Читать книгу The Exploits of Captain O'Hagan - Arthur Henry Ward - Страница 8

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Pamela arrived late, a dainty figure in her neat serge costume; but the very curl that floated across her brow, the limp little hand that held the music-case, spoke of dejection. Her charming face was not habitually pale, O’Hagan felt assured, nor were such glorious eyes meant to be dimmed with threatening tears.

“Hullo, Pam!” began her father heartily—and hesitated. “Why—won’t they take it?”

A forlorn little shake of the head.

“That horrible Ritzmann offered to publish it—if I would let him have it for nothing!”

“For nothing! Didn’t he offer to pay anything?”

“Not after I had declined to go to lunch with him!”

Pamela laughed; not mirthfully.

“Cheer up, Pam,” said Mr. Crichton, in a voice of abysmal gloom. “A—er—a friend——”

“A friend, yes, Crichton,” interrupted O’Hagan. “Don’t be nervous.”

“A friend of mine—Captain O’Hagan—has called to see us!”

Pamela blushed delightfully; O’Hagan bowed inimitably.

“Didn’t Mr.—Parkins—stay?”

Crichton coughed.

“He couldn’t stop, after all!” He replied.

Pamela removed her hat. “Good job, too,” she muttered under her breath.

And then began that singular repast, throughout which O’Hagan talked as only O’Hagan can talk; talked himself into the hearts of the Crichtons. The old man’s natural resentment—which hitherto had not become wholly dispersed—melted before the geniality of his distinguished guest; Mr. Parkins was forgotten. Pamela forgot her troubles and became all smiles. Crichton burned with pride to note that Captain O’Hagan treated her as an intellectual equal. Of the Captain’s honourable and friendly intentions no man could doubt after thirty minutes in his company; and so that was a happy hour spent at the newsagent’s humble table.

The meal despatched:

“Now for the music!” said O’Hagan, and crossing the little room, he opened the piano.

Pamela stared.

“May I try over your new piece, Miss Crichton?”

“Oh!” cried the girl. “You play?”

“A little. I should like, as a pleasure, to hear your own rendering; as a matter of business I should prefer to play the piece myself.”

“A matter of business——”

“You hope to place these compositions?”

“Oh!” said Pamela blankly; “yes,” and took the MS. from her music-case, adjusting it upon the piano-rack.

Few people have heard O’Hagan play the piano. He never plays unless requested and the many being ignorant of his accomplishment, he rarely is requested. But from the moment that his long, white fingers caressed the keys in the opening bar until that when they leapt back from the final chord, his audience of two listened spellbound. The piece was a delicate, feminine morsel; individual, charming; upon an elusive melody, which haunted the ear, which spelt Popularity. For a moment there was silence. O’Hagan swung around and faced Pamela.

“Miss Crichton,” he said, “you will make a large sum of money with your music. One day you will be famous.”

Pamela blushed; her lips trembled. She had never heard her dainty composition played before by hands other than her own. It was something of a revelation to its composer—this rippling, fascinating cascade of harmony which had flown out under the subtle touch of the visitor. Tears were not far from her eyes again.

“Give me more of your pieces—all you can find,” directed O’Hagan.

Glad enough of an excuse to hide her emotion, the girl ran to a little escretoire and took out six or seven neatly-written compositions. O’Hagan placed them before him, and played through them all, without hesitation, without error; with intense sympathy and understanding. Soon she was beside him, turning over the familiar pages; her wayward curls brushed his cheek. When the master-touch had sounded the finale of the last piece, old Crichton pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose in clarion fashion.

“What terms were you asking of—er—Ritzmann?” said the Captain abruptly.

“The usual ten per cent.,” replied Pamela, “with—something on account.”

“How much on account?”

“Ritzmann, I have heard—I know—usually gives ten guineas.”

She spoke the words with awe. Ten guineas on account of a composition of hers—of her very own! It was a dream!

“Ah! Ten guineas on account of a ten per cent, royalty? Let me see: we have eight pieces here. Can you find two more?”

“There is a suite of three short numbers.”

“Bring that.”

Pamela found it, and brought it. O’Hagan played it, and was delighted.

“Four sharps,” he criticised, “are bad in a composition designed for general popularity. Would it lose by transposition into a more simple key?”

“I think not,” said Pamela.

“Well,” continued O’Hagan, “it is a matter for discussion later. May I take these with me?”

“Of course!” said Pamela. “But——”

“Can you give me until Thursday to place them for you?”

“To place them! To place all of them?”

“All of them! Can you give me until Thursday?”

Pamela’s pretty eyes were widely staring.

“You overwhelm me! Do you really mean it?”

“Will you wait until Thursday and see?”

“Of course!” said Pamela.

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