Complete Works of E W Hornung

by E. W. Hornung

  Oh, walk up, Mr. Pompey, oh, walk up while I say,

  Will you walk into the banjo and hear the parlor play?

  Will you walk into the parlor and hear the banjo ring?

  Oh, listen to de darkies how merrily dey sing!

  The chorus ended with a whoop which assured the soloist that he was amusing his men; and having himself one of those susceptible, excitable natures which can enter into almost anything, given the fair wind of appreciation to fill their sails, the little musician began actually to enjoy the nonsense himself. His long fingers rang out the tinkling accompaniment with a crisp, confident touch. He sang the second verse, which built up the universe in numbers calculated to shock a religious or even a reasonably cultivated order of mind, as though he were by no means ashamed of it. And so far as culture and religion were concerned he was tolerably safe — each fresh peal of laughter reassured him of this. That the laugh was with him he never doubted until the end of the third verse. Then it was that the roars of merriment rose louder than ever, and that their note suddenly struck the musician’s trained ear as false. He sang through the next verse with an overwhelming sense of its inanity, and with the life gone out of his voice and fingers alike. Still they roared with laughter, but he who made them knew now that the laugh was at his expense. He turned hot all over, then cold, then hotter than ever. A shadow was dancing on the music in front of him; he could hear a suppressed titter at the back of the boisterous laughter; something brushed against his hair, and he could bear it all no longer. Snatching his fingers from the keys, he wheeled round on the music-stool in time to catch the heavy youth Sanderson in the mimic act of braining him with a chair; his tongue was out like a brat’s, his eyes shone with a baleful mirth, while the red-bearded man was rolling about the room in an ecstasy of malicious merriment.

  The singer sprang to his feet in a palsy of indignation. His dark eyes glared with the dumb rage of a wounded animal; then they ranged round the room for something with which to strike, and before Sanderson had time to drop the chair he had been brandishing over the other’s head, the musician had snatched up the kerosene lamp from the top of the piano, and was poising it in the air with murderous intent. Yet his anger had not blinded him utterly. His flashing eyes were fixed upon the fat mocking face which he longed to mark for life, but he could also see beyond it, and what he saw made him put down the lamp without a word.

  At the other side of the room was a door leading out upon the veranda; it had been open all the evening, and now it was the frame of an unlooked-for picture, for a tall, strong girl was standing upon the threshold.

  “Well, I never!” said she, calmly, as she came into their midst with a slow, commanding stride. “So this is the way you play when I’m away, is it? What poor little mice they are, to be sure!”

  Sanderson had put down the chair, and was looking indescribably foolish. The boy in the spectacles, though he had been a merely passive party to the late proceedings, seemed only a little less uncomfortable. The man on the sofa and the little trembling musician were devouring the girl with their eyes. It was the personage with the beard who swaggered forward into the breach.

  “Good-evening, Naomi,” said he, holding out a hand which she refused to see. “This is Mr. Engelhardt, who has come to tune your piano for you. Mr. Engelhardt — Miss Pryse.”

  The hand which had been refused to the man who was in a position to address Miss Pryse as Naomi, was held out frankly to the stranger. It was a firm, cool hand, which left him a stronger and a saner man for its touch.

  “I am delighted to see you, Mr. Engelhardt. I congratulate you on your songs, and on your spirit, too. It was about time that Mr. Sanderson met somebody who objected to his peculiar form of fun. He has been spoiling for this ever since I have known him!”

  “Come, I say, Naomi,” said the man who was on familiar terms with her, “it was all meant in good part, you know. You’re rather rough upon poor Sandy.”

  “Not so rough as both you and he have been upon a visitor. I am ashamed of you all!”

  Her scornful eyes looked black in the lamplight; her eyebrows were black. This with her splendid coloring was all the musician could be sure of; though his gaze never shifted from her face. Now she turned to him and said, kindly:

  “I have been enjoying your songs immensely — especially the comic one. I came in some time ago, and have been listening to everything. You sing splendidly.”

