The Boss of Taroomba

by E. W. Hornung

  CHAPTER VIII

  "THREE SHADOWS"

  That night the piano-tuner came out in quite a new character, and withimmediate success. He began repeating poetry in the moonlit veranda, andNaomi let him go on for an hour and a half; indeed, she made him; forshe was in secret tribulation over one or two things that had happenedduring the day, and only too thankful, therefore, to be taken out ofherself and made to think on other matters. Engelhardt did all this forher, and in so doing furthered his own advantage, too, almost as much ashis own pleasure. At all events, Naomi took to her room a livelierinterest in the piano-tuner than she had felt hitherto, while her owntroubles were left, with her boots, outside the door.

  It was true she had been interested in him from the beginning. He had sovery soon revealed to her what she had never come in contact withbefore--a highly sensitized specimen of the artistic temperament. Shedid not know it by this name, or by any name at all; but she was not theless alive to his little group of interesting peculiarities, because ofher inability to label the lot with one phrase. They interested her themore for that very reason; just as her instinct as to the possibilitiesthat were in him was all the stronger for her incapacity to reason outher conviction in a satisfactory manner. Her intellectual experience waslimited to a degree; but she had seen success in his face; and she nowheard it in his voice when he quoted verses to her, so beautifully thatshe was delighted to listen whether she followed him or not. Her faithin him was sweetly unreasonable, but it was immensely strong. She wasready and even eager to back him heavily; and there are those who wouldrather have one brave girl do that on instinct, than win the votes of ahundred clear heads, basing their support upon a logical calculation.

  For reasons of her own, however, Naomi decided overnight to take hervisitor a little less seriously to his face. She had been tooconfidential with him concerning station affairs past and present; thatshe must drop, and at the same time discourage him from opening hisheart to her, as he was beginning to do, on the slightest provocation.These resolutions would impose a taboo on nearly all the subjects theyhad found in common. She quite saw that, and she thought it just aswell. Too much sympathy with this young man might be bad for him. Naomirealized this somewhat suddenly in the night, and it kept her awakerather longer than she liked. But she rose next morning fully resolvedto eschew conversation of too sympathetic a character, and to encourageher young friend in quotations from the poets instead. Obviously thiswas quite as great a pleasure to him, while it was a much safer one--orso Naomi thought in her innocence. But then it was a very genuinepleasure to her, too, because the poetry was entirely new to her, andher many-sided young man knew so much and repeated it so charmingly.

  It was incredible, indeed, what a number of the poets of all ages he hadat his finger-ends, and how justly he rendered their choicest numbers.Their very names were mostly new to Naomi. There was consequently anaboriginal barbarity about many of her comments and criticisms, and morethan once the piano-tuner found it impossible to sit still and hear herout. This was notably the case at their second poetical seance, whenNaomi had got over her private depression on the one hand, and was fullof her new intentions toward the piano-tuner on the other. He would jumpout of his chair, and fume up and down the veranda, running his fiveavailable fingers through his hair until the black shock stood on end.It was at these moments that Naomi liked him best.

  He had been giving her "Tears, idle tears" (because she had "heard ofTennyson," she said) on the Wednesday morning in the veranda facing thestation-yard. He had recited the great verses with a force and feelingall his own. Over one of them in particular his voice had quivered withemotion. It was the dear emotion of an aesthetic soul touched to thequick by the sheer beauty of the idea and its words. And Naomi said:

  "That's jolly; but you don't call it poetry, do you?"

  His eyes dried in an instant. Then they opened as wide as they would go.He was speechless.

  "It doesn't rhyme, you know," Naomi explained, cheerfully.

  "No," said Engelhardt, gazing at her severely. "It isn't meant to; it'sblank verse."

  "It's blank _bad_ verse, if you ask me," said Naomi Pryse, with a nodthat was meant to finish him; but it only lifted him out of his chair.

  "Well, upon my word," said the piano-tuner, striding noisily up anddown, as Naomi laughed. "Upon my word!"

  "Please make me understand," pleaded the girl, with a humility thatmeant mischief, if he had only been listening; but he was stillwrestling with his exasperation. "I can't help being ignorant, youknow," she added, as though hurt.

