, I think. She said— l mean Mn-s Clara said she was coming to practise it next Thursday and Saturday. 1 ' Alice, you must give me a little time to think. I wi'l tell you soon.' It was not easy for Sister Agnes to find time to think out the matter ; but being one of the people who make time, she did think over it and carefully; and a,s soon as possible she went to see the Birts She felt very sorry for them, but she Knew that what she hid to say must be said , and her little bit of comfort was that she knew s-he would say kindly and carefully what might, and nrobably would, reach the old ladies (for, Iruis; fairly young herself, sflic classed them together) in some way that might bring pain greater and shaipcr yet. When sho was sihown into the little drawing-room she co'ild not heln noticing that, somehow, it did no.t look quite like itself. What was the reason ? It was not untidy, b|iit there was about it something unlike it-, ordinary prim neatness. The flowers, in particular, looked different. They were not as usual in tidy little rotund groups, edged about with leaves : there were •sprays and trails, and here and there one tall flower alone in its beauty. TRe riano was open, and there w?>, niiiisic on the desk. Sisier Agnes saw the title ' C leansing Fires,' and her heart sank. After a little delay (and there was not wont to be any delay in receiving Sister Agnes) the door opened and Miss Birt came in. ' O Sister, how nice cf yam to come up ! And I am so sorry to have kept you ! But we're so busy and so— what shall 1 say ? Not exactly flustered that — no, no, you mustn't go away yet'! Sit down again just a few mirfutes. We're in sh.ich a s-tate of surprise — delightful surprise, too— that we hardly know what

we're doing. Our nephew, Jemmy Bjrt, who went to Australia years ago, has sent home his daughter on a visit to us. And, oh, it seems only yesterday that he was a mere lad, going of! to a new country ; and here is his daughter, as tall as he was then ! She came last night, just as Hannah was putting up the shutters, and Clara was taking out her heads, ready for Hannah to come in to Rosary. And— but I mustn't Keep you to chatter away like this. Must you go ? Well, you'll come again soon— oi I'll come to you. She's so 'pretty, Sister, and so nice ' You will be charmed wion hei! And she arad darling Clara have \ery much in- common. She plays beautifully, and will be able to accompany her aunt, which is delightful. They have just beeii trying " Cloansing Fires "—practising, you know, for the concert.' ' Does fhe sing *> ' asked Sister Agnes, a wild, unreasonable hone Hashing upon her mind. ' Oh, no ! She only plays. It is nice to lwe her. But such a surprise ! 0 Sister, won't you stay ?No ? Well, then, if you must go, I won't lender you. Say a prayer for us, Sister, won't you ? and for our bonnie girl, Jem's child ? ' Sister Agnes went away, smiling a t Mass Biit's 'delightful unconsciousness that it was not Sisiter Agnes who was too busy to stay— smiling, and then feeling sorry, and yet in a sense 'relieved at having had to go without saying one word of what had cost her .so much to prepare. Sara Birt— known to her family, and so, of course, to the great-aunts, as .Sadie— was in the little wood at the bottom of the garden, watching; the birds, strange to her as a Colonial , and watching the insects and the play of light and shadow on the lea\es. 'sometimes she luimmed to herself a few bars of a song , then suddenly she would stop. ' No, I miusta'tj I mustn't ! They are not to know I can sing.' She thought of their warm welcome of the unexpected guest ; of the rapid preparation of the pretty spare-room , of their quick assumption that she would make their home hers for a long time , of their expressions of affection for her fat her. They had made her lme them at once, as- they had been drawn to lo\ehor And then had come that funny, pathetic little srenc at the piano, when Aunt Clara had sung and Aunt Laura had rapturously applauded. And she had heard all about the club, and how Aunt Claia loved to sing for the girls, and how she was to help them with their concert. ' It's Ck)d's beautiful gift to Aunt Clara,' Laura hail saijd r. ' and she loves to uste it for him.' Sadie had realised it all, and quickly ; and, though her good sense told her il was a pity the dear, .sweet old ladies should so deceive thein.seh cs, she could not but feel that it was not her part to undeceive them and she made up her mind that neither of them should know, at leas.t during her \ i.sit— perhaps they need ne\ er know — that she could/ sing. So