  “These gentlemen will hardly agree with you.”

  “These gentlemen,” said Miss Pryse, laying an unpleasant stress on the word, “disagree with me horribly at times. They make me ill. What a lot of songs you have brought!”

  “I brought them to sell,” said the young fellow, blushing. “I have just started business — set up shop at Deniliquin — a music-shop, you know. I am making a round to tune the pianos at the stations.”

  “What a capital idea! You will find ours in a terrible state, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, it is rather bad; I was talking about it to the boss before I started to make a fool of myself.”

  “To the boss, do you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “And pray which is he?”

  The piano-tuner pointed to the bushy red beard.

  “Why, bless your life,” cried Naomi Pryse, as the red beard split across and showed its teeth, “he’s not the boss! Don’t you believe it. If you’ve anything to say to the boss, you’d better come outside and say it.”

  “But which is he, Miss Pryse?”

  “He’s a she, and you’re talking to her now, Mr. Engelhardt!”

  CHAPTER II A FRIEND INDEED

  “Do you mean to say that you have never heard of the female boss of Taroomba?” said Naomi Pryse, as she led the piano-tuner across the veranda and out into the station-yard. The moon was gleaming upon the galvanized-iron roofs of the various buildings, and it picked out the girl’s smile as she turned to question her companion.

  “No, I never heard of you before,” replied the piano-tuner, stolidly. For the moment the girl and the moonlight stupefied him. The scene in the room was still before his eyes and in his ears.

  “Well, that’s one for me! What station have you come from to-day?”

  “Kerulijah.”

  “And you never heard of me there! Ah, well, I’m very seldom up here. I’ve only come for the shearing. Still, the whole place is mine, and I’m not exactly a cipher in the business either; I rather thought I was the talk of the back-blocks. At one time I know I was. I’m very vain, you see.”

  “You have something to be vain about,” said the piano-tuner, looking at her frankly.

  She made him a courtesy in the moonlit yard.

  “Thank you kindly. But I’m not satisfied yet; I understand that you arrived in time for supper; didn’t you hear of me at table?”

  “I just heard your name.”

  “Who mentioned it?”

  “The fellow with the beard.”

  “Prettily?”

  “I think so. He was wondering where you were. He seems to know you very well?”

  “He has known me all my life. He is a sort of connection. He was overseer here when my father died a year or two ago. He is the manager now.”

  “But you are the boss?”

  “I am so! His name, by the way, is Gilroy — my mother was a Gilroy, too. See? That’s why he calls me Naomi; I call him Monty when I am not wroth with him. I am disgusted with them all to-night! But you mustn’t mind them; it’s only their way. Did you speak to the overseer, Tom Chester?”

  “Which was he?”

  “The one on the sofa.”

  “No, he hardly spoke to me.”

  “Well, he’s a very good sort; you would like him if you got to know him. The new chum with the eye-glasses is all right, too. I don’t believe those two were to blame. As for Mr. Sanderson, I wouldn’t think any more about him if I were you; he really isn’t worth it.”

  “I forgive him,” said the musician, simply; �
�but I shall never forgive myself for playing the fool and losing my temper!”

  “Nonsense! It did them good, and they’ll think all the more of you. Still, I must say I’m glad you didn’t dash the kerosene lamp in Mr. Sanderson’s face!”

  “The what?” cried Engelhardt, in horror.

  “The lamp; you were brandishing it over your head when I came in.”

  “The lamp! To think that I caught up the lamp! I can’t have known what I was doing!”

  He stood still and aghast in the sandy yard; they had wandered to the far side of it, where the kitchen and the laundry stood cheek-by-jowl with the wood-heap between them, and their back-walls to the six-wire fence dividing the yard from the plantation of young pines which bordered it upon three sides.