  "You can help it--that's just it!" he answered, bitterly. "I've beentelling you one of the most beautiful things that Tennyson himself everwrote, and you say it isn't verse. Verse, forsooth! It's poetry--it'sgorgeous poetry!"

  "It may be gorgeous, but I don't call it poetry unless it rhymes," saidNaomi, stoutly. "Gordon always does."

  Gordon, the Australian poet, she was forever throwing at his head, asthe equal of any of his English bards. They had already had a heatedargument about Gordon. Therefore Engelhardt said merely:

  "You're joking, of course?"

  "I am doing nothing of the sort."

  "Then pray what do you call Shakespeare"--pausing in front of her withhis hand in his pocket--"poetry or prose?"

  "Prose, of course."

  "Because it doesn't rhyme?"

  "Exactly."

  "And why do you suppose it's chopped up into lines?"

  "Oh, _I_ don't know--to moisten it perhaps."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "To make it less dry."

  "Ah! Then it doesn't occur to you that there might be some law whichdecreed the end of a line after a certain number of beats, ornotes--exactly like the end of a bar of music, in fact?"

  "Certainly not," said Naomi. There was a touch of indignation in thisdenial. He shrugged his shoulders and then turned them upon the girl,and stood glowering out upon the yard. Behind his back Naomi went intofits of silent laughter, which luckily she had overcome before hewheeled round suddenly with a face full of eager determination. Hisheart now appeared set upon convincing her that verse might be blank.And for half an hour he stood beating his left hand in the air, anddeclaiming, in feet, certain orations of Hamlet, until Mrs. Potter, thecook-laundress, came out of the kitchen to protect her young mistress ifnecessary. It was not necessary. The broken-armed gentleman was standingover her, shaking his fist and talking at the top of his voice; but MissPryse was all smiles and apparent contentment; and, indeed, she behavedmuch better for awhile, and did her best to understand. But presentlyshe began to complain of the "quotations" (for he was operating on thefamous soliloquy), and to profane the whole subject. And the question ofblank verse was discussed between them no more.

  She could be so good, too, when she liked, so appreciative, sosympathetic, so understanding. But she never liked very long. He had atendency to run to love-poems, and after listening to five or six withevery sign of approval and delight, Naomi would suddenly become flippantat the sixth or seventh. On one occasion, when she had turned him on byher own act aforethought, and been given a taste of several past-mastersof the lyric, from Waller to Locker, and including a poem of Browning'swhich she allowed herself to be made to understand, she inquired ofEngelhardt whether he had ever read anything by "a man called Swinton."

  "Swinburne," suggested Engelhardt.

  "Are you sure?" said Naomi, jealously. "I believe it's Swinton. I'mprepared to bet you that it is!"

  "Where have you come across his name?" the piano-tuner said, smiling ashe shook his head.

  "In the preface to Gordon's poems."

  Engelhardt groaned.

  "It mentions Swinton--what are you laughing at? All right! I'll get thebook and settle it!"

  She came back laughing herself.

  "Well?" said Engelhardt.

  "You know too much! Not that I should accept anything that preface saysas conclusive. It has the cheek to say that Gordon was under hisinfluence. You
give me something of his, and we'll soon see."

  "Something of Swinburne's?"

  "Oh, you needn't put on side because you happen to be right according toa preface. I'll write and ask _The Australasian_! Yes, of course I meansomething of his."

  Engelhardt reflected. "There's a poem called 'A Leave-taking,'" said he,tentatively, at length.

  "Then trot it out," said Naomi; and she set herself to listen with sounsympathetic an expression on her pretty face, that he was obliged tolook the other way before he could begin. The contrary was usually thecase. However, he managed to get under way:

  "Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear. Let us go hence together without fear; Keep silence now, for singing-time is over, And over all old things and all things dear. She loves not you nor me as all we love her. Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear, She would not hear.

  "Let us rise up and part; she will not know. Let us go seaward as the great winds go, Full of blown sand and foam; what help is there? There is no help, for all these things are so, And all the world is bitter as a tear. And how these things are, though ye strove to show She would not know.