went by the next few days— Sister Acnes anxious and the club girls fidgety and and discontented But the Sister was quite sure that sT^e ought to go and sipe&k to Miss Birt. So she called, an-1 found that lady happy and calm as was her wont. After a few words about a girl whom the Bats hrd helped to place at a tra/iiiing home, Sister Agues began : ' Dear Miss But, I am going to say something that I fear must gi\e you pain , but I think it will sj\e you from pain in the end. Dcn't you think it would be better if dear Miss Clara were to gi\e up singing "' ' Miss Laura almost jumped, s O startled was she. ' Clara gne up singing ! Sister ' Why "> She is mute well and strong, and she loves it so ' Indeed, dear Sister, she does it in as good a spiiit as e\en a holy woman like you might do it.' ' I ne\er thought of anything else,' said the Sister, ' only— only— dear Miss Birt, has it never struck you that even Miss Clara cannot always go on 7 You see, the voice, the singing voice, stays with vp only a part of our lives ; it is a lovely gift, but not a lifelong one ; and — ' she hesitated. ' You mean that my darling Clara is losing ncr voice *> ' Sister Agnes said simiply, ' Yes.' ■'Oh, no, 'no ' It cannot be ' She sometime^ has a cold, and then it may be husky ; but surely, surely, her voice is, on the whole, quite — cniite good.' Tears were very near the old lady's eves. Sister Agnes took her hand— a Kind, wrinkled, mittcnerl hand. 1 You know I would not pain you unnecessarily,' she fiaid ; ' and I am grateful to you for listening to me I am afraid that we all feel it is not kini To Miss Claia to lat her sing now. You see, the girls — and others— — notice that — th-at she is older than she ired to be, and that her voice has failed.' ' Her voice has failed ' 0 Sister, my poor, poor Clara ! And she is only—' She stopped short. ' Only sixty-five,' she had been going to say. Sixty-five was not veiy old in compari-

son 1 to Miss Birt's own age— more by over a decade. But what was it absolutely and uncompared ? In one moment Miss Birt saw it all ; and she knew that, just as Clara's age had been unrealised by her, so also had she been determinedly ignorant of the failure in her ; had put aside certain warnings, as if to heed tihem were but unfaithfulness. I low often had she had oceasicn to say to herself : < Clara nuist be more careful of her beautiful \oice ' ' Or to her sister ■ 'My dailmg, you really must not eat nuts : they are \ci> Lad fui tho \oitc.' Or: 'Clara, love you mustn't take coffee before you sing.' ' La-ira But went tluough mudi pain in those few minutes of silence. ( 'Ut is all my.fault—my. fault—my fault ! ' sine said atf last. v\c haie made fools of ourselves ; but it has been my doing, not my dear sister's, oh, my darling Clara —my darling Clara. ' ' 0 'Dearest Miss Lama, you ha\c always been good and kind, and— and— you are both such dear good women that you will— understand.' ' I will tell my Clara,' said the old lady. 'We must have no more of a Fools' jParadi.se.' Sister Agnes' tender heart was very sore when she went away. Miss Birt s/at there, seeing and understanding as she thought oven- past things. How strange it seemed to her that it was only now she lead the meaning of that hesitancy in Father Lyons' manner when music was mentioned in connection with Clara ; only now that she understood other people's reserve in praise ; only now that she knew why the comic songs had been suggested; only now that she saw how it was that it hatl seemed a difficulty to Sister Agnes to keep the giils quiet while -ll^ra was singing ' It was haid for them to check the little bursts of laughter that came when the songs were not comic and tie notes were high. Clara, was an old woman ! Clara was an old woman who had lost her voice ! All eld women did not lose tihei,r voices or get them quite spoiled ' ' But Clara '-O my poor, poor darling ' If I might o »ly bear the pain for you ! ' That c\ening Claia hesitated when Sadie opened the piano | I am not suio— ' she said, and stopped. Then she went over and began to sing ' Cleansing Fues,' which Sadie had opened. The voice sounded h >sky as well as thin, and on the high note it broke. Then Sadie played the accompaniment in a lower key But the song would not go, and Miss Clara stopped ' I cannot sing ' ' she said, pitifully. 1 Claia, my 'darling, you had better rest ! ' obsened Laura Clara 100 l etd round. 