  “You were in a passion,” said Miss Pryse, smiling gravely. “There’s nothing in this world that I admire more than a passion — it’s so uncommon. So are you! There, I owed you a pretty speech, you know! Do you mind giving me your arm, Mr. Engelhardt?”

  But Engelhardt was gazing absently at the girl, and the road between ear and mind was choked with a multitude of new sensations. Her sudden request made no impression upon him, until he saw her stamping her foot in the sand. Then, and awkwardly enough, he held out his arm to her, and her firm hand caught in it impatiently.

  “How slow you are to assist a lady! Yet I feel sure that you come from the old country?”

  “I do; but I have never had much to do with ladies.”

  The piano-tuner sighed.

  “Well, it’s all right; only I wanted you to take my arm for Monty Gilroy’s benefit. He’s just come out on to the veranda. Don’t look round. This will rile him more than anything.”

  “But why?”

  “Why? Oh, because he showed you the hoof; and when a person does that, he never likes to see another person being civil to the same person. See? Then if you don’t, you’d better stand here and work it out while I run into the kitchen to speak to Mrs. Potter about your room.”

  “But I’m not going to stay!” the piano-tuner cried, excitedly.

  “Now what are you giving us, Mr. Engelhardt? Of course you are going to stay. You’re going to stay and tune my poor old piano. Why, your horse was run out hours ago!”

  “But I can’t face those men again — —”

  “What rubbish!”

  “After the way I made a fool of myself this evening!”

  “It was they who made fools of themselves. They’ll annoy you no more, I promise you. In any case, they all go back to the shed to-morrow evening; it’s seven miles away, and they only come in for Sunday. You needn’t start on the piano before Monday, if you don’t like.”

  “Oh, no, I’ll do it to-morrow,” Engelhardt said, moodily. He now felt bitterly certain that he should never make friends with the young men of Taroomba, and shamefully thankful to think that there would be a set occupation to keep him out of their way for the whole of the morrow.

  “Very well, then; wait where you are for two twos.”

  Engelhardt waited. The kitchen-door had closed upon Miss Naomi Pryse; there was no sense in watching that any longer. So the piano-tuner’s eyes climbed over the waterspout, scaled the steep corrugated roof, and from the wide wooden chimney leapt up to the moon. It was at the full. The white clear light hit the young man between his expressive eyes, and still he chose to face it. It gave to the delicate eager face an almost ethereal pallor; and as he gazed on without flinching, the raised head was proudly carried, and the little man looked tall. To one whom he did not hear when she lifted the kitchen-latch and opened the door, he seemed a different being; she watched him for some moments before she spoke.

  “Well, Mr. Engelhardt?”

  “Well,” said he, coming down from the moon with an absent smile, and slowly.

  “I have been watching you for quite a minute. I believe it would have been an hour if I hadn’t spoken. I wish I hadn’t! We’re going to put you in that little building over there — we call it the ‘barracks.’ You’ll be next door to Tom Chester, and he’ll take care of you. There’s no occasion to thank me; you can tell me what you’ve been thinking about instead.”

  “I wasn’t thinking at all.”

  “Now, Mr. Engelhardt!” said Naomi, holding up her finger reprovingly. “If you weren’t thinking, I should like to know what you were doing?”

  “I was waiting for you.”

  “I know you were. It was very good of you. But you were smiling, too, and I want to know the joke.”

  “Was I really smiling?”

  “Haven’t I told you so? Have you signed the pledge against smiles? You look glum enough for anything now.”

  “Yes?”

  “Very much yes! I wish to goodness you’d smile again.”

  “Oh, I’ll do anything you like.” He forced up the corners of his mouth, but it was not a smile; his eyes ran into hers like bayonets.

  “Then give me your arm again,” she said, “and let me tell you that I’m very much surprised at you for requiring to be told that twice.”

  “I’m not accustomed to ladies,” Engelhardt explained once more.