  "Let us go home and hence; she will not weep----"

  "Stop a moment," said Naomi, "I'm in a difficulty. I can't go onlistening until I know something."

  "Until you know what?" said Engelhardt, who did not like beinginterrupted.

  "Who it's all about--who _she_ is!" cried Naomi, inquisitively.

  "Who--she--is," repeated the piano-tuner, talking aloud to himself.

  "Yes, exactly; who _is_ she?"

  "As if it mattered!" Engelhardt went on in the same aside. "However, whodo _you_ say she is?"

  "I? She may be his grandmother for all I know. I'm asking you."

  "I know you are. I was prepared for you to ask me anything else."

  "Were you? Then why is she such an obstinate old party, anyway? Shewon't hear and she won't know. What will she do? Now it seems that youcan't even make her cry! 'She will not weep' was where you'd got to. Asyou seem unable to answer my questions, you'd better go on till shedoes."

  "I'm so likely to go on," said Engelhardt, getting up.

  Naomi relented a little.

  "Forgive me, Mr. Engelhardt; I've been behaving horribly. I'm sorry Ispoke at all, only I did so want to know who she was."

  "I don't know myself."

  "I was sure you didn't!"

  "What's more, I don't care. What _has_ it got to do with the merits ofthe poem?"

  "I won't presume to say. I only know that it makes all the difference tomy interest in the poem."

  "But why?"

  "Because I want to know what she was like."

  "But surely to goodness," cried Engelhardt, "you can imagine her, can'tyou? You're meant to fill her in to your own fancy. You pays your moneyand you takes your choice."

  "I get precious little for my money," remarked Naomi, pertinently, "if Ihave to do the filling in for myself!"

  Engelhardt had been striding to and fro. Now he stopped pityingly infront of the chair in which this sweet Philistine was sitting unashamed.

  "Do you mean to say that you like to have every little thing told you inblack and white?"

  "Of course I do. The more the better."

  "And absolutely nothing left to your own imagination?"

  "Certainly not. The idea!"

  He turned away from her with a shrug of his shoulders, and quickened hisstride up and down the veranda. He was visibly annoyed. She watched himwith eyes full of glee.

  "I do love to make you lose your wool!" she informed him in a minute ortwo, with a sudden attack of candor. "I like you best when you give meup and wash your hands of me!"

  This cleared his brow instantaneously, and brought him back to her chairwith a smile.

  "Why so, Miss Pryse?"

  "Must I tell you?"

  "Please."

  "Then it's because you forget yourself, and me, too, when I rile you;and you're delightful whenever you do that, Mr. Engelhardt."

  Naomi regretted her words next moment; but it was too late to unsaythem. He went on smiling, it is true, but his smile was no longer naiveand unconsidered; no more were his recitations during the next fewhours. His audience did her worst to provoke him out of himself, but shecould not manage it. Then she tried the other extreme, and became moreenthusiastic than himself over this and that, but he would not be withher; he had retired into the lair of his own self-consciousness, andthere was no tempting him out any more. When he did come out ofhimself, it was neither by his own will nor her management, and themoment was a startling one for them both.

  It was late in the afternoon of that same Wednesday. They were sitting,as usual, in the veranda which overlooked not the station-yard but theboundless plains, and they were sitting in silence and wide apart. Theyhad not quarrelled; but Engelhardt had made up his mind to decamp. Hehad reasoned the whole thing out in a spirit of mere common-sense; yethe was reasoning with himself still, as he sat in the quiet veranda; hethought it probable that he should go on with his reasoning--with thesame piece of reasoning--until his dying hour. He looked worried. He wascertainly worrying Naomi, and annoying her considerably. She had givenup trying to take him out of himself, but she knew that he liked to hearhimself saying poetry, and she felt perfectly ready to listen if itwould do him any good. Of course she was not herself anxious to hearhim. It was entirely for his sake that she put down the book she wasreading, and broached the subject at last.

  "Have you quite exhausted the poetry that you know by heart, Mr.Engelhardt?"

  "Quite, I'm afraid, Miss Pryse; and I'm sure you must be thankful tohear it."

  "Now you're fishing," said Naomi, with a smile (not one of hersweetest); "we've quarrelled about all your precious poets, it's true,but that's why I want you to trot out another. I'm dying for anotherquarrel, don't you see? Out with somebody fresh, and let me have shiesat him!"