1 Yes, I miis,t— icst. lam frightened, Laura. I heard something of wh.il Sister Agnes said. I couldn't help it : the window was open and I heard. Then I wont, on, but it seemed to paralyse me. I think it took away my \oice.' She did not wait for a word, but went quickly away , and the others heard her door shjut. ' Will you go to her, Aunt Laura ? ' said Sadie, full of pity and ready to weep. 1 No, my child, she would rather he alone. By and by We ha\e always accustomed oursehes not to give way before each other, if we could help it : for your grandmother— l mean your great-grandmother, Sadie— taught us to he self-controlled. She thought hystericswere a disgrace, and she taught us to kedp back our tears as much as Possible. I will go by and by, but not now And yet, Sadie, we hme shared each other's jovis and swrovs all our lives— all Clara's life, I mean of course , for I am veiy much older than she.' ' Sajdie was just crossing the room to tidy the music and shut the piano, when Clara came back. ' Thank you, my love ' ' she said, quietly. ' Laura, dearest, it is time to ring for Hannah, is it not ? ' ' Will you ring, love ? ' Miss Clara rang. And it was she who led the Rosary that evening. The sisters had said ' Good-night ' to the nietce, and ' Good-night ' to each other, and shut their doors. Laura could not sleep. She was suic Clara was suffering—had she heard something like a sob She listened. There were light, rustling movements— then something hi.c a sigh— then silence. Clara's room was inside Laura's and she could see the' light under the door. Was the light from Clara's candle not yet put o'lt ; or was it from the little voti\e lamp that burned before the statue of our Lady? Tho hours went by, and the tenseness of the huah grew painful to Laura. She got up and put on her dressing gown, and \ery, very softly knocked. There was no answer, and she gently opened the door. Clara was kneeling before the statue, and her face was lifted up. Was the light on her face from the little lamp, or was it the shining of that which is give-n when the Will which is our peace has clasped our will an.3 made it one

with itself ? She dud not move as Laura approached, only smiled. And she kissed her crucifix and kis&ed the hem of the garment of the Mother of fair love. Then with a exultant tenderness, she half-chanted, half-recited : ' Magnificat anima mea Dominum. 1 Et exultavit spiritms meus in Deo salutari moo. ' Q.uia resvpexit humilitatem ancillae suae : ecec enim ex hoc bea(tam me dicent onmes generationes.' For she had gone down into the valley of humility, and God had looked upon her and given her joy and peace. Perhaps the Knowledge of power ha\ing failod A the consciousness of the memory no nvore to he trusited, the weakness where wgor used to be, is one of the things most difficult- to face with courage and good cheer. t The realisation that a fair gift is gone forever is e\en harder still. Clara But had for some time begun to suspect her loss ; and it would ha\e been eaysier for her to realise it and accept, had it not been for her sister's apparently unshaken belief in its lasting beauty. So, half-blindfold, slhe had gone upon her way. The next morning the sisters Avent out very early, and came back with lovely peace on their faces. After luncheon Clara said to Sadie : ' Come, darling, and sing ', Cleansing Fires." ' ' Aunt — ' ' You are to sing it at the club, you know,' Miss Clara went on. 'Aunt Claia ' what are you saying?' Tlie girl looked distressed. ' I am saying that you aie to represent the Birt talent, such as it is, darling." 'But I cannot—' ' Cannot sing ? Yes, sweet, you can.' ' O Aunt, I cannot ! And how — ' ' How did I know you were a little singing bird ? Why, my dear, I saw your music on yoair bed this morning, before you hid it so careftilly away. And I saw this very song.' ' Oh, I am sorry— so soiry ! I am a naughty, thoughtless, untidy person.' 'My dear, I am glad. Now come and sing it.' ' I cannot, 'dearest Aunt ' ' ' Sing it, childie ! It has been a sorrow, but I took it where you too must take all sonow that c\er may como to yoiu. Arrd now it doesn't seem to matter — not down iin the heart of things. \ou aie to be our ".sinking woman " ani give your gift to God.' ' Theie is a better mft still,' said Laura—' t<Tie gift of being glad that His will should be done. \ou have gnen it, my Clara.' ' And I too,' said the gill, as she drew a hand of each to rest upon her head as in blessing. Does it seem to you who icad this a.s if I ha\e been telling of a little trouble magnified into a great sorrow, as seen through the mist of foolish or needle^ss tears 7 Do you think it 'was not worth cairying to the Heart that has borne all sorrow ? If so you must waiit and learn. — ' Anc Maria.'