  “That’s all right. I’m not one, you know. I’m going to negotiate this fence. Will you have the goodness to turn your back?”

  Engelhardt did so, and saw afar off in the moonlit veranda the lowering solitary figure of the manager, Gilroy.

  “Yes, he sees us all right,” Miss Pryse remarked from the other side of the fence. “It’ll do him good. Come you over, and we’ll make his beard curl!”

  The piano-tuner looked at her doubtfully, but only for one moment. The next he also was over the fence and by her side, and she was leading him into the heart of the pines, her strong kind hand within his arm.

  “We’ll just have a little mouch round,” she said, confidentially. “You needn’t be frightened.”

  “Frightened!” he echoed, defiantly. The hosts of darkness could not have frightened such a voice.

  “You see, I’m the boss, and I’m obliged to show it sometimes.”

  “I see.”

  “And you have given me an opportunity of showing it pretty plainly.”

  “Oh!”

  “Consequently, I’m very much obliged to you; and I do hope you don’t mind helping me to shock Monty Gilroy?”

  “I am proud.”

  But the kick had gone out of his voice, and to her hand his arm was suddenly as a log of wood. She mused a space. Then —

  “It isn’t everyone I would ask to help me in such — in such a delicate matter,” she said, in a troubled tone. “You see I am a woman at the mercy of men. They’re all very kind and loyal in their own way, but their way is their own, as you know. I thought as I had given you a hand with them — well, I thought you would be in sympathy.”

  “I am, I am — Heaven knows!”

  The log had become exceedingly alive.

  “Then let us skirt in and out, on the edge of the plantation, so that Mr. Gilroy may have the pleasure of seeing my frock from time to time.”

  “I’m your man.”

  “No, not that way — this. There, I’m sure he must have seen me then.”

  “He must.”

  “It’s time we went back; but this will have done him all the good in the world,” said Naomi.

  “It’s a pity you haven’t a manager whom you can respect and like,” the piano-tuner remarked.

  Naomi started. She also stopped to lace up her shoe, which necessitated the withdrawal of her hand from the piano-tuner’s arm; and she did not replace it.

  “Oh, but I do like him, Mr. Engelhardt,” she explained as she stooped. “I like Mr. Gilroy very much; I have known him all my life, you know. However, that’s just where the disadvantage comes in — he’s too much inclined to domineer. But don’t you run away with the idea that I dislike him; that would never do at all.”

  The piano-tuner felt too small to apologize. He had made a deadly mistake — so bad a one that she would take
his arm no more. He looked up at the moon with miserable eyes, and his brain teemed with bitter self-upbraiding thoughts. His bitterness was egregiously beyond the mark; but that was this young man’s weakness. He would condemn himself to execution for the pettiest sin. So ashamed was he now that he dared not even offer her his hand when they got back to the veranda, and she consigned him to the boy in spectacles, who then showed him his room in the barracks. And his mistake kept him awake more than half that night; it was only in the gray morning he found consolation in recollecting that although she had declared so many times that she liked Monty Gilroy, she had never once said she respected him.

  Had he heard a conversation which took place in the station-yard later that night, but only a little later, and while the full moon was in much the same place, the piano-tuner might have gone to sleep instead of lying awake to flagellate his own meek spirit; though it is more likely that he would have lain quietly awake for very joy. The conversation in question was between Naomi Pryse and Montague Gilroy, her manager, and it would scarcely repay a detailed report; but this is how it culminated:

  “I tell you that I found you bullying him abominably, and whenever I find you bullying anybody I’ll make it up to that body in my own way. And I won’t have my way criticised by you.”

  “Very good, Naomi. Very good indeed! But if you want to guard against all chance of the same thing happening next week, I should recommend you to be in for supper next Saturday, instead of gallivanting about the run by yourself and coming in at ten o’clock at night.”

  “The run is mine, and I’ll do what I like while I’m here.”

  “Well, if you won’t listen to reason, you might at least remember our engagement.”