  "But I don't know them all off by heart--I'm not a walking GoldenTreasury, you know."

  "Think!" commanded Naomi. When she did this there was no disobeying her.He had found out that already.

  "Have you ever heard of Rossetti--Dante Gabriel?"

  "Kill whose cat?" cried Naomi.

  He repeated the poet's name in full. She shook her head. She was smilingnow, and kindly, for she had got her way.

  "There is one little thing of his--but a beauty--that I once learnt,"Engelhardt said, doubtfully. "Mind, I'm not sure that I can remember it,and I won't spoil it if I can't; no more must you spoil it, if I can."

  "Is there some sacred association, then?"

  He laughed. "No, indeed! There's more of a sacrilegious association, forI once swore that the first song I composed should be a setting forthese words."

  "Remember, you've got to dedicate it to me! What's the name of thething?"

  "'Three Shadows.'"

  "Let's have them, then."

  "Very well. But I love it! You must promise not to laugh."

  "Begin," she said, sternly, and he began:

  "I looked and saw your eyes In the shadow of your hair, As the traveller sees the stream In the shadow of the wood; And I said, 'My faint heart sighs Ah me! to linger there, To drink deep and to dream In that sweet solitude.'"

  "Go on," said Naomi, with approval. "I hope you _don't_ see all that;but please go on."

  He had got thus far with his face raised steadfastly to hers, for he hadleft his chair and seated himself on the edge of the veranda, at herfeet, before beginning. He went on without wincing or lowering his eyes:

  "I looked and saw your heart In the shadow of your eyes, As a seeker sees the gold In the shadow of the stream; And I said, 'Ah me! what art Should win the immortal prize, Whose want must make life cold And heaven a hollow dream?'"

  "Surely not as bad as all that?" said Naomi, laughing. He had ne
verrecited anything so feelingly, so slowly, with such a look in his eyes.There was occasion to laugh, obviously.

  "Am I to go on," said Engelhardt, in desperate earnest, "or am I not?"

  "Go on, of course! I am most anxious to know what else you saw."

  But the temptation to lower the eyes was now hers; his look was so hardto face, his voice was grown so soft.

  "I looked and saw your love In the shadow of your heart, As a diver sees the pearl In the shadow of the sea; And I murmured, not above My breath, but all apart----"

  Here he stopped. Her eyes were shining. He could not see this, becausehis own were dim.

  "Go on," she said, nodding violently, "do go on!"

  "That's all I remember."

  "Nonsense! What did you murmur?"

  "I forget."

  "You do no such thing."

  "I've said all I mean to say."

  "But not all I mean you to. I _will_ have the lot."

  And, after all, his were the eyes to fall; but in a moment they hadleapt up again to her face with a sudden reckless flash.

  "There are only two more lines," he said; "you had much better not knowthem."

  "I must," said she. "What are they?"

  "Ah! you can love, true girl, And is your love for me?"

  "No, I'm afraid not," said Naomi, at last.

  "I thought not."

  "Nor for anybody else--nor for anybody else!"

  She was leaning over him, and one of her hands had fallen upon hisneck--so kindly--so naturally--like a mother's upon her child.

  "Then you are not in love with anybody else!" he cried, joyously. "Youare not engaged!"

  "Yes," she answered, sadly. "I am engaged."

  Then Naomi learnt how it feels to quench the fire in joyous eyes, andto wrinkle a hopeful young face with the lines of anguish and despair.She could not bear it. She took the head of untidy hair between her twosoft hands, and pressed it down upon the open book on her knees untilthe haunting eyes looked into hers no more. And as a mother soothes herchild, so she stroked him, and patted him, and murmured over him, untilhe could speak to her calmly.

  "Who is he?" whispered Engelhardt, drawing away from her at last, andgazing up into her face with a firm lip. "What is he? Where is he? Iwant to know everything!"

  "Then look over your shoulder, and you will see him for yourself."

  A horseman had indeed ridden round the corner of the house, noiselesslyin the heavy sand. Monty Gilroy sat frowning at them both from hissaddle.